Unicorn Vengeance (10 page)

But nay. Another name there was inscribed next to that of Alzeu.

It could not be! The light was so poor that Wolfram had almost missed the inscription, but now he leaned forward to pick out the ink. Something had been spilled here that had darkened the parchment, but still the name could be discerned.

A sister ‘twas, a sister of Alzeu's. Just two of them there were, born of Enguerrand, son of Thierry and Kira. Enguerrand had died alarmingly young, Wolfram noted with an almost precognitive sense. As had Enguerrand's wife, one Sibylla. He checked the dates. Not in childbirth had Sibylla been lost.

Wolfram saw the invisible hand of another, like himself, who had travelled south years before on a markedly similar task. Too coincidental ‘twas that man and wife both should expire young and in the same year. He let his fingertip slide over the line that showed the children of Enguerrand and Sibylla.

Alzeu, 1285-1307.

And
Genevieve, 1287-

This Genevieve was alive. Wolfram's breath caught in his throat.

The Pereille line was not dispatched, if that had been the objective in removing Alzeu. As he lingered in the Master's office, staring at the evidence before him, Wolfram could not help wondering if there was some truth to Alzeu's tale. Had Alzeu been ordered killed for his aspirations to the crown? Had those aspirations any justification in truth?

And if so, what burden did this Genevieve carry within her veins? ‘Twas true that a woman could have made no claim, but this Genevieve could well bear a son one day.

Or was it all so much nonsense, as Wolfram had concluded that long past night in listening to Alzeu? Somehow finding this genealogy here in the Master's office made Wolfram question his own earlier conclusion.

What if Alzeu's conviction had not been nonsense? The thought was almost too much to comprehend. He glanced down at the genealogy again. Would he be dispatched to remove this Genevieve, as well? Something balked within Wolfram at the very idea of raising his hand against a woman, though he supposed that if he was bidden to do so, he would have little enough choice.

A woman. Wolfram gritted his teeth. He could only hope ‘twould not come to that. He could only hope that whoever had commissioned the order to remove Alzeu saw no threat from a woman. His gaze dropped to the parchment again and he frowned.

Why was this document here? And why left open to view? Why had the Master summoned him, yet disappeared? Wolfram could not keep himself from wondering whether this document had been responsible for the Master's apparent hasty departure.

But where might the Master have gone?

* * *

Odo watched a cloaked figure slip cautiously toward his little crew. Well that one thought he approached unobserved, but Odo was sharp of eye, even at night and even when an unexpected visitor clung stubbornly to the shadows, as this one did.

Odo sat apart from the group, watching and listening. He had been planning the triumph that ultimately would be his, the inevitable success he had deserved for so long and that he would finally gain with the accompaniment of the lutenist. Never had he heard another play so sweetly, and her music would make the perfect foil for the ballad he had been polishing all these years.

His outlet to long-awaited success ‘twould be, and Odo knew it well. This night, while the others dined and the lutenist herself tended her instrument, Odo permitted himself the rare luxury of dreams of future prosperity.

For the first time he dared to imagine playing before the King's own court. Mayhap the sound would be so sweet he would be invited inside! Odo's heart skipped a beat in anticipation.

Mayhap ‘twas time he pursued his lifelong dream. Mayhap on the morrow the lutenist would make the first payment of her due.

‘Twas then that the flicker of movement caught his eye. No interest had he in the revelry of his companions, and little more interest had he in this visitor. There could be no threat by one to so many, and Odo but watched the approaching man with one wary eye.

The intruder was close before one of the troupe noticed him. ‘Twas almost amusing the way old Austorc jumped, his face alight with surprise before he frowned menacingly. The uninvited guest retreated into the protection of the shadows.

“I would speak with the one who sings,” he said, his voice a rasp in the darkness. Deliberately did he keep his voice low that it might not be recognized, Odo was certain, and that fact piqued his interest.

“We all sing,” Austorc assured him confidently.

The shrouded figure's head shook once firmly. “The one red of hair.”

All eyes turned as one to Odo, sitting off to the side. He watched as the visitor picked him out of the shadows and smiled his most charming smile.

“Odo the minstrel is here,” Odo said quietly. When the visitor stepped forward, the others made room for him to pass through their midst, their reluctance and suspicion more than evident. Well it seemed that their guest grew agitated, for he moved through the group with quick steps and clutched his hood about his face. Odo could hear his nervous breathing when he paused but two paces before him.

“No harm do I intend you,” he said in that same throaty voice. Odo's smile twisted at this evidence that his visitor was aware of the hostility of the group that had closed behind him.

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.” The visitor glanced back over his shoulder and leaned closer to Odo, as though he would not have the others hear. Still his face was too shadowed for his features to be discerned. “My master sends me to ask you a question,” he whispered.

When the man paused, Odo prompted him. “Aye?” His troupe fidgeted impatiently, their interest in the visitor waning now that they could not hear what he said. Odo heard several of them mumble to each other, and an indifferent trio returned to their meal.

“He asks...he asks where you will busk on the morrow that he might ensure he hears you again.” The words fell in a rush from the visitor's tongue and he seemed unnerved when Odo stared at him in astonishment.

Could he have known? Odo had told no one as yet of his good fortune or of his intent, and the timing of this inquiry indeed seemed opportune.

“Who is your master?” Odo demanded in an undertone. The shrouded visitor shook his head hastily.

“This I cannot tell you.”

“Is he a man of influence?” Odo asked expectantly.

The visitor shuffled his feet nervously, and his very manner fueled Odo's hopes. To be attended by a man of influence was no small thing. Indeed, if he could but catch the ear of one with connections, he might well have the opportunity to play at the court itself!

“Indeed, I have sworn to reveal naught,” the man confessed hesitantly. “But rest assured that the telling of this one thing will well be made worth your while.”

Odo's heart leapt a beat, even as he evaluated the visitor's honesty. He stared at the shadows within the hood for a long moment, then leaned forward, determined to take a chance. He could risk no less. Indeed, it seemed the fates smiled upon him this day and opportunity could not be shunned. Odo dropped his voice to a hiss, not in the least interested in letting the rest of his troupe know his intent as yet. “Then tell your master that ‘tis in the square before the king's own court where I will sing tomorrow.”

Silence greeted Odo's confession and he wondered if the visitor fancied he told a tall tale. No matter who held that space, Odo was determined to stack the odds in his favor, and he would fight with his bare hands for the opportunity to play there on the morrow. Not the only man of note would this man's master be, for all of import passed to and fro through the king's own gates. Odo was no fool in the ways of the world.

“Believe me,” Odo added menacingly. The visitor immediately bobbed a bow and backed away.

“I thank you,” he murmured, then turned and swept through the remnants of the troupe gathered behind him. The actors and dancers scurried out of his path indignantly, though the cloaked figure ignored their manner and the insults they flung after him.

Odo watched as the man disappeared into the shadows on the far side of the square. He narrowed his eyes against the darkness and saw the man slip down one of the alleyways that led to the Rue du Temple.

Then he was gone from sight. The troupe began to chatter in the stranger's absence, several of them parodying his manner, but Odo ignored them as he strained his ears against the night. He felt the lutenist's gaze questioning upon him, but not ready was he yet to tell her of his plans.

There ‘twas. Satisfaction rolled through Odo at the sound he had awaited. Muted hoofbeats. Two horses, unless he missed his guess, and one was a large destrier such as knights and nobles rode.

The man had not lied. That his master had accompanied him here could be no small sign. Odo fairly rubbed his palms together in anticipation. He had best make the most of such fortune, and he smothered a triumphant smile as he planned. No place had he for the other members of his troupe on the morrow, for their talent was of the second order.

There was one, though, whose skill could only emphasize his talent more. And on the morrow, she would grant him but the first of the favors she owed him.

W
hen Genevieve felt someone's gaze upon her the next midday, she caught her breath before she glanced up from her lute. It could mean only one thing.

Wolfram had come again. She had not frightened him away for good.

Relief fairly made Genevieve dizzy. Indeed, she had barely slept the night past, so anxious had she been. She had crept away from Odo's little troupe before most of them had awakened, determined to stake out her place here as early as possible lest she miss Wolfram's visit. Impatiently had she watched the sun trace its path, her certainty that Wolfram would not return growing with every passing moment.

But he had come and she was here. Genevieve's lips still tingled, and when she closed her eyes, well it seemed that she could feel the gentle imprint of Wolfram's finger against them. When Genevieve permitted herself to recall that moment, which she had done time and again, a soft warmth unfurled deep within her. She knew not what ‘twas or what it meant, but the sensation was pleasurable, to say the least.

Well must it be a sense of satisfaction that her quest might soon be fulfilled.

That thought did not ring clearly even in Genevieve's own mind, but she resolutely ignored the warning. Wolfram was here. ‘Twas all that mattered. She took a deep breath that did naught to check the heat rising within her, and glanced up expectantly.

So certain was she ‘twould be Wolfram standing silently to one side that she did not at first recognize anyone else when she saw that he was not there. Her heart sank and she scanned the onlookers again for his distinctive tall frame.

But nay. Disappointed beyond expectation that she had erred, Genevieve bent over her lute again to hide her response. Wolfram would come, she reminded herself, and her lips tingled warmly on cue. How could he possibly stay away?

The presence stubbornly remained, as did the persistent sense of being watched. Genevieve flicked another glance over those few assembled to listen. ‘Twas only when one did not move away that she eyed him more carefully and realized ‘twas Odo who observed her.

That ‘twas Odo she would not have guessed without such a study. His hair was combed and trimmed, and his garments were much richer than his usual garb. A different man ‘twas who stood watching her from the street musician and king of beggars she had left dozing just hours past. The casual observer might not note the mending in Odo's hose or that the trim on his tunic had frayed slightly, though truly it had been very fine once. Indeed, Odo looked quite the courtier, if slightly down at heel on closer inspection.

His manner had changed, as well, for he carried himself like a courtier. He seemed taller, his shoulders broader, the expression upon his face more refined. Genevieve realized ‘twas this that had fooled her more than anything else.

Indeed, ‘twas disconcerting to note the change, especially as ‘twas clear Odo did not put on airs. ‘Twas this that was his true manner, she saw, and one he had kept carefully concealed from all. Only now did Genevieve see the man as he was, and she could not fathom why he had hidden himself away.

Odo smiled charmingly, and Genevieve wondered what he wanted of her. Somehow she guessed it could be naught good.

“‘Tis time we played elsewhere,” Odo said simply. He stepped forward and offered her his hand that she might rise. Genevieve shook her head as panic flooded through her.

“I cannot leave this place!” Not today, when she was so uncertain whether Wolfram would return! Indeed, she could not risk straying from her usual place for a moment, lest he return and think
her
gone for good.

“But, of course, you will,” Odo assured her smoothly.

“Nay. I cannot,” Genevieve argued. Should Wolfram return today and conclude that she had abandoned him, then he might never return to this spot again. Genevieve could not hazard such a chance.

To Alzeu she owed that, she reminded herself sternly, but the flicker of heat within her denied her reasoning. Again Genevieve ignored the hint that she deceived herself. She looked deliberately to Odo, determined to persuade him to abandon his idea at all costs. Odo's lips twisted and Genevieve saw that he would not readily let her decline.

“I say we shall play elsewhere this day,” he murmured, as though vexed by a slow-witted child. “Now gather your belongings and come with me.”

“Nay. I say I shall play here,” Genevieve replied stubbornly. Odo's eyes flashed.

“And I say ‘tis time we played elsewhere,” he maintained with icy calm. “I would make the most of opportunity while we yet can.”

Genevieve tossed her hair. “No interest have I in opportunity. Well did I tell you that I wished only to play here unmolested.”

Surprise flickered through Odo's irritated expression. “Here?” he demanded with a wrinkled nose. “Surely you jest? You cannot mean to be satisfied playing here on the streets for the remainder of your days.”

“Not for the remainder of my days,” Genevieve retorted, realizing too late that she had stumbled into revealing too much. Odo stilled suddenly as he regarded her, and his eyes narrowed assessingly.

Curse her impulsive tongue! She had revealed that his portion of her income would not continue indefinitely! Quite natural ‘twas that that had captured his interest! Genevieve silently called herself every manner of fool as she determinedly held Odo's regard.

Odo arched a skeptical brow. “How long then?” he asked silkily.

Genevieve lifted her chin, knowing her response would be lacking. Something plausible she must contrive, but her imagination abandoned her in this crucial moment. “For as long as I so desire,” she asserted with a boldness she hoped would not be questioned. To confide the truth in Odo was out of the question, yet she wished she could think of some tale that might otherwise explain her slip.

Sadly, naught came to mind.

“Indeed?” he asked, and folded his arms across his chest. “Do you desire to play throughout the cold winter approaching?”

“No business is it of yours what I desire or do not desire to do!”

“Indeed ‘tis,” Odo affirmed. “Should you be granting me half your coin, I would know whether you can be relied upon for income during the freeze ahead.”

So reasonably did he speak that Genevieve was tempted to throw something at his smug smile. And his reminder of her due was less than welcome. ‘Twas clearly that contribution that concerned him above all and she, foolishly, had unnecessarily cast doubt on her own reliability. In a desperate attempt to waylay his line of thought, Genevieve fumbled in her pocket for the meager assortment of coins she had gathered that day, divided the earnings and tossed half toward Odo.

He held her defiant gaze while the silver showered about him, then bent and deliberately plucked each coin from the cobbles. To Genevieve's astonishment, he handed them back to her with no small measure of formality.

Indeed, she was sorely confused now. Genevieve regarded Odo with a wariness normally reserved for lunatics. What was his game?

“You shall need them this day for a new kirtle” was all he said.

Ha! Back to that they were again! Well, Genevieve had no intent of accompanying Odo elsewhere, and he had best understand that matter.

“I need no kirtle for no intent have I of accompanying you,” she argued hotly.

Odo's lips thinned. “You are not suitably attired,” he informed her coldly, his manner paternal once more. “Come along, for there is little enough time for you to acquire a new kirtle before we are due to play.”

Genevieve rose to her full height and tipped her chin to glare at Odo. Her oath demanded she remain, and remain she would. “I will play nowhere but here,” she asserted boldly. “Here ‘tis that I play and here alone. You cannot force me to leave this place!”

Odo leaned forward and his voice dropped to a growl. “I
could
force you to leave this place, and well you know it.” Neither his voice nor his regard wavered, and Genevieve was forced to acknowledge an increment of dread rising within her. Well it seemed that this matter was of considerable import to Odo and she realized in that instant precisely how much larger than her he was.

Though that did not mean that she would not try to gain her way. Her own resolve was not small in this matter, either.

“Mayhap you have forgotten our bargain, but I will remind you,” Odo snarled afore Genevieve could speak. “Half your coin, your agreement to play with me on demand, and one last condition to be named later. That was our bargain, and ‘tis that bargain I invoke to request your companionship this day.”

Genevieve stood her ground. “I will not go.”

“Is your word worth naught then?” Odo asked with a sneer. “You pledged to play elsewhere when I so bade, as I recall.” Genevieve's color rose hot in her cheeks, but she reminded herself silently of her quest. “Well did I think your word had merit, or I would not have returned to you your lute.”

“Odo, I cannot do this thing,” she admitted in a low tone. Odo's eyes narrowed, but Genevieve spread her hands in appeal. “I
must
play here on this day of days. I cannot afford to leave this place. On the morrow I will accompany you, or on the morrow after that, but please do not compel me to leave this place on this day.”

“Tell me why,” Odo demanded. Genevieve shook her head with a haste that made his expression turn harsh again.

“I can confide in no one,” Genevieve insisted. Odo made a sound of exasperation.

“Then ‘tis an excuse of little import.”

“Nay. ‘Tis of great import. I cannot begin to tell you—”

Odo interrupted sharply. “But you would not confide in me?”

Genevieve shook her head slowly. Little evidence had she that Odo could be trusted with the weight of such a confession. Genevieve could not take the risk of telling another soul of her pledge.

“Nay. I cannot.”

“You
will
not,” Odo said accusingly before he continued in a threatening growl. “A promise did you make to me. And I shall hold you to that promise on this day.”

“I cannot leave on this day!” Genevieve protested wildly.

“You
will
leave on this day! ‘Twas this we agreed and naught else! Gather your belongings, for I bid you play with me, as we had agreed.”

“And if I do not?” Genevieve challenged, bracing her feet against the ground stubbornly. Odo eyed her stance and shrugged, though the cold determination in his eyes diminished naught.

“Then you shall play in this city no more.”

His threat hung in the air between them, his harsh expression reminding Genevieve that she had naught with which to negotiate. She glanced to the Temple gates in desperation, but no one stirred from within at this moment.

Well it seemed that she had little choice. Was it not better to sacrifice this one day than to lose all days playing in this place? Doubt assailed Genevieve, and she knew not what to do. Should Wolfram not find her here this day, surely he would return on the morrow? Surely she had granted him enough reason to seek her out more than once?

But then, if she had, surely he would have returned already?

Had she failed at this task so soon? What if Wolfram had already turned away from her? What if she did not see him again? A despair welled up within her that might have taken Genevieve by surprise with its intensity had she had time to consider the matter.

In truth, she likely had naught to lose by aiding Odo.

Mayhap ‘twas better to leave than to sit here and witness the evidence that Wolfram had no intent to return. Her heart aching, Genevieve fastened her cloak about her neck and folded her blanket over her arm.

“And do not even think of playing badly,” Odo threatened darkly. “Should you see fit to jeopardize our performance, both you and your lute will pay the price.”

* * *

Wolfram lasted no longer than the next midday before he made an excuse that would take him near the Temple gates. ‘Twas weak to seek her out again, he was certain of it. Yet he grimly paced the distance regardless of his certainty he should not. Sorely confused he was by the riotous response she launched within him, yet Wolfram could not stay away.

After all, that sense that she knew Wolfram's secret could not be shaken, inexplicable as it was. A threat she might well be to his anonymity. Plus, she had witnessed his breaking the Rule—nay, she had been responsible for his transgression in tempting him to grant her a coin that was not his to give. And she had refused to grant her word that she would not tell of his second transgression—again, her fault—that of embracing a woman. Wolfram's lips thinned at the recollection of how she had flouted his request.

Indeed, an unpredictable woman in possession of his secrets was well worth watching. His desire to see her was purely logical, naught else.

‘Twas not logic that had Wolfram straining his ears as he drew near the gates, but he ignored the taunting voice in his mind that made that observation. No music came to him, and this was of greater concern. Fear quickened his pace and he found himself hastening to the gates. What had happened to the lutenist? Surely she could not have left?

A worse possibility was there than that even. Surely she could not have guessed his affiliation with the Order and sought to reveal his secrets? All knew the Templars were forbidden the company of women, let alone their kisses. Should she have guessed he was of them, she might well have conspired to reveal his error.

How angry had she been in truth the day before? Too late, Wolfram wished he had parted with her on better terms. Was it not said that no scorpion's bite could match that of a woman scorned? Had not the lutenist accused him publicly of spurning her? What retaliation might she seek for that imagined transgression?

A new fear blossomed in his mind and Wolfram wondered how she had seen to her own needs these past nights without silver. A cold hand clenched his innards. Why had he left her without coin two nights past? Might she blame him for any misfortune that had befallen her that night he left her without coin? Who knew what manner of trouble could befall a woman alone in the streets of Paris?