Through a Dark Mist

by Marsha Canham

  “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 butterflies.

  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 breasts 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 passed 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 participate 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, tassles, 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 assumed 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!”

  “My lord, surely another squire could be fetched to assist you—”

  “I do not want another squire, damn you!” Wardieu roared, sending a spray of flying crockery against the wall. “I want Eduard! I want him brought here to me, in chains if need be, and I want to see him without any further delays or excuses!”

  “My lord?”

  The two men whirled to stare at the door. One of them melted instantly with relief, the other clenched his hands into fists and advanced ominously toward the guileless figure who stood there.

  “Where” the Dragon seethed, “by God’s holy ordinance, have you been?”

  Eduard looked calmly from the seneschal to his master, to the raven-haired Nicolaa de la Haye who was lounging close by in a tunic so red it burned the eyes.

  “I … was at the armourers,” Eduard said, glancing back at Wardieu. “I was ensuring your lances were all—”

  “Liar!” The flat of De Gournay’s hand lashed out and caught the squire on the side of his face, smashing him sideways against the stone wall. “You were not at the armourers! You have not been seen at the armourers since yesterday!”

  Eduard straightened, his hand cupped to his mouth to catch the slippery warmth of blood that flowed from his torn lip. He was dazed and reeling slightly; his cheek and forehead had struck hard against the stone, and the flesh was serrated a raw red.

  “I will only ask once more,” De Gournay threatened. “Where have you been all night and morning? And I warn you now, if you dare another lie, I will have the skin flayed from your body in bloody strips.”

  Eduard’s gray eyes flickered with pain, but did not waver from Wardieu’s.

  “I was with the maid Glyneth,” he said hoarsely. “I … we overslept, my lord, and I have just been explaining to Mary, the cook, that the fault was mine and Glyneth should be spared a beating.”

  “You have been wenching?” Nicolaa asked with a wry sneer. “How positively true to the Wardieu bloodlines.”

  “Nicolaa—have you nowhere else to be right now?”

  “My, my,” she said, the narrowed green eyes slicing to De Gournay. “We are full of vinegar this morning, are we not? Two servants sent for a flogging because they spilled a few crumbs of bread. A guard railed for a torn tunic and … dear oh dear … now a lad knocked half senseless for sharing one of your own favorite pastimes. Is it a simple case of nerves, my lord, or is it due to the glaring tardiness of a certain other yellow-haired insolent?”

  De Gournay’s teeth appeared in a brief snarl, but a pat of blood from Eduard’s hand dripped onto the floor and earned a scathing glance instead. “Get yourself cleaned up and fetch the Lady Servanne down from her tower rooms. Tell her I expect her to be ready and waiting to accompany me to the fields within the hour, regardless of her state of dress or undress!”

  When Eduard departed, De Gournay turned to the seneschal, who had dearly hoped he had been forgotten.

  “Find this wench Glyneth and question her yourself. If she gives you any reason to doubt his story, I want to know it without delay.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Frowning, the seneschal left and Nicolaa arched a brow.

  “Rather sanctimonious of you to be so suspicious, is it not? Or is there something you are not telling me?”

  “There have just been too many coincidences lately, and I would sooner not be surprised by any more.”

  Prince John smiled lazily. “I trust you will convey my heartfelt thanks to my dear mother for her … generous contribution to the expenses incurred during my niece’s visit.” He hefted the lid on the small chest of glittering gold coins and equally bright sparks of greed were mirrored in the depths of the squinted, dark eyes. “Ahh yes, very generous.”

  Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer stood tall and silent before the prince, his body clad in various textures of black from linen to leather to the gleaming black silk of his hood. Behind him was a phalanx of armoured knights who stood facing the prince’s men, glower to glower, watchful eye to watchful eye.

  “The Princess Eleanor?” La Seyne asked.

  John stared thoughtfully at the gold for a moment, then flicked a hand vapidly at one of the guards. The knight nodded and turned curtly to a narrow door, opened it, and gestured someone to come through.

  The Princess Eleanor of Brittany was eight years old and trying very hard to be brave. Wakened before dawn this morning, she had been helped into her clothes by the coarse-handed, foul-mouthed trull her uncle had assigned as waiting-woman. She had not been told where she was going or what to expect at the end of the anxious, hour-long wait in a small, airless anteroom.

  Her thin frame had grown even thinner in the four months since she had been abducted from Mirebeau. She had stubbornly kept her lips firmly shut for all but the barest necessities of food and communication, using silence as her solace and her defense. To her secret pleasure, she had discovered her lack of response and animation riled her uncle John more than any other form of temperament. This, combined with the searingly blue Plantagenet eyes that were never remiss in frosting over with icy hatred when directed at her uncle, made John blatantly relieved to be ridding himself of her.

  Eleanor was ushered through the door and stood a moment, blinking to adjust her eyes to the brighter light. She saw the guards—far too many of them for a normal meeting with her uncle—and it took a second fearful look around for her to realize fully half of them wore the colours of La Seyne Sur Mer! Startled, she searched the lines of grim, solemn faces until she saw the one she had hoped and prayed to see all these months of captivity. Sir Randwulf! He had come! He had come to rescue her just as she had known he would!

  La Seyne saw the little princess and felt a wave of relief wash through him. She appeared to be unharmed—a trace thinner, perhaps, and unaccustomed to smiling—but unharmed.

  Eleanor darted eagerly forward. One of John’s guards flashed out a hand to bar her path and immediately, from La Seyne’s guard, a score of calloused hands flew instinctively to the hilts of their swords.

  “As you can see,” John drawled, “my niece is in perfect health. She will be given into your care directly, La Seyne, but first … you have no objections if a Jew counts the gold for me? In these trying times, with chicanery so rife, one can never be too careful, even when dealing with relatives. Especially relatives.”

  La Seyne absorbed the slight with nary a ripple of muscle. Not so his men, who bristled visibly at this further insult—so much so that this time it was John’s guards who inched their hands nervously toward their swords.

  “I’ll not keep you, however,” the prince offered generously. “I know you have much to do to prepare for the tourney this afternoon, so if you would prefer simply to leave one of your men in charge—?”

  “I will wait.” La Seyne scowled, the chill in the fireless room giving his words a ghostly substance through the black silk.

  John, warmed by his thick velvet doublet as well as well as his smug self-satisfaction, leaned back and formed a tent with his gloved fingers, the tips pressed against his lips. “It should take no more than an hour or two. For a moneylender, he tends to count slowly to avoid any chance of error.”

  La Seyne crossed his arms over his chest, presenting a formidable tower of immovable strength. Inwardly he was thinking: If it was a ploy to unsettle him before the match, it was a feeble effort at best. Outwardly, he let the silk mask crease in an imitation of a smile. “I will wait.”

  * * *

  Servanne jumped when she heard the knock on the outer door. Both she and Biddy were standing by one of the tall, arched windows and, as one, they reached for the comforting
grasp of each other’s hands.

  “Who comes?” Biddy called, her voice querulous but remarkably firm. She had had to ponder a great deal in the past few hours—from the Wolf’s identity, to the confirmed proof of Etienne Wardieu’s duplicity, to the very real possibility they could all be betrayed, beheaded, and their corpses left to rot on spiked poles by way of example to others.

  The sight of De Gournay’s young squire brought another quailing start to Biddy’s breast, a condition augmented by the puffed, split bruises on Eduard’s face.

  “Eduard!” Servanne gasped, leaving the embrasure to rush to the young man’s side. “What happened!”

  “’tis nothing, my lady. It is your welfare, not mine, which concerns me more.”

  “My lamb’s welfare?” Biddy exclaimed, hurrying over. “What do you mean?”

  “There is no time for explanations, mistress goodwife. Only know that the Dragon’s mood does not bode well for anyone who chooses to cross him this day. He is already in a rampage over the messages my lady has sent to explain her absences at chapel and table this morning. He has been pacing like a caged lion in his chamber all this time, refusing to appear without you by his side. To that end, he has given me explicit instructions not to return to the hall without you.”

  A small flaring of defiance sent a flush into Servanne’s cheeks. “How dare he issue such orders. I am not his chattel. Not yet, at any rate.”

  Biddy was more practical. “Eduard—what trouble do you anticipate?”

  “Too much for any of us to handle alone, but do not fear, Mistress Bidwell. I will not let the bastard touch a hair on my lady’s head; on this you have my word.”

  Servanne pressed cool fingers to her temple. “It is not for my safety I fear the most. Eduard—we must find some way of warning your father … your real father; the real Lucien Wardieu. There is no telling what Etienne may do now out of desperation to keep his secret intact. He will set a trap, at the very least—a trap your father will walk into blindly unless he is forewarned.”