"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 shivers 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 thrashing, 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, shivering 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!"

Tears flooded Servanne's eyes as she watched Eduard brush past her and run out of the room. She wanted to go after him-he was just a boy, regardless of how manly he tried to act!-to take him by the arms and shake some sense into him. But she knew it would be to no avail. She felt helpless, caught between the unbreachable honour of the father and now the son.

"Ohhh ..." She looked for something to break, something to smash into a million bits to vent some of her frustration, and when she turned, she saw Biddy standing a few paces away. The maid had been wakened by Eduard's last heart-wrenching shout, and while she had not been privy to their conversation, she could see the extent of her lamb's pain and fear.

Her chins trembling, she stretched her arms out with an offer of solace, and Servanne accepted gratefully, stumbling forward into Biddy's protective embrace.

"Oh Biddy ... what shall I do? What shall I do? Why did we ever leave Wymondham? Why did you not prevail upon me to enter a convent and live out my days behind st.u.r.dy walls of peace and solitude?"

Biddy pursed her lips. "Because you would always have craved the life outside those walls, my child. Your eyes would always have turned toward the horizon and your heart would have ached to be free."

"It aches now. Almost too unbearably to endure."

"I know. I feared as much. But you must not let the ache cloud your judgment. Nor should you insist upon bearing the burden alone. Tell me what ails you, lamb. A shared trouble is only half so much the worry."

Servanne buried her face in Biddy's bosom. "There is so much," she sobbed. "I do not know where to begin."

"There, there. It cannot be as bad as all this."

"It is, Biddy! It is even worse!"

"Worse than you sending me off on some fool's errand so you could slip away in the company of that scoundrel Friar?"

Servanne choked back a half-formed sob and lifted her head. "You knew? You saw us?"

"I may be old and tending to dribble my soup on my chin, but I am not blind. So now, out with it, missy. Where did you go and who were you with until-saints preserve us, it must be nigh on dawn! And what was all this shouting about fathers and sons and breaking of oaths of honour?"

"Eduard saved me from being discovered in the Dragon's bedchamber. He and I were both trapped in the wardrobe and overheard Nicolaa de la Haye telling the baron that his brother is Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer. And And she called him Etienne, Biddy! she called him Etienne, Biddy! She called him Etienne!" She called him Etienne!"

"She called who Etienne ... Eduard?"

"No ... the baron! baron! The baron is Etienne Wardieu, and Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer is Lucien Wardieu!" The baron is Etienne Wardieu, and Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer is Lucien Wardieu!"

Biddy regarded her young mistress as one might regard an inmate bound for Bedlam. "And you believe this?"

"Of course I believe it," Servanne exclaimed. "I was with Lucien for most of the night. We ... we pledged our love."

Biddy used her wimple to dab at the sweat beading across her brow. "First ... you claim you have been convinced the Black Wolf of Lincoln is Lucien Wardieu; now you say the Scourge of Mirebeau is Lucien Wardieu. Which is it to be?"

"Both. All three are the same man. I know it sounds confusing-it is is confusing, and must be even more so for poor Eduard who has just now found out the man he had thought was his father is really his uncle, and the man his uncle intends to kill on the morrow is really his father." confusing, and must be even more so for poor Eduard who has just now found out the man he had thought was his father is really his uncle, and the man his uncle intends to kill on the morrow is really his father."

It was too much for Biddy to absorb. Her knees began to wobble and she plumped down heavily on the bench Servanne rushed to place beneath her.

"What shall I do, Biddy? Lucien must be told, he must be warned of the danger now that his brother knows his secret."

"Yes. Yes, child, we will think of something."

Servanne stood for another moment, then sank slowly onto her knees beside Biddy. The older woman cradled the golden head in her lap and smoothed a wrinkled hand over the shiny, sleek crown of waves, feeling very much like her own heart, or mind, or both were about to explode.

"Hush now," she advised sagely. "Another hour and the dawn will be full upon us. We can think then of what we must do. We can think then."

23.

Long before the dusty pink clouds tumbled away below the horizon, the tilting grounds bustled with activity. The tournament was to be held on a wide green field that was part of the outer bailey, and overnight silk pavilions in every shade of the rainbow had sprung up like mushrooms in the shadow of the towering ramparts. The lists were enclosed in temporary wooden palisades. A dais had been built in the middle to allow the privileged spectators and guests of honour to watch the activities on the tilting fields or, by a turning of their chair, the archery contests, wrestling matches, jugglers, and tumblers.

Forming a wing along one side of the dais was a second area of tiered seating reserved mainly for the ladies and their serving-women. This was the Bower of Beauty and usually the scene of much amused scandal and gossip, for a knight entering the lists would often pause here to tilt his lance to a favoured damosel and collect his token-a scarf of bit of coloured lace-in returned acknowledgment. By midday, the bower would be filled with ladies who glowed in brilliant tunics and glittered in an array of gemstones, all of them laughing and fluttering amongst themselves like a flock of sun-drenched b.u.t.terflies.

The De Gournay colours were prominent everywhere, interspersed with flags, pennants and crests of visiting knights and lords. The air was still enough at dawn to render the ocean of parti-hued silks limp and listless, but as the sun rose higher in the crisp blue sky, a salty breeze came in from the sea to whip and snap the flags to attention.

While he guests dressed in their finery and filed into the great has to break their fasts, the castle's men-at-arms, wearing full protective armour of stiffened bullhide, took up their positions along the borders of the tilting grounds. Earliest to the field, they discouraged children from playing too close to the pavilions, and ominously warned away any persons who had not a specific task to perform in preparing for the games.

Sentries lined up like crows along the crenellated battlements. Each wore full armour, their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and backs protected by added plates of steel sewn over the leather. Every tenth man wore chain mail and carried a kite-shaped shield emblazoned with the De Gournay dragon and wolf. They wore swords strapped at their waists and held their crossbows with the casual ease of men trained to shoot first and query later.

The two-ton portcullis gate remained down, although there was a large crowd gathering outside who had ventured from local villages in hopes of watching the spectacle. The Dragon of Bloodmoor Keep had never opened his castle to the general rabble in the past, and probably would not do so today, but they gathered and grumbled anyway, and craned their necks to see through the iron teeth of the portcullis. Enterprising vendors set up their carts to sell cakes and meat pasties, and a second party of minstrels, jugglers, and revelers added colour and sound to the bleak backdrop of the moor.

There were a few admitted to the castle through the narrow oak gates of one of the barbican towers. Late arrivals who could produce proof of an invitation were pa.s.sed through the heavily armed guards. Minstrels and jongleurs who could win a grudging smile were beckoned through, but only if they were dressed in such a way as to boast success at their profession, and only if they could pay the exorbitant bribes demanded by the sentries.

One pair of minstrels and their diminutive, tumbling companion won particular applause from crowds on both sides of the gates. Twins as strikingly alike as peas in a pod played the lute and viol, while beside them, the peasants were awed by the antics of a curly-haired dwarf who could produce coins from ears and bouquets of feathers from ordinary twigs.

Five crossbowmen thumbed aside the safety latches on their weapons simultaneously and sighted their bolts on an enormous, barrel-chested Welshman who strode through the gates scowling like a hungry bear. He planted his seven-foot frame in the middle of a cleared court and waited until every eye in the crowd was fixed on him. A grizzly smile slashed through the wire fuzz of his beard and in a smooth stroke, he unfastened and tossed his huge flowing mantle aside. As one, the crowed gasped and pressed back. The giant was naked from the waist up, the marbled slabs of muscle were oiled and gleaming under the morning sun. Almost instantly, a second well-greased, semi-naked wrestler stepped out of the crowd to accept the mute challenge, and, spitting voraciously into the palms of their hands, the adversaries dropped into a crouch and began circling.

Squires, pages, and servants belonging to the knights who were slated to partic.i.p.ate in the tournament, bustled to and from the pavilions laying out armour and weapons, inspecting all for flaws or defects, and soundly boxing the ears of anyone responsible for a smudge or spot of tarnish.

As the excitement mounted and the spectators' seats began to fill, the jongleurs and minstrels took to the field to entertain their appreciative-and captive-audience. Providing background noises were the whinnies and screams of the destriers who were paraded up from the stables to be groomed and fretted. They would have to look their most magnificent today, bedecked in plumes and silk trappings, their manes and tails plaited and bound with ribbons, ta.s.sles, and heavy gold braid. Few stood less than eighteen hands high, none were reluctant to nip at the men and boys who tended them. These war-horses were specially trained to run a course without slowing, swerving, or balking; to respond to the commands given through the rider's thighs, since most knights needed both hands free for weapons. In battle, these beasts would react savagely to the scent of blood, and not even their own masters, if sorely wounded in a confrontation, were safe from the threat of crushing hooves.

Other dangers were minimized as much as possible if the tournament was being staged for entertainment. Lances were blunted and swords sheathed in leather. Such protective measures did not mean to say a man split from his saddle could not break his neck or his back in a fall, or that the impact of a lance striking square in the chest could not crush the ribs inward and pierce through the heart. It was a generally accepted rule in such games to keep the tip of the twenty-foot steel lance lowered and to aim no higher than the shoulder for a strike. Breastplates of twice-tempered iron would usually absorb and deflect the blows, thus preventing serious injury while still sending the unlucky knight sprawling to defeat on the trammeled ground.

Squires stood by to catch the horses. Adjudicators were positioned along the alleys to judge fair or foul play. A win gained through a deliberate foul was negated in the rules, and if the victim died as a result of the foul, his gear- armour, saddle, weapons, and horse-was given to the surviving heirs, not the winner. Few knights who found themselves staring down the lists at a hated enemy cared for rules of chivalric behaviour and gladly forfeited their prizes for the chance to send their rivals to perdition. But for the most part, the entrants were well behaved, and matches set up to avoid pitting known antagonists together.

Naturally, the match between the Dragon of Bloodmoor Keep and the Scourge of Mirebeau was causing the most excitement. The two were undefeated champions on their home terrain and it was eagerly a.s.sumed the codes of chivalry would be drenched in gore before the end of the day.

What both men were doing to prepare themselves for the upcoming match was the subject of much speculation, for neither had been present in the great hall for the morning repast.

"What do you mean you cannot find him?" De Gournay asked, his anger causing him to thrust aside the helping hands of the servant endevouring to dress him.

Rowlens, the castle seneschal and chamberlain, swallowed hard and wiped at the beads of sweat trickling down to his chin.

"My lord, he is nowhere he should be expected to be. My men have searched the stables, the baileys, the barracks. He has not been seen at the smithy or the armoury since yester_ tide. He was not at chapel this morning, nor at table as is his wont early of a morning."

"Well, now that we know where he has not been," Wardieu snarled, "what I wish to know and what I command you to find out, is where he is now!" where he is now!"

"My lord, surely another squire could be fetched to a.s.sist you-"