Through a Dark Mist (4 page)

He was, however, dressed to fit the role of forester, garbed as they all were in greens and browns, the exception being the outer vest of wolf pelts. Beneath it, his loose-sleeved shirt of green linsey-woolsey opened in a carelessly deep V almost to his waist, revealing an indecent wealth of wiry sable curls matted thickly over hard, bulging muscles.

The weapon he held appeared to be nothing more than a six-foot length of slender wood forced into an arc and held taut by a bowstring of resined gut. Far more graceful in design than the stubby, iron-bound crossbow, it was also far superior in range, swiftness, and accuracy. Bayard had been a full ten paces from her side when he had been cut down, yet there were tiny dots of crimson splashed across her mare’s forequarters attesting to the power that lay behind the grace.

Her attention was briefly diverted to the dead captain and the rest of his subdued guards. Servanne could not help but wonder at the audacity, and in turn, the lunacy of the men who dared risk the ire of Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay. Ambushing travelers was no small crime by anyone’s standard, but raising a sword against the blazon of one of England’s most powerful barons was … sheer madness! De Gournay would spare no effort, even to burning down every last square inch of forest in Lincoln, to respond to the insult. And his revenge upon those who had committed the offense … !

As it happened, Servanne was in the midst of contemplating—in hideously graphic detail—the many possible forms her betrothed’s retribution would take, when the piercing gray-blue eyes began scanning the frightened faces of the women. An oddity in the group caused them to flick sharply back to the only gaze that was not instantly and contritely shielded behind tear-studded lashes.

If he was surprised to see instead the small, tight smile that compressed her lips, the outlaw leader did not show it. If she expected him to be rendered speechlessly contrite, or to become paralyzed with fear over the sudden realization of the enormity of his crime, Servanne was sadly disappointed.

“I had heard the Dragon had snared himself quite a beauty,” he murmured speculatively. “Ah well, messengers have been known to err before on the side of generosity.”

Infuriated by his insolence, not to mention the derision in his comment, Servanne pulled out of Biddy’s embrace and squared her slender shoulders.

“I beg your pardon, m’sieur,” she said, the chill of untold generations of nobility in her voice. “But do you know who I am?”

A swift, fierce smile stole across his face and left again without a trace as he moved forward several measured paces. “Has the excitement caused you to forget your name, Lady de Briscourt? If so, I humbly crave your pardon for our methods, but alas, stealth and haste are among our most effective weapons.”

Two hot stains blossomed on Servanne’s cheeks as she stared into the rain-gray eyes. “Since you obviously know who I am and where I am bound, you must also be aware of whose protection I travel under, and against whose honour you give insult.”

This time the grin lingered noticeably. “My heart does palpitate with the knowledge, my lady.”

“It will palpitate with a good deal more if you do not stand aside at once and let us pass on our way unmolested!”

“I am afraid I cannot do that. Why, to have gone to all this trouble to stop you, only to stand aside and let you go on your way again … surely even someone so pure and innocent as yourself can see there would be little profit for us in that. As for molesting you”—the smouldering eyes took a lazy inventory of her finer points, and there were not many readily visible through the bulk of the samite tunic—“I regret to say I have more important matters to contend with at the moment. But before you puff up with more righteous indignation, be informed that neither you nor any of your lovely ladies will come to any harm while you are under my protection. On that you have my most solemn word.”

“Your
protection?
Your
word?” she scoffed. “And just who might
you
be, wolf’s head?
You
who dare to challenge the authority of Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay!”

The outlaw moved closer, taking the mare’s bridle in his hand to guard against any attempt by her rider to bolt.

“The name the sheriff has chosen to give me in explaining the lax condition of his spine is … the Black Wolf of Lincoln.” He paused to watch the effect of his words ripple through the ranks of his rapt audience. “The name given me by God is … Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay.”

2

Servanne no longer saw the beauty of the greenwood. The air no longer felt crisp and clean; rather it was cold and damp and chilled her to the bone even through the heavy layers of her clothing. She no longer paid heed to the tall, stately oaks, nor did she admire the dancing shafts of sunlight or the silvery burble of a meandering stream. She sat erect on Undine’s back, her face a mask of outrage and disbelief. Relieved of the reins by the outlaw leader who now led her horse through the forest, her hands were clasped together over the frontpiece of her saddle, the knuckles white and straining with repressed anger.

She had been stunned speechless by the outlaw’s preposterous claim. Lucien Wardieu indeed! But before she could recover her faculties and demand explanations, his curt commands had set the scrofulous band of followers into motion. Within moments, she and Biddy were culled from the others and led into the forest. Everything of value had been stripped from the wagons and transferred onto the backs of the pack horses, as had the bulk of the guards’ weapons and armour. The outlaw had given the wounded Sir Roger de Chesnai a small, canvas-wrapped packet and a message to be delivered to Bloodmoor Keep—obviously a demand for ransom and proof that the hostage was in safekeeping.

The effrontery of the man was not to be believed! Periodically Servanne’s gaze would stray from the path ahead to launch unseen poisoned darts into the broad back of the wolf’s head who dared to call himself Lucien Wardieu. She had already given him a host of truer appelations—madman, poseur, traitor, charlatan, impostor, bedlamite, crack-brain …

Each seething glance resulted in a new term to describe an audacity that was beyond belief. Who, in all of England, did not know the great golden countenance of the
real
Baron de Gournay? What man or woman in possession of all their senses could believe for one instant that this coarse, ill-bred, unkempt, murderous creature of the forest belonged at the same table with kings and queens? The mere notion of such a ruffian even being permitted into the
servants’
gallery was preposterous. The stables, perhaps. The pigsty or the muck pit where the refuse from the castle latrines was collected … maybe. But as liege lord of the castle itself? As baron lord of Bloodmoor Keep?

The snort of disdain she was unable to repress caused the dark chestnut head to turn slightly. A wry smile suggested he had felt every barb and intercepted every thought that had passed through her head over the last two hours, and the sight of it fueled her anger a notch higher.

“The scenery displeases you, my lady? You see stretched before you nature at its very peak. She offers here a tranquility and solitude found nowhere else; a wild purity shared only by other virgins who have not yet experienced the taint of man’s interference.”

“She bears your taint, wolf’s head,” Servanne remarked dryly. “And that must surely spoil her for all others.”

“Ahh. Spoken with the true sentiment of wedded bliss. Might I assume your previous marriage left something to be desired?”

Servanne’s eyes flashed blue fire. “You may
presume
nothing whatsoever. My marriages—past or future—are no concern of yours. How dare you even speak to me of them, or of anything else for that matter. There is nothing your twisted tongue could say to me that could be of the least interest, and I insist you do not insult me with it again.”

The outlaw’s broad shoulders shrugged beneath the black wolf’s pelts. “A greater hardship on you, I fear, for I have yet to encounter a woman who could maintain as good a silence as a man. Especially not when her brain is overtaxed with righteous fervour.”

Servanne opened her mouth with a ready retort, saw the mockingly expectant brow arch in her direction, and pressed her lips tautly together again. She averted her gaze and stared straight ahead, but the resentment that bubbled within her could not be as easily diverted.

“I have seen Lord Lucien with mine own eyes,” she declared stridently. “How dare you presume to mock him.”

“Do I mock him, my lady? I thought you would be flattered I envied his choice of brides.”

“Flattered!” Her voice was brittle with anger. “You could flatter us both by dropping dead this instant and saving the baron the trouble of rooting you out later! As for envying his choice of brides, I would sooner win the praise of a crimp-kneed, foul-breathed Saracen infidel than possess one attribute the likes of you would find appealing! I would sooner an arrow pierce my heart and rend it in two than find myself the object of a wolf’s envy!”

The Black Wolf studied the stubbornly flushed features of his hostage a moment longer before dropping the reins of her horse and unslinging his bow from his shoulder. With her tongue stuck fast to the roof of her mouth and the echo of Biddy’s shrill screech reverberating along her spine, Servanne watched in horror as the outlaw braced his long legs wide apart, swung the grip of the bow from hip to shoulder, and sighted along the shaft of an arrow. At the last possible instant he corrected the aim so that when he snapped his fingers to release the missile, it did not pierce the wildly beating thing that sought to escape her breast, but
hummmm-ed
in a long, sweeping arc over Servanne’s head and disappeared somewhere in the trees beyond.

The silence that followed was complete enough to hear the low droning of a swarm of bees in the distance. It was complete enough to hear the swish of Undine’s tail as she chased away an annoying gnat. Complete enough that when a clean, sharp
fff-bunggg
left the quivering shaft of a returned arrow buried in a nearby tree trunk, both women nearly lifted off their saddles in fright.

“If ye’d asked,” drawled the burly Welshman as he ambled by, “I would have given the signal myself, milord, and saved ye the bother.”

“No bother,” the outlaw replied smoothly, reslinging his bow, his eyes still locked fast to Servanne’s. He took up the fallen reins and gave way to a faint, wry smile as he led her horse forward again.

Servanne’s heart was still pounding against her breastbone, her senses still recovering from the shock of the outlaw’s twisted sense of humour. They were recovering from something else as well, an oddity she had not noticed earlier in the excitement of the ambush.

The wolf’s head shot with his left hand!

Confirming the startling discovery, she saw that he wore his sword slung on his right hip—giving ready access for the left hand—and wore his quiver of arrows tilted to the left shoulder.

A child of Satan! Bastard spawn of the Devil himself!
Everyone
knew a left-handed man was born with the curse of Lucifer on his soul—as if she had needed any further proof of his perfidiousness!

“Not much farther to camp now, my lady,” he was saying. “From the smell of it, I would guess we are having fresh venison in honour of your presence.”

Servanne smelled nothing except an admission of blatant guilt from a boastful poacher: another crime to add to his growing list. A man’s life was forfeit if he was caught killing one of the king’s deer. He was first blinded, then tortured over a slow fire until his skin blistered and fell off in great black flakes. He was then hung, drawn, and quartered by way of an example to others. A fitting demise for such a barbarian as this wolf, she mused.

“You may be assured, sirrah,” she declared evenly, “I would rather waste away to a shell of skin and bone than defile the king’s law by eating his royal due. You and your men may well choke on your treasonous repast if you so choose, but Mistress Bidwell and myself should die first.”

Biddy gave a ram’s snort of approval; the outlaw scoffed derisively. “Another sight mine eyes would ransom kingdoms to see: a dimpled cheek without the sheen of sweet grease upon it; a slender hand not first into the pot of roasted pheasant; a dainty belly not groaning with complaint after being stuffed to the chin with capon, pasties, and pies.”

An unsubtle and prolonged rumble of agreement stirred in Servanne’s stomach, reminding her she had not eaten since early morning, and that an unsatisfying meal of black bread and sour ale.

“And then there are the sweetmeats,” contributed a voice from the staggered band of outlaws. “Our own good wife Mab prepares some of the tastiest creations that have ever crossed these lips. What say you, lads?” The question was aimed generally over his shoulder. “Has Mab any equal this side of the Channel?”

“Bless the stars that found her for us,” came a jovial reply. “Or mayhap just bless Gil Golden for bringing her out of Lincoln with our last purchase of arrowheads!”

A round of solid backslapping sent Servanne’s gaze across to the man who had perfunctorily shot an arrow into Sir Roger de Chesnai’s thigh. He had a smooth, aquiline profile that suggested a far easier life lay behind than the one ahead. His shoulders were square and straight, if a little sparse of bulk; his legs were long and agile enough to swallow the wooded miles without visible effort. Copper-coloured locks capped his head like woolen fleece, cropped short beneath the jaunty green felt hat he wore slouched forward over his brow. His eyes were a blend of greens and golds and spicy brown flecks, and a webbing of fine lines at the corners intimated a man of easy nature and good humour. The long, ragged scar that distorted his left cheek implied it was not always so. The disfigurement in no way detracted from his handsomeness, but it did confirm the fact he was a branded thief, and would have as easily aimed for Sir Roger’s heart as his thigh.

Servanne was distracted from further observations by a sudden burst of sound and activity from the woods up ahead. From high, high up in the boughs of a tree came a swoosh of air and a curled knot of flying hair and shrieking laughter. Detatching itself from the swinging vine with a whoop, the tiny figure splayed arms and legs wide, his clothes pocketing the wind to break the impact of his body slamming into that of the Black Wolf of Lincoln. As it was, the outlaw was jolted back off his feet and required several paces to reclaim his balance. Servanne’s horse balked indignantly; Biddy muttered an oath which earned stares and grins from the nearby foresters.

“Sparrow!” spat the Wolf with a not altogether feigned grimace of displeasure. “By Christ’s pricking thorns, one of these days I will step out of the way and let you sail clear on past into perdition!”

The squirming bundle disentangled itself from the torso of the outlaw and sprang onto the ground beside him. The man … dwarf … child … was barely tall enough to see the top of the Wolf’s belt. Thin as a reed, as tanned as a roasted nut, he … or she … had huge, shining black eyes that seemed at once too large for the round, elfin face, and far too knowledgeable for such a mischievous grin.

Servanne blinked, and blinked again. She had heard fables of such creatures living in the forests; wood elves who were several centuries old, kept young and childlike through pagan rites and rituals. She had never truly believed in such tales of magic and witchcraft, of course. Magic was only for the eyes and ears of the superstitious, and as for witches and warlocks …

She found herself staring at the outlaw leader again, her mouth as dry as parched wheat.

“So so so.” Sparrow’s voice was as delicately pitched as a woman’s. “So this was to be the Dragon’s new plaything. There is not much to her, is there? But then I suppose such a child would be a welcome change from being clamped between the iron thighs of Nicolaa de la Haye. You sent our demands on ahead?”

“We accomplished what we set out to do,” the Wolf responded. “And you? You found the sheriff?”

“He was waiting at the fens, just as you predicted,” Sparrow nodded, grinning. “He and most of the guard from Lincoln Castle. Slutching fools! Another half league into the forest and they might have upset our plans.”

“They might have tried,” the outlaw replied lightly. “But I am inclined to think a few well spent arrows would have had De la Haye and his men bolting for cover regardless if it had been Richard’s intended bride, Berengaria, he had been sent to meet.”

“The sheriff should know by now to leave such matters to his wife. The Bawd Nicolaa would have stayed and fought us with pleasure.”

“The rest of our men? They made it back without incident?”

“Bah! Old Noddypeak did not even know we had him in bowshot. Mind, he kept scritching and scratching at the back of his neck”—Sparrow gave an imitation of the sheriff scratching nervously—“and shaking off the waterfalls of sweat he leaked”—lie shook himself all over, like a dog emerging from a pond—“so I suspect he was not entirely without grand expectations.”

“A pity we had to disappoint him.”

“Aye,” Sparrow sighed. “The lads had him sighted on their arrow tips every blink of the way.”

“They will have him again, when the timing better suits our needs. Right now, Onfroi de la Haye is of more use to us alive than dead.”

“Aye, my lord,” the little man said, “So you keep telling us.”

“So it shall be,” the Wolf insisted. “The Sheriff of Lincoln is a fool, a weak incompetent puppet; one whose every move we can predict and anticipate with laughable ease. Put someone else in his stead—his sweet wife, for example—and we would see her quenching her thirst for blood in ways we have not even thought of yet.”