“But naught did they say of their destination?” Wolfram persisted. The man shook his head.
“Nay,” he admitted, then snapped his floury fingers. “This there is,” he declared in sudden recollection. The keeper dug in the pocket of his apron and retrieved a small sack, his fingers leaving traces of flour on the suede.
“Left it for you, that Odo did,” he said and tossed the sack at Wolfram. “The tall fair one, he said, the one as says naught but watches all. I reckon that would be you.” Wolfram caught it, and it jingled with the impact. His heart sank with this new evidence that Odo had indeed intended to leave him behind.
“And when did they leave?” he asked, expecting little in response.
“Oh, not long past now,” the keeper said without hesitation. He cocked a finger at Wolfram, his thoughts clearly lagging behind the younger man’s. “Well might you catch them afore they part the gates, you know, for they do but open them with the dawn. And after last night’s snow, the gatekeeper might well be late in gaining their free passage.”
A possibility ‘twas, only, but a welcome one at that.
“I thank you for your aid,” Wolfram said hastily. Mayhap he could yet catch Odo and dismiss his suspicions. Mayhap Odo had other intentions for Genevieve than to leave her in Wolfram’s care. He dashed out into the frigid morning air.
The cold in his lungs awakened Wolfram in truth and made him consider his path indecisively for an instant. Genevieve slept behind, alone in the deserted tavern. Should Wolfram awaken her, they might well be too late. But should he find Odo, surely that man could be convinced to return for Genevieve. Or Wolfram could fetch her and catch up to Odo once his path was known.
Aye, he had little heart for stirring Genevieve from her slumber so early. His mind made up, Wolfram dashed down the street in pursuit of the troupe he had traveled with for near a month.
* * *
“Good morning, Genevieve de Pereille.”
Genevieve stirred restlessly at the unfamiliar low voice so close to her ear and frowned as she hesitated on the periphery of sleep.
“Rouse yourself, Mademoiselle de Pereille, for far have we to go this day.”
Something was not right. The certainty troubled Genevieve and coaxed her to reluctantly awaken. She shivered as the chill of the morning air impressed itself upon her senses and rolled over, wincing at the ache in her bones.
She should have insisted on finding a pallet. The floor was no place for sleeping, even if one was as exhausted as she had been the night before. Indeed, she had become increasingly tired of late as Wolfram retreated further within his protective shell.
Genevieve sighed and forced her eyes open to greet the dawn.
The first thing she saw was an older man kneeling beside her. He smiled when her eyes opened and Genevieve scooted backward in shock.
She blinked, but the man and his confident smile remained. Her eyes widened and she frowned, certain this man could not be the officer of the Temple she had seen all those days past in Paris when she first heard Odo sing.
He arched a silver brow, and the dread that fired through Genevieve in response fed her unease. Only too well did she recall Wolfram’s certainty that the Master of the Temple of Paris aimed to see her dead, and to have an officer of that same Temple before her seemed less than a positive portent.
The second thing Genevieve saw was that she was completely alone to face her new companion. The tavern was deserted. Her breath caught in her throat and she turned dazedly back to the man, sure she did not imagine the way his smile widened. Predatory he looked, and Genevieve liked it naught. She squirmed backward until she hit the wall and lifted her lute before her as though ‘twould protect her from whatever his intent might be.
Her heart sank as the truth became clear to her. They had all left her alone to fend for herself. Curse Odo and Wolfram! They had not even had the audacity to say farewell.
Mayhap it mattered that little to them that they left her behind. Genevieve swallowed and blinked back her tears.
“Good morning,” the man purred as he stood up. “You are Genevieve de Pereille, are you not?”
“Who desires to know?” Genevieve demanded by way of greeting, hating how uneven her voice sounded. Too much ‘twas that a person should have to face so many surprises on awakening.
“Come to fetch you to the king’s own court am I,” the suave older man confided, and settled himself before her with ease. The pair of wolfhounds lingering behind him settled on their haunches as he relaxed, their eyes yet bright.
“Me?” she repeated in surprise.
The man before her nodded confidently. “Aye, you. Well it seems that Philip himself was intrigued by your skill with the lute.”
The man lied, and Genevieve knew it well. Naught good could the king himself want with a provincial lutenist like herself.
“I ask you again for your name,” Genevieve said tightly. The man smiled thinly, his bright gaze landing upon her once more.
“My name is not of import, though my post commands respect from men everywhere,” he said with no small measure of pride. “Master of the Temple of Paris am I, confidant of kings and leader of bold knights.” When Genevieve failed to appear impressed, he glanced about the tavern as though fearing to be overheard and leaned closer as he dropped his voice. “And a mercy ‘tis that I arrived in time. Do you not know that that tall fair one you travel with, the Templar, is charged with ensuring your demise?”
“Nay,” Genevieve insisted hotly. “Aided me, he did, when I might have been endangered. Were it not for his assistance, I should not have made it this far.”
“Indeed? And how far have you made it? Little trouble did I have in finding you, and clever enough are you to see that that cannot be good fortune alone.” The Master leaned yet closer, and his breath fanned Genevieve’s cheek even as her eyes widened in disbelief. “Have you considered whether your benefactor might have been merely gaining your trust? Easier ‘tis to lead one astray who trusts you implicitly.”
Doubt hovered on the periphery of Genevieve’s mind. Was this why Wolfram refused to open himself to her? Did he intend to betray her in the end? Did the Master of the Temple speak the truth? Instinctively Genevieve distrusted this one, but still his argument was persuasive.
The Master leaned closer. “Do you in truth believe that you can trust a man who so readily breaks his word?” he whispered. Genevieve’s eyes widened and the Master nodded knowingly. “Aye, cast aside his oath to the Order like so much worthless chattel has this one, and I, for one, would be cautious in extending to him my trust.”
Genevieve was not certain what to think. Everything Wolfram had told her was being twisted by the Master and she was not awake enough as yet to think clearly.
‘Twas evident the Master intended to press his advantage. His eyes narrowed as he raised a confidential finger and his voice dropped once more to that intimate tone. “I do not mean to shock you, but your brother’s demise was not a natural one. Did you know, Genevieve, that the same man who aids you now is the one who murdered Alzeu?”
Genevieve swallowed but did not respond. She eyed the Master carefully as he warmed to his tale.
“An assassin, he is,” he continued, his eyes gleaming with a sincerity she might have trusted had she known less of the matter. “As soon as I heard the whisper that this foul man intended to dispatch you, as well, I rode out in pursuit.” His words fell more quickly as he warmed to his theme. “Mercifully, the dogs found the trail despite the snow, for it seems I have found you in the very nick of time. We must escape from this tavern afore he returns to fulfill his scheme. Evident ‘tis that he has finally shaken that troupe of minstrels with some far-fetched tale and will return to do his worst.”
The Master pushed to his feet and offered Genevieve his hand imperiously. She stared at his fingers for a moment and frowned.
Genevieve supposed a woman of sense would choose the path that would ensure her own safety. Her companions had aban
doned her. ‘Twas clear Wolfram had not only spurned her but left her to her own resources. She eyed the Master, and his lips drew into a hard line at her indecision.
Genevieve had always followed impulse and could do no less now.
“I do not believe you,” she whispered, and the Master’s eyes turned cold.
“It matters naught what you believe,” he declared. His hand fell to the hilt of his dagger and he snapped his fingers imperiously. Too late Genevieve considered the possibility that he was not alone. The stamp of heavy feet outside the tavern shadowed her heart with dread.
“The king is expecting you,” he said with a thread of steel in his tone. “My patience wears thin, Genevieve de Pereille.”
Still Genevieve refused to take his hand to rise, and the Master’s brow darkened. The door to the courtyard opened, emitting the cold fingers of the winter wind and a dozen grim-faced men-at-arms. Genevieve’s heart skipped a beat.
Where was Wolfram?
Wolfram was gone, she reminded herself savagely. Had that man not declared that he cared naught for her? The recollection of his denial stung and fortified Genevieve’s will as naught else could.
Alone she was, and upon no one could she rely but herself.
Genevieve looked back to the Master in time to see him smile thinly. “Surely you are not a foolish woman,” he whispered.
Nay, Genevieve had never been a fool. And well it seemed that she had no choice in this matter. She lifted her chin and accepted the Master’s aid in rising, knowing that she alone could see herself free of this situation.
* * *
The troupe was gone.
Wolfram stood at the gate of the city and stared off into the distance. He squinted against the glare of the fresh snow, but not a sign of movement could he see on the entire visible rippling length of the road.
Odo was gone.
“Did a group of people leave by this gate this morn?” he asked the gatekeeper. The man glanced in Wolfram’s direction, his features creasing into a grin as he waggled one finger at him.
“One of those were you with the foreign minstrels at Heinrich’s last night, are you not?” he demanded genially. Wolfram nodded and the man nodded appreciatively. “Aye, a fine show that was, the like of which we have not seen in these parts of late.” The man appeared to lose himself in recollection of the night before, and Wolfram cleared his throat pointedly.
“Did the troupe pass this way this morn?” he asked again. The man glanced up with a start and smiled encouragingly.
“Aye, that they did. Lively a group as you could hope to see, to be so wide awake as to beat me to the gates this morn.”
“Do you know where they went?”
The man appeared surprised by the question. “Nay. None of my business ‘tis where one goes when they leave. I but assumed they went to another town to busk.”
“Where does this road lead?” Wolfram demanded impatiently.
The man shrugged. “To Nancy. Is that not the way of these types, to move continually?” The man slapped his forehead in an exaggerated parody of recollection. “But indeed, why do I ask you such a thing? Are they not your friends? Surely you know best where ‘tis they are headed.”
“Nay, I know not.” Wolfram admitted heavily.
“Stole from you, did they?” the keeper asked with enthusiastic relish.
Wolfram regarded him with thinly veiled horror. “Nay. Fine people are they.”
The keeper tsked under his breath and leaned close to whisper confidentially. “One hears tales, you know, about these traveling types, and well did my mother teach me never to trust a man whose door you could not find two nights in a row.” The gatekeeper regarded Wolfram brightly, as though expecting to be entrusted with a bold secret at any moment. Wolfram held his regard for a long moment, having no idea what to say, and finally simply turned away.
“I thank you for your aid,” he said flatly. The gatekeeper, undeterred, granted him a cheerful wave. Wolfram was not surprised to catch a last glimpse of the man peering down a narrow alley with avid curiosity.
He stalked back in the direction of the tavern, letting his sour mood take the reins. Never had he imagined that Odo would part paths with him and Genevieve with nary a word. Wolfram scowled and kicked aside the fresh dusting of snow as the purse of coins jingled discordantly within his pocket.
The keeper of the tavern might know more about Odo’s departure than he realized. Experience had shown that that man’s memory oft needed some prompting. Truly there was nowhere else Wolfram could turn. He strode purposefully back to the tavern, knowing all the while the certainty that he would soon see Genevieve again could not be what was buoying his step.
* * *
But when Wolfram reached the tavern long moments later, Genevieve was gone.
He searched the common room, but not a sign of her was there remaining. When he noted that her lute was gone, his heart stilled with trepidation.
“Where is the lady who slept at the hearth?” he demanded of the keeper, who was still in the kitchen. That man looked up with surprise.
“Sleeping she was when last I looked,” he said, his blank expression all the assurance Wolfram needed that the man told the truth.
“And no one else came while I was gone?” he asked.
The keeper shrugged as he rolled another batch of dough into round loaves. “The lord there was who sought a room, but none other.”
“A lord?” Wolfram’s throat caught in his chest. The keeper nodded amiably.
“Aye,” he agreed with a wave. “One of those types filled with their own import was he, with his staff and his dogs. Last night he was here, but I had not a room for him and his men on account of the space taken up by your little troupe.”
Wolfram’s mouth went dry. Surely ‘twas just coincidence that someone had stopped in last night after their arrival. Surely his past had made him too suspicious of every turn of events. “And you told him as much?” he inquired mildly.
The keeper grinned. “Aye, for well I guessed his purse was well lined. Indeed, I thought he might stop for a tankard of ale and attend their skills, for he seemed truly interested to hear the news, but he merely popped his head into the common room for a moment afore he left.”
Too much did that sound like the behavior of a man on a trail for Wolfram’s taste. Surely he was seeing fault where there was none, but he could not let the matter be.
“Had he an accent, perchance?” he asked. The keeper wagged a finger at him good-naturedly.
“Oho! With your aid, I recall more than I thought,” he said with an enthusiastic nod. “Aye, an accent he had, and ‘twas a Parisian one, unless I miss my guess. Hasty speakers are that lot, yet very crisp in their speech. Enough of them have I had passing through here to know my business in that. Exacting folk, they are, frustrating no end in their certainty that they alone know what is what—”
Wolfram leaned across the table and interrupted the keeper, willing the man to discredit his unruly thoughts. “Do you recall his features?” he demanded abruptly.
“Oh, aye.” The keeper rolled his eyes and missed not a beat in his chat. “A handsome man he was, for all his somber mood, and, despite his age, he stood straight and tall. Silver of mane and imperious of manner was that one, and had me doing his bidding afore I thought twice. Made me glad my sisters are off at the convent this winter to take their lessons, it did, for this one would stir trouble without a doubt.”
Wolfram was immediately put in mind of the Master of the Temple. He felt the color drain from his face, but the keeper seemed to notice naught. Surely that man could not have pursued him this far? To have broken his oath to the house was no small thing, but to have the Master himself give chase was far beyond typical.
Or, more ominously and infinitely more likely, did the Master intend to complete unfinished business with Genevieve?
Had Wolfram not seen that very man arrested in Paris? Surely the Master could not have gained freedom and lent chas
e this far? Surely that was unlikely at best?
But Genevieve was gone. That much was beyond dispute. Wherever she had gone, she had chosen to leave Wolfram and that he could not deny.
Genevieve had abandoned him. That he had feared—nay, anticipated—the very same did naught to reassure him, and he stood in the kitchen of the tavern with the smell of fresh bread filling his lungs even as emptiness filled his heart. Bereft he was in that moment, alone as he had been all of his life.
But this time, the pain was more than Wolfram thought he could bear.
Had he erred in refusing to trust Genevieve? Too late to matter, the possibility tempted him, and he wondered if he could have done anything different from the way he had.
Genevieve was gone. And Wolfram was alone once again. Though this time, he had not the security of the Order to regiment his days.
He had naught at all to call his own. Well it seemed that he had not appreciated what lay within his grasp until ‘twas gone, though the revelation came too late to reassure him at all.
* * *
The lute summoned Wolfram as he wandered blindly that night.
He heard the faint whisperings of its music wafting to his ears through the deserted streets of Metz. He knew not whether the strains of the tune were real or imagined, but he fancied they would lead him directly to Genevieve.
Whimsy it was, and Wolfram knew it. For the first time in his days, solitude was barren and empty for him, and he marveled at the change. He jingled Odo’s coins in his pocket as he paced the snow-dusted streets of Metz and considered the lure of the tune yet again.
Whimsy indeed, but what else had he? Nowhere was there for him to go, and pursuit of a fetching tune was as worthy a goal as anything else. Wolfram turned and followed the sound as intently as a hound bent on tracking a scent. His footsteps carried him up one twisted street and down another, past a bakery, a butcher’s, a cloth merchant’s, a candlemaker’s.
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