Chapter 13

H er menses. Woe to her for being unprepared, her only excuse that of experiencing no further twinges the day Richarde was removed from the inn, nor the day past when her brother did not arrive as expected.

Continuing to resist alarm, Fira glanced at the morning sky. Though surely Hector’s absence would be remedied this day, she should have time aplenty to acquire cloths. Hopefully, she need go only as far as the ground floor to locate Alice who earlier left simple viands and drink outside her door. But if she could not be found…

Fira touched her purse and, confident one of the small coins would gain what she sought, flipped her mantle’s hood over hair fashioned into a single plait and opened the door.

No others were in the corridor, but the voices of discontented males rose from the rear entrance belowstairs. That gave her pause, but when Alice rebuked the men and one apologized, Fira completed her descent and stepped to the side, certain the woman would soon appear. However, the men resumed their argument, and once more the innkeeper’s daughter mediated.

Since the washcloth protecting Fira’s garments could fail well before day’s end, she decided to go for the cloths herself though it meant leaving the inn as she agreed she would not.

And have not the past two days, she reminded herself of the tedious wait for her brother. Since she should no longer be in Boston, surely the agreement no longer held. Too, the outing was necessary, and since she was in a good area and would be quick about it, no ill could befall her.

And it will make this day’s wait more tolerable, she acknowledged restlessness that was worse for not seeing Amaury since their kiss.

After traversing the short corridor to the dining room, she worked her way around its edges though few patrons were present and only one server. Then she was exiting the inn—and jumping back to avoid a horse-drawn cart that should not be traveling so near.

Her meeting with the door dropped her hood, and though impulse urged her to whip it up, recall of Amaury setting a man to watch the inn made her slow to conceal her hair of unusual color. Though she hoped he would follow and serve as protector, lest he intercept her and insist she return, forcing her to reveal her embarrassing need, once her hood was in place she hastened toward what she believed the market for the number of people moving that direction each morn.

Feeling a frisson of joy over an adventure that saw her among others heading for Boston’s bustling square, she savored it—until sight of a young man with a bow hooked over a shoulder shot her with memories of taking another’s life. Hence, as joy was not her due, she must think only on purchasing the cloth and returning to the inn .

At least, that was the plan.

It seems I have you, Amaury De Chanson, my rope ready to cinch. Hugh grunted. You thought what was done you on La Bonne Mort was pain beyond imagining, but what Gertrude would have come of this day will be worse. First, we shall see to the lady so you curse us for your inability to save her, then your slow descent into the abyss long evaded.

Returning his attention to Baudri, he demanded, “Well?”

The man moved his gaze from the briefly unhooded figure moving among the many to Hugh. “I am certain it is she who fled with De Chanson upon Wulfenshire.” Though said with forced deference, Hugh nearly smiled.

Though some of his sister’s men resented answering to him, more they feared displeasing Gertrude who was unlike any woman they knew, causing them to exercise caution whether she donned skirts or chausses, fondled the purse on her belt or a keen dagger, or tilted her mouth in a good direction or very bad one. Unfortunately, though her brother was granted many privileges, he was acquainted with her displeasure such that there were times their kinship proved a flimsy barrier between grace and punishment.

“Did you hear me?” Baudri said with annoyance not exclusive to being jostled by a woman with a basket on her back—its casting of feathers and clucking revealing its cargo was chickens.

“I heard!” Hugh snapped.

Herman on his other side giggled as no grown man ought to and said slyly, “Doubtless, De Chanson’s lover.”

Not doubtless since the message intercepted shortly after it departed Boston revealed the young woman who fled with him was a Wulfrith. But regardless of what she was to De Chanson, use would be made of her.

When Hugh looked to Herman who shifted foot to foot in anticipation of being let off his leash, the jittery man rasped, “I will get her for you.”

“Non!” Hugh said. “Your prey is the traitor, Pietro.” A jut of the chin indicated the one on the opposite side of the street with whom Hugh had served under the command of he who became known as Le Fléau de l’Anglais as if bred from a line of sea brigands rather than chevaliers.

Herman considered the one seeking to overtake the lady without drawing attention and groaned resignedly. “Then I shall take him to ground.”

“With restraint, if possible,” Hugh said, knowing his sister would wish to be present for Pietro’s suffering though what would be done him would not compare to what awaited the man whose side he had gone—unless De Chanson evaded capture. Then Gertrude would not be content simply relieving Pietro’s body of the weight of blood.

“Go!” Hugh commanded.

Quickly, Herman went from sight among the many just as Donal had done often these past days and with admirable success. Most of the time…

Would the clever lad submit when overtaken by Silas who was to leave him whole until Donal led them to De Chanson? Hugh wondered as he wove among the crowd, struggling to stay the side of Baudri who easily kept pace with their prey for being longer in the legs. Or would the lad whom Pietro had relieved of his watch at the inn try to fight his way out of death?

If the latter and he survived Silas, it was possible Donal could be brought into Gertrude’s service. Distantly possible, he amended, knowing his sister would likely reject him for having served her greatest enemy.

A pity, he reflected and knew that was the soft of him best hidden from Gertrude. It was an ill thing to oppose her as done the night her plan to avenge herself on De Chanson came together better than expected. His questioning of what she ordered done to his former captain had earned him a backhand that felt a fist. Then there was the gash near his eye where her ring plowed flesh. Not only had he a scar to attest to that fit of rage, but recall of further humiliation when she said he should be grateful he would not be one-eyed.

All these years later, still he resented what she did to the brother who risked his life to aid her, the closest she came to an apology being bestowal of authority over those who sniggered as blood coursed his face and De Chanson made his gaze felt—until Gertrude ordered her enemy hooded and the rope at his neck loose enough to allow sips of breath ahead of plunging into the sea.

“The lady and Pietro go from sight, Hugh!” Baudri bit.

They did, and soon the latter would disappear providing Herman succeeded in leaving the woman vulnerable amid the market-bound throng.

Knowing at this pace they would continue falling behind, Hugh yielded to Baudri. “Lead the way!” he barked. “And dare not lose sight of her.” Though it was an admission of weakness, better that than fail Gertrude.

Whatever it took to make bait of Fira Wulfrith. Whatever it took to end the threat of De Chanson who would pursue Hugh and his sister until they bled as they made him bleed. Whatever it took to give Gertrude what she needed to sooth a twisted heart .

“Except my life,” he muttered.

The word wondrous was a good fit for the market heard well in advance of Fira passing through the arched entrance that framed a bounty of colors, shapes, and movement. Overwhelming also fit, but rather than heed the voice of caution urging her to turn back, she immersed herself in a place abounding with food, libations, animals, simple items, and sumptuous goods.

Beyond bakers, butchers, spice sellers, and fishmongers were craftsmen pressing their wares on buyers. Stall after stall offered bolts of cloth from distant lands; beautiful slippers, pretty shoes, and sturdy boots; elegant and rustic pottery; bronze, pewter, and horn vessels; leather belts and purses; feather-stuffed dolls and balls that bounced; gold and silver jewelry set with glittering gems; hand mirrors of such slight distortion it was like peering into still water; and books small enough to be worn on a belt so scripture was always at hand.

“Wondrous,” Fira whispered and, peering from beneath her hood and across the tops of her spectacles, once more reminded herself she needed inexpensive cloth. When she returned to the inn, she would make strips that, folded and changed regularly, contained her menses.

For all her determination, once more she was distracted, this time by three black friars of the Dominican order who appeared to be preaching, though not to those whose souls might be in peril. Standing alongside a fountain spilling water over its tiers, their audience was other men of God, two being grey friars of the Franciscan order. And was that an unshod Carmelite and Augustine standing back from those wearing black and grey habits that denoted their orders ?

Fira did not mean to draw nearer, but when a Franciscan rounded on the Carmelite and jabbed a finger near his heavily-bearded face, she veered from a stall that sold what she sought.

“Though you appear to be a man of God, I know what you are,” the grey friar said loudly.

“What is that?” asked the one in a frayed brown tunic belted with a rope.

“A heretical Free Spirit. Dare you deny it?”

The Carmelite narrowed bulbous eyes beneath a scalp whose tonsure had mostly grown out, then curled a hand around his crucifix that was peculiar for its immense size and horizontal piece being so low it was nearly centered on the vertical. “I deny it just as God would have me do.” It was said with a slight lilt as if to turn the words into song, then he gave a smile far from congenial.

The Franciscan jabbed again, this time so near that the Carmelite jumped back and thrust up a hand as if to shield himself, but then that hand shot out and knocked aside the Franciscan’s.

The latter gaped, snapped his teeth, and put between them, “Heretic!”

“What goes, good brothers in Christ?” demanded a thickset rider guiding his mount near, his air of authority and garments marking him as a man of the law.

Glad she was but one of many transformed into spectators, Fira looked around, certain Amaury’s man would decide it was time to escort her back to the inn.

Many were the eyes turned this direction, and though none appeared set on her, one pair must be for acting on what was revealed when her hood dropped—unless her watcher had been distracted in that moment or lost sight of her as she traversed the streets. Or there was no watcher outside the inn for Amaury believing her family collected her …

That last nearly alarmed, but she reminded herself she was safe among the many. Then weary of peering over her spectacles, she slipped them down her bodice.

A collective gasp from those nearby returning her attention to the friars, she saw the Franciscan further trespassed on the Carmelite who stumbled back and might have landed on his rear if the Augustine had not steadied him.

“Enough, holy men!” bellowed the lawman. Then all was ablur, which surprised only when Fira realized it was with leisure he urged his mount nearer the grey- and brown-clad adversaries.

Panic seeking to seize her, she beseeched the Lord not to allow the ugliness within to work its ill on her—and if He refused, to slow it until she was away from those who would gawk.

The blur began to resolve, but as she exhaled relief, she saw silver-white flashes and tasted oil. And now perspiration pricked her brow and neck.

Staggering around, she sought to make sense of this place and those drawn to the spectacle of holy men that would pale beside the show she provided if she did not hide.

A vendor’s stall, she thought and took a step toward the nearest behind which none stood for wishing a closer view of the altercation. Her next step was firmer, but the hope of getting under the stall’s skirt became more distant when a roar sounded from within.

The Gloaming meant to steal the stage. However, if she could get beneath the stall and remain unseen long enough to appear merely drunk when discovered…

It was not to be. Her legs loosened and knees hit the ground. As all darkened, her body stiffened, and before she dropped face down, there came the thin thought she should stuff her skirt in her mouth .

Hearing gasps, alarmed cries, and someone declare the devil who roused holy men to argument had entered a more receptive vessel, all she could think before thinking no more was Amaury de Chanson had failed her perhaps as far as she failed herself.