Chapter Thirteen
The
Unveiling
Lara
“Sweet Mary, mother of
Jesus, that was close.” Lara hunched over the pot she was scrubbing
in the river, her heart still racing. “Too blessed close.” She
looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see Sophie there ready
to skin her alive for the scrape she’d just gotten out of. But of
course, Sophie wasn’t there, only the glow of campfires through the
trees.
She rinsed the pot and held up the
ladle, turning it this way and that as she admired Hamm’s weapon of
choice. She dropped the ladle into the pot and started walking back
to camp, her free hand on the hilt of Sophie’s old knife in its
plain leather sheath, Lara’s weapon of choice. Plutarch, the cook
whose wagon she shared, kept a short-bladed scramasax sheathed at
his waist and a longsword in the wagon. He’d been a soldier in King
Pepin’s army who was now too old to fight and too used to the road
to quit it, so he’d become a cook for hire, and wasn’t bad at
it.
He was a kindhearted man of late
middle years who liked telling her, telling Hamm, tales of his
travels as both soldier and cook. Lara enjoyed his tales and his
company, company she should be seeking before the night got any
darker. She made her way to the tree line when the hairs on the
back of her neck stood on end. She pursed her lips, ready to
whistle for Wolf, but Wolf wasn’t there; he was at home with Sophie
seventy leagues away. Lara pulled at the bindings around her chest
and gritted her teeth, looking forward to being able to loosen them
before bedding down, her nightly release from the chaffing and the
constant strain of being Hamm. Though she’d considered trying to
sneak away and make her way home too many times to count, it was
too late to turn back now. If she tried to leave the march, they’d
hunt her down as a deserter. All she could do was stay as Hamm and
complete the march while staying out of Lothair’s way and the
captain’s notice.
She stepped deeper into the trees, but
a twig snapped up ahead of her.
Tightening her grip on the pot, she
slid her knife from its plain leather sheath at her waist belt.
“Who’s there?” She kept her voice low and guttural. “Show
yourself.”
A man stepped out from behind a tree
not ten paces from her, and Lara sucked her breath in as the
captain stood in the dusky light.
“The mouse has ears.” He
nodded at the knife and pot she clutched. “As well as claws.” He
closed the distance between them in several long strides as Lara
lowered her chin. “It’s good to see you’re on your guard, Hamm.
Though I wouldn’t be stepping away alone at night anymore, if I
were you. A bully always strikes when the odds are in his favor,
and curs always attack in packs.”
Lara relaxed her grip on the pot and
sheathed her knife. “Thank you, Captain.” She tugged her cap down
lower. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Good,” he said.
“Do.”
Lara started to nod, then grunted her
assent instead. She walked away from the captain, leading with her
shoulders rather than her hips and glanced back when she hit the
open ground of the camp. The captain followed her and continued to
until she made the safety of the wagon, when he strolled off in the
direction of his men’s tents and bedrolls.
She set the pot and ladle in their
place and was double-checking that everything else was put away for
the night when Phillipe and Anglbert, then Dardinel, Tree, and the
captain, all armed to the teeth and carrying their bedrolls, spread
them out by the fire next to the wagon.
“You’ve found yourself a
protector.” Plutarch lay down on his bedroll with a tired
groan.
“Saint Talon of the
Strays.” Lara shook her bedroll out and laid it next to Plutarch’s,
then sat cross-legged on it and peered over at the captain and his
men on the other side of the fire. They spoke low or stared out
into the night. In the captain’s case, he whittled on a piece of
wood.
“Be glad of them,”
Plutarch told her. “I know Ranulf’s father of old. If he’s anything
like Nithard, he’s not to be trusted.”
Lara chuffed. “Ranulf is just like his
father. You say you know the count of old?”
“Aye, before he was count.
I was a man-at-arms for his brother, Count Reginald. I served at
Oloron Manor when the Lady Eileen and her daughter, Isabeau, still
reigned.” He took in a deep breath, and Lara knew a tale was about
to be told. “Ahh, Hamm, me boy,” he said. “You’re too young to’ve
been blessed with a sight of the fair lady Isabeau. In grace and
heart and beauty she ruled over every man in the whole of the
valley but loved only one. Harald.”
“Harald?” Lara scooted
closer to Plutarch. She’d heard the tale of the lady Isabeau since
childhood, everyone in the valley had, but she’d never heard the
name of the man Isabeau had loved and scorned Nithard
for.
“Harald was a man-at-arms
of her father’s as well,” Plutarch said. “He was a good friend and
a good man to have at your back in a battle. They were secretly
married, Harald and Isabeau, right before we went off to war. Only
the abbot, myself, our captain, and his lady knew of their
marriage.”
Lara scratched at her bindings. “Why
was their marriage kept secret?”
“They were to announce
their marriage when we returned from the war, but when we came back
bearing the sad news of our captain’s death in battle, it was to
find them all gone. My captain’s lady to visit family somewhere in
the east, the count and his wife dead and buried, and Lady Isabeau
vanished. They said in her grief at losing her parents, she walked
off into the woods, never to be seen again in this world.” He gave
a heavy sigh and stared beyond Lara into the past. “They were an
uncommonly handsome couple, her so slim and graceful with soft
blonde curls and eyes like a cat’s, and him a man built straight up
and down with hair the color of fire.”
“What did Harald do when
he found his lady gone?”
“He searched for her for a
year straight.” Plutarch sounded tired and worn out from the day,
from the years past. “Then he went and got himself killed in
battle.” He gave a sad smile and pulled his blanket over his
shoulders, though it was warm as day. “I was there. I held him as
he took his last breath speaking her name.”
***
Talon
They made camp on the Spanish side of
Roncesvalles Pass as the sun began to set. The call came as dusk
turned to dark: “Riders in.”
Brys and Oswald, the men Talon had
sent ahead to scout for the returning army, rode into camp with two
other riders wearing the king’s colors.
As he dismounted, Oswald said,
“Charles is two days’ ride from here, three at most.” He eyed
Talon’s empty bowl.
“Did he give you a message
for me?” Talon asked.
Oswald nodded and rubbed his backside
as the others dismounted. “He said to tell you you were wrong, and
he expects a cow to be roasting when you meet up.”
Talon chuffed. “He’ll eat half the cow
while feeding me a whole lot of I told you so.” He greeted the
king’s men with a handshake. “Bertrand, Guy, your timing is
perfect. I was on my way to the cook’s wagon.”
Bertrand grinned with every mouthful
of savory rabbit stew, returning to the wagon for seconds and
thirds, and Talon worried that Tree would turn out to be right,
that once Charles learned of Hamm’s talent at cooking, he would
steal the lad for himself. Of course, it would be a great
opportunity for the lad if he became a king’s cook. Talon would
simply have to work supper invites from Charles on future
marches.
After they’d eaten, Plutarch tapped a
cask of ale as the men settled themselves between the fire and the
wagon, their post for the past three nights.
“What’s that you’re
whittling, Captain?” Anglbert eyed the piece of antler Talon
carved.
“It’s meant to be an
elephant.”
“Is it meant for anyone in
particular?” Anglbert nudged Phillipe with his elbow. “A gift for a
beautiful wildcat perhaps? A bribe to help soothe her anger at
being left out?”
“Left out of getting
herself killed or worse,” Talon grumbled, in no mood for their
humor. He didn’t need a reminder of what he’d left behind. He knew
damn well what he’d rode away from and was fairly certain she
finally knew as well. He’d thought her sleeping when he’d called
her his wildcat, among other things, but now he wasn’t so sure.
She’d never woken again after talking to him in her sleep before,
which made him think she hadn’t really been asleep. Her last words
to him, “Godspeed, Talon,” were seared into his memory, along with
the sight of her thin nightshift draped over her womanly curves and
the feel of her naked body pressed against his.
Hairs raised on the back of his neck,
and he turned to find Hamm listening to their conversation, the
lad’s gaze dropping to his feet as soon as he was caught looking.
Hamm quickly melted back into the pots and pans as Ranulf, Lothair,
and three of the count’s men made their way over.
“What news, Guiscard?”
Ranulf addressed Talon, though he sized up the newcomers. “I was
told riders have come in.”
“Bertrand, Guy.” Talon
nodded to the king’s men and then to Ranulf. “Ranulf
Midered.”
“Son of Nithard Midered,
Count of Oloron,” Ranulf told the two unimpressed riders. “I am his
man on this march.” Bertrand nodded acknowledgment, saying nothing,
and Guy did the same. “Well, man,” Ranulf demanded of Bertrand.
“What news from the king?”
Bertrand took one long look at Ranulf
and shook his head. Talon had fought side by side with the man in
three campaigns and as many brawls, and though he could’ve guessed
the gist of what Bertrand’s answer would be, he still grinned as
Bertrand gave it.
“The king’s news was for
Captain Guiscard. Seeing as how I’ve told him already, my job’s
done. You want the king’s news, you get it from the
captain.”
“Well, Guiscard?” Ranulf
huffed. “What news?”
Talon should’ve simply told Ranulf the
king’s message and let the cur slink off, but ten days’ marching
hadn’t improved his temper, and he’d had it with the whelp. He
stood, placing no hint of emotion in his manner or voice. “Say
please.”
Every man within hearing distance fell
silent. Talon was certain they looked like two dogs circling,