Unicorn Vengeance

by Claire Delacroix

  Wolfram slept like a babe. Curse him and all his kind.

  Genevieve fought against the urge to beat him senseless for so agitating her for naught. She should well have been able to plunge the dagger deep into his treacherous heart! A plague on the man! She stalked to his side and grabbed the corner of her cloak. So sharp a tug did she grant the garment that Wolfram shifted bonelessly to the bare floor.

  Still did he slumber peacefully. Genevieve cast her cloak about her shoulders and sniffed indignantly when his breathing remained undisturbed.

  Foul man. She would see that he never touched her again.

  * * *

  Wolfram, for his part, maintained the rate of his breathing with care as he struggled to make sense of Genevieve’s actions.

  The unsheathing of the blade had nudged him out of his dozing slumber with an instinct born of years of living under the fear of being discovered. No sense had he been able to make of the sound, even when he felt Genevieve poised over him and knew it could be no one else.

  His gentle lover intended to kill him? Why?

  Genevieve de Pereille, he recalled suddenly. Sister of Alzeu de Pereille, whom Wolfram himself had dispatched.

  Well it seemed that the lady knew his role in that. His heart beat in a frenzy at the knowledge that he had been discovered and that his worst nightmare had come to pass. Certain he was that his agitation was audible, and he fought to control his response.

  Safety lay in remaining undetected. She thought him asleep. He must appear asleep, that he might gain time to think.

  What would he do? How could he defend himself against a woman?

  Confused him mightily had Genevieve, for Wolfram knew she could not have feigned her response to his touch. Aye, without this abrupt change of manner, he might have concluded that the woman held him in some regard.

  Yet she seemed intent on plunging a dagger into his heart. Wolfram felt the blade dangle above him as surely as if he saw it, and marveled at her change of mood. Well it seemed that he could not form a coherent thought, his body responding of its own accord to her proximity. Cursed woman! He schooled his breathing carefully as he desperately struggled to consider his options, certain she would not be fooled.

  Somehow, incredibly, it seemed that Wolfram managed to deceive her that he yet slept.

  Had Genevieve but lowered the knife, he would have snatched it from her grip with lightning speed. This he knew beyond doubt, though less certain was he that he would have turned it against her own treacherous heart.

  Much less that he could have finished the task.

  That Genevieve was unable to do the deed was a relief unexpected under the circumstance. Fortunate for him ‘twas that she stepped away when she did, for Wolfram was certain that otherwise she would have seen the bead of sweat that trickled over his brow.

  He heard her stalk away to sleep in some other nook of the loft and tried to understand her choice. No sense did it make, though indeed he was grateful for the outcome.

  Failing comprehension of that, Wolfram endeavored to decide how to proceed from here but had no better luck with that conundrum. Drove him to distraction Genevieve did, with her music and her very presence, prompting him to recall things he would rather not consider ever again. She undermined his certainty in his chosen role, she tempted him to defy the Rule that dictated the routine of his life, she made him forget his only allegiance with a dexterity that was frightening.

  Then she threatened to slaughter him.

  Then she changed her mind. The woman was a whirlwind of perplexities. Not reassuring was it in the least that Wolfram was filled with an abrupt and intense desire to spend years sorting out her convoluted thinking.

  He wished fervently that she was gone and temptation banished from his life. But an instant later, he hoped he would never see her walk away from him.

  Illogical ‘twas, and emotional undoubtedly, yet Wolfram, who prided himself on feeling naught under any circumstance, felt a tangle of emotions in this woman’s presence that he would do well to ever unravel. He fancied her absence would not dispel whatever witchery she had cast over him, and that thought, surprisingly, did not strike terror into his heart.

  A puzzle was Genevieve de Pereille, and a puzzle Wolfram was condemned to share quarters with for the time being. He considered feigning an awakening, that he might beckon her back to sleep with him, and cursed himself for playing the fool.

  He would do well to recall that the woman had considered killing him as he slept.

  Wolfram stifled a sigh and rolled over in his mock sleep. He opened his eyes now that Genevieve could not see him and stared at the wall in frustration. He would summon his resolve. He would close those doors within his mind that Genevieve persisted in prying open and lock them securely against her. He would see her safe, but grant her naught more of himself.

  He certainly would not let his emotions become any more entangled than they already were. Dispassionate efficiency had served him well all these years, and he would be a fool to abandon its merits in any measure.

  Sadly, Wolfram was less convinced of his ability to keep Genevieve at arm’s length than he would have preferred himself to be. ‘Twas an irrational and entirely unwelcome change. He thought of her hand upon him and closed his eyes weakly.

  Mayhap Dame Fortune would see fit to smile on him.

  Mayhap Genevieve would see fit to touch him again. Or, better, she might permit him to touch her again. The very idea nearly made Wolfram swoon with pleasure, and though he scolded himself for the inappropriateness of his thought, he could do naught to dismiss it from his errant mind.

  Genevieve de Pereille was indeed dangerous company, and he would be well advised to ignore her charms in future.

  If indeed he could manage the task.

  * * *

  ‘Twas with the dawn of the thirteenth of October, a Friday, in the year 1307, that the seneschals of the king of France tore open their orders as instructed. Sealed those orders were and delivered from the court of the king himself, though none knew their content before that morn.

  The seneschals read the command, then gathered troops and horses to set out and do the king’s bidding. Though some might have questioned the curious nature of the demand, still they followed it, for ‘twas by dictate of the king and not to be questioned by a mere seneschal.

  Accordingly, those seneschals began to arrest and imprison all knights within the length and breadth of France sworn to the Order of the Poor Brothers of the Temple of Solomon.

  * * *

  Wolfram heard the ruckus in the street below.

  “This you cannot do!”

  “What travesty is this?”

  Wolfram rolled over and opened one eye, surprised that the loft was barely tinged with pink. Cold the air was with the fullness of the pending winter in the morning’s bite. He shivered before the sounds of argument grew louder and dismissed any thought of slumbering a little more.

  “Lies you told, all lies! But coming through the gate were you to parley, and thence only a few were to come!”

  The gate had been opened?

  Wolfram sat up abruptly, the sight of Genevieve bringing him up short. He froze in place and eyed her uneasily as the recollection of what had happened the night before flooded through him. She slept at the other end of the loft, seated and leaning awkwardly against a bale of hay. The glorious tangle of her dark hair spilled over her shoulder, the tendrils enfolding the smooth curve of her breast.

  Wolfram swallowed carefully as he straightened. It had all been well enough until he lost control, he thought with a pang of self-accusation. What must she think of him? What would she say? ‘Twas clear enough she could not bear the thought of even sleeping near him.

  What would he say to her when she awakened? Wolfram certainly intended to say naught of what he had done—or not done—and indeed, he could not imagine how one might broach the subject.

  What if Genevieve had no such reservations?

  “What trave
sty is this?” The dissatisfied rumble of a crowd rose to Wolfram’s ears and recalled him to himself. He knew he could delay no longer with musings about Genevieve.

  A sense of urgency filled him at the sound of the mass of people outside. Wolfram unfolded silently to rise to his feet. He prided himself on sparing only one covert glance to the sleeping Genevieve as he crept toward the ladder.

  Well could it be that something of import was happening. Aye. His duty ‘twas to investigate. And should the gate be open, he might well be able to see Genevieve safely away.

  Wolfram could not imagine that ‘twas so, but ‘twas as good an excuse as any to avoid meeting Genevieve’s eyes when she awakened. Surely someone erred in saying the gate was open. Wolfram crept down the ladder, realizing too late that someone might be in the stables and note his descent.

  Curse Genevieve for making him forget his usual caution! He had not even thought to check! Though ‘twas too late to matter, he scanned the shadows of the stables.

  To Wolfram’s relief, no one was about. Though that was distinctly strange, he shoved the oddity of it from his mind and hastened through the stables, hesitating just inside the stable door to watch what transpired outside.

  So great a commotion was there in the street that ‘twas difficult to perceive what was what. Knights on horseback in the king’s own colors rode amid a crowd of loudly protesting residents. Several merchants whom Wolfram recognized had drawn blades to take contest with liveried men he did not know.

  To his complete astonishment, the knights of the Order who were in the street, readily identifiable by their white habits, did not draw their blades. They stood to one side, a row of stalwart sergeants standing defensively between the Templar knights and the king’s knights.

  The expression on every face was mutinous.

  What was this?

  “You cannot do this thing!” shouted a sergeant far to Wolfram’s right. All glances swiveled in his direction and he waved a fist in the air, his face ruddy with anger. The crowd rumbled agreement. “‘Tis not the place of the king to do this, whatever the charge!” A chorus of enthusiastic Ayes erupted from the press of people and they edged closer to the king’s knights, their manner hostile.

  A knight garbed in azure and gold whose mount was nearest the sergeant smoothly unsheathed his blade and deftly dropped the tip to rest against the sergeant’s throat. All fell silent as they watched. The sergeant swallowed carefully, though his defiant gaze did not waver.

  “We can and we will,” the knight asserted calmly.

  “Against the edict of Rome ‘tis,” growled the sergeant.

  The knight smiled coldly. “As is heresy, last I heard,” he observed curtly. The crowd of onlookers gasped and turned as one to the Templar knights. Those knights looked as stunned by the charge as the crowd. “Charged to arrest and imprison all knights of the Order of the Temple are we on this day. An official edict from the Crown ‘tis, and ‘twould be best for all if you people saw fit to go about your usual business. No need is there to interfere, lest you accidentally bear the price.”

  The crowd murmured to themselves in dissatisfaction, but little doubt had they or Wolfram that the threat was real. They parted reluctantly to grant a path to the Templar knights, uncertainty clouding their brows at the charge leveled against the Order. The king’s knight’s destrier picked a path across the distance, its nostrils flaring agitatedly. The Templar knights moved not a muscle.

  “Heresy?” one asked archly. “Well had I thought that was the domain of the ecclesiastical courts, not the king’s courts.”

  The king’s knight smiled again with strained politeness. “The king but puts his forces at the disposition of the Pope, for he has not the wherewithal to arrest so many at once.”

  “Nor has he the wherewithal to stand against Philip,” muttered someone in the crowd. The king’s knight spun, but could not identify the heckler in the sea of silently mutinous faces.

  “You cannot hold us,” growled another Templar knight.

  The king’s knight shrugged. “It matters not. On this day, we are charged to arrest you.” He granted the half dozen Templar knights before him a wary eye. “One would hope that you might come along quietly, so as not to endanger those about you,” he murmured silkily. The knights exchanged a glance, then stepped forward as one.

  “We will come without protest,” said the first that had spoken.

  “And you will grant to me your weapons,” added the king’s knight. The crowd gasped its indignation, as did Wolfram. The knight glanced over his shoulder with an uneasiness that showed his awareness of the numbers of those around him. “I must insist,” he added testily.

  “Men of honor are we,” the Templar knight argued in a reasonable tone. “Our pledge will we give that we will not draw weapons against you unless provoked.”

  The king’s knight shook his head. “‘Twill not suffice. Your weapons, if you please.”

  The tone of the exchange altered dramatically at that demand. Glances met and held across the crowd and suddenly it seemed the air was cooler, the threat to these knights that much more suspect. Wolfram feared for his brethren in that instant, even knowing that no one held sway over them but the Master and the Pope himself.

  Yet they were being arrested like common criminals. Rounded up as one rounds up livestock for the slaughter. The image could not be dislodged from Wolfram’s mind.

  “Back for compline will we be,” the Templar knight assured his companions with a confidence Wolfram was not sure he was feeling. The Templar unbuckled his sword and presented it to the king’s knight with no outward sign of hesitation. His shoulders were squared and his carriage was proud as he walked into the circle of those sent to arrest him.

  His companions hesitated but a heartbeat before they followed suit. Wolfram’s mouth went dry. No good portent could it be to see Templar knights imprisoned.

  The crowd murmured with dissatisfaction to each other as the knights were led away. Wolfram strained his ears and heard the sounds of protest elsewhere in the Ville Neuve. Over a hundred knights there were within these walls, and he wondered abruptly how many of those the king intended to incarcerate.

  He pulled his cloak about himself and stepped inconspicuously into the curious and disgruntled crowd that trailed behind the retreating party of knights. Toward the gates they rode, their destriers held in check that the walking Templar knights could keep pace. Wolfram’s heart clenched as they passed the smaller streets that fed into the main avenue and more Templar knights were brought into the fold. He glimpsed the familiar faces of sergeants in the ranks of the crowd, their expressions mingling despair and anger.

  ‘Twas when they stood before the gates of the very Temple itself that he saw a scene he would never forget in all his days.

  Fully eighty Templar knights stood within the circle of the mounted king’s knights. The king’s knights waited expectantly, the watching crowd shuffling restlessly, as they knew not what they might see.

  The sight of the Master himself being led from the Temple on foot brought a simultaneous gasp of outrage from the crowd. The treasurer followed on his heels, and several other senior officers whom Wolfram did not recognize directly. The king’s knights moved their horses, that the barrier betwixt Templars and crowd would be unassailable, as fury burned hot in Wolfram’s chest.

  What was this travesty of the Order’s position? How dared Philip do this thing? He leapt onto a stoop, that he might better see the Master’s fate, and in that instant his superior glanced up. Well it seemed to Wolfram that their gazes met for one endless moment and his heart lurched to a halt.

  Then the Master glanced down, before any could guess to whom he had looked. Wolfram clung to the wall in disbelief as the king’s knights rode through the open gate and escorted every Templar knight they had found to the hospitality of the king’s own prison.

  Chapter Ten

  Genevieve braced herself to meet Wolfram’s gaze before she opened her eyes.
<
br />   But for naught. He was gone.

  She propped herself up and gazed carefully about the loft, but there was no sign of him at all. Genevieve frowned and shoved to her feet. She stalked the narrow space between the bales that ran the width of the loft, convinced he played some sort of poor joke upon her.

  But nay. She was alone with her lute.

  Of all the brass cheek! The truth brought Genevieve’s temper to the fore once more. She folded her arms about herself and scowled at the floor. First the man weakened her will with persuasive kisses, then he disappeared! Not a doubt had Genevieve that ‘twas Wolfram’s fault alone that she had been unable to fulfill her sworn quest, and she silently, roundly cursed his sorry hide.

  Wherever it might happen to be.

  Truth be told, it had been a relief to not find him here, as she had fully intended to slip away from him this day and this made her task easier. But still his choice irked her pride. No right had he to be the one to leave her behind! How could she leave someone who was not here? Indeed, what point was there? The man would never know how she despised him for foiling her plans!

  Genevieve scooped up her lute in poor temper and made to leave. So annoyed was she that she lost her footing on the third rung down and was compelled to snatch at the ladder. Her motion set the cursedly unsteady apparatus swaying and she could do naught but close her eyes and pray.

  Left it this way apurpose had he, Genevieve was certain of it. She gritted her teeth with resolve. If ever she had the misfortune to lay eyes on Wolfram again, he would sorely regret the day he had set himself to cross her!

  Genevieve gained the stable floor with an ungraceful thud and an accompanying flurry of her lavish kirtle and chemise. She spared the ill-used garment a glance and shook her head at the dirt upon it. A peek over her shoulder revealed that the swatch torn from the hem by the portcullis was more obvious than she might have hoped. Indeed, she was doomed to flash a goodly bit of ankle when she walked, but there was naught for it.