"I don't know...n.o.body knows...except the king, maybe, he's over there." Geoffrey pointed at the ridge where the fires formed a macabre fence. The battle had ended without any shout of triumph or celebration. "I gotta stay with Sir James, Maman."

Bella nodded her a.s.sent, scarred of what lay on that ridge. She found Geoffrey's loyalty touching. "Aye, my son, you should. I think your Papa would want you to stay with Sir James."

Geoffrey shifted uneasily, staring down at the earth. The soft curve of his jaw appeared amazingly strong for one so young. When he looked back at Bella she saw the hard glint of steel inside his eyes. He was a strong son, a good son. Why she'd doubted him or given him her own son's reckless mien, she didn't know. He looked almost nothing like Iain now. Geoffrey was unique, his own important little person, and more dear to her because of his strength of character. "Is the king going to hang you now that the battle's over?"

"Hang me?" Bella asked, confused by such a question.

"For...for being a traitor?" Geoffrey asked.

"No, Geoffrey. I'm not a traitor. King Edward knows that. The only admonition he gave me this very morning was that it was my duty to be a good wife and mother from now on."

"Are you?"

"What do you think, Geoffrey? Am I a good mother to you? Do you believe that I love you more than I love life itself?"

He considered her question for a moment then lifted both his shoulders. "You never said so."

"Then I was wrong to omit such a thing, Geoffrey. Yes, I love you very, very deeply. Don't ever doubt that. I will love you always and forever, without reservation. No matter what."

"You will? But, what if the king hangs you?"

"Geoffrey, Edward's largess won't allow him to do that.

There is no honor in hanging an innocent woman. The king knows I came here because I had to find out about my future...about you, Robin...and your Papa."

"But aren't you a spy for the Duke of Lorraine?"

"No, I am not. Geoffrey, have you looked around to see who won? King Edward did. Philip of Valois and the Duke of Lorraine have gone home...in defeat."

"Oh." He swung around, staring at the fires dotting the hills. Father Thomas' voice lilted on the wind, a smooth full tenor, chanting Vespers. Geoffrey looked back at Bella, firelight flickering in his large eyes. "Why did you and Papa remarry this morning?"

"Before your father went into battle he wished to renew all his vows...to G.o.d...to King Edward and to me, Geoffrey. He believes that a man who faces death with a clear conscience is a strong man...perhaps invincible."

"Prince Lionel said my brothers and I are all b.a.s.t.a.r.ds because you and Papa weren't really married before."

"No, Geoffrey, that isn't true. You are all three de Chandos' sons. Have you ever looked inside the Chandos Bible? It is written in that holy book that Sir John Chandos married Isabella Saint Pierre sixteen years ago and the Bishop of Canterbury affixed his seal to that entry validating it for all time. That marriage was valid, but the marriage you witnessed this morning is valid too."

"But I don't look anything like my Papa."

Bella choose her words carefully. The boy would never look more like his father than he did at that moment--tall, erect and stone-faced--prepared for the worst answer and willing to face the truth.

"You do not look like Sir John because G.o.d choose to give you the mark of Saint Peter, Geoffrey. That's a very special gift," Bella told him. "To my eyes, you look very much like Oncle James. Perhaps when you grow older you will have more Chandos features in you. But he is your father in all ways. Never doubt that, Geoffrey."

Geoffrey doubted. "You are sure, Maman?"

Bella crossed the small distance to him and placed her hand on the top of his head, smoothing back his dirty curls. "I'm very, very sure." Bella bent down and kissed his brow. "I love you, Geoffrey. Now, you go and see to Sir James. I expect you to give him only the best of care."

"I will," Geoffrey promised, then impulsively threw his arms tightly around Bella's waist, embracing her. "I love you, Maman," he said underneath her chin. "I'm glad you came here to find your future...even if it made Papa angry."

Abruptly, the boy bolted and ran off into the twilight, disappearing from Bella's sight in the crush of soldiers mounting the hill. She stood apart from the ebb and flow of so many seeking their baggage, a hot meal and a cool drink to quench their great thirst.

In the valley the sounds of war were replaced by the solemn chant of prayers. Torches dotted the landscape as men moved about on foot. There wasn't any rhyme to their motion. There was no shouting of triumph. Word had spread quickly that the king had forbidden any and all celebration of victory save prayer.

Only at the bank of the Maye was there any sort of commotion that implied there was some sense of jubilation following a victorious battle. A group of knights stripped away their armor, mail and underclothes and plunged into the cold water buck naked. A bonfire on the rocky bank made the scene appear as bizarre as an Hieronymous Bosch painting. Despite a few howls as they entered the cold water, there was a purposeful quiet about their bathing.

Bella saw Guilamu's black turban bob against the firelight. He handed toweling to Chandos, Robin, and the Prince of Wales as each emerged naked and clean from the stream. Bella envied them the freedom to wash with such impunity. She felt filthy from head to toe and the smell of her own sweat overrode the stench of blood and smoke that permeated the night air.

As she stood there, watching Chandos rub his dark head with the white towel, it occurred to Bella that for the first time since midnight last night she was unguarded, free to do as she liked.

She turned to stare at the baggage wains. Hundreds of men surrounded the tipped carts, seeking bedding, trunks and personal possessions. Even that great task had order to it. The carts had been marked and gear stored in such a way that it could be unpacked at day's end with ease and order.

Several tents were being erected near the pavilion. Bella recognized Sir John's by the pennon flying atop the ridge pole. She could go there and wait for him. Or she could take advantage of her freedom to escape.

Now she knew Geoffrey was safe. He had no need of her mothering or concern. The date of his birth was unimportant and had nothing to do with Iain's short life. She saw that now. Geoffrey was not the reason G.o.d had sent her here.

She thought of Henri back in Calais, waiting for her, expecting her to arrive at any moment so they could return to Chandos Enceinte. Bella saw again how easily she could escape unnoticed in the melee of making camp.

She swallowed hard on the decision, balancing the consequences of such an action. More than likely Sir John would be too exhausted to follow her. For that matter, she didn't even know if he was injured. Did she care? The answer to that question pierced layer after layer of her armor covered heart. Yes, she cared very, very deeply.

She had come here under the excuse of protecting Geoffrey. But neither Geoffrey, Robin or Henri were her future. John de Chandos was her future. He was her knight in shining armor--the true reason behind her lifelong quest --her love. She loved him, more deeply than she'd ever loved Aristotle.

Bella's eyes moved down the sloping hill, seeking Sir John. More men than ever crowded the bank. Squires stood on the rocks pulling hauberks over heads and shoulders of the men they served. A glittering pile of armor reflected the firelight. She found Robin's dark head and Prince Edward's pale one above the swath of their toweling togas. She didn't find Sir John.

The scales in Bella's head balanced. She didn't doubt for a minute that she had at last found a man who was truly worthy of her love. A man who would reciprocate it in kind. What she found awesome and frightening was the deep and compelling urge to give over to Chandos the true power of love--to place her heart in his hands for safekeeping.

Could she do that? She had never trusted Aristotle completely. Did she dare surrender all to Chandos?

Bella smiled as her feet took her unerringly to Lord Chandos' tent. Guilamu emerged. He bowed in welcome to her and held the flap up so that Bella enter.

There was no lamp lit. She didn't need one to see the weary man standing in the center of the opulent rug.

"My lord," Bella said, voicing the first question that came to mind. "Are you all right?"

"Oh," he said. "Aye." To say more felt impossible. His woman looked as exhausted as he. His arms hung at his sides, leaden, raw and aching from the weapons he'd wielded this day. He was numbstruck, awestruck, thunderstruck.

The battle now seemed an unreal blur. Yet to Chandos all the events Bella had predicted so accurately stood out; the storm at the height of the eclipse, the blind king of Bohemia, the ferocity of the French attack against Prince Edward's division and the great fear of Arundel's that had prompted those charged with the Prince's safety to seek a.s.sistance from the king. And yes, she had predicted the complete rout of Philip of Valois.

The sun had already set before Queen Phillipa's Flemish cousin, John of Hainault had taken the reins of King Philip's horse and led him off the battlefield. Chandos had ordered his men to lay down their arms...so that the beaten king of France could escape. He saw no valor in taking a defeated king prisoner and holding him for ransom.

Bella's hands made contact with John's leaden arms. She knew without having to ask, that of the two of them, he was the one physically drained, while she was the one whose emotions were all spent.

He was her husband now, in heart, body and soul. It was her right to soothe and restore him, to comfort and heal him.

Gently, but insistently, she drew him down to the pallet Guilamu had made on the carpet. A matt of thick gra.s.s beneath the rug cushioned their bed. Chandos' eyes closed the moment his head rested in the cradle of Bella's lap. She spread her fingers across his shoulders, gently ma.s.saging tired, aching muscles. He closed his eyes. Oblivion came right after.

Hours later Chandos awoke, refreshed, restored. His wife sprawled beside him, sound asleep and softly snoring. She had not removed a single garment nor her filthy boots. He did that task for her, stripping away her borrowed britches and the filthy shirt and gave both boots and breeks to Guilamu to have cleaned.

Sir John washed her face and hands and vulnerable throat, then gathered her in his aching arms and held her close as he went back to sleep.

He dreamed very little or else slept so deeply that no dreams registered. Toward morning the scent of her filled his nostrils and aroused him. He opened his eyes and found her head pillowed on his arm, the frazzled loop of her braid twisted around his wrist and his fingers pressed against the back of her head.

She moaned in her sleep, dreaming, little clawing fingers scratching at his chest like a cat padding. He stared at the darkness, awake but not really wanting to be.

The pressure of her head on his shoulder had deadened his sword arm, lessening the ache of it. He'd fought many, many battles and had come away this one feeling all of his years, and all of his old wounds. Did she but know it, he was as weak as an infant.

John did not return to sleep. Dawn came only a little while later and he disentangled himself from Bella's arms and legs. She continued to sleep while he rose and dressed.

King Edward had also risen at first light. They met privately in the pavilion to discuss what needed to be accomplished this day. Sir John gratefully accepted the king's request that he return his cadre to the vanguard position. With the taste of victory in his mouth, Edward set his sights on Calais. He bid Sir John travel there post haste, scout the city's defenses and lay the groundwork for making siege.

Edward said he would finish at Crecy, bury the dead and then move leisurely north through Flanders.

After taking his leave from King Edward, Sir John stopped to visit James Graham. The squires were grim-faced, but Gunni Douglas had a more positive look in his eye than he had the night before. James was a patchwork of bandages with every appendage wrapped in clean linen. He ran no fever. The worst of his wounds, the gouge in chest, had not festered overnight.

Young Geoffrey rubbed dirty knuckles into his sleepy eyes. Sir John studied his second son for a long moment before speaking. "Geoffrey, you look worse than your uncle James Saint Pierre does after an all night debacle in the taverns of Calais. Fetch a bar of brown soap, clean clothes and get yourself down to the Maye. You are to scrub until you are clean from head to toe. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Papa," Geoffrey hid a grin behind the swipe of his sleeve across his filthy face.

"Good." Sir John continued to consider the rapidly growing boy who ears stuck out from his head in the same way James Saint Pierre's did. How was it that he had looked at this son and not seen the truth? Geoffrey was his son as much as Henri and Robin. The day of his birth mattered not. Sir John cleared his throat. "When you have finished bathing, pack your belongings, saddle your horse and attend your older brother for further orders. We ride out in one hour."

"We do?" Geoffrey's eyes widened in surprise. "Am I going with you and Robin, Papa?"

"Aye," Sir John said solemnly. "Your mother will need a page at her beck and call. And Geoffrey, remember that I said you are to be clean from head to toe."

"Yes sir!" The boy saluted properly in spite of his excitement.

As he bounded out of Sir James' tent, Gunni chuckled and shook his head. "You've made that lad's day, milord. He's itched t' join yer vanguard from the day we landed."

John nodded. "I know. Take care of Graham, Gunni."

"Not t' worry, milord. I'll see that he mends."

Sir John wasted no more time, ordering his lieutenants to break camp and prepare to depart. He strode inside his own tent with a full bucket of fresh water, set it down beside his sleeping wife and soundly slapped her raised hip to rouse her.

"Wake up, slug-a-bed. You've a quarter hour to wash, dress and saddle your horse."

Bella awoke groggy. "Sir John? Did you just hit my b.u.t.t again? Ow!"

"Aye, woman, I did. Wake up." Sir John caught her shoulder as she tumbled out of the blankets nude. Her braid was fetchingly wild and rumpled. Sleep creases marked her right cheek and chin.

"Who took off my clothes? It better not have been Guilamu."

"Ha, that's my right, wife." John chucked his forefinger under her chin. She snapped her teeth at the digit but didn't connect. "There will be none of that, lady," he admonished sternly. "We haven't the time to dally about this morning. We're marching out. You are in the army now, lady, understand?"

Chandos' gaze lowered, appraising the lush naked body rising before him. "However, there is nothing stopping us from relishing the coming night." He bent his head and dropped a kiss on Bella's upturned nose. "I suggest you wear the garments you arrived in. Guilamu has laid them out for you. And Bella, wash as best you can. We will ride hard today."

Still sleepy, Bella said, "I'll bet n.o.body remembered to pack the coffee."

John ignored her strange request as he rose to his feet. At the tent flap he paused and looked back. She had grabbed the sheet and yanked it over her, pillowing back into the rumpled pallet.

"Bella!" he called out her name loudly.

"Whaaaa?" She threw the sheet off her face. "Chandos, let me sleep! I'm exhausted."

"A quarter hour, Bella. Then this tent comes down. Return to sleep at your own peril. You'll be tossed out naked."

"You wouldn't," she countered.

"Try me," he invited with a wicked leer then exited.

Bella rolled over and stared at the tent poles. The red, black and white panels glowed with daylight. She struggled upright, trying to shake sleep and exhaustion from her head.

Her eyes blurred, her mouth tasted like old shoe leather and her brain had never been more sluggish. She saw the bucket of water, the clothes laid out, neatly brushed and clean on the top of Sir John's war chest. A flannel and a bar of brown soap sat on top of the other trunk.

She couldn't move without every joint and muscle in her body screaming. Nor did she want to. Then the noises outside the cloth walls penetrated. Voices...a lot of them...all males. Horses, men, and Chandos barking orders for this and that.

Bella scrambled onto her feet, grabbed the soap and flannel and dunked it in the bucket. The water felt cold.

Outside Chandos glared at the rising sun, then the tent, willing Bella to emerge dressed and decent. He gave her more time before ordering his men to take down the tent. Two of his burliest soldiers dropped a canvas wall and went in to remove his trunks.

Bella screamed and came charging out barefooted, shoes and stockings gripped in one hand, the other clutching her cotte hardie together over her chest. His men laughed, but John managed to keep a straight face.

She sat on a stump, to don hose and garters, fussing. Her hair was still a sight for sore eyes when John walked up to her and said, "You'd better find your horse and get it saddled. Else you'll be running on foot the whole long day."

Bella saluted. She fastened garters, buckles and b.u.t.tons with unheard of speed.

By the time she had her boots on, the tent had been collapsed, rolled up and tied into a tight bundle and packed on a baggage wain. The two dozen men and boys affected by Sir John's order to move out were strapping packs behind their saddles.

Bella ran to the corral to find Jupiter. Fitting her horse, a bit and bridle was no problem. Picking up a fifty pound saddle and hoisting it onto Jupiter's high back was a whole different story.

One of the handlers intervened, feeling sorry for Bella. He pawed through the stacks of confiscated equipment until he found her a lighter, more durable saddle instead of the high cantle and upright pommel jobs suitable for battle.

Geoffrey cantered up, shouting, "Maman, vite, vite, Monseigneur s'en aller."

At that point Bella balked. She hadn't combed her hair, made a nature's trip to the woods, or had a single bite to eat. She stared at Geoffrey while a zinging retort sang in her veins, crossed her arms, set her jaw and said, "Geoffrey, I'm moving as fast as I can. If that's not good enough, tell your father to go fly a kite. He can leave without me."

The man saddling her horse choked. Jupiter snorted. Geoffrey gawked at her with a mouth open so wide she could see his eight year molars. "What's a kite? And how can we leave without you when the whole reason we're going ahead is to get Henri out of Calais?"

"We are?" Bella said stupefied.

"Oh, aye," Geoffrey colored as red as a beet for having given away his father's plans. He said, "But you're not supposed to know that, Maman. Could you hurry, please?"

Bella looked at the animal handler. He linked his fingers together, making a step to boost her into the saddle.

That was Bella's undoing...picking her foot up, that is. Every muscle from her seventh rib down screamed a protest when she raised her leg. Worse was the outcry from the overtaxed inner thigh muscles when she straddled the saddle. Bella gasped, "Holy cow!"

"What's wrong?" Geoffrey asked.

"Nothing," Bella groaned, closing her eyes against all the sore aching points.