Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(95)

Luckily, it is near the end of the Frenchmen’s watch, and they are tired. Perhaps even a little complacent as they lean against the trees, talking quietly among themselves. I shut my ears to their voices. Hearing them talk of their wine or dicing or women will not make them any easier to kill. I lean into Jacques. “You take the one on the left, I’ll take the two on the right.”

He nods, his whole body atremble, and begins creeping toward his target. I pull a crossbow bolt from the frame and stick it in my belt for quick access, then draw my knife.

As silent as one of the shadows, I approach my target. He is listening intently to some story the other fellow is telling him. Closer and closer I creep. When the man throws his head back to laugh, I step silently forward, reach around with my knife, and slit his throat. The soul bursts from him nearly as quickly as the blood that hits the other man in a wide arcing spray. While the second man is still staring in stunned amazement at his dying friend, I slap the bolt in place, lift the crossbow, and fire.

The bolt takes him between the eyes, and he falls backwards. There is a scuffling sound behind me, and I turn to find Jacques and his archer clasped together in some sort of lethal dance. Retrieving my knife, I hurry forward. The archer’s hands are around Jacques’s neck, and the boy’s eyes bulge in fear. Bette’s and Guion’s faces float before me. I brush the vision away, take a step forward, and stab the archer in the back, then force the knife up as high as it will go to hurry his passing.

As his hands fall away from Jacques’s neck and he slumps to the ground, his soul rises from his body like mist from a swamp. I ignore it and focus on Jacques, who is breathing hard and rubbing his neck. Our eyes meet over the dead man, and then Jacques turns and retches into the bushes.

To give him some privacy, I kneel down and clean my knife on the tabard of the Frenchman. Jacques may be embarrassed, but at least he is still alive.

There is a shout from the stone house and then the clang of metal as de Brosse and his men fall upon the guards. “Come,” I tell Jacques. “We must—” My words are cut off by a cry of rage as a man—a fourth archer—emerges from the trees. He pauses long enough to unsling his bow from his shoulder, nock an arrow to the string, and aim directly at Jacques.

Luckily, he does not see me squatting in the shadows beside his dead friend. I shove to my feet and use the upward momentum to launch myself at Jacques’s attacker.

I catch him completely unawares, the impact of my body knocking his bow from his fingers and his legs out from under him. As we hit the ground, I lever up, adjust my knife, sweep it across his throat, then roll out of the way of the mess that follows.

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.”