“Perhaps the venison will be more to your liking,” said the outlaw lord, undaunted by her cold blue stare and even colder silence. He drained every last drop of soup from the bowl and set it aside to be collected, then smacked his lips with greater relish as a cheerful server replaced the used vessel with platters of still-sizzling meat. Mutton, venison, and hare were offered alongside bowls of leeks, onions, and peas. Eels turned inside out and boiled in wine gave off a sour-sweet aroma; fresh crusty bread, pasties, and quenelles swimming in savoury sauces and gravies prompted a need in Servanne to grip the edge of the table beneath the snow-white linen. Her stomach wept in protest as each dish was offered and refused. Her throat ached for a taste of bread and honey; her eyes drifted in a blur from platter to platter; her belly rumbled and quaked in an attempt to break down her resolve.
“My lady?” A sliver of tender hare’s meat wavered in front of her, flourished expertly on a silver blade. Servanne stared at the delicate pink morsel, following the movement of her tormentor’s hand until the meat was taken away and deposited between his own lips. A dribble of clear juice ran over his lower lip and trickled down his chin. Servanne’s tongue peeped out anxiously from the corner of her mouth, lingering there even after a casual wipe of his hand had removed the trail of sweet grease.
“A bite of lark pasty, perhaps? This way you can judge for yourself our boasting over Goodwife Mab’s skills.”
“No. Thank you,” she whispered.
He shrugged and the tender, delicate shred of meat, wrapped lightly and lovingly in a blanket of egg-glazed pastry, went the way of the declined hare. In the next instant, she swore she could hear the buttery pastry crunching between the strong white teeth; she had her own imaginary tidbit half chewed and swallowed before she caught herself and clenched her jaws tightly together in anger.
He was only being attentive because he knew she must be starving. It would serve him right if she fainted dead away and—
“Delicious,” he murmured, drawing the word out to ten syllables. “Mistress Mab, you have outdone yourself.”
A short woman, round as a dumpling and just as soft, giggled and bobbed gratefully after the compliment.
“Indeed, mistress. The fare is by far the best I have tasted in quite some time, and that includes a visit to the royal kitchens at Windsor.”
Servanne’s eyes opened wide. Hardly believing her ears, she looked to her left and confirmed that it was Biddy who had spoken, her mouth stuffed with the lark pasty. Moreover, all three layers of chin were dobbed with grease, and there was an unmistakable flush of warmth on her cheeks to indicate her wine goblet was not being refilled for the first time.
“Shall we cry ‘Judas’ and have her flayed for insubordination?” a husky baritone mused in her ear.
“Biddy is … older; not as strong. She needs to keep up her health.”
The explanation sounded feeble, even to Servanne’s ears, but her salvation was quick to come from another source.
“You should eat something as well, sweet lady,” Sparrow advised. “The rare air here in the greenwood thins the blood if it is not well fed. Even an apple, or a bit of cheese will help keep the humours balanced. You would not want to fall ill and have to rely upon the services of old Norwood the Leech, now would you? He came to us with Mab and claims to be a fair barber and a drawer of teeth, but as to his leeching talents … we have not yet found a survivor to accredit them.”
A sad shake of the tousled brown mop of hair sent Servanne’s attention to a large, toothless toad of a man who was grinning at her from the lower tier and waving a dripping joint of mutton by way of acknowledging the compliments.
He had a red, leaky nose fully as broad as his face, and wore an apron of leather that had become so stained and encrusted, it was moulded to his body like armour.
“Perhaps … a bit of apple,” Servanne conceded.
Sparrow jumped up to stand on his stool so that he could reach the far side of the table. Quick as spit, there was a small collection of choice, tasty bits of meat, pastry, and other delicacies heaped on a freshly cut slab of white bread. This he placed in front of her and settled back onto his stool, his feet dangling several inches off the ground. He was aware, as was Servanne, of the smouldering gray eyes that had followed his every move, but if the threat of sudden flame troubled him, it was not reflected in his next piece of sage advice.
“The best way to stop a fly from annoying you is to stop swatting at him,” he said with a wink and an elfin grin. “Eventually it gets bored and flies away to pester someone else.”
There was wisdom in what he said, and, the fact that it caused the Wolf’s brows to furl together like the gathering clouds of a storm, prompted Servanne to breach her resolve to starve to death. She reached for a thin slice of capon and took the tiniest bite into her mouth. It was delicious, which made her stomach groan for a second morsel, then a third …
When her trencher was emptied, refilled, then emptied again, she unselfconsciously tore the gravy-soaked plate into bite-sized pieces and removed all evidence of its existence down to the last crumbs. Sparrow’s drinking cup had also ended up between them and she found the wine to be surprisingly fresh and full-bodied, of a far better quality than the vinegary possets that often graced the tables of wealthy nobles.
Mutter and Stutter, bowing to howled demands and flung food, took their leave of the table and, kicking aside the dogs who fought happily amid the crunch and snap of discarded bones, placed their stools in the bright glow of the fires and set their fingers to plucking out tunes on the lute and viol.
The food, the wine, the music cast a dreamy sense of unreality over everything. The fire sent gauntlets of orange and yellow flame leaping toward the blackness above. The enclosing stone walls formed a cavern of light and shadow that was almost cozy in its isolation.
Servanne could feel her eyelids growing heavier and heavier, the weight of her wimple beginning to pull her chin lower and lower onto her chest.
“So, my lady.” The Wolf’s sonorous tone brought her head up with a start. “You have supped on the king’s deer and prolonged your stay on earth awhile longer. You have also shown a remarkable restraint in the matter of the ransom I shall demand from your groom. Are you not curious to know the value of your life—or rather, what value your groom will place on your continued good health?”
Servanne sighed wearily, in no mood to take his bait.
“I am certain, whatever you have demanded, he will pay.”
“A true adherent to the codes of chivalry, is he? Gold spurs flashing, swords thrusting, damosels rescued from the clutches of evil at any cost? He sounds almost too good to be true.”
Servanne glared in silence.
“So, you have no doubt he will pay whatever I demand?”
“Have you?”
“Madam, I doubt everything and everyone—even my own good sense on occasion. It is a credo that has kept me alive while others have perished and turned to dust.”
“A pity you were not less insightful,” she murmured tartly, putting a deal of frost in her gaze before turning her attention back to the minstrels. “I have no doubt my stay here will be a short one.”
“One way or another,” he agreed smoothly. “Still, ten thousand marks is a goodly sum of coin.”
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 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 …”
“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!” 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 that you wish to know? Lord Lucien is a fine, noble gentleman—”
“Who loves you to the point of distraction and cannot bear to think of a prolonged separation.”
“A noble 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 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 chattel. 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 massive 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 choose the easier path to obtaining your goal, which only proves you are not who you claim to be. You are not Lucien Wardieu. You are not even a man! You are a corrupt and twisted shadow of a creature who has obviously decided that stealing a man’s identity 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 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 bloody 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 snatched off the table and was holding in a clenched fist only inches from his nose. Half an eternity passed 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 noble. 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 principals. 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 God 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, sirrah. Not now. Not ever.”
His jaw clamped ominously. “None at all?”
“None.”
“Very well, if that is your 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 comfor
t, but under no circumstances 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 particularly venomous glance at the spluttering matron.
“You may share your mistress’s discipline 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 hell froze, if she had to. Ask his permission? She would cut off her tongue and choke on it before grovelling 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 pricked. 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.”
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 8
