Through a Dark Mist (22 page)

Servanne bowed her head to muffle the sound of her sobbed breaths in the folds of her cloak. If Wardieu heard them, or questioned their cause, he made no attempt to offer solace by word or gesture. He rode in the lead of the small, miserable procession—a sullen, brooding figure whose flowing blue mantle belled from his shoulders to his horse’s rump, giving him neither shape nor substance below the conical steel helmet.

Biddy rode in the rear, berating her own inadequacies as matron and guardian, intoning prayer upon prayer until Servanne’s nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point.

They rode through the dark mist, and, as if there was not enough grief to contend with, the skies cracked open on a jagged fork of blue-white lightning and after a few moments of thundrous sound without fury, the deluge soaked its way through the overhead branches and began pelting the earth with icy lancets of rain.

   The Black Wolf of Lincoln tilted his chin upward and let the rain beat down on his face. The welt from Servanne’s slashing reins stung vividly where the flesh was torn, and where the blood had not yet congealed it was washed down his neck in a reddish smear.

He leaned his weight briefly on the top of his longbow and pressed his brow against the comforting tension of the resined string.

“It had to be done,” Friar said quietly. “You could not have kept her with us. Nor could you have sent her away with stars in her eyes and a keening lament for lost love in her heart; the Dragon would have seen it in a minute and either killed her outright for the insult, or kept her alive long enough to use her against you. God knows, if a man’s heart is his weakness, a woman’s anger is her strength.”

“I know,” the Wolf said wearily. “I know. But will she be strong enough?”

Friar pursed his lips thoughtfully. “How angry did you make her?”

“Angry.”

“Enough to make her want to strike out with more than just a leather strap? Enough to spill everything to the Dragon in a rampage against you, including your recommendation of La Seyne’s trustworthiness?”

The Wolf glanced over, his questioning frown confirming Friar’s supposition.

“I did not think you would just throw her to the lions without giving her some avenue of escape,” he remarked dryly. “I only hope she does nothing foolish with the confidence.”

“For that, I will rely on my brother’s own arrogance. Instinct tells me by tomorrow he will have convinced himself he has come away from here the victor. Since he is incapable of feeling compassion, he will not show any to Lady Servanne, and it is
my
hope she will then see enough of the real Etienne Wardieu to be on her guard.”

“You are risking a great deal on instinct.”

“It has kept me alive longer than my enemies care to believe.”

With the gloom and the rain there was not much he could see of the Wolf’s expression, but what he could see gave Friar an uncomfortable feeling of walking too near the edge of a cliff.

“You … did not tell her about the Princess Eleanor, did you?” he asked slowly.

The Wolf straightened and glared at his companion. “I may have been behaving like a fool these past few days, but I have not completely forsaken my senses.” He saw the look in Friar’s eye and sighed. “Perhaps I did mention the attempt to steal Prince Arthur from Mirebeau, but”—he held up a hand to forstall Friar’s aghast interruption—“like everyone else, she assumes both children were returned to the queen’s protection unharmed. She has no reason to suspect the Princess Eleanor is anywhere but in Brittany with her grandmother.”

Friar continued to stare, prompting the Wolf to vent his temper on a hiss of air. “You act as if this was all my doing! As if I had a hand in kidnapping the children; as if I knew beforehand of Lackland’s plans to use a threat of death against Arthur in order to force the queen to throw her support behind John being declared Richard’s successor.” He paused and wiped angrily at the rain coursing down his brow. “Moreover, when John realized his plans were foiled and the best he could hope to gain was a ransom for the return of the Princess of Brittany, you would think I personally volunteered the services of La Seyne Sur Mer to oversee the exchange!”

“No. You only volunteered to come to England beforehand under the guise of having once been familiar with Lincoln and its surrounds.”

“The queen approved the idea.”

“Only because she thought you might be able to find some way to rescue the princess without her having to pay a ransom she can ill afford. She was not aware nor advised that her captain of the guard boasted intimate knowledge of Lucien Wardieu and Bloodmoor Keep.”

“Prince John chose Bloodmoor to make the exchange because he thought a wedding of such prominence would afford the perfect camouflage for his political intrigues. La Seyne was chosen by Queen Eleanor to deliver the ransom and collect the princess because she knows Lackland would not dare any of his tricks or double crosses against the Scourge of Mirebeau. All of this was decided long before I was even told the identity of the master of Bloodmoor Keep!”

“Aye, and when you found out, you could not resist planting a thorn in the Dragon’s side.”

“I have done nothing to jeopardize La Seyne’s mission in England.”

“You call it nothing to steal the Dragon’s bride and have him empty his castle of mercenaries to overturn the country side in search of you? You call it nothing to fall in love with the girl yourself and thereby give us all two reasons to risk our lives instead of just the one?”

“I have asked no one else to risk their life for Servanne de Briscourt,” the Wolf retorted. “And who the devil says I am in love with her?”

“Well if you are not in love, you are giving a good imitation of a boiled fowl. And what is wrong with being in love? What is wrong with admitting you are human?”

The Wolf glared for a long moment. “I do not have time to be human.”

“Aye. That much has been obvious for the past ten years. It is a malady that appears to be contagious.”

Friar walked away, brushing past the approaching Gil Golden, making her the innocent recipient of a meaningful scowl.

The Wolf watched him go, his expression grim, his nerves drawn so taut, Gil had only to look at the whiteness of his knuckles to know she was better off seeking conversation elsewhere.

16

Servanne was thoroughly soaked and iced to the bone by the time they arrived at the encampment at Alford. Wardieu had not stopped when he met up with his men again in the forest. Despite the rain and the condition of the two women, he had wordlessly ridden through the huddle of dripping, frowning mercenaries and left them scrambling for their mounts in his wake.

Aching, exhausted, numbed in body and spirit, Servanne was scarcely aware of being deposited at the gates of the abbey, or of the helpful, concerned hands of the monks who fussed about her like vexed peahens. Two of her waiting-women, Giselle and Helvise, had been sequestered at the abbey since the ambush, and greeted their returning mistress with weeping and prayers of thanksgiving. Servanne’s clothes were quickly removed and a fire stoked beneath the huge oaken barrel that served as a laundry tub for the monks.

Biddy, as exhausted and stiff of limb as she was, took personal command of the maids while they tended her lamb, ordering a gentler touch here, and more care in scrubbing there. She frowned and clucked her tongue through waves of despair and self-recrimination when Servanne made little or no response to the helping hands. Her eyes filled and her nose leaked each time she noted a bruise or chafed patch of redness on the perfect whiteness of her lady’s skin.

The sleeping chambers at the abbey were hardly more accommodating than the chambers at Thornfeld. Bare stone walls, bare earthen floor, a single candle, and a narrow wooden cot were the essentials provided by the monks. Clean linens, armloads of thick quilts and feather cushions arrived from the encampment on the hillside, along with trenchers of soup, cheese, and meat sufficient to cause the monks’ eyes to water as they carried the repast to the lady’s chamber.

Servanne’s belly turned over at the thought of food. She did consume a healthy portion of strong, warmed mead in the hour it took Giselle and Helvise to comb her hair into a sleek golden cascade. By then her eyelids were so heavy and her thoughts so dulled, she could barely see the feet at the end of her legs as she was led from the chair to the sleeping couch.

She was asleep before the quilts were drawn over her shoulders.

   Come morning, it was still raining. The sky was an oppressive mantle of cloud, with low, metallic-green underbellies rumbling constantly with thunder. Servanne opened her eyes briefly around midmorning, but since there was nothing to greet her aside from blank stone walls and Biddy’s open-mouthed snoring, she closed them again and slept until well past noon. A summons was conveyed from the abbot’s refectory shortly thereafter: The Baron de Gournay was there, awaiting a private audience with Lady Servanne de Briscourt.

“What shall I do, Biddy?” Servanne whispered. “What shall I say to him?”

“Do? Why, you shall do nothing, my lady. He cannot possibly hold you to blame for any of this. If anything, he should bear the greater burden of guilt for having permitted such a travesty to occur on his lands. He should prostrate himself on the ground at your feet and beg forgiveness. You should have been better safeguarded. He must have known the forests were unsafe. He must have known they were populated by murderers, thieves, and rogues. He should have had them burned out and their hiding places razed to the ground rather than endure the risk of having our cavalcade ambushed! No, no, my lady. You must not meet him with guilt in your breast and a plea for penance in your eyes. This was none of your doing. None at all!”

Servanne sighed wearily as the diatribe continued on behind her. Obviously Biddy had exonerated them in her own mind. For women to be kidnapped and held to ransom was almost an accepted method for two enemies to exchange hostilities. The resultant outrage and sympathy, if any, was usually directed toward the man whose pride and honour had been blemished. Rarely did anyone consider the poor woman’s feelings or even acknowledge the fact that she had been the one to suffer the most throughout the ordeal.

Servanne’s plight would be regarded no differently. After all, she had been neither a virgin nor bound to Christ by vows of chastity and purity. She had been fair game to anyone who sought to tickle Wardieu’s nose for revenge or profit, and her own anguish would be forgotten in a day or so, dismissed by men whose ire would be roused in defense of Wardieu’s tarnished honour. That was how the world would see it, how Biddy had worked to convince herself to see it, and how Servanne would be expected to accept it now that she was back, safe and sound, under Lord Wardieu’s protection.

The trouble was, she did not accept it. She felt angry at being used and betrayed, but she was also hurt and confused, and the last thing she wanted to have to do now was face the knight who called himself Lucien Wardieu, especially when her mind and body were filled with the essence of the rogue who sought to challenge that claim.

Arriving at the threshold of the small antechamber set aside as Abbot Hugo’s sanctum, Servanne was halted by a rush of torn emotions. The Baron de Gournay was standing in front of the miserly fire that had been built in the corner alcove. The light from the solitary window was dim at best, the air murky with smoke and dampness, the crack and hiss of the weak flames adding nothing to the sinister atmosphere but a sour smell.

As she stared at his broad back, she realized he was easily as tall as the Black Wolf, disturbingly as long-limbed and muscular. He had abandoned the glittering ominousness of chain mail for a rich velvet surcoat and a long-sleeved doublet. Well-fitting hose shaped the powerful thickness of his thighs and calves, while low deerhide boots moulded his feet like slippers. His head was bare; the gleaming gold waves of his hair curled to the top of his collar, lying like fine silk against the dark blue velvet.

A second movement, deeper in the shadows, startled Servanne’s gaze to the opposite side of the chamber. Her surprise was not diminished in finding the dark green gaze of a woman had been studying her with the same silent intensity she had been studying Wardieu. The look in Nicolaa de la Haye’s eyes did not invite any attempt at speech. Rather, it commanded Servanne to stand and endure a slow, increasingly disapproving inspection that climbed from the hem of her subdued, modest gown to the embroidered linen headpiece that capped her wimple.

“Lucien, darling.” The full scarlet lips curved into a semblance of a smile. “The moment of truth has arrived at long last.”

A frown of annoyance was cast sidelong at Nicolaa, then, realizing they were no longer alone in the airless chamber, Wardieu turned fully around.

Regardless of the Wolf’s forewarning of a resemblance between the two, seeing Wardieu’s face without the impediments of the steel helm or the gloom of the forest, was enough to send Servanne’s hand digging into Biddy’s for much-needed support. The stern line of the jaw was the same, as was the width and authority of the brow. The straightness of the nose, the resolute firmness of the mouth bespoke a long and shared ancestry of noble Norman blood. Moreover, Servanne found herself drawn deeply and helplessly into eyes that were dangerously familiar in raw, sensual magnetism. Instead of being pewter gray, steeped in quiet secrets, these were a stunning cerulean blue, hard as gemstones and equally rich in self-esteem.

“Good God,” Nicolaa murmured, drifting closer to where Servanne stood. The contrast of the young widow’s plain woolen gown with her own richly woven and embroidered silks seemed to please the beauteous Lady de la Haye, as did the comparative lack of shapeliness beneath the dull homespun. “Ten thousand marks does not buy much these days, does it? Just as well you were saved the expense, my lord.”

“Leave the girl alone, Nicolaa,” he commanded softly. “She has been through enough already without having to contend with your cat’s claws.”

Nicolaa smirked faintly as she looked down and busied one red-stained talon with scraping some hint of dirt out from beneath the crescent of another.

Wardieu moved away from the fire, his eyes narrowing against the gloom as Servanne’s features grew more distinct. What little he had previously recalled about his betrothed had not inspired him to regard her too closely upon her release to him. Nor had it prepared him for the smooth, translucent complexion he saw now, or the delicate oval of her face with its sweetly arched mouth. Her eyes were a darker hue than his own, the blue flecked with tiny triangles of gold and green, but he had already seen them sparked to deepest sapphire with anger and could not help but wonder if passion would have the same effect.

This last speculation took him by surprise and was reflected in the timbre of his voice as he bowed low over her hand and pressed his lips to her cool fingers.

“My lady, I praise God you have been returned to us unharmed.”

Servanne dared not look up into his spellbinding stare. It was all she could do to hold her wits together to face the questions she knew he would ask her. He would ask. There was no question but that he would ask, the only question was whether she could answer without betraying herself.

“Unharmed?”
It was Biddy’s voice, coming her rescue. “Indeed there was not a sense or sensibility
left
unharmed! The food was spoiled and malodourous, crawling with vermin. The wine was as rancid as vinegar, the rushes we slept on so mouldy and slimy with rat droppings, it will take a vat of steamed rose petals to cleanse the stench from our nostrils. Why, another day in the hands of those … those rogues and villains and ’tis a certainty my lady would not have had the strength to draw another breath. See how pale my poor lamb has become? See how frail and ill she has fallen? Oh, I cannot even bring myself to recount the horrors she was subjected to in the company of that beast! That brute! That … that
wolf!
Black-hearted and cruel he was; cunning as the pox and as likely to come upon you unawares despite his size, by the bloody rood.”

She paused to trumpet her nose into the hem of her apron, and the knight regarded her puffed countenance with a smile that did not quite touch his eyes.

“This … Black Wolf, as he called himself,” Wardieu asked, “Did you ever hear another name used? A Christian name, perhaps?”

“He called himself Lucien Wardieu,” Biddy recalled with a sniff of outrage. “But only the once, and only at the beginning, to shock us, methinks. Why, any soul with half an eye could see he was no more noble born than a farm mule, and the fact he chose you, my lord, to support his charade, proves he is no smarter than the selfsame ass. Who, in all of England, does not know the Baron de Gournay by sight? Who does not know of your courage, your honour, your strength? Why—”

“Yes, yes. I thank you for your commendations, good-wife,” Wardieu interrupted, then looked from the maid to Servanne. “My lady? Surely he used some other name in your presence?”

Servanne’s heart jumped upward to lodge at the base of her throat. “In truth, my lord, he only called himself Lucien Wardieu, as Biddy has said.”

“Did you not question his usage?” Nicolaa asked with a sneer. “A man committing crimes in the name of your betrothed should at least have roused some curiosity.”

Servanne looked at her calmly. “I spoke to the outlaw as seldom as possible.”

“What about when you were beneath him? Did you not ask what name he would prefer you cry out?”

Servanne flushed a deep red but held her tongue, fully expecting Wardieu to rise to her defense. After a long moment, when nothing was forthcoming over and above Biddy’s renewed sobs of despair, she looked at De Gournay, only to find him returning her gaze as calmly as if they were discussing a recent repast.

The Wolf had said he and Nicolaa were lovers. If it was true, it would explain Nicolaa de la Haye’s open hostility. It also made Servanne wonder what kind of man would bring his mistress to a meeting with his future bride.

“Bastard,” she said evenly. “I called him bastard. What would you call a man who used you and flung you aside like a scrap of soiled linen?”

Nicolaa arched a raven brow. “I might call him
lover
, if he was any good.”

Servanne’s cheeks were flushed, her hands were balled into fists. There was the bitter, coppery taste of blood in her mouth from where she had bitten down on the fleshy pulp of her lip, but instead of tearing Nicolaa de la Haye’s throat out, shred by shred, as she longed to do, she startled everyone present in the chamber by sinking slowly down onto her knees in front of De Gournay.

“Good my lord, I am most deeply grateful for everything you have done on my behalf.”

“My lady—?”

“Even so, I would beg one more small favour of you.”

Wardieu looked down upon the bowed head, a puzzled frown gathering across his brow. “What is this … favour?”

Servanne tilted her face upward, the shine of unshed tears bright in her eyes. “If you could but spare me the necessary escort to see me safely back to Wymondham, I would gladly compensate both you and your men for any inconvenience you have been caused.”

“You would prefer to return to Sir Hubert’s estates?” he asked in amazement.

“I cannot, in faith, remain here, my lord. Not when I am no longer worthy of your … respect, or … consideration.”