My pulse racing, I leap to my feet and peer into the shadows in case they should be hiding any other attackers. A long moment passes, then another, and no one else emerges. I turn to Jacques then, who is still on his knees, eyes wide, staring at the fallen archer.
The marque is gone from his brow. “Go.” The fear still coursing through me makes my voice harsh. “Join Claude and the horses. The rest of us will be right behind you.”
He does not question me but nods once and then goes to do what I ordered. When he is out of harm’s way, I go to the winch house, where the clang of sword against sword is accompanied by the heavy, solid pounding of an ax as it chops.
When I reach the doorway, I see that all four guards lie dead, and Samson and Bruno have almost hacked the wooden winch from its mooring. It is not enough to simply lower the chain—we must ensure it cannot be raised again before the British get through.
I lean against the rough stones and catch my breath, keeping my gaze focused carefully on the shadows outside for any more of the French.
There is a great splintering as the winch finally gives way. Like a huge metal serpent, the giant chain slithers and writhes from the broken winch, each enormous link clanging like an immense bell as it hits the stone floor. Then there is a faint rumble as the chain slithers across the rocky shore and sinks to the bottom of the bay.
We all stare after it for a moment, the silence ringing in our ears. “It is done,” de Brosse says. “Let’s return to town and see if they need our help.”
He pokes his head outside the winch house, then motions the rest of us to follow. Before he has taken two steps there is a hissing sound, followed by a thud, then de Brosse and the soldier behind him are flat on their backs with crossbow bolts rammed through their necks.
“Down,” I shout to the others as I flatten myself on the floor. I belly-crawl to the door and peer out, but see no one. “Samson, give me your cloak,” I order. Wordlessly, he pulls it from his shoulders and hands it to me. I wad it up, then toss it outside.
Before it lands there is another hiss of a crossbow bolt. “They are coming from across the river,” I tell the others. “And we are caught like sitting ducks.” We must find a way to shield ourselves long enough that we can reach the path behind the chain house. Once we do, we will be out of their direct line of sight, but until then we are ripe for the plucking.
I call to two of de Brosse’s men. “Can you fire your arrows to the far side of the river?”
One of them shrugs. “We can, but I don’t know how accurate they’ll be.”
“That’s all right, I am only looking to slow their arrows down somewhat. Bruno and Samson?” The two boys step forward, their faces serious, all traces of adventure or games erased by the death of their comrades. “I want you to get down on your bellies and crawl over to the fallen French, just at the far side of the chain house. When you reach them”—this next part is hard to say, for all that they are our enemies—“I want you to lift the bodies and use them as shields against the arrows. Bring them back here and then we can all move together behind their screen.”
It is a foul thing to do, to use a man’s body thusly, and I will not dishonor our own fallen in such a way.
Bruno’s eyes widen so that the white shows, and he makes the sign to ward off evil. I reach out and grab his thick, meaty arms and give him a shake. “I do not enjoy this one bit more than you, but I have five of us I wish to get out alive. Now, can you do it or must I ask someone else?”
When he finally nods, I relax my grip. “We can all say extra prayers for them later, if you’d like.” I gesture to the two soldiers to take position. When their crossbows are aimed at the far side, I motion to the other two boys to hit the dirt. As they do, de Brosse’s men begin firing their bolts to the far bank.
We all hold our breath as inch by painful inch Samson and Bruno make their way to the dead Frenchmen. Every moment brings the risk of an arrow strike, and I must keep reminding myself that neither of them was marqued. It does not make the wait any easier.
At last they return with their grisly burden. The rest of us step out into the night and use our enemies to shield our flight to safety. De Brosse’s remaining soldiers drag him and the other fallen with them as we go.
We leave the bodies at the crest of the hillock where Claude and Jacques wait with our horses. It does not matter that we’ve been spotted—the chain cannot be raised again, not until a new winch is built. But it is possible that the Frenchmen may head for town, and we do not want them to raise a hue and cry before Beast and the charbonnerie have completed their task. The element of surprise is one of the few things we have going for us.
Once we are all mounted, I tell the greenlings to head back to camp with our dead and order de Brosse’s remaining soldiers to come with me. If they think it strange to take orders from a woman, they wisely keep it to themselves. We ride hard to reach Morlaix before word of our nighttime activity does.
Chapter Forty-One
THE TOWN IS QUIET, AND the city gates are still closed. There is no sign of increased sentries, nor is there any cry of warning. I rein back hard before we ride into sight of the watchmen. “You stay here and intercept any archers from the far bank who think to warn the city,” I tell the two remaining men-at-arms. “With luck, you at least injured a few with your blind shots.” Hoping they will heed my orders, I leave my horse with them and make my way to the abbey window that was to be left open for us.
The night is quiet, not a whisper of activity or hint of warning. I cannot help but worry that something has gone wrong, that their plans fell through or that they were caught before they could reach the barracks.
At last I see a dark smudge of smoke rising up in a column over the city, and my fists unclench. The column grows thicker and is followed by a faint orange glow. The fires are set. I close my eyes and imagine the thick, choking smoke moving across the sleeping French, filling their mouths and noses as they sleep, the soldiers coming away coughing and choking, struggling for breath. “Fire!” some of them will yell, waking the rest, and a mad, chaotic scramble will ensue as they all try to break free from the hall.
But only one window will be open. All the others blocked or filled with churning smoke so the French will have no choice but to hurl themselves out the one escape route, a long drop to the hard ground below, outside the protection of the city walls.
I draw near the abbey. The abbess of Saint Mer had promised there would be a window left open for us, and there is. I quickly crawl through it and find no one about, so I hurry through the empty corridors to the city beyond.
Outside, the streets seems almost deserted, with only a few pockets of fighting here and there. I stop long enough to pick up a handful of bolts from a fallen soldier. Feeling better thus armed, I continue on my way.
As I draw near the soldiers’ garrison, I hear the sounds of fighting. Hugging the wall, I creep forward. At first, I see no one, but as my eyes adjust to the darkened street, I see a knot of charbonnerie pinned behind an overturned wagon by three French archers.
Luckily, I have five bolts. But I will need to be quick and well hidden. I slip silently from the wall to kneel behind a water pump near the barracks building. I stick two bolts in my mouth, then load a third, take aim, and shoot. The man gives a surprised cry as he is struck. His two companions look around, but they were so focused on the charbonnerie they did not see where the arrow came from. I quickly load the second bolt and fire it off.
The second archer is down, but before I can load the third bolt, the last remaining archer turns and fires in my direction. I hear a clang as the bolt strikes the metal handle of the pump. Now—while he is reloading—I take my shot.