“Take all of it off,” she commanded in French. “You will leave this hole as Gaultier.”
The ruse was enough to have Bartholomew on his feet, filled with new purpose. He stripped off his tabard and chemise. “But we do not resemble each other that much,” he argued quietly.
“You will when we are done,” replied the maid. “It has been commanded at the lady’s request that the prisoner will be hooded for his execution so none will know until it is too late.” She took a steadying breath as she offered him Gaultier’s tabard. “And Agnes will be avenged.”
Bartholomew was astonished. Gaultier would die instead of him? He did find the notion of Royce executing his own Captain of the Guard most fitting. He would not weep for this man who had so abused Anna and killed Agnes.
In moments, he and Gaultier wore each other’s garb. They were of a size, fortunately, for the maid insisted that even their boots be exchanged.
She then seized his chin, turning it toward the light. “His left eye must be pummeled so that it swells like yours. He needs a bruise on his jaw, just so. I would do it myself if I had the strength,” she added and Bartholomew did not doubt it. She lifted his hands. “Break these two fingers, as well.”
“But he did not break mine, not quite.”
“He tried and it will be remembered.” The maid was grim. “They document injuries in this place.”
“He may protest,” Bartholomew noted. “Or cry out for aid.”
She chuckled. “He will sleep at least two days, thanks to the potion. It was made for two men, but he drank nigh all of it.” Indeed, his tabard smelled of spilled wine. He must have fallen under the influence of the potion when there was still a measure in the cup. His revival in the dungeon must have been his body’s last protest against the brew.
Bartholomew nodded, well content with this plan. Indeed, he found it most satisfying to ensure that Gaultier’s injuries matched his own.
It was not long before he had climbed the rope ladder to the keep. Lady Marie met him there, her eyes glowing. “So you are the true son of Nicholas!” she breathed. “And rightful Baron of Haynesdale!”
Bartholomew glanced left and right, not wanting to discuss the matter when another might overhear them.
Marie kissed his cheek with undisguised satisfaction. “The future is ours, sir. I will ensure it.”
Anna’s plan came to rights, but Bartholomew felt little joy in the achievement. A future bound to Marie was not one he yearned to have, but it seemed to be the sole way he might survive. He recalled Gaston’s diplomacy and said little, making no promises.
This did not seem to trouble Marie.
He was soon in Gaultier’s own bed, with that man’s cloak wrapped around him and his hood pulled over his face. He rolled to face the wall, far more comfortable than he had been in the dungeon. Marie kissed his cheek again, her anticipation clear, and he thanked her gruffly for her aid.
The women swept away, the patter of their footfalls fading quickly. The night watch called the hour, and the sentry’s voice echoed through the hall.
Otherwise, all was silent.
Yet Bartholomew was wide awake. The tide was changing and he dared not sleep until all was won.
*
“We have to save him,” Anna insisted yet again. She was vexed beyond belief, fearful of Bartholomew’s condition and unhappy that there was evidently naught she could do to help him.
“And how do you suggest the feat be accomplished?” Duncan asked one more time, his impatience clear. He reiterated his objections, and it helped little that Anna agreed with all of them. “There is no way into the keep save through the gate. The sewer can only be used for an escape. And no living soul will pass through that gate unseen.” He shook his head. “Even with two knights dead and three squires, the keep is yet well armed.”
Those in the forest had gathered to confer as soon as Duncan and Anna had returned. They had remained awake all of the night, debating their course. The young boys had immediately gone to the old village to ensure that both Herve and Regan were uninjured, and had helped them to collect the herd of goats again before night had fallen.
“Royce baits a trap for us,” Edgar says with surety and not for the first time. “He anticipates that we will try to save the true son and will kill us all for it.”
“He will kill Bartholomew first,” added Stewart grimly. “Mark my words.”
“Unless he kills him slowly,” added Edgar, which did little to improve the mood of the company.
Anna swore softly and paced. The snow had melted away in her established path, but still she walked restlessly. “Theremustbe a way. Royce will send the taxes to the king soon, by the word of the guards, and we can ensure that wagon never leaves the forest.” She turned to face the others, flinging out her hands. “That coin could pay the escheat!”
“But Bartholomew will be dead by then, unless we contrive a way to save him,” Lucan said, his manner sober.
“He might escape!” Percy suggested.
