Chapter 5

A necessary pretense.

Though Amaury mostly believed Richarde was the ally professed last spring when confronted over his role on the night all was stolen from his former captain, once more his allegiance was in question for a snap then scrape of dirt by what sounded more a leather sole than a clawed paw.

The impulse to alert Richarde and together confront what could be one of the contingent earlier pounding the road that caused them to retreat deeper into the wood had nearly dulled Amaury’s sense of self-preservation. But that honed edge had kept him silent as if briskly drawn across his throat. After all, not only was Richarde long in delivering tidings, but his news was far from satisfactory.

Thus, Amaury would deal with the watcher alone, and greater the chance of subduing him if the man who would have been at his side was an enemy. Too, should information extracted from the watcher verify that betrayal, Amaury could use it to his advantage .

Be my side, Richarde, he silently entreated, else this will take far longer and you will suffer alongside Gert.

Aware the watcher behind and to his left could put an arrow in him, he listened for a shaft being prepared for flight.

Beyond the sounds of nature, there was only silence in which he wished he had girded the sword concealed in a rotted tree near the hunting lodge. Not that it would be effective against an arrow, but if the watcher came at him with a blade, it would be useful alongside Amaury’s daggers.

Once more he heard something, though not of a bow bending to a string’s pull but of ground further disturbed. Whatever weapon that one meant to send against him, first he drew nearer. A moment later, Amaury amended that when the sound became faint due to distance rather than greater stealth. His watcher retreated.

Although it might be someone who but traveled the wood, it was not to be borne for what might have been heard of the exchange with Richarde, even if all that could be told was they spoke in heavily accented French. Still, the watcher would be quieted only long enough to allow Amaury to retrieve his few belongings and distance himself from any come in search of one believed a threat to Wulfen.

Casually, he looked around.

The watcher was hooded, wore tall boots glimpsed beneath his mantle’s hem, and hunched as if to make himself smaller. When suddenly he angled right, it was clear something of import lay in that direction, perhaps an accomplice.

A moment later, Amaury saw the horse, though only for keen vision despite the number of times his eyes had been blackened. Since the nearer he was when he set himself at the watcher, the less force needed to subdue him, he followed stealthily until that one looked around halfway to the horse .

Though the hood he gripped closed shadowed his face, it did not muffle a cry that made Amaury amend the belief he pursued a grown man. With running strides that exceeded the youth’s, he admired the agility with which that one bounded over branches and rocks. As the distance between them closed, another alteration of course caused one side of the watcher’s mantle to swing wide and reveal skirts. Neither man nor boy, but a woman, which called for a softer landing.

Amaury lunged and whipped an arm around her waist. As she cried out, he twisted and dropped onto his back on moist soil near rock-strewn ground. It was a good landing for him, and perhaps softer than hers since the mattress made of him was firm. When she lost hold of something that flashed silver and her head clipped his chin, Amaury caught her yelp in his palm and rolled her beneath him, leaving his cap behind.

Despite closely shaving his whiskers every two to three days before the silver became obvious, he had become lax with his hair. Since those with whom he interacted on Wulfen were accustomed to him wearing a cap and he limited its removal in their presence to the dark of night or dim tunnels in which he grew heated while laboring, it was over a month since he scraped his scalp. Though his hair was quite short, silver would be seen were the light good.

As the hooded, face-down woman flailed and scraped her teeth over his palm, he snatched up his cap and fit it, then considered her small dagger impaling the ground several feet out.

“I mean you no ill,” he said in English, making no attempt to disguise an accent already heard, then dropped knees on either side of her and, keeping her mouth covered, swept her onto her back.

The first thing that leapt at him was red-blond hair plaited both sides of a pretty freckled face—here Fira Wulfrith first encountered a year past in another wood. The second thing was her spectacles, one lens covering an eye, the other askew on her brow and only one tie looped around an ear—here the reason the day they first met often she had narrowed her lids. The third thing was how still she had gone, movement restricted to wide eyes—here shock as if she had not peered at him through the bushes when he turned to show a face he would have thought recognized.

Now as she shifted her gaze to his cap, something else rose in her eyes—suspicion moving toward understanding, likely aided by seeing him snatch up his cap that should have been of no import in such circumstances.

When last she had been on her back with him, she had no cause to wonder what his cap covered. Had she considered it at all, she would have assumed he was far from shorn for his shaved face evidencing he was a relatively young man. Though now there was much consideration about her, hopefully not so far she thought he hid silvered hair, the implication of which would be obvious to one whose D’Argent blood showed in some Wulfriths whose hair aged well ahead of the body.

“Here we are again, Lady Fira,” he said and nearly scowled when a smile sought to move his mouth. “Or nearly so, hmm?”

Nostrils flaring, she spoke into his palm what he guessed curses.

He raised his other hand. “I want only to talk.” Not exactly true since he must ensure he was far gone before she raised the hue and cry, but he needed her to listen. After all, once he resolved the ill between him and Gert who had taken the byname with which Amaury had pirated the narrow sea, he would return to Wulfen and collect his son as amicably as possible—providing his operations in Boston allowed him to set aright wrongs done his family and provide Mace a good life .

“Oui, Lady?”

She jerked her chin.

He eased his hand from her mouth, letting it hover as she filled her lungs. When she did so a second time, his gaze was drawn to a chest more curvaceous than last summer. Rebuking himself for noticing, he repeated, “I want only to talk,” and lowered his hand.

She bared pretty teeth. “Do you not mean pass more lies as truth, Mason of no bad leg nor shoulder? Or is it Le Fléau of rampant theft upon the sea?”

Much consideration. Much perception. Thus, his cover forfeited.

“Also known as Amaury de Chanson of long-abandoned son?” she added.

That was the wrong thing to say, making his store of anger pound on the door closed over it and rattle the lock whose key he sometimes struggled to withhold though what was inside he reserved for those responsible for seven hellish years.

Though reason prevailed, he did not trust himself with this small, vulnerable woman who but offended for not knowing his tale. Risking her sounding an alarm, he stood and said, “Rise.”

She sat up, causing her hood to drop and sunlight piercing the canopy to ripple across hair the color of a warming fire. After tucking her spectacles down her bodice, she drew her knees to her chest and gave a sharp shake of the head as if to resettle her braids. “Talk if you wish or tell more lies, Chevalier. I listen.”

Amaury disliked being captivated by her face, but just as the passing of many months further endowed her chest, her features had matured. No longer was she merely pretty, but neither did she possess the kind of beauty that warned a man against venturing a touch that could doom him .

“I listen,” she said again with the strained haughtiness of one masking fear.

And I drift, he thought and lowered to his haunches.

Immediately, she sprang upright, turned, and snatched up her dagger whose location she had surely sighted with the exaggerated shake of her head.

Grateful she did not scream for help, he moved to overtake her a second time. When she feinted left, it nearly rendered him wrong-footed. Still, for the strength and speed of a body he had vowed would never again be the possession of any other than himself, he would recover her.

This time she went right, and though surely hoping he would go down long enough for her to reach her mount and get astride, he closed in and would have caught her hood had she not lunged behind an oak of good width.

Amaury corrected his course, but she leapt to the other side. When he did the same and glimpsed her bright face, she growled and repeated the maneuver.

Feeling himself move toward anger, Amaury halted. “Lady Fira, I am of no danger to you and your family. As guessed, I am Chevalier Amaury de Chanson, once known as Le Fléau de l’Anglais, redeemed by the wife I lost, sire of Mace, a nobleman who disguised himself as a mute upon Woodhearst, lastly a miner at Wulfen Castle to draw near my son ahead of…”

He suppressed the impulse to curse the elusive word, such losses becoming less frequent since the new year just as his thoughts drifted less. Finding the word, he restated, “…ahead of determining the right time to reclaim him. Though my kinship with your family has been scattered by the winds and storms of three hundred years, your blood knows mine as mine knows yours.”

Silence, then the rustle of disturbed ground. A moment later, a dagger appeared around the side of the tree, followed by the lady.

Amaury inclined his head. “As I have seen and heard my son is well and content, I have no grievance against the Wulfriths into which my wife’s niece wed and much gratitude for what your family did for her and my boy.”

“From what I overheard, you remain a villain,” she said. “And as is well known, the sins of ungodly men splash the innocents, even those for whom they claim to have much care.”

He took a step nearer. “At this time, I cannot tell all, but I give my word when what threatens me, my son, and your country is eliminated, I shall be again the respectable man I became before our kings destroyed my city, family, and people. If still you doubt me capable of honor, recall last summer and the vow I kept.”

From the flicker in her eyes, she revisited that day and what was done her. When her dagger began lowering, Amaury moved nearer, but she jumped back and said, “When you speak of a threat to my country, do you refer to pirating?”

“Oui, by those who, calling themselves Les Fléaux de l’Anglais, last year placed several members inside Calais and would have let in the French were it not for the efforts of your brother and, I suspect, Lady Vianne.” He raised his eyebrows. “And in some measure, my efforts.”

She startled. “Yours?”

“Though the Captain of Calais did not know who sent messages that told where to find infiltrators inside his walls, it was by my hand. Unfortunately, those incarcerated broke free after I set sail for England and the French forces were routed. One of them was of such import that had he not escaped, Les Fléaux might have been slower to firmly establish pirating along England’s coast.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Mayhap you, wishing the English to pay for your losses, are the one whose capture could have been the undoing of those harrying our merchant ships and coastal towns.”

He shifted his jaw. “I have been well inland nearly a year, first upon Woodhearst, now many months mining Wulfen’s underground.”

“So tells one who dares not deny he is a deceiver.”

“I dare not, but my actions are necessary to eliminate the threats of which I spoke.” He nodded at her dagger. “As I will not take that from you unless you seek to slice me, put it away.”

She stared. “Regardless of how true you speak, I am no fool to believe you will let me go before you ensure your departure from my brother’s demesne.”

Which he would have to effect without securing her in a way that could cause ill to befall her. Though during his first years of healing, his mind had sharpened considerably, at times the debris of his suffering obstructed it.

“Lady,” he began. And ended when his senses revealed they were no longer alone.

Just as the impulse to protect her made him lunge, her protective impulse made her slash. Having little time to get her out of sight, ignoring his sliced knuckles, he took her dagger, pinned her back to his front, and put a hand over her mouth. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to conceal the grazing horse.

“Be silent,” he rasped. “Others are here who may be neither your side nor mine.”

Blessedly, she did as told, allowing him to hear movement north, northwest, and northeast as if the three predators had come off the road to Wulfen Castle. Nothing else could be known until they were nearer, but by the time Amaury was able to scent or see them, it could be too late to reach the horse. Thus, to ensure the lady escaped, he must get her away now.

Fairly certain she would remain silent for hearing what he did, Amaury removed his hand and turned her to him. “We make for the horse,” he said low. “When we reach it, we should know who they are. If friend to you, I take the horse. If friend to me, you take it and…head straight for Wulfen.”

“If friend to neither?”

He hesitated. “As your horse is too old to carry two under speed for long, I will remain to ensure they do not pursue you.”

Her eyes widened. “They might slay you.”

Resenting he should be touched by her concern, he said gruffly, “Then you will have to tell my boy his sire loved him and did all he could to return to him.” He released her, slid her dagger into its sheath, and took her hand.

They ran side by side, and it was some moments before their stalkers began shouting.

As Amaury and the lady advanced on the horse to whose saddle a canvas bag was fixed, it raised its head and eyed them. When they were nearly upon it, it sidled away.

Amaury released the lady’s hand and caught the reins, causing the horse to halfway rear. As he brought it to ground, he saw the three garbed as commoners came at them with swords drawn. “Get astride, Lady!”

These were his countrymen, but no more his friends than hers. Whether Richarde betrayed, which seemed painfully possible, these men had to be of Les Fléaux.

Amaury assisted her up and thrust the reins at her. “Ride hard to Wulfen!” he commanded and retrieved a dagger from his belt and turned to those whose faces were now seen. Two were recognizable from when Amaury sailed the channel and commanded sea brigands, one having aided Gert and Hugh in capturing Amaury outside Calais .

“I will not leave you,” Lady Fira said.

He smacked the horse’s rump. “I said ride!”

The animal was eager to obey, but the lady dragged on the reins.

“Les blessures de Dieu!” he growled and, knowing if she delayed further he would have to fight for her life as well as his, sheathed his dagger and swung up behind her.

Gert’s men were eighty feet out when Amaury hauled the lady back against him, took the reins, and set the horse to flight. For how quickly the animal responded, it had to have belonged to a knight or wealthy merchant since in its younger years it would have been too spirited for most ladies. Providing it maintained its pace, they would leave the miscreants behind.

Amaury looked around and, seeing sea brigands who were less skilled with sword than dagger were poised to throw the latter, forced the horse to weave. Had he not done so, a thrown blade could have ended his life as seven years of captivity had not.

It was good he was acquainted with the wood, often traveling it rather than the road between lodge and fortress and scouting it to ensure rare meetings with Richarde were in places unlikely to be disturbed by others.

Unfortunately for the lady given to venturing out alone, she had heard their voices and investigated. Fortunately for him, her presence had drawn him from the clearing and seen him astride a horse. Otherwise, a clash with Gert’s men could have left him dead, injured, or captured ahead of an excruciatingly slow demise.

“Where do we go?” the lady put over her shoulder.

Whereas she was bound for Wulfen, he would go to Lincolnshire astride the horse he must borrow since he had drawn Les Fléaux here and would have no time to explain himself to her menfolk to their satisfaction—were it possible to satisfy them. This day, though Richarde insisted the wait must continue to ensure all came together before the plan was fully set in motion, much had changed. Regardless of how Gert learned Amaury lived and had crossed to England, it was time to make things as right as possible for him and his son, which would benefit England even if its king never learned the one he wished put down was—in a manner—making amends.

As they continued through the wood, clear of those who surely returned to their horses, once more Lady Fira looked around. Despite a face so pale her freckles were vivid, she demanded, “Where are you taking me?”

“Wulfen.”

“But not to its walls, nor with my mount,” she said knowingly.

“That is so, but I will be certain you are safe before departing.”

“As upon Woodhearst,” she revealed she had learned someone had sighted him that day.

“Oui,” he said and returned his attention to guiding the horse in the direction the fortress was best approached to avoid patrols this time of day. When he urged the beast nearer the road to parallel it, he heard riders on it. As it would be foolish for those of Les Fléaux to openly travel the road, likely these were of little danger to Lady Fira. But they boded ill for Amaury.

He reined in and, seeing her peer left, knew she also caught the sound. Were the riders not yet in range of a scream being heard above pounding hooves, then soon.

As if her thoughts traveled with his, she said, “I am no liar, De Chanson. Keep your hand off my mouth, and I shall be silent.”

Though survival urged him against trusting her, he said, “Silent and still until they are well gone. ”

The danger should have been past within a minute, but more riders were heard, these coming from the opposite direction. It could not be known if they were Les Fléaux or a Wulfen patrol, but by the time it was known, it could be too late for Amaury—worse, the lady.

“Which way?” she whispered.

Wondering if what he glimpsed beyond fear in her eyes was excitement, he turned the horse toward the riders on the road who were nearly past. Providing none looked around, they should be able to get across and into trees on the opposite side before being seen by those coming behind. However, since this part of the road was fairly straight, it was possible the backsides of those en route to Wulfen would be seen by what might or might not be a Wulfen patrol.

“Hold to me!” he said, and when she twisted around and hooked an arm around his waist, spurred forward.

As if the horse sensed it was in the hands of one at ease with spirited rides, it did what was asked of its aged body as best it could.

Upon exiting the wood, Amaury looked to the riders ahead and saw the mounts of those who foolishly openly traveled a road belonging to the Wulfriths were exceptionally fine. Three of the four were the same who stalked him following Richarde’s departure. And two other things were evident when a rider at the fore shifted to the side—here Baudri who aided Gert and Hugh in capturing him at Calais, and bound over the back of his horse was Richarde as told by his size, clothing, and mess of dark blond hair no longer bound at the nape.

I have wronged him, Amaury rued and hoped he had an opportunity to make things right with one who had not meant to lead the enemy to him.

As the horse carried the lady and him into the trees on the other side of the road, a rider ahead shouted, and Amaury saw one named Herman look back. As all brought their mounts around, the question became whether those coming behind were more pirates or a patrol.

If the former, little hope for Amaury and Fira Wulfrith. If the latter, perhaps as little hope for the Wulfen patrol of advanced squires. As the young men nearing knighthood were given as much practical experience as possible before earning their spurs, they were lethal and usually rode in pairs. Still, two would face four with much experience and savage fighting skills.

If they are of Wulfen and injured or slain, I am at fault, Amaury thought.

The risk one accepts in committing their life to warring, the hard of him countered.

And when that warring is in defense of others? he silently demanded. Young men who courageously do their duty may not grow old—or grow old poorly—because you drew Les Fléaux here.

What of the woman’s safety? the hard tried again to trample a conscience seeking to recover its strength as if seven years were little more than seven days.

This time when he shouted Les blessures de Dieu! he did so inside his head.

“What do you?” asked the lady as he reined about. “They come for us!”

“Others followed us that side of the wood,” he clipped as he entered a copse to watch the road for those who next rode upon it. “If they are a Wulfen patrol, they may be too few and inexperienced to…confront such vicious men.”

She jerked, doubtless fearing what could happen to those her family trained into warriors, then said accusingly, “You know these vicious men?”

“Be silent!” he rasped as two riders appeared on that side of the road. They were of Wulfen, and though well armed for the duty performed ahead of knighthood, death could be theirs.

“Dear Lord!” Lady Fira whispered.

Grudgingly accepting what must be done to ensure the young men donned spurs, Amaury swung out of the saddle and pressed the reins into her hand. “Ride without cease until you are safe inside your walls,” he said, then drew two of three daggers and ran.