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Chapter One
Rich Gold in Stick Hands
Burgundian—and English-held France, Upper Loire Valley
The Feast of St. Mary Magdalene,
July, Year of Grace 1425
Every step Gilles de Rais took toward the shadow of the Burgundians' castle wall required superhuman effort, the deeds of legend. Over his head hung the portcullis. In an instant—under different circumstances—the iron teeth would drop with a roar, trapping him on the glory side of the gate—isolated from all his friends outside.
The great maw did not clamp shut. Gilles pressed on unimpeded by the smoke and dust—of a quiet summer's day in La Charité-sur-Loire.
No matter that the attack was only in his mind—as yet. Captain Perrinet Grassart was still Burgundian, the enemy, gone over to the side of the invading English. His guards were helmeted and edgy. And the single man following Gilles de Rais was just an unarmed groom, the noble steed a mule slung with strong boxes.
Gilles de Rais fully intended to come to La Charité-sur-Loire again someday and receive a welcome more to his liking: boiling oil and arrows. Arrows and hot oil were more honest than the false smiles and chivalry he would need today to free his cousin held for ransom in this place. His cousin whom he'd never seen and knew little about. Arrows and hot oil, he knew how to handle them. They were more honest, even, than the chests of gold coin on the donkey behind him.
He memorized every detail of the castle as he passed with an eye to that future day: the discipline of Grassart's men, their arms. This second gate and portcullis could trap the unwary attacker in its narrow, steep-sided space. It offered no outlet but arrow slits and murder holes so high up, his neck crinked to see them. The defender would rain death down upon the attacker who foolishly let himself get caught here.
Once past that snare, the way turned sharply left, exposing the attacker's sword arm to more arrows, more murder holes. The castle was not new—perhaps two hundred years old. Nonetheless, the best of every defense of the time had been employed. It gave no consideration to gunpowder, but new construction, widening the base outside and here within, said such consideration was under way.
La Charité-sur-Loire would not be easy to take, but Gilles de Rais would take it. After the humilities of this day—and they were only just beginning—he would enjoy taking it.
The expressionless helmets of Grassart's men nodded him across the yard: About twenty horses stabled. Thatched roofs of outbuildings to the south and west, easily fired. A well—that would make the siege much more difficult. Perhaps there was a source somewhere outside the walls that could be poisoned? All it would take would be one good, ripe horse carcass.
A knowledge of a castle's underground works was of little use in a siege, even to the sappers; they rarely got so far. Still, it was a barred window set deep in the ground that next caught the lord of Rais' eye.
A pair of thin, pale sticks waved at him through the bars. There was a sound like the weak mewing of kittens. Gilles took a step or two closer, off his straight line toward the hall, to investigate.
Those weren't sticks stripped of bark to the white wood beneath. Those were arms. And they weren't the arms of fighting men Grassart was holding 'til their cousins showed up with their strongboxes.
These were children.
Peasant children by the rags, though even velvets would have quickly become disgusting in such filth. Braving the incredible stench, stepping yet closer to the dungeon pit, Gilles saw a crowd of them, eight at least, maybe more. It was hard to tell for the shadows, and few seemed strong enough to stand, or tall enough to reach to the window.
Light slanting through the bars fell on one child in particular: a boy of eight or so, with the most beautiful pale blond curls, large blue eyes, and skin so thin and papery white, Gilles could see the veins blue beneath it.
The boy was whimpering for water.
Gilles remembered the well in the center of the keep, glad he hadn't thrown in a horse carcass—yet. He ran for the brink and hefted up a bucketful. He found the bucket chained to the coping. He yanked. He drew his sword and, with no mind for the keen edge he'd rubbed into it that morning, gave the chain a couple of good whacks. Sparks flew; nothing else. He even tried the spell for metal Père Yann had taught him, though he had no time to think of Yann now.
Gilles decided he wasn't calm enough to work magic. Nothing happened, but he couldn't stop for that. At a loss for anything faster to do, he threw aside his sword, cupped his hands, and swept all they could carry, dripping across the yard. There was no thought in his mind but water, as if the thirst were his own.
His groom tried to stand in his way, yelling something at him, very pale and nervous. Sight of this man made Gilles remember the goblet he had had packed along with the gold in his chests. He was at the mule instantly, unpacking a morning's work in an moment.
He filled the goblet at the well and carried it to the dungeon grate.
The sight of rich gold in that shaking, thin white hand struck him so strongly that he froze, wondering what artist he could hire to capture the pathos of it. Only then did he recall his cousin, Georges de La Trémoïlle. Only then did he let the warning hand on his arm grow firmer.
The little twigs waved the empty goblet at him for more. He took it, but his groom very easily worked his fingers free of the stem.
"Come, my lord. Leave it," the man said, begged. "There's nothing you can do for them. The fortunes of war. Surely your lordship understands that."
Gilles recovered his senses. The man was right. The moment he'd drawn his sword against the well, Grassart's men had drawn theirs against him. They had him cautiously encompassed within a tightening circle, these brutes wiped faceless by their visors. In a moment, he'd be in the dungeon with those children.
The idea had appeal—to touch that boy's golden hair. But he had come for cousin Georges. His cousin, his own flesh and blood—although he couldn't remember having met him before—must be kept in similar straits or worse. If he broke the gloss of chivalry, gave the enemy any excuse to put him in that dungeon, Gilles de Rais could help nobody, not even himself.
With a great sigh, Gilles' sword found its sheath. He followed where the groom's arm led him.
But he would return to La Charité. By God, by the God, he swore it. Burn the man alive who kept children hostage without food or water in his donjon.
And take his gold back again. With usury.
Gilles left his nervous groom to guard the coin and the mule and took a broad flight of stairs up into the hall. For a moment, he stood in the doorway open to the warm air, letting his eyes get used to the dim light barred with shafts of dust. The coo of pigeons came at him, and the thick male stench of a garrison. No woman saw the reeds replaced and freshened. Gilles sniffed like a wolf on the hunt, then picked out two lords sitting across the large space at the high table with a lavish meal spread between them.
"Monseigneur the baron of Rais, sire de Laval, and ... no, lord of ..." A young page pressed into service as a herald stumbled on the titles until Gilles brushed the boy aside.
The fellow at the table with the greatest presence, that huge, white pork of a man, Gilles decided, must be Grassart, the captain of La Charité. The Burgundian captain's name had reminded him of the word "grease" since he'd first heard it less than a week ago: goose liver crammed for the table. Gilles made the man as shallow a bow as he could, forced strength and calm into his voice.
"Monsieur Grassart, I am Gilles, lord of Rais. For the sake of family honor, I've come to ransom my cousin, Georges de La Trémoïlle, whom you hold captive here at La Charité."
"Ah, welcome, Gilles, welcome," the man said, waving greasy fingers toward a chair.
Gilles hesitated, taking offense at this familiar use of his given name, yet unsure what he could do about it. Before he could make up his mind either to sit or to draw sword, the man went on.
"This is Perrinet Grassart, captain of La Charité."
The greasy fingers indicated the lesser man. With straight, dirty blond hair and loose limbs, he looked nothing so much as like the straw figures peasants set up in their fields at this season. Gilles had already decided he could ignore the man. Taking the castle appeared easier and easier.
"My good, generous—" The speaker paused in his listing of the commander's qualities to hum appraisingly. "—captor."
The speaker chuckled, though Gilles had done everything in his power to conceal his surprise at this word.
"Yes, Gilles," said the pork. "I am your long-lost cousin, Georges de la Trémoïlle."
Excerpted from The Merlin of the Oak Wood by Ann Chamberlin. Copyright © 2001 by Ann Chamberlin. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
