by Ana Seymour
“Poor little Bridget, poor little Bridget,” he’d said over and over while tying her hands and feet as if she’d been a calf bound for market. “I tried to protect you, but now it’s over. I must go to the baron, and we’ll see what he wants to do with you.”
Then he’d left her, and for the first few minutes she lay quiet, trying to sort out the events of the past couple of days. According to Brother Josef’s agreement with the baron, the abbey would be allowed to raise the female child of Charlotte LeClerc in secret on the condition that the child never be made aware of her connection to the LeClerc family. In exchange, the baron would use his power to ensure that the all-powerful bishopric would leave the abbey of St. Gabriel alone to function in peace and autonomy. The devil’s bargain threatened to color everything Bridget had ever believed about her upbringing.
It was the ropes biting into the sensitive skin of her wrists that reminded her that she couldn’t afford the luxury of thinking just now. Before long, Alois would have reached the baron, and, if he was as ruthless as she suspected, LeClerc might be here soon with some of his men, ready to rid himself of a potentially dangerous relative.
With the day designated for prayers, it was unlikely that any of the monks would be visiting the work shed, which meant that if she was to get free, she’d have to figure out how to do it herself. Slowly she inched her way out from behind the cupboard. Once she started, she discovered that it wasn’t too difficult to crawl along the floor, but it was terribly slow. She’d never get far this way.
She lifted her head and looked around the room. With all the various apparatus the monks used for their tinkering, there surely must be something she could use to cut the ropes. It took her only a minute to spot the solution, and it turned out to be a discarded piece of the black metal itself. She used it first to saw away at the rope binding her feet. Then, with more difficulty, she held it in her mouth and worked it against the rope at her wrists. The process seemed endless, and her neck ached with the effort, but finally the strands of the thick cord started unraveling and then broke apart.
She was free, but now what? she thought. It could be hours yet before Ranulf and the others returned from Mordin Castle. What if Alois returned with the baron’s men in the meantime? She thought about going back to the church to talk to the other monks about Alois’s perfidy, but rejected the idea almost immediately. The monks who were left behind at the abbey were the older ones. Many of them were now frail. It would serve no purpose to alarm them and get them ready to fight a battle with a well-armed force such as the baron’s men.
She stood for a moment in the center of the work shed, thinking. No, if the baron’s men came back here looking for her, she had to be ready for them herself. Slowly she turned in a circle, looking around at the monks’ tinkerings. It always amazed her that while some of their inventions had proven useful around the abbey, many more had much less peaceful intentions.
It seemed to be the way with men, she thought with a sigh. If she had an army of her own inside this room, she undoubtedly could face the baron and his men in a standoff, just with the materials right here. But she had no army. She turned in a circle until her gaze lit on the blast fire that was roaring away as usual.
She had no army, she thought with sudden resolve. But she had a plan.
Chapter Sixteen
There was still much to be settled, Ranulf thought to himself as they made their way back to St. Gabriel. There would be a reckoning with LeClerc. And the mystery of Bridget’s heritage. Then there was the black metal. Now that the secret was known to so many, would war-hungry overlords start to build blast fires across Europe to produce arrows and lances that could pierce any armor? Was this what the world called progress?
But as he rode alongside Dragon in the bright Normandy sunlight, it seemed to him that his own world had been once again set to rights. Every now and then he looked over at his brother’s face, so like his own, to reassure himself that it was really true that he was safe and whole and that they were together again.
“So what’s she like, this Bridget of yours?” Edmund asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“First of all, she’s not my Bridget.”
“Nay, which is why she was the first thing you spoke of when we left Mordin Castle.”
“I was merely curious what you would think of her.”
Edmund grinned at his brother. “If she’s as bonny as you say, I might think a great deal more of her than you want me to.”
“What about Diana, you lout? Have you forgotten your affianced bride?”
Edmund sat back in the saddle of his swaybacked mount with a sigh. “Nay, but it’s been so long, I feel almost as if Diana is some kind of dream.”
“She’s no dream, but a flesh-and-blood woman who’s waited for you these three years past. More than a wandering rogue like you deserves, I should say.”
Edmund nodded. “Aye,” he said softly. Then he straightened up with another grin. “But having a bride back home doesn’t pluck the eyes from a man’s body. Come on, Ran, you’re talking to a man who’s spent five months in a dark prison. Is she comely? Is her hair fair or dark? Is she deliciously plump with nicely curving hips and full—”
He broke off as his brother leaned over in his saddle to give him a swat. “I ought to have left you to rot,” Ranulf said with affection.
Edmund eyed his brother with a smile of sympathy. “But, nevertheless, she’s not your Bridget.”
“Nay, she’s not.”
Edmund grinned more broadly, and the two spurred their mounts to catch up with the others.
In the end she had had to recruit Francis. Her preparations went smoothly, but the operation would require two people, one to give the signal that the baron’s men were approaching and one to light the fire in the auxiliary furnace. The timing had to be perfect, because if she waited too long, the baron’s men might have entered the work shed before the auxiliary furnace had time to heat up. This would put them directly in the line of the explosion.
Bridget didn’t want anyone to be hurt. She simply wanted the blast to scare the baron away, and, in the process, destroy the hated source of much of their trouble. The monks would be disappointed over the loss of their tinkerings, but they’d soon discover ways to invent new ones.
Francis was sore, but moving well in spite of his wound. He’d been horrified to hear about Alois. “Who’d have ever thought?” he asked her. “He’s led us all these many years.”
Bridget didn’t have time to dwell on the revelations of the day. She had an army to fend off and a furnace to blow up.
They’d agreed that Francis would station himself along the edge of the meadow that led to the abbey. When he caught sight of the sheriff, the baron or any of his men, he’d give a signal on a shrill whistle that Brother Jacques had invented for calling in brothers who were working out in the fields.
Bridget busied herself stuffing the little auxiliary furnace with all the wood shavings and kindling she could find—anything that would burn fast and hot. Then she settled down by the blast fire to wait.
Dusk was gathering outside the two big work shed windows by the time Francis’s whistle finally sounded. Bridget had almost become convinced that the baron had decided to wait until his men’s usual nighttime work visit to deal with her, but the high-pitched sound was unmistakable.
Hands shaking, she started to strike the flint. In her nervousness, it took her several tries before the sparks ignited the dry wood, but once the fire took, it flared quickly. She looked around the work shed with a sudden pang of remorse. Perhaps there were things here that she should have removed, things the monks might value. Well, it was too late now, she decided with a shrug, as the little furnace fire turned into a regular blaze. In any event, the Rule forbade becoming attached to material goods. Nevertheless, on a sudden impulse, she slipped the piece of the black metal she’d used to cut her ropes into the little purse that Ranulf had bought for her the day in the market.
An om
inous rumbling from inside the blast fire reminded her that if she didn’t move quickly, the entire building could explode with her inside of it. Quickly she ran out the big front doors and into the woods. She looked back at the shed just once with a final little prayer that her timing would work out as she had planned. She wanted the thing done, but she didn’t want anyone harmed.
She’d only made it a few hundred yards when all at once it seemed as if the woods around her were full of men. Whirling around, she sought to hide herself behind a narrow ash tree, but within moments, she was seized by a man wearing some kind of special livery.
“I’ve got her,” the man yelled. “Over here.” He held her easily, though she did her best to kick and squirm her way out of his grasp. “Hold still, you little savage,” the man barked, then he threw her over his shoulder and carried her that way through the trees as she beat with her fists on his back.
They arrived at the clearing in front of the work shed and he dumped her unceremoniously on the ground. “She’s a hellcat, that one,” the man said, rubbing his neck where she’d clawed at him.
She looked from where she lay sprawled in the dust into the face of a richly dressed man who stood snapping a riding whip at his side. The man spoke to her captor. “’Tis the kind of opponent you can handle, my dear sheriff—a woman.”
The face of the man who had seized her darkened, but he remained silent.
“They spoke the truth,” the man said to her. “You are the very image of my late, lamented cousin.”
Bridget was relieved that she saw no family resemblance in the face of this cruel-eyed man. “The cousin whose lands you stole?” she asked.
The baron smiled. “Aye, you are like her. She, too, never knew when to keep her mouth shut.” He turned to the sheriff and said, “Kill her.”
At that moment there was a sudden rush of noise from inside the work shed and Bridget realized with panic that the auxiliary furnace had begun forcing air into the main blast fire. She looked around the clearing. They were too close. If the furnace exploded now, they’d all be killed.
“Wait,” she said as the sheriff drew a long dagger from his belt. “Everyone must get back from here—it’s dangerous.” A roar from the blast fire reinforced her words.
The baron’s head went up. “She’s done something to the furnace. Guise, take these men and go find out what’s wrong,” he said, gesturing to three guards who were standing nearby.
Guise looked from the guards to the baron, then to Bridget. The furnace gave another bellow. “Go in yourself, LeClerc,” he said. “I’m not going to get myself blown up for your sake.”
The baron’s face screwed up in a rage. “I order you to go in, Guise!”
The sheriff took a step back and sheathed his knife. “I’d suggest we do what the girl says and get out of here.”
“You bloody fool!” the baron shouted. Then he turned to the three men, said, “Follow me,” and started inside the work shed.
“Stop him,” Bridget pleaded, but the sheriff merely stood, his expression hard, and watched as the baron disappeared inside.
The furnace’s rumblings grew heavier and several of the guards took off running into the woods. The sheriff stood without moving as Bridget got to her feet. “We all need to leave,” she said again.
Guise nodded but didn’t move.
“Come on,” she yelled. Then the ground beneath her feet shook with a tremendous blast.
It was already dusk by the time the weary procession returning from Mordin Castle reached the fork in the road where Ranulf had once stopped to kiss Bridget. They’d been up all night and riding the entire day. Ranulf’s head was throbbing, and he could tell that Dragon was feeling the unaccustomed exertion after months of idleness.
“It will be good to get back to the abbey,” he told his brother. “’Tis a peaceful place.”
“I never figured you for the monastical life, brother,” Edmund said.
“Nay, ’tis not the lifestyle I’d choose, but I’m ready to sleep the sun around in one of their beds.”
“What about the baron and the sheriff?” Ranulf had related the entire tale to his brother during the course of the ride.
“They’ll have to be dealt with, but now that you’re with me, I’m in no hurry. We can ride to Lyonsbridge for help.”
“And take your lady with us?”
Ranulf was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, he did not bother to deny that Bridget was his lady. “Aye. I’ll not leave her alone again.”
“Grandmother will love her.”
“That she will. She’s already taken to Thomas’s wife, Alyce Rose, as if she were her own granddaughter.”
“Grandmother always said there were too many lads in the household,” Edmund said with a fond smile of remembrance. “I can’t wait to see her.”
“She’ll have a word or two to say to you for scaring us all like you did.”
“I warrant she will,” Edmund said ruefully. “But when I tell them ’twas King Richard himself who sent me to search for the mysterious black metal that was starting to appear around the continent in jousting tournaments, perhaps they’ll forgive me.”
“I believe Grandmother would forgive you if you were working for the devil himself, however—”
His words were interrupted by the distant sound of a blast. Ranulf stood up in his stirrups and looked in the direction of the abbey as an odd orange glow colored the twilight sky. “Bridget!” he cried, and spurred Thunder forward.
They’d left the monks far behind by the time they reached the meadow leading to St. Gabriel, but his brother, Jean and the Courmiers had managed to keep up. Ranulf had already guessed at the location and cause of the explosion and was not surprised to see armed men dressed in Darmaux livery fleeing in chaos.
“’Tis the baron,” he shouted to Edmund. “I have to find Bridget.”
One man was running toward the work shed instead of away. Ranulf instantly recognized the monk’s round shape. “Francis!” he called.
The monk veered toward him, his chest heaving with exertion. “Bridget was at the work shed,” he panted. “Hurry!” Then he continued running in the direction of the fire.
Ranulf felt a cold chill.
Edmund took a quick survey of the territory. “This work shed is over at the blast sight?” he asked. At Ranulf’s nod, he said, “You and Jean head over there. Your dairymen and I will ride into the abbey compound itself and be sure that it’s secure.”
Ranulf nodded, momentarily unable to answer. From the looks of the sky, the entire work shed was going up in smoke. If Bridget had been inside…
“What do you want us to do with the baron if we capture him?” Edmund asked.
Ranulf forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. “Just hold him. ’Tis for the French king to determine his fate. But the sheriff is mine,” he added, pointing to his head. “I’ve a score to settle with him.”
Edmund nodded and the brothers wasted no more time on words. Ranulf signaled to Jean, and the two left the road to cut through the woods in the shortest route to the work shed. Above the trees the eerie orange glow had grown bigger.
“’Tis the furnace,” Jean said.
“Aye,” Ranulf agreed.
“I hope there’s nothing left of the cursed thing,” the smithy said. Then they lapsed into silence.
Slowly Bridget picked herself up from the ground, amazed that all her limbs seemed to function properly. It took some time to register that her efforts with the blast furnace had actually succeeded. She’d blown the wicked device up. She straightened and rubbed her arms. Aye, she’d blown it up, but at what price?
With a sick feeling she turned to look at the doors through which the baron had disappeared moments before. The three guards he’d motioned to follow him lay sprawled on the ground in front of the door, but all appeared to be moving. There was no sign of the baron, and the inside of the work shed was an inferno.
Behind her, the sheriff was stirring. She
started backing away as he reared up beside her, but he seized her shoulder with a big, meaty hand. “Oh no, you don’t, you wretched wench,” he said.
His fingers dug painfully into the side of her neck as she struggled to free herself. “I suppose I owe you a debt for this night,” he said. “’Twas past time someone set that bastard LeClerc burning in the hell he deserves.” In the supernatural glow of the fire, his face leered over her.
“Then let me be,” she said.
He showed a mouth full of blackened teeth in a lopsided devil’s grin. “I believe I need to think of a proper way to show my gratitude.”
“You can show it to me instead, Guise.” With a wave of relief, Bridget recognized Ranulf’s voice. But her relief turned to worry as the sheriff shoved her to one side and turned to face the knight. Ranulf was a big man, but the sheriff was much bigger, and she could tell from Ranulf’s face that he was once again in pain from his wound.
The sheriff smiled and drew his short sword. “You won’t slip away from me with any of your damned acrobatics this time, Englishman,” he said. Then he lifted the sword over his head and brought it crashing down toward the knight. Ranulf jumped to avoid the blow.
Bridget glanced over to see that Jean was holding the three guards at bay, motioning with his sword for them to stay where they lay on the ground. She looked around for something she could use as a weapon to help Ranulf with the sheriff, but the clearing seemed bare of any large branches or rocks.
Ranulf had recovered his balance and drawn his own sword, but he swayed as he slashed at Guise. The sheriff tried another death blow, and once again Ranulf managed to slip from underneath his onslaught. Bridget felt her pulse race as she watched them—the sheriff bearing down on Ranulf with huge, powerful strokes of his heavy sword and Ranulf parrying and dodging from side to side to escape them. Bridget could see that he was tiring. All color had drained from his face.
In desperation, she pulled the small piece of black metal from her purse. When the sheriff had his back to her, she leapt onto his back and scratched his neck with it. Guise gave a great bellow and let his sword clatter to the ground as he reached behind with both hands and grabbed her head to pull her off him, shaking her violently. “I’ll break your neck, you little—” he began. Before he could finish, Ranulf had run him through with his sword.
