Through a Dark Mist

by Marsha Canham

  “I … cannot leave Oswald,” said the desolate twin. He lifted a face that was wet with tears and appealed to Lucien forlornly. “I would not know what to do without him.”

  “You could live,” the Wolf insisted. “It is not a new or uncommon notion, and I am certain your brother would have wished it.”

  “No.” Stutter shook his head sadly. “We made a pact, my lord. To live and die together. We swore it.”

  “Well … unswear it, damn you, and get into the shaft. We can argue honour later.”

  “My lord … no. Even if I wanted to …” He glanced pointedly at his leg and the Wolf felt a further sinking in his breast as he realized the blood pooled on the floor was not Mutter’s. Stutter’s leg had been broken in the fight; he had been thrown by D’Aeth and had landed awkwardly on the stone, twisting his leg and breaking it with enough force to drive the splintered ends of the bone through the flesh.

  “Oh God,” the Wolf murmured, sitting heavily on the edge of the bench.

  Stutter shook his head. “You must not linger any longer to worry over us, my lord. Robert and I … we shall keep one another company, and together … we shall endeavour to keep the bastards honest. I am not nearly as good a shot as Robert, but I can keep the bows armed … and besides, you need someone to push the stones back into place behind you, or the Dragon’s men will just climb up after you. This way, perhaps they will be confused enough to have to think on it a while.”

  “The lad speaks sense,” Robert admitted. “It would work in your favour for the bastards to find no answers here. And they’ll not find any, laird, not live ones. That I promise ye.”

  Lucien Wardieu looked from Robert to Stutter, and it was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, to nod assent. “If I thought there was the slightest chance—”

  “There is no chance for us, laird, an’ well we know it. But there is a chance for you to lead the rest o’ the men to safety, and by God, I’ll not be the reason any more good men give their lives! Go now, laird, and God be with you.”

  “God be with you,” said the Wolf, clasping hands in a reluctant farewell.

  He helped Stutter to the door of the cell and squeezed himself through the hole in the wall. He stood there in the darkness, clinging to the damp stones, listening to the harsh scrape of the blocks being nudged and cajoled back into place. His heart was pounding in his chest and his brow was clammy cold. The taste of rage was strong and bitter in his mouth—rage at his own helplessness; rage over the loss of the valiant men they were leaving behind.

  28

  “The eagle’s eyrie,” said Lucien bluntly, “is about the most inaccessible place he could have found to put Lady Servanne. Two guards with a ready supply of arrows could hold off an army until hell froze over.”

  Alaric and Gil exchanged a glance before she lowered her head and continued to bind a minor but annoyingly leaky cut on her arm.

  The pitfully small group had taken refuge in one of the overgrown orchards flanking the keep, where they had an excellent overview of the castle grounds. For the time being, all was relatively peaceful, but the Wolf was certain, when the general alarm alerted the castle to the escape, the guards would be thick as fireflies, poking their torches and their swords into every nook and cranny. The orchard would not be safe for very long, nor would the routes that led to the outer walls.

  As for the eyrie …

  “Thank God for Biddy,” Lucien said grimly. “In truth, I never would have throught of the eyrie until after I had searched every tower and chamber within the walls.”

  He finished tying up a makeshift sling for Sir Roger’s arm, studiously avoiding Alaric’s startled glance as he did so. De Chesnai had been carrying his shoulder at an odd angle and it was not until after he had stumbled and fallen that they discovered the joint had been dislocated. Lucien and Alaric had managed to reseat the shoulder, but the arm was swollen and immobile.

  “Within the walls?” Alaric queried. “Are you saying this eagle’s eyrie is something other than a tower or a spire?”

  “It is a single cell, built to hold a single prisoner … but I thought it had been abandoned for that purpose years ago.”

  “Which was probably why the Dragon put her where he did.”

  “Nonetheless it was a brave thing Biddy did, and she deserves more than just my thanks.” He glanced up from under his brows and found where Sparrow was hunkered down in the shadows. “Perhaps I will make a gift to her of young Woodcock.”

  Sparrow’s tousled cap of brown curls jumped as he whirled around. “You would do that to me?”

  “If I thought the challenge of clipping your wings would help her recover sooner, aye. Gladly.” The Wolf’s grin faded and he looked at Sir Roger. “You are certain she is safe enough?”

  “She is safe,” De Chesnai nodded grimly. “You would be disturbed to know how many of the castle’s inhabitants care naught for the name of Lucien Wardieu.”

  “A situation we shall do our damnedest to rectify,” the Wolf promised tersely.

  “You can start by telling us exactly where this eagle’s eyrie is,” Alaric said, his brow knitted in a frown. “The longer you delay, the more my neck itches and tells me I should have remained a Benedictine.”

  “The eyrie is on the cliffs, my lord,” Eduard volunteered. “Halfway down to the sea. The cell itself is no more than a crack in the rocks, and the path leading down is scarcely wide enough for one man to pass another. Of course”—he overcame a tremor in his voice and squared his shoulders manfully—“I have climbed down several times and will do it gladly again for the chance to help rescue Lady Servanne.”

  Lucien strained to see the boy’s face through the shadows, wondering again at the madness and hatred that had conspired to bring them all to this point in life. Eduard was his son. A man nearly grown and him not even knowing there had been a seed sown.

  “How is your leg, boy?”

  Eduard smiled lamely, feeling his pulse quicken at the sound of the Wolf’s voice. This tall, fearsomely bold knight was his father—a stranger, yet one who brought a calming, deep-felt peace to a heart that had always reviled in the notion of carrying the Dragon de Gournay’s blood.

  “M’sieur D’Aeth unknowingly did me a service by plying the hot iron to my wound. The bleeding was stopped and the flesh sealed. I can use the limb, my lord, and will do so as required.”

  “What is required,” Lucien said slowly, “is a quick way out of here. We have men camped nearby in the woods—men with strong bow arms and tempers frayed from inactivity.”

  “If they could be gotten to,” Sparrow contributed eagerly, “they could certainly put a burr up the Dragon’s arse and distract his attention away from our true purpose.”

  “And let us not forget the rabble outside the gates. They were strongly in favour of Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer and could easily be roused into keeping the guards on the walls looking out to the moor.”

  “My lord?” It was Eduard again. “I think … I mean, I am convinced there is a way to get out of the castle unobserved.”

  All eyes turned to the young squire, who wiped his cuff across his mouth to dry the sweat beaded on his upper lip. “There is a small, seldom-used gate in the east wall which opens out onto the lower slopes of the sea cliffs. The fishermen sometimes use it when they need more fish than the seneschal allows them to catch, and it gives access to smugglers too, those who cannot gain entry by the main gates.

  The keeper can be rendered deaf, dumb, and blind for the proper amount of coin, and since he knows me well enough, he would not ask too many questions, nor look too closely at any companions I might have with me.”

  Lucien regarded the boy with a steady eye.

  “It would be dangerous to move the wounded out that way,” Friar said quietly. “But better than waiting to be picked off here like overripe fruit.”

  Sir Roger de Chesnai, cradling his injured arm, stood up. “My shoulder makes me near useless as far as wielding a blade or a
bow, but my legs are strong enough to carry me all the way to Lincoln if need be. I will take my chances with the gatekeeper’s sight, but I hesitate putting the same faith in your men—if and when I find them—or to count upon them holding back their arrows long enough for me to explain why they should trust me.”

  A long, drawn-out sigh of exasperation drew attention to Sparrow. “Mor dieu! ’tis true, they will skewer him sooner than ask his name. Moreover, they have learned too well how to hide in the greenwood; it will take a kindred eye to find them.”

  The Wolf arched a brow. “Are you volunteering?”

  “Certainly not! You need me here to help rescue your little dove from her cage.”

  Lucien smiled the kind of smile that boded ill will for the recipient. “Let me put the question to you another way: It must be well past midnight now; how soon do you think you can find the men and return?”

  Sparrow threw his arms up in the air, decrying the Fates who were obviously determined to remove him from the hub of the excitement. “Very well, no need to beg. I will go. After midnight, you say? Then dawn at the earliest—assuming I get through the gate, and assuming the faeries do not turn the moor into quicksand by moonlight.”

  Lucien and the others looked up at the sky. A bank of heavy black clouds scudded across a faintly lighter, star-splashed backdrop, bringing a sharp salty tang to the air. The moon would be full and bright when it reached its apex but for now was still too low on the horizon to do more than hint at the speed and mass of moving cloud. There was likely a storm somewhere out at sea—a blessing for those who would need the darkness for safety, a curse for anyone trying to feel their way down a narrow path etched into the side of a cliff.

  “Sir Roger … do you think between you and these four —Cedric, Sigurd, Gadwin, and Eduard—you could manage to buy or steal a cart from the villagers outside and have it down the coast a mile or so, before dawn?”

  Sir Roger de Chesnai, hardly renowned as a cart-stealer, puffed his chest and glowered past Eduard to the three wounded foresters he had already helped haul up the escape shaft. “I would have to have a damned good reason for doing so!”

  “The reason, my lord,” said Lucien, “is that I do not know how well or how poorly the Lady Servanne has fared. Regardless, we certainly cannot expect her to run across a moor after all she has been through.”

  Chagrined not to have thought of it himself, Sir Roger’s chest deflated and he nodded solemnly. “Tell me where you want the cart and it shall be there.”

  “My lord—” Eduard was flushed warmly with a mixture of anger and impotence. “My leg may be a hindrance for running, but my arms are scarcely bruised. As I said, there is an inlet where the men go to fish, and in that inlet are boats. They are sturdy and agile, and if one knows the currents—as I do—one can slip in behind the breakwater and bring the vessel close to shore near the base of the cliffs. If you know the way to the eagle’s eyrie, then you must also know the small bay of which I speak.”

  “I recall sneaking out at night and doing my fair share of fishing there as a boy,” Lucien said evenly. “I also remember currents that could smash a boat straight up against the rocks if the oarsman chose to follow the wrong one.”

  The boy stood, and to the surprise of no one, was nearly as tall as the Wolf, and possessed the same uncompromising tilt to his jaw.

  “You need another avenue of escape, my lord,” he reasoned. “Sparrow could drown in a quagmire, Sir Roger could run his cart right into the hands of the Dragon’s mercenaries. I know the currents. I will not choose the wrong one.”

  “I could break your arm as a deterrent,” the Wolf said with equal logic. “Then you would not be able to row at all.”

  “No, my lord. Nor would I make a very good squire to you with a game leg and a crooked arm.”

  Lucien returned his son’s unwavering stare for a full minute, then had to lower his gaze to control the pride tugging at his lips. “Very well, if you are determined. But you will not go alone. Gil!”

  Gil Golden looked up, startled. “No! You need me on the cliffs!”

  “I need you below,” Lucien said firmly.

  “There is nothing wrong with my arms or my legs,” she protested, looking from the Wolf to Alaric. “My bow can be of more use here, protecting your backs. You know it can!”

  Alaric chewed his lip savagely, and after a glance from Lucien, took Gil by the arm and led her several feet away into the deeper shadow of an ancient apple tree.

  “I want you to go with Eduard,” he said softly. “He cannot handle a boat alone.”

  “But—”

  “I do not want to argue, Gillian. This has nothing to do with my wanting to send you out of the castle to keep you safe—God knows, I would despair of calling anywhere safe at this moment. Nor has it anything to do with you being a woman, for you have shown the courage of ten men since this whole thing started. No, the plain truth is, we need you and your bow arm down below. God willing, if we should somehow succeed at freeing Lady Servanne, and if we should survive the descent to the beach, I would rather know your bow was waiting for us at the bottom instead of taking the risk of having it silenced at the top.”

  Gil’s mouth opened to protest, then closed again as a tremor passed through her chin.

  “Besides,” he added gently. “You know yourself, you are terrified of heights. You can scarcely climb a tree without turning as green as the leaves. The cliffs drop six hundred feet straight down, with the darkness and the wind there to hamper our every step. You would never make it down.”

  “How did you know?”

  “It was one of the smaller things that gave your secret away,” he said, smiling as he tenderly laid his hand against her cheek.

  For once Gil did not pull away from his touch. She bent her head forward and rested her brow against his chin, and her sigh was like a chorus of angels’ voices in his ears.

  “Such a foolish weakness,” she whispered.

  “Nothing … absolutely nothing about you, Gillian, is foolish or weak,” Alaric stated flatly. “And if we come through this … when we come through this, I intend to prove how much I love you, and to prove how much stronger we both can be if we share our pain and our love together.”

  Gil tilted her face upward at the urging of his lean fingers and their mouths came together, lightly at first, in a kiss so fragile it took her breath away. A sob of surrender saw them clinging more hungrily to one another, mouths, bodies, hearts binding together until the sound of an apologetic cough forced them apart.

  “Forgive me,” Lucien said, “But by the sound of it, they have broken through to the donjon. We must move quickly to reach the gate before the avenues are sealed off.”

  Alaric smiled briefly. “The matter is settled. Gil will go with Eduard.”

  Gil backed away, a sudden glimmer of light reflecting off the brightness welling in her eyes.

  “I guess this leaves just you and me, my friend.”

  Alaric winced. “I was never very fond of heights myself, you know. I suppose it would be too much to hope there were a few ambitious monks confined in the eyrie at one time or another?”

  “Sorry, no. Only one way down. But look you to the bright side: At least we know we have three ways to get away once we have made the rescue.”

  Alaric watched Eduard limping his way out of the orchard, followed by a grumbling dwarf, a half-throttled knight cradling a useless arm to his breast, three bleeding knights wearing the garb of their enemies, and a slender, long-limbed woman who had steadfastly refused to abandon her longbow despite the danger and awkwardness of carrying it.

  “How” he murmured, “can we possibly fail?”

  “How could they have gotten out of here? Where could they have gone?”

  The Dragon stood over D’Aeth’s gored body and the rage sent his blood running cold through his veins. His gaze touched upon each of the dead guards with a detachment that only considered the loss of life in terms of loss of manpower—and in
convenience.

  “Fools!” he spat. “Not one of them with the sense to ring the alarm bell. This travesty could well have gone undiscovered until morning if not for a sound mind elsewhere.”

  Nicolaa was crouched over one of the guards. “This one is still alive. He has lost enough blood to be dead twice over, but he is still alive.”

  The Dragon skirted quickly around D’Aeth’s body and stepped over another to get to where Nicolaa stood. The guard was huddled at her feet, a mass of quivering agony. A long, slender ashwood arrow was still embedded in the length of his forearm, the fletching stuck out from between his fingers, the steel tip dripping blood from his shattered elbow.

  “What happened here?” the Dragon demanded.

  “A-attacked, sire,” the guard gasped.

  Etienne Wardieu’s patience snapped and he reached down to grasp a fistful of the wounded man’s hair, jerking the bloodless face upward.

  “I know you were attacked, you simpleton fool! What I want you to tell me is how they got in here, how many of them were there, and how in blazes did they get out again?”

  “Th-the wall, sire. Th-they went through the wall.”

  Etienne’s fist tightened and pulled the man upward, jarring the injured arm and wresting a groan of unbelievable pain from the guard’s throat. His eyes rolled back into his skull and the Dragon was forced to release him, kicking out at the unconscious man with a curse of contempt. Straightening, he looked around at the row of shadowy cells. Some of them held even shadowier occupants; half-broken creatures D’Aeth had kept alive for his amusement.

  “Anyone! Anyone who can tell me what happened here is a free man!”

  The silence was deafening and oppressive. Water dripped and the embers hissed in the firepit, but otherwise, the Dragon’s generous offer was met with utter silence.

  Furious, he crossed over to where the bodies of the three rescuers had been found behind the stone cistern. One of them was as big as a bear, stuffed into a hauberk and blazon several inches too tight. The arrow jutting from his chest had left a wide, red stain on the front of his tunic, but that was not what had killed him. A gash, delivered by his own hand, went from ear to ear, the wound so fresh the blood was still steaming where it hit the cooler air.