Through a Dark Mist (23 page)

“You would wish to reconsider the terms of the betrothal agreement?”

“I would wish to release you from all promises, my lord,” she corrected him quietly. “Your good name must not be besmirched by the stain my own now bears.”

Behind them, Nicolaa de la Haye smiled with satisfaction. Her smug good humour lasted only until she saw Wardieu lean forward with studious care and bring Servanne de Briscourt up off her knees.

“I appreciate your concerns for my good name, Lady Servanne, but be assured I am well able to defend it myself. As far as I am concerned, nothing has happened to make me any less determined to share it with you in holy wedlock.”

“I … do not want your pity, monseigneur.”

“I reserve my pity for fools and cripples. In my opinion, you are neither. Nor should you be held accountable for the actions of a depraved outlaw. I am satisfied the terms of the marriage contract have been met. It is my wish that we put this unpleasantness behind us as quickly as possible and look only at what lies ahead.” He paused and tucked a finger beneath her chin. “Unless of course, it was never your wish to marry me, in which case, I would not force you to do so now against your will.”

Servanne’s senses were reeling. “You would allow me to return to Wymondham?”

“My lady, if, in the few short days remaining before our wedding is to take place, you cannot reconcile yourself with the idea of becoming my wife, I will escort you back to Wymondham myself.”

Servanne searched the depths of his eyes for signs of duplicity, for any hint he was someone other than the man he claimed to be … but if there was something there, it eluded her. It gave her little comfort, however, for evidence of him possessing any other shreds of emotion eluded her as well and she was left with the chilling impression he knew only hate and anger.

“I … will accept your hospitality, of course,” she whispered. “Until then.”

“Good. Then it is settled. My men are making preparations, even as we speak, to break camp and return to Blood-moor with all haste.”

“Bloodmoor?” Biddy gasped. “In this weather? I absolutely forbid it!”

The blue eyes turned crystalline as they moved slowly from Servanne’s face to focus on Biddy.

“I cannot allow it,” she said, displaying an unusual disregard for self-preservation. “I cannot conceive of such a heartless notion. Why, we have just escaped a wolf’s lair where our lives and safety were in constant peril! Can you not see my poor lamb is exhausted? Would you ask her— even though her legs wobble with the effort required to simply stand before you—to clamber up upon a horse’s back and endure what additional torments such a heinous journey would surely extoll?”

“You … forbid it, you say?”

Biddy thrust out her prodigious bosoms stubbornly. “My lady requires rest and solitude, peace and undisturbed sleep if it is to be hoped she may begin to recover from her ordeal.”

Wardieu clearly looked as if he might like to knock one or both fists against the side of Biddy’s head, but he nodded, barely perceptibly at first, then with somewhat more conviction as a precipitous crash of thunder shook the abbey to its foundations.

“The weather shows no sign of improving, as I had hoped,” he conceded. “And even with Lucifer at our heel we would not reach Bloodmoor before midnight. Very well, we will take advantage of Abbot Hugo’s kindness one more night.”

A second nod to someone who had arrive unseen in the doorway, brought Sir Roger de Chesnai hastening into the chamber and dropping instantly onto one knee to greet the Lady Servanne.

“Sir Roger!” She smiled with genuine affection for the first time in a week. “You are recovered from your wound?”

“’Twas nothing, milady. A pinprick scarce worth a leech’s fees.”

“You will remain with Lady Servanne and see to any comforts she may require,” said Wardieu. “Deliver my warm regards to Abbot Hugo and tell him we will be vacating his field at dawn; have him also prepare either a coffin or a litter for the sheriff at that time.”

“Aye, my lord. It shall be as you ask.”

“Lady Servanne,” De Gournay bowed to her again. “Your own guard will remain with you for the night. I trust their presence will ease your mind of some burden.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered. “I did not mean to imply—”

But he was gone, swept out of the chamber with a swirl of his blue silk mantle. Nicolaa de la Haye was a pace behind, taking two steps to each one of his, her voice reduced to a low growl by anger.

“Are you not going to ask her about the Wolf? You were bristling with questions the whole morning long, and now you mean to just walk away?”

“The old witch was right,” he said thoughtfully. “She was in no condition to be badgered.”

“Badgered?” The disbelief in Nicolaa’s expression caused her to slow her steps. “Every hour we delay gives him an hour more to plot against us. Why, in heaven’s name, did you not send your men back to Thornfeld immediately upon your return with the chit? Why did you not attack and burn them out when you had the chance?”

“Because there was no chance, Nicolaa. He would undoubtedly have moved his camp the instant we rode away. What is more, he and his men have had eight weeks to familiarize themselves with the forest. They could have picked my men off one at a time and laughed out of the sides of their mouths while doing it.”

“But the girl—maybe she knows something. Maybe she knows where they would have moved. And if she does, we must have the information from her now.”

Wardieu stopped and glared. “And if she knows nothing more? Will not your incessant questions and jealous ravings only rouse her to wonder if there was more to it than a simple kidnapping?”

“You speak to me as if I were a child!”

“You are acting childish, you leave me little choice.” He stared down at her glowering countenance a moment longer, then walked back the few paces to where she stood. “There will be no more games, Nicolaa. No sly remarks. No taunting, no teasing. No gossip. The girl is here and I intend to marry her as planned. I intend to legally assume title and deed to Sir Hubert’s fiefdom and, by God, if I choose to bed her before, during, or after the wedding ceremony, there is absolutely nothing you can say or do to stop me. In fact”— he cupped her chin in one of his hands and forced her to raise her blazing green eyes to his—“if these jealous rages of yours persist, I will not only make a point of bedding her every hour upon the hour but I will do so with you bound and gagged and lying alongside us. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Nicolaa’s thick black lashes lowered slightly. “Perfectly, my lord.”

“What?” Wardieu ground his teeth at the sweetness of her voice. “What did you say?”

“I said … if you want the chit that badly, by all means have her.”

Wardieu was instantly on his guard. It was not like Nicolaa to give in so easily, and certainly not with regard to another woman. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a low, iron-bound oak door leading off the corridor and, after thrusting it open and ensuring the small room was empty, he grabbed Nicolaa by the arm and ushered her inside. It was a storeroom of some kind, with shelves lining the walls holding an assortment of crockery jars and twine-bound stacks of parchment. Light from a low, arch-shaped window covered in panes of pressed horn, reduced everything to the texture and colour of pond scum with the exception of the two angry faces, livid and occasionally blue-white through flashes of lightning.

“Admit it, my love,” Nicolaa seethed. “You find the chit interesting.”

“She has a comely enough face,” he agreed.

“Comely?” Nicolaa backed up closer to the window. “You find pale and insipid …
comely?
I vow she will prove to be a frigid little cullion—did you not see the way she shrank from your touch? The first time she sees you naked, I warrant there will be a stinking puddle around her feet, especially if your brother was less than feather-gentle with her.”

Wardieu grasped her shoulders between his hands. “You will be civil to her, Nicolaa. You will be sweet as honey and do everything within your power to see she feels welcome.”

“And if she does not? If she decides she would rather run away back to Wymondham?”

“She will not,” he said evenly. “We will both endeavour to ensure she will not.”

“I do not like her!”

“You do not have to like her. You
do
have to accept her.”

“Never.”

Wardieu’s hands squeezed harder. “She is to be my wife.”

“A temporary inconvenience.”

“Perhaps.”

The green eyes glanced up sharply. “What do you mean
… perhaps?”

Wardieu smiled thinly and released her shoulders. “She has good blood. Sir Hubert had strong ties with William of Pembroke and, in fact, it was the old marshal himself who gave final approval for the marriage in Richard’s stead.”

“So?”

“So …” He arched a tawny brow. “One simply does not toss her from the ramparts at the earliest convenience. One might even consider it prudent to breed a child or two on her first. Bloodmoor needs an heir. The future of the De Gournay name and title must be secured.”

Nicolaa gaped at the golden-haired warrior openmouthed. On more occasions than she cared to remember over the past fourteen years, she had been obliged to seek the skills of herb-women versed in the ways and means of scouring unwanted seeds from the womb. Wardieu had made it abundantly clear he wanted no part of fatherhood. One of the carefully guarded secrets she had paid heavily to learn was that he habitually made gifts to D’Aeth of the women foolish enough to boast of carrying his seed. Now, suddenly, he wanted heirs? Now, when her own womb had been scoured so many times she was barren?

Controlling her fury, she turned her face into a lightning-bright flash of illumination from the window. Rain was beating as savagely on the horn panes as her heart was beating within her breast, and she was thankful for the diversion.

“You made certain promises to me,” she reminded him tersely.

“They have been honoured. You have more wealth, more power, more influence than any other woman in the reeve. And you know full well as soon as your devoted husband relinquishes his soul to the Devil—what in God’s name is keeping him alive, I would ask?—you shall have a good deal more.”

Nicolaa angled her face enough to slant her eyes up at him. “Sheriff?”

“I can think of no man better suited to the task. Even Prince John agreed, on his last visit, there is good reason for the people of Lincoln to fear and respect your wrath. Methinks he fears you a little himself.”

Nicolaa knew she was being placated, thrown tidbits to sooth her vanity and win her cooperation. Then again, it was good to know he felt a need to placate her.

“I will have full claim to the title? Full power? Full authority?”

“You will be able to order the flesh stripped from any deserving lout between here and London if the mood suits you. Even an undeserving lout, for that matter, if it pleases you.”

Nicolaa experienced a flush of giddiness at the thought of the power lying within her grasp. Onfroi had been a weak and indecisive agent of the king. He actually grew pale and belched vomit while witnessing the putting out of eyes or the paring of flesh with hot knives. Once, when she had ordered the chest of a murderer split open so that she might hold the warm, beating heart in her hands, Onfroi had swooned away like a virgin.

“Money?” she asked, looking up again.

“As much as you can levy in taxes without cheating John of his due.”

Seeing the faint smile on his lips, Nicolaa’s temper prickled to the surface again. “It will hardly compensate me for all these years of loyalty and compliance.”

Wardieu laughed outright. “You are loyal only unto yourself, Nicolaa. As for being compliant”—his gaze roved down to the voluptuous outline of her breasts—“I do not recall ever having to force you into my bed, nor ever demanding a pledge of faithfulness from you.”

“I was as faithful as I could be under the circumstances,” she said, taking exception to his sarcasm.

“Circumstances that included a groomsman hung like one of his stallions, and a seneschal who makes D’Aeth look like a gamecock?”

Nicolaa moistened her lips. “I was not going to pine away my life waiting upon you to send for me. Furthermore, I do not recall you ever going too long without a maidservant or two clawing at your shoulders.”

“You always had Onfroi.”

“Onfroi? Saints assoil me, a pity the arrow could not have struck lower—at least he would have died with something hard sticking out from between his thighs.”

“Such loving concern,” Wardieu mused. “And him lying so near death the monks have twice annointed him in preparation for the shrouds. Have you no sympathy for his suffering at all?”

“Because the fool lies there spitted like a capon, am I supposed to hover about him wiping away the snot and breathing air befouled by fever and pus? Is it any fault of mine he was shot in your stead? Indeed, perhaps it is you who should be hovering and chanting mea culpas.”

“Perhaps. Although we cannot be certain the arrow was intended for me.”

“Not for you? Then who—me?”

“It is likely, is it not, for my brother to have recruited a few local malefactors to help familiarize him with the forests again? There was a face yesterday … one of the archers he had placed on the abbey walls … it bore a scar on the cheek.”

“A thousand men bear scars,” she retorted dryly.

“Shaped to the initial
N
by a loving hand?”

Nicolaa turned fully around. The significance of the
N
was directly related to a quirk of her own vanity; it was the brand normally reserved for women whose beauty was deemed to be a threat in some way.

“Are you implying he numbers women among his archers?”

“Only one that I saw, and then only if mine eyes were not too blinded by the passions of the moment. Is it so entirely outside the bounds of reason to believe a woman could learn to hold a bow as well as a man, or that a woman could have just as much reason to hate as a man? On the other hand, the culprit was using a longbow to keep my ballocks properly shriveled to the saddle; not an easy weapon for a man to master at the best of times.”