Through A Dark Mist Part 4

Servanne stiffened, then whirled to face him. "Ten thousand marks! Are you mad?"

"Are you afraid he will not part with that much silver?"

She released her breath on a gasp of exasperation. "If you are asking if Lord Lucien has the wealth to pay such an ... an outrageous outrageous sum, the answer is yes. Ten times over." sum, the answer is yes. Ten times over."

A dark brow arched inquisitively. "Then I should have demanded more?"

"No! I mean ... no." She stopped and chewed savagely on her lip. "Ten thousand is ..." I mean ... no." She stopped and chewed savagely on her lip. "Ten thousand is ..."

"A fair test of his devotion?"

"Too much to expect a man to pay for-"

"A bride whose angelic disposition nearly overwhelms her vast inheritances? Tell me honestly-if you can do such a thing without compromising the staunch beliefs of your gender-have you not wondered what his motives were in seeking this union?"

"His motives!" motives!" Frustrated, Servanne clasped her hands into tight little fists and fought to keep her temper in check. "The purpose behind your aggravating persistence eludes me, sirrah. What is it Frustrated, Servanne clasped her hands into tight little fists and fought to keep her temper in check. "The purpose behind your aggravating persistence eludes me, sirrah. What is it exactly exactly that you wish to know? Lord Lucien is a fine, n.o.ble gentleman-" that you wish to know? Lord Lucien is a fine, n.o.ble gentleman-"

"Who loves you to the point of distraction and cannot bear to think of a prolonged separation."

"A n.o.ble gentleman," she reiterated furiously, "who-"

"Who wants something you have, and is willing to sacrifice his much prized freedom to get it."

She flushed hotly. "There may have been some consideration given to the dowry, but-"

"My lady," the rogue laughed outright. "You are far too modest. With what you bring into the marriage, you will turn Lincoln into his small, private domain. A kingdom, if you will, with a dragon on the throne and a nest of serpents writhing at his feet, eager to do his bidding. Mind, it does you some credit to understand from the outset what he wants from you. Most women would be inclined to look no farther than the closest mirror to explain a sudden, pressing need for wedded bliss."

"He will not suffer for his bargain," she said archly.

"Spoken with true humility," he grinned. "And for the sins of vanity and ignorance, you shall recite ten pater nosters pater nosters to the good Friar." to the good Friar."

"You should be the one begging repentance," she countered angrily. "For surely you traded your soul to the Devil long ago. As a Christian, I shall pray for your redemption."

"Save your prayers for yourself, my lady. You will need them far more than I, whether the ransom is paid or not."

Servanne gritted her teeth. "If you are threatening me, or endeavouring to frighten me-"

"My dear lady, I am not endeavouring to frighten you any more than you should be already. In truth, I would rather open your eyes to a few unpleasant facts."

"By first demanding an outlandish ransom, then suggesting it will not be paid? How truly thoughtful of you, messire. Are you this considerate to all your hostages?"

"One or two have screamed quicker for mercy, but the methods improve with each outing." He paused and his eyes were lured down to the moist pink arch of her lips. "Unless I am misinformed, you are Sir Hubert's only surviving heir?"

"I do not see where that is a concern of yours."

"There was a nephew," he said, ignoring the sarcasm. "But I was told he had a fatal accident a few weeks back and fell on his own sword. Three times. Clumsy fellow, would you not say?"

This was the first she had heard of it and her silence caused the slate-gray eyes to fasten on to hers again.

"Moreover, you are an orphan yourself, are you not? As such, should you perish before another husband has been procured, all dower rights of inheritance revert by law to the crown, to be kept, sold, or dispersed as the king sees fit." "King Richard would never-"

"King Richard is away on his crusades," the Wolf interrupted bluntly. "It would therefore fall to Prince John's discretion, in his role as regent, to dispose of Sir Hubert's properties and chattal. Of the two brothers, which one would you say had the greasier palms?"

"Prince John," she whispered, intrigued despite herself, to see where this was leading.

"And of the two royal scions, who would have the most to gain by parceling out the late baron's properties quickly and quietly, with as little fuss as possible?"

Prince John, she thought, temporarily chilled out of her anger and weariness. Acting on the king's behalf and using the excuse that the funds raised would be going to finance the Lionheart's crusades in the Holy Land, Sir Hubert's estates could be divided and sold to interested bidders, with a portion of each sale discreetly ending up in the prince's own coffers.

The Black Wolf was watching her reactions closely. "In the same vein, if I had a choice between paying out ten thousand marks ransom for a bride I had no desire to take in the first place ... or to bide my time and pay a good deal less to buy only those estates I wanted ..." He paused and shrugged his ma.s.sive fur-clad shoulders. "I might be sorely tempted to let someone else do what my vaunted code of chivalry prevented me from doing myself."

Servanne blanched, then sprang to her feet.

"Enough!" she cried, incensed beyond reason. "I will not sit here and endure such insults! Your logic is very sound, coming from a man who is both a traitor and a thief. I have no doubt you would would choose the easier path to obtaining your goal, which only choose the easier path to obtaining your goal, which only proves proves you are not who you claim to be. You are you are not who you claim to be. You are not not Lucien Wardieu. You are not even a Lucien Wardieu. You are not even a man! man! You are a corrupt and twisted shadow of a creature who has obviously decided that stealing a man's ident.i.ty and committing heinous crimes in his good name somehow satiates a petty need inside you to become more than what you are. You have no honour. You have no shame. I hope, nay, I pray for the You are a corrupt and twisted shadow of a creature who has obviously decided that stealing a man's ident.i.ty and committing heinous crimes in his good name somehow satiates a petty need inside you to become more than what you are. You have no honour. You have no shame. I hope, nay, I pray for the real real Lord Lucien to come into these woods and hunt you down! I pray he catches you and stakes you down on the ground, and leaves you there for the dogs and boars to chew away strip by b.l.o.o.d.y strip! Moreover, I pray ... oh, how I do pray to be present when he does so, to have the privilege and immense pleasure of watching you die inch by gored inch!" Lord Lucien to come into these woods and hunt you down! I pray he catches you and stakes you down on the ground, and leaves you there for the dogs and boars to chew away strip by b.l.o.o.d.y strip! Moreover, I pray ... oh, how I do pray to be present when he does so, to have the privilege and immense pleasure of watching you die inch by gored inch!"

She stood there, her face flushed, her chest heaving with anger. Not only the outlaw leader, but every man within earshot of her outburst-which included nearly all present in the pilgrims' hall-had stopped what they were doing to turn and stare.

The Wolf, in particular, was staring at the gleaming, jewelled eating knife she had s.n.a.t.c.hed off the table and was holding in a clenched fist only inches from his nose. Half an eternity pa.s.sed before he spoke, his tone silky, the words said with a quiet intensity that set off a roaring in her ears.

"I met Sir Hubert de Briscourt some years ago in France. A fearsome warrior on the battlefield, he brooked no insult from any quarter, servant or n.o.ble. It is a true wonder then, that in three years of marriage, he was not once driven to strangle you to death."

Servanne's lips were parted, the cool air giving ghostly substance to her rapid breaths. She stared down into eyes that were like banked fires, glowing and dangerous, apt to erupt at the merest provocation.

"Tut the knife down," he instructed calmly. "Or use it."

For a moment, her fingers tightened, and the knuckles glowed pinkish white. Then her senses cleared and her hand flexed reluctantly open, dropping the knife as if the hilt had suddenly become red hot. The sound shattered the absolute silence, releasing the tension everywhere but in the immediate area of the two princ.i.p.als. They continued to stare at one another over the resumed buzz of movement and conversation.

"Never, ever lift a knife to me again, madam, unless it is done with firm intent"-his voice was so low she could barely hear it-"for you will not be so lucky twice."

Servanne believed him. Only a blind fool would doubt the savagery that lurked just behind the hooded, soulless eyes.

"You are despicable," she said, the words tight in her throat. "I pray to G.o.d I do not live long enough to hate another human being as much as I hate you."

"Sit down," he commanded brusquely, "before the strain of all that prayer drains your strength and accomplishes your desire prematurely."

"I have no wish to sit down sit down, sirrah. Not now. Not ever."

His jaw clamped ominously. "None at all?"

"None."

"Very well, if that is your wish wish-" He stood abruptly, his patience snapped like a taut thread. "Sparrow!"

A meek corner of the pale, elfin face peeped around Servanne's skirts. "Aye, my lord?"

"Have the table and stools cleared away. Lady Servanne will be remaining exactly where she is, by her own request. The night ahead promises to be a cool one, so by all means fetch a mantle and rug for the lady's comfort, but under no circ.u.mstances is she to sit or lie down at any time without first seeking my express permission to do so. If she dares to attempt either, through stubbornness or feint, have her bound hand and foot and chained upright to the wall. Is that understood?"

"Scoundrel!" Biddy gasped. "Cad! Inhuman monster!"

The Black Wolf turned from the defiant sparkle in Servanne's gaze to launch a particularily venomous glance at the spluttering matron.

"You may share your mistress's dicipline if you see fit. If not, you would be wise to remain in your chamber for the duration of the night lest you be mistaken for an intruder and shot out of hand. Gil! Friar! We have plans to discuss for the morrow. Ladies ... I bid you a pleasant and comfortable evening."

Servanne watched him skirt the table and stride across the firelit floor. Her body was trembling with anger; pride and obstinacy gave her the added strength to stand her ground and glare contemptuously at the sheepish ring of onlookers. She would stand there till h.e.l.l froze, if she had to. Ask his permission? She would cut off her tongue and choke on it before groveling to him or anyone else for favours. Ask his permission, indeed!

"Lady?"

A gentle tug on her surcoat drew Servanne's blurred gaze down.

"Lady ... he bears a heavy burden on his mind, does my lord. Aye, and at the best of times he has a temper that rankles most foul when p.r.i.c.ked. It cools just as quickly, however, and I warrant he would be happy to reconsider if I went after him and-"

"The man who causes injury to a woman only shames himself," she quoted stoically. "And, if he so injures her, she breaks his will more by refusing to bow to that shame."

Sparrow's eyebrows flew upward, losing themselves beneath the tumbled locks of his hair. Did she think the Wolf was a normal man?

"My lady," he cautioned earnestly, "it is neither wise nor necessary to prove your will to be as strong as his. Many have tried; none have succeeded."

"I have no wish to prove myself stronger, only to prove I am not easily broken."

"Methinks he is well aware of that already," Sparrow muttered, scratching furiously at a p.r.i.c.kling sensation at the nape of his neck. "No one in my memory has had a voice left after raising it to him. As for the knife ... dear oh dear, that was was a sight to behold." a sight to behold."

"My lady ..." Biddy began. "Perhaps young Woodc.o.c.k is right. Perhaps you should-"

Servanne lifted a hand to silence her. "There is no point in two of us enduring the cold and damp, Biddy. My bones are a good deal younger than yours, and I am quite resigned to wait out this ruffian for as long as it takes. Go to your bed with a clear conscience, I would prefer to have you well rested for whatever new trials await us in the morning."

Biddy clamped her hands together on her lap and swelled her bosom to prodigious proportions before pushing herself to her feet. "If you want me moved from this spot, you will have to have me dragged away by the heels! These decrepit old bones, as you think them, have a dole of life left in them yet, and shame to you for thinking so poorly of them and me in this time of tribulation! You! Woodc.o.c.k!" She glared icicles at Sparrow. "Fetch those furs and mantle, and be quick about it. Bring the thickest pelts you can lay a hand to for my lamb to stand on, and a length of wool to wrap about her feet for warmth. Well? What are you waiting for: All Hallows Eve?"

The newly christened Woodc.o.c.k planted his hands on his hips and looked as if he might balk at the chain of command. But a glance up into the sad and lovely eyes of the young demoiselle, who was fighting so bravely to choke back her tears, made him swallow his indignation and collect an a.s.sortment of blankets, furs, even a warm pair of mittens he had been h.o.a.rding in his own pack.

This done, he scampered off to his perch high on one of the undamaged wooden arches. From there he could look down over the entire cavernous refectory, seeing more than he was perhaps intended to see.

The Wolf was there, standing well back where the shadows were thickest and his presence not likely to be betrayed by the firelight. He stood as still as the stone wall he leaned against, and while Sparrow could not see his expression, he was mildly troubled by the suspicion that the wide brow would be frowning with perplexity.

In all the years they had been together-ten now since the Wolf had rescued him from a nightmare world of freak shows and fairgrounds-Sparrow had rarely seen him display anything but bored deference to the women who, more often than not, chased after him with their skirts raised and their eyes wanting. He was no fool to refuse what was so readily and eagerly offered; some he had even liked well enough to remember their names in the morning.

But this was strange. Very strange indeed. Prior to the widow's appearance at the supper table, the plan had not changed from its original conception. She was a hostage and hostages were fair game, especially when there were old scores to be settled. Rape, forced marriage, even mutilation was not unexpected in most cases of rivalry and revenge, and the Wolf had given serious contemplation to each of the three options at one point or another.

At the very least he should have boxed her ears a dozen times throughout the afternoon and evening. The fact he had not even touched touched her ... ! Well, it was too much for Sparrow's tired head to support. her ... ! Well, it was too much for Sparrow's tired head to support.

Yawning against the lull of heat and smoke that remained trapped under the dome of the roof, Sparrow settled more snuggly into his nest of furs and let the hypnotic effects of the dying fires spare him the burden of further puzzles to solve.

5.

Servanne's young body ached from top to toe. She had fought off bouts of faintness and nausea all through the long, seemingly endless night of torment. There had been no bells tolled to mark the pa.s.sing hours. The fires inside the sh.e.l.l of the pilgrims' hall had been banked, fading from insipid red to frilled white ash. All but two of the torches that sat in black iron cressets had been doused early in the evening. The remaining two had been allowed to burn down to stubs, and then left to smoke listlessly in their rusted cradles. Only the waning brightness of the stars overhead marked the slow pa.s.sage of the hours, and they, for the better part of the night, had been cloaked behind drifting banks of opaque mist.

Dampness and cold were Servanne's only companions. Biddy had fallen fast asleep within an hour of her declared tenacity. Apart from the odd restless nicker from the horses and the contented snores of the men who had made their beds on piles of old rushes, there was only the occasional hiss and crackle from the dying fires to break the leaden silence.

Slowly, however, the gloom and shadow that had enveloped the abandoned abbey distilled to a murky, half-lit dawn. The mist began to receed into the forest. Figures and objects, smothered by darkness, slowly took shape and substance again and, responding to some inner timepiece, the huddled figures began to stretch and yawn, and push knuckled fists into crusted, bleary eyes. A round of coughing and spitting bestirred the dogs, who took up where they had left off the night before rooting in the rushes in search of food sc.r.a.ps. The men greeted one another, some groaning over swollen heads and sour tongues, some exchanging ribald complaints over other stiffened, ill-exercised joints. Somewhere a goat bleated and an ax bit into wood. Beyond the stone walls, a flock of birds were startled out of their rookery and rose above the gaping, scorched beams in a screaming black cloud.

Sparrow came swooping down out of nowhere, landing with a whoop and cry that nearly sent Biddy tumbling sideways off her log stool.

"You said you did not want to sit," he chirruped good-naturedly to Servanne. "Did you also mean you did not care to wash or clear away the night vapours?"

Servanne was too weary to take offense at his humour. "I would like very much to refresh myself."

"Follow me, then. Follow me."

Biddy's stiffened joints creaked and cracked as she tried to heave herself to her feet, and with Servanne's help, she finally managed. Moving was another matter entirely and she scooted her mistress on ahead while she followed at a slower, more cautious gait.

Sparrow led them out into the courtyard and around to the rear of the stone buildings. Here, the thick outer wall had once boasted a low postern gate through which the monks could enter or leave the grounds without disturbing the main gates. The entryway was all but overgrown by weeds and thick ropes of ivy, but a s.p.a.ce had recently been hacked through the bramble and it was there Sparrow paused, grinning back at Servanne as he beckoned her through the gap.

For a brief, lack-of-sleep-induced moment, she thought the little man was helping her escape.

The spurt of newfound energy the thought triggered lasted only until she was on the other side of the wall and saw the path that led into the greenwood. Returning to the abbey along the path were the two women she had seen the previous night, both of them carrying full buckets of water.

"The cistern inside the abbey has gone dry," Sparrow explained, ignoring Biddy's m.u.f.fled oaths as she fought off a web of vines that had fallen on her. "But there is a sweet stream just ahead. Follow me. Follow me."

He danced cheerfully into the deeper woods, his stubby hands fluttering as he pushed aside the saplings and pale green fronds that overgrew the pathway. He kept chattering to himself, or singing-Servanne cared less which. Nor did she care that the air was fresh and cool, tinged with the pungent smell of evergreen, or that their footsteps made very little sound on the rich, loamy earth they walked on. So absorbed was she in her own misery, she did not see Sparrow halt. A sharp cry and quick hands saved them both from tumbling headlong over a ten-foot drop of rock that marked the abrupt end of the path.

To the left was a steep, rounded escarpment which rose to a high, bare promontory of jagged rock. Silhouetted against the metallic blue of the morning sky was the outline of a man, undoubtedly a sentry, who, from his elevated position, would be able to see a fair distance in all directions. Halfway down the rocky escarpment, a wide smooth sheet of water flowed out of a fissure in the wall, streaming over a series of moss-covered ledges, cut like steps into the curve of the cliff. It collected in a deep blue basin below, part of the pool darkened by the shadow of the overhanging promontory, the rest sparkling warm and inviting in the early sunlight.

Obeying Sparrow's pointed finger, Servanne carefully picked her way down the narrow trail that edged the embankment. At the bottom, it leveled out and she was able to walk onto a flat table of rock that leaned out over the water's shallow end.

"You can have a bit of privacy here, if you want it," Sparrow said. "I will go back and see where Old Shrew-Tongue has gotten herself. T'would be a pity to see her spill a.r.s.e over heel into the pool." He thought about the image a moment and added with a chuckle. "Aye, a dreadful pity."

He was gone in a wink, vanished back into the undergrowth that swarmed the edge of the embankment. Servanne stared at the fronds until they had finished rustling, then gazed instinctively up at the sentry, who made no effort to pretend he was not staring directly back down at her.

Escape was the farthest thing from her mind as Servanne gingerly lowered herself onto her knees. She bowed her head and leaned forward to stretch the aching muscles in her neck. With a weary sigh, she unfastened the heavy samite surcoat and peeled it off her shoulders, then, on an afterthought, removed the jewelled broach that held the linen bands of her wimple pinned closed at her throat. Slowly, moving with the stiffness of a ninety-year-old woman, she unwound the starched collar bands and set the headpiece with its flowing caplet of cloth neatly on the blue crush of samite. She uncoiled the two thick braids of her hair and, using her fingers as combs, unplaited each glossy braid and shook the long, rippled ma.s.s free. When it was completely unfettered, she ran her splayed fingers across her scalp to ma.s.sage it, nearly weeping with the pleasurable sensation of freedom.

As she was bending to dip her hands in the gla.s.sy surface of the pool, a loud splash farther along the sh.o.r.e caused her to jump and stare across the pond. A pale shape streaked below the water, erupting from the silver-black surface again several yards ahead of the spreading rings he had generated. Servanne recognized the chestnut mane of hair even as the Black Wolf shook it vigorously to scatter the clinging droplets of water. It was apparent he had not yet seen her, however, for as he began to walk into the shallower water, he was intent upon scrubbing his chest and arms with the handfuls of fine sand he had scooped from the bottom. A second dive brought him out of the shade and into the sunlight, and this time, when he stood, the water streamed in glistening sheets from his head to the tops of his powerful thighs.

A man's naked body held no surprises for Servanne. Her husband had slept nude beside her for three years. Visiting knights and n.o.bles had thought nothing of stripping naked and either being bathed by her or in front of her as was the custom in welcoming a guest to one's castle. Some had been as virile and solidly thewed as this forest outlaw, although she could not, upon the instant, recall a chest quite so broad, or a belly so tautly ridged with bands of muscle. The hair on his chest glittered like a copper breastplate; a sleek line of it funneled down to a smaller thatch that swirled around his navel. Lower still and it grew into a tight, dark forest at his groin. What lay like a restless beast within that forest would have been more than enough to cause Servanne's heart to leap over several erratic beats if it were not already stumbling headlong over another disturbing sight.

Furrowing down his right side was a swath of misshapen scar tissue fully as wide as her hand, as long as her arm, distorting the surface of his flesh from his armpit to his b.u.t.tock. Circling the same shoulder was a shiny patch of skin, resistant to the sun's tanning effects, and marking clearly where a chirurgeon's crude efforts had attempted to compensate for skin and muscle pared away from the upper arm. The shoulder itself was as gnarled as bark. His left thigh bore similar evidence of horrendous wounding-injuries one sustained from a battlefield, not a cornfield.

Under different circ.u.mstances Servanne would have been amused by the look of complete surprised that jolted the stern, stoic features when he realized he was not alone in the small glade. His hands froze halfway to reaching for a weapon that was not there. His eyes widened and flared with something akin to panic-though she could not imagine there could be anything on this earth able to rouse a fright in his soulless heart. As it was, she could hardly find cause to laugh at his reaction when her own sorry predicament was just as unsettling. Her head was bare-an unthinkable breach of propriety, even here in this pagan's forest. She was alone. alone. (Where the Devil had Biddy taken herself to?) She was certain there must be smudges of dirt and dried tears streaking her face, and her hands shook like those of a palsied invalid. (Where the Devil had Biddy taken herself to?) She was certain there must be smudges of dirt and dried tears streaking her face, and her hands shook like those of a palsied invalid.

The Wolf blinked more water from his eyes, cursing whatever misguided part of his brain had convinced him he was seeing a golden-haired sea nymph rising out of a pool of sunlight. She was golden-haired, all right, but far from being an enchantress. Just a flesh-and-blood nuisance who had no business being there.

Even after the initial start of shock had pa.s.sed, the Wolf continued to experience some difficulty in regaining control over his composure. He did not like being caught unawares, did not relish the sensation of baring his scarred body to a woman in broad daylight, nuisance or not. It was not that he was ashamed of his appearance, for he cared little for what anyone thought; it was more a defensive reaction to the pity, and sometimes the recoiling horror he saw reflected in eyes unused to such sights.

As discomforting as it was to feel the clear blue eyes upon him, it was similarily distracting to know they were having a distinct effect on the way his blood was flowing through his veins. Because of the strict modesty of the wimple she had worn, he'd had no idea until that moment, of the colour, length, or incredible sheen of the blonde hair hidden beneath. Now, where it spilled over her shoulders, it resembled liquid gold, emphasizing the porcelain whiteness of her skin, the large almond-shaped eyes, the fine lines of her nose, chin, and mouth. While each feature on its own could claim no great or rare beauty, when flattered by the luminous cloud of her hair it lured a man to speculate over what other misinterpretations he might have made regarding her form and figure.