Part 6 (2/2)
”A fair bowman, then, you would say?” Wardieu questioned dryly.
”The best I have ever seen, my lord.”
Wardieu studied the knight's haggard face a moment then stared out across the gold and pink avalanche of clouds rolling toward the setting sun. ”Describe him to me. As clearly as you remember.”
”I did not have a clear view, my lord, and the shadows were thick, but I could see he was very tall. Equal unto yourself, I should say.”
”Hair? Beard?”
”Brown hair, my lord. Very dark. And uncut as the Saxons prefer it, although I would give pause to say the rogue was of that breed.”
”Why say you that?” Wardieu broke in quickly.
De Chesnai answered with a shrug and a frown. ”A feeling, my lord. A sense that all was not as it was meant to appear to be. Also, he wore a sword, and had the stance of a man who knew well how to use it.”
Wardieu nodded, absorbing yet another bit of information. Common woodcutters and thieves would scarce be able to afford the steel to own a sword, much less possess the knowledge of how to use one to any effect.
”His face was coa.r.s.ely shaven and well weathered. His eyes were of no special colour. Gray, perhaps ... or dull blue.”
”Devil's eyes, they was,” muttered one of the servants who had survived the ambush. ”Not natural, they wasn't. Gave a man a chill just ter look into them-as if Satan hisself were inside the body gawpin' out.”
”How would ye be knowin' that, Thomas Crab?” demanded a second voice, owned by a man who had the sense to keep his head lowered and his eyes downcast to avoid notice. ”Ye had yer head tucked 'atween yer legs the minute ye saw that great bluidy bow o' his.”
”Aye, an rightly so,” the first man countered. ”Cursed be the fool who watches the flight of a left-thrown arrow! Satan's own hand pulls the string, so it does.”
Wardieu had only been half attentive to the outburst, but at this last righteous declaration, he again held up a hand to interrupt De Chesnai and stared at the servant.
”What was that about a left-thrown arrow?”
Before Thomas Crab could persuade his trembling legs to carry him forward to reply to the question, the pain pounding in De Chesnai's temples relented enough to smooth the frown from his forehead.
”By G.o.d, the fool is right, my lord,” the captain growled. ”The outlaw did favour the left hand. Why ... there could not be five archers in all of England with his skill. Discover the name of the one who shoots with the Devil at his elbow and we will have the true ident.i.ty of the rogue who dares to commit his crimes in your name!”
It was Lucien Wardieu's turn to feel his composure shaken. ”He ... used my name?” used my name?”
De Chesnai stiffened slightly, his dark eyes flicking to the sheriff, but Onfroi was still too engrossed questioning his own sanity at offering insult to the Baron de Gournay to worry that he had neglected to include this rather astounding claim on the outlaw's part. Foremost in his mind, even as he sweated and twitched, oblivious to the conversation between the two men, was the expectant grin on D'Aeth's face. The watery piglet eyes were glazed with thoughts of bloodletting, and De la Haye treasured every drop that flowed through his veins.
”Was there ... anything else in his appearance that you recall?” Wardieu asked, his voice sounding forced and ragged. ”Anything unusual? Any ... scarring, or ... obvious disfigurements?”
”No, my lord. He was in full possession of all his limbs and appendages. There were no scars or brands that I could see. He was a big brute, to be sure, but it was possible he was made to look more so by the vest of wolf pelts he wore.”
Wardieu forced himself to take a slow, steadying breath. For a moment there, he had almost thought the impossible. He had almost thought ... but no. Despite the nightmares and the premonitions, the dead remained dead.
To cover his brief lapse he asked, almost as an afterthought: ”The Lady Servanne ... she endured the ordeal well?”
”As well as could be expected, my lord,” De Chesnai answered, his loyalty for his mistress fairly bristling across his skin. ”She was frightened, to be sure, but very brave and courageous. I thought she was wont to scratch the outlaw's face to ribbands when he dared use your name, but she was taken away unharmed, by G.o.d's grace.”
Wardieu accepted this avowal of his betrothed's courage with a pang of guilt. If his life was dependent upon an answer, he could not have described in detail any given feature belonging to Servanne de Briscourt. The best of his recollections, as he had admitted to Nicolaa, presented her only as a pale shadow he had once glimpsed standing alongside the frail old warhorse, Hubert de Briscourt. It was the land he wanted, not the thrall of a bride. Prince John had already demanded and received an outlandish price for arranging his brother's seal on the marriage pet.i.tion, and now, ten thousand marks was a great deal to pay for something he did not want. Unfortunately, there were too many equally rich and powerful men who knew of his hunger for the De Briscourt estates, and he could not afford to trust either Prince John's greed or an outlaw's promise to gain control of the lands.
”Unharmed,” he murmured. ”Then this”-he held up the blood-stained canvas sack-”does not belong to the Lady Servanne?”
”No, my lord. The wolf's head took it from one of the dead guards. All he added-and then only after a lengthy debate-was the ring.”
”The ring?” Wardieu loosened the thong and emptied the contents of the sack onto his hand. The finger tumbled out freely enough and was tossed aside into the gra.s.s with no further thought. But an object caught up on some of the unraveled threads of jute, needed to be forcibly pulled away from the cloth.
It was a gold ring, and, even before Wardieu had wiped away the clinging bits of dried flesh and blood, he could feel an iron fist close around his heart and begin to squeeze.
The face of the ring was carved in the image of a dragon rampant, the band moulded to resemble scaled claws. A single bloodred ruby marked the eye, and, as it trapped the fading rays of the sun, it seemed to catch fire and reflect shafts of burning flame.
Wardieu's fingers curled slowly inward. His hand began to tremble and a fine white rim of fury etched itself deeply into the bitter set of his mouth.
”My lord-?”
The stark blue eyes seared through De Chesnai without seeing him. The grizzled knight took an involuntary step back, shocked by the depth of the rage and hatred that was transforming Lord Lucien's face into a terrible and terrifying mask.
”My lord ... your hand!”
Lucien looked down. Forcing his fingers to open, he saw that he had squeezed the carved fangs of the golden dragon into the hollow of his palm, cutting the flesh and causing blood to flow between the clenched fingers. Blood slicked the dragon's body and shone wetly off the faceted surface of the ruby eye. The sight brought another image crus.h.i.+ng into Wardieu's brain, stretching and swelling the bounds of reason until it verged on madness itself.
The image was of death. Death on the hot desert sands of Palestine. The face of death had dark chestnut hair and piercing gray eyes; it spoke with a curse and a vow to return one day and avenge himself upon the world.
That day was finally here.
Death had come back to England.
8.
Servanne slept twelve hours without so much as rolling from one hip to the other. She would have slept even longer if not for the loud blowing of a ram's horn from somewhere beyond the refectory walls, calling the outlaws to their evening meal. She awoke with a groggy, thick sensation stalling her eyelids, and would have gladly lowered her head to the furs again had she not caught a fleeting glimpse of the nerve-shattering glare Biddy launched at her from across the room.
”Biddy? What is the time? How long have I been sleeping?”
”I am not familiar with the hours these wolverines keep,” Biddy replied archly, her back as stiff as a swaddling board. ”There are no bells to toll Vespers; thus I have been praying quite fervently on my own for some time now.”
”Praying? For what?” Servanne yawned.
”For salvation,” Biddy declared. ”For redemption in the eyes of G.o.d and man-a.s.suming it is not too late to plead for forgiveness before either!”
”Oh Biddy-” Servanne frowned and stretched cozily within the warm coc.o.o.n of furs. ”What are you talking about? What has happened now that requires forgiveness?”
”What has happened?” she demanded shrilly. ”You can lie there and ask me what has happened? Better it is I who should be asking you-as if mine own eyes have not already given me the answers. Sweet Mary Mother in Heaven, I should have known it would come to this. I should have known it was his intent from the outset. And you! you! I blame only myself for what has become of you. Too innocent, you were. Too much talk, too great the temptation. Oh yes, I could see the temptation; who could not? Who could not?” I blame only myself for what has become of you. Too innocent, you were. Too much talk, too great the temptation. Oh yes, I could see the temptation; who could not? Who could not?”
The older woman blew her nose savagely into a sodden sc.r.a.p of linen and cursed as she was forced to wipe her fingers on the hem of her tunic. In the next wailing breath, she resumed her self-condemnation before an utterly confused and bewildered Servanne de Briscourt.
”In all of my eighteen years as your nurse and companion, I never dreamed I would bear witness to such wanton behaviour. From other women-plain women, common women, trulls and wh.o.r.es, oh yes, I should have expected it and known how to deal with their urges. For women such as those, taking a l.u.s.ty man to their beds is as commonplace as lifting a leg to p.i.s.s.”
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