Stuart, Elizabeth (12 page)

"I've
been there," Robert snapped back.

Montagne
spurred his horse toward the stairs. The chestnut shied from the stone, but he
forced the animal against it.

Robert
backed nimbly up three steps and drew his sword. He was just beyond sword-reach
of the mounted man.

"Stop
toying with me," Montagne snarled. "I'm aware you hate me. I know you
have my daughter, and I'm fully alive to every last damn thing you're not
saying. But I warn you, de Langley. If you hurt Adelise I'll move both heaven
and hell to make sure there's not enough flesh and bone of you left to be
resurrected. Not by Christ Jesus himself!"

"How
do you know there's any now?"

Montagne
pulled himself together with difficulty. "Enough of this. I can see you're
flesh and blood, though how you can be no doubt only the devil himself knows
for sure. Now what do you want? Tell me in plain language."

Robert
placed both hands on his sword hilt, turned the point downward onto the step
beside him and rested his weight against the hilt. "My lands, Montagne.
Every last hill and valley. Every last tree and serf."

"Don't
be a fool. I've spent a fortune shoring up the crumbling walls of some of your
keeps, installing trusted castellans, building new castles to protect what I've
won. I'm not about to hand all that back over to you."

"Then
I suppose there's nothing more to be said. A pity. I dislike killing
women."

Montagne
was smiling now. "Don't give me that, de Langley. You're so damned careful
of your honor you'd not think of killing a hostage, a woman especially. You're
bluffing and we both know it."

Robert
met his eyes coldly. "You're a fool to take me for the same green boy you
knew seven years ago, Montagne. I've been to hell and back since then. I have
killed hostages. I wouldn't blink at the need to kill more. And don't wager on
the fact that I'd not take the life of a woman. You'll lose, Montagne and so
will your daughters." He smiled. "There are two, you know. You seem
to have lost count."

Montagne
shook his head. "Say what you like. I still think you're bluffing."

"What
would it take to convince you I'm not?" Robert drew his dagger with his
left hand, sighted down the long gleaming blade. "I sent you a bit of hair
yesterday. Would you like a finger this evening? An ear come the dawn? I assure
you, it can be arranged."

"Shut
up!" Montagne's horse sidled nervously. The man jerked at the reins, then
swore as the animal began to back and fret. "Let me see them," he
said at last. "I want to see that they haven't been harmed."

Robert
thought for a minute. "Tomorrow. I'll send for you."

"Now,"
Montagne growled.

"I
don't think so. Tomorrow, Montagne. Take it or leave it."

The
man stared back with such venom Robert's fingers tightened on his sword hilt
instinctively.

"Very
well. Tomorrow. And God help you, de Langley, if I find them in any state other
than they were when I left."

"It's
been a temptation, Montagne, but you'll find them unharmed. For now."

With
that, Montagne whirled his horse and spurred through the gate. Robert let out a
long breath of satisfaction. Montagne had been a fool to reveal his true
feelings. But then Robert supposed a father might be forgiven for acting a
fool.

Let
the man think on it a day or so. Let him worry. Having once been a father
himself, Robert could imagine the hell his enemy would be going through.

He
could almost pity Montagne. Almost... but not quite.

***

Jocelyn
bathed Aymer Briavel's burning face then squeezed the cloth back into the bowl.
It was difficult keeping her mind on her work when Robert de Langley and her
father were probably discussing her and Adelise at this very moment.

But
the injured knight was burning up, and she needed more water. He had been
restless earlier, flailing about in delirium, spending his precious strength
until there was little left to be spent. Now, praise the saints, he lay quiet.
She only hoped it wasn't that strange sleep that oft presaged death.

She
glanced around for a servant and saw one of the young kitchen boys hovering
along the wall in the shadows. "You... Adam, isn't it? Run, fetch me more
water."

The
boy was off like a quarrel shot from a bow and back again just as quickly. He
knelt at Jocelyn's side, his eyes trained anxiously on the injured man.
"He's worse, isn't he?"

Jocelyn
studied the boy, wondered at the wild look in those dark, intent eyes.
"His fever rose in the night, but that's to be expected with a wound of
this type. But yes, I fear he is worse."

A
spasm of grief crossed the boy's face, a look so intense, so raw, it was
painful to look upon. Jocelyn reached out, but the boy shrugged away.

"It's
my fault," he cried out. "It's my fault, so you might as well say it!
Everyone else is. It's my fault if this man dies."

He
hesitated, his narrow chest heaving with an enormous crushing guilt beyond his
ten-year-old ability to manage. "I-It should be me. I led the others out.
'Twas my fault. But I'd no idea my lord would fight. Truly I didn't! He should
have left us. Would to God he had left us to fend for ourselves!"

Jocelyn
frowned. If this was the kind of tongue-lashing Robert de Langley had thought
appropriate, she was going to have something to say to the man. "Stop
shouting," she said. "If you can steady yourself, I need help turning
this man to change his bandages. If not, fetch me someone who can."

The
boy bit his lip and struggled to gather himself together. "I-I'd like to
help. If you think I could, lady."

She
nodded. "I've already seen to the wound on his side, but we need to move
him. I must get at the one on his back."

The
boy was small, but wiry and surprisingly strong. Together he and Jocelyn were
able to shift the knight so that she could remove the sodden bandage.

It
came away with difficulty, clotted with dark blood and a greenish ooze that
made the boy swallow and loose all color.
"Blessed Mother!"
he
whispered.
"Blessed Holy Mother..."

Jocelyn
frowned, working to ease the dried clots away from the stitches so that she
could check her handiwork. The flesh about the wound was reddened and angry,
but not abnormally so. Actually the wound looked quite good, though it was
early yet to tell if the dark, stinking rot would set in.

She
glanced at the terrified child and forced a smile. "It looks good, boy.
This is normal and to be expected. It's the fever that's our worst enemy now.
You can help with that too if you like."

He
nodded, biting his lip again.

"Here."
Jocelyn handed him the wet cloth, directed him to wet the man's face, his
throat, the muscular arms that lay, still as death, at the man's side.

Adam
glanced at her dubiously. "Does this help?"

"No
one really knows. I think it does." Jocelyn smiled wryly, thinking of the
many fevers she had treated in this simple manner, of the superstitious fears
her skills as a healer had engendered among the simple folk of both Warford and
Montagne.

She
didn't know if Aymer Briavel would live. That was in God's hands. But for the
moment at least, this boy was in hers. And as they worked together, Jocelyn
began to draw him out. Shyly at first, coaxed by easy, sympathetic questions,
the boy told his tale, told what he could remember of his dead mother and father
and the good years before the coming of the Montagnes.

She
was disgusted by what he revealed of his treatment these last years, even more
appalled by what she knew he held back. It was little wonder Adam Carrick
looked on Robert de Langley as some sort of god, little wonder that the boy's
act of bravery during the storming of the keep had spun him to such dizzying
heights as the two-day darling of de Langley and his men.

And
it was little wonder that the boy was now terrified that the mistake he had
made was so great, so unforgivable that he would fall forever from the favor of
the one man who could change his world.

Jocelyn's
heart ached. She could well remember wondering what terrible thing she had done
that her own father couldn't stand to look on her, could remember trying
desperately to please a man who wished she had never been born. But at least
she'd had a mother's love and protection during those early years. This child
had been denied even that.

She
studied Adam's long matted hair, threadbare tunic and dirt-darkened skin. No
one would take this grubby, ill-fed child for the son of an important knight,
but the appearances at least could be set to rights. Whether the inner scars
ran too deep for healing, time alone would prove.

She
called for the woman Maude, set her to a careful watch of the fevered knight.
Then she turned to the boy. "I thank you for your help with this man. I'll
need you again later, I expect. But for now we need look at you."

"Me?"

Jocelyn
nodded. "You're a young man of good blood, but no one would think it to
look at you, Adam. In normal times you'd be a page, preparing to become some
lord's squire. Come along with me now to the kitchens. You must begin to dress
and act like your father's son, like a young man in the household of a one of
the greatest knights in Christendom."

She
smiled, put out a hand and ruffled the boy's thick hair. "And the first
thing we need do is cut this wild mane of yours. I'll set some of the women to
see if they can find you clean clothing—a clean shirt at least. Then we must
shed some of this dirt."

Adam
protested, but Jocelyn would have none of it. And despite her Montagne name,
she was a sufficiently awe-inspiring personage that when she swept into the
kitchen buildings, one guardian man-at-arms and a filthy, protesting urchin in
tow, hot bathwater, shears, and clean clothing miraculously appeared, as did
several women to help with the indignant, struggling boy.

That
was how Robert de Langley found them. He hesitated in the doorway, amazed at
the scene that met his eyes.

A
large wooden washtub had been drawn up near one of the hearths. Water puddled
the floor and drenched the heavy skirts of the women, while a dripping scrap of
a lad was hissing and spitting, fighting the water and the soap that was being roughly
and indiscriminately administered to his flesh.

Robert
looked at the grinning man standing guard. The man gestured toward the tub.
"The Carrick lad, my lord. The lady Jocelyn determined to find if there
was a boy beneath the dirt. Seems there was after all. You set me to watch her,
my lord, but I'd not the courage to get caught up in that. A few minutes ago
I'd have bet a month's wages our Adam would have made good his escape. Now I'm
not so sure. By the Cross, he's a game one, though, for his size."

A
truly obscene soldier's oath filled the room, sounding absurd in the high
childish tones of a ten-year-old. Robert glanced at Jocelyn Montagne and bit
back a grin. The words hadn't shocked her. She simply ducked the boy under
water again.

He
moved toward the scene of the fight. The lady Jocelyn was soaked from head to
toe. She hadn't stood idly back to order others in the struggle. But then he
wouldn't have expected her to.

"Keep
a respectful tongue in your head, lad, else I'll take that soap to the insides
of your mouth," Robert warned.

As
one, the people around the tub turned toward him. Adam sank back in the water,
subdued.

Robert
ran an approving eye over the boy. "I see someone's cut that hair."
He swung to face Montagne's daughter. "My lady, I hear this was your
idea."

"Yes,
I've just learned who he is and what's happened. All that's happened," she
added significantly. "It seemed someone should take him in hand."

Robert
glanced at the breathless, wide-eyed boy, at the scattered puddles of water,
the indignant servants, evidence of a battle, hopeless but hard-fought. It was
getting harder to keep back the grin. "A bit of a handful, by the look of
things."

"He
has strong feelings about soap and water," Jocelyn said dryly.
"Perhaps you might say something to persuade him differently, my
lord."

Robert
turned. "How do you think to take service with any respectable lord
looking like a swineherd? Clean yourself up, boy. And clean up your mouth.
Montagne's men may have damned themselves to hell with that kind of talk, but
mine don't. If you plan to remain in my service, I'd best hear no more of
it."

The
boy caught his breath. "But I-I didn't think you'd want me. Not after...
after..." He broke off, took a deep steadying breath and finished bravely:
"Not after yesterday. I know all that happened was my fault. You didn't
say it, but I know it's true. Your man lies at the point of death because of
me. And they say..."

He
hesitated again, met his lord's eyes squarely. "They say Briavel is your
friend. I'm sorry, my lord. I wish it was me. Me instead of him!"