CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

Servanne spent a restless night rolling and tossing from one side of the big bed to the other. The sense of foreboding she had felt with her first glimpse of the sinister towers and spires of Bloodmoor Keep, had grown in intensity with every passing minute. The Dragon had neither said nor done anything outright to persuade her he was living a lie. To be sure, standing the two brothers side by side, one would have to choose the Dragon over the Wolf as being better suited to bear the De Gournay crest and shield, and yet … something told her it was not so. Something told her the Wolf was the legitimate son of Robert Wardieu, the legitimate heir to Bloodmoor Keep.

But if that was true, it meant the man under whose protection she now resided was a murderer. It meant he was a cheat and an impostor, and had schemed to bring about his own father’s death.

“This Lincoln Wolf has you bewitched, child,” Biddy had said in the small hours of the morning, aghast at the story she had finally coaxed from Servanne’s tongue. “Just because he bedded you and put a hunger in your loins, do not be convinced he speaks only the truth! I warned you. By the heart of St. Agnes, I warned you where your curiosity would lead, but did you listen? Did you heed me? Did you even give half a care for this poor heart who loves you so well?”

Biddy had dissolved into a wailing flood of tears, and Servanne had offered what comfort she could, but both had known it was to no avail, and after a few moments of incoherent snifflings, Biddy had resorted to more worldly logic.

“Look around you, my lady: Are these the trappings of a dishonest man? The baron is the king’s champion, and a friend to Prince John. He is as prominent a figure as William the Marshal, or Salisbury, and could undoubtedly be vouchsafed by both as being who he says he is! As for the other … he is nought but an outlaw and rogue knight who kidnaps helpless women and takes his amusement in filling their heads with notions of grand intrigues. If he truly was Lucien Wardieu, why has he waited all this time to make his claim? Why does he wait, even now? And why, by all the mercy that flows from heaven above, would he have given you to a man he claims has defiled the family name with acts of murder and treason?”

“I do not know,” Servanne had answered truthfully. “He mentioned some other danger—”

“Some other danger?” Biddy shrilled. “Some other excuse, more’s the truth. I may not approve wholeheartedly of some of the goings-on we have witnessed since our arrival—the great hall is a nest of pestilence and shall require tending to at once!—but I have also seen nothing to implicate the baron in anything more devious than buying himself a bride of some means. And if you would condemn him for that, you would have to condemn every other lord, baron, and earl in the kingdom … yea, even the king himself, who has no more love or affection for the Princess Berengaria than he would a common pine knot. But he will marry her because of the political union she represents, and because Queen Eleanor has said he must marry for the sake of peace in the kingdom.”

“There is no kingdom at stake in my marriage,” Servanne had argued quietly, and Biddy, who had expended most of her breath and logic on her last speech, recognized the stubborn set to her ward’s jaw and clasped her hands over her bosom in a gesture of despair.

“Surely … you do not intend to reject the baron’s suit? You do not intend to refuse the marriage?”

Servanne had not answered then, nor, after a night of sleepless agony, could she have answered the question now. She had relived, in her mind, every word, every gesture, every memory made by the Black Wolf of Lincoln. His hands had been there to taunt her body through flushes of heat and cold; his lips had been almost real enough to cause shivered recollections from her throat, to her toes, to the very core of her womanhood. He had bewitched her, there was no use denying it, but was his ability to render her senseless with ecstasy the only reason she wanted to believe his claim?

Servanne sighed and rolled onto her stomach, refusing to acknowledge the daylight slivering through the cracks of the window shutters.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why did you send me here?”

Your temper is more than a match for whatever tests the Dragon may put you through.

“Such a compliment is laughable,” she muttered forlornly, dragging a pillow beneath her and hugging it to her breasts. “Especially since it appears not to have had any lasting effect on you, my lord wolf’s head.”

She pictured him as she had last seen him, his dark, brooding magnificence muted by the falling shadows; the forest all around him, green and hazed with dampness; the sky a roiling mass of gray cloud, rumbling with distant thunder. Across his cheek, the livid bleeding result of her temper. On his mouth, the arrogant smirk of self-satisfaction. In his eyes there was … there was …

In his eyes, where there should have been anger or triumph … there was only …

Only … what?

Servanne’s heartbeat had quickened noticeably in the past minute or so, but before she could determine the cause of this new distress, another was knocking brusquely on the outer door and bustling into the chamber like a fomenting hurricane.

“His lordship sends word he is desirous of your company in the great hall,” Biddy proclaimed, sweeping aside the bed curtains and hastening Giselle and Helvise into the chamber with an impatient wave of her hand. “I returned the message you were still abed, and had not even been to chapel yet for morning prayers, and he sent back that you should pray quickly, for his mood is none too holy this morning. Then I am told Prince John’s cortege is expected any hour now, so I suppose we must forgive the host his poor manners, although if it were up to me I should not fawn and simper over that sly fox, regardless if he were regent or king.” She stopped and drew a deep breath for refueling, then swept aside the coverlets in a grand gesture of annoyance. “Maledictions, what are you staring at, child? Get up. Get up. Brother Michael awaits you in the chapel—such a nice young man but if you wait overlong, he’ll have no nails left to chew—and young Eduard has come whimpering back to offer you escort. Quickly, now. Quickly. Stockings, garters, tunic … Helvise, saints seize my heart, I am lost of a shoe! Fetch it quickly from the wardrobe while Giselle bathes my lady’s hands and face.”

In a flurry of activity, dainty white feet were thrust into stockings and garters fastened below the knees. A sheer white chemise replaced the thicker linen sleeping gown, over which a tunic of fine gold silk was fussed and fretted into place. The gown Biddy had selected was a rich blue velvet, elaborately embroidered with the same gold thread as in the hints of silk that peeped at throat and wrists. A girdle sparkling with jewels encircled her waist; a golden armband, several rings, and a long, looping strand of pearls completed the toilette.

Servanne watched the progress of her maids through the reflection in the polished steel mirror. When it came time to comb and plait her hair, she showed the first signs of impatience, and remarked to Biddy that at least half of the ladies present in the hall the previous night had not respected the modesty of a wimple.

“Harlots, whores, and trulls wear their heads bare,” Biddy declared with an ominous squint in one eye. “And you are on the way to chapel, not the fair.”

It was a short journey, down the corkscrew stairs of her own tower and up the twisting flight of an adjacent tower. The chapel was small and dusty, the priest oppressively sincere in droning the litany. At the end of the mass, Servanne and her tiny flock were again herded down into the bowels of the castle, taken to the great hall to break their fast with the lord and his guests. The numbers of knights present at the tables had increased noticeably overnight, and the huge platters of bread, cheese, and ale were disappearing from the linen tablecloths as fast as the servants could bring them out from behind the screened walkway to the kitchens.

The Baron de Gournay stood to greet his prospective bride, his genial smile almost able to counter the effect of seeing Nicolaa de la aye already seated on his left side on the dais. The sheriff’s wife had spared no effort in making herself visible in this place of honour. Her gown was rendered from a bolt of crimson damask—a very small bolt judging by the tightness of the fit and the amount of flesh left exposed to the hungry stares of the male guests. Her hair had been left uncovered and the raven black tresses tamed beneath a mesh-like webbing of fine gold wire.

“I trust you are feeling better today?” Wardieu inquired politely, leading Servanne to her place at the table. He noted the whispering silence that had marked his bride’s descent into the hall, and cast his own approving gaze along her modestly elegant attire.

He smiled and Servanne’s feet nearly tripped over her plummeting heart. He was indecently handsome. Tall and bronzed in complexion, she could well imagine the difficulty in choosing between De Gournay and King Richard for sheer golden splendour. Clad in various shades of blue, his shirt and chausses were dark as midnight, surmounted by a tunic of paler damask, quilted and beaded with hundreds of winking sapphires. The Wardieu crest was emblazoned on his massive chest in silver thread and glittering gemstones, the tangled grotesques seeming to come to life with each gesture or movement. His hand, as he held it up to call for total silence, was broad and calloused, its implied power hardly softened by the smother of gold rings he wore on the long, tapered fingers.

“My lords and ladies,” he said, his voice as rich and bold as his appearance. “I give you my bride, the Lady Servanne de Briscourt.”

The dais was raised a scant three feet higher than the rest of the hall, but it was enough to catch the last of the early morning rays of sun that streamed down from the slotted windows carved high on the east wall. De Gournay’s tawny hair glowed with a golden halo, resembling a spill of pure sunlight, and Servanne could almost hear the sounds of the women’s heartbeats pounding hotter and faster in their breasts.

His fingers closed slowly, possessively around hers and he raised her hand to his lips, lingering long enough over the caress for a sigh to ripple through the audience.

“Your chambers are satisfactory?” Wardieu asked, waving away the young page in favour of assisting Servanne into her seat himself.

“Oh yes, my lord. They are very much so.”

“You must want for nothing while you are here; you have only to ask and whatever you desire will be laid before you.”

At the sound of the solicitous offer, Nicolaa stabbed her eating knife into a convenient pear with somewhat more violence than the act required. If Wardieu noticed, he paid no heed. He seemed quite engrossed in studying the newest points of interest revealed by the morning light, namely, how truly blue the centres of Servanne’s eyes were, and how white the surrounding orbs. Her lashes were thick and honey-coloured, which led him to speculate and then to search the edge of her wimple until he confirmed his suspicions that her hair would be as blonde as his own. Blonder, he surmised, if the shiny thread of escaped yellow was any indication, and thinking back, had he not seen a long, gleaming curl of something silvery-pale flown from beneath her hood the night he brought her away from the abbey?

He had always preferred his women dark-haired and white-skinned, finding the contrast more stimulating than fair hair and ill-defined contours, but now he caught himself warming to the notion of a golden-haired beauty in his bed.

“Two days,” he mused. “It seems an interminable wait, my lady.”

Servanne read exactly the same thing in his eyes as Nicolaa saw, and for once, was thankful when the sheriff’s wife interrupted bluntly.

“You can hardly proceed without Prince John since he is standing for the bride. And doubtless the old whore herself, Eleanor of Aquitaine would nail your eyelids to your knees if you snubbed her precious La Seyne Sur Mer.”

Servanne’s heart missed a beat. Her gaze focused on the table linen and she gripped her eating knife so tightly, both blade and hand trembled. Luckily Wardieu had turned to reply to Nicolaa and neither saw her reaction to the name.

“It was a figure of speech, Nicolaa,” he sighed. “Not a proclamation of intent. However, with John’s cavalcade nearing the moor as we speak, and La Seyne reported to be but a day’s journey away, it may well suit my purpose to speed the entire affair along … with the good bishop’s permission, of course.”

Servanne’s heart had barely calmed from the first shock when it was sent slamming into her rib cage by a second one. A deep, melodic baritone gave response to Wardieu’s question, the ail-too familiar voice coming from one of the guests seated at the far end of the dais. Servanne inched her head around by degrees, leaning forward when she found her view blocked by Wardieu’s broad shoulder. A painfully constricted breath later and she was able to follow the flow of a capacious black wool sleeve to the ermine collar and gold link chain of office that ornamented the otherwise plain, voluminous robes. A plaited sallet tamed the riot of jet-black hair, and the soft brown eyes that turned to meet hers were as guileless and solemn as they were the day the sandal-footed Friar had greeted her at the gates of Thornfeld. Only this time the sacrilege was not in feigning the posture of a humble monk. This time, Alaric FitzAthelstan had aspired to the robes and rubies of a bishop!

“I bring you God’s greetings and the blessings of the church, my child,” he murmured piously. “If I am not mistaken, however, we have met once before … perhaps in the company of your late husband, Sir Hubert de Briscourt? A brave and gallant crusader, to be sure. And his yearly alms to the church were most generous. Most generous indeed.”

A wave of faintness passed through Servanne. What was he doing here? How had he come through the guards, the sentries, the numerous sullen challenges at each tower and gate? And how was it that he was sitting at the Dragon’s table, eating the Dragon’s fare, chatting with the Dragon and his guests as if they were fond acquaintances?

“Bishop Gautier comes to us all the way from Canterbury,” Wardieu said. “Our own Bishop of Sleaford was taken ill last week, and since Canterbury was visiting the area, he agreed to preside at the services.”

Servanne met Friar’s eyes again. “I … thank you for your blessings, my lord bishop,” she managed to stammer. “And yes, I do believe we have met before.”

For the briefest moment she thought she saw something— relief?—flicker across the lean, hawk-like features, but a wan smile reprieved the blandness of his previous expression and he turned to address Wardieu again.

“As to La Seyne Sur Mer, I believe I passed his party on the road from Lincoln yesterday. He claimed to have some business or other to attend to in town, but I was … er … pressed to assure you he would be arriving at Bloodmoor before nightfall. A surly, unpleasant fellow, I must say. Very”—a ring-laden hand wafted absently in the air— “enamoured of himself, and not at all friendly to strangers, regardless of their station in life.”

“Is it true,” Nicolaa asked in her best purring voice, “that he wears a silk hood at all times?”

“As true as sin, my lady,” Friar nodded. “An accident early in his youth, I am told, left his face so severely scarred it cannot be looked upon without inciting screams of horror. Queen Eleanor, whom he serves so devotedly, has seen it only the once and was so overcome she ordered hoods of the finest oriental silks to be made expressly so she could enjoy his company without the need of salts or screens. Notwithstanding the hood, however, he has a surly eye and a sharp tongue, neither of which would endear him to a sensible woman’s company, I should think.”

“Eleanor was never said to be sensible,” Nicolaa mused, fondling the mutilated remnants of her pear as if it were living flesh. “Still, I have heard the uglier and more brutish a man is, the more he strives to compensate in … other areas. Perhaps our randy old dowager queen has retained La Seyne for more than his ability to merely wield a sword with undaunted chivalry.”

Wardieu grinned crookedly. “He does not like straying too far from his beloved Brittany. I imagine if the queen herself had not issued the command for him to attend, he would be there still, nursing his ill temper and counting his trophies.”

“Indeed,” Friar concurred gravely, “he wants a stout comeuppance where his boastings are concerned. Do you know he travels with the pennants of every challenger he has met and fought in the lists? Too many to count, I can tell you, and strung on poles like catches of dead fish. I am told” —he leaned forward as if imparting a great secret—“he not only pledges his own armour and gear to anyone skilled enough to split him from a saddle, but his sea of conquered pennants as well! Such arrogance, my lord, begs for deliverance.”

“At any other time, I am certain Lord Lucien would rise to the challenge,” Nicolaa murmured. “However, since the tournament is being held to celebrate his wedding, he would not want to see his young bride cheated of her nuptial due through a misplaced lance.”

Wardieu laid his hands flat on the tabletop and began to thrum his long fingers softly against the linen. It was the custom for tourneys to be staged for formal occasions and celebrations. In the case of a wedding, it was acceptable for the groom to select one of his favoured knights to act the part of his champion, thus saving the bride the humiliating possibility of becoming a widow the same day.

“So,” he mused, “this … Scourge of Mirebeau wishes to ease the aggravations he has suffered in his journey by paring a few skulls?”

“It was the mood I sensed,” Friar agreed guilelessly. “He is, after all, the dowager’s equerry, and in his day has unhorsed the best knights in all of France, Normandy, and the southern provinces. But if memory serves, he is well into his third decade; not a young man at all and no longer in his prime. I am certain you could find some eager, robust young varlets bristling to earn their gold spurs by tipping La Seyne’s nose into the dirt.”

Wardieu’s fingers were stilled again. A distinct ruddiness darkened his complexion at the inference he too must be considered past his prime by the bishop’s standards.

Servanne risked a quick glance at Friar before leaning back in her chair again. He was saying all the right things, playing on the Dragon’s vanity as a champion, pricking his natural envy over a rival’s reputation—but why? Why was he goading De Gournay into a match with La Seyne Sur Mer?

“He also said—” The bishop appeared to catch himself and waved the thought away with an apologetic smile. “No, no. I would be speaking out of turn.”

“He also said what” Wardieu demanded flatly.

Friar glanced along the row of guests seated on the dais as if noticing for the first time they had all become as silent as death. “Why … he, ahh, also said something about not wanting to take unfair advantage of a rival who has not appeared in too many tourneys during the past year or two, and who may be … er … somewhat lacking in form and, ah”—Friar looked into Wardieu’s cold blue eyes and swallowed hard—“… nerve.”

Servanne missed Wardieu’s immediate reaction, for at that same moment, purely by chance, her gaze settled on the six cowled figures occupying a section of one of the lower tables. Resembling large gray moths, they were garbed somberly, as befitting clerics in the bishop’s service. They humbly declined the richer foods in favour of black bread and fruit, and drank sparingly of the watered wine. With their heads bowed and their hoods drawn forward, their features were, for the most part, shadowed and indistinct, but Servanne thought she recognized five of them from amongst the Wolf’s men at Thornfeld Abbey. The sixth was Gil Golden.

Another wave of faintness swept through her, the sudden weakness causing her to lose hold of her jewelled eating knife. It dropped onto the table with a clatter, which might have prompted a neck or two to part company with its skin if it had not occurred the exact instant Wardieu’s fist slammed on the wood and sent a volley of buttocks leaping off their seats.

“By the rood,” he roared, “we shall see who is lacking in form and nerve! He shall indeed have a match on his hands, and when he finds himself well-spitted and rolling in the dust with his entrails tangled about his ears, we shall also see who suffers the greater mortification!”

A rousing cheer of support went up from the crowded tables. Chairs scraped over the stone floor as knights stood and raised their goblets and their swords in a flashing show of support for their liege lord. The quiet tension of the previous moments burst with a frenzy and there were counter challenges issued, boasts proclaimed, and a voracious round of wagering begun.

Wardieu, flushed with enthusiasm, did not see the look on Friar’s face, or the lingering glance that passed between the visiting bishop and Servanne de Briscourt. A toast was made, followed by another. By magic, a pair of tumblers cart-wheeled into the centre of the hall and in a blink of an eye, the huge room was vibrating with music and laughter.

 

Servanne paced away an anxious morning and half an afternoon before the expected visitor was announced into her chambers. Biddy had been dispatched on a series of errands to keep her occupied elsewhere, and Servanne was alone when Geoffrey, the page, escorted Friar into her solar.

In the presence of their young witness, Alaric continued smoothly in his role, conveying his intentions to discuss the upcoming wedding and any fears the bride might be experiencing in regards to her future role as the Baroness de Gournay. Servanne’s responses were equally civil, her mood seemingly as genial as she instructed Geoffrey to fetch a flask of wine from the kitchens and perhaps some small sweetmeats with which she could tempt the palate of her exalted guest.

With Geoffrey scurrying away to comply, Servanne and Alaric were left alone, passing the first full minute in heavy silence.

“Are you mad?” she asked finally. “Have you completely lost your senses coming here like this?”

He glanced down at his voluminous black robes and flicked a speck of lint off the long sleeve. “It was a necessary ruse to get inside the castle. I thought I carried the role rather well.”

“Gil Golden and the others: Do they feel as comfortable sitting among men who would have their heads skewered on pikes at the first hint of betrayal?”

“Their fates—and mine—rest solely in your hands, my lady. Our lives are yours to do with what you will.”

“I do not thank you for the responsibility!” she exclaimed angrily. “You were so sure I would not betray you in the hall?”

“I was hoping you would not.”

“That is no answer.”

“Then give me an honest question and I will attempt to better it.”

Servanne paced to the window. “You take a great deal upon yourself, Friar. He takes a great deal upon himself as well, assuming I will not reveal the lot of you to Wardieu.”

“Lucien … has a great deal of respect for human nature,” Friar said easily. “He did not think you were the kind of woman who reveled in blood sport.”

“Or revenge?”

Friar gave his shoulders a small shrug. “We had to take the chance.”

“Lucien,” she said, testing the name on her tongue, “should not be so sure of himself all the time. It could win him more trouble than he can handle.”

“He is already balancing more trouble than he can handle, my lady, although he would be the last to admit it.”

“Oh? How so? Has he run out of women to kidnap and abbeys to desecrate?”

Alaric ignored the sarcasm, though its presence was a good sign. “He knew he would have to face his brother one way or another. That is not the trouble he finds himself in, as well you know.”

“I know he has a penchant for playing games with people’s lives,” she said and turned away. “I suspect it amuses him to act the part of a cat in a roomful of mice; to corner each mouse in turn and worry it half to death before discarding it to stalk another.”

“He has not discarded you, my lady,” Alaric said quietly. “In truth, he has been behaving like a scalded cat from the moment you rode away from the abbey.”

“I did not ride away, sirrah. I was sent away. Thrown away, if you will, once I was no longer of any use to him.”

“Come now, you do not believe that.”

“Do I not?” she demanded, whirling back to confront him. “What would you have me believe of a man who lives and breathes revenge to the exclusion of all else?”

Alaric sighed. “He is a proud and stubborn man who thought his pride and stubbornness should outweigh any softer feelings that might be dangerous to you both if he allowed them to intrude on his emotions.”

“Softer feelings? Emotions?” She scorned the notion with a bitter laugh. “He has neither, my lord. He is cold and heartless; arrogant and self-righteous and contemptuous of anything and everything that does not suit his purpose. I suited his purpose, but only insofar as my wedding to his brother provided the perfect opportunity to display his cunningness to the world. He has no heart, no soul. He cares for nothing but his own skin and does nothing that does not further his own vainglory! That is what I believe!”

Friar drew a deep breath. “Then perhaps you should know a thing or two about him—things he would never tell you himself.”

“I already know everything I care to know about him. He is cruel, vicious, and utterly without honour.”

“Lucien told me you once asked him why I did not complete my vows to the church,” he said quietly.

Servanne held her patience in check, wondering what earthly—or heavenly-connection this had to the subject at hand.

“He would never tell you, but perhaps I should. I was but a few days from making my final vows,” he continued, and fingered the gold crucifix that hung from a chain around his waist. “I was assigned to attend the comforts of the bishop who had come to officiate at the ceremonies, and it was in the course of seeing to some minor oversight I stumbled across the bishop and the abbess from the neighbouring convent seeing to a late-night oversight of their own. The breaking of vows of celibacy is nothing new or shocking in either a monastery or a convent; that was not what I found the most disturbing. It was the fact that they were using a young and unwilling novitiate the abbess had chosen for the special occasion, and the fact that when they had finished with her, they intended to carve her up like some sacrificial offering.

“I stepped in barely in time to save the girl’s life, but in the process, the knife somehow found its way into the bishop’s chest. Before I knew it, I was in chains and being brought to trial for devil worship and murder. It was the word of the abbess against mine, you see. The tribunal consisted of churchmen—none of whom would dare admit to the macabre practices of their bishop.”

“What about the girl? You said you were in time to save her; surely she could have testified on your behalf?”

“She was in shock and half dead. It was almost three years before she spoke again, and then only because Lucien spared no expense in finding the best physicians in Normandy to care for her.”

“Lucien? He was involved?”

“He was present at the tribunal as the queen’s representative. He had no authority over the proceedings, but he watched and he listened, and … the day I was slated for final judgment, he came riding in out of nowhere, and slew the half-dozen Knights Templar who objected to his aiding my escape. The queen, whose land bordered the abbey, was not pleased, as you might imagine. But at the risk of his life and reputation, Lucien scoured the countryside, applying his own particular brand of persuasion to tongues that had, until then, remained silent against the bishop’s peculiar perversions. As it turned out, there were bodies of other mutilated girls discovered in places the bishop had frequented.

“Solely due to Lucien’s efforts, I was cleared of the charge of murder—and mine is not the only such tale to be told. All of the men who follow him—Sparrow, Robert, Mutter and Stutter—all of them owe him a debt of trust and loyalty which can never be repaid. Even Gil, stubborn as she is, would never have been accepted into the band if not for Lucien.”

Servanne halted him with a frown. “She? Gil Golden is a woman?”

Friar cursed the slip, but after a moment, nodded. “As pigheaded as any man I have ever laid an eye to, but aye, she’s a woman.”

Servanne was beyond reacting to any more surprises. “So. He saved your life, became the benefactor for a band of misfits and recalcitrants, and lives a life of assured comfort in service to Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. All laudable achievements, sirrah, but despoiled nonetheless by his current misdeeds.”

“Granted, his methods are sometimes … questionable, to say the least, but he is as honest and honourable a man as I have ever come across, and loyal to the death to people who matter to him.”

Servanne challenged the softened tone of his voice. “Are you trying to tell me I matter to him?”

“Mock me for a fool if you like, my lady, but I would go so far as to suggest the heartless rogue is in love with you.”

“Your jest is cruel, m’sieur,” Servanne said, her cheeks flaming hotly. “He is in love with no one save himself. If he were … if he were at all concerned for my welfare, why did he not send me away from this place instead of handing me over like a platter of rare meat?”

“Why does any man cut off his nose to spite his face? If he kept you with him, he would have had to admit he loved you, and I do not think he was prepared to admit it, even to himself.”

“Then how can you be so sure?” she demanded.

Friar’s grin was self-effacing. “I recognize the symptoms … in both of you.”

“Both! You are mad! I do not love him. I do not even like him! What is more, I doubt it would draw a tear if I never saw him or heard his name—whatever it might be—ever again!”

Friar studied the adamantly squared shoulders she presented to him, and scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Then you will not want to know he will be here, inside Bloodmoor, the day of the wedding.”

“He is coming here?” she gasped. “To the castle? But how …? When …?”

“How is not important,” Alaric began, but was cut off by an exclamation of dismay.

“Not important! Lord Wardieu has given orders everyone must be stopped, questioned, and his identity verified before being admitted to the castle grounds. You have seen the number of guards who patrol the walls and towers—they have already been doubled since we arrived, and there was talk today of taking even stronger measures to avoid any unwanted surprises.”

Friar nodded as if they were all valid arguments he had heard before. “He is counting on La Seyne’s presence to see him through the sentry checks. Mirebeau has four score men under his command, a few more will not be noticed.”

“La Seyne,” she despaired. “Is he as mad as everyone else?”

“Madder,” Friar agreed grimly. A short inner debate took place behind the dark brown eyes before he took her hands gently in his and added, “My lady, we have all known, from the instant Lucien learned of his brother’s presence here at Bloodmoor Keep, he would not—could not—rest until one or both of them were dead. He is arrogant and proud and stubborn, and when he gets a thing in his head, it is devilish hard to dislodge it or turn him on a new course. Death does that to you, and he came as close to dying as a man can come without touching the hand of God. There is nothing you or I can do to stop this thing from happening. Nothing at all.”

Servanne continued gazing up into his eyes for what seemed like an eternity, her own filling with bright, fierce tears of denial. She jerked her hands out of his and backed up several steps.

“La Seyne,” she cried. “La Seyne could stop it by killing De Gournay himself.”

A second small battle was waged in the depths of Friar’s eyes before he answered. “La Seyne will be pleased to hear the Dragon has accepted his challenge, but it will be Lucien who rides onto the field to face his brother.”

“What?” Servanne’s voice was scarcely more than a ragged breath. “What did you say?”

“La Seyne’s business here is with Prince John, and when it is concluded—”

“Business? What business?”

“It … is not my place to tell you, my lady. It would not be safe for you to know. Suffice it to say the tournament and challenge will serve to keep the Dragon’s attention diverted elsewhere. Already he has abandoned his guests to concentrate on the practice fields, and word of the match has spread outside the castle walls, sure to bring great crowds to the castle—crowds he could no more keep outside the walls than a paper dam could control a tide. Crowds bring confusion, and confusion breeds mistakes.”

“Everything has been so carefully thought out, has it not?” she said bleakly. “Even to sending you here in your bishop’s robes to warm my heart with promises of love and loyalty. But what if he fails? What if, after all his clever scheming and manipulating, he is no match for De Gournay? What if the wrong man survives to walk off the field? You and La Seyne and your merry band of havoc-makers will ride away and seek other noble horizons to conquer … but what will become of those you leave behind? What will become of me?”

“Lucien has already made provisions—”

“Provisions! He has made provisions!” Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again on an oath of incredulity. “He … has made provisions without even troubling to ask if I wanted them?”

“He assumed …” Friar began, his voice trailing off uncomfortably.

“He assumed? When did he start taking it upon himself to assume what I would or would not want?”

Friar’s complexion darkened perceptibly.

“I see. Because he bedded me, he thinks he now owns me?”

“No. No, I am sure he does not—”

“My lady! My lady!”

Startled by the outcry, both Alaric and Servanne whirled toward the door, but at the sight of young Geoffrey’s flushed face, Friar’s hand slid discreetly away from the handle of the knife he wore concealed beneath his robes.

“Many pardons, my lady, my lord bishop … but I was dispatched to inform you Prince John has arrived! He is here, in the great hall, and my lord Wardieu requests your attendance there at once.”

Alaric looked deeply into Servanne’s eyes, holding steady for several long moments.

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” she said softly. “And thank you, my lord bishop, for all your kind words of comfort; you have given me much to contemplate over the next few days.”

Alaric set his jaw against the desire to respond, and instead, merely bowed his head and murmured a parting benediction.