Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (41 page)

The three men who had accompanied Utley dismounted. Two headed for another set of bushes while

the third rummaged in his saddlebags for the flask of warm brandy he had thoughtfully brought along. He

offered a swig to Utley, who gratefully accepted the offer.

“How long does it take a nobleman to shit?” the man asked Utley.

Utley snorted. “He's probably looking for something to wipe his lily-white arse with."

Long after the other two men had returned, de Viennes was still about his business in the bushes.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Utley called out.

“Of course I am all right, you oaf! Leave me alone!” came the nasty retort.

Utley clenched his teeth together, then huddled as warmly as he could into the comfort of his great cape.

His men were standing as close to their horses as they could for warmth and Utley decided to do the

same.

De Viennes pulled up his breeches and was tucking his shirt back in when he heard a rustling in the

bushes behind him. Turning quickly, the Court Chancellor drew the dagger from his thigh and faced the

sound.

“Come out!” he demanded. “I will know who spies on me!"

“I was not spying, Your Grace,” a sweet, soft voice denied.

Rolf cocked his head to one side. “Show yourself, then,” he ordered.

She pushed her way slowly through the snow-encrusted shrubs, trickles of the icy fluff falling about her

legs as she strode gracefully into a shaft of moonlight filtering down through the barren branches above.

Her lustrous blond hair was streaked with silver highlights in the ethereal light. Her ripe, red lips were wet

with the snow's kiss and her blue eyes sparkled with innocence. She could have been no more than

twelve, possibly younger.

“By the gods!” Rolf whispered as the girl-child-her delicate little shoulders shivering with cold-made a

clumsy curtsy before him. “What are you doing out here?"

“I meant no disrespect, Your Grace,” the girl-child said. “I was just on my way home."

Rolf looked around them. “You live near here?"

The girl-child pointed an arm off to the right. “Over there. Do you see the light?"

Aye, he thought, wondering why he hadn't before then. He sniffed and could even smell wood smoke,

amazed that he hadn't while he was relieving himself, so intense was the aroma.

“Would you like to come in and warm yourself, Your Grace?” the girl-child asked shyly. “I've cider on

the stove."

De Viennes squinted. “I would imagine your mother would not like a visitor this late of the eve."

“There is only me, Your Grace. I've been alone since my granny died,” she said in a small voice.

The Court Chancellor's brows shot up. “All alone out here?” he queried, his eyes going slowly from the

lustrous hair to the small feet. “How old are you?"

The girl-child ducked her head. “I'll be ten come next Maytide, Your Grace.” She lifted hopeful eyes.

“Will you come and sit with me a spell? It gets so lonely."

It could be a trap, de Viennes told himself.

Then he looked at her sweet, innocent young face.

There could be thieves waiting at the cabin.

His attention drifted down the tender young body.

There might even be neighbors who might drop in unannounced.

His manhood began to stir at the thought of the sweetness which lay between the child's slim legs.

And the decision was made.

“I will partake of your kindness, mam'selle. Thank you for the generous offer,” de Viennes said, licking

his lips. He threw out his hand for her to lead the way.

* * * *

“Son of a bitch!!” Utley declared as he came stomping back to the camp he had ordered made. “Where

the hell did he go?"

Utley's men dared not answer; dared not even look their leader's way. Utley was infuriated and his rage

was not an easy sight upon which. All three men had been on the receiving end of a virulent tongue that

had cursed each of them in turn for failing to find the missing nobleman.

“He didn't just wander off!” Utley barked.

“There's no sign of him,” one of the men mumbled to another. “Not nary a single footprint in all that fresh

snow."

“Nor a turd where he dropped it,” the other agreed.

“Shut up!” Utley shrieked. He plopped down in front of the fire and held his hands out to the leaping

flames.

For a long while the four men sat there, each lost in his own thoughts. How could de Viennes have

vanished without a trace?

“Ransom, do you think?” one of the men ventured.

Utley scowled. “Mayhaps.” He tossed on another log.

“Murdered?” another asked.

“He's enough enemies,” the third man snorted.

Utley lifted his eyes, watching sparks flying up from the campfire until they extinguished themselves in the

chill night sky. He sighed deeply.

“Could be Prince Kaelan got to him,” Utley finally put forth.

The other three men looked at him, one shaking his head almost immediately at the suggestion. “He

weren't in no condition to come after us,” the man remarked."

“He weren't in no condition,” the first man repeated.

“Then who?” the third asked.

“Mayhaps, he'll just return on his own,” Utley muttered.

But Rolf de Viennes was never seen again. There are those who say he lost his soul to a banshee that

fateful winter night, while some say the demons from the pit rose up to drag him down to the Abyss with

them.

And there are those who swear they have seen a miniature of his likeness floating in a glass jar of murky

liquid, on a shelf in D'Lyn Aubert's witch's hut, his tiny mouth opened in a never-ending scream of horror.

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Dakin Cree came out of the inn with the Viragonian king and stopped still in his tracks. A sleigh pulled by

four large draft horses was passing in front of the inn, Dakin's son, Nicholas, seated beside the driver. In

front of the sleigh, already past the inn, were four Tribunal guards and behind the sleigh, eight riders, three

of whom held the reins of riderless horses. The Tribunal's messenger, Occultus Noire, rode a magnificent

black steed which pranced elegantly along the snow-packed street.

“By the gods!” Duncan Hesar breathed. He took a step toward the procession. “That's Revenge!"

The big black stallion tossed its head at the sound of its name and whinnied. Its rider, thin fingers easily

gripping the reins, clucked soothingly to the steed and the animal calmed.

“And your runaway son!” Duncan's eyes bulged as he noticed the man lying in the back of the sleigh.

“And my gods-be-damned brother!"

Dakin put out a hand to stop the king from rushing right up to the priest, but Duncan shrugged away the

restrain't. “Who the hell are you?” the king shouted.

Occultus lifted a hand and the sleigh's driver stopped. He inclined his head and fixed Hesar with an

imperial look. “I am Occultus,” he said simply, knowing no further explanation was necessary.

Duncan blanched, his head jerking toward his brother's unmoving body. “Where are you taking him?” he

asked, less sure of himself now that he was dealing with so powerful a person.

Occultus’ left eyebrow lifted. “You have not been made privy to the Tribunal's Edict concerning your

brother, Your Majesty?"

Deep furrows formed in Duncan's brow. “I ... I have been away from Court for several days,” he

stammered. “I am not sure."

“Prince Kaelan has been accused of witchcraft, did you not know this?” Occultus interrupted.

Duncan laughed, stifling the laughter quickly for he saw no humor in the stern visage glaring back at him

from the top of Revenge's sleek back. He coughed away his amusement. “Your Worship,” he said in

what he hoped was the right amount of deference, “my brother is no witch or warlock, either. He

wouldn't know a spell if one bit him."

“Nevertheless, he has been accused and, as such, must be taken before the Tribunal for questioning,”

Occultus informed the king.

“Your Worship, really,” Duncan said with exasperation despite trying not to. “The boy is headstrong and

I know he made those silly curses on the village which, much to his astonishment I'm sure, came true, but

he certainly meant no harm.” He put a hand out to touch the priest's leg then thought better of it. “You

can see how it was, can't you? A man sorely put to the test by a vicious group of fools who were intent

on driving him out."

“He must go before the Tribunal and be questioned,” Occultus stated firmly.

Duncan's face turned hard. “Tortured, you mean?” he grated.

Occultus smiled hatefully. “Why should it matter to you what happens to the man?” he countered. “Did

you not disclaim him as kin? Exile him from court and remand him into the hands of those who treated

him less than human?” He fixed Duncan with a sardonic glower. “I ask again: Why should it matter to you

what happens to him?"

Duncan lifted his head. “He is my brother,” he replied.

A brutal look blazed from the eyes of Occultus Noire. “And he is my prisoner!” the priest spat.

With that, the priest lifted his hand again and the procession moved forward, Nick Cree turning a stony

stare to the Viragonian king.

“Where are you going, Cree?” Duncan shouted.

“As far from this heathen place as I can get!” Nick snarled.

Duncan stood where he was, watching the procession wind down to the docks. In the harbor, was a

sleek gray ship that had not been there the day before. Beside it, straining at their anchors were the three

Serenian ships, the Boreal Wind and the Boreal Queen, and the Aubaine, Duke du Mer's private

schooner.

“What of my daughter?” Dakin asked and met Duncan's gaze as that man turned to him.

“What of her?” Duncan sighed.

“Are we not going on to Ciona?” Dakin asked, barely glancing at young Thècion McGregor as that royal

son rode past them. “Surely we can take passage on the Boreal Queen if not the Wind."

Duncan looked once more toward the harbor where the procession had stopped along the quay. “Why

bother?” he asked.

“But my daughter...” Dakin protested.

“Will never see Kaelan Hesar again,” Duncan said. He glanced up at the snow filling sky and shrugged.

“I will annul her Joining to Rolf because I find I have made a grievous error in that department. She will

be free to marry whomever she wishes."

“She wants Kaelan Hesar,” Dakin reminded the king.

Duncan drew in a long, long breath, then slowly let it out. There was a hitch in his voice when he said:

“No woman will want him when the Tribunal is through with him."

* * * *

Gillian threw her cup against the far wall and let out a string of unladylike words which made the

Constable blush. Nevertheless, the stalwart man refused to do her bidding and gently, but firmly, closed

the door behind him as he left the jail.

“Damn you to the Abyss, Nicholas Cree!” she shouted and her plate followed the path of the cup.

Slamming herself down on the cot that had been padded with numerous thick quilts and covered with

layer upon layer of wool blanket, Gillian glared up at the ceiling where cracks in the plaster webbed out

in a lacy pattern that, under any other circumstances, would have delighted her. Her heart thudding in her

chest from her anger, her stomach roiling with indigestion for the same reason, Gilly plotted vicious ways

she could get even with her high-handed brother.

“It's because I'm a woman!” she seethed. That statement made her flip to her side. She grabbed her

thick pillow, punched it savagely into submission beneath her head, then lay there, rigid and fairly

quivering with fury, her mind filled with worry for her beloved.

“You will be with him soon,” a thought slipped gently into her mind. “Never to be parted."

“I hope so,” Gillian whispered. “By the gods, I hope so!"

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Part Three

Occultus Noire leaned against the railing of the ship and stared intently at the dolphins swimming

alongside the vessel. There was a scowl on his lean face, a hard glow in his dark eyes, and, to those who

traveled with him, he appeared infuriated beyond appeasing. No one dared to intrude on the tall man's

introspection and few even dared look his way. Those who did, shuddered, for they fancied they saw

murder in the priest's stony glare.

It had been three days since the mysterious white ship had sailed out of the fog bank near the Isle of

Bright and fired a warning shot across the Boreal Queen's bow. Though her lines looked familiar to the

sailor's of the Serenian ship, the ghost vessel bore the name the Revenant, a ship unknown to the Boreal

Queen's captain.

“Prepare to be boarded!” the thunderous voice shouted.

“We are a passenger ship this time out!” the Boreal Queen's captain declared. “We've no cargo!"

“Prepare to be boarded!” the pirate vessel's captain demanded again in a voice that brooked no further

challenge.

Twenty-two masked sailors, dressed entirely in white, boarded the Boreal Queen, cutlasses in hand.

Their captain, a tall, red-haired fellow with a swath of white silk covering the lower half of his face, strode

up to the Inquisitor, himself, demanding who the Tribunal was after this time.

“What poor unfortunate are you carting off to the dungeon at Boreas Keep, priest?” the pirate sneered.

To give Noire his due, he did not appear frightened of the scurvy bunch which had commandeered the

ship. Instead, he had looked down his long, gaunt nose at the pirate and refused to answer, infuriating the