Unicorn Vengeance

by Claire Delacroix

  “The technicalities mean little at this date, and indeed I myself do not know precisely the king’s intent. It matters naught to you and me, in truth.”

  A fool the Master had been to trust the word of the party sent to the gates that morn. Stormed the gates, the king’s knights had, that first party doing naught but seizing the gatekeeper, that the drawbridge might not be raised against them. Had they not done so, the woman might yet be within the walls of the Ville Neuve.

  As might the Master have been all these days. The Master gritted his teeth yet again in recollection, knowing full well ‘twas too late to effect a change.

  “Who might this mysterious woman be?” he asked mildly.

  “Genevieve de Pereille is she. The daughter of a petty provincial lord,” his visitor supplied dismissively. Aye, she was that, the Master thought, though that lord had paid heavily for his petty provinciality. Surely these men were not such fools as to imagine that he, the Master of the Temple of Paris, could not divine their game?

  ‘Twas their own meddling that had freed that very woman from the Master’s secure grip and sent her who knew where.

  Although the Master well fancied that even if he knew not where Genevieve might be, then he likely knew with whom she kept company.

  There was an expectant silence, but the Master revealed naught of the direction of his thoughts.

  “Ah...” His visitor chuckled under his breath. “Well do I see that you would know the fullness of the offer afore you decide. The second condition is nearly as paltry as the first, as you will see, so your reservations are for naught. A small request ‘tis, really.” He hesitated, and the Master knew that this was the meat of the matter, and not likely to be small at all.

  “A man have you within your ranks, an Italien of the finest order whom the king would like to welcome within the ranks of his own employ.”

  The Master’s heart lurched at this news. Philip desired to know Wolfram’s identity. Did he truly mean to employ Wolfram as an assassin? Or could the Master be betraying Wolfram to his death? Indeed Wolfram knew overmuch about Philip’s commissions.

  ‘Twas tempting to betray Wolfram thus, for the responsibility for whatever fate befell him could not be laid square at the Master’s door. Well enough did he know that this conversation would be known to have occurred by few and acknowledged to have occurred by still fewer.

  He should put up a pretense of objection, he decided.

  “This I cannot do,” the Master said firmly. “The man’s pledge is to the Order and no right has any man to come betwixt a man and his vow.”

  “We see no reason to break the man’s vow,” his opponent countered smoothly. “He may continue to live in whatever fashion he desires as long as he makes his home within the court.”

  “Nay,” the Master argued. “‘Tis in the Rule that a Templar brother must reside within the walls of a Temple alone. He must live with his brethren.”

  “We must insist,” the visitor hissed.

  “Revealed he would be and of no use to you,” the Master argued. He fancied the man on the other side of the flames smiled and knew they intended no good for Wolfram.

  But did it matter to him, in truth? What were they prepared to offer him, the Master, in exchange?

  “Certain am I that you can be convinced of our resolve,” the visitor purred. The Master intuitively understood the threat.

  “And if I agree?” he demanded tightly.

  “Then you and six knights of your choice will be released on your own word.” The visitor’s words were clipped and efficient. “Those who remain in custody will be granted finer quarters until this matter is resolved.”

  Six. That would see the officers of the Temple released and mayhap one or two more. The Master pursed his lips, knowing full well that he could orchestrate the release of the rest better from within the Ville Neuve.

  For if this arrest had been carried out throughout France as he had been told, his first loyalty had to be to those knights in custody. ‘Twas his office, after all.

  Still had the Master a few tricks up his sleeve.

  “Naught can I engineer from here,” he complained testily, and sensed relief coursing through the man opposite. So, they had not been as certain of his response as they might have liked. The Master’s resolve grew, and a germ of his old audacity took root within him. “Indeed, I shall have to go myself to fetch these two.”

  “A man can we spare who confesses an interest in this situation,” the visitor acknowledged.

  “No interest have I in delegating a task of such import to me personally to one of your inept aides,” the Master argued.

  The visitor hesitated, but the Master smelled his uncertainty. This concession he had to gain, for Wolfram might well not return to Paris. Ever.

  And the Master suspected his visitor knew he had little choice but to accept the terms.

  The visitor paced the width of the cell and back afore he decided. The Master’s palms grew damp but he gave away naught of his concern in his posture. The air virtually crackled in the small room, and the Master fancied he was not the only one holding his very breath.

  “My word is yours,” the visitor conceded tersely. He spun on his heel, and the Master sighed with relief as he saw the hem of a cloak flutter against the scant light of the corridor outside. The lamps flickered from the breeze, then were summarily gathered up and the Master was left alone in the cold gray light of his cell.

  He would have his release and his vengeance. An errant sergeant would he curtail and an annoying risk would he eliminate, all at the behest of the crown. Naught would be traced to the Master himself.

  And still there was the matter of the Treasury, he recalled victoriously. Should Philip aim to deceive him, the Master had yet another advantage on his side.

  Only a matter of time ‘twas afore the crown’s representatives completed their counting and discovered no more than the crown’s own funds secreted in the Paris Temple’s vaults. Indeed, the Templars did store and administer the king’s own funds, but readily enough could the Master guess that Philip would have hoped to grasp all of the Templars’ own resource in his seizure of the Temple and the Ville Neuve.

  But a single slip of the tongue weeks past had it taken to prompt the Master’s suspicions. And that had been enough to see one of Philip’s purposes thwarted. Nigh on a month ago, the Master had transferred the Temple’s own wealth elsewhere, covertly and in easy stages, though not even torture would drag a destination from his lips. The ships had left the Templar port of Le Havre fully a fortnight past.

  Though ‘twould be long afore he admitted even that much, if ever he did. The Master permitted himself a thin smile of satisfaction at a match well played.

  Nay, the Master of the Paris Temple was not without aces to play in this game. ‘Twas clear that neither Philip, Wolfram nor this Genevieve understood the manner of opponent they had engaged.

  * * *

  ‘Twas in a good-size town three weeks after leaving Paris that they found the Temple razed to the ground.

  The troupe had walked hard every day, putting as many leagues behind them as possible at Odo and Wolfram’s insistence. Genevieve’s anger had sustained her for the first few days, but then it had started to ebb away, leaving her more tired than afore. Still they pressed on. Food became sparse and coin nonexistent. Conversation was surly and brusque, and tempers were short.

  Genevieve knew she was not alone in glancing periodically over her shoulder for signs of pursuit. The solid walls of the town ahead had prompted new hope to stir within her heart. ‘Twas true they were still within the realm of the French king, but mayhap this town was far enough from Paris that they could busk. A warm meal would go far toward restoring the camaraderie within the troupe. And there had, after all, been no evidence that they were being followed. Mayhap they had truly slipped through the net.

  The burned shell of the Temple, however, was a brutal reminder of the proximity of Paris. The troupe halted as one
to stare at the wreckage. They had heard rumors that the Templar knights had been arrested throughout France, but ‘twas still a shock to see the remains of such a brutal response.

  Genevieve watched Wolfram step silently away from the mute group. He hesitated before the charred ruins and she saw his gaze dance uncomprehendingly over what remained.

  Well it seemed that he was struck numb by the sight and could make no sense of it. Wolfram’s hands clenched and unclenched but once, and though that was the only move he made, it reminded Genevieve forcefully of the compassion that had flooded her when first she touched him. She ached to go to him, even after all that had passed between them, but hesitated with the fear that he would turn her aside.

  “Good sir, tell me if you will, what has happened here?” Odo hailed a shopkeeper bustling past with a cheerful air. The man wiped his brow and slanted a telling glance to the remains. Genevieve followed his glance and found her gaze snared by Wolfram’s stillness yet again.

  For one of the Order, this must be a chilling sight. Genevieve’s heart wrenched sympathetically, though she doubted he would welcome any consolation from her. Truly all the cards were on the table betwixt them now, and she had not as yet the fortitude to risk being spurned.

  But a man was he, she thought suddenly, and no less human than any other, regardless of the task he had fulfilled.

  “The Temple ‘tis, or mayhap I should say ‘twas the Temple,” the shopkeeper supplied gruffly. “Set to blaze ‘twas, in the night after the arrests.”

  “The arrests of the knights of the Temple?” Odo asked, though indeed they all knew the answer. The shopkeeper nodded tersely and Genevieve fancied a shiver tripped across Wolfram’s broad shoulders at the reminder.

  “Aye. A sorry bit of business that was, but the seneschal would hear no protest. Orders from the king’s own hand, he said, and naught was there to do but fulfill them.”

  “But they burned the Temple, as well?” Odo asked with politely expressed surprise. Genevieve was startled when the shopkeeper shook his burly head.

  “Nay, ‘twas not the seneschal responsible for that,” he said. “‘Twas some of the boys down at the tavern that night. Got to talking, they did, about the treasury of the Temple. How I hear it, the more ale in their bellies, the more convinced were they that they should claim its contents for themselves, seeing as the days of the Order were about to come to an end. ‘Twas a cache of coin, after all, to which they had contributed through their tithes, and they saw it as no more than their due to reclaim it.”

  “And they burned the Temple for it?” Odo demanded with less well concealed incredulity. The shopkeeper shook his head once more, as though he too found the very idea dismaying.

  “Nay, ‘twas not like that. Seems as they sauntered on down to the Temple in the wee hours, but the sergeant at the gate did not see fit to admit them. A right-thinking man was he, to my mind, seeing as they were in such a state, but they threatened him and somehow a flint was struck. In the muddle that followed, the flame ended up somehow in the straw strewn about the Temple courtyard.” The keeper spared the ruins a sad glance. “‘Twas gone afore anyone was roused to douse the flames. Two days did it burn afore the rain washed out the last.”

  “And the ‘boys’ responsible?” Odo asked.

  The shopkeeper’s lips twisted wryly and he sighed once afore responding. “Seems as the seneschal was too busy to meddle in the affairs of the townsfolk that day, and now none can recall precisely who was where and when.”

  “So they escaped unscathed?” Genevieve interjected indignantly, unable to hold her tongue any longer. She knew not whence her anger issued, but it mattered naught, even if ‘twas from sympathy for Wolfram’s plight that she was outraged. Such a travesty of justice was inexcusable! The Order was esteemed, ‘twas respected, ‘twas under the jurisdiction of the Pope alone. Beyond belief ‘twas that such an establishment could be razed by a mob.

  The shopkeeper raised bushy eyebrows as he regarded her, his gaze steady. “Well it seems that that will be the way of it,” he admitted softly.

  An awkward silence settled over the troupe as they stared once more at the charred Temple, this recent revelation making the sight all the more horrifying.

  “And the sergeant at the gate?” Wolfram asked hoarsely, his voice sounding curiously distant. In that instant, any vestige of doubt about his allegiance to the Order was swept from Genevieve’s mind. Something about Wolfram’s tone revealed him to her, and she knew full well that he was one of the brethren of the Order. And she guessed that his rank had been sergeant. Her heart twisted for him, but he kept his back to them all.

  The shopkeeper slanted him an assessing glance, but Wolfram did not turn to face them. “I know not exactly,” he confessed heavily, and Genevieve dreaded his next words. “Bodies there were found within once the flames had done their damage, and whispers there were of some of the men of the house fleeing town with naught but was on their backs.”

  This time Genevieve knew she did not imagine the shudder that swept over Wolfram’s tall frame. Still it seemed that he could not turn away from the wreckage. The light faded around them and the perfectly typical evening quiet possessing the town seemed suddenly rather ominous. A few stray dry leaves scuttled down the street as the troupe watched Wolfram warily.

  He moved not, though his companions grew restive.

  The shopkeeper cleared his throat abruptly and seemed to look at the troupe for the first time. “Minstrels, are you?” he asked conversationally, with no hint of censure in his tone.

  “Aye, that we are, and well in need of a suitable venue this night,” Odo answered promptly. Genevieve ignored the purposeful undercurrent to his words, her entire being focused on Wolfram.

  Alone he looked.

  “Verily?” the shopkeeper asked, his words so remote to Genevieve that they might have come from another world. “A tavern have I, just down the way, and well would I welcome your entertainment this night. Naught can I offer you when all is said and done but a place afore the hearth, a hot bowl of soup and mayhap a bit of silver from the patrons.”

  The troupe twittered in excitement at the promise of shelter from the elements and Odo sketched a deep bow.

  “Deeply honored would we be, sir, and well can you expect a fine show for your generosity.”

  The shopkeeper’s eyes gleamed with mingled pride and pleasure. “Aye, a good while it has been since we have had the luck of entertainment. Hurry along, would you, for the night is growing cold. Just on the left ‘tis, you cannot miss it.”

  Odo nodded gratefully, and several of the members of the troupe called their thanks to the shopkeeper as he bustled away in the indicated direction. Some of the troupe skipped in his wake, some sauntered, Odo hesitated after taking a few steps to glance back to Wolfram and Genevieve. Plump white flakes of snow began to drift out of the deep indigo sky above, though Wolfram did not yet move.

  Again, Genevieve was struck by how solitary he looked, his posture not unlike that of a lost child who knows none search for him. He said naught. Still he stood proudly, but there was an air of defeat about him that had not been there afore.

  ‘Twas Genevieve who finally stepped forward to stand by his side. She waved Odo away and that man turned after the troupe with but a nod. Wolfram glanced not in her direction, even when she stood but a handspan away from him, but she knew full well that he was aware of her presence even so. She hesitated but a heartbeat, then reached down and folded his hand within hers. His fingers trembled, and she gripped his hand yet tighter as the weight of his pain rolled through her.

  Aye, he was hurting sorely indeed. Genevieve did not dare close her eyes and surrender to the torment swirling within him, lest it overwhelm her and leave her naught with which to reassure him.

  “‘Tis gone,” he whispered hoarsely. His voice was flat and toneless, tinged with disbelief and no small measure of defeat. “‘Tis all gone.”

  “The Order will rebuild it, surely?” Genevi
eve asked, forcing a false brightness into her voice. Wolfram shook his head slowly, and when he turned to her, she knew not whether the pain in his eyes or the tears glistening there surprised her more.

  “Nay,” he whispered unevenly.

  “What rank do you hold?” she asked quietly. Wolfram’s gaze drifted over the ruins once more.

  “A sergeant am I,” he admitted. “But now the Order to which I am pledged is gone.”

  Genevieve could not begin to imagine what such a passing might mean to him. A lone tear spilled over his cheek and splashed onto their entwined hands, leaving Genevieve aching with the rawness of his pain. All that he knew and relied upon had been swept away, though she could not imagine that such a powerful Order would not rise again from the ashes.

  She reached up and laid one hand against his cheek. Wolfram glanced down to her, and she longed in that instant to gather him close. “‘Twill be fine in the end,” she murmured, unable to restrain herself from pressing a single kiss to his cheek. To her astonishment, he did not turn away. “Come with us to find some shelter this night. You will see that all will look brighter in the morn.” Genevieve gave his hand a little tug, and he turned after her to follow her to the troupe.

  Something altered in his manner when he looked away from the ruins, and Genevieve knew the very moment that the change occurred. He stood taller suddenly, as though long years of discipline had suddenly been recalled to him, and his grip grew firmer before he released her hand.

  Genevieve thought he meant to stand alone, but ‘twas not to be, for he folded her elbow into his resolute grip. Escorted her like a lady nobly born he did, and with that Genevieve knew he appreciated her few words, though she doubted he would ever say as much.

  “My pledge to you yet stands,” he murmured to her as they gained the entry to the tavern. Genevieve looked to him in surprise at his resolute tone, and his eyes burned with determination. “I vowed to see you safe. That the Order is gone changes naught, for I am a man of my word.”