Through a Dark Mist (13 page)

“Sigurd’s handiwork,” said Gil Golden, noting the arrow’s fletching with a wry grimace. “No one else wastes so much quill.”

None of the other outlaws contributed comments. None even appeared to have heard Gil’s, or so it seemed to Servanne. Everyone—the men at the tables, the men not yet in their seats, even the two women who bent over the cooking fires—all of them stood frozen in place, like statues turned to stone. Apart from the hiss and crackle of the fires, there was only silence. A silence so acute that when a second arrow streaked through the darkness to strike the same archway, one could almost swear to have heard the resonant twang of the bowstring.

Like magic, the tableau dissolved. The men and women resumed their conversations and their tasks at hand. Servanne, having once again buried her face in the protective thickness of the wolf pelts, felt a pair of gentle hands pry her loose.

“We use the double signal to ensure the men coming in are our own,” the Wolf explained. “Even those who possess limitless courage have been known to give away the deepest of secrets under expert torture, and, since it is not inconceivable to assume the sheriff has sent his pack of hounds out after us, we have arranged different signals for each day.”

“Bah! Old Noddypeak should have chased his tail into a fine tangle by now,” Sparrow chuckled, materializing out of nowhere. “Especially since he was sent chasing it in ten different directions.”

“I should think Sigurd will be bringing news of a new hound in the forest,” the Wolf mused thoughtfully. “One whose nose is tuned to a sweeter scent.”

Wardieu
, Servanne realized, the excitement flaring within her like a sudden flame. Lord Lucien Wardieu was in the forest, come to rescue her from this … this …

With a start, she became aware of how close she was standing to her tormentor. Her fingers were curled around shanks of gleaming black fur; his hands were still resting on her shoulders, the intimacy of the contact hidden from view by the flowing mass of her hair, but one that was felt most disconcertingly throughout every inch of her trembling flesh.

His potent maleness was unsettling; more so when a vivid picture of him flashed into her mind and remained there—a picture of him standing naked in the knee-deep water of the Silent Pool, his flesh steaming, his muscles rippling beneath the sheath of taut skin.

Conscious of the fact that he seemed to have little difficulty in reading her thoughts, Servanne quickly lowered her lashes and extricated herself from his embrace. As before, she missed the flicker of colour that came and went in his eyes, nor did she see the way his fingers curled and hoarded the distinct, tingling memory of her warmth.

“I would like to return to my chamber now,” she said.

“Whereas I would enjoy your company beside me at the table again.”

“I am not hungry.”

“I am. And unless you would care to see my appetite roused for more than food, you would be wise not to attempt to defy me in this.”

Servanne looked up. The promise was there for a blind man to see, as was the disturbing realization it had only been by the slenderest thread of chance she had awakened alone in her bed.

“I … should at least like to make myself more presentable,” she said tremulously, reaching up with an unsteady hand to smooth the flown wisps of her hair.

“You are more than presentable just the way you are,” he insisted, extending an arm in a mockingly gallant gesture.

Servanne doubted she could touch him again and come away unscathed. She gathered the folds of her skirt and cloak in her hands to lift them clear of the fouled rushes on the floor, and, with as much indifference as she could put into the tilt of her chin, preceded him to the raised dais.

The meal progressed as it had the previous evening, the exception being that Servanne shared her settings with the outlaw leader rather than with Sparrow. The latter, happily taking on a joint of mutton almost as large as he was, kept the conversation light and easy, but though he tried his valiant best, failed to win a smile from their silvery-haired hostage. He assumed it was because she had overheard Sigurd’s report, delivered halfway through the meal, that there was indeed a new player in the game of hide and seek. While he was not far wrong in his guess, he was not exactly right, either. For every one thought Servanne had concerning the whereabouts of the Baron de Gournay, she had three for the man who sat on her right-hand side—the man who met her gaze each time without a hint of shame, or guilt, or regret; just the infuriatingly smug self-assurance of someone who believes his way is the only way.

“Who are you?” she asked quietly. “Why have you come to Lincoln?”

“I have already told you who I am.”

“You have not told me why I should believe you.”

He seemed to want to smile at that. “Have I ever lied to you?”

He was looking at her, into her, through her, and Servanne felt the flesh across her breasts and belly tighten, as if left on a tanner’s rack too long. “As far as I know, you have lied to me about everything.”

“Everything?” he asked, his thigh brushing not-so-accidently against hers.

Servanne shifted on her stool and laced her fingers tightly together on her lap. “You have lied about who you are, and what you are,” she insisted softly. “You hide behind the lincoln-green badge of an outlaw, yet your motives for being here in these woods have nothing to do with bettering the conditions of the poor, or righting injustices committed in the king’s name, or fighting against oppression—real or imagined. You have gathered about you a few local villagers to give some credence to the charade, but you are not from these parts. I doubt you have been in England as long as it took to grow the hair past your collar—or long enough to know there have been no black wolves in Britain since King Henry laid a high bounty on their pelts. Certainly not enough to fashion so fine a mantle, or be willing to throw so casually on a bed.”

The Wolf was mildly taken aback; moderately impressed. After some consideration for the surprised silence that had fallen over the other outlaws seated on the dais, he carefully wiped the blade of his eating knife clean, sheathed it, and stood up, indicating the door with a tilt of his head. “Come. Walk with me. There is but a half moon tonight, perhaps enough to hint at what the gardens may once have held.”

“Absolutely not!” she gasped, horrified at the suggestion.

The Wolf gave her a moment to reconsider of her own accord, then leaned over close enough that his words went no further than her pink-tipped ears. “You can either walk with me now, or lie with me later; the choice is yours where we take a few words of private conversation.”

   The mist was more pervasive out-of-doors. Thick, opalescent sheets of it swirled at knee level over the slick cobbles, masking the weed and rot, the neglect, and the decay. There were no torches lit outside the hall, but as Servanne’s eyes adjusted to the faint light of the crescent moon, she could see the vague outlines of the other ruined buildings, the stone cistern in the centre of the court, the vine-covered arches that formed a narrow walkway leading toward the chapel. She was thankful for Biddy’s warm woolen cloak, and drew it close about her shoulders. Tiny droplets of mist clung to her face and throat, and coated her hair like a fine-spun silver web.

“The gardens are this way,” said the Black Wolf, walking toward the arches. “If you look closely enough, you can still find the odd wild rosebush growing amongst the bracken.”

How vitally important to know, Servanne thought angrily, stepping around a jagged gap in the stone cobbles. She stretched her arm out for balance, startled slightly when she felt his huge, warm hand take hold of hers. Rather than jerk it away and appear twice the fool, she permitted the infringement until the footing was once again solid beneath her. A short distance into the steeped silence of the ancient gardens, she balked completely, refusing to go another step in the company of a man whom she had every reason to believe would kill her without hesitation if the situation arose.

“Who are you?” she asked again. “And why have you come to Lincoln?”

He stopped on the path just ahead of her and slowly turned around. “My name is Lucien Wardieu,” he said quietly. “And I have come home.”

“You
say
you are Lucien Wardieu, but if you are, why do you hide here in the forest like a common outlaw? Who is the man who is now residing in Bloodmoor Keep? Why has he taken your name if it does not belong to him? And how has he managed to keep it all these years without anyone challenging his identity before now?”

The Wolf crossed his arms over his massive chest and leaned back against one of the arches.

“A great many questions, my lady. Are you sincere in wanting to know the answers?”

“I want to know the truth,” she said evenly.

“The truth should not require proof, and a man should not have to prove who he is if he swears to that truth upon his honour. I know who I am. So does the impostor residing at Bloodmoor Keep.”

“That … impostor, as you call him … has ridden to war with Richard the Lionheart.”

“I do not doubt he has.”

“Prince John trusts and confides in him.”

“You would use such a recommendation to vouchsafe a man’s character?” he scoffed.

“It has even been whispered that if John ascends to the throne, he will be sufficiently indebted to the Baron de Gournay to appoint him chancellor, or marshal!”

“John Lackland does not bear up well under debts; he prefers to hire assassins to repay them. As for his ascending the throne—how do these whisperers of yours say he will overcome the annoying matter of Prince Arthur of Brittany?”

Servanne bit her lips, sensing yet another verbal trap looming before her like a snake pit. Of King Henry’s five sons, only Richard—the eldest—and John, the youngest, were still alive. Geoffrey, next to youngest, had died several years ago, but had left as his heirs, a son and a daughter. Since he would have been in line to the throne after Richard, the right of succession would naturally pass to his son Arthur upon the king’s death, and after him, his sister, Princess Eleanor.

The snakes in the pit writhed a little closer as Servanne offered lamely, “But Arthur is only a child. Prince John would never—” She stopped again, catching the treasonous thought before it took on substance.

The Wolf held no such reservations.

“John would never kill his own nephew? My dear deluded lady: Prince John of the Soft Sword would kill his mother, his wife, his own children if he thought their removal would win him the crown of England. How long do you suppose Richard would have survived poison in his cup if he were not already hell-bent on killing himself on the end of some infidel’s sword?”

“I do not believe you,” she said without much conviction. “Not about Prince Arthur, at any rate. And besides, he is quite safe with his grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, in Brittany.
She
would never allow any harm to befall him, most decidedly not at the hand of her own son!”

The Wolf looked away, looked up at the slivered moon for a long moment, then looked back at Servanne. “What if I were to tell you an attempt has already been made on the prince’s life? What if I told you he and his sister were kidnapped from the dowager queen’s castle at Mirebeau four months ago?”

“Kidnapped?”

“Stolen away in the middle of the night under the eyes and ears of a thousand of Eleanor’s most trusted guards. It took a full week just to discover how the kidnapping was done—a rather cleverly executed gambit, I might add. Two men shinnied up the small tower that carries the castle wastes down into the moat. Someone should have smelled the pair about their task if nothing else, but alas, no one did, and the children were smuggled out the same way.

“Luckily,” he continued with a sigh, “their escape from Brittany was not so well planned or executed, and Arthur was safely retrieved before he could be put on board a ship for England. One of the men involved in the kidnapping was taken alive and revealed quite an interesting tale to his, ah, inquisitor. The more questions that were asked, the more answers were received, and in the end, most of the pieces of the puzzle made sense once they were fit into place.”

“No! It makes no sense at all!” she cried. “Why would anyone want to kidnap the prince? He is but a child.”

“A child first in line to the throne,” the Wolf reminded her. “Keeping him prisoner, or better yet, bending his mind enough to eventually have him judged insane, or incompetent to rule … John would be the natural choice to assume the throne in his stead.”

“You are forgetting the Princess Eleanor.”

“The sister of a mad prince? Hardly a likely candidate.”

“So you think John was behind it?”

“No one else would have half so much to gain.”

Thrust and counterthrust. Talking to him was like taking a lesson in swordplay.

“Has the queen challenged John with the accusation?” she asked.

“Challenge a ferret to explain the feathers stuck to his mouth? What good would come of it, especially when the chick came to no harm?”

Servanne’s brows drew together in a frown. “You speak with a great deal of liberty and familiarity. I hope … I
trust
you are not daring to imply that you hold the queen’s confidence?”

“Me, my lady? By your own words a rogue and wolf’s head?”

“A rogue most certainly,” she said carefully. “But as I said before, no more born to the forest than I was. I may not know
who
you are, sirrah, but I do know
what
you are, and have known from the instant you stood your challenge to us on the road.”

“Have you now,” he mused, his eyes catching an eerie reflection from the moon. “Suppose you tell me what you know … or think you know.”

“Will you tell me if I am right?”

“That depends on how right you are.”

Parry, and thrust. Servanne accepted the challenge, however, knowing this was as close as she was likely to come to a confession, or an admission.

Mimicking his arrogant stance, she crossed her arms over her chest and slowly walked a half-circle around him, inspecting the powerful body with a detachment better suited to choosing livestock at a fair.