by Tamara Leigh
Over the next half hour of dancing, juggling, and the display of exotic animals, more attempts were made to find an audience for Théâtre des Abominations and five more payments given.
Would Costain’s guests collect on that for which they had paid at the intermission when drinks and viands were served, or at night’s end? Likely intermission, and after the second half of the show, another batch of nobility would slip from the castle.
Minutes later it came to pass when the break was called and servants entered bearing platters and pitchers. Though it appeared all but two of the performers remained in the hall to make themselves available to admirers while easing their own thirst and hunger, six of the guests moved toward the great doors left wide open to cool the hall heated by a crackling fire and the press of bodies.
“I shall follow them and, if there is time, rouse my father’s men,” Elias said as he drew Honore across the back of the gallery. “You will return to your chamber.”
“Can I not—?”
“Non. And pray, do not argue. I will not agree, and you will only delay my departure, giving them a chance to slip away.”
“I will do as told,” she acquiesced, and he left her on the landing and descended the stairs.
Honore entered the chamber she was to share with the young ladies and opened the shutters as Elias appeared in the bailey below. There was no sight of the guests who had departed ahead of him, and as he broke into a run, she prayed he would overtake them, be safe, and soon return with Hart and the others.
A quarter hour later, Jake the Jack departed the hall, and she feared if his destination was also Théâtre des Abominations, he would see Elias stole after his patrons. But with great leisure and turns, tosses, and catches of the batons, he crossed the bailey and settled in the shadow to the left of the inner gatehouse tower. The answer to what he did there was the noblewoman of middling years who joined him.
Honore could not see into the dark where torchlight barely stole, but she would remain at the window until Elias returned.
Leaning against the embrasure, she peered out across the castle to the dimly lit land. As the tents were erected back from the walls, she could see the tops of many and the glow of fires. Beyond them lay the wood, and possibly the sideshow.
“Lord,” she whispered, “pray—”
Movement returned her gaze to the bailey, and she saw a knight pass beneath the raised portcullis.
She caught her breath. Not a knight. A squire. And not alone.
The head of the one whose arm he gripped was lowered, but though she could not see the face of the slight figure, all of her leapt.
She nearly called to Hart, but there were others in the bailey beyond the garrison patrolling the walls, and she dare not alert Jake the Jack. But a moment later he emerged as if she had called to her boy. Hands empty of batons, he stared after the two moving around the side as if to enter the donjon by way of the garden.
Had the man recognized Hart? Or did he merely suspect?
The woman who had joined him appeared and drew him back toward the inner wall. He shook off her hand, but as fear constricted Honore’s heart, urging her to call out a warning, Jake the Jack returned to the shadows.
Honore ran.
With the guests in the hall resuming their seats for the second half of the performance, easily she moved past them and was waylaid only upon entering the kitchen corridor behind servants carrying platters of decimated viands.
“Honore!” Cynuit stepped in her path. “Is it not wondrous? I thought Sir Elias most entertaining but—”
“Later.” She sidestepped.
“Something is wrong?”
No longer, she thought and called over her shoulder, “All is right. Enjoy the show.”
All was not right, but nearly so. Thus, it was best the boy remain where he was safe.
Honore expected to find Theo and Hart in the heated kitchen, but amidst the servants setting aright the mess of many, they were not to be seen. Certain they could not have reached the hall, Honore guessed they were in the garden.
“Pardon!” she exclaimed when she bumped into a servant, nearly causing him to lose hold of an enormous tray upon which sat empty tankards and goblets.
His annoyance quickly replaced by a taut smile and deferential nod, she opened the door and stepped into a cool night all the more comfortable after the moist heat left behind. She closed the door, looked around.
Naught. Only vegetation softly lit by torches beyond the garden wall.
Thinking Theo and Hart must be hidden behind a tree or bush, Honore called, “Theo? It is Honore. Come out!”
A groan, not of a boy but a man.
She hastened down the path, heard the sound again, and corrected her course.
“Theo?” she said upon reaching the wooden gate and finding no one there. “Hart?”
Another groan, directly in front but not this side of the gate.
She fumbled with the latch and swung the gate open. In the shadow of the donjon, a familiar figure was on hands and knees. Alone.
Honore dropped down beside him. “Theo, where is Hart?”
He pushed back onto his heels, groped at the back of his head. “I know not what struck me. I…had the boy.” He shook his head, grunted. “Felt like a stick.”
A baton. Jake the Jack had not returned to the shadows to continue his tryst. Recognizing Hart, he had retrieved his batons.
“He has taken Hart,” she said. “You must help me get him back.”
He lurched upright. “I have failed my lord.”
“Theo—”
“Was bringing the boy to you. Let down my guard.”
“Theo—”
“Should have stayed alert.”
A slap landed, stinging her palm. Though there was not enough light to see the red of Theo’s cheek, she saw the whites of wide-flung eyes. “Forgive me,” she said, “but we have no time to waste.”
“Of course!” He turned into the inner bailey. Were his legs not long and strong enough to compensate for the blow to his head that made it impossible for him to maintain a straight course, Honore would have led the way. As it was, hampered by skirts and a shorter stride, she was barely able to keep pace. And another thing slowed her as she ran past the glowering noblewoman whose tryst had been interrupted—pain in her heel that made her look behind.
Small, round objects were scattered across the hard-packed dirt, one of which made itself felt through her thin-soled slippers. Beads? She swept her gaze forward in time to avoid colliding with a man-at-arms who called after her, “What goes, my lady?”
The answer to that was Theo who had passed beneath the inner portcullis into the outer bailey where torches were more numerous, being set to light not only that place but the land before the castle.
The regard of those who patrolled the walls less weighty than when Honore had first entered here, likely a result of the festivities and the belief those who came and went were but performers, she ignored them. And picked out more beads—one here, two there, several kicked up by Theo’s trampling before he stopped to question a man-at-arms alongside the outer portcullis. The latter nodded, gestured to the tents, and the squire hastened past.
As much as Honore longed to inspect the beads, she dared not lest Theo leave her farther behind.
When he halted just off the drawbridge, she overtook him. “What did the man-at-arms say?” she asked as he stared out across the camp.
“He confirmed one of the troupe, costumed with a heavily-painted face, left the castle minutes ago. The man claimed the boy with him was his son who had disobeyed and stolen into the donjon to watch the performance.”
“Did he say which direction?”
“Just the tents.”
She breathed deep. “He will take Hart from here. We must—”
There—more beads. She scooped them up, turned toward the castle to make better use of torchlight.
They were so simple they were almost crude, but smooth and famil
iar. Fairly certain they were her prayer beads, she recalled her loss of them to Finwyn who had sought to remove evidence the witch he intended to name her was God-fearing.
Meaning Jake the Jack was Finwyn, his face hidden by paint? Not possible, and yet no other explanation could she find. She who had assured Elias she could more quickly identify the miscreant had failed. But providing there were yet beads to be shed, they would lead to Hart.
“These.” She thrust her hand toward the squire. “The prayer beads taken from me when Finwyn tried to drown me in the stream. He leaves a trail.”
The squire frowned. “You think it was Arblette who struck me? I think you are wrong. I left him searching for Hart on foot—”
“It has to be him.” She sighed. “Finwyn or not, the one who took Hart unwittingly marks his path.”
“Then we follow the beads.”
Their course remaining crooked and broken as they searched them out, once more he led the way.
Chapter 34
BRUISE NOT, BRUISE NOT
Théâtre des Abominations.
Had Elias not emerged from amongst the tents before the nobles went from sight, he might not have seen the covered wagon in near darkness sitting back from the encampment as it had not upon his arrival at Sevier. But as the patrons filed inside, light poured from the rear door, evidencing that except for the wagon’s immense size, it was nondescript. On the outside. Inside was where the perverse satisfied their appetite for the less than nondescript, of which Hart numbered.
Hopefully, somewhere beyond the wagon Theo kept watch—all the more imperative since Elias had only one of Otto’s men-at-arms, the other two so full up in their cups there had been no reason to rouse them.
Elias looked to the night sky across which a blanket of clouds moved, blocking much of the moon’s light. It was of benefit, aiding in concealing him and the man-at-arms, but a watch had to be kept for breaks in the cover that could reveal them.
Returning his regard to the wagon, he considered further obstacles besides having no other sword arms to command. At least two of the troupe were in the wagon, one likely the woman Theo had described, the other the performer who escorted the nobles there. Of immediate concern was the one who guarded the wagon’s rear entrance.
Elias was of good height, but this man was unnaturally tall and broad. Much of his extra width was fat, as told by the way it moved when he paced, but it was supported by muscle that would easily heft the sword he wore.
Still, Elias was confident two trained at arms could overwhelm those set over the wagon, and more quickly were Theo near enough to make it three. But as much as Elias longed to attack now, he dared not lest the little ones were harmed in the attempt to free them.
Thus, patience. Once the nobles departed, there would be time to end what was an abomination only with regard to what the children suffered. If it proved impossible to hide from Costain what transpired, the Lord of Sevier would simply have to understand. And Otto.
Shortly, the wagon’s door opened and the nobles exited, several shaking their heads, one exclaiming he would not believe it had he not seen it, another crossing herself as if she had looked upon the devil.
Elias did not like the thoughts and imaginings crowding his head and tightening his hands. They tempted him to act from a place of emotion rather than reason as the Wulfriths would have him do. Barring immediate danger to the children, he must await the best opportunity to free them.
As the nobles started across the meadow toward the tents, the man who had escorted them stepped from the wagon but remained on its landing, and coming behind was the woman. Red-headed and garbed in colorful scarves, she held a babe whose size and half-hearted cries revealed were it not yet walking it would soon.
Though Elias longed to signal the man-at-arms hunkering in the tall grass twenty feet distant, he held. And hoped when the woman turned back into the wagon he would glimpse his son.
In a graveled voice that revealed she was of a good age, she said something to the two men and pivoted. Scarves fluttering in the breeze, making it impossible to see what lay inside the wagon, she closed the door, once more making shadows of the men outside.
Good odds, Elias allowed, providing he and the man-at-arms incapacitated the two before the woman was alerted. Were she alone with the children, Elias ought to be able to kick in the door and overpower her before she harmed any. Hopefully, she would no longer be holding the babe.
The nobles having moved past Elias, he waited for them to disappear amid the tents, then signaled.
Staying low, the two advanced through the tall grass. And gained a dozen steps before movement past the man-at-arms and what sounded like grumbling returned both to their haunches.
The one approaching the wagon appeared to have a hunched back, but when he shouted, “Inès!” and the wagon door opened, the light spilling past the woman revealed it was Jake the Jack and he carried something over his shoulder. When that something began pounding on his back and naming him a devil, Elias knew it for a boy. Hart?
All of him straining to snatch his sword from its scabbard, he commanded himself to reason. The advantage of moments earlier was past. As they had waited out the nobles’ retreat, they could wait out this man’s.
But when Jake ascended the steps, dropped his burden to the landing, and dealt the boy a blow, Elias bellowed, drew sword and dagger, and ran. As did the man-at-arms.
The garishly costumed, brightly-painted performer wrenched up the boy and thrust him at Inès, then jumped to the ground. As he drew batons from beneath his belt, the enormous man placed himself to the left of Jake and pulled his sword, while the one who had escorted the nobles stepped to the right and drew a long knife.
The woman named Inès pushed the boy behind her but remained in the wagon’s doorway as if to provide light by which to do battle.
“Honore!” a cry sounded from within.
Hart, Elias acknowledged with relief, then moved his mind to wielding sword and dagger.
“Theo!” The boy’s voice again, and though the name jolted Elias, there was no time to ponder how it was possible it came off Hart’s lips. Of greater import was his squire be near enough to answer the call. Though what was to come would draw the notice of the castle garrison, as remiss as they were in their duties that had allowed Elias and the man-at-arms to depart the castle without being questioned, it could be too late for them to give aid.
Seeing the three outside the wagon were ready for those converging on them, Elias shouted to the man-at-arms, “Take the one on the right,” and set himself at the one on the left. Though he did not doubt Jake’s batons could incapacitate—even kill—it was usually best to first eliminate blades most adept at bleeding a man and spilling innards.
Angling the Wulfrith dagger just above his head, Elias swept up his sword. When the big man lunged, Elias arced the blade of the latter high to counter his opponent’s downward stroke. As sword met sword, he slashed the dagger downward. It was not yet known if his opponent possessed great facility with the sword, but the man was unprepared to deal with two blades that simultaneously parried and attacked. He roared when blood was taken from his shoulder.
Hearing the cries of frightened children, Elias adjusted his stance for the next meeting of blades and noted his opponent was, indeed, two hands taller. But the fat he carried slowed him.
A glance at Otto’s man-at-arms revealed that though his sword had a much longer reach than the knife, his opponent defended himself well. As for Jake, he appeared prepared to defend himself, but seemed disinclined to aid his own men.
Poltroon, Elias silently named him. Though the fight would be more challenging three against two, it was preferable to Jake retreating to the wagon and using the children as defense.
Elias set himself at the big man again, and they traded several blows before the Wulfrith dagger once more spilled blood, a thrust to the man’s chest going through fat and muscle and between ribs.
“Jake!” Inès called as Elias
’s opponent stumbled back and drew a hand from his chest to look upon crimson. “Aid Georges!”
“Do you require help, wee Georges?” Elias taunted. “A nursemaid, perhaps?”
The man’s blade came down on Elias’s just above his head, and in that moment of meeting, the Wulfrith dagger thrust again, piercing the abdomen.
Georges cried out and, as feared, Jake turned toward the wagon.
“Certes, you will get no aid from the boy who plays with sticks,” Elias shouted. “See how the poltroon runs!”
That made Jake halt and look around.
Taking the opportunity to sooner ensure he did not make it inside the wagon, Elias knocked aside Georges’s wavering blade, arced down and up again, and what his dagger left unfinished his sword did not.
As the big man dropped to his knees, Elias glanced at his father’s man who had yet to put down his opponent. Whether he had more drink in him than thought or was derelict in keeping his sword skill honed, there would be changes when Otto’s lands passed to his heir.
“Fight him!” Inès cried, though now Jake had no choice with Elias lunging at him.
“Get the wagon away!” the miscreant shouted, then whirled, swept up his batons, and crossed them before him.
Elias swung his sword with only as much force as was necessary to cut the nearest stick in two. When steel struck steel rather than wood, he knew he had violated the lesson to be prepared for the worst and later rejoice if it proved the best.
The impact for which he was not braced made him lurch backward, giving his opponent time and space to strike. Elias bent to the steel baton’s punch to the gut, nearly went down when the second baton struck his upper arm that would have been his head had he not jerked up his shoulder.
Despite the pain reverberating down his dagger-wielding arm, he kept hold of the hilt and dropped back a stride. It was not enough to keep Jake from landing another blow, this one to Elias’s outer thigh.
