Heather Graham

by The Kings Pleasure

  Adrien stumbled … and fell.

  It seemed he heard a keening on the wind …

  “Come, Danielle, now, let’s go, now!” Simon said.

  Danielle gazed at Monteine, still in Simon’s death grip. She looked at Adrien on the ground, wondering if he were dead or alive. She was desperate to go to him, terrified for her friend. She looked back to Simon, shaking her head in horror, fighting tears which would do her no good. “Come with you? Let her go, you rotten bastard—what are you trying to do, bring the English and French to all out bloody warfare again, strip the land, starve the people—”

  “Shut up, Danielle!” Simon said.

  “I’m not coming with you, Simon. You let Monteine go, and you leave me alone. My God, my baby—”

  “The babe, aye, the babe. We should bring him. Cast him into the Channel,” Langlois advised.

  “No! I’ll gouge your eyes out!” she cried.

  Monteine, gasping against the knife at her throat, made a sound, and Danielle knew she couldn’t fight Simon and Langlois at that moment. The two, together, were ruthless. One man lay dead by Adrien’s hand, and Adrien might be … she didn’t dare think, didn’t dare!

  “Let her go. Let Monteine go, to take my babe, and I’ll come with you.”

  “The babe is the Scotsman’s seed. He should die in the Channel. You’re young. You can have many more babes.”

  “If you hurt my child, or Monteine, I’ll scream until you’re forced to kill me. Let Monteine go to tend the child, and I will walk out of here with you.”

  Simon looked at Langlois, who shrugged. “It will help matters if she comes quietly.”

  Simon thrust Monteine from him. Stumbling, she came forward to stand before the cradle, staring at Danielle with horror.

  “It will be all right,” Danielle said. “See to my lord, Adrien.” She stared hard at Simon, then Langlois, then Simon again. “Adrien let you live when he might have killed you. And you, Comte Langlois! He could have severed your head. Could have, should have killed you, but he didn’t!”

  Simon turned to one of his men. “Quickly, roll Laird MacLachlan in a rug—we’ll throw him in the Channel.”

  “No!” Danielle shouted furiously. She started hurrying the few feet to where Adrien lay, but Simon caught her, throwing her back, his eyes narrowed. “He’s gone, lady, gone as I was gone, and you will learn my ways once again!”

  She slapped him, hard enough to redden his cheek, and with such surprise and vigor that her nails caught his face. In a fury, he slapped her back. She slammed against the bedpost. Light blazed before her …

  Then, perhaps mercifully, utter darkness.

  Chapter 24

  THE COLD OF THE water revived him—that and the burning sensation of the sea in his lungs.

  How far had he fallen? He awoke in a black void in which he was drowning …

  Drowning, yes, damn, he was drowning. He gave a furious kick, and began to rise, and he kicked again, willing himself not to inhale, to give way to temptation …

  To die.

  His face broke the surface. Night had come, and a Flemish ship was moving away, many feet from him. He was cast adrift, far adrift, in the rough waters of the Channel.

  At first, he was disoriented, and he couldn’t see the shore. He was tossed about by the waves; his head was pounding. The water was deep, and cold.

  He found the shore and started to swim, too quickly at first. He might be miles from land; he couldn’t tell how far. The waves washed over him, lifted him, threw him. The sea was rising to whitecaps.

  Then he saw bonfires. They had been lit along the shore. With renewed vigor, he started swimming again. He got control. Smooth, slow strokes. Easy strokes. Strength-saving strokes, slow, sure, constant. His head ceased to ache, his arms were so sore. He floated, fighting the waves that sloshed over his face, the taste of the salt, the innate fear of what might be below him in the pitch dark. He had to reach the shore. By Christ and all the saints, he had to reach the shore.

  He swam again …

  Yet even his resolve might not have been enough if he hadn’t seen the boats as he neared the coastline.

  He closed his eyes, praying. He had to live. To kill Simon. To bring Danielle home. To tell her he believed in her. That he loved her. Simon had wanted him to die believing that his wife had betrayed him. He refused to die, and refused to believe that Danielle had done so. He wondered where his son was, and he opened his eyes, his energy suddenly restored in a fierce burst of desperation.

  Cast in the firelight, he could see the cliffs. They appeared truly white, like angels’ wings. He swam again, damning the shore, for it seemed that every time he neared it, a wave rose, and it was farther away.

  “Adrien!”

  At first he thought he imagined his name, that some siren summoned him from the depths of hell.

  “MacLachlan, damn you, man, you can’t be dead!”

  He knew the voice, had heard it booming time and time again in battle, part of his life. Edward, the Black Prince, was no siren. The prince was out on the water … in the small boat that was now shooting toward him.

  “Row, men!” Edward roared.

  And a moment later, arms were reaching into the water. He was dragged aboard, naked and shivering. A blanket was thrown around him, a leather skin of warm ale was pressed into his hands. “Drink, my friend, warm yourself. Sweet Jesu, sir, how long did you stay out in that water?”

  Amazingly, he discovered that the blanket and ale caused him to cease the jerking that had first seized him. He inhaled, exhaled, leaned back, and looked at the prince. “I don’t know. Edward, by God, tell me what you know.”

  “Your wife’s woman came shrieking out to the men preparing the ship that you were being cast into the sea while Danielle was being abducted. Meanwhile, that French girl, the one you saved from Armagnac’s attack on her village, had gone and thrown herself on my mother’s mercy, babbling some story about Comte Langlois threatening to kill her if she didn’t provide horses for him to escape—with Simon de Valois. Don’t worry, no ill befell the girl—she wants to marry your young armorer, by the way—the lad stood up for her, risking death himself. Anyway, I arrived as quickly as I could to discover your men lighting fires and searching the shoreline for you. Had we not found you soon, I’d have sailed without you. Comte Langlois apparently arrived from France to assist in an escape by Simon de Valois, and it’s my assumption they’ll have to head for the French coast and cast themselves upon the mercy of their ally, Comte Germaine of Cardineau. There, we will do battle.”

  After a moment, Adrien smiled. “You’re a good prince to serve, Edward. You’ve saved my life, and you’re ready to do battle for my wife.”

  Edward shrugged. “Well, friend, you’ve saved my skin a number of times. And as to your wife, well …”

  “Aye?”

  Edward shook his head, hunkering down in the small boat so the oarsmen wouldn’t hear him. “Such a clever Scot’s boy. I must go. Father has demanded that Comte Germaine be trounced from the castle, and I must go for Danielle. She is my sister.”

  “Aye, the king’s ward.”

  Edward sighed, a slight twinkle in his eyes. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I don’t mean that she is his ward. I mean that she is my sister.” He sat back and bellowed out, “Row, men! We must reach the ship and sail the Channel. Quickly!”

  Wrapped in the blanket, Adrien was able to see Monteine briefly before setting sail upon the ship for France. Cheers went up when he walked ashore; his men shouted out that it was a miracle, that he was blessed from above. “The saints preserve you, aye, they do, Laird MacLachlan!” came a cry, and then, a moment later, Monteine was rushing to him.

  “Laird MacLachlan! I swear to you, Danielle had nothing to do with it! The bastard struck her, knocked her out, he’s taken her—”

  “It’s all right, Monteine, we’re going for her.”

  Daylin came up behind Monteine, grasping Adrien’s shoulder, embraci
ng him. “Thank God …”

  “My son—” Adrien began.

  “The babe is in the best of hands,” Prince Edward assured him, pounding him on the back with such a wallop that he stumbled forward. “My mother has Robin.”

  The sea churned and churned; it seemed that the ship was tossed endlessly. Danielle lay in a tight little cabin in a state of sheer misery, desperately sick, and caring little. Adrien was dead. They had knocked him out and thrown him into the tempest of the night sea. She wanted to die herself.

  Simon came into the cabin. He was handsomely dressed, yet she wondered that she had ever found him charming. His features did not seem so classically cut tonight; they were too slim, too narrow. He gripped the woodwork above the bunk and-stared down at her.

  “It may be hard at first. But we are French. You will forget him—”

  “Forget that you murdered him?”

  “Langlois struck the blow.”

  “And you ordered him tossed overboard.”

  “He was a knife in the side of France. Danielle …” He started to sit by her side.

  “Touch me, and I will be sick.”

  “Oh, come now, you will grow accustomed to me again. You will remember how close we were, how we laughed—”

  “Touch me, and I will be sick.”

  He touched her. She kept her promise. Swearing furiously, he rose and slammed out of the cabin.

  Still wrapped in sheets, Danielle arrived in France and was dismayed to see the castle at Cardineau. The walls were high and thick and the fortress heavily manned. She didn’t know if anyone would come for her, if anyone would care. If, by a miracle, Adrien had lived and if he tried to free her, it would take a siege.

  She was brought to the highest tower at the northeastern section of the castle. There were no balconies here, no means of escape except for one circular stairway.

  When she was brought in, she saw that a hot bath awaited her along with a trunk of clothing, perfumes, wine, bread, and a large carved bed. She sat on the floor, curled into a ball in her sheets, refusing to look at Simon.

  “Danielle, you will see to yourself,” he told her, “or I will see to you.” She didn’t move, and he stepped toward her. She didn’t want him touching her so she rose and told him, “Get away from me, Simon, and I will rise and dress.”

  “Do so then,” he said firmly.

  She stumbled to her feet and walked to the elegant copper-edged hip tub, the sheets still wrapped around her. Simon watched. She kept her back to him and said, “Simon, if I led you to believe that I loved you before, I’m sorry. I am married to Adrien MacLachlan, and I love him, and if you think that you can force—”

  “MacLachlan is dead,” Simon said flatly.

  “I’ll not believe it until I see him dead,” she said.

  “He’s in the Channel, food for fish, Danielle.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “Then I’ll never believe myself a widow.”

  “Perhaps his carcass will wash up on the English shore!” Simon snapped. “It’s no matter, Danielle. Your life with the English is over.”

  She turned on him. “There is war, Simon, but this isn’t English and it isn’t French. I am French, Simon, my people are French, but though there is war, some people remain decent, and some do not. I hate you. I see you for what you truly are. You were part of Comte Armagnac’s forces when they were pillaging, raping, and murdering people in France in a bid to wrest power from Edward. My life will never be with you. You were shown mercy, and all you gave in turn was cruelty.”

  “Get in the tub, Danielle, and wash his stench from you,” Simon replied.

  She tested the water, seeing that he was moving. She wondered if she had the strength to kill him. They would slay her in return, of course, but she wasn’t sure that it mattered. He said that her husband was dead; she didn’t know if her child had survived or not. She’d rather die than be touched by the butcher of her husband and son.

  The water was cold, but a kettle bubbled above the fire in the hearth. She walked around the tub, reaching for the kettle of water over the fire to add to her bath. “Simon, you’re gone mad!” she told him. “Don’t you understand? You murdered the man I loved.”

  “Love is fickle, Danielle—that is what I understand.”

  She gasped, spinning around, because he had come to stand next to her. He reached for her, intent on stripping away the sheet and plunging her into the water.

  She didn’t actually plan her attack so much as she simply fell into it. She lifted her arm to repel him, and sent the boiling water sluicing over his midsection and groin.

  Simon screamed in agony. Danielle realized what she had done, and backed away in horror. Simon ripped at his clothing, shouting for help. Guards burst into the room.

  Danielle backed against the wall. For the moment, she was ignored as Simon howled and more guards rushed in. Then he was carried out, the men shouting for a surgeon. The door was bolted. Shaking, she slid against the wall until she was on the floor. She suddenly started sobbing, and then, just as suddenly, she ceased. She refused to believe that Adrien was dead. She rose, walked to the tub, washed in the tepid water, and found clothing and dressed. She waited, praying.

  No one came near her that night.

  In the morning, the door burst open and Simon made an enraged, barely controlled appearance. He moved slowly and stiffly, and she realized that he was wrapped in bandages and still in great pain.

  Despite her anger at his entry, she forced herself to remain standing near the northeastern tower window. She stared at him and waited without betraying her fear.

  “The English, my lady, have always excelled at the art of torture, but we French are craftsmen at the art as well. I’ve thought of many ways for you to begin to feel the pain you have wrought upon me.”

  “If you’re in pain, you brought it on yourself. I told you not to touch me.”

  “Thumbscrews are wretchedly painful—I have seen them used. You could be chained to the wall in a dungeon far below, hung from the ceiling until your arms ripped from their sockets. Your eyes could be pierced with a burning stick, so hot that they exploded in your head … and yet you would live. Ah, you think there is no dungeon here? But there is, lady, there is! There are rooms and tunnels beneath this castle leading all the way to the sea, and I assure you, through the two centuries this castle has stood, many an enemy has been maimed, twisted, burned … and discarded without anyone being the wiser. I can’t tell you the horrors that await the unwary below.

  “I will heal. Perhaps in no more than a week’s time. I gave my most serious consideration to having you flayed until you were in such agony you could no longer scream. But, Danielle, your husband is dead, and you are going to be joined to me in holy matrimony. And I don’t want a scarred, deformed wife. Therefore, you will await your just punishment until I am ready. And at that time, you will pay, because I will heap every degradation known upon you, and you will serve my needs because I will force you to do so.”

  She turned from him, losing the facade of complete control she had longed to keep. She looked toward the window; if he healed, she would cast herself from the window.

  “Danielle!” Simon said softly. “Look again. It is an archer’s slit, no more. Not even your slim frame would fit through!”

  She could starve herself until she was nothing but bones, she told herself, her dismay and desolation overwhelming.

  Yet even as Simon stared at her, Comte Langlois and a tall, graying man she had never met burst into the room behind him. The man she didn’t know paused, staring at her. He bowed deeply, assessing her, then spoke bitterly. “Countess! So you are the woman who causes men to act insanely! The great prize who pits warrior against warrior! Well, madam, I, Count Germaine and master of this castle, do not welcome you!” He turned furiously to stare at Simon. “MacLachlan is dead, or so you claimed!”

  “He is dead—we threw him into the sea—” Simon protested.

  “Well, the English have
arrived, and—”

  “The Prince Edward leads the forces!” Comte Langlois said.

  “Look out the window, Comte Langlois, Simon de Valois, for beyond the gates you will see a man atop a giant bay, and it is MacLachlan.”

  Danielle cried out, and raced for the window.

  The English forces had arrived, en masse. She could see them settling into position beyond the thick walls of the fortress. Armored horsemen and foot soldiers were at the fore; she could see siege equipment being hauled behind them, toward the walls.

  And at the front of the line of horsemen, she saw a rider. On Adrien’s great warhorse, Matthew. In Adrien’s armor, in a tunic bearing Adrien’s crest.

  Simon wrenched her away from the window, throwing her back across the room as he stared out himself. “It’s a trick. An impostor is wearing his clothing and armor, riding his horse. See, there is the Black Prince …”

  Germaine said, “There is the Black Prince, conferring with the horseman in MacLachlan’s armor! It is MacLachlan, I tell you. I have ridden with him into battle, and I know the way he rides a horse. I know his motions, and you two have brought ruin upon my castle!”

  Simon was undisturbed by Germaine’s anger. “Indeed, Count, you say you know MacLachlan because you rode with him. You chose to betray your English king and seize his castle. I have not brought ruin down upon you. MacLachlan was bringing an army against you before we ever came. In his place, the Black Prince has come. Be grateful for the men and arms I bring to you to hold this castle against him!”

  As the three men argued fiercely, Danielle felt a rise of hope so sweet it was like a taste of ecstasy. She longed to dash back to the window and study the figure in her husband’s accoutrements herself, but she could not do so while the three remained.

  “There rides a messenger to the gates!” Langlois said.

  “What is he shouting, can you hear?” Simon demanded.

  “Yes, I can hear!” Germaine exclaimed. “He’s saying that King Edward will grant me the noble death of beheading if I return the countess unharmed! Dammit, Simon, you will give the woman back!”