Through a Dark Mist (33 page)

Eleanor was ushered through the door and stood a moment, blinking to adjust her eyes to the brighter light. She saw the guards—far too many of them for a normal meeting with her uncle—and it took a second fearful look around for her to realize fully half of them wore the colours of La Seyne Sur Mer! Startled, she searched the lines of grim, solemn faces until she saw the one she had hoped and prayed to see all these months of captivity. Sir Randwulf! He had come! He had come to rescue her just as she had known he would!

La Seyne saw the little princess and felt a wave of relief wash through him. She appeared to be unharmed—a trace thinner, perhaps, and unaccustomed to smiling—but unharmed.

Eleanor darted eagerly forward. One of John’s guards flashed out a hand to bar her path and immediately, from La Seyne’s guard, a score of calloused hands flew instinctively to the hilts of their swords.

“As you can see,” John drawled, “my niece is in perfect health. She will be given into your care directly, La Seyne, but first … you have no objections if a Jew counts the gold for me? In these trying times, with chicanery so rife, one can never be too careful, even when dealing with relatives. Especially relatives.”

La Seyne absorbed the slight with nary a ripple of muscle. Not so his men, who bristled visibly at this further insult—so much so that this time it was John’s guards who inched their hands nervously toward their swords.

“I’ll not keep you, however,” the prince offered generously. “I know you have much to do to prepare for the tourney this afternoon, so if you would prefer simply to leave one of your men in charge—?”

“I will wait.” La Seyne scowled, the chill in the fireless room giving his words a ghostly substance through the black silk.

John, warmed by his thick velvet doublet as well as well as his smug self-satisfaction, leaned back and formed a tent with his gloved fingers, the tips pressed against his lips. “It should take no more than an hour or two. For a moneylender, he tends to count slowly to avoid any chance of error.”

La Seyne crossed his arms over his chest, presenting a formidable tower of immovable strength. Inwardly he was thinking: If it was a ploy to unsettle him before the match, it was a feeble effort at best. Outwardly, he let the silk mask crease in an imitation of a smile. “I will wait.”

*     *     *

Servanne jumped when she heard the knock on the outer door. Both she and Biddy were standing by one of the tall, arched windows and, as one, they reached for the comforting grasp of each other’s hands.

“Who comes?” Biddy called, her voice querulous but remarkably firm. She had had to ponder a great deal in the past few hours—from the Wolf’s identity, to the confirmed proof of Etienne Wardieu’s duplicity, to the very real possibility they could all be betrayed, beheaded, and their corpses left to rot on spiked poles by way of example to others.

The sight of De Gournay’s young squire brought another quailing start to Biddy’s breast, a condition augmented by the puffed, split bruises on Eduard’s face.

“Eduard!” Servanne gasped, leaving the embrasure to rush to the young man’s side. “What happened!”

“’tis nothing, my lady. It is your welfare, not mine, which concerns me more.”

“My lamb’s welfare?” Biddy exclaimed, hurrying over. “What do you mean?”

“There is no time for explanations, mistress goodwife. Only know that the Dragon’s mood does not bode well for anyone who chooses to cross him this day. He is already in a rampage over the messages my lady has sent to explain her absences at chapel and table this morning. He has been pacing like a caged lion in his chamber all this time, refusing to appear without you by his side. To that end, he has given me explicit instructions not to return to the hall without you.”

A small flaring of defiance sent a flush into Servanne’s cheeks. “How dare he issue such orders. I am not his chattel. Not yet, at any rate.”

Biddy was more practical. “Eduard—what trouble do you anticipate?”

“Too much for any of us to handle alone, but do not fear, Mistress Bidwell. I will not let the bastard touch a hair on my lady’s head; on this you have my word.”

Servanne pressed cool fingers to her temple. “It is not for my safety I fear the most. Eduard—we must find some way of warning your father … your
real
father; the real Lucien Wardieu. There is no telling what Etienne may do now out of desperation to keep his secret intact. He will set a trap, at the very least—a trap your father will walk into blindly unless he is forewarned.”

“You will have to warn him, my lady,” Eduard said.

“Me? Willingly, but … how?”

Eduard retraced his steps to the door and retrieved a bundle of clothing neither woman had seen him set on the floor when he arrived.

“I brought these—” He shook out the folds of a long-sleeved shirt, jerkin, and buff-coloured leggings, and handed the lot to Biddy. “It was the best I could do in such short order, I am afraid, but even if the disguise is only good enough to get you through to the outer bailey, it will have served its purpose. Beyond there, the confusion and revelry should be sufficient protection.”

“You want me to dress in these?” Servanne asked. “Is it necessary?”

Eduard flushed as he allowed himself a bold assessment of the frothing yellow silk gown she wore. “A dead man would sit up and take notice if you passed,” he said with unabashed reverence. “Yes, my lady: it is absolutely vital to conceal yourself. Unfortunately, it would not be wise for me to guide you to safety myself, but I have taken the liberty of whispering a word in the ear of your man, Sir Roger de Chesnai. Without revealing the reasons why, I asked him to meet us at the postern of the keep. He should have little difficulty in taking you to La Seyne’s encampment, and from there …”

His voice trailed away, not quite as confident in finishing as it had been at the outset.

“What about you, Eduard? I cannot run to safety knowing I have left you behind to suffer in my stead.”

The young squire’s shoulders squared and there was a fierce determination emanating from his eyes.

“Lady Servanne, your safety is all that matters right now. I have borne the brunt of the Dragon’s anger before, and I will bear it this time with no complaint if it serves to spare you but a moment’s fear or discomfort. I … thought about my position a great deal after I left here last night, and I know now my honour would not be compromised by leaving this place and seeking service elsewhere. I … hope one day I might meet my real father. But if not, if there is some reason why he would prefer not to see me, or to know me—”

“Oh Eduard, no. No! He will welcome and accept you most proudly, I am certain of it. As certain as I am that you must come with us now. What can you hope to gain by appearing without me? A few minutes’ time?”

“A few minutes,” he said haltingly, “could make all the difference.”

“At what cost?” she asked gently. “And how would I explain to your father that I left you behind? Biddy—fetch our cloaks … and the robe over by the firebox. We shall all go together, or not at all.”

“Sweet Saint Agnes, we are lost,” Biddy cried. But she complied with the order and, in a spurt of conscientiousness, hastened to retrieve her mistress’s jewel box from behind the small curtained niche in the corner of the room.

“Our best hope,” Servanne was saying, still fighting the look of uncertainty on Eduard’s face, “is to seek refuge with La Seyne Sur Mer—the man who is not only your father but the man I love and intend to marry.”

“Over my dead and rotting body, madam,” came a darkly familiar voice from the doorway of the anteroom.

Servanne blanched and dropped the belt and points she had been holding. Eduard merely stood his ground as Etienne Wardieu came slowly into the room. A pace behind, her eyes glittering with malice and irrepressible pleasure, was Nicolaa de la Haye.

24

“So,” hissed the golden-haired Dragon of Bloodmoor Keep. “The man you love, is he? The man you intend to marry?”

Servanne lifted her chin and held it firm. “I would most surely never marry you, my lord, knowing you betrayed your own father and stole your brother’s name and birthright through a cowardly act of murder.”

A fine, taut white line of tension delineated the rim of each nostril as the Dragon drew a slow breath. “My brother’s tongue seems to have grown looser over the years. He has some proof to bear out these outrageous claims? Or has he merely bewitched you in some way?”

“She says she loves him,” Nicolaa said dryly. “One need not speculate too long or too hard over just how this bewitchment was accomplished; I dare say the proof was thrust between her thighs a time or two for good measure.”

A warm flush suffused Servanne’s cheeks, deepening with the effort it was taking not to glance toward the niche on the opposite wall. Biddy was standing there, half in, half out from behind the thick velvet curtain, her eyes as round as medallions, her mouth gaping open in shock and fright. She had not been seen yet, and instinct as much as fear was prompting her to let the curtain fall back into place, concealing her within the niche. Eduard, bless his presence of mind, moved closer to Servanne, his action steering the Dragon’s attention away from the niche.

“Shall I think of a suitable punishment for her, my love?” Nicolaa drawled. “Or would you prefer to just let D’Aeth use his imagination? He might find her an amusing change from the stable boys he toys with. Why”—her gaze flicked to Eduard—“he could even alternate between the two to keep his interest fully peaked.”

The Dragon walked slowly toward Servanne and Eduard. Servanne had not thought it was possible for her to become any more frightened than she already was, but the look in his eyes mocked her supposition and she experienced a cold rush of terror that locked her spine stiff

“I can well see the benefit to some form of dicipline,” he murmured. “But M’sieur D’Aeth’s methods are rather harsh, and I would have her able to walk and talk awhile longer yet. At least until after we are wed. After that”—his gaze slid down her body with indifference—“we shall see how penitent she can be before we decide her punishment.”

“I have no intention of marrying you,” Servanne declared quietly. “Not now. Not ever.”

The Dragon smiled.
“Not ever
is rather too conclusive a statement, my sweet. It allows little room for taking into consideration the amount of pain a human body can endure for its stubbornness.”

“I will not marry you,” she said evenly.

The Dragon clucked his tongue softly to express his sad displeasure. A moment later his hand was lashing upward, the blow catching her cheek and snapping her head sideways in a froth of flying yellow hair. She staggered to one side, but did not fall. The pain exploded in her skull and temporarily blinded her, but even before she could shake the tears free, she saw Eduard leap forward, his hands clawing around the Dragon’s throat.

With hardly more effort than it took to swat a fly, Etienne Wardieu sent his fist plowing into the vulnerable hollow just below the young man’s rib cage. Eduard’s face registered the shocked agony as every last gasp of air was violently expunged from his lungs. He doubled over and staggered back, his legs folding beneath him like crumpled sticks.

The Dragon turned to Servanne. She was leaning against the wall, her face partially blurred by a cloud of hair. He reached out and grasped her by a fistful of the slippery, silken stuff and, with Nicolaa watching on with silent glee, he struck her again, this time bracing her to take the full impact.

“You will marry me, my dear. You will stand before the bishop and repeat your vows like the dutiful, humble bride for whom I contracted. And when the ceremony is over, you will crawl to me on your hands and knees and beg to service me.

“No,” Servanne gasped. “Never!”

“There is that annoying word again,” he mused. He tightened his fist around her hair, nearly tearing the roots from her scalp.

“You will obey me, madam,” he spat, his mouth and breath rasping hotly against the curve of her throat. “You will obey me humbly and willingly, or by the Christ, you will do it broken and bleeding. The choice is yours.”

“N-no,” she sobbed weakly. “No!”

Wardieu jerked her head back against the stone wall, and when she would have sagged down from the pain and the swirling threat of faintness, he propped her up with the crushing force of his knee, driving it hard and high between her thighs.

Her scream caused Edward to surge forward, ignoring his own pain, but a snakelike hiss of steel marked Nicolaa’s shortsword leaving her scabbard and slicing through the air to seek the exposed length of Eduard’s neck.

“This is none of your affair, boy,” she snarled. “Watch closely and you may learn something about survival.”

Servanne was struggling, flaying her hands ineffectually against the looming breadth of Wardieu’s chest. He was too strong and wore too many layers of rich, quilted velvet for her to provoke more than a chastising smile. Conversely, Servanne’s gown was sheer and delicate, offering little protection from the thigh he ground brutally against her softness, or the hand he insinuated beneath the collar, tearing it down, baring her flesh all the way to the tops of her breasts.

“You used a strong perfume in your bath, my dear, but I can still smell my brother’s lust on you. You stink of it!”

Servanne brought her nails up to claw his face, but he caught her wrists and twisted them painfully up and over her head. He crushed her lips beneath his, the kiss brutal, wet, and cruel. Gagging, choking on the sour taste of his rage, Servanne tore her lips free, but he only laughed.

“You will find, my dear, the harder you fight me, the more I want what I am denied. It has always given me the greatest pleasure to succeed where my brother has failed, to take what he cannot have, to know that I possess something he holds dear above all else.”

“No,” she gasped. “No! You will never have me. My heart will always belong to Lucien!”

Wardieu gouged his hands into her wrists. “But I still have your body, my pet, and in a few short hours, I shall have his too. Perhaps … perhaps, as part of a lesson for both of you, we will let him watch. Yes,” he mused slowly, his eyes glittering with hate. “That would please me immeasurably to have you naked and begging for mercy—bribing me, perhaps, with what pleasures I desire, while he is forced to stand by and watch. By God, it would indeed be worth sparing his life an hour or two. For that matter, if you pleased me enough with your enthusiasm, you could win a reprieve for days … even weeks.”

Servanne gaped up at him in horror, her eyes flooding with tears. De Gournay only laughed harder and lowered one of his hands to her breast, scooping it free of the ragged edge of her bodice and squeezing the nipple to a bloodless pink between his fingers.

Servanne screamed again and this time there was an answering roar from behind. The Dragon turned just in time to see the raging blur that was Eduard shove Nicolaa aside and launch himself at his master’s back. The glitter of a knife arced downward, aimed for a point midway between the broad shoulders, but the Dragon was able to step aside at the last possible moment, his arm swinging around and throwing Eduard hard against the wall. Releasing Servanne, De Gournay went after his young squire, hauling him to his feet, grabbing for the wrist of the hand that still clutched the steel dagger. Eduard buckled under the pain, but held steadfast to the knife as well as the hatred that blazed from his eyes.

A glance at Servanne brought a malicious smile back to the Dragon’s face.

“It seems you have found yourself another champion, my lady. Think you
he
would also be useful in convincing you of the error of your ways?”

Before Servanne could respond, or even react to the loathing in his voice, the Dragon slid his hand farther along Eduard’s wrist to engulf the clenched fist. He turned it until the blade was aimed at Eduard’s own thigh, then drove it inward, punching the steel through clothing, flesh, and muscle. Eduard screamed with the pain, a scream that was bitten off, crammed back into his throat on a deep gulp of air, then unleashed again as the knife was given a deliberate half twist.

“Stop!” Servanne shrieked, appalled by the sight of the agony on Eduard’s face.
“Stop!”

“No, my lady!” Eduard shouted. “No, do not agree to anything! Do not—
ahhhh!”

The blade was wrenched again and the spreading stain of blood flowed freely over the two hands clasped around the hilt of the knife. Servanne flung herself away from the wall and clawed at De Gournay’s shoulders, her tears blinding her, the terror numbing her to her own pain.

“Stop! Stop! I will do anything you ask me to do, only stop! Stop! Stop!”

De Gournay gave the knife a final twist before releasing it. Eduard’s free hand clamped over the one still holding the hilt, and, as he slid slowly down the wall, he used what few grains of strength he had remaining to pull the knife free of his flesh and squeeze his bloodied hands tightly over the wound.

“Eduard!” Servanne dropped to her knees beside him, but was scarcely allowed the opportunity to touch a trembling hand to his ashen cheek before she felt the rough grasp of De Gournay’s hands on her shoulders. Dragged upright, she could only stare in horror at the steady stream of blood that leaked between Eduard’s fingers and fell in a sickening
pat, pat, pat
onto the floor.

Dimly she was aware of Nicolaa summoning two guards from the landing. Dazed, she watched them pass in front of her and take hold of Eduard under each arm. Helpless, she could do nothing but sob his name as the two grim-faced mercenaries hauled Eduard from the chamber, his leg leaving a smeared trail of crimson in their wake.

“Where are they taking him?” she cried. “What are they going to do to him?”

“They will do whatever I command them to do,” the Dragon said wanly.

Servanne looked at him through the scattered tangle of her hair. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly with the need to control her panic; her hands shook visibly where she tried to hold the torn flaps of fabric over her nakedness. She had seen enough wounds in her eighteen years to know the bleeding hole in Eduard’s thigh would cost him his life if not cauterized and sealed right away. She knew also, beyond a doubt, the Dragon would not give the command for his leech to do so unless Servanne paid heavily for the request.

“Please,” she grated through her teeth. “Help him.”

“Why should I? He is nothing to me.”

“if he was nothing, you would have killed him outright,” she said, her fear giving her more courage than was healthy or wise. Bracing herself for another blow, she felt the blood-slicked fingers curl around the whiteness of her throat.

“It seems the spirit has been bruised, but not yet broken,” he mused. “Admirable, but foolhardy. A word from me, and the boy dies; you alongside him.”

“Give that word,” she countered recklessly, “And see the lands you covet so fiercely slip out of your grasp and into Prince John’s coffers!”

The Dragon’s eyes gleamed with a speculative fury and Servanne could feel the anger ripple tautly through his body. An instant later she felt only agony as his fingers pinched her windpipe in a cruel stranglehold.

“I like ultimatums even less than I like stubbornness,” he snarled, “Especially ultimatums which have no foundation in threat or substance. As I have already told you, my dear, broken or upright, bleeding or whole, it makes no difference to me. Even with your tongue cut out and your eyes scorched black, I could still prop you at the altar and find a score of witnesses to say you repeated your vows willingly and eagerly. Moreover, I have no doubt a further examination would find sufficient evidence of a union having been recently consummated. So you see”—he released her throat with a disdainful sneer—“you really have no choice in the matter. Your fate and the fate of the lands that came into your hands by sheer mischance, was decided long ago. Long before your feeble old husband enjoyed a hearty feast of belladonna.”

Servanne’s wide blue gaze dared to climb to his level again.

“He was a tough old buzzard,” De Gournay added blithely. “I was told it took three times the normal dose to kill him.”

Nicolaa de la Haye’s surprise mirrored Servanne’s. “You clever bastard! You never told me.”

“There are a good many things I do not tell you, Nicolaa,” he sighed. “For my own sake, as well as—”

His words were cut off abruptly as Servanne threw herself at him, her fingers hooked and hungry for the sardonic grin. He had ordered the death of Sir Hubert de Briscourt! He had had the gentle old warrior poisoned so he could gain back the lands that had once been part of the De Gournay estates. The Wolf had been right again. He had been right in everything!

Servanne’s action was quick enough and violent enough to almost succeed. She had the satisfaction of feeling two sharp fingernails fill with scrapings of flesh before her arms were smashed aside and a hard-knuckled fist sent her careening into the side of the bed. Grasped from behind, she was struck again, and flung into a sprawl across the floor, her hands scraped raw in the skidding contact.