Unicorn Vengeance

by Claire Delacroix

  The guard’s gaze flashed. “Aye, ‘tis often the way that those of us most loyal are rewarded least,” the guard asserted in a markedly more friendly tone. Wolfram spared a pointed glance through the open gates, and the man jumped in recollection. “Aye, a dangerous task have you. What task might that be?”

  Wolfram permitted his gaze to flick from one side to the other, as though reluctant to part with the tale. “A man and woman do I seek,” he whispered in a confiding tone, “for reasons which I cannot disclose. Mayhap you have seen them pass this way.”

  The guard puffed up his chest importantly. “Many men and women have passed this way this day, my friend, and I have seen them all.”

  “Aye, but on foot were these two, certainly uninvited here.” Wolfram watched a tentative light dawn in the guard’s eye and knew precisely what he recalled. “The woman carries a lute, the man is red of hair,” he continued and the guard’s eyes widened.

  “Those two did just creep past me!” he declared. Wolfram permitted his own eyes to widen in mock surprise, though indeed he had seen precisely that happen.

  “Nay!” he said in apparent shock.

  “Aye,” the guard affirmed. “No surprise is it to me that they are bent on making trouble.” His eyes glinted bright with curiosity. “What is their crime?” he demanded in a whisper.

  “Their crime I cannot confide to you.” Wolfram dropped his voice. “‘Tis a most private matter, should you understand my meaning.”

  “Involving those of rank?” the guard asked, evidently possessed of an appetite for gossip. Wolfram nodded minutely, then tapped his fingertips against his lips. He could say no more.

  The guard looked suitably impressed. “Shall I have them hunted down for you? Shall I have them dragged back to the gates in chains?”

  “Nay, nay, nay, ‘tis a most delicate matter,” Wolfram said hastily. “But let me pursue them, that we might discover the precise nature of their mischief within these walls.”

  “No threat is there to the king?” the guard asked heavily. Wolfram immediately shook his head.

  “Nay, ‘tis a certain nobleman whom they would threaten...” he prevaricated, not knowing precisely how he would explain something that he had yet to conceive.

  Incredibly, the guard’s expression lit with understanding. “Aye,” he declared, pointing a heavy finger in Wolfram’s direction. “A ‘Jean’ they sought within these walls, well did he tell me so!”

  “Shhhh!” Wolfram urged in a hiss. He held up one hand and glanced over his shoulder. “Say not the man’s name aloud. A secret ‘tis of highest import!”

  “Aye, aye,” the guard agreed in more muted tones. He peered into the courtyard and pointed out a nobleman who was just dismounting to Wolfram. “This man employs my brother. I shall gain you admission in his retinue, but your guarantee must I have that no harm will come to either him or the king.”

  “What is this man’s name?” Wolfram demanded, as though the matter were of great import.

  “Guichard.”

  Wolfram sighed with mock relief and gave the guard a thin smile. “Safe he is then, for he is no Jean. I gladly give you my word.”

  * * *

  “I see no minstrel,” the Master said testily. He reined in his prancing steed in the courtyard of the king’s fortress impatiently and glared at his aide. The boy looked suitably uncomfortable.

  “He said he would be here,” the aide murmured. The Master arched an eloquent brow and fired a quelling glance at the boy.

  “Sure you are that he said ‘twas this day?” he demanded archly.

  The boy nodded hastily. “Aye, milord. This day, he said.”

  “Yet he is not here,” the Master mused, casting a deliberate eye over the gathered crowd once again before locking gazes with the boy. “Well do I hope that you have not erred,” he murmured. The boy leapt from his palfrey’s back with admirable speed.

  “Nay, milord. I will find him,” he said firmly.

  “See that you do,” the Master answered. His patience was wearing thin, and yet again he regretted not seizing that troublemaking minstrel on the very first day he had heard him. His chanson was scandalous nonsense, yet plenty there were who might well believe in it.

  And the Master had little interest in any recalling the name of Pereille. Well would it suit him if all recollection of that family slipped away without note. So close had he come to claiming their assets for his own that he would not be thwarted again.

  Once before, the Master had thought the Pereille gold deposit in the Temple his to claim. The crown had eliminated the threat of Enguerrand and Sibylla and their potential claim to the royal scepter when the Master was yet a brother knight, burning with ambition in a competitive order. He had scarcely believed it when he found the family deposit on the Order’s books. It had taken little more than finding a copy of the family’s receipt to tempt him.

  After all, the Pereille family was no more and had no further need of the funds that could secure his future. It had seemed an innocent enough prank at the time, and one that would hurt no one.

  The Master had copied the receipt, presented it and claimed the gold at a chapter far from his own house, where he was not recognized. Then he had ridden back to his own chapter house, terrified by the value of the burden he carried. In an astute move calculated to ensure his own future, he had then donated the gold to the Order, supposedly as a gift from his own family.

  The plan had succeeded admirably. Now the Master stood as highest in command of all France, second only to the dictate of the Master of the Temple of Jerusalem.

  And now everything the Master had worked for was at risk.

  How was he to have known Enguerrand and Sibylla had spawned? How might he have guessed that he had stolen the legacy of a living man? Harmless his ploy had seemed all those years past, though far from harmless would its discovery be now that he held such a prestigious position.

  All in all, the revelation six months past that Alzeu de Pereille drew breath had not been a welcome one. Should Alzeu have come to claim the Pereille deposit, it could well have been a matter of embarrassment for the Master of the Paris Temple. All had the Master to lose and, though he knew not Alzeu’s intent, the decision to see him worm food had been an easy one.

  But a whisper in the ear of the king had it taken to have the signed contract in the Master’s own hand. How convenient that Philip le Beau did not rest easily on the throne! To have the Order paid to ensure Alzeu’s demise was an irony that only the Master could appreciate.

  Yet no sooner had the task been completed than two more unwelcome revelations came to light! Would this family and the Master’s single error of judgment ever cease to bring him grief? Not only had that long-lost and thoroughly cursed pair borne not one but two children, but this fool minstrel persisted in singing a chanson about the family.

  And this cursed daughter who survived, this Genevieve, had disappeared from her family fortress on her brother’s death. Not a whisper could the Master rouse about her or her location. Indeed, he knew not even what the woman looked like, and the matter did not sit well with him. For all he knew, she could well be staking her family’s claim with an official receipt of the Order at any house of the Order in Christendom at this very moment.

  ‘Twas not a thought that encouraged sound sleeping.

  Though little enough would it gain the Master even if he did know her whereabouts. Even the power-greedy Philip was not fool enough to be persuaded that a woman was a threat to his hegemony. Likely as not, the king would merely wed this Genevieve to one of his family.

  But that solution would scarce suffice for the Master’s ends. As long as the woman lived, so did the threat that she might make a claim and reveal his single impetuous error.

  ‘Twas enough to age a man before his time.

  Truly, the Master’s fortune could turn no worse. The last irritant he needed was this minstrel and the possibility that his chanson would pique the curiosity of others within th
e court. He would see this issue resolved in short order, that it plague him no longer. He gritted his teeth and scanned the assembly impatiently yet again for a glimpse of the red-haired minstrel who was supposed to be here.

  And this time he would not let that minstrel out of his sight again, at least until that one could sing no longer.

  What the Master saw instead made him doubt the evidence before his own eyes. He frowned and looked again, but Wolfram—Wolfram, his own empoisonneur—yet stood within the enclave of a nobleman’s party.

  Wolfram? What was he doing here? And who did he accompany? Surely Wolfram should be within the walls of the Temple, for no permission had the Master granted that he might leave. What was his intent here? The Master’s eyes narrowed and he dismounted abruptly, ensuring that he kept well behind the nobleman’s group.

  As far as the Master knew, Wolfram had never broken the Rule, though his presence here without permission was surely a transgression of the first order. What might drive such a man to break his oath? The Master could not imagine, but he well intended to find out.

  Chapter Six

  “Truly you are a monk?”

  Wolfram ignored Guichard’s daughter and her apparent fascination with him, though not out of any intended rudeness. The fact that his lie had been repeated to this Guichard, believed and circulated throughout the nobleman’s entire party made Wolfram decidedly uncomfortable, and he knew not what to say.

  Indeed, was it not against the Rule for a man to break his silence at the table?

  Though evident ‘twas to even the most casual observer that the Rule held no sway in this place. Court ‘twas, the court of the very king of France, and the riot of color and activity was enough to make a simple man’s head spin.

  Clinging to the familiar rigor of the Rule seemed the only sensible course to follow under such unfamiliar circumstances.

  What had prompted him to such folly?

  The noise of merrymaking was quite different from the slow drone of a single brother reading Scripture, the accompaniment to which Wolfram was accustomed to taking his meals. People garbed in fine attire the like of which Wolfram had never seen talked gaily on all sides, swapped tales, recounted jokes. Verily, the din of the place would unsettle a man’s innards. Women laughed, minstrels warmed their voices, men bellowed. Dogs scurried underfoot, cutlery clattered on the board.

  Wolfram sat carefully on the bench where he had been directed and endeavored to make sense of it all. The noise of people was not all that astonished Wolfram. The very finery surrounding him made him self-conscious. Indeed, his plain tabard was ridiculously somber in contrast to the embroidered silks and taffetas, the damask and brocade, the jewels and seed pearls that greeted him on every side.

  Though indeed Wolfram had stepped out of the hallowed protection of the Temple more often than most of his brethren, still the riches of this hall were a shock. Truly there were folk who lived amid such wealth? ‘Twas difficult to believe, yet those about him seemed not to question or even note their surroundings.

  ‘Twas clear he alone was impressed.

  The room was flooded with a rich golden light that flattered the coloring of the women and made the finery of all sparkle. Blazing fires leapt high in fireplaces at either end of the hall and torches burned merrily from their sconces on the smoothly fitted stone walls.

  Trestle tables there were set up in long rows, enough rows to fill the very hall to bursting, with one set crosswise upon a dais at one end. The tables were covered with fine linen, most embroidered around the periphery, that of the head table most ornate of all. Wolfram tentatively fingered the linen cast across the board before him and marveled that such a fine cloth would be used where it was doomed to be stained. More sensible ‘twas, to his mind, to keep the board bare, as was the custom of the Temple.

  He noted the dazzling mix of cups gracing the tabletops, every sort of vessel represented, from cobalt-rimmed glasses to elaborate brass chalices. Too late Wolfram realized he had not brought his own simple, unembellished cup and spoon.

  Of course, he had had no idea that this was his destination.

  What was he doing here? Had he lost possession of his mind in pursuing this ebony-haired lutenist? Back at the Temple should he be, partaking of a simple repast with his brethren, not lying audaciously to follow a strange woman into the king’s own court.

  Truly Wolfram had never lost track of himself so thoroughly before. He began to rise, certain he should leave this place now, while his wits were about him again.

  “Be not so coy with me,” Guichard’s daughter said teasingly. She laid a hand upon Wolfram’s thigh and effectively halted his departure. Never had a woman touched him thus, and Wolfram was uncertain quite how to proceed. Was this acceptable behavior? He knew not. Wolfram glanced up to find her sparkling blue eyes close beside him. “Are you truly a monk?” she asked again.

  Wolfram swallowed as he reminded himself that silence seemed not to be the order of the board here. Still, he could summon but a single word in response.

  Out of his element he was indeed.

  “Aye,” he said simply. Her eyes widened, and she blinked before fluttering her lashes. Never had Wolfram seen such a display, and he wondered if mayhap a mote had fallen in her eye.

  “A monk,” she cooed, and a decidedly scheming smile slid over her lips. “Does that mean you cannot be tempted?” she whispered. Her hand moved deliberately up Wolfram’s thigh in a most disconcerting way. ‘Twas clear he had much to learn about the ways of women, for her behavior made absolutely no sense to him.

  She asked if he could be tempted. He frowned and considered the question carefully. Well must she be testing his knowledge of Scripture. Well, the answer was clear enough to even one with as little interest in such matters as Wolfram. Well had he been taught that none were immune to temptation.

  “All men can be tempted,” he informed her solemnly. To his confusion, she smiled and arched her back toward him, much in the manner of a stretching cat. First a mote in her eye, and now the poor child had a sore back. Evidently her sire had compelled her to ride far this day.

  “Your back troubles you?” he asked politely. Guichard’s daughter chuckled throatily and slipped her hand yet closer to his groin. Well did Wolfram wish she might restrain herself from such familiarity, for he certainly was not accustomed to being touched thus.

  Though he imagined it might be considered rude to protest.

  “‘Tis not my back that plagues me,” she whispered intently, “but rather an itch that needs tending.”

  “Ah.” Wolfram knew not quite how to respond. Had it been one of his brethren who confided such a need, he certainly would have offered his aid in the task. Naught more troubling was there than an itch one could not reach oneself. Wolfram feared he knew not this lady well enough to make such an offer, and he knew not what to do. Certainly he had no wish to offend the daughter of his benefactor.

  “Mayhap you could assist me,” she asked in an unnaturally low and throaty tone. Had she an illness in her throat, as well? Truly the child was unnaturally plagued by tests of her endurance.

  Clearly her words indicated that the lady was unlikely to be offended by familiarity. As though to reinforce that conclusion, her hand stole beneath the hem of Wolfram’s tabard and landed unexpectedly on a part of him none had touched but himself in years. He jolted backward in surprise at her unexpected caress and nearly tipped the bench in the process.

  Though now a distance was measured between himself and Guichard’s unfathomable daughter, he earned only the lady’s light laughter for his trouble. Wolfram eyed her warily, not in the least reassured when that knowing smile curved her lips once more.

  “Shy, are you, then?” she asked huskily. “Well can I adjust to that.”

  Before she could move, a foppish nobleman from this Guichard’s extensive retinue stretched a leg over the bench between her and Wolfram and dropped to a seat.

  “Alys!” he declared. “You did indeed s
ave me a place, despite your claim.” He settled on the bench, and Wolfram permitted himself a sigh of relief. He was little certain of what Guichard’s daughter intended, but grateful he was that he need not waste his time evading her any longer.

  ‘Twas clear the woman was possessed by a strange madness that Wolfram had no time to decipher. Here he was, and should he wish to discover the lutenist’s intent, he had best be about his task. He cast a glance over the hall, seeking a minstrel red of hair.

  And found him but a moment later.

  With an achingly familiar lutenist close on his heels.

  The room fell silent for Wolfram. His heart stopped, his mouth went dry, his palms grew damp. The sight of the lutenist readily summoned the recollection of the sweet lips pressed against his, the scent of her, the softness of her. His body responded with unheralded enthusiasm, and he was glad that they were seated against the shadows of the wall near the rear of the hall, where none were likely to note his condition.

  No one was there in the hall but the lutenist for Wolfram’s eyes. He greedily drank in the sight of her, stunned by the ferocity that raged through him when she granted the red-haired minstrel a smile.

  Radiant she looked, garbed in that gold-and-red kirtle, the firelight bringing out the blue glints in her ebony hair. Those curls tumbled over her shoulders in joyous disarray, her lips seemed more red, her eyes yet more vividly green.

  Wolfram could not tear his gaze away. Well it seemed that she moved with an ease foreign to him, that this place did not overwhelm her as it did him. Though her garments were finer than those he had yet seen her wear, her movements were as fluid and gracious as ever. He watched avidly as the lutenist and her companion made their way to the gallery of musicians at the rear of the hall.