Through a Dark Mist

by Marsha Canham

  “I assume he did say more?”

  Nicolaa smiled. She leaned forward and supplemented the actions of her fingers, delaying any further discussion until she tasted an end to his indifference and felt his hands curl around the nape of her neck.

  “Apparently”—she released his flesh with a slow, sliding caress—” La Seyne’s opponents seldom have an opportunity to place a strike, let alone land it with any effect … because he attacks from the wrong side of the list.”

  De Gournay needed two measured breaths to refocus his attention. “What do you mean … the wrong side?”

  “It seems he suffers a rare affliction for a fighting man: he favours the left hand.”

  De Gournay stared, unmoving, and Nicolaa took advantage of his shock to stand and undulate past him, passing so close to the door, her woman’s scent assailed Servanne where she stood hidden. Already sorely strained, her heart began to beat in her ears like a drum; it caused her blood to pump through her veins in a heated rush, raising a fever everywhere but in the palms of her hands. They were cold and clammy, adding the coppery smell of salt and fear to Servanne’s panic

  De Gournay roused himself enough to accept the goblet of wine Nicolaa handed him. There was a brittle new light in his eyes as they followed her back to the chair, and a deeply etched frown darkening the width of his brow.

  Nicolaa sipped her wine and draped a leg carelessly over the arm of the chair.

  “Odd,” she mused, “how there should be two left-handed men of some considerable fighting prowess, turning up in Lincoln at precisely the same time.”

  “Christ!”

  “Was He left-handed also? I did not know.”

  De Gournay whirled around, hurling his goblet against the far wall with such force, some of the splashed contents flew back and spattered Nicolaa.

  “Christ Almighty! I should have known! I should have guessed!”

  Nicolaa gave her leg an agitated swing. “How could you have known, my love? How could you have guessed? Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer … your long lost, dead brother? How could anyone have guessed?”

  “I should have guessed!” De Gournay roared. “All these years, living and prospering in Brittany. How very clever of him. The hood, the appointment to the queen’s guard … how hellishly bloody clever of him!”

  “More than simply clever, my darling,” Nicolaa pointed out. “He not only waited to use Prince John as a ruse to get inside Bloodmoor, but he managed to distract your attention through the use of your innocent young bride. I would call it brilliant.”

  De Gournay’s hands curled into such tight fists, the knuckles turned white and bloodless.

  “I will kill him. By God, I will kill him right now, with my bare hands, and then we shall see how brilliant a corpse he makes!”

  He strode toward the doorway, and was almost there, a foot away from Servanne, his back washed in a glow of candlelight, when Nicolaa’s voice stopped him.

  “Kill him now and what do you gain?” she demanded sharply. “A moment’s satisfaction and little else. He has lost his advantage, Etienne. The surprise is no longer his, but weighs heavily in your favour. Wait. Wait and meet him on the morrow as planned.”

  “I want his blood,” De Gournay snarled, halted at the threshold to the wardrobe. “I want to tear his heart from his chest and squeeze the life out of it before his very eyes.”

  Nicolaa’s lips parted around a dry breath and she stood up from the chair. Her eyes glistened with arousal, her finely chiseled nostrils flared as if she could already detect the pungent sweetness of blood. “You will have his heart, my love, and any other part of his body you relish as a trophy, but what harm in waiting a few hours, when you can have so much more?”

  “More?” he rasped, his eyes narrowing.

  “Kill him now and you bring the eyes of the kingdom frowning down upon you, not to mention the vindictive wrath of the old queen. Think, my darling. Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer is more than just another name, another pennant to mount on your walls. He is the Scourge of Mirebeau, a knight of unblemished repute and legendary skill. Would it not be better to be known as the Dragon who slew the Black Scourge in honourable contest, rather than a desperate man who slit the throat of his brother in a jealous rage?”

  De Gournay’s body tensed at the touch of Nicolaa’s hands. She laid her palms flat on his back and splayed her fingers, kneading the iron-hard muscles with a sensual reverence that triggered icy shivers of erotic sensation throughout her own voluptuous body.

  “He has won his reputation because few have had the training to counter a man guided by the hand of Lucifer. But you, Etienne … you learned your own unparalleled skills with him as a sparring partner. You know how he sits a horse. You know the balance, the weight, the strokes he favours. You know the moment he chooses to raise a lance or sword. You know his strengths and his weaknesses. God’s love, you benefited from the same knowledge once before; it was only by the devil’s luck he survived. Tomorrow he will have no such luck. Tonight, tomorrow, the luck is all ours.”

  De Gournay breathed deeply, expanding his chest to the limit. “I want him to suffer. I want no quick or easy death for him by sword or lance.”

  “A well-placed blow will give him into your mercy” Nicolaa assured him, “the mercy of hot irons or dulled knives, whichever you prefer. Once he is carried from the field, he is yours for as little or as long as you want him.”

  All vestiges of the handsome, golden knight were lost behind a mask of cold fury as he rounded on Nicolaa with a snarl. “You and he made a son together, Nicolaa. Could it be there is some small part of you hoping for compassion? Is that why you argue for a delay?”

  “I told you once before, I would have dashed Eduard’s brains out on the first convenient rock had you not stayed my hand from doing so! I will do it now, here, in front of you if proof is needed of my loyalty.”

  De Gournay reached up and clutched two fistfuls of black hair, twisting and pulling it tight enough to distort the shape of Nicolaa’s cheeks and eyes.

  “What else would you do for me?” he asked cynically. “What else, Nicolaa?”

  “Anything! Ask anything, and it will be done.”

  “Blood, Nicolaa,” was the savage response. “I want blood!”

  With her eyes glazing over in the heat of passion, Nicolaa backed out of his grasp and turned stiffly to a small table just out of sight beside the doorway. The blade of the knife glittered as she raised it; light from the fire and the candles flared along the steel as she pressed it to her breast. The glitter changed from silver to crimson as she carved into the whiteness of her own flesh and drew the poniard down toward the nipple.

  The cut was an inch long and half as deep before Wardieu cursed and knocked the knife out of her hand. Her cry was muffled beneath the brutal crush of his lips and the blood streaming from the wound smeared his flesh as he grasped the edges of her tunic and tore it from her body. He grunted as her nails gouged jaggedly into his shoulders, but no amount of pain or protest deterred him from sweeping her into his arms and carrying her, naked and thrashing, to the bed.

  Shocked, sickened by all she had heard and seen, Servanne stumbled blindly out of the wardrobe and ran through the small anteroom. She was almost clear of the stifling gloom, almost free of the guttural rutting sounds that followed her from the lighted sleeping chamber, when her foot caught on an edge of stone and she was flung headlong into a rack of polished steel swords.

  22

  Servanne opened her mouth to scream, but managed no more than a harsh gasp before a roughly callused hand was clamped forcefully over her lips, sealing them. An arm circled her waist, catching her a split second before she made contact with the rack of weapons. Hauled up hard against a man’s body, she was partly carried, partly dragged through the outer doors to the square stone landing.

  “Make a sound and we are both dead,” he advised hoarsely. “Quickly, go down the stairs and wait for me at the bottom.”

  Servan
ne nodded blindly, too frightened to even search the shadows for her rescuer’s identity. She gathered the folds of her robe and tunic in her hands and fled down the winding corkscrew staircase as if the steps behind were on fire. At the bottom, she spilled out into the dimly lit corridor and sagged against the opposite wall, out of breath, out of courage, out of wits at what to expect next.

  He found her there a few moments later huddled against the abrasive, cold stone, trembling so badly he could hear the chatter of her teeth clearly in the hollow silence.

  “Come, my lady, we must get you into your own chambers and warmed by a fire.”

  “Eduard?” she gasped. “Is it you?”

  “My lady.” He bowed slightly, and when he straightened —when Servanne dashed at the tears blurring her vision— she could just make out the bold squareness of his jaw and the darkly familiar slash of eyes and brows.

  Eduard! The Wolf’s son! The discovery was a shock, to be sure, yet somehow she was not surprised.

  “Eduard … you were in the room? You heard everything?”

  The boy’s face tensed visibly. “We must not talk here, Lady Servanne. We must get you safely into your chambers.”

  Servanne offered no resistance as he guided her swiftly and silently along the gallery to the entrance to her tower. He supported her up the stairs and, when he would have hesitated at the outer door, preferring to leave her in the hands of a waiting-woman, she adamantly held fast to his hand and led him through the two smaller anterooms to her solar.

  Biddy was there, fast asleep and snoring open-mouthed on a chair by the bed.

  “Please,” Servanne whispered to Eduard. “Will you add another log to the fire. I doubt an inferno will be able to warm me, but it would help.”

  Eduard’s soft gray eyes flicked askance at Biddy.

  “She sleeps the sleep of the dead,” Servanne replied, shivering through a slight premonition of dread at her own words.

  It took a few fumbled attempts to loosen the bindings of the woolen cloak and cast the bulky garment aside. By then Eduard had selected a suitable length of wood and was bending over the glow of the fire to seat it properly over the burning embers. Servanne moved quietly up beside him, her hands extended to the warmth. For lack of knowing what to say or do next, she studied his features slantwise through her lashes wondering what she could possibly do or say to open the conversation.

  If he had been in the wardrobe and had heard what had transpired between Nicolaa de la Haye and the Dragon de Gournay, then he knew Etienne Wardieu was not his father. Moreover, he also knew Etienne Wardieu was Etienne Wardieu and not the man he had supposed him to be all these years.

  “I am sorry you had to hear all of that, my lady,” Eduard said, his voice forced out of a tautly constricted throat. “I am sorry either of us had to hear it or see it, but most especially you.”

  “Me, Eduard, but—”

  “No.” He stood up so suddenly he might have had springs in his ankles. And his face was so gloweringly angry, she could almost see his father standing there in his stead. “No, my lady. Do not feel you have to offer your pity or your sympathy. I have always known I was a bastard. Whether the product of one man’s by-blow, or another’s, it makes little difference.”

  “My pity … if I were going to offer it,” she said evenly, “would not be for you, but for them. And it does make a difference, Eduard. A very great difference as to which man sired you.”

  “The feared and valorous Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer?” Eduard’s jaw quivered with tension. His eyes narrowed and glittered brightly for a moment before he averted his face and stared into the fire. “He means nothing to me. I do not even know him.”

  “In that case, you have something in common, for he does not know you—nor even about you, I would hasten to guess. There the advantage is yours; at least you know he exists.”

  The thirteen-year-old boy struggled mightily with the sudden burdens of a man and the sternness in his face faltered somewhat. “I … have heard he is a knight without equal; a knight whose sword was forged on Satan’s anvil, and whose armour was cursed black by the unrepented sins of his forefathers.”

  “Well, I think the stories are slightly exaggerated—” “I was in the practice yards when he arrived this morning, and I caught but a glimpse of him. It is true, my lady: his armour was black, his pennants and crests are wrought in black and gold. It was an impressive sight to behold! And there were maidens swooning everywhere from the dreaded scars they envisioned beneath the black silk mask.” His voice trailed away, draining some of his excitement with it. “The mask, my lady …?”

  She reached up and laid a hand against his cheek. “The mask conceals a face as handsome and unblemished as your own. It is only fearsome to those who do not know him, and dangerous to those enemies who do.”

  “The Dragon and his lady seemed duly affected.”

  “With good reason. The Dragon … your uncle … stole Lord Lucien’s name and birthright. He then tried to murder Lucien, and discredit their father, and … and …” She faltered under the look of complete incredulity on Eduard’s face. “And perhaps I should not be the one telling you any of this.”

  The young squire’s nostrils were white and pinched. “You speak as if you know Lord La Seyne well.”

  “I know him. I trust him. What is more, I love him with all my heart … as you will when you meet him.”

  “Meet him? Where—on the jousting field? Will I be allowed a brief glimpse of him at the far side of the field while I prepare my lord for the contest? Or if the baron should win, will I be permitted a moment’s introduction before they drag his broken and bleeding body from the common?”

  Servanne laced her hands tightly together and clasped them against her breast. “But Eduard—”

  “I am Lord Wardieu’s squire. Because I am no longer his son does not mean my pledge of fealty is no longer binding. Did you think I was the first to ever hear he was unwanted, unloved, and unclaimed? Did you think this was the first time I had witnessed my uncle’s depravity and brutality, or the first time my”—he gritted his teeth, but the word would not come out—“the first time that woman has shown an appetite for cruelty and bloodshed? It is not, my lady, not by any measure. And while it may sicken and anger me, I am still bound by my oath of honour to serve him; to die for him if necessary in my post as squire. Nothing can change that. Forgive me, my lady, but nothing can change that!”

  Tears flooded Servanne’s eyes as she watched Eduard brush past her and run out of the room. She wanted to go after him—he was just a boy, regardless of how manly he tried to act!—to take him by the arms and shake some sense into him. But she knew it would be to no avail. She felt helpless, caught between the unbreachable honour of the father and now the son.

  “Ohhh …” She looked for something to break, something to smash into a million bits to vent some of her frustration, and when she turned, she saw Biddy standing a few paces away. The maid had been wakened by Eduard’s last heart-wrenching shout, and while she had not been privy to their conversation, she could see the extent of her lamb’s pain and fear.

  Her chins trembling, she stretched her arms out with an offer of solace, and Servanne accepted gratefully, stumbling forward into Biddy’s protective embrace.

  “Oh Biddy … what shall I do? What shall I do? Why did we ever leave Wymondham? Why did you not prevail upon me to enter a convent and live out my days behind sturdy walls of peace and solitude?”

  Biddy pursed her lips. “Because you would always have craved the life outside those walls, my child. Your eyes would always have turned toward the horizon and your heart would have ached to be free.”

  “It aches now. Almost too unbearably to endure.”

  “I know. I feared as much. But you must not let the ache cloud your judgment. Nor should you insist upon bearing the burden alone. Tell me what ails you, lamb. A shared trouble is only half so much the worry.”

  Servanne buried her face in Biddy’s bos
om. “There is so much,” she sobbed. “I do not know where to begin.”

  “There, there. It cannot be as bad as all this.”

  “It is, Biddy! It is even worse!”

  “Worse than you sending me off on some fool’s errand so you could slip away in the company of that scoundrel Friar?”

  Servanne choked back a half-formed sob and lifted her head. “You knew? You saw us?”

  “I may be old and tending to dribble my soup on my chin, but I am not blind. So now, out with it, missy. Where did you go and who were you with until—saints preserve us, it must be nigh on dawn! And what was all this shouting about fathers and sons and breaking of oaths of honour?”

  “Eduard saved me from being discovered in the Dragon’s bedchamber. He and I were both trapped in the wardrobe and overheard Nicolaa de la Haye telling the baron that his brother is Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer. And she called him Etienne, Biddy! She called him Etienne!”

  “She called who Etienne … Eduard?”

  “No … the baron! The baron is Etienne Wardieu, and Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer is Lucien Wardieu!”

  Biddy regarded her young mistress as one might regard an inmate bound for Bedlam. “And you believe this?”

  “Of course I believe it,” Servanne exclaimed. “I was with Lucien for most of the night. We … we pledged our love.”

  Biddy used her wimple to dab at the sweat beading across her brow. “First … you claim you have been convinced the Black Wolf of Lincoln is Lucien Wardieu; now you say the Scourge of Mirebeau is Lucien Wardieu. Which is it to be?”

  “Both. All three are the same man. I know it sounds confusing—it is confusing, and must be even more so for poor Eduard who has just now found out the man he had thought was his father is really his uncle, and the man his uncle intends to kill on the morrow is really his father.”

  It was too much for Biddy to absorb. Her knees began to wobble and she plumped down heavily on the bench Servanne rushed to place beneath her.

  “What shall I do, Biddy? Lucien must be told, he must be warned of the danger now that his brother knows his secret.”