When Damas came upon the solid oak door at the end of the passage, he prayed his loyal men and servants inside the keep had done their job. Carefully, he unbarred it. His heart leapt when the lock clicked open. He leaned against the wood and pushed gently, steadily, to avoid any loud sound. Relief flowed through him when the door smoothly gave way. The hinges had been oiled as he'd requested. Good.
One of his former captains, dressed as a servant in rags, greeted him silently in the antechamber near the guard room. The man indicated with five fingers the number of guards on duty in the next room.
Damas nodded and handed his former captain one of his long hunting knives. The man's eyes glittered with pleasure in the torchlight, and he grinned as he happily took the lead of the raiding party.
"Should we go up there and fight?" came the voice of one of the guards from the room ahead.
"Nay. We must guard the prisoners here," answered another.
The pretend servant motioned that the guards had their backs to them. Then he went ahead, past them, and addressed them, hiding his weapon inside his sleeve. "‘Tis nasty out there. You are much safer here."
Peeking around the corner of the wall, Damas saw the five guards nod. Three of them sat at the table and resumed a card game. The other two crouched on the floor to roll dice.
Damas signaled with his arm. His knights pounced upon the guards, neatly slicing their throats with little struggle, and not so much as a strangled cry.
Damas felt incredibly alive and light on his feet. Each successful step of his developing plan raised flurries of trepidation inside his chest. Leaving the corpses in the guard room, he and his raiding knights followed the disguised captain up the winding stone stairs of the dungeon.
Before they emerged into the keep's great hall, Damas motioned for his knights to stop. The captain glanced at him, and Damas waved him to go ahead. He watched from the shadowed stairs as the man walked alone into the hall, the long knife barely visible under the hanging shreds of his ragged tunic sleeve.
The captain soon returned with a wide smile. "Only loyal servants and a few wounded soldiers in the hall, my lord."
Motioning to his knights to follow, Damas emerged into the great hall. "Kill the wounded."
His knights rushed in. The great hall erupted into shouts. Benches fell in a fracas. Servants scrambled out of the way as the knights sliced heads and stabbed already wounded chests. The struggle lasted but a few moments.
Damas turned to his disguised captain. "Where is my family?"
"Your wife, son and daughter are safe and sound in the upper chambers, my lord."
"And our men inside?" Damas hoped enough had survived. He needed men he could trust.
The captain's arm encompassed the hall. "Most of these servants are part of my secret company, my lord."
"Take your company to the armory and suit up for battle. We have a castle to retake."
The captain saluted.
"Wait." A glance outside, through the open door of the hall, revealed garrison soldiers on the second wall. Their backs to the keep, they repelled the mercenaries climbing the walls from the outer bailey. "Hurry, then join my raiding party and dispatch the garrison soldiers on the wall. Throw them down to the savage mercenaries below."
The disguised captain grinned. "With extreme pleasure, my lord."
Fortunately, Artaud's civilized garrison was no match for the wild mercenaries, and Damas won quickly. He ordered Artaud's soldiers executed and tossed over the rampart into a deep gully. This time around, Damas took no prisoners.
The outer enclosure echoed with victory cries from the mercenaries. Within the hour, the keep and both inner and outer baileys had been cleared.
The Burgundy captain leading the mercenaries joined Damas on the battlements of the inner rampart. "Both enclosures are secure, my lord. What are your orders?"
"Your men can celebrate in the outer bailey. You may join me and my knights in the great hall tonight for the festivities... alone. I have something special planned." Damas knew better than to allow the savage cohort into his hall.
"And next?" Eagerness shone in the Burgundy man's eyes.
"You have one day to rest. The day after tomorrow, we attack Montarcher." Damas pulled a small purse from his belt and handed it to the Burgundy captain. "Distribute this among your men. There will be more after the second battle."
The captain took the purse and weighed it discreetly in his hand, eyes bright in his dirty face. "Gold?"
"Aye." Damas had no illusion that most of the gold would remain in the captain's possession, but he didn't care. This was a very small prize to share with so many soldiers. Let them bicker as they divided the spoils.
The captain saluted, swiveled on his heel, then left, a new lightness in his step.
Damas allowed himself a sigh of relief. He'd won back his castle. Within two days, he would conquer Montarcher and become overlord of Forez. Even if he couldn't take Montarcher as quickly as Couzan, once the pope ratified Artaud's excommunication, all of Christendom would support Damas as the new Count of Forez.
Artaud and his Pagan bitch didn't stand a chance, in heaven or in hell.
Chapter Seventeen
Next morning - Montarcher castle
Melusine watched a young man racing through the bailey toward the keep, his cape flying in his wake, face red as a beet, legs threatening to buckle under him. He halted in front of her, doubled over, hands on his knees, huffing like a bellow, unable to utter a word.
John-John! Melusine's heart raced. The young man, now a regular in Montarcher, still hadn't made the connection between her and the resplendent creature of the swamps. How could he? A golden glow had hidden her face, and he believed the lady of the swamps to be the Great One Herself.
"Easy, John-John. Breathe. What is it?" Melusine cupped her heavy belly with both hands.
"M'lady..." John-John straightened and took a few more ragged breaths. "Lord Damas..."
"Damas?" A cold wave washed over Melusine. "What about Damas?"
"He's back in Couzan, lord of his castle again, m'lady."
"In Couzan?" Melusine stilled at the chilling news. How could the miserable blackguard have retaken his castle? Artaud's spies had reported him last in Lyon and in Burgundy. "How did he manage to do such a thing?"
"My tavern is full of mercenaries... real barbarians, m'lady. They pay for drinks with tiny bits of gold from their purses."
"Gold?" So Damas had bought himself an army of mercenaries... with the gold he stole from Artaud. "What happened to our garrison in Couzan?"
"All dead, my lady..." The lad lowered his gaze to the tip of his muddy boots. "Or worse."
"What do you mean, worse?" A glacial tendril stiffened her spine.
"They say Lord Damas and his wife feasted after their victory last night, and laughed as they watched their men butcher the last surviving garrison soldiers... cutting them up alive, one piece at a time."
Melusine's hands flew to her mouth. "May the Great One protect us."
"They're all dead now, m'lady." John-John shook his head sadly. "‘Tis all the mercenaries brag about."
"Over four hundred good men..." Melusine's righteous anger swirled like a gathering storm in her gut. The lookouts hadn't reported the return of Damas. His men must have found and killed them, too.
Forbidden to use her gifts for personal reasons, Melusine had failed to predict this dangerous reversal.
John-John raised his gaze to meet hers. "They say Montarcher is next, m'lady... tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Melusine reeled from the news. Why didn't she see this coming? "How many soldiers does Damas have?"
"Only a dozen mounted knights, I hearsay, but lots of mercenary foot soldiers. Almost a thousand, from what I heard. They look fierce, and they sure enjoy carnage."
"Dear Goddess." Melusine stepped back to lean against the wall of the keep. The two babies in her belly seemed disturbed as well, and one kicked.
A plump milk maid on her way to the kitche
n glanced her way and set down her jugs, then rushed to her side with her three-peg stool. "Want to sit a while, m'lady? You look pale."
"Thank you." Melusine, with the help of the maid, eased herself down onto the low milking stool and smiled. "Would you fetch my husband? He should be at the smithy."
"Of course, m'lady." The milk maid curtsied.
"Wait." The maid probably thought she was ready to give birth. "Tell him to get Ida and Guilli, and meet me in the library."
"Aye, m'lady." The maid bobbed and lifted the hem of her skirts, then scampered across the bailey, toward the column of black smoke hovering above the blacksmith's shop.
Of course, no one knew Melusine carried twins, or boys. Only witches could foretell such things, and being called a witch was a dangerous thing in this day and age. Still, tongues wagged about her girth, and her enormous child that must be past due.
Melusine reached a hand toward John-John. "Help me up, young man. You are taking me up the stairs."
* * *
Artaud raced up the narrow stairs of the keep. Was Melusine going into labor? It was so close to her time, but she wouldn't have chosen the library. No. It must be something else... something equally important. His heart quickened. It could only be bad news.
He burst into the library to face Melusine sitting in his armchair, and a red-faced John-John standing proudly by her side.
"Guilli and Ida are on their way." He noticed Melusine's stony face. "Are you well?"
"As well as can be, considering."
He rushed to her side and laid a concerned hand on her shoulder. "What is it?"
She covered his hand with hers. "Bad news."
A commotion outside the door marked the arrival of Guilli, disheveled and panting. He turned back toward Ida who followed on his heels. "Beat you to it."
Ida shrugged as she entered behind him, composed like a lady. She took in the room, raised a brow at John-John then sat at the table, eying Melusine. "What is it?"
"John-John here," Melusine gestured toward the young man, "came to tell us Damas has retaken his castle of Couzan with an army of mercenaries almost one thousand strong."
"What?" Artaud's blood surged. "What about our garrison?"
"Exterminated, all four hundred of them." Melusine's steady voice sounded strangely flat. "And Damas plans to attack Montarcher on the morrow."
"By Jupiter's balls!" Artaud's mind already worked out the details. "We must send messengers now to our other castles, so their troops can attack Damas from behind when he lays his siege."
"We prepared for this all winter." Melusine's cool demeanor frightened Artaud more than anything. What did she know that she didn't tell? "We knew it might come in the spring, but this is much earlier than expected."
"‘Tis all right," Ida said with surprising poise. "Let them come. We just need to move now, and fast."
"Let's deploy our plan immediately." Artaud realized his fingers clutched Melusine's shoulder with white knuckles and released his grip.
"Relax." She patted his hand. "We are well prepared. We'll get through this, with the help of the Great One."
John-John nodded with enthusiasm. "Aye, m'lady, the Great One will help us."
"Well done, John-John. Thank you for your loyalty and quick reaction." But Artaud dreaded the morrow. Going into battle when Melusine was about to give birth... and so close to her cursed Wednesday, too. What terrible timing for them all.
* * *
Melusine could not let Artaud fight Damas alone. Although impeded by her advanced pregnancy, she decided to lend a hand. Before she rushed ahead, however, she needed someone's permission.
She entered the private shrine behind the baths, where the ancient statue of the Great Goddess still stood, guarding the spring. Melusine lit a few tallow candles, their glow giving the stone a warm polish. She sat on the stone floor, easing her legs apart under the bulky skirt, daring to hope the Great One would agree to come to her.
Washing her mind from all worries and mundane thoughts, Melusine focused on the place in her brain where magic flowed, a place where her immortal essence resided. A place in constant contact with the primordial angel.
"O Great One, please look upon your unworthy daughter with kindness, and make thy will known."
A cold breath swept through the small room, billowing the dolphin banner hanging down the wall, and chilling the mild afternoon. "Who dares summon my presence?"
Melusine shivered at the familiar roughness of the whispering voice. "‘Tis I, O Great One, Melusine."
The air fluttered like a rustling of feathers. "I did much for you already, Melusine. What do you require now?"
Guilt at asking for help threatened to stop her words, but Melusine had a duty to Artaud, to Montarcher, to Forez. "A battle is coming. I wish to help my husband and use my gifts to give him an edge."
"Use your gifts in battle? Haven't you done enough already?" The whisper whistled through the chilly breeze. "What of Caliburn, the glorious sword smelted in the underworld by Gofannon? It keeps your beloved unscathed through battles. Does it not?"
Melusine steeled herself against the fear that gripped her each time she spoke to the Great One. Just for asking, she could lose everything she'd worked so hard to achieve. "This enemy is worse than any we've ever fought. Greed and savagery make these soldiers the most dangerous army in Christendom. I want to insure Forez remains free, so Pagans may practice their faith without persecutions."
"So, what do you want from me?" Menace pervaded the whispered tone.
"Only permission to use my Fae gifts in the protection of Montarcher."
The loud whisper turned into a cackle. Then a gust of wind flapped the banner and sent the candles a flicker. "Use your gifts in the coming battle if you wish, Melusine, but it won't do you any good."
A rush of wind, then the room fell silent and still. The overpowering presence had fled, leaving Melusine perplexed. What did the Great One mean? A sinister foreboding gripped her body and she laid both hands on her belly.
A warm tear rolled down her cheek. "Please, O Great One, if you can still hear me, keep my babies and my husband safe."
Chapter Eighteen
From the top of the ramparts, Artaud considered the few carts waiting outside the gate in the misty dawn. Almost sunrise. He rubbed his gloved hands together. The fog hiding the woods would soon dissipate, and reveal whether or not John-John had spoken the truth about the imminent attack. In any case, the messengers had gone to his other castles to call for reinforcements.
If all looked clear when the sun peeked above the eastern hills, the gate would open for the villagers, then close again. Among the line of carts waiting outside the gate below, a large covered wagon pulled by two oxen called his attention. It did not look familiar. It also seemed too new and well oiled to belong to a simple farmer. Strange. ‘Twas too early in the season for rich merchants to come calling.
How Artaud wished Melusine could be here with him, but she could not climb the walls these days. She would tell him whether or not that wagon presented a danger. Better safe than sorry in any case. As the first ray of sun festooned the horizon with pinkish gold, the portcullis grated in a moan of chains and ropes.
Artaud rushed to the barbican above the gate, as the mechanism shook in a rattle of chains, and the sturdy metal grille rose, ever so slowly.
"Close the gate!" Artaud shouted as he neared the barbican.
The guards stopped at the sound of his voice, then the portcullis dropped, and the metal grate thudded heavily upon the flagstone below.
"Has any of you ever seen this wagon before?" Artaud shouted, glad to have stopped the opening of the gate.
The guards leaned over the parapet to look down. "Nay, m'lord. Never seen it," said the taller of the two, while the other guard shook his head.
"I don't like it." Artaud had learned long ago to trust his gut feelings. "We've been warned of an imminent attack, and we do not need any supplies today. Hence, I order you to ke
ep the gates closed until I give the order to open them. Understood?"
"Aye, m'lord." The tallest man wedged the wooden stop on the cog of the wheel controlling the portcullis.
The second guard gazed around into the distance, above the dissipating mist. "But all seems clear all the way to the tree line, m'lord."
"Just as a precaution." Artaud could not explain his hunch, yet, he must follow it.
The guard nodded then bent over the parapet and shouted to the carts waiting below, "Sorry folks. Go back home. The fortress is closed."
Among a few disappointed grunts of protest, the carts and the large wagon slowly turned around.
As he narrowed his stare upon the suspiciously covered wagon, Artaud caught a glimpse of sunlight on polished metal. The wagon lurched as the oxen maneuvered at a snail pace over the deep ruts in the dirt road. Metal jingled inside. Lots of metal, like chain mail, helmets and scabbards. The familiar sounds of battle armor. The smell of armor grease, different from that used in Montarcher, reached his nostrils.
"By Jupiter's balls!" It was full of soldiers. Artaud couldn't let them escape. "Shoot and burn that wagon! Sound the battle horn!"
The battle horn blared overhead.
A flaming arrow careened through the air, spreading the smell of hot pitch. The missile found its easy mark on the covering of the slow wagon. The canvas caught fire around the arrow shaft. Black smoke and flames rose. Shouts erupted from inside, and soldiers with no crest on their surcoats surged out of the wagon. A good score of them, maybe two dozen.
"Shoot them down!" Artaud breathed a sigh of relief at having spotted the threat.
As the peasants scattered with their carts, soldiers scrambled away from the burning wagon. A few bolts pierced enemy hard bodies below. Screams rose from their throats. Arrows clanged against shields or armor. The mercenaries now ran toward the woods, but a volley whistled through the air and they fell, one by one. Artaud mentally thanked his well trained archers.
Answering the battle horn, his knights and soldiers now climbed the stone stairs to the top of the rampart, to take their assigned posts behind the battlements. Ida appeared at Artaud's side, in full chain mail, looking like a fierce, beardless knight.
Chatelaine of Forez Page 18
