Claire Delacroix (10 page)

A small man stepped forward to take Merlin’s reins, and Yves liked how the man paused to scratch the steed’s ears. Merlin also seemed to approve, for he gave the man a thorough sniffing.

The assembly looked Yves over, and one villein nudged another when he spied the water dripping from Yves’ boots. The pair both grinned, and again news went from ear to ear with the speed of the wind.

Franz grinned crookedly, displaying a gap in his smile where a tooth ought to have been. “Swimming at this hour, my lord?” he jested, as though the knight were indeed one of them.

Yves glanced pointedly toward his flushing squire. “Fishing, more like.”

The assembly laughed, one or two pointing out the squire’s sodden state, and Gaston colored even more deeply.

“Do not be worrying, wee laddie.” A burly matron bustled forward and plucked Gaston right out of his saddle. The boy gave a yelp of protest, but had no chance against her sure grip. “You were not the first to take a misstep in that stream and you will not be the last.” She fixed him with a stern eye. “Next time, you will be watching your way more careful like, I am certain.”

Before the squire could respond, she tucked him under her arm and carried him off to the fireside as though he were no more than a wayward sheep. “What you are needing, wee laddie, is a bit of something hot in that stomach of yours,” she chided.

Gaston’s expression was so surprised that Yves nearly
laughed aloud. “My lord!” the squire cried, but Yves simply shook his head.

“No doubt she is right, Gaston,” he called after them. Gaston struggled, but to no avail. The matron plopped him down in front of the hearty blaze and bade him stay put.

Gaston, quite remarkably, did precisely as he was told.

Yves’ gaze flew to Gabrielle, only to find her lips quirking with suppressed merriment. Her smile made Yves suddenly feel as though he was not a foreigner watching from the outside.

It was a rare and welcome sensation for him.

“You had best be quick, for make no mistake, Eileen will be back for you,” Gabrielle advised. Yves must have looked skeptical, for she continued, her eyes twinkling in a most enchanting way, “She has tossed me over her shoulder once or twice.”

“Oh, my lord! I have no doubt Eileen could wrestle you to the fire!” The man holding Merlin’s bridle jested with a conspiratorial wink. “Shall we take a wager?”

The others laughed, a welcoming and friendly sound, but Yves needed no further encouragement to dismount quickly. He hesitated a moment before leaving his faithful destrier, but the man gripping the reins shook his head reassuringly.

“You need not worry about this fine beast, sir,” he said in a gentle tone. “I am Xavier, Perricault’s ostler. Time was that we had many such as he in our stalls.” The ostler sighed, then smiled when the stallion granted him a sidelong glance. The expression on the man’s face as he looked up at Merlin told Yves more than words that the steed would be in good care.

“Then I shall be delighted to entrust him to your hand.”

“It is fortunate for you,” Xavier whispered to Merlin, “that I saved a bit of oats just in case the lady persuaded a fine knight to take our cause.”

Merlin’s ears twitched and he snorted as though he understood what was said. He followed the ostler’s lead without
protest. Another man led Gabrielle’s silver stallion in the same direction, and that beast nosed Xavier from behind.

“Oho! Trying to make friends again now that there are oats to be had!” The ostler laughed and playfully brushed Methuselah’s nose away. “You have not forgotten that old Xavier keeps them hidden away, have you? What about your tricks with the saddle, Master Methuselah? Have you forgotten
those
while you were away?”

“You have no need to worry,” Leon counseled Yves. “The beasts love him as much as he loves them.”

Yves nodded and felt a smile slide over his lips. “Yes, I can see it.”

“I shall ensure that he knows about Gaston’s palfry, for you have much to do this eve.” The older knight winked at Yves. “Rest assured, the creature will be so spoiled that she will likely leap into the stream as soon as she sees it again.”

Yves glanced toward the fire, but Gaston had been bundled up and was sipping broth. It was clear the boy could not tend his steed himself, but Yves would ensure he did some extra labor on the morrow to encourage him to think before he acted.

Yves thanked the knight and strode toward the welcoming fire. Children trailed behind him, each and every one surreptitiously examining his weaponry and garb as they whispered to each other in excitement. Gabrielle fell behind, surrounded as she was by those with stories to share.

When the meat was gone, all eyes turned to Yves, seemingly of one accord. He stepped forward and the men closed ranks about him. Yves squatted down and laced his fingers together, bracing his elbows on his knees as he surveyed the circle of men about him.

Each face was somber.

“Tell me what you know of Perricault,” he invited quietly.

One man stepped forward and drew a snaking line in the
dirt before Yves. “The river is here,” he said, and drew a rectangle along the east side. “The château is here.”

“How high is the riverbank?” Yves asked.

“There is a sheer drop to the river, with the walls rising high above it.” The man flicked him a level glance. “They are mercilessly smooth and the wall is always staffed with archers.

“And the barbican is there,” the man added, leaning forward to add two circles to the north end of the plan as Yves watched. “With a pair of towers on either side of the gate.”

“And this wall?” Yves indicated the east side, and the man frowned.

“A tributary of the river runs there, meeting the main stream at the south end of the keep.” He drew another line so that Perricault was nestled in the fork of the river. Yves grimaced just as the man glanced up at him. “It is a smaller river and the bank less steep, but it is no less treacherous for all of that.”

“And behind the gates?”

“An outer bailey with another set of walls and gates that surround the high tower and inner bailey.”

Which was almost certainly where Thomas was being kept. Yves frowned anew at the drawing. “Tell me about this.”

“Wood gates on the exterior, then a portcullis, then a smaller interior pair of steel gates.” The man ran a gloved finger over the line that indicated the northern wall. “There is no way to approach the gates without being observed, for the curtain wall is rife with observation points.”

“You seem to know Perricault well,” Yves commented, looking into the man’s weatherbeaten face. Yves had learned to be leery of those anxious to share what they knew, but this man looked to be one who had long earned his way with his blade.

The man appeared to be thirty summers of age or so, though those years had been hard-won. His face was tanned, a long healed scar snaking a line across one cheek. In other
circumstance, he might have been considered a handsome man. As it was, he looked to be an effective warrior.

His dark hair was long and tied back with a length of rawhide. His lips were set in an uncompromising line and his gray stare was piercing. There was not a measure of fat on his flesh, from the look of him, yet his muscles strained at the shoulders of his tunic. A veritable armory of blades hung from his heavy belt.

This man would be no small opponent.

His armor was odds and ends, purloined from this battle and another, Yves was certain. His boiled-leather breastplate was colored with age and wear; his woolen chausses were laced above his boots with leather thongs. All of his garb was of various browns, and Yves guessed he would fairly melt into the shadows of the forest.

Not a knight, but a fighting man nonetheless. Yves would have need of every ready blade, be it wielded by a nobleman or no, to see this task done.

The man shrugged. “Retrieving the heir of Perricault is a problem we have all sought to solve for the past six months. There is something about a puzzle like this that seizes a man’s mind.”

Yves watched the mercenary’s gaze flick over the sketch, as though he sought to solve the puzzle on the spot, and appreciated his determination to aid Gabrielle. “What is your name?”

“Seymour de Crecy, sir.”

“You were pledged to Perricault?”

“To Lord Michel de Perricault himself,” Seymour acknowledged, and his eyes narrowed as he met Yves’ regard. “May the Lord bless his soul.”

Yves held the man’s gaze, letting him see that he already knew the circumstance of Michel’s unfortunate demise. “Yet you did not seek other employ when that man met his end?”

Seymour’s lips twisted in a crooked smile. “There is something about a boy stolen from his mother’s side that seizes
the heart of even one hardened by battle, is there not?” he asked softly.

Yves was suddenly glad to have this able warrior on his side. It was beneficial to have like-minded men raise blades together, for their responses under duress could be more readily guessed.

Yet despite his instinctive approval and the man’s history of loyalty to the house of Perricault, Yves knew better than to trust those he had just met. And there was one certain way to test the reliability of Seymour’s word.

“I would have you pledge your blade to me,” Yves said.

Seymour glanced up suddenly, then flicked a glance to Lady Gabrielle, who stood slightly to one side. The move made the firelight catch the old scar on his cheek. Yves might have been troubled by the sudden reaction, had the man not obviously nursed a primary loyalty to Gabrielle.

“The lady agrees with this course?” Seymour asked with obvious concern.

“I have already pledged to him,” Leon interjected from behind Yves.

That seemed to be all the assurance Seymour needed. The mercenary stood and proudly unsheathed his blade, offering its hilt to Yves. “I am but a man hired for warfare, my lord, but I should be honored to serve both you and Lady Gabrielle in the task of retrieving the heir of Perricault.”

He dropped to one knee, and Yves could find no fault with the pledge. He looked up from Seymour’s bent head to find the other men in a line before him, ready to pledge to his hand. Lady Gabrielle still stood to one side, the firelight painting her impassive features with golden light.

Yves caught a glimpse of unhappiness in the curve of her lips before she pivoted and stalked into the shadows of the night. He frowned in confusion. Nothing could be amiss—indeed, all went better than Yves might have hoped.

Then why was the lady troubled?

Yves looked to the men before him, then at the lady, unable
to explain his desire to lend chase and discover the root of her dismay. Surely his task was here, with the men? Surely there was no reason to be torn by a woman’s whim? What had Tulley’s visit done to his decisive thinking?

“
M
y lord?” Seymour appeared at Yves’ elbow when the fire burned down to embers, his voice low. “I did hear something of late that might be of assistance.”

“Indeed? Why did you not speak sooner?”

The man shrugged. “I thought it wiser to mention it to you in privacy first.” Seymour grimaced. “You see, my lord, I did not want to speak of this matter before the others, because I cannot say whether it might be true or not.”

Yves was intrigued. “And what is this matter?”

Seymour leaned closer. “I overheard that Philip de Trevaine intends to return to Chateau Trevaine soon and leave Perricault with a very small defending force.”

Yves frowned. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“I do not know.” Seymour spread his hands. “Perhaps he is reassured that none have come to avenge his attack upon that keep. Perhaps another covets his own holding of Trevaine and he fears for its security.”

Yves considered this for a long moment, wondering whether any man could truly be surprised that no retaliation had come in the dead of winter. It was traditional, after all, to wage war only in the summer months.

Surely Philip would be expecting an attack only now? But then, if a man had to choose between his primary holding
and a recent acquisition, who could say which way he might bend? And truly, what did Yves know of the strategic workings of Philip de Trevaine’s mind?

The man might well be an impetuous fool. Yves had met many of that ilk in his days.

“Where did you hear this?”

“Outside Perricault.” Seymour’s words came low and quick. “We go almost daily to keep a watch. There is a garrisoned bridge across the river to the north of the walls, but it is close enough to the forest that one can sometimes creep sufficiently near to hear the guards talking.”

“Which branch of the river?”

“It spans them both and in truth is an ideal spot to assess the strength of the forces there. It is where we hide to count Philip’s men.” Seymour’s eyes gleamed. “It was there, just yesterday morn, that I overheard two guards discussing the imminent departure.”

Yves stared at the ground, thinking about this morsel of news. It seemed indeed to be a gift from out of the blue.

Could Philip truly be such a fool?

“It could be the opportunity we seek, my lord!” Seymour whispered.

Yves considered the man’s shining eyes for a long moment. “Yes,” he said carefully. “That it could be.” He shrugged. “Or it could be a ruse, designed to deceive us all and lead us into a trap.”

“That would not be so unreasonable,” a voice declared from the darkness behind. “Philip won Perricault with deceit, after all.”

Seymour jumped in alarm, and Yves pivoted smoothly to face a shadow behind them. Lady Gabrielle could be vaguely discerned, her arms folded across her chest.

“I thought Perricault was won by force,” Yves said carefully.

“That is what we were all meant to think,” Gabrielle acknowledged.
“But I have always wondered whether there was one inside to make matters easier.”

“My lady!” Seymour scoffed, recovering from his surprise. “I was on the wall that very night! There was no one inside. They took the gate by surprise and viciousness alone.”

Gabrielle, Yves saw, looked unconvinced, though she said nothing else. She studied the other man, then looked to Yves wordlessly. He was sorely tempted to put weight in her assessment of the situation. Had the lady not shown she was keen of wit?

And Seymour did not seem the kind of man who had an appreciation for subtlety. He might well have missed the flickering shadow of someone opening the gate.

Now Seymour laughed mockingly. “My lady! With all due respect, I beg you leave matters of war to those who know them best!”

Gabrielle stiffened, and the glance she fired Yves’ way was beyond hostile. “Of course,” she said tightly, then turned to walk away.

But Yves was not quite so ready to dismiss the lady’s perceptions. He waved off Seymour and gave chase.

Would there ever be a man in all of Christendom who could acknowledge that a woman might have something of merit to say?

Gabrielle stalked through the darkness, knowing her way well enough, though she doubted she would be quite in the mood to pray for Thomas by the time she reached her favored spot.

In truth, Gabrielle was angry with herself for daring to hope that Yves might show some regard for her opinion. Fool! Of course he had not! Was he not a man like all the others?

“My lady?”

Gabrielle spun and was astonished to find the knight in question pursuing her with undue haste. She halted and he stepped up to her, his expression guarded.

How she hated that she could discern so little of his thoughts!

“I would hear more of your thoughts about Perricault,” he said, but Gabrielle spun away.

“So, now my counsel is considered useful!”

The knight hesitated, then continued chase. “Your counsel was always considered useful,” he commented, his tone bland.

“Only after you had learned all you could from the men in this camp,” Gabrielle muttered. “Never mind that I have lived in that keep for longer than any of them, never mind that I could likely tell you the very room in which Thomas is held, never mind that I have actually met this base knave of an invader!” Gabrielle ground her teeth. “Obviously
men
have more of import to contribute than I.”

The knight cleared his throat. Gabrielle stole a glance in his direction to find a slight frown marring his brow. “Make no mistake, my lady, I have learned a keen appreciation of your intellect. It simply seemed fitting to me to have the loyalty of these men pledged as soon as possible.”

To Gabrielle’s annoyance, she could make no argument against that, so she strode onward in silence.

“I wished also to see them and hear them speak, to listen to what they thought of import.” He flicked a telling glance in Gabrielle’s direction, which she steadfastly ignored. “You were there as well, my lady. Tell me what you can about these men.”

Gabrielle shrugged, not yet ready to willingly provide the information he sought. “They are men of war. I know them little.”

“You know more than you admit,” Yves chided. “Were they all in your husband’s employ?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

Gabrielle sighed and faced the determined knight with her
hands on her hips. It was clear he would pursue her until he had the information he wanted.

“Those pledged longest to the house were killed in the attack, it seemed, with the exception of Leon. He was sworn to my husband long before we were wed.” Gabrielle frowned, trying to remember. “The others came over the years, though I cannot clearly recall which ones came when.”

“How long were you wed?”

“It would have been seven years at the last Yule.”

“And you knew both Leon and your spouse before?”

“My father did.” Gabrielle was surprised to hear the flat tone of her voice, so closely an echo of the knight’s usual monotone. “I met Michel at the altar and Leon shortly thereafter.”

“And Seymour? When did he come?”

Gabrielle had to consider that The knight waited patiently, evidently guessing that she was trying to recall. The new leaves rustled in the trees far overhead and a few stars could be discerned through the nearly barren branches. A cool wind lifted Gabrielle’s skirts and the sounds of the camp had faded slightly behind them.

“Last Yule,” she acknowledged finally, lifting her gaze to meet Yves’. “I remember him coming into the hall with snow on his shoulders and Michel welcoming him to the board on such a holy day.”

The knight frowned and looked back over the camp. “Is he reliable?”

Gabrielle shrugged. “As he said himself, Seymour was on the wall that night and fought valiantly for Michel’s forces. It was he who stood over Michel when he had fallen so that he might be laid decently to rest.”

Yves turned and his gaze locked with hers. “I take it that was no small risk.”

Gabrielle nodded agreement, reluctantly conceding the honor of Seymour’s action. She had never liked the man,
though she knew that was due more to his opinions of women and his rough manner than to anything he did.

“Many others would have fled,” she admitted, and shivered in recollection of the carnage she had witnessed “Indeed, many others did.”

Her words hung between them, though the growing silence made Gabrielle uneasy. She was well aware of Yves’ assessing scrutiny and did not dare to flinch beneath his regard.

“Yet you do not like the man?” he asked finally, his voice low.

Gabrielle sighed and ran one hand over her hair. Indeed, she should have guessed that Yves would discern the truth.

Before answering, she fought to separate emotion from reason and failed utterly. “I must confess that I cannot be objective about any man who believes women are useful for one matter alone,” she admitted in a low voice. “And Seymour de Crecy is less than subtle in his opinions.”

Yves’ chuckle thrummed in the darkness, the unexpectedness of the sound making Gabrielle glance up. He was somber by the time her gaze reached his visage, though a suspicious twitch was evident at the corner of his mouth.

“I can well imagine that you cannot,” he acknowledged with a slight bow. “Yet that has little bearing on either the man’s value with a blade or his trustworthiness.”

Gabrielle sighed again, well aware of the reason of the argument. “I suppose it does not,” she agreed hesitantly.

Yves waited.

Gabrielle considered the matter for a long moment, then looked to the knight again. Fairness demanded that the mercenary be given his due.

“Michel trusted Seymour, this much I know,” she confided. “Certainly there were never any complaints about him within the household, except perhaps from the occasional maid who found him too friendly for her taste. And, as you say, it was without concern for his own safety that Seymour guarded Michel’s body during Perricault’s attack.”

Yves studied her, then nodded. He pursed his lips and scanned the undergrowth about them as he thought. When he spoke, his voice was low and his words came slowly. “So the question remains as to whether the news he overheard is true.”

Gabrielle took a deep breath, preparing to speak her mind yet again. Indeed, the very fact that this man seemed to give credit to her opinions emboldened her to share them.

It occurred to her that she could readily grow accustomed to such discussions with this man. A thrill of anticipation raced through her at the idea of Yves becoming her spouse, before she stomped determinedly on it.

Theirs would be a match in name alone, and that at her dictate. And Yves would undoubtedly cease to be interested in her opinion once—or
if
—he retrieved Perricault and was installed as its lord.

Gabrielle cleared her throat, refusing to admit how those thoughts had dampened her spirits. “Do you not think it odd that Philip would consider leaving Perricault just when there is the best chance of someone avenging his attack?”

“Yes.” Yves nodded and his gaze burned into hers. Gabrielle felt herself flush slightly beneath his perusal, though she knew she was a fool to take his agreement as anything other than that. “That is
precisely
what I find strange about this news. You are astute to recognize that inconsistency.”

Gabrielle shrugged, not in the least accustomed to praise for her thinking. Indeed, no man had ever even listened to her before! “It simply makes sense,” she demurred, though Yves’ gaze was unswerving.

“Only to one who thinks matters through, as you do.” He paused, and Gabrielle glowed silently with his praise.

“What will you do?” she had to ask.

Yves glanced at her and a smile danced across his lips so fleetingly that it was gone before she fully realized it was there. “Very little until I know more,” he said. “On the
morrow, I will go to Perricault myself to see the situation. Is it far?”

“An hour’s ride.”

“I shall walk, for it will be more quiet that way.”

“I can show you the way.”

Yves’ eyes flashed golden. “You will remain here! There is no need to risk your hide any more than you have already done!”

“I will not be left behind!” Gabrielle retorted, outraged to be dismissed from the planning yet again. “Thomas is my son!”

“And you are his only parent left in this world.” Yves’ tone was as stern as it oft was with Gaston.

Gabrielle gaped in surprise that this was his reason.

Yves glowered at her, evidently anticipating that she would argue. “Understand, my lady, that I shall
not
be responsible for that child being left alone in this world.”

The ferocity of Yves’ concern for Thomas so astonished Gabrielle that his words silenced any protest she might have made.

He was denying her the right to accompany his mission purely to ensure her own safety?

The very idea was stunning for Gabrielle, whose survival had been taken for granted by those around her all her life. No one had ever troubled to worry about her safety. It was only after she had absorbed that astonishing fact that she wondered at the root of Yves’ concern.

“That is not the first time you have spoken thus,” she observed carefully, having already noted how hesitant he was to speak of his own history. Gabrielle recalled suddenly his tirade at the river, a rare show of emotion from this man, and his confession of bastardy.

The knight looked away and frowned into the dense shadows of the forest. He said nothing.

But he did not immediately walk away. Yves lingered as
though he would confess his reasoning to her, had he only known how to begin.

Compassion welled within Gabrielle, for she guessed that Yves had not been blessed with an easy road in this life. In that moment, she decided to press the issue.

The gentleness of her tone surprised even Gabrielle herself. “Am I wrong to guess this a matter of particular import for you?”

Yves scuffed his boot in the dirt as he shook his head, then glanced at her anew, as though he was afraid of some censure he might find in her eyes. Gabrielle knew she showed none, for she felt none, and their gazes clung.