The other two bodies were like children by comparison, reed-thin and identical in features. So identical, even in death, the Dragon paused to take a second look, noting the spike in the one man’s temple and the crossbow bolt in the other’s. His gaze rested briefly on the hands of the twins. One had died holding fast to the other as if to ensure their journey through eternity together.
The Dragon drew an impatient breath and started to turn away, stopping when he noticed the pattern of blood smears on the floor. The giant and one of the twins had apparantly been responsible for putting up a last defense against the massed guards. Admirably, they had killed or wounded more than a dozen men before their supply of arrows had run out. The twin’s broken leg accounted for most of the blood leaked around the pile of empty quivers, it being dragged behind him as he loaded and armed the bows. But there was one streaky swath leading back toward the cells that gave no immediate explanation for its presence.
“A torch,” Etienne barked, holding out his hand.
The smoking, pitch-soaked light was thrust at him and the Dragon lowered it to concentrate its illumination on the bloodstained floor. He followed the trail to the far wall of the donjon, then ducked down to examine the scuffs and crumbled mortar that covered the floor of the cell.
“Look,” Nicolaa gasped, stabbing a finger at where the light flickered on the back wall. Four central blocks had been hastily replaced but not pushed flush against the surrounding squares.
The Dragon threw the torch aside and began clawing at the loose blocks. They moved easily enough and within seconds he had the hole opened again and was reinacting Alaric’s and Lucien’s discovery of the steps carved into the side of the shaft. A scrap of burning jute from the torch was scraped loose and fell down into the blackness, and, as his predecessors had done, he tracked the depth of the well shaft as the light was swallowed into the void below.
“You!” he shouted over his shoulder for the closest guard. “Climb up this bloody thing and see where it leads.”
The guard stared into the cold blue eyes for a moment and decided it would present a greater peril to refuse. “Aye, lord. And when I do … find out where it leads, that is … what then?”
“Well,” Etienne ground his teeth beligerently. “If you get to the top and find no one else there, you might consider shouting for your comrades and letting them know you are still alive. If you find company at the top, it will hardly matter, for you will be screaming all the way down again.”
The guard swallowed hard and disappeared through the hole in the cell wall.
“Did you know this was here?” Nicolaa asked.
Glaring his response, the Dragon turned and addressed the rest of the guards. “I want the sentries doubled on all the gates and the inner bailey completely sealed. They cannot have gone far, nor moved very fast with wounded men in their midst. I want every inch of these cellars searched in case we have been fed a false clue; overturn every barrel, move every board, scour the towers and keeps from top to bottom. I want the bastard found!” he screamed. “I want his heart in my hands, and God have mercy on the man who lets him escape again!”
“Calm yourself, Etienne,” Nicolaa murmured, laying a hand on his arm. “He may have slipped his chains and gained his freedom temporarily, but he will not go far. Not while you still have something he wants very much.”
“Wants—?” The Dragon whirled on her, the madness in eyes clouding his reason.
“The girl, Etienne. Your brother will not leave the castle until he has found the girl.”
“But he will not find her, because you and I and the guards who are standing watch over her are the only ones who know where she is hidden.”
“We have underestimated him once already. Perhaps we should not be so eager to do it again.”
“How can he know what he cannot know?”
“How? Because he is not human, he has proven that already.” Nicolaa moved an intimate step closer. “But she is. She is quite human—soft and fragile—the perfect bait with which to catch a wolf … alive or dead.”
The need for violence was in the Dragon’s jaw, clamped shut with the effort it was taking to contain his anger. Nicolaa waited, her eyes glistening, the nerves in her belly fluttering with anticipation as she detected the first glints of sadistic pleasure in his eyes.
“Perhaps you are right,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Perhaps the least obvious place will be the most obvious choice after all. Yes … yes, he will know she is in the eyrie and he will attempt to go to her.”
“We can have fifty men on the cliffs waiting for him!” Nicolaa cried eagerly.
“No. No, by God, we will do nothing to interfere. If he is so desperate to rescue the fair maiden, who are we to stop him? After all, where can he go? Where can he take her except down?” Etienne indulged in a wry smile, noting Nicolaa’s macabre arousal and feeling a similar response stirring in his own loins. “That is where we shall have our fifty men, my dear. And that is where we shall snare ourselves the last black wolf in England.”
29
The drop from the castle to the eagle’s eyrie was every bit as hair-raising and suicidal as Eduard had described. The path may once have been wide enough for two to pass safely, but wind and weather constantly buffeted the sheer wall of the cliffs, eroding the rock inch by inch leaving nothing to prevent a misplaced foot from skidding over the crumbling edge. From there, a body plummeted to a violent death, smashed on the crush of rocks and frenzied seas below.
Conquering the steeply declined path in daylight was proof enough of anyone’s mettle. Attempting it by sporadic moonlight, without a torch or the comfort of familiarity to guide each footstep, was sheer and utter madness … or so Alaric kept shouting, each time his heart was not in his throat and he could be heard over the roar of the waves below.
The Wolf kept a tight rein on his nerves—admittedly not as steely as he would have liked them to be on this wind-ridden night. He forced himself to look at the path not the void beside it. He fought to ignore the constant lurching of his stomach and the feel of cold sweat running in torrents between his shoulder blades. Instead, he concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, and on trying to remember the exact layout and approach to the eagle’s eyrie.
As a reckless young boy, he had taken special pride in exploring every dangerous and forbidden area of the castle grounds: the donjons, the high catwalks surrounding the ramparts, the darkest heart of the forests where pagans worshipped and druids offered sacrifices to Herne the Hunter. The cliffs had been a particularily satisfying challenge, for the only weapon he could use against his fear of the wind and the terrifying height was his own courage.
The eyrie was a fluke of nature, a ripple on the face of the rocks where the path widened briefly to form a large, flat ledge. In poor weather a fire could be built on the eyrie to warn away ships that were straying too close to shore, but in the years since the Dragon had become Master of Blood-moor Keep, no doubt it was considered more profitable to let the ships wander where they may and spew their cargo up on shore. The currents were fierce and ever changing, as able to suck an unsuspecting vessel into the reefs and boulders and reduce it to kindling, as to deliver a boat into the narrow sheltered cove that was tucked like an armpit between the outer reef and shore.
Lifting his face to the gloomy sky, Lucien tasted the strong bite of salt on his lips. The wind was sharp and cold, strong enough to gust against the rocks and snatch at the folds of the monk’s robes they wore. The ruse had worked once, Alaric had reasoned, and it might make a difference of a few precious seconds while the sentries were deciding whether to fire their crossbows or not. Besides which, the first cart Sir Roger had spied, not fifty yards outside the castle walls, had belonged to a brace of holy brothers who had camped there in the hopes of attending the wedding in the morning.
Precisely why two monks would be found climbing down a perilous path on the side of a cliff in the dead of night, Alaric had not yet fathomed, but if no
thing else, the warm woolen garments gave them some protection from the cold and kept their teeth from chattering an alert to the guards ahead. Hopefully the sentries would be too cold and miserable themselves to be watching the path.
Making their way to the gate and bribing their way through it had cost precious time. Sparrow had been the first to disappear into the darkness, having the farthest to go and the most to accomplish before dawn threatened the sky. Sir Roger had thought the business of stealing the cart a tad anticlimactic, but the holy brothers had not been wont to squander their alms on sturdy wheels, and the route Lucien scratched into the dirt would take several hours to cover. Eduard and Gil had set off cheerily enough for the fishing boats, and it was not until they were long gone that Alaric noticed fresh blood stains in the scuffed prints Eduard had left behind.
Robed and cowled, Friar and the Wolf had followed the base of the castle wall looking and feeling much like two ants crawling around the base of a giant oak. What breath they had left at the end was taken away by the wind and the awesome view of the sea so far below. Black and oily, the surface glistened with pewter-coloured troughs. The moon was two, perhaps three hours above the horizon, and it would travel several more before the two men had finished picking their way down the cliffs. Alaric had stared at the sea, at the ridiculously narrow mouth of the path, and at the tall shadowy figure who stood silently beside him, his hood flown back off his head, his dark hair streaming back in the wind.
“I should have pushed you off then,” Alaric shouted, battling a mouthful of woolen cowling, “and jumped after you. This is madness! Utter madness!”
“We have come more than halfway,” the Wolf countered. “And if you shout any louder you will have them shooting at us from the castle walls!”
“How much more than halfway?” Alaric asked after a moment.
“See there … where the path widens?”
Alaric craned his neck to see around the Wolf’s shoulder without having to lean too far out from the wall. He could see nothing but a black void below them, but he nodded anyway, trusting Lucien’s keener eyesight.
“Just around that curve, it widens and flattens into a ledge. Another few minutes we should be able to see a glow from their fire, if they have one. We have made good time, all things considered. It would do no harm to stop here and rest a few minutes.”
Alaric sagged gratefully against the wall of rock. But his respite was short-lived, and voluntarily so. Out of the corner of one eye he could see the silhouette of Bloodmoor’s ramparts rising black and evil into the night sky above them. Out of the other he could see the face of the Wolf, and for a moment, he did not know which of the two terrified him more.
“We can rest in hell, old friend,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Lucien checked the balance of his sword and unsheathed two razor-sharp poniards from his belt, tucking one into each sleeve.
“You had better let me go first here on in,” Friar advised. “And for the love of God, keep your hood up and well forward to shadow your face. The Devil might welcome such grisly fierceness, but I doubt any wary Christians would see comfort there.”
Lucien cursed the delay, but drew the hood forward. So far this night, others had done his killing for him, and he was more than ready, willing, and eager to draw blood.
They inched downward another fifty paces in cautious silence, then with a deep breath drawn to stop his pulse from racing away from him, Alaric raised his voice and called for help.
“Ahead! Ahead! God love us, is there anyone ahead!”
He scraped, stumbled and scuffed his way around the last curve of rock and was not surprised to see several grim-faced guards braced in a crouch, their crossbows armed and aimed at the two monks who came spilling out of the darkness.
“Oh thank God, thank God!” Friar cried, moving onto the ledge and hugging the rock as if he had no intentions of letting go ever again. “Holy Father in Heaven, ’tis a wonder, a miracle we are here at last!”
“By the rood, who are you and where have you come from?” demanded one of the guards.
“Why … ’tis only me, Brother Benedict, and my companion, Brother Aleward. We have come from the castle on Lord Wardieu’s command … though God knows how he expected us to bring our souls down this mountain without aid of light or guidance. Oh, we had a torch, but it gave up its life nearer here than the way back and we had no choice but to come ahead … not that we would have turned back too eagerly in any event. No, no. I should rather have faced any peril than return to the baron without his orders obeyed. Are you all right, Brother Aleward? Dear me, the poor man has no stomach for heights, you see. Twice he lost it on the way down and I dread the thought of having to nurse and coddle him the way up again, but at least it will be dawn soon and we will have God’s light to guide us back.”
“Why have you come?” demanded the guard, his eyes slit-ted warily, his hands still taut on the grip of his crossbow.
Lucien kept his face averted, marking the positions of the guards who stood between them and the cell door. There were four sentries all told, two men-at-arms with bows, two mercenaries in mail armour with longswords drawn and ready for trouble.
“In truth,” Alaric replied, spreading his hands wide to discourage any hint of a threat. “I did not question Lord Wardieu’s command. I merely assumed, because it is to be his wedding day, he is offering his bride every opportunity to confess whatever sins may be tormenting her soul, and to offer prayer and counsel as a means of redeeming herself in the eyes of the Lord.”
The knight who had issued the challenge laughed gruffly and resheathed his sword. “Prayer and counsel? Give us free rein with her and she would be as docile as a lamb. A little worn between the thighs, perhaps, but knowing how to give proper thanks when and where it is due.”
The four guards grinned and exchanged a glance between themselves, giving Alaric the distinct impression they had already drawn lots to see who among them would be the first. He knew also, by the sudden stillness of the figure behind him, that Lucien had arrived at the same conclusion.
“A pity,” Friar sighed, almost to himself. “We might have been able to spare your lives.”
Lucien’s hands disappeared into his sleeves for a split second and when they emerged again, there was a flash of steel and the two men-at-arms were doubling over, clutching at the hilts of the poniards jutting from their chests. Friar was on the first mercenary before he was aware of the danger, his blade slashing through the firelit darkness and severing the man’s hand from his wrist before his sword was fully drawn. The knight grunted and held out the bleeding stump in disbelief; stunned, he staggered too close to the edge of the promontory and, with a scream that was torn away on a gust of icy wind, vanished into the misty darkness.
Lucien had engaged swords with the other knight, a man whose skill might have been laudable under any other circumstances. But he was driven by duty, not passion, and though he fended off one savage thrust of the Wolf’s blade after another, he was clearly outmatched. Fear took him back beneath the overhang of rock, and desperation saw him reach into his baldric and slash out with a shorter, sharper-edged dagger. The Wolf lunged, locking hilts with the guard’s sword and pinning it against the stone while his free hand grasped for the knife and twisted it inward, slicing it down across the man’s exposed throat and nearly separating the head from the shoulders.
He let the body slump to the ground and reached for the rusted iron bar that was slotted across the door to the cell. The door itself was crudely fit to the shape of the fissure opening, and so low he had to duck to clear the stone arch. Alaric was right behind him, thrusting a lit torch through the entryway.
At first, Lucien saw nothing past the searing flare of burning pitch. The rage boiled over in his blood and he was about to curse his brother’s further deceit when a movement in the corner—a pale splash of yellow against the blackened stone —sent his gaze to the deepest recess of the cell.
“Servanne?”
“Lucien?” she gasped. “Is it … really you?”
“Name another man fool enough to chase after you on a night such as this,” he said, his grin belying the pounding pressure in his chest. Dear God, her face was bruised and swollen, her lip torn and caked with dried blood. Her arms were blue, scratched in too many places to see in one glance, and her gown was torn at the throat, the whiteness of her flesh violated by further bruising and scratches.
“I … thought you were dead,” she whispered. “When no one came … when I heard nothing … I thought you were dead.”
“Did you think you could be rid of me so easily?”
Her eyes flooded with tears, Servanne flung herself across the width of the cell and felt the long, powerful arms sweep her into a crushing embrace. The blood-slicked poniard dropped forgotten onto the ground and his hands raked into the tangled mass of her hair, holding her against him, turning her lips up to his for a kiss as passionate as life itself.
“Lucien!” Alaric hissed from the doorway. “Can you not celebrate later when we have the time and leisure to do so?”
An oath that was more a promise tore Lucien’s lips away from Servanne’s, but the taste of her, the feel of her drenched his senses, almost blinding them to the urgency in Alaric’s voice.
“My lady,” said Friar, his smile shaken as well by the extent of Servanne’s bruising. “Are you well enough? Can you walk?”
“I shall run as fast as the wind if need be,” she replied without hesitation, her own beautiful smile shining through her tears.
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