Through A Dark Mist Part 6

Onfroi stood stock-still, his eyes briefly startled wide enough to show the red-veined whites. A low and distant rumble was drifting toward them from the east, carried on a breeze that smelled of sweat and anger.

Christ Almighty! Could it be Wardieu already? If so, he must have ridden out of Bloodmoor in the dust of the messenger, and by the sound of it, brought his entire castle guard!

A panicked glance around the campsite caused the veins in Onfroi's neck to swell and pulsate. Half of his guards were lounging about in blank-eyed boredom, the others were gathered about a tapped keg of ale.

"Insolent oafs!" he screamed, kicking viciously at two men who were stretched out, fast asleep. "Up! Get up, d.a.m.n you!"

He ran across the gra.s.s, boots and fists launching out at anyone foolish enough to remain in his path. "Lazy, insolent oafs! I'll see how easily you sleep with hot irons poking out of your skulls! Arrest those men!" he shouted, pointing at the two unfortunates. "Get them out of my sight before I take a knife to them here and now!"

"G.o.d curse me for a fool," he continued, ranting to himself, searching for more flesh to abuse in the scattering troops. "It is no wonder that d.a.m.ned wolf's head has no fear of the forest. He could be a dozen paces away ... p.i.s.sing into the soup pot! p.i.s.sing into the soup pot! ... and not one of these oafs would notice!" ... and not one of these oafs would notice!"

Onfroi ran out of obscenities just as the thunder of hooves rounded the sweeping mouth of the valley. Wardieu's destrier commanded the lead; a huge white beast, a trained ram-pager hewn from solid muscle, with the blazing red eyes and flared nostrils of a demon bred in h.e.l.l. His master was hardly less fearsome. Riding tall in the saddle, his blue mantle rippling out from broad, armour-clad shoulders, Lucien Wardieu wore an expression of cold, grim fury. Directly behind were his squires, their mounts less formidable but still throwing back clods of torn earth on every galloped pace. In heir ominous wake, two score of armoured knights appeared, each wearing surcoats embroidered with the Wardieu dragon, but carrying kite-shaped shields emblazoned with their own distinctive crests and arms.

"G.o.d in heaven," Onfroi muttered, and fought to suppress the urge to cross himself. It was worse than he thought: Among the warlike faces of Wardieu's vaunted army of mercenaries, was the one countenance in particular that caused his sphincter muscle to lose control.

D'Aeth. A huge, brooding bulk of a man whose face was so hideously scarred it went beyond the normal bounds of ugly. As bald as an egg, as broad as a beast, he was Wardieu's subjugator, and there, dangling from his saddle like a tinker's wares were the dreaded tools of his profession -iron pincers for the crushing of bones and t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, leather straps and studded whips, a long thin prod with a wickedly barbed five-pointed tip (the purpose of which did not bear thinking). Who was Wardieu planning to have tortured?

De la Haye willed away a wave of nausea as the baron's warhorse pounded to a halt in a swirl of gra.s.s and flayed earth. Wardieu sat a long moment, glaring around the makeshift camp, then swung a leg over the saddle and vaulted to the ground.

"M-my lord Lucien," Onfroi stammered, rushing over at once. "I did not antic.i.p.ate your arrival so soon."

The piercing blue eyes came to rest on the sheriff's sweating face. "Obviously there were a great many things you did not antic.i.p.ate these past two days, De la Haye."

Onfroi repressed a shudder. The baron's voice was calm enough, but then so was the wind in the eye of a hurricane.

"You have prisoners?"

"P-prisoners? No, my lord. Unfortunately no, the outlaws moved too swiftly. By the time the survivors had reached us at the fens, the men who had perpetrated the ambush were scattered in a hundred different directions. That is their habit. To strike with the speed of vipers and vanish in the undergrowth as if they had never been."

Wardieu's face was as blank as a stone. "You know them well enough to have established their habits? Then this is not the first time this particular band of vermin has appeared in these woods?"

A violent tic in Onfroi's cheek closed his left eye completely. "Th-there have been rumours, my lord, nothing more. Rumours of a man who dresses in wolf's pelts and plagues the merchant caravans traveling to and from Lincoln Town. But they are only rumours. You yourself are aware of how these local peasants exaggerate the smallest incident into an adventure of epic proportions, especially when the outlaws perpetrate their crimes in the name of Saxon justice."

"The Bishop of Sleaford will be pleased to hear you refer to his mishap last month as a 'small incident,'" Lucien remarked coldly. "As will the Lady Servanne."

Onfroi's tongue slid across his lips. "There is no proof the two crimes can be attributed to the same villains, my lord."

"Oh? Then you would have me believe there are two packs of wolves hiding out in these woods? Two separate packs who have managed to elude your patrols for ... how long? A month? Two months?"

"We have searched, Lord Lucien," Onfroi whined. "The patrols have been doubled and their frequency increased. Hounds have been put to the scent every day. Foresters have been brought from the villages to aid the search. No one sees anything. No one hears anything. Spies do not return, and, if their bodies are found, they have had their throats slit and their tongues pulled through the gap. The Saxon rabble do nothing to help. Why, only last week we burned an entire village to the ground and hung the peasants one by one, but none would betray the outlaws. Not a single man, woman, or child would speak to save his own life."

Wardieu's lips compressed around a grimace. "Your methods are as crude as your abilities, De la Haye. Did it not occur to you that slaughtering an entire village would only provoke this Black Wolf-if he is one of them-to retaliate twofold? Did it never occur to you to warn me that guests traveling to my demesne might have some reason to fear for their safety?"

"The men ambushed this time were your own!" Onfroi blurted unthinkingly. "Christ above! Who would have thought for an instant for an instant that Bayard of Northumbria could not outwit a band of half-starved woodcutters and thieves! that Bayard of Northumbria could not outwit a band of half-starved woodcutters and thieves! He He was well aware of the threat, if you were not. was well aware of the threat, if you were not. He He at least ventured out of the castle now and then to listen to tavern gossip!" at least ventured out of the castle now and then to listen to tavern gossip!"

Wardieu halted in the act of removing his leather gauntlets. The look he gave De la Haye brought forth an immediate, gasped apology.

"G.o.d spare me, what I meant to say ... I mean, what I did not not mean to imply, er, to say ... that is, what I meant was ..." mean to imply, er, to say ... that is, what I meant was ..."

Wardieu turned his back and signaled to one of his mercenaries. "Cull a dozen of your best men and go to where the ambush occurred. Search the area thoroughly. A man on his own can seem to disappear easily enough, but not a score or more, and not if they took women and packhorses. I want to know exactly exactly how many are in this wolf's pack, and in which likely direction they headed. And I want results, Aubrey de Vere, not excuses." how many are in this wolf's pack, and in which likely direction they headed. And I want results, Aubrey de Vere, not excuses."

"You shall have them, my lord," declared De Vere and wheeled his big horse around.

While the selections were being made, one of the knights who had gathered with the other silent onlookers from the sheriff's camp, limped forward, his gait favouring a wounded, bandaged thigh. He was neither tall nor especially pleasant-featured, but he was obviously a seasoned veteran of many battles, and when he spoke, it was with a voice that sounded like two slabs of rock grinding together.

"Sir Roger de Chesnai," he said in answer to the question in Wardieu's eyes. "I am captain of Sir Hubert de Briscourt's guard, and was part of the escort sent to protect Lady Servanne."

"I should not brag about a job ill done," Wardieu said, removing his steel helm and pushing his mail hood back off the sweat-dampened locks of tawny gold hair.

De Chesnai blinked, whether to clear his eyes of the fever-induced moisture that slicked his brow, or to absorb the insult to his honour, it was not revealed by his expression.

"Command fell to me when Northumbria was slain," he said, staring intently at the Dragon's face. "I would ask for the opportunity to return to the site of the ambuscade with your men, if you will permit it."

Wardieu glanced down at the blood-soaked bandaging. "Bayard was a good man. Before I would consider your request, I would know what happened."

De Chesnai flushed and balled his fists. "They dropped on us out of nowhere, my lord. Northumbria had taken the precaution of sending men on ahead to ensure the way was clear, but they must have died between one blink and the next, with nary a cry or shout to mark their pa.s.sing. We found the bodies later, all four of them pierced clean through the heart; a dozen more were lost the same way when the main party was ambushed. They just came upon us out of nowhere. No sound. No sight of them, not even after they had made good their first kills."

Lucien waited until the wounded knight paused to grit his teeth through another fevered chill before he queried part of the story. "You said ... their arrows pierced through armour?"

"Aye, lord. Some of the rogues use longbows, with arrows tipped in steel, not iron."

"Steel?" Wardieu repeated, his brow folding with skepticism. "Woodcutters and thieves"-he spared a particularly venomous glance toward Onfroi de la Haye-"using steel-tipped arrows?" Wardieu repeated, his brow folding with skepticism. "Woodcutters and thieves"-he spared a particularly venomous glance toward Onfroi de la Haye-"using steel-tipped arrows?"

De Chesnai met the blue eyes unwaveringly. "Yes, my lord. And while none were wasted, none were retrieved either, as if they were in plentiful supply."

Wardieu recognized the importance of such flamboyance and rubbed a thoughtful finger along the squared line of his jaw. That the weapon of choice was the bow and arrow was not as much of a surprise as the fact that these outlaws used precious-and vastly expensive-steel in place of the softer, more readily available iron arrowheads. Iron had difficulty penetrating the bullhide jerkins worn as armour by common men-at-arms; they deflected harmlessly off chain mail worn by knights. Steel, on the other hand, tempered and hardened a hundredfold over crude bog iron, could slice through bull-hide like a knife paring cheeze, and sever the links of chain mail with hardly more effort.

"Go on. What happened then?"

"The leader revealed himself, exchanged a few words with Northumbria, then slew him. Not without provocation, to be sure, for it was Bayard who loosed the first arrow, but I have it in my mind the outlaw would have slain him anyway. Something"-he looked steadily into Wardieu's face-"in the eyes spelled death."

"You said they exchanged a few words ... what was said?"

"I was not close enough to hear, nor did they speak as if they desired an audience. But again, something in the outlaw's manner made me believe he knew the captain, and that Northumbria was startled into a similar recognition."

De Chesnai turned away for a moment, as if some part of his recollections had left a more disturbing impression.

"What is it? What are you remembering?"

Bayard of Northumbria had possessed the courage and fighting experience of ten men; who was he, Roger de Chesnai, to even suggest ...

"He looked more than surprised, my lord. He looked shaken. As if he was seeing something that should not be there. In any case, he was certainly angered beyond reason, for he took up his crossbow and attempted to shoot the outlaw where he stood."

"And the outlaw?"

"He managed to aim and strike dead centre of the eye before the captain had even released the trigger."

"A fair bowman, then, you would say?" Wardieu questioned dryly.

"The best I have ever seen, my lord."

Wardieu studied the knight's haggard face a moment then stared out across the gold and pink avalanche of clouds rolling toward the setting sun. "Describe him to me. As clearly as you remember."

"I did not have a clear view, my lord, and the shadows were thick, but I could see he was very tall. Equal unto yourself, I should say."

"Hair? Beard?"

"Brown hair, my lord. Very dark. And uncut as the Saxons prefer it, although I would give pause to say the rogue was of that breed."

"Why say you that?" Wardieu broke in quickly.

De Chesnai answered with a shrug and a frown. "A feeling, my lord. A sense that all was not as it was meant to appear to be. Also, he wore a sword, and had the stance of a man who knew well how to use it."

Wardieu nodded, absorbing yet another bit of information. Common woodcutters and thieves would scarce be able to afford the steel to own a sword, much less possess the knowledge of how to use one to any effect.

"His face was coa.r.s.ely shaven and well weathered. His eyes were of no special colour. Gray, perhaps ... or dull blue."

"Devil's eyes, they was," muttered one of the servants who had survived the ambush. "Not natural, they wasn't. Gave a man a chill just ter look into them-as if Satan hisself were inside the body gawpin' out."

"How would ye be knowin' that, Thomas Crab?" demanded a second voice, owned by a man who had the sense to keep his head lowered and his eyes downcast to avoid notice. "Ye had yer head tucked 'atween yer legs the minute ye saw that great bluidy bow o' his."

"Aye, an rightly so," the first man countered. "Cursed be the fool who watches the flight of a left-thrown arrow! Satan's own hand pulls the string, so it does."

Wardieu had only been half attentive to the outburst, but at this last righteous declaration, he again held up a hand to interrupt De Chesnai and stared at the servant.

"What was that about a left-thrown arrow?"

Before Thomas Crab could persuade his trembling legs to carry him forward to reply to the question, the pain pounding in De Chesnai's temples relented enough to smooth the frown from his forehead.

"By G.o.d, the fool is right, my lord," the captain growled. "The outlaw did favour the left hand. Why ... there could not be five archers in all of England with his skill. Discover the name of the one who shoots with the Devil at his elbow and we will have the true ident.i.ty of the rogue who dares to commit his crimes in your name!"

It was Lucien Wardieu's turn to feel his composure shaken. "He ... used my name?" used my name?"

De Chesnai stiffened slightly, his dark eyes flicking to the sheriff, but Onfroi was still too engrossed questioning his own sanity at offering insult to the Baron de Gournay to worry that he had neglected to include this rather astounding claim on the outlaw's part. Foremost in his mind, even as he sweated and twitched, oblivious to the conversation between the two men, was the expectant grin on D'Aeth's face. The watery piglet eyes were glazed with thoughts of bloodletting, and De la Haye treasured every drop that flowed through his veins.

"Was there ... anything else in his appearance that you recall?" Wardieu asked, his voice sounding forced and ragged. "Anything unusual? Any ... scarring, or ... obvious disfigurements?"

"No, my lord. He was in full possession of all his limbs and appendages. There were no scars or brands that I could see. He was a big brute, to be sure, but it was possible he was made to look more so by the vest of wolf pelts he wore."

Wardieu forced himself to take a slow, steadying breath. For a moment there, he had almost thought the impossible. He had almost thought ... but no. Despite the nightmares and the premonitions, the dead remained dead.

To cover his brief lapse he asked, almost as an afterthought: "The Lady Servanne ... she endured the ordeal well?"

"As well as could be expected, my lord," De Chesnai answered, his loyalty for his mistress fairly bristling across his skin. "She was frightened, to be sure, but very brave and courageous. I thought she was wont to scratch the outlaw's face to ribbands when he dared use your name, but she was taken away unharmed, by G.o.d's grace."

Wardieu accepted this avowal of his betrothed's courage with a pang of guilt. If his life was dependent upon an answer, he could not have described in detail any given feature belonging to Servanne de Briscourt. The best of his recollections, as he had admitted to Nicolaa, presented her only as a pale shadow he had once glimpsed standing alongside the frail old warhorse, Hubert de Briscourt. It was the land he wanted, not the thrall of a bride. Prince John had already demanded and received an outlandish price for arranging his brother's seal on the marriage pet.i.tion, and now, ten thousand marks was a great deal to pay for something he did not want. Unfortunately, there were too many equally rich and powerful men who knew of his hunger for the De Briscourt estates, and he could not afford to trust either Prince John's greed or an outlaw's promise to gain control of the lands.

"Unharmed," he murmured. "Then this"-he held up the blood-stained canvas sack-"does not belong to the Lady Servanne?"

"No, my lord. The wolf's head took it from one of the dead guards. All he added-and then only after a lengthy debate-was the ring."

"The ring?" Wardieu loosened the thong and emptied the contents of the sack onto his hand. The finger tumbled out freely enough and was tossed aside into the gra.s.s with no further thought. But an object caught up on some of the unraveled threads of jute, needed to be forcibly pulled away from the cloth.

It was a gold ring, and, even before Wardieu had wiped away the clinging bits of dried flesh and blood, he could feel an iron fist close around his heart and begin to squeeze.

The face of the ring was carved in the image of a dragon rampant, the band moulded to resemble scaled claws. A single bloodred ruby marked the eye, and, as it trapped the fading rays of the sun, it seemed to catch fire and reflect shafts of burning flame.

Wardieu's fingers curled slowly inward. His hand began to tremble and a fine white rim of fury etched itself deeply into the bitter set of his mouth.

"My lord-?"

The stark blue eyes seared through De Chesnai without seeing him. The grizzled knight took an involuntary step back, shocked by the depth of the rage and hatred that was transforming Lord Lucien's face into a terrible and terrifying mask.

"My lord ... your hand!"

Lucien looked down. Forcing his fingers to open, he saw that he had squeezed the carved fangs of the golden dragon into the hollow of his palm, cutting the flesh and causing blood to flow between the clenched fingers. Blood slicked the dragon's body and shone wetly off the faceted surface of the ruby eye. The sight brought another image crushing into Wardieu's brain, stretching and swelling the bounds of reason until it verged on madness itself.

The image was of death. Death on the hot desert sands of Palestine. The face of death had dark chestnut hair and piercing gray eyes; it spoke with a curse and a vow to return one day and avenge himself upon the world.

That day was finally here.

Death had come back to England.

8.

Servanne slept twelve hours without so much as rolling from one hip to the other. She would have slept even longer if not for the loud blowing of a ram's horn from somewhere beyond the refectory walls, calling the outlaws to their evening meal. She awoke with a groggy, thick sensation stalling her eyelids, and would have gladly lowered her head to the furs again had she not caught a fleeting glimpse of the nerve-shattering glare Biddy launched at her from across the room.

"Biddy? What is the time? How long have I been sleeping?"

"I am not familiar with the hours these wolverines keep," Biddy replied archly, her back as stiff as a swaddling board. "There are no bells to toll Vespers; thus I have been praying quite fervently on my own for some time now."

"Praying? For what?" Servanne yawned.

"For salvation," Biddy declared. "For redemption in the eyes of G.o.d and man-a.s.suming it is not too late to plead for forgiveness before either!"

"Oh Biddy-" Servanne frowned and stretched cozily within the warm coc.o.o.n of furs. "What are you talking about? What has happened now that requires forgiveness?"

"What has happened?" she demanded shrilly. "You can lie there and ask me what has happened? Better it is I who should be asking you-as if mine own eyes have not already given me the answers. Sweet Mary Mother in Heaven, I should have known it would come to this. I should have known it was his intent from the outset. And you! you! I blame only myself for what has become of you. Too innocent, you were. Too much talk, too great the temptation. Oh yes, I could see the temptation; who could not? Who could not?" I blame only myself for what has become of you. Too innocent, you were. Too much talk, too great the temptation. Oh yes, I could see the temptation; who could not? Who could not?"

The older woman blew her nose savagely into a sodden sc.r.a.p of linen and cursed as she was forced to wipe her fingers on the hem of her tunic. In the next wailing breath, she resumed her self-condemnation before an utterly confused and bewildered Servanne de Briscourt.

"In all of my eighteen years as your nurse and companion, I never dreamed I would bear witness to such wanton behaviour. From other women-plain women, common women, trulls and wh.o.r.es, oh yes, I should have expected it and known how to deal with their urges. For women such as those, taking a l.u.s.ty man to their beds is as commonplace as lifting a leg to p.i.s.s."