Through a Dark Mist (35 page)

The Wolf was taunted by the melodic evil in the Dragon’s voice. Images flashed across his mind—images of pain, of watching his own flesh blister under the desert sun, of the physician’s knife, and the sound of pitch bubbling sluggishly in a cauldron nearby.

The Wolf continued to stare at his brother, all the while feeling the rage and hatred rise from his soul to flush through his blood and tighten the muscles everywhere in his body until they screamed for some form of release.

When he spoke, his voice was a sheared sliver of ice. “I accept the challenge, and the terms.”

The Dragon stood a moment longer, relishing his own flush of satisfaction. In the end, he bowed stiffly by way of an acknowledgment, and with barely a glance at the hunched figure and wide-eyed countenance of Prince John, he left the room. The prince, barking orders for his guards to keep their weapons at the ready, followed with all due haste, and in the silence of the half-emptied room, their footsteps could be heard clanking to the far end of the long corridor.

When the silence became filled with more silence, one of the Wolf’s men stepped forward and waited for the gray eyes to shift away from the door.

“My lord, we have no intention of leaving the castle grounds so long as you remain inside these walls.”

“On the contrary, Sir Richard, you and the entire guard will leave within the hour, as agreed.”

“But my lord—”

“Your loyalty to me is much appreciated, but your first duty is and always was to see to the safe return of the Princess Eleanor to Brittany. She must be taken away from this place at once, before Prince John sees past his initial surprise and begins to consider further possible profits. And for God’s sake, do not trust the Dragon’s men to lead you to Lincoln. Break away from them at the first opportunity, kill them all, if need be, and take any road that leads in the opposite direction. The queen’s ship is anchored at Hull. Be certain it sails within the shortest reasonable amount of time, and do not let your guard down for an instant. Not even when your spurs touch Breton soil. I place you in charge, Sir Richard of Rouen, and entrust the princess’s life into your hands. Swear not to fail me in this and your loyalty could not have won a truer test.”

Sir Richard stared first at the black gloved hand extended to him, then into the depths of the resolute gray eyes:

“Aye, my lord,” he said, locking his gauntleted hand to the Wolf’s. “You have my word on it. My life as well.”

“My lord La Seyne?” It was a high-pitched, child’s voice, and it parted the sea of towering knights like a command on high.

“My lord La Seyne,” said the little princess. “Will you be fighting the Dragon?”

“I will indeed, Your Grace.”

“You will fight him and you will win, will you not?”

“I shall do my very best, Princess. You have my word on it.”

“I require more than your word, my lord,” she said, and for a moment, the Wolf’s composure was shaken on the memory of another similar challenge.

“What is it you require, Your Grace?” he asked warily.

The little princess raised a finger and beckoned the massive, armoured knight to sink down onto his knee. Without a care for belts or buckles or moulded leather breastplates, she flung her arms around his neck and hugged until her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes filled with tears.

“This
is what I require, my lord,” she insisted. “Both now and later, after you have smote the Dragon from his lair. I— I
command
it.”

The Wolf smiled and returned the hug. “Then certainly, it shall be as you command, Your Grace. You have my most solemn pledge.”

25

When the Black Wolf of Lincoln had set up camp at Thornfeld Abbey, he had done so with twenty of his best and most versatile men. Both Gil Golden and Robert the Welshman had joined later, along with a few local villagers who had no scruples about where they earned the coin needed to feed their starving and oppressed families. The bulk of Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer’s men had embarked from Brittany under the capable leadership of Sir Richard of Rouen, arriving in England more than two months after the Wolf had established himself in the forests of Lincoln. This second group numbered some eighty-five of the queen’s trusted guard and, like their comrades who had adapted to their garb of lincoln green, would have followed their fearsome captain—the Scourge of Mirebeau—to the edge of the earth without question.

It had been Friar’s suggestion to keep the two groups separate, and to have some of the original “outlaws” enter the castle grounds by various means and measures designed to blend them in with the guests and inhabitants of Bloodmoor. The rest of the “foresters” had been instructed to set up camp nearby and to alert those inside the castle should there be any sudden influx of either the sheriff’s or the prince’s men to the vicinity.

Alaric had also suggested his own disguise, the vestments and trappings acquired from the real Bishop Gautier, who was at that moment a guest in a nearby village. It was a risky business, shared by the six companions who had assumed the roles of clerics. Balancing out the danger, however, was the fact that he would be able to get close to Lady Servanne, and to remain close in the event of some unforeseen trouble arising.

Unfortunately it also meant he would be pressed upon to preside over morning mass for the visiting nobles, and to remain prominently in attendance in the great hall until such time as the host chose to depart for the tournament grounds.

Thus, dressed in magnificent black and crimson robes, Alaric was accompanying the Dragon’s party to the outer bailey even as the wooden cell door was being slammed and bolted shut behind the semiconscious Servanne de Briscourt. He was not concerned. He was, in fact, relieved to see she had been able to follow Lucien’s instructions and persuade the Dragon to leave the main keep without her.

The rest of the Wolf’s men were not so assured by what they were seeing. They all paused in what they were doing to stare in amazement at the black and gold crested knights of Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer’s guard who filed slowly out of the massive castle gates. In their midst was a child with bright blonde hair and regally uptilted chin, but nowhere in the heavily armoured troop of men was there a sighting of a black silk hood.

“What do you suppose it means?” Sparrow asked Gil.

Gil shook her head, her eyes worriedly searching the four-abreast riders for Friar’s face. She was still in her monk’s robes, her vision tunneled and restricted by the shape of the hood, but she was fairly certain she had seen all of the knights’ faces, and Alaric FitzAthelstan’s was not among them.

Sparrow, perched on a cart loaded with straw, looked enough like a pixie in his garishly coloured jongleur’s tunic to draw the eye of several of the grim-faced knights who rode past. His frowned question drew no answers; a great deal of smouldering anger and frustration, but no answers.

“Something has gone wrong,” he surmised sagely. “Have the tents been struck?”

“Nay,” said Robert the Welshman, bending to dislodge a pebble from the sole of his shoe. He was passing by the cart, not wanting to draw any more attention to the peculiar sight of a dwarfish imp and a monk standing together. “Nay. I were just by the green and the tents are still in place. Pennants an’ shields as well, an’ a squire scrubbin’ at a bit o’ armour. Summit’s amiss, though. Ye can smell it in the air.”

He moved on, his mantle furling out from his brawny shoulders like the wake after a broad-beamed ship. He strolled casually into one of the small cramped laneways and peered over the heads of others who were vying for grilled bits of rabbit, fish, and mutton.

“Trust Lumbergut to think only of his belly at a time like this,” Sparrow muttered.

“If things have gone wrong, we will need Robert’s strength,” Gil pointed out. “We will all need our full strength and wits about us.”

Sparrow gazed past Gil’s shoulder and winced at the rusted shriek of the chains beginning to lower the huge portcullis gates back into place behind the last of the departed knights. At a glance, there were at least a score of guards on the gates and towers, all of whom were visibly armed and prepared for trouble.

Sparrow squinted up at the sky, noting the sun was directly overhead. “Aye, well, one of us had best find out what is
amiss.
And soon. Gil, you should not tarry here any longer. Root out Friar and see if his nose has sniffed a change in the wind. I shall tumble my way over to the tourney grounds and see what is what.”

“What about us?” asked Mutter and Stutter in unison, poking their heads up from behind the cart.

“Gather as many of our men as you can lay a hand to and wean them on down to the common. Tell them to hold fast and watch for a signal.”

“We will be of little use without weapons,” Gil advised.

Sparrow nodded and patted the side of the cart. “Tell Robert to move this as close to the field as he dares and to leave a man on guard. And we had best be quick about our business, for unless my ears and eyes are turned inward, those trumpets I hear are heralding the arrival of Prince Gloom at the lists.”

   As the echo of the blaring fanfare drifted away on the sea breeze, Prince John and the Baron de Gournay took their seats in the spectators’ bower. Noblemen and guests of honour—including the Bishop Gautier—filled the seats on either side of their host and the regent, their personal guards, squires, and servants crowded the limited space behind them. Nicolaa de la Haye, assuming her role as high sheriff, sat by the Dragon’s side, conspicuously taking the seat allocated for the absent Servanne de Briscourt.

The morning’s activities, which had included wrestling matches, archery contests, and demonstrations of skill with swords and quarterstaffs, had attracted only a smattering of interest from the ranking nobles. These events were staged mainly for the entertainment of the castle inhabitants, whose fingers had snapped enthusiastically for each victor, and whose groans and hisses had followed the defeated off the field. As the morning progressed, the excitement and tension swelled proportionately, and as noon approached, the litters and carts began arriving with more and more jewelled and ornamented spectators. The Bower of Beauty teemed with a riot of multicoloured silks and wafting wimples. Targets and quintains were moved to the sides of the field and the wooden palisades brought forward to replace them front and centre.

The jousting matches were by far the most dangerous and titilating events and those who had deigned to forgo the morning activities in favour of extra sleep or extravagant preening, now eagerly craned their necks this way and that to catch glimpses of the preparations taking place at each end of the enclosure. Tables laden with food and ale for the guests were all but deserted as everyone hastened to find seats and points of vantage. The trumpets flared again, bringing a hush over the crowds as the first two challengers appeared in front of their pavilions.

   “How many impartial eyes do you estimate?” the Wolf asked, adjusting the metal chausses on his thighs.

“Two hundred guests and nobles at the least,” Sparrow replied. “Perhaps twice as many retainers, servants, and folk from the castle village, although most of those have been herded higher on the bailey grounds, away from the field. It is the number of guards that worries me. Like bluebirds they are, perched everywhere. On the walls, roaming the crowds, stalking the pavilions. Robert says he smells trouble and I believe him.”

“Robert has a keen nose,” the Wolf remarked.

Sparrow plumped his hands on his hips and scowled his disapproval over ill-placed humour. He had found their leader in the least likely place he had anticipated finding him: in his pavilion by the jousting fields. More alarming, he was alone, save for a handful of squires and groomsmen, none of whom Sparrow recognized.

“I expected someone to tell me you were dead,” he stated bluntly.

“My apologies for disobliging you.”

Sparrow’s glittering black eyes narrowed. “We watched the men leaving the castle. You could have told us you had changed plans.”

“The change was not at my request,” said the Wolf, meeting Sparrow’s gaze for the first time. A shocking, indescribable fury flashed in the depths of the normally cool and steely gray orbs, and the sight of it made the breath catch in Sparrow’s throat.

“What happened? What has gone wrong?”

The Wolf needed a moment to compose himself. In a half-snarl he related the morning’s confrontations, first with Prince John, then with the Dragon Wardieu. “I could not very well refuse his offer to release the Princess Eleanor,” he concluded harshly. “Nor could I consider leaving myself until this matter is resolved between us.”

“Which he counted upon, of course.”

“Of course.”

“How did he discover your secret?” Sparrow asked darkly.

“Not the way you think,” the Wolf snapped. “And not the way he would have me believe.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but are you so convinced of the chick-pea’s loyalty?”

In lieu of answering, the Wolf crossed over to the door of the pavilion and snatched the silk flap aside enough for a clear view of the sprawling tilting grounds. He scanned the seats in the main bower, easily identifying the Dragon and his maleficent consort, Nicolaa de la Haye. Seated on the other side of De Gournay was an inordinately subdued John Lackland, and to his left, the Bishop Gautier.

Friar’s expression was placid enough, yet it was obvious to a familiar eye that he was beginning to notice oddities and incongruities around him. There were distinctly more guards present in the crowds and on the sides of the field than was usual. And where there should have been discreet placements of black and gold blazons, there were none.

“Our men?” the Wolf asked.

“What few we have are well placed,” Sparrow assured him. “They will do nothing without your signal.”

“They will do nothing at all. The Lady Servanne’s life depends upon it.”

Sparrow flinched at the wrath in the Wolf’s voice. His own words came back to haunt him:
Who fights the hardest also falls the farthest.
He had been referring to the Lady Servanne’s probability of succumbing to the Wolf’s powers of persuasion. Never, in his wildest imaginings had he considered the opposite happening.

“Where is she now?”

“I do not know. My guess is the Dragon has her hidden away somewhere within the castle.” The Wolf turned from the door and Sparrow’s belly plummeted to his feet. “I never should have taken the chance with her life. I never should have let her leave the abbey, never should have met her last night,
never should have touched her!”

God’s rood, he was rambling! Rambling and lovesick, drowning in emotions Sparrow suspected he had blocked from his senses for so many years, he was unable to deal with them. Revenge and hatred had been the cornerstones of the impenetrable wall the reborn La Seyne Sur Mer had erected around his heart. Guilt, love, even feelings of jealousy were as foreign to him as hands on a fish and he was just as helpless to know what to do with them.

Moreover, it was beyond conceivable thought to imagine what his reaction might be if these newfound emotions were found to have no basis in truth. If his love was betrayed or deceived, if his trust was spurned and his loyalty mocked, it would surely destroy him. It would destroy every other living thing around him as well, for his rage, if unleashed, would know no bounds.

Sparrow took a deep breath and forced a calmness in his voice he was far from feeling. “Hidden her away, you say? Even in a castle this size, the walls have ears and the windows have eyes. Someone will have seen where he put her. It is a challenge, make no mistake, but one I will embark upon willingly, if only to save myself the misery of listening to you bay at the moon each night … unless, of course, you plan to spare us all the trouble of planning our futures by ignoring the task before you?”

The Wolf flexed and unflexed his fists. His gaze remained clouded and unresponsive, his pain seeking the only outlet it knew: violence.

“Your brother is strong and dangerous,” the little man continued, blithely ignoring the bloodlust etched into the Wolf’s face. “He did not come by his reputation by chance or by underestimating his enemies. Proof thereof lies in the fact his spies were able to ferret out the identity of Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer.”

Keep talking
, Sparrow told himself.
Do not think of the size of his fists.

“You have prepared well for this day, but there are always the tinkerings of Luck, Fate, and Destiny to contend with. We shall have to put them out of the way at once by offering them no opportunities to interfere. Smite the Dragon square on the visor, the heart, or the gut. Unhorse him on the first pass and waste no breath on the niceties of honour or chivalry. He will be out to skewer you as clean and sure, make no mistake. Have you recalled all of his weaknesses? Do you remember if he favours aiming for the left or the right side? The shoulder or the chest? The arm or the thigh? One thing to our advantage: Unless he has found himself another left-handed opponent to tilt with him throughout the years, he will be out of practice, whereas you, my lord, will face nothing new or awkward in the list. Is Triton groomed and ready, or has he managed to frighten these blundernoses into adding their own dung to the stable heaps?”