“So implicitly did I trust my mother, that never did I doubt her intent that cold night that she took my hand in hers and led me into town. Late ‘twas and the windows were shuttered against the night, a light flurry of snow falling on the silent streets. Yet never did I even question the oddity of our being out at such an hour.
“She took me to the tower where the bell tolled the hours and took my hands in hers. Tears there were in her eyes, and I could think of naught but doing as she bade me, that she might not cry. She had to leave for a time, but I was to wait in this place for her. Should a man open the door, I was instructed to give to him the lump of salt she entrusted me with. My mother bade me behave and I vowed fervently to do so, never dreaming the import of what she did that night. She kissed my cheeks, and not only the softness of her flesh brushed against mine, but the damp trickle of her tears.
“And so I stood, cradling the precious lump of salt in my hands and watched my mother stride away in the falling snow. She turned a corner but never looked back. Then I was alone.”
Wolfram looked down at his hands, and Genevieve imagined some vestige of that frightened boy yet lingered in his troubled frown. She longed to touch him, though she knew he would tolerate naught from her in this moment.
Indeed, it seemed he had been ill-used.
“What of your sire?” she prompted quietly, certain there had to be a ray of hope somewhere within the tale. Wolfram fired her a glance that spoke volumes.
“Never did I know him,” he confessed thickly, and Genevieve heard the echo of his shame. A bastard had Wolfram been, and she ached to ease the pain of his heritage. He avoided her gaze, though, and cleared the thickness in his throat once more before he continued.
“Eventually a man did open the door behind me, though I was chilled through to the bone by that time. ‘Twas dark as pitch above, the snow glowing faintly with its own light as it fell and drifted about me, the cold working its way right to my bones. I offered him the salt as bidden and he took the lump solemnly. His eyes were kind, I well recall, and his face etched with more wrinkles than I had ever imagined skin might sport. He laid one hand on my head and led me into the monastery.
“For ‘twas at the monastery my mother abandoned me that night. With naught but a lump of salt and nary a farewell, she entrusted me to their care forevermore. Well do I recall telling the trio of old monks who bathed me and fed me warm soup that I but awaited my mother. Still can I see the look they exchanged, those three, at my youthful confidence. ‘Twas in that moment that I knew deep within my soul that my mother would never return.
“I waited, though, determined to ignore the truth that resonated within me. I waited, and for a time I pined. I watched and listened like some lapdog deprived of its owner’s companionship. She never came. Fanciful stories I composed, as children are wont to do, that she had been abducted by troublemakers and her return delayed, that the monastery moved mysteriously during the night, that none who left its gates might find it twice, that she lay ill somewhere crying plaintively for me.”
Wolfram paused and his lips thinned to a grim line. “But all the time I knew that she was gone.” He blinked away what might have been a solitary tear and his voice became suddenly more purposeful.
“Years passed and even the most stubborn corner of my mind was forced to admit that she had never intended to return. The monks offered me the opportunity to be a novice and potentially join their ranks. Not all oblates stayed and certainly not all abandoned there were invited to do so. A home I had with the monks, and though ‘twas humble, ‘twas the only home I had. Naught of love did anyone promise or expect, no whimsy was spun to tug at one’s heartstrings. Poverty, chastity, obedience and hard work were a small price to pay for a life I could understand and terms I could accept. ‘Twas there I stayed until I requested admission to the Order of the Templars.”
Silence reigned between them as Genevieve absorbed what he had said, then she lifted her gaze to meet Wolfram’s. “‘Twas then you barricaded your heart against all.” He flushed at her softly spoken accusation, but shook his head all the same.
“Nay, ‘twas long before that I knew its urgings could not be trusted,” he said with a vehemence that disturbed her. “‘Twas on that stoop, when I felt the cold ease into my bones and the salt crumble in my hand, that I knew I had been ill-used. Alone we all are, Genevieve, alone we arrive in this world and alone we depart. ‘Tis best to rely on oneself, for ‘tis only a matter of time before another will show betrayal.”
Genevieve’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Surely you cannot believe that I would betray you?” she asked in astonishment. Wolfram did not appear shaken by the question, which did naught to reassure her. He returned her regard for a long, silent moment, then his gaze danced over her features as though he assessed her very soul.
“‘Tis only a matter of time,” he murmured. His eyes met hers again and he shook his head, as if she were a fool not to see the truth so evidently displayed.
Genevieve bounded to her feet and snatched her chemise and kirtle from the floor. She hauled the garments viciously over her head, yet Wolfram moved naught to pursue her. Tears rose to blur her vision that he should think so little of her, but she spun angrily to confront him.
“Naught do you know of what is right and true in this world,” she told him hotly. “I love you! No small thing is this, but naught does it mean when I tell you so. A boor you are of the worst order, and a knave, to insult me with your certainty that I would betray the man I love.”
“Indeed?” Wolfram asked mildly, but the avidity of his gaze revealed his intensity. He folded his arms across his bare chest and arched a brow high. “You do not believe that you would betray me under any circumstance? That you would never choose your welfare over my own? That you would never make a choice to my detriment? Illogical that would be, Genevieve.”
“Aye, illogical ‘twould be, but that is the price of love,” Genevieve snapped in return. “Illogical ‘tis that I love you at all. Of course I would not betray you, not under any circumstance. ‘Tis rude beyond compare of you to even imagine such a thing, let alone openly accuse me of it.”
Her tears threatened to spill, but still she would not back down from him. “How could you poison this night for me?” she demanded urgently. “My virginity did I grant you, and that gift I did give out of love alone. How can you turn my love aside?” This last was more a wail than an entreaty, yet Genevieve saw she had stirred Wolfram naught.
He regarded her solemnly, then glanced down at his hands.
“What if you had to choose between your lute and me, Genevieve?” he asked silkily. “What if you could have but one or the other by your side? Which would you choose?”
The answer Genevieve wanted to grant Wolfram rose swift and sure to her lips, but then she met his questioning gaze and her response froze within her throat. The truth she owed him, not some easy promise that might not be kept, and once she paused to consider the matter, the choice was less readily made.
Her lute had always been her life. Mad she would go without it, yet Wolfram gave her a strength she could find nowhere else.
She could afford to be without neither of them.
Wolfram’s steady silver gaze revealed his awareness of her quandary, and in that moment, Genevieve hated his perceptiveness with all her heart and soul. “Never shall I have to choose!” she cried in frustration. Wolfram—curse him—smiled, though his smile might well have been mistaken for a grimace of pain.
“You see?” he asked under his breath.
Genevieve could not bear to look at him. She could not tolerate being in the same room with his bitterness. Impossible he was! Unthinkable that she would ever have to choose!
And, curse him, he was right.
“Indeed I see, as only a deceiver in his own right could show me the truth.” She spat the words out, wanting only to hurt him as he had hurt her. Wolfram clenched his lips, but did not block her course, so Genevieve plunged onward. “N
o need is there to ask whether you would betray me for some objective of your own, for already have I seen the work of your hand. Did you not strike my only brother dead?”
Wolfram sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, his expression wary. “Had it not been me, it would have been another who dispatched Alzeu. A fool he was for talking so brashly of his intent, and I, at least, saw him pass quickly and without pain.”
“Oho!” Genevieve cried. “So, I should be grateful to you for your mastery of your despicable task!” She spat on the floorboards directly before his feet but Wolfram moved naught. “Take that for your skill! ‘Tis your own fault that I am destitute and far from home! ‘Tis your fault that my only loving kin is gone and your fault that I was revealed in Paris! ‘Tis your fault that I erred so seriously and granted my heart where ‘twas undeserved!”
Her store of accusations depleted, Genevieve glared at the resolutely silent Wolfram. He cleared his throat, but his silver gaze never wavered from hers.
“Naught is there that I can do to repay you for the untimely loss of your maidenhead,” he said carefully. His very words muted Genevieve and prompted an awkward lump to rise in her throat. Certain she was that she would not like whatever ‘twas he would say next. “But you may indeed rest assured that my hand is pledged to ensuring your welfare.”
The words cut more deeply than Genevieve might have imagined possible, even though she had expected them. Wolfram cared naught for her, and he was telling her clearly. Their night that she had thought so wondrous meant naught to him.
Genevieve had been a fool. Yet again her impulsiveness had led her astray.
“More do I want from you than your protection,” she said. Tears rose to blur her vision, though she fought against them stubbornly. Through the mist of her tears, she saw Wolfram shake his head firmly.
“My pledge is all I will grant you,” he said, so evenly that she loathed the very sight of him. Impossible ‘twas to reconcile this dispassionate warrior with the man who had coaxed her to such heights of pleasure just hours before.
“Nay!” Genevieve cried, as angry with herself for her misplaced loyalty as with Wolfram. “Then I will have naught from you at all!”
Genevieve spun on her heel and stalked from the room before Wolfram could say anything else. She stamped down the stairs, a pain launched within her when he did not even bother to give pursuit.
It helped naught that his words had changed little of her feelings.
Still she loved Wolfram. Still she ached to show him that her love would not betray his heart. Wolfram was closed to her, resistant, though indeed she prayed he might hold her in high regard within some secret corner of his own heart.
But Genevieve knew any dreams she harbored might be for naught, for she suspected that Wolfram would never change his mind. Hurt he had been, and still he bled from that old wound. Naught could she say to repair the damage.
She dashed at her falling tears with clumsy fingers. Yet still she loved him. That was the worst of it. Even knowing the truth could not sway her heart. Her longing rose in her throat as though it might choke her, and Genevieve could not imagine how she would live without Wolfram at her side. Come to depend upon him she had, as well as to love him, though all that meant naught to a man with his heart locked safely away.
She could not stop loving him, yet she could not reach him. Tears of powerlessness flowed unchecked down Genevieve’s cheeks with the realization.
She had abandoned her heart to the care of a man who wanted it naught.
And there was naught that she could do to retrieve it.
Chapter Thirteen
Genevieve ignored Wolfram for the next fortnight as the troupe traveled east again.
The cursed man appeared to be completely untroubled by her anger with him. Truly, her displeasure did naught to dissuade him from his pledged task. He remained stoic and steadfast by her side and seemed to take her avoidance of even the most mundane discussion perfectly in stride. He was close by her side at all times; she awoke and fell asleep with Wolfram in close proximity. His hand dropped to his dagger when they entered a new town, and when they did busk again, a local man was soon convinced to abandon any ideas he might have gained in watching Genevieve with unswerving interest.
Indeed, had she not known better, Genevieve might have mistaken Wolfram for a superbly trained hound.
No balm was it to her wounded pride that he clung tenaciously to the letter of his pledge to her. More from Wolfram she wanted and more she was clearly not to have. Her guardian and protector he seemed satisfied to be, and naught had he touched her since that night.
‘Twas enough to make Genevieve grind her teeth in frustration. Indeed, had she had the strength for the task, she might cheerfully have wrung the man’s neck with her bare hands. Denying the link between them, he was, and she longed to shout at him until he heard the truth.
But Wolfram had closed all avenues to his heart. Once again, he was the dispassionate mercenary whom she had spied leaning over her brother, and Genevieve despaired of ever seeing that tender side of him again.
And when Odo announced late one afternoon that the town on the horizon was Metz, a panic came to life deep within Genevieve. She glanced to Wolfram only to find his features impassive and his attention fixed on the approaching city walls.
To Metz he had suggested they travel. To Metz alone had she agreed to accompany him. Now that they were arrived, what was his plan? Did he intend to leave Genevieve to her own resources? Truly she had hoped to breach the defenses around his heart before this time. Metz stood just ahead and Genevieve, yet again, had not succeeded.
She knew not his intent and, to her dismay, the possibility of parting ways with Wolfram here troubled her so deeply that she could not hide her pain. No consolation was the certainty that her opinion mattered naught in this matter. Whatever Wolfram would do, she was convinced he would do, regardless of her feelings.
Unable to stop herself, Genevieve reached out and touched his arm. His gaze dropped to her hand as though he could not understand her gesture, his silver gaze fathomless when his eyes finally lifted to meet hers.
‘Twas clear she had breached some unspoken agreement betwixt them. He would not even tolerate her touch.
Genevieve found herself murmuring an apology as her hand fell away. She averted her gaze as sorrow welled up fit to choke her, and eyed the city walls ahead. Metz. ‘Twas here she would be abandoned to her own fate. Suddenly the air seemed much colder than it had just moments before, as the promise of the future Genevieve had nursed for a fortnight finally expired within the secret enclave of her heart.
Never had she felt so alone in all of her days.
* * *
‘Twas the cold of the stone floor that awakened Wolfram the morning after their arrival in Metz.
Their first night here had been a successful one, and well it seemed that the troupe’s skills had been highly appreciated by the tavern’s patrons. Wolfram, having been granted the task of collecting all contributions, had been mildly surprised by the generosity of these folk as he counted the coin.
Mayhap they could play for a while here afore being forced to choose their next move. Wolfram certainly had no idea how or where to proceed from here. His plan had been solely to reach Metz, a town beyond the long reach of Philip, and he supposed he had not imagined they would make it. Certainly he had thought no farther than this.
Certainly he had not considered the import of his own roots in this town.
With a muffled groan, Wolfram rolled over to greet the chill of the winter morning and discovered that Odo had apparently planned farther than he.
The tavern was deserted.
Wolfram shoved to his knees in astonishment, relief flooding through him when he spied Genevieve. She slept curled in a ball like a small cat, her arm cradling her precious lute close to her belly. Evidently she was as unaware of the others’ departure as he, and yet again, Wolfram was assailed by a curious sense of kinship with th
is woman.
But the fact remained that the troupe had vanished without a trace. Vaguely Wolfram had assumed that Genevieve would continue to travel safely with the troupe, though this changed matters. He scowled at the stone floor, knowing full well that he could not abandon Genevieve to find her own way.
Wolfram wondered unexpectedly if this might not have been part of Odo’s plan. Suddenly the knowing looks that man had granted him over the past fortnight made an eerie sense, and Wolfram was seized by a need to prove his suspicions wrong.
The proprietor’s cheery whistle carried to Wolfram’s ears from the kitchen beyond. He pushed purposefully to his feet and ran one hand through his hair. Surely that man would know the way of things.
* * *
“The others?” The keeper asked with an arched brow. Wolfram nodded, but the man did not even look up from kneading the bread. The kitchen was warm and flooded with harsh winter sunlight, the smell of yeast making Wolfram’s stomach churn hungrily. “Aye, gone they are, and that is a fact.”
“Have you any idea where they went?” Wolfram asked. The stout man fired him a pointed glance filled with wariness of the world and its ways.
“Well it seems to me that you would know that yourself, should they desire your company,” he remarked shrewdly. Wolfram shrugged and struggled to contrive some excuse. He struck what he hoped was a confidential manner.
“Truth be told, we have argued over Odo’s awakening me after a late night afore,” Wolfram said in a low companionable voice. He leaned on the table and managed to summon an easy smile for the watchful keeper. “Well do I imagine that Odo plays a jest upon me in return,” he added. “A great trickster is Odo.”
The keeper eyed him for a long moment, then turned back to his bread. “Mayhap ‘tis so,” he conceded, and Wolfram expected the truth to fall from his lips. “But in all honesty, I know not where they went. Left they did, quick as rabbits diving for cover.” He shrugged, as if unable or uninterested in fathoming the thinking of actors and minstrels. “A pity in truth, for they turned fair coin for me last eve.”
Unicorn Vengeance Page 24
