MAKING NEW PLANS
The ride to the monastery took more time than Francis would have liked. Weary and tense following the fight, skin slaked in sweat, he took some time to rest in the woodlands, letting both himself and his horse regain their equilibrium.
“I can't believe I did that.”
He sighed. He had engaged the swordsman of his neighbor's guard – two of them, no less. Two, against one, in the storm's light. He was lucky he wasn't dead.
He chuckled, shaking his head. His blood still fizzed from the fight, his heart light, his head drifting. It was not just the fight that had made him feel so amazing.
It was the sight of a head of pale blonde hair.
He couldn't be sure it was her. He couldn't be sure he'd seen it. Could have been a trick of the light, he reasoned, quelling the wild joy that leaped and raced and skittered in his blood vessels.
All the same, there was the merest thread of possibility that he was right.
It was her.
Francis felt his cheeks lift in a grin. He was wet, cold, and elated. He was exhausted, weary, and drained. He still had a good half hour's ride back to the monastery.
“At least it'll be dry when we get there.”
The storm had lifted, giving way, as it always did, to a torrential downpour. Francis was soaked to the skin, shivering and grinning like a wild man.
Was it his mind playing tricks on him, or had the pale-haired figure stared at him?
He chuckled. “Stop being fanciful, Francis.”
Why would she have done that? He could barely see her – only a tall, pale shape in the fitful darkness – and so the likelihood of her recognizing him across the gap of thirty-five paces or so was minimal.
All the same, it has seemed as if the tall, pale-haired figure had watched him. The sight of her had ignited him and made him do his best against the horsemen who came at him as his enemy.
“I should stop thinking about that...I'm just being daft.”
Francis chuckled to himself, feeling his cold, damp cheeks lift in a lopsided smile. He was soaked through, wet and water-logged. Yet he was happy.
“Come on, Nightshade,” he whispered to the horse. He had borrowed one of the monks' three horses, used mainly for messengers. The poor creatures were named for different herbs in the monastery garden: Nightshade, Betony and Aconite. “We need to reach home soon, before we freeze.”
He couldn't help the elation that surged through his chest. All the way back he was smiling. It must be Claudine! Who else could it be? Even having to dismount and walk through the glutinous mud to spare his horse's muscles was insufficient to dampen his joy.
Claudine was here. At the manor not twenty miles from his own home! Who else of that description would be in the coach alone? On the road north? With an armed presence to protect them? The thought made the idea of being stuck here in the countryside for the next few months bearable.
Francis couldn't stop smiling.
When he reached the monastery, he was greeted by Brother Luc. The man's eyes went wide with horror. Evidently seeing the son of the count, boots thick with mud, red hair plastered to his head, was too much for the poor fellow.
“My lord!” he stammered. “You're...come inside, before you catch your death of chill!”
Francis let himself be led inside. He took a seat by the fire. He was soon shivering uncontrollably as his blood started to flow faster again, his body warming up. The monks fetched him a bowl of broth and left him to thaw out. Speech beyond the necessary was forbidden after Compline.
While he sat there, Francis found himself making his plan.
He had to go to Evreux as soon as he could. Had to find out more. Perhaps he could disguise himself, infiltrate the manor...
He sighed.
Conn, you fool. How could you? You are acquainted with the count.
It wasn't like he looked like anyone else, either. How many tall, strong, red-haired and green-eyed servants could the count possibly have?
None. He knew that answer already.
There was no hope for it. He needed a disguise.
Or help. He also needed it soon.
Early the next morning he left the monastery. The ride back was faster than the ride there had been, and he reached his home in high spirits.
“Francis!” His mother exclaimed as he appeared. “Oh! There you are. You must have got soaked through in this storm. I was worried...”
Francis kissed her scented cheek fondly. “Oh, Mother! I took shelter at the abbey near Bois. You shouldn't have been worried. I am hard to kill.”
His mother chuckled, but her eyes were serious. “I would that were so. But no one is, my son.”
Francis had to nod at the truth of that. People could be brought to death distressingly easily. The thought made him all the more concerned for Claudine.
Later, he sought out his father. He found him in the study with Yves.
“Son! There you are. You found shelter from the storm?”
Francis grinned. “Or I'd be in a sorry state, Father.”
Yves looked up from the book. “You are in a...”
“Yves?” His father interrupted the old steward's comment. “Don't you have accounts to add up?”
Yves grinned. “I'm just going, my lord.”
The two of them waited while he went out. He was still chuckling to himself.
“You wanted to ask me something, my son?”
“Yes. Father, I may need to be away for a few days.”
His father raised a brow. “Very well, Son. I'm staying here until the jousting season. By all means, take time away. Do you need to go far?”
Francis grinned. He loved his father's ready acceptance. “No, Father.”
“Well, then. If you need an escort, do tell me. I'm sure we could spare two of the household guard.”
Francis shook his head. “I'm not going that far, Father.”
“Well, then. By all means.”
Francis grinned. “Thanks, Father. Is there anything I can do to help with the accounts?”
His father made a face. “I don't think so, Son. As you know, I wouldn't take that job from Yves if my life depended on it.”
Francis laughed. “Exactly.”
He headed out.
Upstairs, he packed a saddle pack and then headed to the stables. He found that his heart was racing and his mind couldn't keep away from the thought of that sweet face and beautiful body. He imagined what Claudine would look like naked – those sweet curves uncovered before him, lying on the bed. Her full breasts, with what he imagined to be peach-orange nipples, and rounded shoulders.
Whist! He chided himself with a big smile. Stop it.
He took his horse from the stables and rode.
When he had set out, he had no plan in mind. However, he started to concoct one on the way. Enter the castle at Evreux disguised as a beggar. Then he would try and find out from the servants there if the Lady Claudine was in residence. From there, he would find a way to get a message to Bernadette. She had helped him once and he was fairly sure that she would help him again.
“Right. Now I need to find a disguise.”
The plan took shape as he headed past the abbey. He stopped, catching sight of Brother Raymond in the stables. A friendly, smiling monk, he had always been willing to participate in games with Francis when he was young. He knew he'd help him out now if he asked.
“Brother! Greetings,” he called. “A fine day.”
“Lord Francis!” the monk grinned. “Indeed it is. What brings you to us? Stopping to refresh yourselves?” he asked, taking the bridle of Francis' horse and leading him into the stable.
“Uh, no, Brother,” Francis said thoughtfully. “I didn't mean to stay long. I wanted to ask your aid.”
“Oh?” the monk's eyebrows lowered and he leaned forward conspiratorially. “With what?”
“Well,” Francis paused. “It's like this. I need to make my way somewhere in disguise. Could you mayhap lend me the habit of a monk?”
Brother Raymond's eyebrows went up. “Impersonating a monk is no light matter, young man,” he said. “You would have to have a very sound reason to do so.”
Francis felt embarrassed. However, he decided it would be best simply to come out with it. “I need it for a matter to do with a girl. I have to see her.”
Brother Raymond looked shocked a moment. Then he chuckled. “Lord Francis! I must admit I admire your cheek. Just coming out with a thing like that. Well! I can't say I'm averse to such matters...I had another life before I was a monk. Come on.” He led him round the side of the abbey, and then paused. “Now, then. I trust you'll use this in pursuit of love, not mischief. Here we are,” he added, handing Francis a bundle of coarse brown cloth.
Francis stared. This was his ticket into the castle. It was also in his grasp. Quite literally. He couldn't quite believe it. “Thanks, Brother.”
The monk went red. He chuckled. “Not at all. Now, off you go. May the Lord be with you. I'm quite sure you'll need Him to keep you from temptation.”
Francis laughed. “I hope so, Father.”
Brother Raymond grinned and waved him on his way.
It took half an hour until Francis was in sight of Evreux. When he reached it, he started to feel his palms sweat with anticipation and nerves.
The anticipation outweighed the nerves, however. He rode up and then dismounted, feeling stupid. He'd come out on his battle charger. Why? No humble monk would own a horse so fine!
They'll take one look at the horse I'm leading and know I'm no monk. Francis! How can you be such a fool?
He thought rapidly. By the time he'd reached the gate, he was ready.
“Who goes there?” the sentry challenged him. He saw the man's eyes narrow and knew he was thinking exactly what he himself would think. This was a brigand who'd stolen a monk's robe from a wandering hermit and then stolen a knight's horse.
“Brother Franc, sir,” he said quickly. “I'm here with Lord Francis' horse. He threw a shoe and would brook no argument that we should have it shod.”
The man frowned. “What's wrong with your own smith, Brother? Why come to Evreux?”
Francis looked at the ground, trying to maintain a humble posture. “He's off duty, sir. Wrist's plaguing him sore. The storms make it worse. Always worsen the ache in the bones, so they do.”
The sentry looked skeptical, but he grunted and jerked his head. “Right then. In you go.”
Francis let out what he hoped was not an audible sigh. He was so relieved! They were in.
He followed the horde of people milling about at the gate. They were going to the marketplace. When he reached the market, Francis looked around. It was a small village, Evreux. The houses were neat and thatched, the fronts whitewashed and the windows picked out in black. He saw bakers and leather-workers, carvers and weavers and fruit-sellers setting out their wares. He also saw guardsmen from the castle, there to keep an eye on things.
“Hey, monk!” one of them said. “You selling that horse?”
“N...no!” Francis said, alarmed. “I'm not. It belongs to Lord Francis!”
“Lord Francis?” the guardsman frowned. “He from these parts, hey?”
“At Annecy,” Francis said quickly. He had a hood covering his hair, fortunately, or he was fairly sure he'd stand out as Francis for anyone who knew anything about his family. Fortunately, the guardsmen here in Evreux were unknowing.
“Ah. Well, I suppose you can't sell him, then,” the guardsman said amiably. “On your way, then. Farrier's over there. On the street round the corner.”
Francis looked in the direction where they pointed and headed to it with resignation. If he was here pretending to be Brother Franc, he might as well take his horse to the farrier. Or people would get suspicious. The man might have information.
“Hey!” a big man called as he approached the place. “You've a fine horse, Brother!”
Francis sighed. This was getting wearisome. “Yes, Master Smith. It's Lord Francis' horse.”
“Ah. He some fancy fellow, eh?” the smith grinned, revealing big peg-like teeth. He was a vast man, tall with a broad chest and rippling shoulders that made even Francis – who was vastly built himself – feel like he faced competition.
“He's the son of the count of Annecy,” he explained.
“Ah. Well, bring the horse in then. Let's get him shod to the satisfaction of some spoiled nobleman.”
Francis bridled a little at that, but he followed the man quickly into the stall. He waited as the man checked Dusk Shadow's shoes with a grunt. Francis felt his heart sinking, as he knew perfectly well they had been replaced last week and were perfectly good for a month at least. Then he suddenly had another good idea.
“What's troublesome?” he asked, seeing the blacksmith frown.
“There be nothing wrong with these shoes,” the smith said, absolutely bewildered. “You quite sure he sent you here to have his horse shod, hey?”
Francis nodded. “I am. But this wouldn't be the first time he'd done something like this. He's a bit odd, Lord Francis. Touched.” He tapped his brain suggestively.
“Ah.” The smith chuckled. “That explains it then. Mad, these noblemen sometimes. Comes from the air.”
“From the air?” Francis was genuinely interested now. This was something he'd never heard anyone say before.
“Aye. Those castles, so high up, see? They spend too much time breathing high air. It's not good for you. Just ask anyone. You go up in the mountains, you can't breathe so good. Too much being high in the air's bad for you.”
Francis was surprised. “Well! That'd explain it,” he said with a grin. “Fancy that! Turns the mind, hey?”
“Like vinegar does cream, Brother. Vinegar in cream.”
“Yours are also mad?” he asked, raising a brow in the direction of the castle.
The blacksmith laughed. “Sure they are, sir. That feller's mad, or I reckon.”
“Feller?”
“Him. The count of Corron. He and the duke both. They both come here in the summer – some sort of residence of theirs. Mostly we just have old Brissot, the overseer. But when they's here...the fuss!” he spat.
Francis waited a moment, interested to see if the fellow would say more. He didn't, though, so he prompted him.
“Mad. How?”
“Oh, just 'cos of the fussing. Nothing's ever right for them. Fancy being like that, eh? Mad.”
Francis nodded. He wasn't sure he was going to learn anything more so he thanked the smith and headed out.
“What'll you tell this fellow, eh? When you return?” the smith shouted out after him. He was grinning wryly and Francis felt his annoyance replaced with a grudging amusement.
“I'll tell him you repaired the shoes,” Francis grinned. “How'd he ever know? Nothing wrong with them, yes? I'll tell him you replaced them.”
“Ha!” the smith nodded. “A fine response. You've got a quick head on your shoulders. Brother. A fine one.”
Francis smiled. “Thank you, Son. Peace be with you.”
“And you, Brother. Good luck with the crazies.”
Francis headed out leading his horse. By the time he was heading towards the castle, he was still feeling more than a little annoyed. Madmen, indeed! The air in the castles made one mad! He felt quite affronted.
At least he seemed to think I had a good enough head on my shoulders as a monk. But as a nobleman, I'm mad, or so he thinks. Strange. He had, however, learned that the duke came here. As well as his brother, the count. Also that they had complaints.
He was still pondering his madness when he reached the castle gate. There, he stopped.
He was looking straight into a face. It was a face he recognized.
It was the count of Corron.
Tall and fair-haired, his hand on the bridle of his horse, the count was at the entrance to the castle courtyard. He had been bent down looking at something being presented to him by some local officer. When he looked up, his eyes went straight to Francis.
At that point, the count blinked. His eyes focused. He was looking straight at Francis. He saw him. He seemed to recognize him too. A strange look passed across his face. Then he turned to his entourage and rode briskly away.
Francis was left standing at his horse's head, his breath tight and his whole mind in turmoil. He reached up and touched the hood of the habit. It had fallen back. His hair was showing. It must have been no more than a glimpse of it, but it was late afternoon and it must have shone like a beacon in the sunlight. There was no doubt about it. The count knew he was here.
For some reason that filled Francis with foreboding.