Biddy, as exhausted and stiff of limb as she was, took personal command of the maids while they tended her lamb, ordering a gentler touch here, and more care in scrubbing there. She frowned and clucked her tongue through waves of despair and self-recrimination when Servanne made little or no response to the helping hands. Her eyes filled and her nose leaked each time she noted a bruise or chafed patch of redness on the perfect whiteness of her lady’s skin.
The sleeping chambers at the abbey were hardly more accommodating than the chambers at Thornfeld. Bare stone walls, bare earthen floor, a single candle, and a narrow wooden cot were the essentials provided by the monks. Clean linens, armloads of thick quilts and feather cushions arrived from the encampment on the hillside, along with trenchers of soup, cheese, and meat sufficient to cause the monks’ eyes to water as they carried the repast to the lady’s chamber.
Servanne’s belly turned over at the thought of food. She did consume a healthy portion of strong, warmed mead in the hour it took Giselle and Helvise to comb her hair into a sleek golden cascade. By then her eyelids were so heavy and her thoughts so dulled, she could barely see the feet at the end of her legs as she was led from the chair to the sleeping couch.
She was asleep before the quilts were drawn over her shoulders.
Come morning, it was still raining. The sky was an oppressive mantle of cloud, with low, metallic-green underbellies rumbling constantly with thunder. Servanne opened her eyes briefly around midmorning, but since there was nothing to greet her aside from blank stone walls and Biddy’s open-mouthed snoring, she closed them again and slept until well past noon. A summons was conveyed from the abbot’s refectory shortly thereafter: The Baron de Gournay was there, awaiting a private audience with Lady Servanne de Briscourt.
“What shall I do, Biddy?” Servanne whispered. “What shall I say to him?”
“Do? Why, you shall do nothing, my lady. He cannot possibly hold you to blame for any of this. If anything, he should bear the greater burden of guilt for having permitted such a travesty to occur on his lands. He should prostrate himself on the ground at your feet and beg forgiveness. You should have been better safeguarded. He must have known the forests were unsafe. He must have known they were populated by murderers, thieves, and rogues. He should have had them burned out and their hiding places razed to the ground rather than endure the risk of having our cavalcade ambushed! No, no, my lady. You must not meet him with guilt in your breast and a plea for penance in your eyes. This was none of your doing. None at all!”
Servanne sighed wearily as the diatribe continued on behind her. Obviously Biddy had exonerated them in her own mind. For women to be kidnapped and held to ransom was almost an accepted method for two enemies to exchange hostilities. The resultant outrage and sympathy, if any, was usually directed toward the man whose pride and honour had been blemished. Rarely did anyone consider the poor woman’s feelings or even acknowledge the fact that she had been the one to suffer the most throughout the ordeal.
Servanne’s plight would be regarded no differently. After all, she had been neither a virgin nor bound to Christ by vows of chastity and purity. She had been fair game to anyone who sought to tickle Wardieu’s nose for revenge or profit, and her own anguish would be forgotten in a day or so, dismissed by men whose ire would be roused in defense of Wardieu’s tarnished honour. That was how the world would see it, how Biddy had worked to convince herself to see it, and how Servanne would be expected to accept it now that she was back, safe and sound, under Lord Wardieu’s protection.
The trouble was, she did not accept it. She felt angry at being used and betrayed, but she was also hurt and confused, and the last thing she wanted to have to do now was face the knight who called himself Lucien Wardieu, especially when her mind and body were filled with the essence of the rogue who sought to challenge that claim.
Arriving at the threshold of the small antechamber set aside as Abbot Hugo’s sanctum, Servanne was halted by a rush of torn emotions. The Baron de Gournay was standing in front of the miserly fire that had been built in the corner alcove. The light from the solitary window was dim at best, the air murky with smoke and dampness, the crack and hiss of the weak flames adding nothing to the sinister atmosphere but a sour smell.
As she stared at his broad back, she realized he was easily as tall as the Black Wolf, disturbingly as long-limbed and muscular. He had abandoned the glittering ominousness of chain mail for a rich velvet surcoat and a long-sleeved doublet. Well-fitting hose shaped the powerful thickness of his thighs and calves, while low deerhide boots moulded his feet like slippers. His head was bare; the gleaming gold waves of his hair curled to the top of his collar, lying like fine silk against the dark blue velvet.
A second movement, deeper in the shadows, startled Servanne’s gaze to the opposite side of the chamber. Her surprise was not diminished in finding the dark green gaze of a woman had been studying her with the same silent intensity she had been studying Wardieu. The look in Nicolaa de la Haye’s eyes did not invite any attempt at speech. Rather, it commanded Servanne to stand and endure a slow, increasingly disapproving inspection that climbed from the hem of her subdued, modest gown to the embroidered linen headpiece that capped her wimple.
“Lucien, darling.” The full scarlet lips curved into a semblance of a smile. “The moment of truth has arrived at long last.”
A frown of annoyance was cast sidelong at Nicolaa, then, realizing they were no longer alone in the airless chamber, Wardieu turned fully around.
Regardless of the Wolf’s forewarning of a resemblance between the two, seeing Wardieu’s face without the impediments of the steel helm or the gloom of the forest, was enough to send Servanne’s hand digging into Biddy’s for much-needed support. The stern line of the jaw was the same, as was the width and authority of the brow. The straightness of the nose, the resolute firmness of the mouth bespoke a long and shared ancestry of noble Norman blood. Moreover, Servanne found herself drawn deeply and helplessly into eyes that were dangerously familiar in raw, sensual magnetism. Instead of being pewter gray, steeped in quiet secrets, these were a stunning cerulean blue, hard as gemstones and equally rich in self-esteem.
“Good God,” Nicolaa murmured, drifting closer to where Servanne stood. The contrast of the young widow’s plain woolen gown with her own richly woven and embroidered silks seemed to please the beauteous Lady de la Haye, as did the comparative lack of shapeliness beneath the dull homespun. “Ten thousand marks does not buy much these days, does it? Just as well you were saved the expense, my lord.”
“Leave the girl alone, Nicolaa,” he commanded softly. “She has been through enough already without having to contend with your cat’s claws.”
Nicolaa smirked faintly as she looked down and busied one red-stained talon with scraping some hint of dirt out from beneath the crescent of another.
Wardieu moved away from the fire, his eyes narrowing against the gloom as Servanne’s features grew more distinct. What little he had previously recalled about his betrothed had not inspired him to regard her too closely upon her release to him. Nor had it prepared him for the smooth, translucent complexion he saw now, or the delicate oval of her face with its sweetly arched mouth. Her eyes were a darker hue than his own, the blue flecked with tiny triangles of gold and green, but he had already seen them sparked to deepest sapphire with anger and could not help but wonder if passion would have the same effect.
This last speculation took him by surprise and was reflected in the timbre of his voice as he bowed low over her hand and pressed his lips to her cool fingers.
“My lady, I praise God you have been returned to us unharmed.”
Servanne dared not look up into his spellbinding stare. It was all she could do to hold her wits together to face the questions she knew he would ask her. He would ask. There was no question but that he would ask, the only question was whether she could answer without betraying herself.
“Unharmed?” It was Biddy’s voice, coming her rescue. “Indeed t
here was not a sense or sensibility left unharmed! The food was spoiled and malodourous, crawling with vermin. The wine was as rancid as vinegar, the rushes we slept on so mouldy and slimy with rat droppings, it will take a vat of steamed rose petals to cleanse the stench from our nostrils. Why, another day in the hands of those … those rogues and villains and ’tis a certainty my lady would not have had the strength to draw another breath. See how pale my poor lamb has become? See how frail and ill she has fallen? Oh, I cannot even bring myself to recount the horrors she was subjected to in the company of that beast! That brute! That … that wolf! Black-hearted and cruel he was; cunning as the pox and as likely to come upon you unawares despite his size, by the bloody rood.”
She paused to trumpet her nose into the hem of her apron, and the knight regarded her puffed countenance with a smile that did not quite touch his eyes.
“This … Black Wolf, as he called himself,” Wardieu asked, “Did you ever hear another name used? A Christian name, perhaps?”
“He called himself Lucien Wardieu,” Biddy recalled with a sniff of outrage. “But only the once, and only at the beginning, to shock us, methinks. Why, any soul with half an eye could see he was no more noble born than a farm mule, and the fact he chose you, my lord, to support his charade, proves he is no smarter than the selfsame ass. Who, in all of England, does not know the Baron de Gournay by sight? Who does not know of your courage, your honour, your strength? Why—”
“Yes, yes. I thank you for your commendations, good-wife,” Wardieu interrupted, then looked from the maid to Servanne. “My lady? Surely he used some other name in your presence?”
Servanne’s heart jumped upward to lodge at the base of her throat. “In truth, my lord, he only called himself Lucien Wardieu, as Biddy has said.”
“Did you not question his usage?” Nicolaa asked with a sneer. “A man committing crimes in the name of your betrothed should at least have roused some curiosity.”
Servanne looked at her calmly. “I spoke to the outlaw as seldom as possible.”
“What about when you were beneath him? Did you not ask what name he would prefer you cry out?”
Servanne flushed a deep red but held her tongue, fully expecting Wardieu to rise to her defense. After a long moment, when nothing was forthcoming over and above Biddy’s renewed sobs of despair, she looked at De Gournay, only to find him returning her gaze as calmly as if they were discussing a recent repast.
The Wolf had said he and Nicolaa were lovers. If it was true, it would explain Nicolaa de la Haye’s open hostility. It also made Servanne wonder what kind of man would bring his mistress to a meeting with his future bride.
“Bastard,” she said evenly. “I called him bastard. What would you call a man who used you and flung you aside like a scrap of soiled linen?”
Nicolaa arched a raven brow. “I might call him lover, if he was any good.”
Servanne’s cheeks were flushed, her hands were balled into fists. There was the bitter, coppery taste of blood in her mouth from where she had bitten down on the fleshy pulp of her lip, but instead of tearing Nicolaa de la Haye’s throat out, shred by shred, as she longed to do, she startled everyone present in the chamber by sinking slowly down onto her knees in front of De Gournay.
“Good my lord, I am most deeply grateful for everything you have done on my behalf.”
“My lady—?”
“Even so, I would beg one more small favour of you.”
Wardieu looked down upon the bowed head, a puzzled frown gathering across his brow. “What is this … favour?”
Servanne tilted her face upward, the shine of unshed tears bright in her eyes. “If you could but spare me the necessary escort to see me safely back to Wymondham, I would gladly compensate both you and your men for any inconvenience you have been caused.”
“You would prefer to return to Sir Hubert’s estates?” he asked in amazement.
“I cannot, in faith, remain here, my lord. Not when I am no longer worthy of your … respect, or … consideration.”
“You would wish to reconsider the terms of the betrothal agreement?”
“I would wish to release you from all promises, my lord,” she corrected him quietly. “Your good name must not be besmirched by the stain my own now bears.”
Behind them, Nicolaa de la Haye smiled with satisfaction. Her smug good humour lasted only until she saw Wardieu lean forward with studious care and bring Servanne de Briscourt up off her knees.
“I appreciate your concerns for my good name, Lady Servanne, but be assured I am well able to defend it myself. As far as I am concerned, nothing has happened to make me any less determined to share it with you in holy wedlock.”
“I … do not want your pity, monseigneur.”
“I reserve my pity for fools and cripples. In my opinion, you are neither. Nor should you be held accountable for the actions of a depraved outlaw. I am satisfied the terms of the marriage contract have been met. It is my wish that we put this unpleasantness behind us as quickly as possible and look only at what lies ahead.” He paused and tucked a finger beneath her chin. “Unless of course, it was never your wish to marry me, in which case, I would not force you to do so now against your will.”
Servanne’s senses were reeling. “You would allow me to return to Wymondham?”
“My lady, if, in the few short days remaining before our wedding is to take place, you cannot reconcile yourself with the idea of becoming my wife, I will escort you back to Wymondham myself.”
Servanne searched the depths of his eyes for signs of duplicity, for any hint he was someone other than the man he claimed to be … but if there was something there, it eluded her. It gave her little comfort, however, for evidence of him possessing any other shreds of emotion eluded her as well and she was left with the chilling impression he knew only hate and anger.
“I … will accept your hospitality, of course,” she whispered. “Until then.”
“Good. Then it is settled. My men are making preparations, even as we speak, to break camp and return to Blood-moor with all haste.”
“Bloodmoor?” Biddy gasped. “In this weather? I absolutely forbid it!”
The blue eyes turned crystalline as they moved slowly from Servanne’s face to focus on Biddy.
“I cannot allow it,” she said, displaying an unusual disregard for self-preservation. “I cannot conceive of such a heartless notion. Why, we have just escaped a wolf’s lair where our lives and safety were in constant peril! Can you not see my poor lamb is exhausted? Would you ask her— even though her legs wobble with the effort required to simply stand before you—to clamber up upon a horse’s back and endure what additional torments such a heinous journey would surely extoll?”
“You … forbid it, you say?”
Biddy thrust out her prodigious bosoms stubbornly. “My lady requires rest and solitude, peace and undisturbed sleep if it is to be hoped she may begin to recover from her ordeal.”
Wardieu clearly looked as if he might like to knock one or both fists against the side of Biddy’s head, but he nodded, barely perceptibly at first, then with somewhat more conviction as a precipitous crash of thunder shook the abbey to its foundations.
“The weather shows no sign of improving, as I had hoped,” he conceded. “And even with Lucifer at our heel we would not reach Bloodmoor before midnight. Very well, we will take advantage of Abbot Hugo’s kindness one more night.”
A second nod to someone who had arrive unseen in the doorway, brought Sir Roger de Chesnai hastening into the chamber and dropping instantly onto one knee to greet the Lady Servanne.
“Sir Roger!” She smiled with genuine affection for the first time in a week. “You are recovered from your wound?”
“’Twas nothing, milady. A pinprick scarce worth a leech’s fees.”
“You will remain with Lady Servanne and see to any comforts she may require,” said Wardieu. “Deliver my warm regards to Abbot Hugo and tell him we will be vacating his field at dawn; h
ave him also prepare either a coffin or a litter for the sheriff at that time.”
“Aye, my lord. It shall be as you ask.”
“Lady Servanne,” De Gournay bowed to her again. “Your own guard will remain with you for the night. I trust their presence will ease your mind of some burden.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered. “I did not mean to imply—”
But he was gone, swept out of the chamber with a swirl of his blue silk mantle. Nicolaa de la Haye was a pace behind, taking two steps to each one of his, her voice reduced to a low growl by anger.
“Are you not going to ask her about the Wolf? You were bristling with questions the whole morning long, and now you mean to just walk away?”
“The old witch was right,” he said thoughtfully. “She was in no condition to be badgered.”
“Badgered?” The disbelief in Nicolaa’s expression caused her to slow her steps. “Every hour we delay gives him an hour more to plot against us. Why, in heaven’s name, did you not send your men back to Thornfeld immediately upon your return with the chit? Why did you not attack and burn them out when you had the chance?”
“Because there was no chance, Nicolaa. He would undoubtedly have moved his camp the instant we rode away. What is more, he and his men have had eight weeks to familiarize themselves with the forest. They could have picked my men off one at a time and laughed out of the sides of their mouths while doing it.”
“But the girl—maybe she knows something. Maybe she knows where they would have moved. And if she does, we must have the information from her now.”
Wardieu stopped and glared. “And if she knows nothing more? Will not your incessant questions and jealous ravings only rouse her to wonder if there was more to it than a simple kidnapping?”
“You speak to me as if I were a child!”
“You are acting childish, you leave me little choice.” He stared down at her glowering countenance a moment longer, then walked back the few paces to where she stood. “There will be no more games, Nicolaa. No sly remarks. No taunting, no teasing. No gossip. The girl is here and I intend to marry her as planned. I intend to legally assume title and deed to Sir Hubert’s fiefdom and, by God, if I choose to bed her before, during, or after the wedding ceremony, there is absolutely nothing you can say or do to stop me. In fact”— he cupped her chin in one of his hands and forced her to raise her blazing green eyes to his—“if these jealous rages of yours persist, I will not only make a point of bedding her every hour upon the hour but I will do so with you bound and gagged and lying alongside us. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Through a Dark Mist Page 24