Through a Dark Mist (28 page)

Friar opened his mouth to protest, but Wardieu’s sudden appearance at his bride’s side turned the utterance into a tight smile. “Naturally, my lady, I shall see what I can arrange.”

“Arrange?” Wardieu asked, his cool gaze narrowing as it went from one face to the other. “What is there yet to be arranged?”

“Oh.” Servanne feigned a maidenly gasp. “’tis a surprise, my lord, and not for you to know just yet.”

“A surprise, is it?” His hand curved possessively around Servanne’s waist, his fingers transforming the gesture into a caress. “I am becoming quite fond of surprises, my lady. Quite fond, indeed.”

20

“La Seyne does not like surprises,” Friar muttered. “He does not like them at all.”

“You told him I wished to see him?” Servanne whispered, her voice barely louder than the rustling of her skirt over the stone floor.

“I told him.”

“Then it will not exactly be a surprise, will it?”

Friar came to an abrupt halt at the end of one corridor, seeming to mentally verify their position before turning into the musty gloom of another arched stone hallway.

“This is utter madness,” he remarked under his breath. “It is nearing midnight. We are as apt to get hopelessly lost and wander undiscovered until morning as we are to stumble across a nest of guards sniffing after trouble.”

“Why did you not beg our leave of the company an hour ago—or two, for that matter? Most of the guests were too sodden to have noticed our departure.”

“Why could you not have waited until morning to see La Seyne? He has been inside the castle walls but a few hours and is in no temper for entertaining foolish young women.”

“I heard he met with the prince’s hawking party out on the moor.”

“It afforded him the opportunity to decline an invitation to tonight’s festivities without appearing to offer insult to either Prince John, or his host—not that such a petty thing as insulting royalty would have stopped him from declining anyway. But it soured his mood as effectively as if he had been in attendance. Since you claim to have deduced his purpose for coming to Bloodmoor Keep, you must also realize his fondest wish is to complete his business and be on his way.”

“Getting the Princess Eleanor safely away from Prince John is, of course, of some importance—”

Friar halted again, so unexpectedly this time, Servanne walked up his heels and bumped into his shoulders.

“Firstly,” he said in an angry hiss, “the walls have ears. Secondly, concluding the matter swiftly and safely is of the
utmost
importance, my lady. It must be accomplished to the exclusion of
all else.
Do I make myself clear?”

Servanne bristled at the condescending tone, but in the next breath, she realized it was fear and concern speaking— as much for her safety as for the safety of the princess.

“I only want to help,” she offered softly. “Believe me, I know how the little princess must be feeling, and I will do nothing at all to jeopardize her safe removal from Bloodmoor.”

Friar sighed inwardly, refraining from pointing out the obvious: that she was jeopardizing their safety at that very moment. Whatever she had to say to La Seyne had better be damned important to take such a risk. Conversely, La Seyne should have refused outright to see her—what game was
he
playing at?

Friar navigated them successfully to the rear portal of one of the buildings linked to the main keep. It was the exit used by the servants and it was here Friar ushered her into a tiny storeroom and mouthed a few choice words as he struck tinder to flint, finally creating enough sparks to light a small candle. In the interim between begging her leave of the company in the great hall, and pacing anxiously in her solar until Friar came to fetch her, Servanne had prudently changed the ornately embroidered velvet tunic and silk train for a plainer garment of dark wool. She had removed her wimple as well and left her hair in a single thick braid trailing down her back. Now, to further disguise her against recognition by the guards, Friar handed her a voluminous cloak made from the same moth-gray horsehair Gil and the others had been wearing.

“A more fetching cleric, I cannot imagine,” Friar said with a comforting smile. “I have already passed through the sentries once tonight, so there should be no difficulty in gaining the outer bailey. What is more, since the celebrations have not been restricted to the great hall, there should be enough noise and revelry outside the keep to cover our tracks. Ready?”

Servanne nodded and raised her chin so that Alaric could fasten the cloak properly in place. A final adjustment of the spacious hood, and Friar blew out the candle. When the glaring yellow blotches had faded from his vision, he took Servanne by the hand and cautiously led her out into the corridor.

The sight of two more cowled figures gave her heart a momentary start, but when a distant torchlight assured her she was not seeing double, she nodded a faint greeting to Mutter and Stutter, and felt safer for their quiet presence behind them. Two more “monks” joined them outside the portal, and a third pair, including Gil Golden, fell into step near the gates to the outer bailey.

The guards at the first barbican tower scarcely paid heed to the cloaked figures who crossed the footbridge. There were huge fires blazing in every corner of the common, and flickering torches thrust into niches every few paces along the walls. Sentries paced the ramparts up above, but they were not too concerned with anyone already granted entry to the inner grounds. There was even the squeal of a woman’s laughter from somewhere high up, showing exactly how interested they were in the pedestrian traffic below.

The second bailey was not quite as brightly lit, but it appeared as if everyone in this tiny, self-contained village was out in force, drunk on cheap ale and anticipation of the next day’s events. Alaric’s dark cowl and glinting crucifix won them an amiable passage through the gloomy, musty labyrinth of laneways and workshops. Visiting knights had left their retinues of men-at-arms to be housed in the small, crowded barracks that lined the walls, and they had been quick to find the whores who were willing to do the most for the least amount of coin. Goliards and minstrels, practicing for the day of the tournament, put on impromptu shows by firelight and there was singing and dancing in nearly every lane they passed.

It was a far different scene from the image Servanne retained of the day of her arrival at Bloodmoor. These people smiled and laughed, and were not afraid to meet one another in the eye. Even the guards who patrolled the bailey in pairs, stopped to appreciate a daring acrobatic feat, or to sample a taste of sizzling meat roasting on a small grill.

There were heady scents in the air as well. The bakers along bakers’ row were bending nonstop over their ovens in hope of meeting the morrow’s demand for bread, biscuits, and pastries. In the butchers’ quarters, hogs, lambs, goats, and chickens were being slaughtered, skinned, and plucked in preparation for the banquet that would follow the tournament, as well as the feast to culminate the wedding. In the armourers’ alley, contrasting the sweet smells, squires had set up booths and pavilions decorated with their lord’s crests and pennants. Forges burned and smoked oily fumes into the night air as grease- and sweat-stained smithies worked over anvils, bribed with handfuls of copper zechins into making repairs to horseshoes, lances, or shields. Squires were overseeing the repairs, and would undoubtedly work well into the small hours polishing and oiling suits of chain mail. The loser of each match had to forfeit his armour and horse to the winning knight, and it was a matter of pride that, win or lose, a knight’s equipment should bear no spot of rust or broken link of steel.

Servanne was beginning to feel the tension in her legs long before Alaric slowed his pace and lifted a cautionary finger to his lips. They had left the noise of hammers and toilers well behind and entered a darker, quieter sector of the bailey. Servanne had no idea where they were, no idea the grounds were so vast and sprawling. She pressed into the deeper shadows as instructed and wondered how Alaric seemed to know the right twists and turns to make. But then she recalled—the Wolf had grown up within these walls. After fifteen years, if he remembered overgrown forest paths and lost monasteries, he would have no difficulty remembering the nooks and crannies of the place he had called home.

In the gloom, the nook where Alaric had brought her was about as isolated and dismal as it possibly could be—and for good reason. With a small start, Servanne identified the sketch hung on the sign over the door, and realized it was where shrouds and coffins were made for the unluckier castle residents.

“Dear God,” she whispered, pulling instinctively away.

“Even God has the courtesy to stay away from here tonight,” Alaric said, catching her arm and squeezing it gently for moral support. “It was the safest place we could think of for a meeting. Even so … be brief, my lady. Gil and the others will keep a sharp eye out for intruders; I shall wander back toward the psaltery and wait for you there. Go now, and have a care to make some small noise before you reach the door, or you will feel the bite of a knife between your shoulders before you can correct the oversight. Keep well to the deepest part of the shadows …”

Servanne drew a deep breath to bolster her courage and crossed the last moonlit patch of ground. Her footsteps crunched over straw and hay and she made no attempt to dampen the sound, chilled by Alaric’s warning. She paused before the low-slung door a moment and offered a heartfelt prayer to any saint who might not have already completely forsaken her. She debated knocking, but a further thought saw her simply lift the crude wooden latch and step tentatively inside.

Dust was as thick as fog in the interior of the stone and thatch hut, and it took her eyes several seconds to adjust to the feeble amber light cast by a guttering taper. Another quelling bubble of panic rose in her chest, for the gloom was dense enough to conceal man or beast, and, since she was not certain which of the two she should expect to see here tonight, she did not rush eagerly to meet her fate.

He was there, in the darkest of the shadows, his form slowly emerging from the strangely selective light. He was leaning against the far wall, his arms folded over his chest, observing her calmly and casually, as if it was a nightly occurrence to arrange meetings with noblewomen in a room where mourning shrouds and coffins guarded the silence.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked in a gritty, spine-scratching growl.

“You are … Lord La Seyne?”

His response was a long and expressive sigh that warned of little patience for unnecessary questions. He unfolded his arms and Servanne understood why there was a glaring lack of form to give him substance: he was dressed all in black. His fists were gloved in black leather, his jerkin and doublet were quilted out of black wool, studded with tiny silver bosses along the seams and at each junction of the bold squares. His shirt, leggings, and tall knee boots were black as well, and above the band of rolled hide that comprised the collar of his doublet, the gleam of black silk set Servanne’s heart fluttering within her breast. At the sight of the mask, despite her resolve to speak her piece, her foot took a reflexive step back toward the door.

“State your
business
, Lady de Briscourt,” he rasped. “I have no time for womanly vapours.”

“Th-the Black Wolf of Lincoln told me to seek you out if I needed help,” she said haltingly.

“And? Do you require help?”

“Help … yes. But not for myself.”

There was a slight pause before a breath carried a further question to her. “Do you think of me as a charity, offering solace to all the downtrodden?”

Servanne bowed her head for a brief moment, and when she looked up again, her eyes were bright and steady, her voice without tremor.

“I would ask your help for Lord Wardieu. I am informed he plans to take your place on the field tomorrow at the tournament.”

“Lord … Wardieu?”

“Lord Lucien Wardieu. The
real
Lord Lucien Wardieu. The man who calls himself the Black Wolf of Lincoln … and your friend, if I am not mistaken.”

“I make a point of having no friends,” La Seyne snarled.

“Then you should advise Lord Wardieu of your feelings, for he speaks very highly of you.”

The bright glitter of his eyes narrowed behind the slits in the black silk. “I was informed you did not believe his story.”

“True enough. I did not. Not in the beginning.”

“But you do now?” he sneered. “May I ask what brought about such a miraculous change of heart?”

“You may mock me, sir,” she said quietly. “And you may scorn a woman’s fickle nature, but I assure you, the … change of heart … as you call it, was not come by easily, nor was it wrought without a great deal of thought to the consequences. You have come to Bloodmoor to rescue the Princess Eleanor. I have come to you in the hope you will also rescue Lord Lucien.”

The knight took a deep breath. “Lucien is a capable fellow. He needs not my help to split a bastard brother from a saddle.”

“Do you honestly think Prince John would allow him to savour such a victory should it come his way?”

“It is the victory he seeks,” La Seyne said slowly. “What comes after … is of no importance. What comes after, he will deal with after.”

“Alone? In a field surrounded by John’s men and the Dragon’s paid mercenaries? There will be nothing to
deal with
, my lord, for a single cold command will loose a hundred arrows from a hundred bows, and he will be dead with little of the chivalry and honour he claims to hold so dear.”

The pauses were growing longer, the shadowy details of La Seyne’s figure were becoming more distinct. Now she could not only see the shape of his mask, but the way the force of each shallow breath caused the silk to swell and recede against his mouth.