The Devil's Bargain

by Allegra Gray

  They needed a means of survival.

  Home was not an option. Helena had none. Even if Celia’s father would welcome her again, it was the first place Hans would send men to look for them. She could not lead such trouble to his doorstep.

  “How long do you think they will search for us?”

  Helena considered. “’Tis hard to say. Hans hates to be defeated. That alone might spur him on. But if he could somehow twist the story so that he ran us off, ridding the castle of a scourge, then he looks good and there is no need. I do not know what approach he will take. That is the most frightening thing about him. You never know.”

  By mutual agreement, they stopped at the next village. They had to find employment or starve, and neither woman desired the latter. Ville Echallens boasted a marketplace, a church and a cluster of homes and farms. Best of all, there was an inn and tavern that catered to a good many travelers and locals.

  Celia and Helena watched the establishment for a while before deeming it their best hope. Carts and people came and went, and a harried inn keeper struggled to keep up, alternating between chatting up his customers and scolding his lazy kitchen boy.

  Finally, when she could not reasonably delay any longer, Celia marched resolutely across the small yard where hens pecked in the dirt, and into the smokehouse where the tavern keeper was cutting down a smoked, cured, ham. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of the limited rations upon which she’d been subsisting.

  “Pardon me, sir, but can I help you with that?”

  “Eh?” He turned around, wrinkling his nose at the sight of her. “An’ who might you be?”

  “Only a poor traveler, master, in the company of my dear cousin,” Celia lied. Helena stepped into sight as well. She’d removed the tunic that marked her as a heretic, leaving only the plain homespun gown—no different from any other bedraggled traveler.

  “What do ye want? I don’t take to beggars on my establishment.”

  “Work, sir. We want honest work. Our husbands were lost to hunger this winter, and our land sold to purchase their burials and prayers for their souls. So many in our village shared similar fates…our land was always poor. We took to the road, forced to seek our fortunes elsewhere. It has not been an easy journey.”

  “I can see that from the look of ye.”

  She didn’t doubt it. “We’d be most grateful for a chance to earn our keep at a fine establishment such as your own, if you’ve use for another pair of hands or two.”

  “Two women alone?”

  “We’ve no other family, master innkeeper.”

  He squinted at her in the dim light of the smokehouse. “Well, there’s always use for an extra pair of hands, especially since my last girl left to go get married, but it’s hard work around here.”

  “Oui, sir. I understand. My cousin and I are capable. We were raised to hard work and have known it all our lives.”

  Helena had tentatively approached until she stood just outside the door, and she nodded now, in affirmation of Celia’s words.

  The tavern keeper looked from one woman to the other, squinting again. “Under the dirt, you’re a comely maid. I’m not above helpin’ a woman in need, particularly when it helps my own business, but I’ll have you know I run an honest establishment. If you two are lookin’ to ply your favors with my customers, I’ll warn you now I won’t have it.”

  Celia’s lowered her head, mortified, though not surprised, at the man’s words. “Nay, sir,” she said in a strangled voice. “My cousin and I are down our luck, but we are honest women.” She should be grateful. There were plenty of tavern keepers who would propose she and Helena make their wages doing exactly what this one was warning them against.

  He shrugged. “If that’s so, ye can stay as long as ye work hard, an’ as long as business holds up. There’s lots of travelers on the road these days, an’ the men from these parts will come more often with two pretty wenches to serve their ale. An’ when the inn’s empty, there’ll be other chores that need doing. You’ll be expected to work hard, an’ I can’t promise you much coin. Don’ have spare rooms, neither. I can fix ye a pallet by the hearth, is all. But there’s plenty to eat. My customers pay with food as often as with coin.”

  Celia swallowed. At least the man was straightforward about what he could offer.

  “We’ll take it, and gladly. We’re grateful to you indeed, Master…?”

  “Name’s Ren.” The man nodded, then turned back to the ham as he told her, “The missus is inside with the carding and spinning. You can help her for now, then prepare and serve the midday meal.”

  Having been given her orders, Celia went to do as he said, Helena following in her wake. She would have to come up with a better plan later, one that would earn her actual wages, or she would live out the rest of her days as a tavern wench and housemaid—a far cry from any of the grand dreams she’d had only a few short weeks ago.

  There was a chance that Hans had been wrong, and that Nicolas would return to Chillon before moving on to his other holdings. He would miss her, and come looking for her. But there was an equally good chance, Celia feared, that he would not.

  Geneva, May 1203

  “War is a young man’s game.” Giles eased himself gingerly down upon a pile of rugs in Nicolas’s tent.

  A cold spring rain pelted the tent above them while the men who stood guard outside, at the perimeter of the camp, cursed the shift they’d drawn.

  “The tunneling operations have come to a halt,” Giles reported. “Mud and water floods the men’s efforts. The Genevans have managed to take down another siege tower, though we got some of their men before they succeeded.”

  “Thank you, Giles.” Nicolas set down the map he’d been studying, feeling vaguely guilty for not offering the older man his stool, the only one in the tent. He was already aware of most of this news, but he always welcomed Giles’ counsel.

  “We need a new tactic,” Giles advised. “Something to gain us leverage. When the rain lets up, we could reconsider burning the winter fields. I don’t like it, though. The true harm of burnt fields isn’t felt until harvest time. ‘Twould only drag this matter out.”

  “I have no intention of burning fields. Rarely does a tactic that starves the women and children of any land prove a wise decision.” But Giles was right. They did need a new plan—one that would not delay them from getting home to plant their own summer fields. The men and women left behind would plant what they could, but it would not be enough.

  “Right then. We’ll think of something.” Giles stretched out his legs, unfolding each joint slowly as though it caused him pain. “My bones are too old for this sort of life. I miss the comforts of my bed. I imagine you do, as well.” He waggled an eyebrow lecherously.

  Nicolas raised his own eyebrows in response. “Coming from anyone but you, Giles, I would not tolerate such talk.”

  Giles waved a hand. “Ah, but I am old, and you must forgive an old man his indiscretions. I meant only to say that you must miss your young mistress.”

  “That I will not deny.” He did miss Celia, far more than he’d anticipated.

  In the heat of battle his mind focused only on tactics, but during the endless waiting between attacks, he longed for the young beauty who bewitched him with her body and surprised him with her compassion and courage. In bed and out, he missed her. She’d gotten into his head, and he couldn’t seem to get her out.

  “She makes you happy.”

  Nicolas shrugged. It was the truth, but he didn’t see the point of discussing it. He couldn’t have her, so thinking about it would just make him grumpy.

  Giles was not deterred. “No other woman has, Nicolas. I’ve known you long enough to see that. It’s something. Don’t throw it away.”

  “And what, oh wise counselor, would you have me do?” If silence wasn’t going to work, maybe sarcasm would.

  “You could make an honest woman of her.”

  Nicolas looked incredulously at Giles, searching for some h
int the man was joking. He found none. “She’s a poor merchant’s daughter. A peasant.”

  “That she is. But she makes you happy.”

  Nicolas shook his head in disbelief, reverting to his earlier opinion that silence was his best course of action.

  Giles apparently decided he’d pressed enough, for he dropped the subject and drew one of the rugs over his lap. Slowly, he unwrapped the bandage that bound his upper arm.

  “God’s teeth, man!” Nicolas exclaimed when he saw the festering wound. The smell of infected flesh cut through the chilly air of the tent. “Have you seen the surgeon about that?”

  “Pah! He’ll only want to cut off the whole limb and be done with it. I’m not anxious to see it go.”

  Giles had a point. The camp surgeon’s favorite—and only reliable—method of dealing with infections was amputation. Nicolas wouldn’t have been in any rush to visit him, either.

  “Well, at least have Pierre clean it for you properly.” The young sentry had been acting admirably as Nicolas’s squire, though his gentle nature meant people sought him out more often for stitching wounds than for raids on the enemy.

  “In a moment.” Giles adjusted his rug, then peeked around the tent opening. No one stood near, the rain having driven all but the guards to their tents. He sighed and his features took on an expression of gravity. “Nicolas, allow me to speak freely.”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”

  Giles ignored the barb. “This siege is going nowhere.”

  “We’ll see it through,” Nicolas growled.

  “We’ve been here nigh on three months. Your men are good, Nicolas, but the Genevans were prepared.”

  Coming from anyone but his old and trusted advisor, Nicolas would have grown irate at the words.

  But once again, Giles was right. Nothing about this campaign had gone according to plan. His men had struck forcefully at first, but it seemed the Genevans had gotten wind of the impending attack. Fighting a battle against an enemy who was prepared was immensely more difficult than taking one by surprise. Of course, Nicolas had known the Genevans would expect retaliation for the attack on Chillon eventually, but he’d hoped that by showing up so soon after the winter weather broke, he’d catch them unprepared. Unfortunately, the Count of Geneva was just as crafty as he was.

  So far, neither side could claim any decisive victory. Nicolas’s men were exhausted and filthy. Their will to fight warred with worries about their homes and their fields. The appeal of camp food had long since worn thin. And, as Giles had said, he longed for the comforts of his own bed.

  Nicolas took a deep breath and rubbed at the spot between his brows. “Do you think they’re weakening?”

  “Maybe. If not yet, then soon. They have a water supply, but food must be running short.”

  “You think they’re ready to negotiate?”

  “It’s worth a try. We’ve done some damage to their defenses, and we’ve prevented them from laying in their crops. The weather’s growing warmer, and they’re trapped in their castle until we leave. They’ll be worried by now. I doubt they’ll deal lightly with Chillon in the future.”

  Perhaps it was time to negotiate a truce.

  “Nicolas?” Giles prompted.

  “Oui.” He ran his hands through his matted hair, his fingers snagging in the mess. “My thoughts are much in line with yours. Tomorrow I will seek parlay with our opponent.”

  Giles nodded in satisfaction, then closed his eyes and leaned back for a moment’s rest.

  Nicolas sat silently, trying to figure out a way to negotiate a truce without it sounding like surrender.

  “Your men cannot last forever,” the Count of Geneva said with a shrug.

  “Neither can yours,” Nicolas answered. The Genevan nobleman was older than he, tall and thin with gray beard and elegant robes. He spoke with the air of a man who had seen many battles come and go, and was not overly worried about the current one. Nicolas suspected the man was more worried than he let on, but had to admire the man’s attitude.

  “My men have the protection of walls.” The Genevan gestured toward those walls now.

  “Walls that cut them off from their supplies. They will starve inside these walls.” Nicolas spoke matter-of-factly. This wasn’t news to either party.

  They’d begun their negotiations in a tent, but after the tent got blown over, they moved their indoors—just inside the Genevan gates—as a concession to bitter rain and wind. Nicolas had agreed reluctantly, and only after his opponent had threatened to call off their talks entirely. He’d been allowed a small, minimally armed guard.

  He watched as his opponent’s brow furrowed.

  “Chillon was fair game. Those lands belonged to my family at one time. ‘Tis my duty to recover them for the Holy Empire.”

  An interesting change of tactic—but Nicolas knew the real reason Geneva sought Chillon. It had nothing to do with duty, and everything to do with the wealth it brought in. “Those lands are mine, and my father’s before me. We control them well and have no need of the empire’s assistance. Sending mercenaries to attack was beneath you.”

  “Dare you suggest I bring my own full force?”

  “My men are waiting to slaughter them ere they reach the roads. Instead I propose that, in return for your agreement to relinquish any claim to Chillon, real or imagined, my men will retreat, allowing yours to plant their fields and resupply your castle.”

  “Relinquish? For how long?”

  “Three years. You do not send forces to Chillon, and mine will not return here.” A lot could happen in three years, and Nicolas knew better than to bind himself permanently.

  “A truce.”

  “Aye, a truce.”

  “’Tis true I have no wish to see my people starve.”

  He was winning. He kept his face carefully blank as the Genevan count considered, fingering the trim on his long robes.

  Nicolas was about to press for a decision when a sentry—one of the Genevans—poked his head into the chamber and gave his master a quick hand signal, then disappeared again.

  Nicolas frowned as he watched his rival’s eyes take on a gleam. That didn’t bode well. “Three years,” he repeated, “and a lower rate on the taxes for Genevan merchants.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “What terms do you suggest?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind about this negotiation.” The Genevan’s tone was falsely jovial.

  Uneasiness built in Nicolas’s gut. “I do not understand.”

  “The terms of our agreement shall be this. First, your men will cease all hostilities against my men and my properties. They will then withdraw a safe distance, clearing the roads so that supply wagons and merchants will have access to my town and castle. When my men are sufficiently rested and provisioned, I will once again entertain the notion of negotiation.”

  “That is absurd. Savoy gains nothing from such an agreement.”

  “Ah. But they do. They gain my word I will do no harm to their leader while he is staying in my chateau.”

  “Staying?”

  “I believe the best way to ensure your compliance in this arrangement is to see to it that, until my conditions are met, you remain here.”

  “You cannot be serious.” Nicolas’s gut clenched, his hands balled into fists. Entering the Genevan’s castle, regardless of the weather, had been a terrible lapse in judgment.

  “I assure you I am.”

  “I do not agree to stay.”

  “You have no choice. Even now the guards who escorted you here have been deprived of their weapons and sent back to your camp, empty-handed but for a parchment detailing the nature of our, er, agreement.” The Genevan calmly fingered his gray beard.

  “This is no agreement. This is treachery!” Nicolas was anything but calm. “My men will retaliate. They will double their attack. They will raze your fields and all your lands.”

  “And risk having their beloved le
ader killed? I think not.”

  “Have you no honor?” Nicolas demanded. “You cannot agree to parlay, then take me hostage during the negotiation.”

  The Genevan gave an elegant shrug. “Of course, honor is a good thing. But not always a convenient thing. And not always, even, the most advantageous thing. I serve my people best by flexibility in matters such as honor.”

  “You will surely burn in hell.”

  “Surely.” The Genevan strode to the door, where his sentry waited just outside. He spoke to the sentry, gesturing casually toward Nicolas. “Take him to the tower.”

  Chapter 20

  Ville Echallens, May 1203

  Celia and Helena worked, and worked hard. The days slipped into weeks and weeks slipped into months. Celia’s hands grew rough again from the labor, but the tavern-keeper was a fair master. He paid them what he could, which was not much, but they never went hungry.

  The work was mindless, and Celia’s thoughts fluctuated between despair and anger—despair over her current situation, and anger at Nicolas for putting her in it.

  She’d offered him everything she could give, and while he’d never promised her love, she’d assumed he would at least ensure her protection. The pretty bauble he’d offered to do just that had been the very thing that had landed her in trouble. Even if she couldn’t exactly blame Nicolas for that, the fact was, he’d ignored her misgivings about Hans. He should have taken her concerns seriously. But ever had his mind turned to war.

  Besides the innkeeper, the only permanent members of the house were his wife and the kitchen boy—now relegated to stable duty. Travelers passed in and out, and, as the tavern-keeper had predicted, many were pleased to be served by the two women. Occasionally they became forward, but Celia and Helena learned to brush off such advances lightly, keeping everyone happy.

  The tavern-keeper himself—who’d warned them he did not run an illicit establishment—was not above a pinch or squeeze when he’d been in his cups, but as he never pressed for more, they let it pass.