Through a Dark Mist (34 page)

The Dragon stood over her, staring in amazement at the blood dabbed from his neck. He leaned over and with one brutish hand, yanked her upright, lifting her so that her face was only inches from his.

“I will kill you for that,” he promised. “Slowly. And with a great deal of pain. You and your lover both, side by side, screaming for mercy—”

Servanne reached back into the last reserves of her courage and spat contemptuously in the Dragon’s face. The spittle ran down his cheek and gathered into a silvery pendant on his chin, hanging there a moment like a diamond glittering in the candlelight. The same fingers that were dotted with his blood, reached slowly upward and wiped the wetness from his face. He stared at his fingers, then into Servanne’s eyes, silently pledging untold agony and cruelty before he smeared the pink stain across her exposed breasts.

“Nicolaa—methinks the lady could benefit from the comfort of her own solitude a while. Have the guards escort her … to the eagle’s eyrie. She will know, at least once before she dies, who is master here, and who is merely the whore.”

He flung her from his side as if she was a sackful of rotted meat. Servanne landed heavily enough to drive another gust of air from her lungs, but she was beyond feeling the pain. Her bruises screamed for mercy, but she never would, and there was no lessening of the revulsion in her eyes as she watched De Gournay stride out of the chamber.

“My my my,” Nicolaa murmured. “So there was some spirit in you after all. Sadly misplaced, I must say. Did
he
put it there?”

When there was no answer, Nicolaa reached down and took hold of a fistful of blonde hair, tilting Servanne’s face roughly up to hers. There were ugly swellings already rising on both cheeks and threads of blood trickling from cuts to her nose and mouth.

“You should have waited. You would have found your thighs just as slippery for a Dragon as for a Wolf. I know I did. Anh, but then … you never would have been strong enough to match him. This”—she waved a hand in a scornful gesture over the blonde hair and creamy white breasts—-“would never have held his attention through the wedding night. He would have had to come to me to find satisfaction.”

Nicolaa thrust the pale face away again and, still laughing, walked out to the tower landing to call for more guards.

Servanne, her face and body an excruciating mass of bruised flesh, groped blindly around to see if Biddy was still concealed behind the curtains. A chalk-white face with owlish eyes gaped back at her, stricken with terror, her throat working frantically to contain the nausea churning in her belly.

“Biddy, no!” Servanne gasped, seeing the maid about to rush to her aid. “No, you must go and find Sir Roger. You must tell him what has happened. Tell him … tell him to seek out the Black Wolf and warn him. Biddy—”

“There!” Nicolaa commanded imperiously, directing four burly guards to where Servanne lay curled on the floor. “Your liege has dispatched orders for her to be taken to the eyrie and left there to await his further pleasure. Treat her as you would the lowest form of vermin, for if there is any undue comfort or mercy shown her, each of you will suffer tenfold for it.”

The guards bent over and pulled Servanne to her feet. One of them accidentally tangled a leg in her frothing skirts and, aware of Nicolaa’s venomous gaze, cursed and kicked out viciously with his mail-clad boots. Servanne’s leg buckled with the pain and a slipper was lost as she was dragged forward on one knee. Her head lolled and she sagged limply into the coarse hands—hands that were quick to prop her up by breast or thigh as they carried her down the narrow, winding staircase.

Biddy, too horror-struck to move, waited several minutes in oppressive silence, her ears ringing with the echo of her mistress’s fading sobs of pain. When she was reasonably certain the chambers were vacant, she gingerly stepped out from behind the tapestry and promptly sagged onto the low seat in the window embrasure. Her heart was pounding frantically and her left arm felt as if a frenzied mob of seamstresses were using it as a pincushion. She rubbed it and cradled it against her breast, but the pain only grew in intensity, spreading up her arm into her chest and flaring into a brilliant starburst of agony.

She slipped helplessly onto the floor, her back scraping against the wall as she slid down. Her neck was arched and rigid as she fought the waves of pain, and her tongue seemed to swell in her throat, making it difficult to breathe, let alone find the air to scream.

She could not afford to be weak or ill right now! Sir Roger de Chesnai would be waiting at the postern gate, and it was Biddy’s duty to get to him, tell him all that had happened, and send him to the Wolf for help. The Wolf, who was really La Seyne Sur Mer, who was really Lucien Wardieu …

Biddy groaned and clutched at her chest. Her vision clouded and began to fill with exploding black spots. Her heart pounded so fiercely she could feel it slamming against her hands, but then the pain and the blackness overtook her and she felt nothing else. Her eyes fluttered open one last time and she was dazzled by the glitter of gold and jewels … dazzled until she saw it was Servanne’s treasure box, and the contents were spilling from the window seat onto the floor beside her …

   Prince John’s moneylender dropped the last gold coin into the small mahogany chest just as a disturbance out in the corridor brought a crashing end to the tension-filled silence. The door to the chamber swung violently open and there, in glorious splendour, stood the Baron de Gournay.

“Wardieu?” John frowned and signaled his men to stand at ease. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this unexpected —and unwarranted—interruption?”

De Gournay sent his cold blue gaze around the crowded chamber, suitably impressed by the regal display of Angevin and Aquitaine power. Equally impressive was the sight of the tall, hooded figure in black; a man whose size and presence dominated the room with sinister intent.

“Wardieu!” Prince John repeated the question. “What is the meaning of this?”

The Dragon advanced slowly into the room, a smile of unearthly pleasure on his face. “I thought it time I met the Scourge of Mirebeau face-to-face. After all, we will be tipping lances this afternoon, and it occurred to me I should meet the man before I killed him.”

The black hood shifted only slightly to show interest. The gray eyes were more intrigued to note the master of Blood-moor Keep was unarmed. He was without sword or dagger, dressed in an elegant midnight-blue doublet lacking the benefit of so much as a breast piece of chain mail beneath. He was bareheaded and his blond hair fell in glossy curls to his shoulders. With no forest shadows to cloud the Dragon’s features, the Wolf was able to scrutinize every line and wrinkle, every lash hair, every bone and muscle that went into shaping the contours of his brother’s face.

“You have the advantage, sirrah,” De Gournay murmured, watching the glinted inspection.

“Our business is almost at an end, Wardieu,” Prince John said irritably. “Could you not have waited a moment or two—”

“Your business with La Seyne Sur Mer
is
at an end,” De Gournay interjected mildly. “However, if you have some further dealings with the Black Wolf of Lincoln …?”

“The Black—! What are you talking about? Is he here? Inside the castle?”

De Gournay smiled. “Why, he is right here … in this
room
, my liege.”

John bolted to his feet as if a needle had been thrust into his buttocks. He snatched the money chest out of the Jew’s hands and shouted for his men to close ranks around him. “He is here? Your brother is
here?”

De Gournay’s eyes had not wavered from the slits in the black silk mask. “Apparently, my liege, he has become a chameleon of many names and guises, the most prominent among them: Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer.”

The revelation brought utter, complete silence. No one moved. No one breathed. All eyes were fixed on the two knights in the centre of the room.

A black gloved hand rose, and for the second time in as many days, Lucien Wardieu removed the silk hood and gave a brief shake to free the unruly waves of long chestnut hair. The expectant—and subsequently disappointed—gasp from Prince John’s guard was met by scornfully smug looks from the queen’s men, all of whom had known there were no scars or hideous disfigurements to warrant the hood.

“My congratulations,” De Gournay murmured. “Your little masquerade almost succeeded.”

“Guards!” John cried. “Seize that man!”

The regent’s men drew their swords, but gained no more than a few paces across the room before they were met by the flashing steel of their counterparts. The prince scrambled back into the corner, shouting for protection, while elsewhere in the confusion, in a movement so swift only the flickering of an eye caught it, the Princess Eleanor was drawn behind the formidable wall of La Seyne blazons.

“Stalemate?” De Gournay inquired blandly.

A slick whisper of steel brought the Wolf’s dagger out of its sheath and the tip nosing up beneath the Dragon’s chin.

“Not quite,” he said, and smiled.

“Do you think you would leave this room alive if you killed me?”

“One of the main reasons I came back to England was to kill you. Do you think my own survival was ever a weighty consideration?”

“What of the survival of your men? And the Princess Eleanor? Are they of no consideration either?”

The point of the blade was nudged higher. “If the cause is just and honourable, my men are prepared to die—and to die well, taking at least one, perhaps two of your own men with them. Wholesale slaughter within the castle walls might be difficult, even for you to explain to the other wedding guests. As to the princess, you would not be so stupid as to harm her. The queen sent me to resolve the matter as quickly and quietly as possible—but harm her granddaughter, or kill her, and not only will there be an army setting sail from Brittany on the next tide, but you and your … benefactor”—he spat the word, laden with contempt, at the cowering regent —“will rouse the killing instinct in every lord and baron this side of the Channel.”

“I claim no part in this,” John declared loudly. “The princess is no longer in my care. Whatever happens now lies solely in the hands and at the fault of the Baron de Gournay!”

The Wolf’s grin slanted with amusement. “You always did have a knack for choosing loyal friends.”

“I have no interest in Princess Eleanor. She is free to leave the castle at any time, as are your men.”

“With me riding at the head?”

The Dragon scoffed. “Wrapped in a shroud, perhaps. Surely you would not consider leaving early at any rate. Think of the disgrace: the Scourge of Mirebeau slinking away like a cur with his tail tucked between his legs, his teeth chattering with fright. Your queen would be humiliated; my guests would be chagrined; and my lovely bride— think how distraught she would be at being so slighted.”

The steely eyes did not take the bait—not at once—but neither did the Dragon back down from the sudden tautness in his brother’s jaw.

“Lady de Briscourt,” he mused. “Such a sweet young thing, is she not? Spirited too, yet so refreshingly innocent in her passions. Well … perhaps not so innocent as she was before falling into your hands, yet eager enough to make up for her … shall we say … curiosity?”

The only response was a visible tightening of the already compressed, bloodless lips and the Dragon raised his hand, using the backs of his fingers to push the blade of the knife aside. “I would have thought you had learned your lesson with Nicolaa.”

“Where is she?” the Wolf rasped.

“Nicolaa? Why, I believe she is tending to Lady de Briscourt.”

“Where is Servanne?”

The Dragon smiled. “She is safely tucked away for the time being. Licking her wounded pride, I would imagine.”

“If you have touched her—”

The Dragon’s eyes glowed triumphantly. “Be assured,” he said viciously, throwing the Wolf’s own words back at him, “I have indeed
touched
her. And I will touch her again … and again, as often and as inventively as I so choose the moment she becomes my bride.”

The Wolf fought to keep his rage in check. His fist closed so tightly around the hilt of the knife, the seams of his gauntlet cracked and split the threads. He had lived by his instincts too long not to sense the jaws of a trap looming in front of him, but until he could determine the exact nature of the trap, and how many other lives were being placed at risk alongside his own, he had no choice but to endure Etienne’s baitings.

“You say my men are free to leave. I am curious to hear your terms for such generosity.”

“No terms. They are free to go—preferably within the hour, however, so my men will have something other than their own backs to watch. What is more, my guard will be glad to provide an escort as far as Lincoln to ensure they meet no dangers on the road. The forests, as you know, are riddled with outlaws.”

The Wolf ignored the sarcasm. It came as no surprise to hear he wanted the queen’s men out of the castle. With them gone, there would be no threat of an attack or rescue from within Bloodmoor’s walls. Locking them out would also effectively lock the Wolf inside, presumably alone, and here he spared a brief word of thanks for Friar’s foresight in insisting some of the men enter the castle as common folk. A dozen stout bow arms well placed gave him a fighting chance-providing there would still be the chance to fight.

“What of our challenge match? Surely
you
are not suggesting we forfeit the contest?” the Wolf asked dryly. “Or is this your coward’s way of avoiding a test you fear you cannot win on equal terms?”

The Dragon laughed. “God’s love, I would not dream of disappointing our avid audience. They are eager to see blood spilled this day, and by Christ, so am I.” His smile faded and his gaze turned brittle. “You should have stayed dead, but since you have not, I would not deny myself the pleasure of killing you again. The match proceeds as planned.”

“To what end … an arrow in my back if I win?”

“If you live to walk off the field,” the Dragon said seethingly, “all of this, including the blushing bride, is yours. If you lose—” He stopped and straightened, curbing his temper before he fell into his own trap.”
When
you lose, you will know it has all been in vain. Your body will be fed to the carrion, and life will go on at Bloodmoor the way it has gone on these past fourteen years without you. No one will mourn your passing, except perhaps my young and passionate bride. Even then, she may cry out your name a time or two in the beginning, but that too will pass, and she will soon learn her proper place beneath me.”