Chapter 8

I t was middle night when he determined there could be no better time to free Richarde. Before leaving the lady, he had drawn near and confirmed the only movement about her was the breath of sleep. Another thing seen was the loosening of one braid, its crimped hair partially curtaining her face.

Hoping if she awakened during his absence, the horse left behind would assure her of his return, he had gone into the valley armed with sword and daggers. Providing he kept surprise on his side, he had a good chance of returning with Richarde and a second horse. If that meant scattering injured or dead sea brigands in his wake, so be it.

It took a quarter hour to reach the camp lit more by moonlight than the fire nearing its end, half that time spent stealthily negotiating the outskirts lest he happen on one keeping watch.

Having seen no movement around the fire for nearly three hours—past the time the first patrolling the area should have awakened another to relieve him—Amaury guessed no relief was sought due to that one’s negligence. And now proof, the man of oily blond hair sitting against a tree with head back, mouth open, a deflated wineskin in his lap.

Though fatigue and excess were treacherous companions for one entrusted with the lives of others, they were excellent allies for an enemy.

Deciding he need not risk drawing near to ensure the man did not sound an alarm, with dagger in one hand and sword in the other, Amaury went wide around the drunkard and saw the three tethered horses were alert. Fortunately, they did no more than swivel their ears his direction.

A few more steps gaining him the cover of an evergreen, through its needled branches he saw the other two were wrapped in blankets on opposite sides of the dying fire to which their backs were turned. As the familiar face of the one nearest was so lax it invited insects to venture past his lips, Baudri’s senselessness was of the deep, possibly for excessively imbibing as well.

Was the other one’s snores genuine? Amaury questioned as he searched the shadows beyond that brigand for Richarde who would be bound to a tree if he lived. If he did not, still he would be here since Gert’s men would deliver proof they had not entirely failed their leader.

Shortly, Amaury caught a low groan to the right. Picking out a shadowed figure against a large oak, grudgingly he appealed, Lord, give aid as rarely done these past years, even if only for Richarde’s sake. Then he was moving tree to tree, shifting his regard from the enemy to dissolving shadows that showed Richarde was fixed to the tree in a way that ensured suffering. Knees on immense roots rather than the ground, arms cranked back on either side of the trunk, his head hung low.

Amaury halted a dozen feet distant and considered the snoring sea brigand whose countenance was seen this side of the fire, then moved to Richarde’s side and went to his haunches to peer up into his face.

It was good he was gagged since Amaury’s sudden appearance could so surprise he would be unable to temper his response. “I have come, Richarde. Do you hear me?”

Though the sodden cloth muffled his moan, Amaury glanced at the brigands to confirm they yet slept, then said, “If you are aware, nod.”

Richarde drew spurts of breath through his nose, raised and dropped his chin.

“They sleep, including the one on patrol,” Amaury said. “If they do not rouse, we can take one of their horses and be away from here, but likelier that if you can…swallow your pain and walk. Can you?”

Another nod, though less believable. Unfortunately, his life and Amaury’s—and perhaps Lady Fira’s—could depend on him doing so. Fortunately, the gag would aid with pain too great to choke down.

“When I unbind you, I will hold one arm to keep you upright. Once enough feeling has returned, open and close that hand and I will help you stand.”

Again, a nod.

With the enemy continuing to sleep, it seemed all would go to plan—until Richarde cried into his gag as he was raised.

“Back to your knees,” Amaury rasped as the snoring ceased. Keeping hold of Richarde’s arm as the man sank back onto roots, he slipped behind the tree.

“Wake me again with your moaning, and I shall deliver a corpse to Gert,” snarled the nearest brigand. “Oui, less coin for loss of entertainment, but a fighting man needs his sleep.”

Amaury would have waited for the knave to return to his rest before extracting his friend, but the roused patrol called, “My watch is done! ”

Though Amaury’s silent curse was less profane than that of the man who wished to resume his snoring, it was more fervent. The door of opportunity had slammed closed, and it could be hours before it opened again.

Peering around the tree, Amaury watched the brigand rise from his blanket, fasten his sword, and move away. When the patrol staggered into sight, the two exchanged words that did not trouble the sleep of the third.

“Once they return to their rest, I will do all I can to get you away,” Amaury put in Richarde’s ear. “Until then, you must remain…bound lest they check you.” Or you fall on your face lacking the tree’s support, he silently added. “I will work a slip knot for quick release, whether pulled by my hand or yours.”

Receiving yet another nod, Amaury secured him loosely to ease the strain on arms and shoulders, closed the fingers of Richarde’s right hand over the knot’s tail, and straightened.

Seeing the brigands part ways, he used their movements to mask his. Though it would be hours before he could try again under cover of night, he would. Otherwise, Richarde’s reworked bindings would be discovered. Worse, another day of abuse could mean his death.

The moonlit lady of disarrayed hair had been expecting the brigands. At least, Amaury hoped the one sighted down her arrow was not her quarry. Even so, she might unintentionally put him through, whether nervous fear loosed the shaft or clinging shadows made her mistake him for the enemy.

Her stance and draw on the bow’s string testament to her facility with the weapon, he raised a hand. “It is Amaury.”

A plume of breath went out of her, then she angled the bow down and eased the string’s tension, allowing the arrowhead to slide past the polished wood. “I prayed it was you—that you returned with your friend.”

Emotions yet running high at being thwarted, he resumed his stride and halted before her. “I failed to bring him out.”

Her breath caught. “He does not live?”

“He does, but it is difficult for a man in great pain to quiet his suffering, even to preserve his life.” That is, lacking much practice and increasing tolerance due to frequent injuries, he silently added and pushed down anger.

“You were nearly caught,” she said.

“Non, though had I remained, very possible.”

Looking prettier than she should for a face so pale it made her freckles more vivid even in the dim, she asked, “What will you do?”

As he rebuked himself for being so drawn to her he had assured himself her kiss on his cheek was an invitation to explore what came after the innocence—and that the dark of him would stay within—she put her head to the side. “Pray, tell what you intend.”

Certainly not what the carnal of me wants, he thought, then said harshly, “Not what I would do had you returned home when I aided the Wulfen patrol.”

Her head jerked as if slapped.

He regretted that, though he spoke true. As long as she remained his responsibility, he must exercise greater caution. Unfortunately, consideration for her well-being alongside attraction strained his patience.

A glance over his shoulder confirming the brigands’ fire had not been fed, he heaved a sigh. “Forgive me. The day has been long, and I feel the lack of sleep.”

“I am sorry to be a burden.” She hooked a tress over an ear, then with her bow gestured at the cast-off blanket. “As the morrow may be more difficult, I will keep watch while you rest.”

Even were he willing to entrust her with their safety, of which she appeared fairly capable with the bow, he must try again to free Richarde. Hence, lest he sleep through what remained of the night, he dare not close his eyes.

“As ever when denied sleep, one adapts,” he said, and now he gestured at the blanket. “Return to your rest.”

She raised the bow. “Even in moonlight I can make my mark with this.”

“I believe it, but I shall keep watch.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then took the long way to her bed by veering toward the horse he had left behind.

As Amaury settled in, hopeful the campfire would be fed so he could monitor movement below, the lady patted the animal’s neck and murmured soothing words. Then she crossed to the wall of stone and set her bow against it, wrapped herself in the blanket, and lowered to sitting.

“God’s rood,” he muttered and strode to her. “You should sleep.”

She tipped up her face. “If I need to, I shall.”

Then she would be awake when he tried for Richarde again?

Her next words confirmed it. “When next you go, so do we.”

“We?” he nearly barked.

“The horse and I. Though you would give me a way out should all go wrong for you and your friend, I believe my best chance is with you. Aye, my bow skill is not as daunting as that of a man trained in the ways of war, but I can defend myself and others.”

“To a point, Lady,” he said, and would have reminded her of how defenseless she was last summer were she not in denial.

“A point which can be more than enough,” she countered.

“On occasion, but not this. The men from whom I shall take Richarde and a horse are very dangerous.”

As if fearing he might also take her bow, she drew it onto her lap. “I will not enter the camp, advancing only far enough to be near when you bring out your friend so you need not go out of your way to retrieve me. Then we can ride for Wulfen and see your man’s injuries tended.”

He shifted his jaw. “And should they be close on my heels? Non. Were you seen, they would come for you.”

“Thus, I will take cover to await your return, coming out only if you are not followed.”

It was true the likelihood of all escaping was greater were she ready to spur away, but it could be more dangerous for her. He lowered to his haunches. “And if we are captured in the camp or during our flight?”

“’Twill hardly be different from you leaving me here. Either way, I will have to make my way home alone.”

It made sense, but it troubled.

The peculiar lady patted her bow. “I slew a hawk with this, which I would not have believed possible until it was necessary to save the owl my sister nursed back to health.” At his frown, she said, “Methinks you recall the one we saw the day we first met.”

He did, it being odd to see an owl in daylight. “You said you thought you knew it.”

“Aye. Whilst exploring the nearby ruins, I encountered an adder. Though the shock caused me to lose my spectacles, it was near enough I could see it prepared to strike.” Her smile was white in the dim. “Then Skyward appeared and saved me as once I saved him from a hawk, flying off with the snake. So you see, I can do what is necessary to save myself or another.”

“Killing a hawk is far different from killing a man, Lady.”

“Hence, if I must loose an arrow, I shall only incapacitate.” She leaned forward and closed a hand around his left hung over a knee. “I am right in this. Do not leave me behind again.”

She did not ask it only because it provided a better chance of all escaping, but for fear. Though he had left her the horse, it had shaken her to find him gone.

Suppressing the impulse to grip her fingers, he said, “When I go, you go—providing you draw no nearer regardless of what you hear and, do we not soon reappear absent pursuers, cautiously head home.”

“You have my word, Amaury,” she said, her use of his Christian name alone further bothering. Then she released his hand and settled against the wall. “As we are of an understanding and I trust you, I shall sleep.”

Stiffly, he inclined his head, then returned to his post without a backward glance for how sensitive his calloused palm had become.

When he awakened her some time later, his hand had begun to feel his own again. But then he aided her in standing…

In claiming she could do what was necessary to save herself and others, Fira had made herself sound bigger and braver than she was, but the same as Amaury de Chanson, she wondered if she could put an arrow in a man, even only to injure.

Where she sat the horse behind a tall hedge the chevalier said would allow her to watch for his pre-dawn return without being seen, she whispered, “Lord, do not let this be the day I learn the truth or lie of my fortitude. But if ’tis, aid me in doing what is needed to keep those men from greater evil.”

Looking to the bow on her lap she had removed from its bag and strung when Amaury left her, she caressed the polished yew, then reached over her shoulder. When she drew her hand from the quiver, she held an arrow.

This time it was feathers she caressed, though lightly so she not compromise the shaft’s flight which she prayed would not be tested this day. But lest it was, she nocked the arrow so it would be ready for her to pull, sight, and release.

She had not told the chevalier she would use her archery skill should any pursue him and his man. Though fairly certain he would not have deprived her of the weapon she might need if she had to return home alone, it seemed best he believe she would slink away were he closely pursued. And perhaps she would if belief in her skill wavered and she had to leave their fate to them.

Hoping were she given the opportunity to aid them, she would be strong, steady, and accurate, Fira reminded herself of her ancestral womenfolk with the blood of warriors in their veins, beginning with Lady Hawisa Wulfrith. Saxon-born, she had opposed the Duke of Normandy’s usurpation of the English crown and found herself wed to a Norman of the D’Argent family whose liege required he take his wife’s surname to ensure her people accept him.

Over the centuries, other ladies of note followed, including those who married into the Wulfriths, such as Annyn Bretanne whose arrow was unlikely to be found. Even Fira’s sisters, Dangereuse and Ondine, had proven they possessed warrior’s blood.

Surely I do as well, she thought. I but need an opportunity to prove it .

A quarter hour later, as the black of the sky began to grey, the silence of the camp beyond her sight was disrupted. Lest the opportunity she needed was en route, with some thrill and much dread, she raised her bow to prove she was more than a lady…more than ten and eight…more than an unimpressive height and poor sight…more than The Gloaming…

When the barks, shouts, and ring of steel on steel became the pound of hooves not of one horse, but two, she told herself she could aid Amaury if the second did not carry Richarde.

Lord help me if ’tis the enemy, she silently appealed before the chevalier with a man holding to his back thundered past. Then came a rider whose garments and blond hair she recognized across the dim.

And God help you, miscreant, she thought as she sighted ahead of him to compensate for movement and speed.

Though in this event she was to stay put until she could safely begin making her way home, the brigand gained on his prey for greater weight borne by the stolen horse.

Incapacitate only, Fira assured herself killing was not in her blood, then held her breath and released.

The man gave a shout of pain, not for the piercing of his arm as intended but the near side of his back for her releasing a split moment after she should have.

That minor error likely a mortal one, she cried, “Nay!” as he fell over his horse’s neck. And again when he slid off and landed on his back, causing the shaft to fully penetrate his chest and its exiting arrowhead to point heavenward.

As Fira struggled to awaken from what seemed a terrible dream, she saw the chevalier alter his course and ride hard toward her hiding place. Toward a lady turned killer.