The nervous messenger turned to leave, just as Guy indicated with a wave of his hand that he was already done.
Rising, Weston tipped Michel a warning look. “You, my friend...” He shook his head. “You try me.” He moved past him, out into the night, his temper on edge.
Wiping the smile from his lips, Michel followed him out of the tent.
Together they entered the tent he’d designated for the prisoners, and Weston scrutinized the three men lying before him. Unfortunately, there were only two left alive of the first cavalcade, and he wasn’t at all certain they would not perish as well. The tallest was badly wounded—unfortunately by Weston’s own hand, but at least that one stirred in pain. The other one, the tiny one Weston assumed to be the leader, was lying as still as though his life were already spent.
The third prisoner was of the second cavalcade, and it was this one Weston would deal with first. After inspecting the flesh wound the man had sustained, he was certain the man was feigning unconsciousness. He proved it by slipping the dagger out of his belt and setting it to the man’s throat. The man opened his eyes at once.
“Who owns your sword arm?” Weston asked quietly, firmly.
The man did not answer.
“To whom do you swear?” Weston demanded. “Tell me or I will carve the apple from your throat.”
The man’s response was to hawk up a gob of spittle and spray it upon Weston’s boots, which brought the black leather toe slamming into his face.
The man reached up to swipe away the blood from his split mouth, smiling as he did so. Weston’s boot slammed into his face yet again, sending him to oblivion.
Now Weston was satisfied the man was unconscious.
With the bastard out of his way for the time being, he turned and knelt beside the dwarf knight, inspecting the man's head gingerly. He lifted the closed eyelids, then stood and rubbed his whiskers, considering the man thoughtfully. He could not tell from whence these men hailed for the armor bore no insignia—and neither troop had flown banners. But it seemed to Weston that they could not have ridden past Montagneaux without being seen. In fact, although he couldn’t swear it, he thought they had both come from that general vicinity.
Chrestien lay unmoving.
As soon as she had spied the tent flap stirring she had closed her eyes at once. She didn’t dare face her captors yet. They were King Henry’s murderers and she hated the beasts for killing her father. And now they had wounded poor Aubert, who in all likelihood lay next to her perishing. Aye, she’d spied the snarling wolf’s head upon the banner displayed outside the tent, and had silently cursed the murdering English.
Jesu, but how did she get herself into such predicaments? Her head was pounding now with all the fury of a battering ram. Had he cuffed her upside the head perchance? She didn’t believe she was wounded elsewhere.
She heard boots chew the ground as the man walked away, then it was quiet again.
Was she alone?
Or was he standing over her, staring?
Slowly, she cracked her eyelids, and peered up through dark lashes. Two men were staring out the entrance of the tent, their backs to her now. The tallest one still had his sword in his scabbard. If she could but summon the courage... she might seize it... but if she tried and did not succeed, she would surely be cut down.
Then again, if she did not at least try... she might be murdered anyway.
Alas, she must try.
A look to her right revealed a bloody-faced, unconscious man.
The unarmed one left the tent to settle some dispute raging outside, leaving the sword all alone—or nearly alone, were it not for the fact that it had the Wolf attached to it.
But if she could catch him unawares…
Even from the back she knew him to be the same silver-clad knight who had felled Aubert—and herself as well, though for the life of her she couldn’t recall how. He was dressed now in black, having divested himself of his armor. But Jesu... even without his strappings, he was as monstrous as she recalled.
How had she run her sword through that beast?
A chill raced down her spine as she remembered how he had appeared standing over poor Aubert. One quick thrust of his sword had brought Aubert down. And yet, he had not fallen to her own sword when she’d impaled him. The smell of his blood still upon her attested to the fact that she’d pierced him. But he’d merely stood there, looking confounded, instead of dying as he should have—curse and rot him to hell.
Her heart raced as the Wolf stooped to exit the tent.
Dear God, her time was up. It was now or never—the sword was leaving!
Bolting to her feet, Chrestien pounced upon the Wolf’s back. Locking her arm about his neck with all her might, she tried furiously to unsheathe his monstrous sword. It seemed hopeless! The thing weighed more than a fat sow! Frustrated, she bit the man's shoulder instead.
Weston felt a thud on his back, then winced at the sudden pain in his shoulder. He reached around to tug the weight from his back, but the little man’s hold was stronger than he had anticipated. He grasped the hair of the little demon’s head, but when he did, he felt a tug at his own hair, and another sharp prick on his neck.
The elf was biting him!
Rearing back with both hands, he tried to throw his attacker from his back, but the grip upon his neck tightened ruthlessly. With a final powerful tug of the bony legs that were entwined about his waist, he pried them apart and flung the demon elf away from him.
The boy landed with a thud, sprawled on his back upon the ground, but flew to his feet much quicker than Weston anticipated and charged again—this time, without success. Weston caught him, lifting him into the air effortlessly, holding the boy away from him.
Michel stepped into the tent to see Weston holding the little demon in midair. “God’s teeth! What goes here?”
Weston glared angrily into the dark eyes glowering down on him, making certain to hold the offending form well away from his body, lest he lose the use of his manhood with one swift kick. The little imp squirmed and kicked like a scolded child.
He watched the dauntless eyes as they glittered with malice. Then, unexpectedly they widened, filling with terror, and the squirming ceased abruptly.
He narrowed his eyes as he studied his captive. God help him, he had made the mistake of underestimating the little bastard once, but he would not do so again.
Chrestien ceased struggling once the Wolf’s hands came to rest beneath her bosom. If she were to fidget any more, his hands would undoubtedly come to rest directly beneath her breast. And were he to discover she was a woman? Blessed Mary! She would not think of it! She stared straight into the Wolf’s eyes, afraid to move lest she be revealed.
He had the most exacting blue eyes—not warm... yet not cold either. His shoulder-length black hair was a disorderly mass and peppered with silver, belying his youthful countenance. He was disconcertingly handsome—darkly so, and her breath caught in her throat as his lips parted to speak. Then he suddenly dropped her like the fruit tree releases rotting yield—completely and without warning.
She fell to the ground with a sharp thud, her mail embedding itself like little daggers into her already sensitive flesh. As she watched dumbly, he spun on his heels and abandoned the tent—none too soon, for she could not think with him glaring at her.
Michel wisely stepped out of Weston’s path, but eyed him curiously. “What the hell was that about?”
“The little bastard bit me!”
Weston had intended to give the elf a sound thrashing, but once he’d looked into the dirty face he had seen only a terrified boy—not a man. The face was clean-shaven and smooth, and he had dropped the lad with such sheer disgust that such a fledgling should be made a knight. Although he himself had been knighted upon the battlefield at seventeen years of age, at least he had been able to lift his bloody sword.
Weston raked his fingers through his hair. “When I started to leave the tent,” he explained in a somewhat
calmer voice, “the little demon attacked me.”
He reached to touch the spot where the elf’s teeth had sunk in to his flesh, and when he brought them away there was a trace of blood. He spat an oath and extended his hand to show Michel the evidence upon his fingertips. “He bit me,” he repeated incredulously. “Can you believe it?” He let out a sound that was part groan, part chuckle. “Filthy little wretch!”
Michel was trying hard not to laugh. Weston spied the telltale gleam in his eyes. “What shall we do with him?”
Frustrated now, Weston replied, “I should have left him to fight his own battle! But I did not, and now until I can discern what to do with him I want two men to guard him at all times.”
“So we plan to take him along to Lontaine?”
Weston sighed. “It seems we have no choice.”
“We could set him free,” Michel suggested, pursing his lips.
Michel was toying with him, but Weston would not give him the satisfaction of letting him nettle him today. “Nay. The lad has questions to answer and until I am satisfied with the answers, he goes nowhere.”
Halting before his tent, he smoothed his hand over his chin. “Give me a moment to think... and then bring the little devil to me.”
Michel gave an exaggerated nod, then turned to leave and Weston shoved aside the tent flap and ducked within.
He was furious with himself for giving his back to the prisoner, stupidly leaving himself open to the lad—not once, but twice. The first time was understandable, for he’d come to aid the fledgling and figured that should gain him a little gratitude, not a prick in the chest. But the second time? It was unjustifiable. It was foolish to discount one’s enemy, no matter their size. Picking up the flagon of ale that sat upon his war chest, he gulped from it deeply before stooping to right the fallen stool. He sat on it then, drinking the ale as he waited. It wasn’t long before Michel entered, flinging the prisoner in before him. Weston studied the boy a minute before motioning for his captain to leave. His scowl deepened as he spied Michel’s parting smile. As a balm for his anger, he fixed the boy with his most intimidating glare. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” the boy countered, his dark eyes glistening with rancor.
Weston advanced on him, his patience near to an end. “’Tis I who will ask the questions, boy.” He was certain now that this boy, was naught but that, for his voice was more child than man. And yet he was intrigued that one so small could have the courage men twice his size did not possess, and he repeated the question, his voice strained with borrowed patience, “Who are you?”
Lifting her chin in defiance, Chrestien fixed the Wolf with an icy glare.
He seized her by the arm suddenly, twisting it harshly in warning. “Tell me, or I will break it.”
Chrestien choked on her words. She didn’t doubt for a moment that the beast would follow through with his threat. “Christopher,” she said, wincing. Her fingers clawed into his, trying to pry his free.
The Wolf narrowed his eyes as though he didn’t believe her, but thankfully eased his hold on her arm. But as the pain receded, her courage returned, until she could feel the heat of her anger once again.
“From whence do you hail... Christopher?”
He spat the name in such disgust that angry tears threatened to flood from Chrestien’s eyes. Outwardly, she remained calm, but inside she was a binding of nerves.
Sweet Mary! There was naught that was gentle about this man. His blue eyes were cold, but blazed with the fire of contempt. “I will tell you naught but my name!” she replied with as much disdain as she was receiving, and fought desperately to quell her tears. A knight would never weep, she told herself.
He glared at her, looming taller than any man she’d ever known—and her father had been a big man. Clad in black from head to toe, he looked diabolic, with that twisted wolf’s grin that curled his lip. In truth, he was the image of his device with its fanged grin blazoned upon his tunic.
A quick twist of her arm served to remind her of the pain he would inflict, and instinctively she tried to remove his grip from her arm, digging her nails into his knuckles as she pried.
He merely tightened his hold on her wrist. “You fight like a maid,” he spat. And with very little effort, he tossed her to the floor in front of his war chest. Chrestien hit her head on the corner of the metal chest, and her eyes misted from the pain.
“If you’ll not tell me,” he warned, “you will stay exactly where you are until you do. I will get what I seek, boy... or you will get no relief.”
It was obvious that the wolf’s anger was barely tempered, and Chrestien decided it was best she say nothing more. She eyed him warily as he opened the huge chest hunkering beside her and extracted from it a thick gold cord. Realizing he intended to tie her up, she tried to bolt. But before she could get to her feet, his hands flew out to stop her. He used the rope to bind her hands behind her back, then removed his dagger from his boot and cut the leftover cord from her wrists. The remainder he used to bind her feet. That done, he stepped from the tent and returned only seconds later with a young squire he called Guy.
Without sparing a glance at Chrestien’s crumpled body, Guy immediately set to work, removing the Wolf’s sword belt. Once that was undone, he removed the black tunic and padded leather gambeson, inspecting them carefully as they were entrusted into his hands.
The Wolf’s eyes never left Chrestien while his squire undressed him. When Guy turned his attention to the hole he’d discovered in the padded leather, the Wolf finally averted his gaze. He picked up the flagon of ale once more, using it well before returning it to the chest and then ran his hand through his silver black hair, stopping momentarily to rub at his temples.
The announcement came with a sigh. “It needs repairs, my lord.”
As far as Chrestien was concerned, Guy spoke with an ease in his voice that defied logic. To speak so impatiently with one so sinister-looking as the Wolf? Well, she just could not fathom.
The Wolf tilted his chin in acknowledgment. ‘Very well, then take it... but return to me straightaway. I’d have you keep an eye on Christopher this eve.”
“Christopher?” At last Guy acknowledged the crumpled figure upon the floor, his brows raised quizzically. Then, with a nod he turned to leave, but the Wolf stopped him. “Tell Michel to see to the other prisoners.”
“Aye, sir Weston,” the man said. Then he lifted the flap and disappeared into the darkness.
So that was his name... Weston?
Why would the squire call him by his given name instead of his title? Did the wolf have no den? In any case, Chrestien preferred to think of him as Wolf. He was not deserved of a Christian name.
The Wolf—that was the only appropriate name for him—removed his linen shirt, tossing it casually upon his war chest, then tilted his head to examine his newest injury.
She’d watched her father’s men train with the quintains—which they oft did bare-chested during the sweltering summer—and never had she seen such sinewy flesh. She was shocked by the breadth of his chest. And then her eyes fell upon the jagged wound that held his attention. Was that all she’d done to him? He deserved to die for all he’d done to her father and her men. She mumbled an oath—despite that she had no idea what half the words meant—and the Wolf peered down at her, his eyes darkening to a smoky shade of blue. His twisted smile appeared yet again, and then he returned to ignoring her. He kicked off his black boots, then turned his attention to his crossbands and Chrestien couldn’t help but watch the muscles dance in his arms as his fingers fumbled with his laces. Once they were undone, the Wolf gave his attention to the ties on his braies, and Chrestien's eyes widened as he loosened the laces.
Blessed Mary—he was undressing, she realized belatedly. If she turned away now he might suspect. In her confusion, she could only stare, and within seconds it was too late. The braies were down.
She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat as she watched his nude form lean to p
ick up the flagon of ale from the chest. He was half turned away from her, but she had a perfect profile of him, and was mesmerized by the sheer strength in his powerful form, all of him muscular—although there was one part of him that didn’t look quite so fit right now, she noted, satisfied with having found in him a flaw. He was not so perfect after all, she decided, feeling triumphant—though she could not fathom why.
She watched him take yet another gulp from his flagon, the muscles in his uplifted arm rippling as they held the object of his attention. His back was to her and she stared, wide-eyed, at his posterior as he walked away from her toward his pallet, the muscles in his legs and backside tensing and relaxing as he strode.
She knew she should not be watching in such a wanton manner, but he thought her to be a man so it would not matter anyway... and she was thoroughly amazed by his physique. He ran deft fingers over unruly bangs, and, with his fingertips, rubbed his scalp briskly, letting them pause there briefly before smoothing them down to the mass of tangled curls at his nape. Every movement he made seemed to speak of untamed virility.
His squire entered the tent with a fur coverlet in hand, tossing it at the Wolf’s feet. But the Wolf did not bother to cover himself. “Ye left it in the prisoners’ tent, my lord.”
He nodded. Chrestien recognized the blanket as the coverlet she’d been lying upon, and she watched curiously as the Wolf took it, plopped himself down on his pallet and spread it over himself, leaving an enormously muscular leg ousted from the blanket. Leaning back on one elbow, he rubbed his closed lids with his free hand, then laid his head full upon the pallet to rest while his squire attended his armor.
“There’s a rip in my braies as well,” he informed the youth. “I’ve laid it there upon the stool.”
“I’ll return them at once,” his squire said, and started to extinguish the only candle lit within the tent. The Wolf stopped him. “Leave it. I want you to find John. Between the two of you... you are to guard Christopher tonight. He is not to sleep. I want him too tired to give me any grief on the morrow.”
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