Heather Graham (40 page)

As the French gave ground, he shouted to his men to encircle them. In the midst of the fighting, he realized that he and his men had the French king in their net, and so it was that King Jean of France became a prisoner of the English.

Adrien could admit to admiring the man, for he was a young king, courageous while he fought—and valiant in defeat. He was a striking fellow, a charming Valois, quick-witted as he was escorted to Prince Edward. “Ah, well, Laird MacLachlan, if I am to be taken, at least I am escorted by an in-law. How is my fair young cousin of Aville?”

“She is well, King Jean.”

“Despite the machinations of men such as Langlois,” King Jean muttered, smoothing his dark hair. He shrugged, smiling at Adrien as they rode. “Naturally, Laird MacLachlan, I am not a fool. I heard what happened at the tavern; Langlois was not so remiss as to fail to warn me that the countess had been trying to reach me. I can see where this might have been a matter of great marital tribulation for you.”

“Frankly, I feared for her life should Edward discover her treason.”

“Then he’ll not discover it,” Jean said shrewdly, and again, Adrien thought that he liked the man.

They came to the battlefield tent where Prince Edward awaited his royal prisoner. “Cousin!” Edward greeted Jean. “What a pleasure!”

“For you, surely,” Jean said.

“You are a valued guest.”

“What is my value going to be?”

“When he discovers that we have you, my father will be calculating the sum,” Edward told him. He clapped a hand on Jean’s back. “I can hardly ask you to drink to my great victory, but I will drink with you in commiseration, eh?”

Prince Edward remained joyous, which was natural. His victory had been complete, and around the campfires, men already noted that it was a battle so great it would go down throughout generations in song and story. Soldiers would study the tactics; kings would take note.

But though Adrien joined Edward in his celebration, he was anxious to see to his own men and his horses. Despite the sweetness of victory, there was a bitterness in his soul. He couldn’t forget that his wife had so willingly risked her life to go to the Twisted Tree Tavern. And he couldn’t believe that he loved her still, beyond sense and reason. He couldn’t trust her. The danger she had threatened to the English royal house was over now, with the French army so soundly defeated and King Jean a prisoner, but he suddenly wanted her out of France. Perhaps it was the anger in the soul. She was at Aville now; he had left her there under guard, since he’d had time for little else with the armies in motion. But it galled him that she was there, for it seemed that she had achieved what she wanted through treachery. And she would soon learn of Jean’s defeat, and God alone knew then if she would begin plotting for his freedom …

She wasn’t going to stay at Aville. He’d been gone too long from England and Scotland. He wanted to return to his border lands, he realized. Home was a place where he could replenish his soul. And whether she found his rocky northern terrain barbaric or not, it seemed the ideal place for her.

He would bring her to Scotland, and leave her there while his temper cooled. Perhaps he could rid himself of his obsession for a wife who betrayed him at every turn. And if not, well, he would go to London. London was full of diversions.

Late that night, when Prince Edward was at last alone, Adrien returned to his battlefield tent and asked for permission to leave the field and return to Aville for his wife.

“I need you with me a while longer—there’s much to settle here. Send to Aville and have her brought to the Channel. We’ll meet up with her party there. Will that do?”

“If that’s what you’re granting me,” Adrien said.

Edward smiled. “You needn’t worry. She’s not going to find a way to help King Jean escape.”

Adrien arched a brow. “I’m glad you’re so certain.”

Edward laughed. “That is your fear, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps …”

“I don’t think she’ll manage to free him from the tower, either.”

“I’m not bringing her to London.”

“To your English estates—”

“No. Home. To Scotland.”

“Far, far away. But I’ll require you to come back to London. My father will expect you—”

“I’ll return to London after I’ve seen to affairs in Scotland.”

“With the countess?”

“Doubtfully.”

Edward smiled. “Perhaps some time in the barbaric wilds will be good for your fair damsel. But I imagine that my father will ask to see her, eventually.”

“Perhaps. He has always held a tenderness for her, though why, I honestly can’t imagine. She betrays him time and time again.”

Edward shrugged. “Perhaps it’s guilt, regarding Aville. Or perhaps it’s in memory of his friendship with her father, or guilt for seizing her mother’s property. Father can be a strange man.”

“If he commands that I send for her, I will. But I’d like to take her home to Scotland now.”

“As you wish.”

News of the terrible defeat of the French army at Poitiers came quickly to Aville.

Though she’d had the run of her home once again, Danielle had known from the beginning that she wasn’t to leave, and she was to be allowed no quarter should she attempt to do so. She was home, where she wanted to be, so she made no attempt to leave. But Sir Giles escorted her to her room every evening, and she didn’t move a step outside the keep without Daylin or another of her husband’s men behind her. Monteine was with her again, for which she was grateful, but she had awaited some word from Adrien or the front with a greater nervousness than ever. When word came, it was grim. It came first in the way of maimed, bloodied, and worn men, trying to make their way home. They were the enemy, defeated, but at Aville, as ordered by Adrien through the first messenger to reach the place, they were fed, their wounds were treated, and they were helped on their way.

News of the disaster wasn’t given to Danielle, but to Sir Giles, and it was he who asked her to come into the great hall, and he who told her quietly that God be praised, Prince Edward had beaten the French, and King Jean was a prisoner of the English.

“And Adrien?”

“Laird MacLachlan emerged unscathed, my lady, noble warrior that he is.”

She was shaking, first with relief for Adrien, then with sorrow for the French, and for Jean. She fled from the great hall and hurried upstairs. Flushed and nauseous, she lay down, worried. What would happen now?”

Within a few days Daylin came to her room to tell her that she must prepare—they were going to travel.

“Where?”

“To the Channel.”

“And then?”

“And then I don’t know, my lady. King Jean is to be taken to London. Many more French nobles have been taken for ransom, and they will become prisoners in the tower as well.”

She felt very cold. Had Adrien disavowed her then? Was he seeking a divorce? Was she to be among the French prisoners in the tower?

She would have plagued Daylin for answers, except that she knew he had none. Monteine had questioned him ceaselessly, and he had angrily told her that he knew nothing. Monteine was nervous about what was to happen, and Danielle found herself becoming very afraid of the future.

The house of Valois was, for the time being, shattered, and so, if she had been frightened enough to try to run away, there would have been no one to help her. She hid her fear, involved herself in packing, and asked if she would be allowed to ride Star. She was. On the appointed day, she rode out without a murmur of protest, determined to keep her head high.

They rode to Calais, where they were met by one Sir Timothy Field, who was gracious in greeting and escorting her to spacious quarters in an old Norman castle. She was given one room, but it was huge, with a fireplace that stretched almost the length of one wall. A large canopied and draped bed sat on a dais in a far corner, while warming tapestries covered the narrow windows and numerous shelves of books lined the walls.

“I hope you will be comfortable,” Sir Timothy said. He was an old knight, but his shoulders were as broad as an ox’s and he was tall as an oak. “My family has lived here for generations, and we have done what we can for warmth and comfort.”

She smiled at him and flashed a glance to Daylin, who stood to his side.

“I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable. Am I to stay long?”

Sir Timothy looked at Daylin, arching a brow. He bowed to Danielle. “That, my lady, I cannot say. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll allow you to settle in.”

Daylin followed him out; Monteine nearly tripped over herself to follow Daylin, and Danielle was left alone.

She soon discovered that her door was bolted. She wasn’t a guest. She was a prisoner.

But she was tired, more tired than she could ever remember being. A manservant came to ask if she would like a bath, and she gladly accepted. The ride had been long and muddy. She had barely finished with the castle’s elaborate brass hip tub when dinner was brought to her. After eating, she was still too tired to bang on the door and demand an explanation, so she curled up on the bed and slept.

Hours later, she awakened. There were no lamps or candles lit, and the fire in the huge hearth had died down. She moved the drapes and stepped barefoot from the bed, then walked to the fire, shivering. She sat down on the rug before it, stretching her hands out to feel its warmth.

“So, Adrien!” she mused to the fire. “What am I doing here, locked in this room in Calais? What have you planned for me, you … bastard!” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. The future loomed bleak before her. Apparently, he couldn’t be bothered with her anymore himself. She was simply to be escorted from place to place. Left behind, while he went about the business of being one of King Edward’s great champions!

“You should burn in the fires of hell!” she whispered to the flames.

“How charming.”

She was glad she was sitting. Hearing Adrien speak, his voice deep ice, was so startling she would have fallen had she been standing. She spun around on her haunches to see that he was seated in one of the huge leather chairs before the fire.

“Adrien!”

“My love,” he acknowledged evenly. He sat comfortably back against the chair, studying her with eyes that glittered pure gold against the flames. He wore no armor, just tight breeches, shirt, tunic, and boots. His crest was embroidered in red upon the white tunic.

She rose, slowly and carefully, wanting the advantage of looking down at him. He didn’t move, but continued to watch her gravely. Then he smiled with casual indifference. “So, you’ve missed me?” he inquired.

She ignored the taunt, swallowing hard as her stomach knotted. “What am I doing here in Calais?” she asked him.

“You are Sir Timothy’s guest,” he said flatly.

“I’m a prisoner. My door is bolted.”

“Surely you can’t be surprised at that.”

“King Jean is a prisoner.”

“Aye, and we intend that he should stay that way.”

“What harm can I do—”

“I’m afraid to find out.”

She fell silent, looking down at the thick bear rug. She looked back at him, fighting for control.

“What is to happen to the king?”

“Edward? Why, his people will honor him for this great victory.”

“I meant Jean, and you know it.”

“He will come to England and be a prisoner in the tower.”

“Am I to be imprisoned in the tower as well?”

“No,” Adrien told her. “You needn’t worry so much about your King Jean. He will be a prisoner, yes, while the English await his ransom, but he will also be King Edward’s guest. I sincerely doubt that he will suffer in the least.”

“So … what is to happen to me?”

“You’re leaving France.”

She felt herself grow pale. “For London?”

“Scotland.”

Scotland. His homeland. Far, far away from everything, and everyone. A barren wasteland.

Where she could be left.

“What about my father’s English estate?” she murmured.

“I’ll see to it.”

“When do we leave?”

“In the morning. Early.” He rose, and as he towered over her, she saw that his hair was still damp. He smelled cleanly of a pine-scented soap. He hadn’t bathed here; she saw none of his belongings, and she felt a weakness in her knees as she thought that he had taken a room himself elsewhere. She was very tempted to throw herself at his feet and cry out to him that she had never meant to hurt him, that she was miserable, sorry for King Jean and France, and sorry for the two of them, because it seemed that their marriage had become a casualty of war.

She didn’t throw herself at his feet. Or cry out. She stood very still, unnerved by the way he studied her.

“You should get some sleep. I hear you haven’t been well,” he said.

She shook her head. “I’ve been fine.”

“Monteine has told Daylin that you’re frequently sick.”

“Monteine has no right discussing me with Daylin.”

“They are both concerned about you.”

“Then I am grateful for their concern, but I’m fine, and they shouldn’t be discussing me.” If he was leaving, she thought, he needed to leave. She didn’t feel sick at the moment, she felt like bursting into tears. Everything had gone so very wrong. He sounded like a distant stranger when he spoke. It was tormenting to wonder where he was going when he left her to her comfortable prison.

He shrugged, still watching her with his golden eyes. “At least you are here. You didn’t escape Aville.”

“I didn’t escape Aville because I had no desire to escape Aville. It is my home, and where I should be.”

“Ah, so if you had been at Aville, you’d not have gone to the Twisted Tree Tavern?” he inquired, his head inclined slightly.

She sighed with exasperation. “I made a vow to my mother to honor the king—”

“Aye, lady, I’m aware of your wretched vow. But don’t you think you fulfilled it long ago? Long enough so that you might now have kept a vow to me?”

She exhaled slowly, trying not to shake. “I made a promise to the priest that I’d save Jean’s life if I could. The knights were threatening to kill him, Adrien.”

“The priest was not a priest.”

“I still promised to Christ to save King Jean’s life if I could. That was all. And it is God’s truth that I never knew the priest was not a priest. Had you just left me home at Aville—”