“And what of this lovely thick cloak?” Persistent fingers plucked at Genevieve’s hood. She spun on her heel, but new fingers took up the task. They grasped at the wool from every side, and she could not manage to escape their tormenting grip, no matter how she turned and twisted. Panic reared within her, and she feared suddenly that she could not take a breath freely, for they pressed too tightly against her.
‘Twas too much to be touched by all of them at once, so close in the wake of the revelation of the emptiness dwelling within the stranger. Their bitterness filtered into her, and as she tasted their anger, she knew she would not escape this encounter unscathed.
“And shoes!” cried another. “Long indeed has it been since I had a pair of shoes as good as these!”
Immediately, hands set to tugging at Genevieve’s worn shoes, and beleaguered as she was from every side, her fright could no longer be contained. She flailed at her attackers, but so numerous were they that she budged none. Cruel laughter rang in her ears and grasping hands tugged her hair. No escape was there! Despair and an overwhelming sense of failure assailed her when one shoe was wrenched from her foot.
“Nay!” she shouted, but the shoe was passed from hand to hand and immediately beyond her reach.
“Aha! A perfect fit!” A woman in a tattered blue kirtle danced across the square, showing her new footwear to advantage before diving back into the cluster. “Grant me its mate!” she shouted. Genevieve stamped and turned, but there were too many fingers grappling for her shoe to be avoided. Hungry they had been, and cold for long nights, beaten and abused all their lives. The horror of their experiences left her feeling yet more vulnerable to their irrepressible anger.
And well it seemed that she would bear the brunt of their hostility. Hearing their thoughts and feeling their destitution was no consolation when ‘twas she they attacked.
“Aha!” The cloak was torn from Genevieve’s shoulders, and a man swung it over his own with all the grace of a highborn noble. He struck a pose, and the others, at least those not involved in removing Genevieve’s second shoe, applauded.
“Most distinguished.”
“As though ‘twas made for you.”
“Well you look to the manor born.”
The second shoe was ripped from Genevieve’s foot, and she nearly lost her balance in the process. She swatted at the laughing attackers to no avail. The woman wearing her shoes and man wearing her cloak began a cavorting dance around the square. A bourgeois couple, evidently taking an evening stroll, paused on the far side of the square, and Genevieve immediately appealed to them.
“Help me!” she cried. “I am being robbed of all I own!”
The couple spoke quietly to each other, then tossed a coin toward the ragtag group. Nay! They thought this but a performance!
To Genevieve’s disbelief, they smiled, waved and strolled away, blithely leaving Genevieve to her fate. Three of her attackers dived on the coin and scrabbled for possession.
“Ooh... A lovely warm kirtle,” cooed another fingering Genevieve’s garments.
They would strip her naked! Genevieve bolted at the thought in the hope of preserving some scrap of her raiment. She lunged against the tight crowd in a bid for freedom, and to her astonishment, they parted to let her pass.
Before Genevieve could consider their reason, someone stuck out a foot. Too late ‘twas to avoid the obstacle, and though she stepped high, the foot was raised to ensure she tripped. Genevieve fell facefirst toward the cobbles, and her heart skipped a beat in that timeless instant of her falling.
Her grip must well have loosened on the neck of her lute in her fear, though she had clutched it resolutely so far. ‘Twas torn from her grasp in a heartbeat.
“Nay! Take not my lute!” Genevieve shrieked. Something ground as she hit the road, but she rolled immediately to her hip.
Naught could she see but her attackers fleeing from the far side of the square.
They had taken her lute! She could not lose her lute at any cost! Genevieve shoved herself to her feet and hobbled in pursuit, her heart pounding in her ears with fear that she would lose sight of them.
What should she do if she lost her beloved lute?
* * *
Sleep eluded Wolfram that night as it never had before.
His lips burned.
The other brothers slumbered on either side of him in the dormitory, and he listened to their snores even as he lay restlessly in the darkness. The single lamp sent a flickering light to play against the ceiling, and though that sight usually soothed him, on this night it but reminded him of the inferno within him. He had run cool water over his lips, he had pressed his lips with his fingertips, he had ignored their burning, but naught made a difference.
Branded he was with the touch of a woman, and certain Wolfram was that any who looked at him could see the truth.
Against the Rule ‘twas to have any converse with women, except one’s mother and sisters, let alone to embrace them. He had broken the Rule for the first time since he had pledged to adhere to it, and the knowledge chafed at his uneasy conscience.
Still worse, he had enjoyed the transgression. Wolfram fidgeted minutely on his hard pallet, but that fact could not be avoided. He could not move restlessly lest he attract the attention of the others, but neither could he lie still. He could not be revealed. His desire could not be guessed. His blankets itched as they never had before and Wolfram longed to rip his sensible long shirt from his back.
Never had he been plagued with sleeplessness.
But never had he broken the Rule.
He could confess and be fined, he should confess and do penance, but Wolfram knew ‘twould matter naught. Confession and even penance would not ease this burning. Truly the woman had tempted him deliberately, certainly she had initiated the embrace, but he had wanted her to do so. There was no escape from that. And lecherous thoughts were no less damning than lecherous actions.
Indeed, he wanted her even now. The admission did naught to ease his mind.
Mayhap ‘twas penance enough to endure this self-inflicted torture. Wolfram’s body recalled the lutenist’s kiss with unprecedented enthusiasm, though he had repeatedly tried to quell its response. He had but to think of her dark tangle of hair, or picture those startling green eyes, or see the delicacy of her hands darting across the lute strings.
Or worse, hear the echo of her music in his mind.
He tried to regulate his breathing and slow his pulse, endeavored to lull his body into sleep, all to no avail. The snores of the others troubled him, well it seemed that his blanket tormented him, and the dormitory was too cold. But moments later, ‘twas too warm, or his dinner troubled his innards, though Wolfram knew ‘twas all an excuse.
He wondered where she was.
Wolfram writhed inwardly with the guilty certainty that she had no pallet this night, and all because of his insistence on retrieving that coin. Not his fault was it that she was without a hearth, but still Wolfram could not dismiss the sense that she paid overmuch for his folly.
Indeed, he could have lied to the Master.
No consolation was it that that thought came too late to his aid.
Less consolation was it that he considered a lie to the Master to be a reasonable solution. Truly his resolve was slipping these days, and he could not imagine the source of that.
Nay. Wolfram knew precisely the source, though he refused to even give it voice in his mind.
* * *
Though Genevieve quickly lost sight of her attackers, still she could hear them cavorting ahead of her. She doggedly followed the sound of their voices through the darkening streets despite the ache in her ankle.
Surprisingly, though she moved not at her usual speed, they drew no farther ahead of her. Had Genevieve not known better, she might have believed that they kept a constant distance before her that she might indeed follow them to their lair. Nonsense that was, for surely they wanted only her lute. ‘Twas clear the instrument alone had m
ore value than all their meager garments and possessions collectively might fetch.
If they sold her lute, how would she purchase it again or acquire another? How would she earn coin that she might eat? How would she lure the stranger closer? ‘Twas clear the music drew him, and without that, Genevieve had naught on her side.
Too cruel ‘twas to have tasted a modicum of success only to have everything stolen away. Already Genevieve felt bereft without the instrument that she had played for as long as she could remember. Well it seemed that the chill of the night troubled her more than before, and she felt suddenly vulnerable in this great, strange city.
She wished suddenly that she had never left the familiarity of home. She must recover the lute. Voices laughed harshly ahead, and when she saw the flicker of light playing on the stone walls, Genevieve dashed into the square without thinking. Fire! To sell her lute was one thing; to destroy it quite another!
A band of beggars applauded as she burst into the square. The unexpected welcome brought Genevieve up short, and she halted to stare at them.
Her lute was nowhere to be seen.
Otherworldly they appeared in the orange glow cast by flaming torches, especially as the applause fell silent. Their faces were dirty, their clothing was worn and torn, their features were gaunt. She readily spotted the man in her cloak and the woman in her shoes, though their dance halted as they watched her with the others. ‘Twas clear the band that had attacked her were but part of the whole, for Genevieve could not even guess how many stood in the flickering light.
A man in the center drew something from behind his back, a coy smile playing over his lips. As soon as Genevieve spotted the lute, she gasped, and well it seemed that he turned the instrument slightly in acknowledgment of the sound.
Tall he was and no less lanky than the one who had addressed her, though his hair was an uncommon orange shade. Long ‘twas and fell past his shoulders, the torchlight making it look to be a river of flame. His expression was sardonic at best, but the hands that held her lute were long of finger and gentle with their burden.
Genevieve recognized him as the one she had heard singing some days past. Fear rose in her chest as she recalled the gleam of avarice that had lit his eyes and she wondered whether he coveted her lute. ‘Twas a fine one, for her grandfather had seen fit to fetch her the best. As she watched those long hands slide over the rose engraved on the lute’s face, she knew a fear stronger than any she had ever experienced.
“I have come to fetch what is mine,” she declared with bravado, determined to retrieve the lute at all costs.
The man with her lute smiled. The others chuckled.
“Naught is yours but what is on your back, and even that we may take, should we so desire,” he said confidently. Genevieve’s chin rose high.
“Wrong you are,” she told him, her tone challenging. “The lute is mine, as is the cloak, blanket and shoes you stole from me. I would have them returned immediately.”
The crowd laughed to themselves, the man with her cloak pirouetting that the others might admire his new acquisition.
“I say you are wrong,” the leader said smoothly. “And I am Odo. What I say is so.”
“But what you say here is wrong,” Genevieve asserted stubbornly. “My possessions were stolen from me and I would have them returned. No right have any of you to what I have earned.”
“You played without permission,” Odo claimed. “Your possessions are forfeit for your crime.”
“Crime?” Genevieve demanded. “No crime have I committed. I but played my lute to earn a few coins that I might eat.”
“Surrender the coin or we shall keep your belongings as ours,” said Odo. Genevieve gaped at him. Surely he did not intend to keep her lute? No right had he to it.
But she had no coin. The only one she had earned this day she had cast at the stranger. And the coin the stranger had granted her the day before had been spent on food and lodging the night before.
“But ‘tis spent,” she admitted weakly. The assembly gasped with mock horror and clicked their tongues chidingly. Odo grinned.
“Well have I been needing a new lute,” he said, and gave the strings a savage pluck. It seemed to Genevieve that her precious lute cried out for mercy with the plaintive sound and she sprang forward.
“Nay! You must not abuse it so!” She halted just before Odo when he granted her a chilling glance. Too far had she gone, and well she knew it, though ‘twas too late to change that. The crowd’s manner became watchful and expectant. “It must be coaxed, gently,” Genevieve said in a much milder tone. Odo arched a skeptical brow.
“You can play?” he demanded archly. Genevieve saw the glint of interest in his eye and dared to be bold.
“Only when I have my lute,” she asserted. Several onlookers gasped at her audacity, but Odo very slowly smiled. ‘Twas not a pretty smile, for something about it told Genevieve that he was interested in her ability solely for his own ends, but nonetheless, it reassured her.
Abruptly he shoved the lute in her direction.
“Then play,” he commanded.
Genevieve barely noted his startling change of manner. Naught could she see but the lute. She grasped it the instant ‘twas offered and clasped it close. She ran her hands over it, finding no damage, and heaved a sigh of relief at the discovery before she remembered his order. She looked up to find every hostile eye upon her, swallowed carefully and began to play.
* * *
When finally sleep came to Wolfram that night, ‘twas an agitated slumber that would leave him more exhausted than he had been before. His lips yet burned, his body strained, he twisted beneath the tangled embrace of a blanket that had never troubled him before.
And then Wolfram heard the hoofbeats.
He was in a fortress, standing in the bailey, watching transfixed as the wind rising from the sea shredded the fog before him. The fog reminded him of Montsalvat and he wondered if ‘twas that keep that haunted him. No way had he of knowing, for even when the fog cleared, it revealed a fortress he could not have recognized. Montsalvat had remained hidden from him throughout that night.
In his mind’s eye, Wolfram saw a high keep looming above him, its summit still lost in the fog, and ancient walls stretching away to either side to similarly disappear into the mist. Thunder echoed in the distance, and the dark sky suddenly held the portent of a storm. The air was thick and heavy, and Wolfram knew the rain was coming.
Light hoofbeats echoed again in the eerie silence and he turned in place, seeking out the sound. To his surprise, he stood alone with no horse and naught but the garments upon his back.
The keep was abandoned and so was he.
A beast whinnied, and he turned to find a small goat running toward him. Its coat was startlingly white against the unexpectedly verdant green of the grass in the bailey. It lifted its head as it drew near and held his gaze with otherworldly yellow eyes in a manner distinctly alien to most domestic creatures. Wolfram fancied its gaze was knowing, and he took a step back, certain the beast had read his very thoughts.
Impossible that a creature could understand what he had done.
The beast came closer, and he saw that it had but one horn. An opalescent spire twined from its forehead, and when the lightning flashed, that horn caught the light.
A unicorn’s horn. An elixir for poison. ‘Twas a message for him alone. Suddenly Wolfram was certain the beast knew his secret occupation and that the gleam in its eyes was far from friendly.
It lunged after him and, like a shameless coward, he ran from the truth.
Lightning rent the sky, the flash nearly blinding. The crack of its impact lifted Wolfram to his toes and made the hair rise all over his flesh. He shivered as the sky rumbled and knew relief, even in his dream, that he was safe.
No pursuing hoofbeats did Wolfram hear. Trepidation replaced relief in a heartbeat.
He dared to glance back, only to find the unicorn lying dead on the grass just steps behind him. Wol
fram caught his breath in surprise.
Beside the fallen creature knelt a woman, a woman Wolfram knew had not been there before. Whence had she come, so swiftly and silently? She bent low as though stricken by sorrow at the creature’s demise, and her hair obscured her features.
Wolfram noted the ebony color of that hair and its wavy nature. He swallowed in recognition, barely having time to brace himself before she glanced up and impaled him with those green eyes.
Wolfram felt that his feet suddenly took root and he was fixed to the spot. Too late he saw that his tormentress was nude and marveled that he could have missed that salient fact for any interval, however short. Her skin was such an even, creamy hue that he longed to touch her. His body responded as he might have expected, though still he could not tear his gaze away from her perfection. His lips burned with renewed vigor, as if daring him to recall her embrace.
When she lifted her hand as though in offering to him, his eyes widened in shock at the bloody ruby resting in her palm. Wolfram glanced unwillingly to the dead beast, knowing all the while what he would see, yet hoping he would not.
His heart sank at the evidence before him. She had retrieved the red carbuncle from the base of the creature’s horn. All the old tales Wolfram had heard flooded into his mind as he stared incredulously at the stone.
‘Twas a gemstone reputed to reveal the presence of poison.
That she offered the gem to him was not a sign that could be missed. Too readily did he recall his first impression that she knew who and what he was. Was she the knowing unicorn? Was she the one who would reveal him? Did she hold his fate in her graceful hands as surely as she cradled that ruby? Wolfram’s fear of being discovered redoubled at the awareness that another whose motives he did not know could reveal him, but he could not keep himself from meeting her gaze once more.
Her eyes were filled with hatred.
Something went cold within Wolfram, and his gut twisted at the unexpected change. She stood deliberately, her gaze unwavering, her expression resolute, and the unicorn’s blood ran freely from the stone in her hand. Still he could not deny her beauty or his own cursed desire for the soft fullness of her form.
Unicorn Vengeance Page 6
