Through a Dark Mist (21 page)

“Eduard—some wine, quickly,” Wardieu commanded.

De Vere rolled his eyes open again and gritted his teeth against the necessity to speak. “A message, my lord. He … wants to meet with you. Alone. At the abbey. He says … if you are too cowardly to meet him, or … if he sees a single man behind you … he will make use of the altar in the abbey and … and leave the Lady Servanne’s heart as a blood offering to Satan.”

A few of the knights gathered around recoiled in horror and crossed themselves at the thought of such a profanity. The more hardened veterans raised glowering eyes to the surrounding greensward, their faces grim, their hands touching the symbol of the holy cross they had earned on Crusade.

Eduard ran up with a wineskin and a ram’s horn cup. A goodly portion of the strong red wine dribbled over De Vere’s chin, but enough found its way down his throat to ease the way for a few more gasped words.

“He … also sends his pledge that you … you will leave the abbey alive.” The gloved hand reached out and clutched a fistful of Wardieu’s gypon. “I do not trust him, my lord. I believe it is a trap! He would lure you to the abbey alone, and … and—!”

Sir Aubrey arched against Timkin’s arms and a deep, ragged groan rattled from his chest to his throat. Wine and blood formed a pink froth at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes bulged with the vision of some unknown agony. The spasm passed and his body slumped back. A final hiss of escaping air signaled the end and brought his head lolling forward onto his chest.

Wardieu studied the face of the dead knight for several long moments before reaching down and gently prying the clawed fingers away from his tunic.

“Eduard … bring my horse.”

Nicolaa, absently musing over a memory of the virile Aubrey de Vere groaning in much the same way during a recent visit to her bed, was startled enough by Wardieu’s command to grasp his arm as he stood up.

“No! You cannot mean to go to the abbey as he asks! You heard Sir Aubrey say it was a trap!”

The icy blue eyes looked from Nicolaa’s face to the hand she had clasped possessively around his forearm. “And I say again, if he meant to kill us, we would all be dead by now.”

“What if he has determined just to take you hostage?” she demanded. “Will you feel so confident of your suppositions when he takes a blade to you and begins to peel the flesh from your body strip by strip?”

“Then we will have discovered his plans, and you will know to be leery of any future invitations.”

He pulled his arm away and brushed past her. Eduard was waiting beside the huge white destrier, his eyes burning as if he was battling twelve kinds of fear before daring to speak.

“M-my lord?”

Wardieu did not spare him a glance.

“My lord, I would beg leave to accompany you to the abbey. I am no threat to this Black Wolf, and ’tis sure he would not countenance it a breach of faith for you to bring your squire.”

Wardieu stared hard at the boy. Thirteen years of age and he was only a hand’s width shorter than the master he served. His shoulders and chest promised great strength and breadth; his legs were already long and well-formed with none of the awkward gangliness of too much growth in too short a span. Other signs of encroaching manhood had been brought to his attention by the castle seneschal; one of the kitchen maids—older by some ten years—was regularly seen hobbling out of the stables after energetic trysts with the young squire.

A son any man would be proud of:
his own words.

“Please … Father,” Eduard whispered tautly, at great cost to his pride. “I would ride to guard your back.”

“By all means,” Nicolaa drawled, coming up behind them. “Take the bastard with you. Perhaps you can offer him in lieu of the unpaid ransom for your sweet bride.”

Wardieu’s expression did not change. It did not so much as flicker a warning as he brought his gauntleted hand swinging up and around. The slap would have ripped away half of Nicolaa’s cheek had he not checked his fury at the last possible instant. Nicolaa flinched all the same, the blow delivered as sharply and brutally through the stunning rage in his eyes.

“You had best watch where you spit your venom, woman,” he said harshly. “I am about at the end of my humour over your petty jealousies.”

“Petty, my lord?” she snapped, her cheeks flaming and her lips thinned to an ugly slash of red. “My jealousies are indeed petty compared to yours … and your brother’s.”

A vein pulsed noticeably to life in the Dragon’s temple. The skin across his cheekbones seemed to stretch so taut, the surface became more like wax than living flesh.

He raised his hand slowly and cupped it beneath Nicolaa’s chin. The fine metal links of the gauntlet depressed the whiteness of her skin, digging deeper and deeper as he increased the pressure to excruciating limits.

“D’Aeth has often expressed an unrequited interest in you, dear Nicolaa,” he said quietly. “Perhaps an evening or two in his genteel company would cut a few barbs from your clever wit and remind you by whose generosity you continue to enjoy the use of your tongue. Eduard—arrange an escort for Lady De la Haye. She will be returning immediately to Alford Abbey to be by her husband’s bedside.”

“Aye, my lord,” the squire said quietly, his face still stinging with humiliation. “My lord—?”

“See to your duties, Eduard; trouble me with no more favours.”

“Yes … my lord.”

“And Eduard—?”

The boy turned, his eyes brightening with a spark of hope. “Never,
ever
address me as ‘father’ again. Is that understood?”

The boy looked from one coldly dispassionate face to the other and knotted his hands into fists. “Yes, my lord. Perfectly understood.”

15

The Wolf had seen the signal several minutes earlier: a single horseman approaching; all clear behind.

“Well, well,” he murmured. “So you are still a curious bastard, after all these years.”

From the shadowy mouth of the gorge, hazed with late afternoon mist where it spilled open onto the common, came distinct, echoing sounds of a horse’s hooves striking the rocks that lined the banks of the narrow creek. The sky was low and sullen, threatening rain, and dusk was a chilly breath away. The scent of wood and pine, of loamy soil and heavy dew accompanied the hour and moodiness of the day, but the Wolf did not notice. His gaze was fixed on the far side of the gently sloping meadow. His fingers were as tight as they could be around the shaft of his longbow without crushing it.

Flanking him, perched at scattered intervals along the stone wall of the abbey were the silent silhouettes of six of his best archers, including Gil Golden. Friar and Sparrow had led groups of the other men into the forest to guard all approaches against a surprise attack.

Cold, steely-nerved, the tension in the Wolf’s body was mirrored in the hardness of his eyes. He was so well prepared to see the lone horseman emerge from the shadowy trees, that when he did, the sensation was anticlimactic.

The destrier was reined to an abrupt halt the instant the abbey came into view. Even at a distance, and with the failing light, there could be no mistaking the Dragon of Blood-moor Keep. He sat tall and imposing in the saddle of his fully caparisoned warhorse, man and beast dominating the meadow, reducing it to a small patch of deergrass. He wore a long-skirted hauberk of polished chain mail, as well as chausses of closely fitted iron scales to protect his long, muscular legs. His surcoat was a splash of bright blue against the sombre backdrop of trees; the crest emblazoned on his chestpiece was just a blur so far away, but the Wolf knew every line and filigreed coil of thread as if they were tattooed on his eyes. Nothing of the Dragon’s features could be seen beneath the conical steel helm and trunk-shaped nasal, but a hint of wheat-coloured hair wisped out from beneath the mail bascinet and lay against a ruggedly tanned jaw.

“I could skewer him like a cherry pip from here,” Gil offered and ran a loving hand along the arch of her longbow.

“Keep your arrows in your quiver unless I say otherwise,” the Wolf countered evenly. “Any man who disobeys will die by mine own hand.”

Gil scowled and pulled her felt cap lower over her coppery curls.

The Black Wolf of Lincoln took a step away from the wall of the abbey—a step matched on the opposite side of the field as the Dragon nudged his horse forward again. The Wolf’s long stride cleaved through the waves of knee-deep grass, his passage leaving a line of downtrodden green in his wake. The Dragon’s destrier waded into the same sea of green, his hooves crushing a much wider path, his sawtoothed body cloth hissing like a thousand snakes as it swept over the grass.

The two converged on the centre of the field, halting close enough for conversation, far enough to emphasize their mutual wariness.

The Wolf’s gaze had remained steady on the face of his adversary through most of the short trek, but as the chiseled features became clearer, more defined, he could not resist the impulse to assess his enemy down to the toes of the pointed, iron-ribbed boots he wore.

The same reflex caused the piercing azure eyes to stray from their intent focus and the Dragon gauged the remarkable breadth of the chest beneath the gleaming black wolf pelts, the impressive power in the bold, fluid stride, and the total absence of any sign of injury or aftereffects from wounds that should have left the man dead and turned to dust on the sands of Palestine.

Eyes glowering with a quiet look of speculation rose once again to a gaze as frigid and emotionless as Arctic ice.

“It has been a long time,” the Wolf said. “The years have served you well.”

There was no reaction in the brittle hardness of Wardieu’s countenance, no tremor of response in the stern ridge of his jaw.

“What?” The Wolf smiled faintly. “Is there not even charity enough in you to offer similar praise for my own humble appearance? Admittedly, it is not as grand as it might have been under different circumstances, but—”

“What is it you want?” Wardieu interrupted bluntly. “Why have you come back to Lincoln after all these years?”

“I do grow weary of answering that question,” the Wolf sighed. “Why should I not come back? Lincoln is my home.”

A fine, chalk-white rim of tension compressed the taut lips. “Bloodmoor belongs to me. You will not find a man in all of England willing to challenge my possession.”

“One stands before you now,” said the Wolf.

The blue eyes flicked past the broad shoulders and returned almost immediately, laden with scorn. “A wolf’s head and his band of thieves and cutthroats? Is it your intention to walk up to the gates of Bloodmoor and announce yourself, or shall you and your men place the castle under siege?”

“It is my intention to reclaim what is mine.”

“And I say again, there are none who would believe your claim. I am Lucien Wardieu. I have played host to Richard, King of England. I have fought by his side and won the acclaim of my peers.”

“And the brother? The coward bred of a Wardieu whore and weaned on greed and corruption? Dare I ask what became of him?”

The Dragon’s smile was slower to form, appearing in deference to the rage throbbing at his temples. “Etienne Wardieu died some fourteen years ago, mourned by few, remembered fondly by none. It seems there was some taint of treachery associated with his name—to do with an attempt to implicate his father on charges of treason. Part of my unflagging efforts over the years has been to exonerate the name of Robert Wardieu, and to restore the De Gournay name to its former prominence. In that respect, the name of Lucien Wardieu ranks high in royal esteem and you would have greater success declaring yourself to be Richard the Lionheart.”

“I come to claim only what is mine to claim.”

“Attempt to do so and there is not a man in Lincoln who would waste a second thought before striking you dead on my command.”

“Assuming you were alive to give the command,” the Wolf pointed out.

Wardieu glanced away, letting the silence drag for a long moment, and when he looked back, there was a wry, sardonic smile on his lips. “Why am I not surprised to learn your word still means nothing? Nothing then … nothing now.”

The Wolf crooked an eyebrow. “I gave my word you would leave the abbey alive. I said nothing about the meadow, or the forest, or the Lincoln road.”

The Dragon’s smile lingered, the smug satisfaction in it rankling the Wolf more than if he had drawn his sword and challenged the affront. It struck him then that his brother had expected the archers on the wall. He had come onto this field fully accepting that death might come from one source or another—further, that he would be judged to have met it boldly and bravely, with his honour as a knight unimpeached.

The Wolf relaxed his grip on his bow. “Did you really think I would make it this easy for you? An arrow through the heart, an honourable exchange of swordplay? Quick … painless …”

The blue eyes narrowed, but the Dragon said nothing.

“No. No, you seem too eager to see an end to it. Methinks I should let you live a while longer. Live … knowing I am here—” The Wolf spread his hands congenially to encompass the trees, the sky, the meadow. “Knowing I am watching you, biding the perfect moment to strike—a week from now, perhaps. Or a month. Perhaps in a year, when you have grown short of temper and twitch with sweat each time a shadow creaks at your back.”

“We will end it now, damn you,” the Dragon vowed, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword.

Before he could draw it from its sheath, the Wolf had raised his bow and nocked a slender arrow to the string.

“I have determined not to kill you this day,” he warned. “But I would gladly give my arrow a taste of maiming you in any limb you choose. An elbow … or a knee? You were sorely disappointed not to see a cripple walk onto this field— perhaps we can arrange to have a cripple leave it?”

The Dragon slowly, furiously lowered his sword back into its leather seat.

“A wise decision. A comforting one as well for your bride, who seems not to have the stomach for violence.”

“The Lady Servanne.” The words were grated through the Dragon’s bloodless lips. “Where is she?”

“Awaiting your pleasure. And since she has already provided me mine, you may take her away with my fondest wishes for wedded bliss.”

If it was possible, the Dragon blanched whiter. “If you have dared to touch her—”

“Be assured,” the Wolf broke in bluntly. “I have indeed
touched
her; would you have expected less? Frankly, I expected a good deal more. Oh, she is a pretty enough piece to look at, but between her weepings and swoonings she would sooner shrivel a man’s best intentions as slake them. I found her hardly worth the trouble. Then again, I assume it is not a zealous craving for her body that hastens you to the altar. As I understand it, the lady comes to you dowered heavily enough to more than compensate for any shortcomings between the sheets.”

The Dragon’s steed bolted an agitated step sideways in response to the sudden tension communicated through his master’s body. He was brought quickly and savagely under control again, but his flanks quivered and his nostrils flared with the scent of possible violence.

“You will release her to me at once,” Wardieu seethed.

“Gladly. We will even waive the ransom—consider it my wedding gift for you and your lovely bride.”

He turned and passed a signal to Gil, who nodded down to someone behind the closed gates of the abbey. The oaken doors creaked open on their wooden hinges and Mutter appeared first, leaning forward to urge a reluctant white palfrey through the narrow archway.

Servanne de Briscourt, cloaked against the chill and mist of the evening vapours, sat astride Undine, her small hands gripped to the leather pommel, her face a pale, wan oval beneath the draped folds of the scarf she wore around her head and shoulders. A second horse, led by Stutter, clopped out of the courtyard and through the gates with Biddy sitting as straight as Fury, her expression bleaker than an ax blade.

Soft yellow whispers of hair were dragged forward across Servanne’s cheeks by the breeze. She had not been permitted an opportunity to comb or plait it, nor to remove the dulling tarnish of moss and dried sand. Waiting by the heat of a fire had scorched the dampness out of the green velvet gown, but it was crushed and wrinkled beyond any hope of repair, the cloth scuffed and stiffened, the seams so weakened in places her bare flesh gaped through. She looked and felt bedraggled. Her hands trembled and her heart beat like a wild, caged thing within her breast, and she knew if she looked up, if she dared search out the Wolf’s face, she would die then and there of shattered pride.

As it was, when she heard his voice and realized he was addressing his remarks to her, she grew so faint, she needed Biddy’s quick hands to steady her upright in the saddle.

“I have been telling your betrothed what a pleasure it has been to have your company these past few days. I explained I was only trying to give you a truer idea of what might be expected of you by way of marital obligations. Hopefully your husband will not find you so difficult to thaw.”

Servanne was shocked, horrified. How could he say such things? How could he humiliate and shame her so heartlessly?

With her eyes flooding with resentment and her heart still pounding to burst, she lashed out with the only weapon available. The wide leather strap of Undine’s reins cut him sharply across the face and neck, hard enough to break the skin and raise a bright, stinging red weal on his flesh. She would have struck again, but for Undine’s confused response to a misread command. The mare caracoled sideways a step, then leaped forward in a startled attempt to avoid tangling legs with Biddy’s horse.

Wardieu reached out in a reflexive action as the mare danced close to his own snorting warhorse. For a moment their eyes met; Wardieu’s incensed and burning beneath the steel nasal of his helm, Servanne’s as bright as glass behind a thick film of outrage and defiance. They each looked away again, focusing their pain and hatred on the man who watched the exchange with grim indifference.

“A deserving bride and groom,” he murmured wryly, lowering his hand from his cheek, frowning at the spidery threads of blood on his fingers. “I bid you both a pleasant hereafter … for as long as you may live to enjoy it.”

   The heat of Servanne’s anger, as well as a scalding sense of betrayal, kept her well warmed on the winding journey back through the forest. Her last sighting of the Wolf—his face turned away as he strode back to the abbey—was seared on her brain like a smouldering brand. He had not looked over his shoulder. He had not shown a trace of remorse or guilt over the cruel, callous way he had used and dismissed her.

Her eyes ached with the fullness of tears but she refused to give way, fearing if she once started to weep, she would not be able to stop again. It was her own fault; she had brought this travesty upon herself by succumbing to the very curiosity Biddy had tried to warn her against. She had wanted to know the feel of his arms around her, the press of his hot flesh against hers. She had not once tried to stop him, or stay his hands or lips from whatever wicked, depraved pleasures he sought to bestow. Her body had been his body to do with what he would, and she had shamelessly, shamefully begged him
not
to stop. Even now, when she should have been using all her strength to concentrate her hatred on the man, she burned with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his flesh moving over her, in her …