Through a Dark Mist (27 page)

“Solely due to Lucien’s efforts, I was cleared of the charge of murder—and mine is not the only such tale to be told. All of the men who follow him—Sparrow, Robert, Mutter and Stutter—all of them owe him a debt of trust and loyalty which can never be repaid. Even Gil, stubborn as she is, would never have been accepted into the band if not for Lucien.”

Servanne halted him with a frown.
“She?
Gil Golden is a woman?”

Friar cursed the slip, but after a moment, nodded. “As pigheaded as any man I have ever laid an eye to, but aye, she’s a woman.”

Servanne was beyond reacting to any more surprises. “So. He saved your life, became the benefactor for a band of misfits and recalcitrants, and lives a life of assured comfort in service to Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. All applaudable achievements, sirrah, but despoiled nonetheless by his current misdeeds.”

“Granted, his methods are sometimes … questionable, to say the least, but he is as honest and honourable a man as I have ever come across, and loyal to the death to people who matter to him.”

Servanne challenged the softened tone of his voice. “Are you trying to tell me I matter to him?”

“Mock me for a fool if you like, my lady, but I would go so far as to suggest the heartless rogue is in love with you.”

“Your jest is cruel, m’sieur,” Servanne said, her cheeks flaming hotly. “He is in love with no one save himself. If he were … if he were at all
concerned
for my welfare, why did he not send me away from this place instead of handing me over like a platter of rare meat?”

“Why does any man cut off his nose to spite his face? If he kept you with him, he would have had to admit he loved you, and I do not think he was prepared to admit it, even to himself.”

“Then how can
you
be so sure?” she demanded.

Friar’s grin was self-effacing. “I recognize the symptoms … in both of you.”

“Both! You
are
mad! I do not love him. I do not even like him! What is more, I doubt it would draw a tear if I never saw him or heard his name—
whatever it might be
—ever again!”

Friar studied the adamantly squared shoulders she presented to him, and scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Then you will not want to know he will be here, inside Bloodmoor, the day of the wedding.”

“He is coming here?” she gasped. “To the castle? But how …? When …?”

“How is not important,” Alaric began, but was cut off by an exclamation of dismay.

“Not important! Lord Wardieu has given orders everyone must be stopped, questioned, and his identity verified before being admitted to the castle grounds. You have seen the number of guards who patrol the walls and towers—they have already been doubled since we arrived, and there was talk today of taking even stronger measures to avoid any
unwanted surprises.”

Friar nodded as if they were all valid arguments he had heard before. “He is counting on La Seyne’s presence to see him through the sentry checks. Mirebeau has four score men under his command, a few more will not be noticed.”

“La Seyne,” she despaired. “Is he as mad as everyone else?”

“Madder,” Friar agreed grimly. A short inner debate took place behind the dark brown eyes before he took her hands gently in his and added, “My lady, we have all known, from the instant Lucien learned of his brother’s presence here at Bloodmoor Keep, he would not—could not—rest until one or both of them were dead. He is arrogant and proud and stubborn, and when he gets a thing in his head, it is devilish hard to dislodge it or turn him on a new course. Death does that to you, and he came as close to dying as a man can come without touching the hand of God. There is nothing you or I can do to stop this thing from happening. Nothing at all.”

Servanne continued gazing up into his eyes for what seemed like an eternity, her own filling with bright, fierce tears of denial. She jerked her hands out of his and backed up several steps.

“La Seyne,” she cried. “La Seyne could stop it by killing De Gournay himself.”

A second small battle was waged in the depths of Friar’s eyes before he answered. “La Seyne will be pleased to hear the Dragon has accepted his challenge, but it will be Lucien who rides onto the field to face his brother.”

“What?” Servanne’s voice was scarcely more than a ragged breath. “What did you say?”

“La Seyne’s business here is with Prince John, and when it is concluded—”

“Business? What business?”

“It … is not my place to tell you, my lady. It would not be safe for you to know. Suffice it to say the tournament and challenge will serve to keep the Dragon’s attention diverted elsewhere. Already he has abandoned his guests to concentrate on the practice fields, and word of the match has spread outside the castle walls, sure to bring great crowds to the castle—crowds he could no more keep outside the walls than a paper dam could control a tide. Crowds bring confusion, and confusion breeds mistakes.”

“Everything has been so carefully thought out, has it not?” she said bleakly. “Even to sending you here in your bishop’s robes to warm my heart with promises of love and loyalty. But what if he fails? What if, after all his clever scheming and manipulating, he is no match for De Gournay? What if the wrong man survives to walk off the field? You and La Seyne and your merry band of havoc-makers will ride away and seek other noble horizons to conquer … but what will become of those you leave behind? What will become of me?”

“Lucien has already made provisions—”

“Provisions! He has made provisions!” Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again on an oath of incredulity.
“He
… has made provisions without even troubling to ask if I wanted them?”

“He assumed …” Friar began, his voice trailing off uncomfortably.

“He assumed? When did he start taking it upon himself to assume what I would or would not want?”

Friar’s complexion darkened perceptibly.

“I see. Because he bedded me, he thinks he now owns me?”

“No. No, I am sure he does not—”
“My lady! My lady!”

Startled by the outcry, both Alaric and Servanne whirled toward the door, but at the sight of young Geoffrey’s flushed face, Friar’s hand slid discreetly away from the handle of the knife he wore concealed beneath his robes.

“Many pardons, my lady, my lord bishop … but I was dispatched to inform you Prince John has arrived! He is here, in the great hall, and my lord Wardieu requests your attendance there at once.”

Alaric looked deeply into Servanne’s eyes, holding steady for several long moments.

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” she said softly. “And thank you, my lord bishop, for all your kind words of comfort; you have given me much to contemplate over the next few days.”

Alaric set his jaw against the desire to respond, and instead, merely bowed his head and murmured a parting benediction.

19

Servanne de Briscourt, in the company of her late husband, had been presented to Prince John the previous summer, but like her original memory of the Baron de Gournay, his exact image was somewhat ragged about the edges. Yet she had no difficulty in picking John Lackland out from amongst the throng of knights and lords who formed his entourage. The Plantagenet bloodlines, known for producing fair-haired men and women of exceptional beauty, had erred in moulding John, the fifth son of Eleanor and Henry. His hair was black, with shiny tufts of it spreading down his neck and emerging from his wrists to darken the backs of his hands and knuckles. His face was leaning toward fleshiness, a result of his fondness for food, wine, and hedonistic excesses. A wide, smooth brow hinted at nobility, but the sharply pointed nose and black, sunken eyes gave credence to the charges of cruelty and obsessive behavior he was known for.

His hand, when it was extended to Servanne, was long and thin, the palm clammy and the nails gnawed back to the quick. It was rumoured he suffered fits of apoplexy, some lasting days on end when nothing and no one was safe in his presence. Conversely he could lapse into great periods of lethargy when he rarely left his bed or lifted so much as a hand to feed himself. If his moods were erratic, so too was his selection of knights who were regarded with favour from one day to the next. Held high in esteem in the first week, an unlucky knave could find himself thrown in irons the next and left to starve to death for whatever his crime, real or imagined, might have been.

There were few men he feared or respected. William Pembroke, the Marshal of England, was one of those men and possibly the only deterrent to John’s bleeding every last coin and copper from England’s peasantry. As it was, he increased taxes at every turn, pleading poverty and using the excuse of Richard’s crusading ventures to raise financing. As regent, he could and did levy taxes on everything from bread to breathing. His enemies he reduced to penniless vagrants; his friends—of whom there were few—were lavished with rewards and grew as wealthy and influential as John’s sense of paranoia would allow.

Servanne had, in the beginning, been both awed and flattered to learn the prince would be a guest at Bloodmoor for her wedding, naively assuming his presence would offer a certain decorum and prestige.

More recently—as recent as the few minutes she had taken out in the gallery to compose her racing pulsebeat—she had even toyed with a small hope the prince would respond to an appeal to intervene on her behalf and, if not rescind the betrothal agreement outright, at least postpone the formalities until her plea could be sent to Richard.

Her first sight of John Lackland shattered any idea of approaching him to ask a favour. His eyes had ravished her to the bare bone before her presentation had even commenced; his lascivious grin had told her precisely what manner of payment he would expect in return for the simplest request she might make of him.

Moreover, it had been John’s influence over his brother— who could not be troubled himself in arranging such matters —that had won Servanne de Briscourt and her considerable dowry for Lucien Wardieu. Several other suitors had put forth their bids for her hand; some had even been generous enough to cause the prince a second thought. But he had granted the prize to his champion, De Gournay, and there was little hope she could appeal to either his greed or-his ambition to win a delay.

Nor was the mood exactly conducive to serious discussions. By the time Servanne and her maidservants had descended to the great hall, a drunken revelry was well under way. Since he was renowned for his carnal appetites, she was not unprepared to see more women than men in attendance upon the prince. Also obvious were his preferred attributes in his companions, for there was hardly a bodice seam not stretched to its utmost and bursting to set its contents free, hardly an unblemished face above the age of seventeen.

It actually afforded the one spot of warmth in the unfolding events, to see the high flush in Nicolaa de la Haye’s cheeks. Her bold sensuality was rendered less startling in the midst of so many smooth, clear complexions and bright, avaricious eyes. The surrounding bevy of youth and gaiety had set the aging beauty’s teeth on edge and caused more than one shrill reprimand to send a servant weeping from the room.

Servanne was so warmed by her rival’s discomfort, she almost missed the sole bowed head in the prince’s entourage.

Because there was no distinct fashion for children to wear, they were usually dressed as small replicas of men and women. Thus, the child who stood so quietly between two of John’s advisers, wore a gown of blue baudequin styled along the same seductive lines as those worn by the older women. Her straight waist was girded in gold links, her train was long and swirled demurely around her tiny slippered feet. Her wimple fit snugly to chin and cheeks, outlining a face that promised great beauty in the coming years. Sky-blue eyes and pale lashes suggested the child shared Servanne’s own fair colouring, enough so they might have been construed as sisters … or mother and daughter, since a further inspection placed the child’s age at no more than eight or nine.

Faint stirrings of disgust shadowed Servanne’s eyes as she saw how uncomfortably the girl stood in the company of bloated, leering men and women. Darker thoughts were confined to the tautness of her lips as Servanne looked at Prince John and recalled stories of his lewdness and debauchery. It was not so unusual for girls of eleven or twelve years to be married off to older men, although the actual consummation at such a young age was hardly considered to be gratifying, or manly. For the prince to keep a child so young by his side, to flaunt her along with his whores left a galling taste in Servanne’s throat.

“Ahh … lovely, lovely,” John said, his wet hands catching hold of Servanne’s to draw her attention back to himself. “My Dragon Lord has chosen well. She seems a touch on the thin side, Wardieu,” he added in an aside, “but I trust you will have no trouble plumping her up in short order.”

The laughter that accompanied John’s suggestive caress of his own burgeoning belly caused Servanne to notice how his teeth, green with rot, were overlapped like fangs top and bottom. His breath reeked of wine and what had not found its way down his throat was sprinkled liberally in the forked beard and over the front of his black velvet doublet. As well, he was somewhat shorter than she remembered, and she had to make a conscious effort not to stand too straight to overshadow him.

“You shall sit by me during the meal,” John announced, indicating the vacant seats on the dais. And you, Wardieu,” he added with a broad wink, “shall endeavour to give me several good reasons why I should not steal your bride away for myself. Come … Breauté, Gisbourne … sit. Sit! My gut rumbles loud enough to rival the rutting noises of a ram. And where is my pretty little niece? Ahh, the fairest little princess in all of Brittany … I have grown so accustomed to her smiling face in our presence, I shall miss it sorely when it is no longer there to greet me at every turn.”

His laugh, dry and sardonic, did not affect the child’s sombre expression, save for the faint pinkish flush that tinged her ash-white complexion. The greater effect was noted in the faces of his closest advisers, one of whom moved hastily forward and murmured a few worried cautions into the prince’s ear.

“Bah! God’s chin, what difference can it make now? By tomorrow, the spiteful little bitch will be on her way back to Brittany, faster than any gossips can convince anyone she was ever anywhere else.” He paused and belched loudly. “The game has grown tiresome, Breauté. I have won my satisfaction; the old milkless teat will know now that I am not a man to be toyed with. Lock the snipe away if it eases your bowels any to remove her face from common sight, but do not spoil my mood! We are come to celebrate the wedding of my valiant friend. Eat! Drink! Let no man show a scowl before me this day, lest he crave to see it flayed from his face!”

A roar of approval went up from the floor of the great hall as Prince John led Servanne to her place at the long table. Her legs felt wooden and stiff, her movements so clumsy she caused the hem of her train to become snagged on the corner of a bench. While her page was bending over to unpinch it, Servanne’s gaze met Friar’s over the head of the prince.

John Lackland had but one niece, and there was but one Princess of Brittany—Eleanor—named for her grandmother, the Dowager Queen of England.

But the Princess Eleanor and her brother Arthur were both in Brittany. Neither had set foot on English soil in the years since their father’s death. The queen had been safeguarding them at Mirebeau, wary of John’s penchant for treachery.

What if I were to tell you Arthur and his sister were kidnapped from the queen’s castle four months ago?

Servanne felt her mouth go dry as the Wolf’s question echoed in her mind. Worse still, she heard her own dismissal of the notion as being absurd and ridiculous, along with the intimation that he had come to England on an honourable mission for the queen.

There are reasons for secrecy and silence; reasons which forbid both Etienne and myself from settling our conflict openly and speedily, and those I dare not tell you, for it would place you in certain danger.

Certain danger?

Servanne’s page touched her arm gingerly, indicating her train was freed. She murmured something—she knew not what—and when she looked back at Friar, he was already seated, his face studiously averted.

La Seyne’s business here is with Prince John … He will be pleased to hear the Dragon has accepted his challenge, but it will be Lucien who rides onto the field to face his brother … La Seyne’s business here is with Prince John … Suffice it to say the tournament and challenge will serve to keep the Dragon’s attention diverted elsewhere …

Elsewhere?

Certain danger?

Diversions?

Servanne turned her head and stared at the prince.

By tomorrow the little bitch will be on her way back to Brittany faster than any gossips can convince anyone she was ever anywhere else.

My God, Servanne thought, it was true! John
had
kidnapped the children from Mirebeau. He
had
planned to hold Arthur hostage in exchange for political demands. The fact that his plan had been foiled and the young prince had been rescued must have enraged him beyond belief—enough for him to risk the condemnation of every knight and common man who respected and lived by the codes of chivalry. Holding the princess captive was an unconscionable breach of honour. Exposing her to the decadent behaviour of his puppet court, possibly even forcing her to endure abuse as a victim of his vile and lecherous appetites would rouse the protective ire of every baron and lord not already bristling under John’s unpopular regency.

La Seyne’s business, therefore, was undoubtedly to ransom the princess back into the care of her grandmother. And the Wolf’s mission, as the self-confessed Captain of the Queen’s Guard—was it to ensure the exchange went smoothly and peaceably?

Various pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, stripping away Servanne’s burden of doubts as they fell. It explained everything—or nearly everything—and so clearly, it was all she could do to keep to her seat and maintain a semblance of normality as the hollow flourish of trumpets called forth a parade of servants.

Heavily strained arms brought steaming crocks of broth and stews, followed by platters of roast fowl, quail, and suckling pig. Noise rose to a crescendo as greedy hands dipped into pots and platters; meat was torn and carved, the half-chewed bones tossed to howling, scrabbling dogs. Chins dripped grease and throats groaned in appreciation of rich and varied presentations of fish, legumes, and meat. Heavily sugared blankmangers—a paste of pounded chicken blended with boiled rice and almond milk—were devoured to the last morsel and bowls wiped clean with thrusting fingers and crusts of fresh baked bread. Wine flowed like water and ale frothed from huge oaken barrels and not surprisingly, a guest or two toppled forward, face down into their trenchers before the final courses of wafers and fruit compotes were served.

By then Servanne’s cheeks were well flushed from impatience. She had barely tasted her wine, and her trencher of food sat untouched in clots of congealing fat.

She was quickest to her feet when the men suggested an afternoon of hawking, and the most beguiling in offering her wishes to decline the party in favour of resting for the evening’s entertainments ahead. Wardieu regarded her through vaguely curious eyes, especially when she was observed sidling toward the bishop’s end of the table, but the combined stimulant of the women’s fawning laughter and Prince John’s open flattery distracted him long enough for Servanne to whisper a private word in Friar’s ear.

“When La Seyne Sur Mer arrives, I wish to see him,” she said.

“What?” He looked startled, uncertain of whether he had heard her words correctly or not.

“I want to speak to La Seyne,” she hissed again, her eyes bright and defying him to refuse. “I know why he is here. I know what his
business
is with Prince John, and I would speak with him in private before any more mistakes are made.” She straightened, bringing the level of her voice up a notch higher as she did so. “Of course, I could wait and speak to him openly in the company of De Gournay and the prince, but I rather suspect he would prefer to keep the subject of
our
business a private matter a while longer.”