Part 26 (1/2)
”Stop!” Servanne shrieked, appalled by the sight of the agony on Eduard's face. ”Stop!” ”Stop!”
”No, my lady!” Eduard shouted. ”No, do not agree to anything! Do not-ahhhh!”
The blade was wrenched again and the spreading stain of blood flowed freely over the two hands clasped around the hilt of the knife. Servanne flung herself away from the wall and clawed at De Gournay's shoulders, her tears blinding her, the terror numbing her to her own pain.
”Stop! Stop! I will do anything you ask me to do, only stop! Stop! Stop!”
De Gournay gave the knife a final twist before releasing it. Eduard's free hand clamped over the one still holding the hilt, and, as he slid slowly down the wall, he used what few grains of strength he had remaining to pull the knife free of his flesh and squeeze his bloodied hands tightly over the wound.
”Eduard!” Servanne dropped to her knees beside him, but was scarcely allowed the opportunity to touch a trembling hand to his ashen cheek before she felt the rough grasp of De Gournay's hands on her shoulders. Dragged upright, she could only stare in horror at the steady stream of blood that leaked between Eduard's fingers and fell in a sickening pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat onto the floor. onto the floor.
Dimly she was aware of Nicolaa summoning two guards from the landing. Dazed, she watched them pa.s.s in front of her and take hold of Eduard under each arm. Helpless, she could do nothing but sob his name as the two grim-faced mercenaries hauled Eduard from the chamber, his leg leaving a smeared trail of crimson in their wake.
”Where are they taking him?” she cried. ”What are they going to do to him?”
”They will do whatever I command them to do,” the Dragon said wanly.
Servanne looked at him through the scattered tangle of her hair. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rose and fell rapidly with the need to control her panic; her hands shook visibly where she tried to hold the torn flaps of fabric over her nakedness. She had seen enough wounds in her eighteen years to know the bleeding hole in Eduard's thigh would cost him his life if not cauterized and sealed right away. She knew also, beyond a doubt, the Dragon would not give the command for his leech to do so unless Servanne paid heavily for the request.
”Please,” she grated through her teeth. ”Help him.”
”Why should I? He is nothing to me.”
”if he was nothing, you would have killed him outright,” she said, her fear giving her more courage than was healthy or wise. Bracing herself for another blow, she felt the blood-slicked fingers curl around the whiteness of her throat.
”It seems the spirit has been bruised, but not yet broken,” he mused. ”Admirable, but foolhardy. A word from me, and the boy dies; you alongside him.”
”Give that word,” she countered recklessly, ”And see the lands you covet so fiercely slip out of your grasp and into Prince John's coffers!”
The Dragon's eyes gleamed with a speculative fury and Servanne could feel the anger ripple tautly through his body. An instant later she felt only agony as his fingers pinched her windpipe in a cruel stranglehold.
”I like ultimatums even less than I like stubbornness,” he snarled, ”Especially ultimatums which have no foundation in threat or substance. As I have already told you, my dear, broken or upright, bleeding or whole, it makes no difference to me. Even with your tongue cut out and your eyes scorched black, I could still prop you at the altar and find a score of witnesses to say you repeated your vows willingly and eagerly. Moreover, I have no doubt a further examination would find sufficient evidence of a union having been recently consummated. So you see”-he released her throat with a disdainful sneer-”you really have no choice in the matter. Your fate and the fate of the lands that came into your hands by sheer mischance, was decided long ago. Long before your feeble old husband enjoyed a hearty feast of belladonna.”
Servanne's wide blue gaze dared to climb to his level again.
”He was a tough old buzzard,” De Gournay added blithely. ”I was told it took three times the normal dose to kill him.”
Nicolaa de la Haye's surprise mirrored Servanne's. ”You clever b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You never told me.”
”There are a good many things I do not tell you, Nicolaa,” he sighed. ”For my own sake, as well as-”
His words were cut off abruptly as Servanne threw herself at him, her fingers hooked and hungry for the sardonic grin. He had ordered the death of Sir Hubert de Briscourt! He had had the gentle old warrior poisoned so he could gain back the lands that had once been part of the De Gournay estates. The Wolf had been right again. He had been right in everything!
Servanne's action was quick enough and violent enough to almost succeed. She had the satisfaction of feeling two sharp fingernails fill with sc.r.a.pings of flesh before her arms were smashed aside and a hard-knuckled fist sent her careening into the side of the bed. Grasped from behind, she was struck again, and flung into a sprawl across the floor, her hands sc.r.a.ped raw in the skidding contact.
The Dragon stood over her, staring in amazement at the blood dabbed from his neck. He leaned over and with one brutish hand, yanked her upright, lifting her so that her face was only inches from his.
”I will kill you for that,” he promised. ”Slowly. And with a great deal of pain. You and your lover both, side by side, screaming for mercy-”
Servanne reached back into the last reserves of her courage and spat contemptuously in the Dragon's face. The spittle ran down his cheek and gathered into a silvery pendant on his chin, hanging there a moment like a diamond glittering in the candlelight. The same fingers that were dotted with his blood, reached slowly upward and wiped the wetness from his face. He stared at his fingers, then into Servanne's eyes, silently pledging untold agony and cruelty before he smeared the pink stain across her exposed b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
”Nicolaa-methinks the lady could benefit from the comfort of her own solitude a while. Have the guards escort her ... to the eagle's eyrie. She will know, at least once before she dies, who is master here, and who is merely the wh.o.r.e.”
He flung her from his side as if she was a sackful of rotted meat. Servanne landed heavily enough to drive another gust of air from her lungs, but she was beyond feeling the pain. Her bruises screamed for mercy, but she never would, and there was no lessening of the revulsion in her eyes as she watched De Gournay stride out of the chamber.
”My my my,” Nicolaa murmured. ”So there was some spirit in you after all. Sadly misplaced, I must say. Did he he put it there?” put it there?”
When there was no answer, Nicolaa reached down and took hold of a fistful of blonde hair, tilting Servanne's face roughly up to hers. There were ugly swellings already rising on both cheeks and threads of blood trickling from cuts to her nose and mouth.
”You should have waited. You would have found your thighs just as slippery for a Dragon as for a Wolf. I know I did. Anh, but then ... you never would have been strong enough to match him. This”-she waved a hand in a scornful gesture over the blonde hair and creamy white b.r.e.a.s.t.s--”would never have held his attention through the wedding night. He would have had to come to me to find satisfaction.”
Nicolaa thrust the pale face away again and, still laughing, walked out to the tower landing to call for more guards.
Servanne, her face and body an excruciating ma.s.s of bruised flesh, groped blindly around to see if Biddy was still concealed behind the curtains. A chalk-white face with owlish eyes gaped back at her, stricken with terror, her throat working frantically to contain the nausea churning in her belly.
”Biddy, no!” Servanne gasped, seeing the maid about to rush to her aid. ”No, you must go and find Sir Roger. You must tell him what has happened. Tell him ... tell him to seek out the Black Wolf and warn him. Biddy-”
”There!” Nicolaa commanded imperiously, directing four burly guards to where Servanne lay curled on the floor. ”Your liege has dispatched orders for her to be taken to the eyrie and left there to await his further pleasure. Treat her as you would the lowest form of vermin, for if there is any undue comfort or mercy shown her, each of you will suffer tenfold for it.”
The guards bent over and pulled Servanne to her feet. One of them accidentally tangled a leg in her frothing skirts and, aware of Nicolaa's venomous gaze, cursed and kicked out viciously with his mail-clad boots. Servanne's leg buckled with the pain and a slipper was lost as she was dragged forward on one knee. Her head lolled and she sagged limply into the coa.r.s.e hands-hands that were quick to prop her up by breast or thigh as they carried her down the narrow, winding staircase.
Biddy, too horror-struck to move, waited several minutes in oppressive silence, her ears ringing with the echo of her mistress's fading sobs of pain. When she was reasonably certain the chambers were vacant, she gingerly stepped out from behind the tapestry and promptly sagged onto the low seat in the window embrasure. Her heart was pounding frantically and her left arm felt as if a frenzied mob of seamstresses were using it as a pincus.h.i.+on. She rubbed it and cradled it against her breast, but the pain only grew in intensity, spreading up her arm into her chest and flaring into a brilliant starburst of agony.
She slipped helplessly onto the floor, her back sc.r.a.ping against the wall as she slid down. Her neck was arched and rigid as she fought the waves of pain, and her tongue seemed to swell in her throat, making it difficult to breathe, let alone find the air to scream.
She could not afford to be weak or ill right now! Sir Roger de Chesnai would be waiting at the postern gate, and it was Biddy's duty to get to him, tell him all that had happened, and send him to the Wolf for help. The Wolf, who was really La Seyne Sur Mer, who was really Lucien Wardieu ...
Biddy groaned and clutched at her chest. Her vision clouded and began to fill with exploding black spots. Her heart pounded so fiercely she could feel it slamming against her hands, but then the pain and the blackness overtook her and she felt nothing else. Her eyes fluttered open one last time and she was dazzled by the glitter of gold and jewels ... dazzled until she saw it was Servanne's treasure box, and the contents were spilling from the window seat onto the floor beside her ...
Prince John's moneylender dropped the last gold coin into the small mahogany chest just as a disturbance out in the corridor brought a cras.h.i.+ng end to the tension-filled silence. The door to the chamber swung violently open and there, in glorious splendour, stood the Baron de Gournay.
”Wardieu?” John frowned and signaled his men to stand at ease. ”To what do we owe the pleasure of this unexpected -and unwarranted-interruption?”
De Gournay sent his cold blue gaze around the crowded chamber, suitably impressed by the regal display of Angevin and Aquitaine power. Equally impressive was the sight of the tall, hooded figure in black; a man whose size and presence dominated the room with sinister intent.
”Wardieu!” Prince John repeated the question. ”What is the meaning of this?”
The Dragon advanced slowly into the room, a smile of unearthly pleasure on his face. ”I thought it time I met the Scourge of Mirebeau face-to-face. After all, we will be tipping lances this afternoon, and it occurred to me I should meet the man before I killed him.”
The black hood s.h.i.+fted only slightly to show interest. The gray eyes were more intrigued to note the master of Blood-moor Keep was unarmed. He was without sword or dagger, dressed in an elegant midnight-blue doublet lacking the benefit of so much as a breast piece of chain mail beneath. He was bareheaded and his blond hair fell in glossy curls to his shoulders. With no forest shadows to cloud the Dragon's features, the Wolf was able to scrutinize every line and wrinkle, every lash hair, every bone and muscle that went into shaping the contours of his brother's face.
”You have the advantage, sirrah,” De Gournay murmured, watching the glinted inspection.
”Our business is almost at an end, Wardieu,” Prince John said irritably. ”Could you not have waited a moment or two-”
”Your business with La Seyne Sur Mer is is at an end,” De Gournay interjected mildly. ”However, if you have some further dealings with the Black Wolf of Lincoln ...?” at an end,” De Gournay interjected mildly. ”However, if you have some further dealings with the Black Wolf of Lincoln ...?”
”The Black-! What are you talking about? Is he here? Inside the castle?”
De Gournay smiled. ”Why, he is right here ... in this room room, my liege.”