Through a Dark Mist (14 page)

“Throughout most of my life I have watched knights training and fighting,” she began. “I know the musculature of a well-practiced sword arm, and the look of limbs that are more accustomed to feeling horseflesh between them than soft deerhide. Your arms and shoulders have been thickened against the constant chafing of heavy chain-mail armour, and the scars I saw on your body this morning were not earned in a forest or on a farm, but on a battlefield, and in the tournament lists.”

He said nothing to either confirm or deny her observations, and Servanne continued even more boldly.

“You carry your years well,” she said, glancing speculatively up at the shadowed face. “But there are more behind you, methinks, than ahead. Five and thirty, I should guess.”

“Too close by three to the grave,” he chided dryly, “But commendable.”

“Take away at least twenty of those years for the time it took you to earn your spurs, and that leaves … mmm … twelve full of mysteries to solve. Too many, I think, for one quick judgment, but shall I pick one or two for consideration?”

“I confess, I am intrigued, madam. Pray go on.”

“Will you acknowledge your knighthood?”

“Will it change your opinion of me if I do?”

“Not one wit.”

“Then I acknowledge it,” he grinned, bowing to her cleverness.

“And yet,” she murmured, almost to herself, “You are well schooled in the use of a bow—not a common weapon for a knight. In fact, I rather thought nobles disdained any knowledge of archery beyond the value of entertainment.”

“The result of a physic’s wisdom,” he conceded, shrugging his broad shoulders. “He had some idea the drawing of a bowstring would quicker restore the strength to my arms while I recovered from my wounds.”

Servanne spared a thought for the incredible corded tautness of his muscles and applauded the physician’s judgment.

“And your men? Were they all recovering from wounds as well?”

“Wounded vanity, perhaps. They are a competitive lot and would not see their captain with a skill better than they possessed.”

“Captain?” she asked, pouncing on the slip. “Past rank, or present?”

The Wolf took too long to answer, which was all the answer Servanne required to feel a surge of triumph.

“That you have been on Crusade is scarcely worth the breath to debate, but I would hesitate to put forth the suggestion that any infidel could have wrought such damage as in the scars I saw today.”

“You question their skill as worthy opponents?”

“Oh, I have no doubt they are most worthy; both savage and dangerous, as well as fearsomely skilled fighters, else King Richard would have laid their army to dust years ago. But to fight
you
, my lord wolf’s head, they would have to have the added skill and knowledge of how to attack a man who favours the left hand. Most soldiers never encounter a left-handed opponent in a lifetime of battle and thus are rarely able to defend an attack, let alone overcome an enemy with your skill and strength. No. Whoever left his mark upon you knew exactly what he was doing. He knew where your weakest, most vulnerable points lay, and he struck at them with relentless accuracy. Moreover, he would have had to have been almost your equal in size and skill to have done as much damage as he did and live to walk away.”

The Wolf frowned with genuine curiosity. “What the devil leads you to suppose he lived?”

“When you were bathing, you were very meticulous about touching upon each scar—a ritual of some sort, I imagine. Men do not continually refresh the memory of wounds delivered by dead men, only those delivered by enemies upon whom they might still seek revenge.”

The Wolf fell silent. And waited.

“Therefore,” she concluded, “we now have a man who was—or is—of the order; a man who makes vague claims to be engaged in the honourable service of Eleanor of Aquitaine, yet who definitely took a dishonourable foray into kidnapping so that he might … what? Revenge himself upon an old enemy? An enemy he claims has stolen his name and birthright?” Servanne stopped and glanced up in the darkness. “You call this supposed usurper by the none-too-amiable appelation of Dragon. What was he once called … friend?”

The Wolf shook his head slowly, too far into the battle to sound a retreat.

“Worse than that, my lady,” he said with frightening intensity. “He was once called brother.”

9

“Brother?”

“Bastard born, but nonetheless of the same blood.”

Servanne stared. She had expected almost anything but this, and yet … the fact that they were brothers would explain a great deal. It would also present looming gaps in reason and understanding.

“Why?” she whispered. “How …?”

“I told you one of the kidnappers was very cooperative? When pressed into revealing where they were to take the children in England, he indicated a castle in Lincolnshire—a castle on a cliff with a golden-haired dragon as master.”

“Bloodmoor,” she gasped.

“Until that moment, I had no idea Etienne was still alive.” The Wolf paused and plucked a leaf from a nearby vine, then started to tear it into tiny shreds as he continued. “I have not set foot in England for nearly half a lifetime because so far as I knew, the De Gournay titles and estates had been stripped away years ago and dispersed against a charge of high treason.”

“Treason!”

“A charge as false as my brother’s heart,” he said savagely. “But one that went uncontested while my father was deliberately starved to death in a traitor’s cell. I had heard Etienne had died as well, a result of his conniving and greed, and had no reason to question his demise. I welcomed it, in fact, for it freed me to forget who I was and make a new life elsewhere. As it was, I was laid up some twenty months at a stinking desert oasis while these wounds you so expertly assessed healed. Another three years and more were spent gaining back memories the sun and fever had scorched from my brain. By the time I rejoined the living, Normandy had become my home and I was quite content to keep it that way. I sold my services to the kings and queens of Europe. I fought their wars, led their armies into battle, and won a reputation for myself as”—he stopped, seeming to reshape the words in midair before they tripped off his tongue—“as a rogue knight who would sell his sword to anyone with enough gold to pay.”

A mercenary, Servanne thought. Yes. It fit. That much of it, at any rate, for there was no doubt he was a dangerous man, adept at living on cunning and nerve. He was clever, daring, unprincipled. And far too close.

She took what she hoped was an unobtrusive step back. “You called him Etienne?”

“It is his God-given name: Etienne FitzRobert, born to my father’s mistress some three months after my own appearance in the world. It was said we were so alike in size, colouring, and temperament in those early years, we might well have sprung from the same womb. Even later, there could be no mistake we were of the same mould; his hair was lighter, his eyes darker, but all small things. Nothing that could not be altered or overlooked temporarily if one wanted to substitute for the other for a time. Moreover, we were both away five years under the desert sun. So much time spent in the heat, squalor, and stench of blood will alter any man’s appearance, as well as dull the perceptions of those who welcome him home.”

Servanne strained the limits of her powers of recall, trying in vain to conjure a clear picture of the golden-haired knight to whom she had been betrothed. Whether it was a trick of the mind, or simply the influence of the brooding figure in front of her, she could manage to do no more than replace the Wolf’s darker locks with those of honey-gold, his coarsely stubbled, blue-black jaw with that of a clean-shaven mirror image.

Impossible! The whole story was impossible and implausible. How could one man take the place of another for nigh on twelve years without someone uncovering the ruse? What about friends and family? What about the servant who used to carry ale to the table and serve it to Lucien Wardieu? Surely
someone
would have noticed a change in his appearance?

The Wolf laughed softly, reading her thoughts as clearly as if they had been spelled out letter by letter across her face.

“My mother died within a few hours of my birth. Etienne’s dam went mad and threw herself from a castle tower, screaming—so they say—that the Devil had cursed her. As to the rest—aunts, uncles, cousins—there were none. Or at least none who were close enough or cared enough to visit overlong at Bloodmoor Keep. Surely, as its intended chatelaine, you must have been forewarned of the horrors and spectres who roam the corridors and passageways? The walls that sweat blood? The footsteps in empty rooms? Stories all very carefully nurtured to keep the curious away.”

Servanne studied him for another full minute without so much as a hair moving against the mist. “Why did he want to kill you?”

“Greed, among other things. Had I died a natural death, Etienne would have inherited some of the estates, to be sure, but not Bloodmoor, and never the title of Baron de Gournay. Those would have gone to a distant cousin—another clumsy fellow whose ‘accidental’ death occurred within a few months of the baron’s heroic return from the Crusades.”

“He could not have managed such an elaborate scheme alone,” she said slowly.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “He could not. He would have needed someone’s help to arrange the warrants for Robert Wardieu’s arrest; he would have needed guarantees those charges could be rescinded again at the appropriate time.”

“Prince John?” she gasped. “Are you suggesting Prince John was involved?”

“He shares a similar hunger for power and wealth, not to mention an ambitious jealousy for his brother’s possessions. No doubt he demanded and received a huge payment for his services and seal, but I imagine Etienne thought the loss of a few properties a small price to pay. Especially since he has managed, by one means or another, to gain most of them back.” The Wolf’s eyes narrowed. “The acreage around Lincolnwoods is the last demesne of any importance to be reclaimed.”

Servanne stiffened at this. The Lincolnwoods acreage was part of her dower lands, to be deeded to her new husband upon their marriage.

“Are you … do you
dare
to imply that Sir Hubert was a part of it?”

The Wolf regarded her with a calmness that did not reveal whether or not he had noticed she had moved a healthy pace away from him. “Sir Hubert acquired the estates innocently enough, in lieu of a debt owed him by the regent.”

Servanne released her pent-up breath, but her head was spinning. It was too much to absorb, and there were too many twists and turns to try to unravel.

“Why should I believe you?” she asked, her fingers trembling visibly where they clutched the folds of her cloak. “Why, indeed, should I believe anything you tell me?”

“It is your prerogative, madam, to believe me or not. You wanted answers to your questions: I gave them.”

“I wanted the truth.”

“You wanted proof of the truth,” he corrected her gently. “And that I cannot give you until I am inside the walls of Bloodmoor Keep.”

Servanne’s teeth bit sharply into the flesh of her lower lip. “If …
if
what you say is true, why do you not just step forward and declare yourself to be the real Lucien Wardieu? For that matter, who do you declare yourself to be? Surely Queen Eleanor would not employ among her retainers a rogue known only as the Black Wolf!”

A grim smile touched the saturnine features. “Actually, the queen did have a hand in coining the name.”

“She believes your claim?”

The Wolf plucked another leaf and began destroying it in a similar fashion to the first. “In
truth
, I … thought it best not to burden her with all the sordid details of my past. Not just yet. She needed someone who knew the area—”

“She
sanctioned
a troop of her own men to sneak about the forests, thieving and murdering in the name of justice?”

The Wolf stared long and hard. He was not a man to tolerate continued skepticism, especially from a woman who was obviously accustomed to wielding her disdain like a sword to cut lesser beings to their knees before her. Moreover, he had already revealed far too much. Any further “truths” would be far too dangerous for her to know in the harsher light of day.

“The queen’s methods and justifications are her own,” he said coldly. “Suffice it to say she could not very well send an army into England.”

“So she sent you? A man with blood on his hands and death in his eyes? A man who kills without thought or remorse; who takes women as hostages to act out his petty games of revenge! Truth?” She spat the word at him in a blaze of fury. “You would not recognize the word if it lay prostrate on the ground in front of you!”

He had had enough. Despite the two broad paces that now separated them, he was by her side before she could react to avoid him. A brutal and crushing grip on her wrists forced her even closer as he twisted both arms around to the small of her back.

“I gave you fair warning, madam,” he snarled. “Yet still you seem bent on testing just how long it will be before
you
are the one prostrate on the ground.”

“Was that not to be part of your revenge all along,” she said bitterly, the anger crowding the fear in her eyes. “Was that not what you
intended
all along?”

“Madam,” he said carefully, “had it been my intention
all along
, I would have had you on your back this morning, or last night, or, by
Christ
, in the glade when you first defied me to behave at my worst!”

“Should I feel gratitude then, that you have spared me this long?” she cried, her body beginning to tremble so badly, she would have crumpled to her knees if not for the support of his arms … arms that tightened further, forcing her to rise up on tiptoes and bring her face within a scant few inches of his.

“You should feel gratitude that I am not my brother,” he said thickly. “Were our positions reversed, I have no doubt he would have had you chafed raw by now, merely for the pleasure of knowing he had been there before me.”

Tears that had been collecting in shiny crescents along her lower lashes, splashed free on a horrified gasp and streaked wetly down her cheeks. Her chin quivered and her limbs shook like young saplings. The shock of contact was sending her senses reeling farther and farther from the bounds of reason and logic. She no longer cared who he was by name, she only knew …

“You are the Devil! Let me go!”

“The Devil?” he rasped, taken aback enough to grin sardonically. “So now you think I am the Devil?” “Yes!” she cried. “Yes! Yes!”

For the longest moment, the ardent desire to shake her into oblivion was foremost in his mind, but then he saw the wide, wet path of her tears, and felt the fear, as vibrant within her as the trembling of a lamb being led to slaughter. The anger began to drain out of his hands, and the vengeance to fade out of his eyes, and he recalled the look on her face when she had seen his scarred body that morning.

“The Devil,” he mused. “Deformed and maimed, capable of conjuring ghouls and grotesques … even
elfin demons
at the snap of a finger. Yes … I suppose the comparison is a fair one.”

Servanne could not answer. She could not
think
for the scalding ribbons of fear, apprehension, and … anticipation that began to twist through her belly, circling, swirling, rushing to tauten the skin everywhere on her body until her flesh was so rigid, she feared the slightest movement would shatter her like glass.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

Servanne opened her eyes, unaware she had sealed them tight against unwanted intrusion. The vast, dark breastplate of his chest filled her view; the heat of intimacy was like a flame, scorching and searing her through the layers of her clothing.

“Look
at me, damn you.”

She shook her head, and kept shaking it until he caught her face between his hands and forced it to tilt upward. Her eyes were slower to obey, climbing by halting fractions from the broad, strong column of his neck, to the angular savagery of the uncompromising jaw. Driven by dread from the blatantly sensual mouth, she found herself drawn into the deep, merciless centres of his eyes, and a smothered gasp sent her fingers clawing into the thick fur pelt of his vest. A surge of wildness rose within her—a wildness that changed, between one heartbeat and the next, from an all-consuming terror, to a sudden, terrifying desire.

“I am only a man,” he insisted quietly, his words passing over her skin like velvet gloves. “I feel pain and I bleed like any other mortal man. I have scars, yes, and deformities hideous enough to be an offense to eyes as … innocent, and … as lovely … as yours. Yet you have seen them and survived. If you touched them, you would not burst into flame or see the bones turned to ash on a devil’s curse. Here. You say you seek the truth—”

He released one cloudy fistful of her hair and pushed aside the shoulder of his vest and shirt. He took her hand and pressed the ice-cold fingers over the healed ridges of scar tissue that serrated his flesh, and, while he would not have admitted it, nor expected it, the shock of contact was no longer hers alone.

Servanne stared at her hand where it lay against his flesh, then at the strong, lean fingers that remained curled around her wrist. She
was
melting. She
was
on fire. But the heat came from within, not without, and the flames were spilling down, pooling heavily in her loins, causing her to suffer stark, bold images of two naked bodies fused together, gleaming as they writhed under the mist and moonlight.