Part 24 (1/2)
”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 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 s.h.i.+vers 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. G.o.d'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 a.s.sured 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 compa.s.sion? 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 pa.s.sion, 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 m.u.f.fled 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 thras.h.i.+ng, 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 hoa.r.s.ely. ”Quickly, go down the stairs and wait for me at the bottom.”
Servanne nodded blindly, too frightened to even search the shadows for her rescuer's ident.i.ty. 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, s.h.i.+vering 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 was Etienne Wardieu and not the man he had supposed him to be all these years. 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d. 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 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 depravity and brutality, or the first time my”-he gritted his teeth, but the word would not come out-”the first time that woman woman has shown an appet.i.te 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!” has shown an appet.i.te 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!”