Suddenly Genevieve recalled the business that the Temple conducted openly and that all knew. Bankers the Templars were to all of Christendom, and that fact might well be turned to her advantage.
“A deposit I come to claim,” Genevieve lied with a boldness that she hoped might be mistaken for confidence. The keeper’s lips twisted wryly and her heart sank.
“Aye?” he asked archly and clearly disbelievingly. “Then you should have no trouble showing me your receipt.”
Curse the man! Genevieve had no receipt, and well did she know she could not even forge one. Too late she recalled that the Templars were known for encoding their receipts that counterfeits might not be readily made. She patted her pockets and feigned surprise that naught crinkled.
“‘Twas here ere I left,” she mused. The skeptical keeper braced his hands on his hips.
“Not within your lute, mayhap?” he suggested slyly. Genevieve slanted him a hostile glance. “You come not to claim a deposit,” he informed her solemnly. “Well have I seen and heard you play your lute all this day. No passage will I grant you, for readily enough can I see that you mean to pursue that man within. Well you should know that traffic with women is forbidden by the Rule. Plague me no more with your tales and I will not see that you are removed from begging so close to the Temple gates.”
‘Twas a threat with which Genevieve could not argue. She opened her mouth, but closed it again, knowing full well that she could not make a case in her own favor.
Curse the keeper, for he was right. And Genevieve could not risk losing her spot at any price, especially so soon after seeing Alzeu’s killer again.
Never mind knowing that he lingered within the walls of the Temple. She endeavored to peek over the keeper one last time before she turned away, but that man scowled deeply and disapprovingly.
“Wearing my patience thin, you are,” the gatekeeper growled. “I bade you leave this gate. Obey me now ere I have you removed.”
“But—”
“Nay! No argument have you that will stay my hand!” the keeper declared with impatience in his tone. “No vagabonds do I let pass, and neither will I permit you to enter the Temple! Away with you!”
Genevieve eyed him for but an instant before she saw the fullness of his intent. No access would she have here on this day. She sighed, frowned and turned reluctantly away, feeling that she had failed Alzeu beyond belief.
* * *
The coin had not been his to grant.
The knowledge burned within Wolfram, and he felt the back of his neck heat at his realization. Naught had he to call his own—all he carried was the property of the Temple, held communally for the benefit of all. But a few coins was he granted on each excursion, in case of unforeseen difficulties. Each time he spent one, he had been compelled to supply a rigorous accounting to the Master.
Curse the impulse that had sent that coin flying from his fingers! No acceptable explanation had he for its absence and none could he give. That he had granted alms would do naught but earn him a reprimand. Alms were granted by the house on Tuesday morns and calculated as a percentage of the week’s revenues.
No right had Wolfram to independently grant alms. To tell the truth would gain him naught.
But he could lie.
The very thought was shocking for its very traitorousness. To lie to the Master was a crime of the worst order, and Wolfram could barely countenance that he had even conceived of doing so. Never had he lied. Never had he even conceived of lying. Never had he broken the Rule, and he could make no explanation of why such a thought would occur to him now.
The fog of Montsalvat might well have addled his wits, but ‘twas the song of the lute that undermined all he knew. He should never have paused to listen.
And he should never have granted to her a coin that was not his own.
Wolfram could not tell the truth about what he had done and he could not lie. ‘Twas a predicament of the first order. He scowled as he rode his horse into the stables and dismounted.
He could retrieve the coin.
Wolfram paused in the shadows and considered the wisdom of that option. Indeed, he knew not why he had even granted the lutenist the coin in the first place, he thought with annoyance. Had he been logical, he would never have created this difficulty for himself.
Although no sweeter sound was there to Wolfram than that of the lute. ‘Twas only here in the shadows of the stables that he admitted that he had near forgotten that fact. No other music was there that could coax free the distant memories tidily packed away in his mind.
He had locked those memories safely away at the mere age of four, for the sake of his sanity. He would not unleash them now and threaten all that he had gained. He would not, though he was sorely tempted.
Wolfram felt naught, he reminded himself sternly. He believed naught. He trusted none but the Master. These were his own rules. ‘Twas this resolve alone that had kept him sane. He would not toss away all he had gained for the stirring sounds of a lute, or even a fetching lutenist.
Yet the lute’s music showed neither restraint nor respect for Wolfram’s own desires. It threatened to slide the bolts and set those tender memories free once more. He had let the music wend its way into his ears for but a heartbeat before it held him powerless within its silken grip.
A mistake it had been to lend an ear, and he would be a fool to listen again.
But when the lutenist had looked up, the shock in her wide green eyes had broken the spell she was weaving. Even now, Wolfram sobered when he recalled the flash of fear that had lit those remarkable eyes when she first discerned his features. Cold fingers grasped his gut and he shuffled his feet as though he could dislodge their grip.
‘Twas almost as though she had seen his secret in that one glimpse. He had felt naked, vulnerable, bare to the elements as he never had before. Every terror he had ever had of discovery had flooded through him in a blinding flash. For an instant, he had been certain that she knew what and who he was, and the exposure he always dreaded had held him captive in its viselike grip.
‘Twas then Wolfram had impulsively cast her the coin. A penance? An appreciation of her skill with the lute? An offering born of the sheer delicacy of her and the certainty that she would have to find some shelter? ‘Twas all that and more that had prompted Wolfram’s hand, though now the gesture made little sense.
Whimsy, he scoffed. What had he hoped to gain? ‘Twas impossible that she could know what he did. Impossible. And even if she knew, by some fantastic twist of fate, who would believe the tale of a lutenist who worked in the street? None of repute. He was seeing threat where there was none and letting his customary fears outside the security of the Temple gates take root where there was no soil.
Clearly ‘twas no more than that. A squire took his horse’s reins, but Wolfram barely noticed the boy, so lost was he in his thoughts.
‘Twas evident he would have to recover the coin. He straightened his shoulders as he walked, telling himself that he was foolish to have any doubts about listening to her music again.
‘Twas only music, and naught had he to fear. The problem would be solved, the coin would be safely within his grip again before he had to make an accounting to the Master. None would ever know that Wolfram had erred. ‘Twas simple.
Before he could even leave the stable, a clerk granted him the summons to the Master’s office. In that dread moment, Wolfram was certain that that esteemed man must have guessed what he had done. He felt his color rise guiltily and forced his pulse to resume its normal pace.
Impossible ‘twas that the Master could know. Impossible, but the wedge of doubt within Wolfram could not be dislodged.
* * *
The pale-eyed stranger had disappeared so completely that Genevieve wondered if indeed she had imagined his presence. Was she not hungry beyond belief? Mayhap her overwrought imagination had conjured him from naught. Mayhap she had not seen him at all. Mayhap the twilight played tricks with her vision.
Mayhap she had been a fool of the worst order to come to Paris. Genevieve confronted the silent square dejectedly as the shadows drew long and cold. The gate creaked behind her as the keeper lowered it against the night and she strolled dejectedly away.
Naught had changed, and ‘twas easy to wonder whether she had conjured him in her mind alone. She shivered suddenly, feeling more solitary than ever she had before.
The sight of the coin reposing on the cobblestones brought her up short. Genevieve straightened carefully, but it moved naught. It glinted in the golden light of the setting sun, and the very sight of it granted her fears a cursory dismissal.
He had been here. But she would not take alms from a killer. Genevieve spun away as disappointment flooded through her.
She had failed to strike the telling blow she had vowed to take. Frustration rose hot and heavy within her breast, and Genevieve fairly stamped her foot. She had seen her enemy and done naught! She had not even learned the man’s name! Curse her foolishness! She spun around with the germ of an idea, but the gate was barred and the keeper gone from sight.
Not that that man would have told her anything, she concluded bitterly.
For her indecision, Alzeu’s murderer still stalked the streets. Curse her own slow thinking! And in addition, naught had she to show for her attempt to earn some coin. Naught for her belly, naught for shelter on this night when the wind felt fit to bring a flurry of snow. Genevieve shivered again, cursing the threadbare nature of her cloak.
Her gaze dragged unwillingly back to the coin on the cobblestones.
Naught had she but the coin a murderer had cast her way. He alone had seen fit to salute her skill. Genevieve’s heart twisted in indecision as she eyed the coin that could be her salvation this night. Wrong ‘twould be to take the coin and enjoy the patronage of Alzeu’s killer, this she knew without doubt.
As though to challenge that assertion, her belly growled in discontent. Genevieve chewed her lip indecisively. The coin caught the light, as though ‘twould deliberately tempt her to pick it up. Dark clouds rolled over the city.
A chill wind frolicked across the roofs and jostled loose shingles. Shutters were slammed shut on a home across the way, and the scent of a freshly kindled fire taunted Genevieve’s nostrils. She fancied she could smell roasted meat and readily imagined the scene before many a hearth. ‘Twould storm this night, of that she had little doubt.
Genevieve took a step forward, then stopped. ‘Twas improper to accept his coin.
But should she leave it, another would undoubtedly pick it up. Well enough she knew that it had been destined for her. A warm dinner ‘twould buy, and mayhap modest shelter for this night.
Genevieve looked to one side and the other, as furtively as if she meant to steal boldly from another. Then she darted forward and pounced on the coin, snatching it up and burying it deep in one of her pockets, as though she could not bear to look upon it.
Well it seemed that the coin burned against her flesh.
She glanced around again as though seeking witnesses to her deed and clutched her lute protectively to her chest. No one had glimpsed her betrayal of her family, though indeed knowing the truth within her heart might well be punishment enough. Genevieve gathered up her cloak and glanced back to the gates where he had disappeared without a trace. Those gates were closed against the night, which granted Genevieve an idea.
The stranger could not leave that enclosure this night once the gates were closed. And on the morrow, she would return here at first light, or even before, that she might see him again. Or mayhap the day after. If naught else, he would have to leave the shelter of those walls one day, and Genevieve would be ready.
No matter that the keeper would not let her pass. She would be here, watching and waiting. He would not pass her again without tasting her retaliation! Well would that one regret the day that Genevieve de Pereille found him in Paris.
Chapter Two
“Ah, our Italien returns,” the Master commented with his usual slow smile of welcome.
The colloquial reference to his trade never failed to make Wolfram cringe inwardly, but he strove to make no sign of his discomfort. The Master might as well have called him an empoisonneur to his face. Much to his annoyance, Wolfram felt his color rise slightly, and felt all too aware of the presence of the esquire who had shown him in.
Next he would be obliged to travel as an astrologer, and any fool would know his task. Had the Master taken leave of his senses to flaunt Wolfram’s occupation so openly?
Well it seemed that his encounter with the lutenist had served to make him more sensitive than was his wont. He fidgeted and forced himself to think of other matters.
The esquire was unfamiliar. Though truly that should have been no surprise. But a month past, another had aided the Master of the Temple. It could be naught else but a strategy to constantly change aides, and ‘twas a wise one at that, for none toiled here long enough to sense any patterns in the Master’s routine. No guest would be recognized or repeat visitors noted by a new assistant. A small safeguard ‘twas to ensure no word of what transpired within these offices filtered to the outside world.
‘Twas eminently logical, and if naught else, the Master was logical beyond compare. Wolfram respected that. Logical men seldom erred, and he slept better knowing the only one who knew his identity was of the same ilk as himself. He shot the Master a telling glance, disliking that he had made such a fundamental slip before that esquire.
Well it seemed that the Master stifled a smirk.
Wolfram bowed, then straightened to shake the older man’s proffered hand. The Master flicked a dismissive finger at the esquire. The young man bowed his head and disappeared, discreetly closing the door behind himself. The Master regarded Wolfram with barely concealed amusement.
“Something troubles you?” he inquired archly.
Wolfram cocked a brow. “I would not presume to comment on your affairs,” he said stiffly. The Master chuckled, and Wolfram looked to his superior in alarm.
In but a month, the man had clearly taken leave of his senses.
“Deaf as a post, he is,” the Master confided in a devilish whisper. The Master’s glittering eyes convinced Wolfram both that his thoughts had been read and that the older man spoke the truth. His ears burned with the knowledge that a jest had been made at his expense, and he took the indicated seat with less than his usual grace.
He cursed the music again that had so addled his wits. How could he have forgotten the Master’s wit? All was well here. Wolfram took a deep breath and heard his voice recover its usual tone.
“Of what use is a deaf esquire to you?” he asked with polite curiosity.
“‘Tis a great convenience when dealing with those who tend to have loose tongues,” the Master confided with reassuringly familiar decorum. “Should I manage to find a deaf esquire who was also mute, I would be the happiest man in Christendom,” he added dryly.
Wolfram was surprised enough by the comment that he could not completely quell his snort of laughter. He covered the slip with a discreet cough and looked up to find the Master’s expression genial.
“All went well, I assume?” he inquired.
“Better than might have been anticipated,” Wolfram acknowledged carefully.
The Master eyed Wolfram for a long moment, as though he sought to identify something different in his manner. Wolfram did not squirm beneath that piercing scrutiny, though his pulse increased with the conviction that the Master could glimpse his innermost thoughts.
Impossible that he could know about the coin. Impossible.
Something flickered in the older man’s gaze, and Wolfram was less sure than he might have liked to be. The flame of the candle sputtered in the tallow, and well it seemed that ‘twas suddenly uncommonly warm in the office. Wolfram fancied something trickled down his spine, and he counted his pulse in his ears as the silence stretched long between them.
“I trust you will leave me to celebrate alone, as alwa
ys?” the Master asked finally.
The question caught Wolfram completely off guard. So convinced had he been that an accounting would be demanded on the spot that he blinked dazedly. He gazed uncomprehendingly at the proffered carafe of eau-de-vie for a long moment before realizing what was transpiring.
“Nay. I would join you this time,” he said, his voice mercifully more steady than he had feared it would be. The Master shot him another of those piercing glances but refrained from comment as he placed another glass beside the one already on his desk. “A long ride has it been this day,” Wolfram added, completely unnecessarily. This time his voice betrayed him in the lie and wavered more than intended.
Curse the lutenist and her nimble fingers.
And her ruddy bowed lips.
That thought stunned Wolfram with its unexpectedness, though the vivid image of those very lips startled him yet more. He had not even realized that he had noticed them, let alone that the sight of them was imprinted on his mind. His chest tightened with the certainty that they would be soft and warm, and he wondered what wicked demon had taken possession of his mind.
Clearly he had best address the matter of the coin as quickly as possible.
He drank the unfamiliar eau-de-vie too quickly to not be surprised by its strength. That the Master chuckled as Wolfram coughed was no consolation. When finally he caught his breath, he fired the older man a hostile glance decidedly beyond the privilege of his station.
“Mayhap ‘tis a time to drink like Templars, as the saying goes,” the Master jested blithely. Wolfram winced at the fallacious if familiar expression.
The Master, much to Wolfram’s confusion, seemed to find the popular saying amusing. He took no heed of Wolfram’s less positive response as he drained his own glass. Wolfram waited expectantly for the Master to echo his own flinch at the strength of the liquor, but the other man merely bared his teeth as he swallowed and then exhaled in sharp satisfaction. His gaze was still incisive as it locked once more with Wolfram’s.
Unicorn Vengeance Page 3