by Lisa Shea
Hugh’s voice was a soft growl. “That is for sure.”
She glanced over at him. “I suppose he was operating near your area. Did you have any dealings with him?”
His face grew distant, and he stared toward the large building. “Yes, some.”
She blinked in surprise, turning to him. “You didn’t mention that in any of your messages,” she mused. “What did you –”
He cut her off, low and urgent. “The roof!”
Joan spun back to look. To her shock, a tall, aquiline man with jet-black hair, wearing emerald green, was climbing out of a hatch at the far end of the roof. He dragged up an arm, and in a moment Sybil was beside him, her slouched figure showing clearly her defeated state of mind. Umberto pulled her along with him to the front corner of the building. He forced her to the point, and then raised his head, looking out at the woods.
His yell carried easily up out of the hollow to them. “Hugh! I know you’re out there, watching. This blonde harlot would never have come traipsing in on her own. Answer me, or she loses some of her pale beauty in an untimely encounter with the ground below.”
Hugh turned to whisper to Joan. “Get away to the west. Once I call out, they’ll know to converge on my position.”
Joan resolutely shook her head. “Side by side, remember?”
His voice was tight. “And then you went and climbed into that cart with Father –”
Umberto’s voice carried an edge to it. “Not there? Guess I’ll just have to toss –”
Hugh stepped forward to the overlook, throwing his arms wide. “I am here, Umberto. You have me. Now let the woman go.”
Umberto smiled widely at that. “Let Sybil go? When she has such talents? I hardly think that is in my best interest. And I would guess that your other two gang-members are back down the path, waiting in safety for the return of your silver-tongued seductress. So it is just you and I. Perhaps we can have a little chat.”
Hugh’s voice was steady. “Let her go and we can talk all you want.”
Umberto chuckled. “It sounds like some of Michael did rub off on you, after all. That was his way. Talk and banter, bargain and manipulate. You were always the man of action. I imagine it was why you two made such a great team.” He shrugged. “Pity it had to end the way it did. But, you know, Cecily was always a bit … impetuous.”
Joan froze in shock. Master Martin had told her it was an accident; Michael had stumbled and fallen to his death over the wall of the patio. It had happened just a month after her visit there. She had seen those sheer cliffs herself, had seen the jagged rocks which lay fifty feet below. The scene had haunted her dreams for months afterwards.
Why would Master Martin have lied to her?
Umberto’s lips curled up into a grin. “Then again, you know how these lover’s quarrels can be.”
Chapter 10
Joan shook her head in confusion. Surely she had not heard Umberto correctly. He almost seemed to be implying that Michael – her Michael – had been involved with this Cecily woman. The thought was ludicrous. They had been practically engaged since she was eight. She had followed him to sword class, had watched patiently while he trained, and had agreed without complaint to the long separations while he went away on missions. She had put her entire life on hold to wait for him to return to her.
And he had spent that time betraying her?
She drew her gaze to Hugh’s form. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the iron will it took for him to keep his focus on the man before him, not to turn to her and say something. Anything.
It was true.
The knowledge sunk deep within her. Here she had done everything she could to fight against her attraction to Hugh. She had traveled the long distance from Jerusalem to Jaffa to shake loose her fantasy visions. She had taken every step possible to break the hold he had over her. When that hadn’t worked, she had ruthlessly cut off all contact, turning over all communication back to Master Martin. And while she was as cloistered as a nun, Michael had been –
Umberto’s voice rang out into the dark night. “What was best of all was that that naïve girl of his never knew the truth of what he was up to. She thought he was an upright man, all she could ever dream of. To think he was spending his nights rutting with his passionate paramour. I wonder if he even thought of his fiancé while he thrust –”
Joan could not take any more. She launched to her feet, preparing to stride out alongside Hugh and shout her fury to the world.
Hugh flashed his left hand down at his side, fingers spread wide.
Trap.
Joan froze, her mind reeling. Did they truly know she was here? Was this dialogue aimed to draw her out into the open, and for what reason?
Umberto’s voice rolled out over the open space, describing in lurid detail just how Michael had enjoyed Cecily’s curves, and as Joan examined the situation clinically she realized that it was carefully constructed to push her past her limits. It was clearly not aimed at Hugh. Hugh showed no sign of jealousy or anger over the litany. He seemed to accept it for truth, a fact she filed away for later discussion with him. For now, though, she carefully crept forward, scanning the ground below for the threat.
Ah, there he was. At the corner of the stables, a man with a long plait of blond hair held a longbow. His eyes were attentively scanning the ridge of the forest, watching and waiting.
Joan pitched her voice low. “Hugh. Archer. Stables, front corner.”
He gave the slightest of nods. Then, in a louder voice, he shouted, “Are you done with your romantic tales for the evening, or are you next going to share Troilus and Criseyde with me and your guards?”
Disappointment showed on Umberto’s face as he scanned the forest behind Hugh. “And here I’d hoped for a larger prize, but I guess tonight was not the night.” He shrugged. “Still, I will enjoy this being the last sight you see before you, too, fall. You have been a thorn in my side for long enough, Hugh.”
The world stalled into slow motion. Hugh’s voice shouted in helpless frustration, “Sybil!” Umberto’s hand swung forward at Sybil’s body as Joan’s arms swung up to aim the crossbow. She fired just as the sight came to Umberto’s chest. The whistling of the bolt was echoed by another whistling, and Hugh dove at her, driving her to the ground as an arrow slammed into a nearby oak.
She rolled onto her stomach, sliding forward to peer over the edge of the ridge. Umberto was splayed back on the roof, blood pooling around his chest and shimmering in the moonlight. Sybil clung to the edge of the roof with both hands, screaming. A guard poked his head up through the hatch, took in the scene, and vanished.
Hugh set off at a run, and Joan was right on his heels, leaping a rotting trunk, dodging around a rocky ravine. She knew well the orders left for any of Umberto’s locations which were breached. She could see the flames licking from the arrow slots as they came down to the floor of the ravine. The guards streamed away down the road, abandoning their camp.
Hugh raced to the door of the structure, but smoke billowed from it, and he shook his head in frustration. He looked up the three stories to the woman dangling above him.
“Hang on, Sybil!”
Joan sprinted into the stables. Only the priest’s elderly horse waited patiently in a stall at the far end, with the cart tucked in the opposite corner. Besides that, there were random rakes, hoes, buckets … ah! Joan spotted a coil of thin rope and grabbed it off the low bench. It might just do the trick.
She raced back out to the side of the larger structure. Hugh was attempting to scale the outside of the building, but the construction was not providing hand-holds for him. He lunged for a sill, missed, and fell the eight feet back to the ground with a crash. He groaned as he pushed back up to standing, his eyes scanning for another route.
Joan dropped to one knee and began cranking as fast as the gears would work. With the crossbow set, she tied the rope to the lead end of the bolt. The weight would greatly impede its ability to fly straight, but she w
asn’t looking for precision on this pass. Just the ability to launch the rope.
She slid the bolt, with its rope attachment, into its channel, and pointed it nearly straight up. Above her, jutting out from the cliff-face top, was an ancient, gnarled oak, its roots delving deep into the rock. Its main branch was thicker than a man’s waist. She only hoped it would be strong enough.
She aimed carefully, drew in a breath, and let it out in a long sigh. Then she squeezed the trigger.
The bolt arced up, higher, slowed, and drifted just over the top of the branch before falling back down toward earth.
Relief coursed through Joan. She dropped the crossbow, grabbed the loose end of the rope, and carefully lowered the bolt down on the other side. When it reached her she had a loop of rope going up, over the branch, and down again.
Hugh was at her side, staring at the rope in confusion, where it now hung looped over the outstretched trunk. “That rope is a good twenty feet from Sybil,” he protested. “She’ll never jump that far!”
Joan grabbed up the crossbow and again furiously cranked. “She won’t need to,” she muttered, all her attention focused on the turning of the handle. She knew, with every passing second, that Sybil’s hands were slipping. She had to get a lifeline to her.
She took up the bolt, which still had one end of the rope tied to it. She carefully slid the bolt into the channel, willing her pulse to slow. She blocked out all else from her awareness – the groan of the building as something within it collapsed, the crackling of the fire reaching out from the arrow slots, the thick billowing of black smoke. The pounding of horse hooves as Norman and Ymbert galloped down the path, the three other horses trailing behind them.
Hugh’s eyes widened in understanding, and he leapt for the free end of the rope, wrapping it around his waist, then looping the upward end several times around his right arm for good measure. He set himself up in a braced position, his eyes moving from the pivot point over the branch to where Sybil clung desperately to the ledge.
His voice was low and determined. “I’m ready.”
Joan’s world narrowed down into a pinpoint focus on the terrified woman. She had seen how the bolt had flown, how it had angled to the right, how the drag caused a truncated arc. If she misjudged this … she put the thought out of her head. She visualized the bolt flying true to its destination; it had to.
Each beat of her heart sounded like a bass drum; her breath coming in was the sweet whisper of wind through fall foliage. A meteor glistened gold, streaking across the sky.
Ymbert stared at the crossbow, followed its aim into the night sky, and his eyes landed on Sybil’s helpless form. He screamed in unbelieving fury and launched himself at Joan.
She let the bolt fly.
Ymbert’s impact threw the crossbow from her hands, toppled her over, and her breath blew out of her in one long whoof. Then there was the sharp edge of cold steel at her throat, and she went as still as death.
Ymbert’s eyes blazed fury. “You traitor,” he snarled. “Shooting at Sybil when she was as helpless as a babe! I will make you pay. And if you think Hugh will save you after –”
Hugh’s voice was hoarse with focus, carrying over the whoosh of the fire and the whinnying of the horses. “God’s Teeth, Ymbert, let her up and come help me!”
Ymbert looked up in shock, then his eyes widened as he took in the scene. Hugh held one end of the rope. It looped up over the tree-trunk and headed straight for the main structure. The bolt with the other end had embedded itself into the building ten feet to Sybil’s right, and down about three feet. She was carefully working her way over to it.
Sybil glanced back over her shoulder at Hugh, her eyes wide with panic.
“Don’t drop me!”
Ymbert dove to hold onto Hugh’s waist, and in a moment Norman was there as well. Joan brought a hand to her neck, and her fingers became wet with the thin line of blood welling there. She sucked air into her lungs. All of her focus was on the scene above.
Sybil gathered herself up, coiled, and sprung for the rope.
The bolt yanked loose from the wall as she landed on the rope. The men hauled in on their end of the rope as she swung, keeping her high, and she arced toward the cliff face the tree jutted out from. She put out her legs, using them as shock absorbers. The upward motion of the rope helped to lessen the impact. Then she swung away again, out toward the center of the valley.
Slowly, carefully, Hugh and the other two fed the rope out, lowering Sybil until she collapsed onto the ground. She held her hands in against her chest, moaning in pain.
Ymbert was at her side in a minute, pouring some ale into her mouth. “Her hands are ripped raw!”
Joan pushed herself to her feet, her back and shoulders aching from the rough tumble Ymbert had given her. She trotted into the stables, moving to the shelf with the ointments and tinctures. She found the scrape mixture – honey with chamomile, and grabbed up the pottery jar. She was back by Ymbert’s side in a moment, handing over the fist-sized container.
He took it without a word, all attention focused on Sybil, and carefully layered the goop on her bloody palms and fingers. “I need bandages,” he added.
Joan’s hand went automatically to her hip, and she cursed as her fingers swept open air. Really? There was a movement at her side, and Hugh pressed the hilt of her dagger into her palm. She dropped to one knee and cut away the bottom of her tangerine dress, first one long swath, then another. She handed both to Ymbert without comment, and he carefully wrapped each hand in colorful swaddling.
At last both hands were mittened and he breathed out a sigh of relief. He looked up to Joan and blinked as if seeing her for the first time. His gaze moved from the bottom of her dress to the wound at her neck, and his shoulders slumped. He pushed himself to his feet.
“I’m … I’m sorry, Joan,” he mumbled. “When I saw Sybil in trouble, and you pointing your crossbow at her, I’m afraid I lost control for a moment.” He glanced back down at Sybil, where Norman was helping her to her feet. “I owe you an apology. You saved her life.”
Joan held his gaze. “I have an idea how you could repay me.”
His eyes brightened. “Oh? Anything!”
She nudged her head to the warehouse building on the other side of the stable. “Can you pick that lock?”
He stared at the building as if it had sprung out of the ether, and then his gaze narrowed. In a second he was sprinting toward its door, his hand moving to the leather bag at his hip. By the time Joan and Hugh came up behind him, he was kneeling before the heavy, iron padlock, carefully working the tumblers with a pair of delicate metal picks.
There was a snapping noise, and Ymbert cursed under his breath. “Good quality lock,” he muttered. He reached into his bag, drawing out another pick. “Needs a lover’s touch.”
His words brought back to Joan the interchange with Umberto as he challenged them from the rooftop.
Had Michael been cheating on her with Umberto’s partner, Cecily? Had Hugh known about it?
She glanced at Hugh, and by his shadowed gaze she knew his thoughts had gone in the same direction. When they finally had a spare moment beyond this chaos, she would demand that he tell her the truth.
There was a soft click, Ymbert gave a chortle of glee, and the heavy, iron lock opened. He disengaged the lock from the two rings it had held together, then stepped back. He drew his dagger from his hip, staring at the door.
Hugh nodded, moving forward to the right hand door. After one final glance at Joan and Ymbert, he pulled the door open.
The interior of the building was pitch black. There were no candles or torches lit within, and no windows to let in the soft moonlight. Not a hint of sound emanated from the shadowy depths.
Hugh shifted to take a step forward, and Joan put out a hand. He froze in place, glancing between her and the blackness before them.
Joan lowered her dagger. She pitched her voice to be calm and reassuring.
“Linota, it
is all right. It’s me, Joan. It’s the fifth day. I’ve come for you with Hugh and his team, just as we planned.”
There was a long pause, with the only noise the crackling of the fire which now had fully engulfed the main building. Then there was a movement, and Linota came warily into the opening, blinking her eyes. Her auburn hair was now a short bob, barely below her ears, and in her hands she held a thick braid. It was nearly three feet in length, thick, knotted at the end. Joan had no doubt that it would be a formidable weapon.
Linota’s eyes relaxed in relief as she came into the light, and she drew Joan into a grateful hug. “Thank the Lord, it really is you.” She turned to look behind her. “It is all right, you are safe now. Come out, my friends.”
In slow, staggering motion, another twenty women slowly emerged from the shadowy depths, all of their hair short, all of them holding a braid of varying thicknesses and lengths.
Joan smiled, tousling Linota’s short hair. “You really did have them well prepared,” she praised.
Linota’s grin sparkled in the firelight. “The soldiers would never have known what hit them,” she agreed. She looked over, taking in the inferno for the first time. “Looks like you didn’t go for the stealth option.”
Joan chuckled. “Well, we did, but it didn’t work out quite as planned. Still, I think this branch of their operation is permanently out of business.”
Linota’s gaze darkened. “And what of Father Picot?”
Joan nodded. “We have him. I’m sure that Lord Weston will be quite happy to deal with him for us.”
Linota looked into the roaring flames. “There was a boss here, in charge of the operations. Ruthless as a viper. Seemed Italian.”
Joan nudged her head toward the roof. “Umberto. Yes, we met him. I’m afraid he met his demise at the pointy end of one of my bolts. He won’t be causing trouble any more.”
