The Devil's Temptress Page 8

  “Ah,” the Raven growled. “That’s the problem, aye? Queen gave me command of this party. I’ll suffer no man in it who can’t follow orders.”

  While he wasted precious time bantering with this boy-knight, the Raven’s gaze swept the heights. Etched against the starry heavens, a sentry paced. The castle’s darkened windows peered out like lidless eyes, watching them. Every instinct he possessed shrilled the need for haste.

  Beaumont said with heat, “I am here at His Grace’s own behest—”

  Impatient, Alienore flung back her hood.

  Now she’ll send the boy packing.

  “I forbid the two of you to waste any more time upon this foolish quarrel,” she said. “’Tis my desire that Sieur de Beaumont join our party.”

  The Raven stiffened, feeling an absurd sense of betrayal. And it would be bloody inconvenient to his own designs if the lady’s besotted puppy trailed after them all the way to Castile.

  Grimly, the Raven turned toward her. “Decision’s not yours to make.”

  She straightened in the saddle, every inch an earl’s proud daughter. “I am the queen’s privy chancellor, about the queen’s own business. That gives me all the authority I require—”

  “Not so much noise and racket, if ye please,” Owain urged from the shadows. “We’re in a bad place just here. If ye must argue, ye can do it as we ride.”

  Clearly recognizing the wisdom of this advice, she subsided. The Raven eyed Thierry’s defiant features. The lad was not entirely feckless with his blade. Maybe he would be of some use if they met trouble on the road.

  “Very well, puppy,” he growled. “You join this party on one condition—you’ll obey me on the road. I’ll have your oath on it.”

  He paused as the younger man bristled. “Find that not to your liking, Beaumont, I’ll settle this another way—and leave you trussed like a Yule goose for the guard. Choose quickly.”

  Striving to stare him down, Beaumont’s gaze locked with his. The Raven all but rolled his eyes at this absurd display, but held the look with his own burning gaze.

  The lad’s eyes flickered and slid away. “For my lady’s sake, I swear it.”

  “Good. Be sure you don’t forget.”

  Wheeling Lucifer, he spurred his stallion through the tunnel. Capably, Alienore pivoted her mount and loped after him. Behind them, Beaumont cursed and struggled with his half-trained charger. But his hooves soon clattered in pursuit.

  A misty sunrise found them south of Poitiers, winding through a thicket of trees. Despite their stealthy departure, Alienore could not dismiss the disquiet that gnawed at her, nor dispel the prickling at her nape.

  Remus appeared and vanished in the fog with unnerving suddenness, inspiring fits of panic from her timid palfrey. Still, it comforted her to think of the wolf’s keen senses warding her. Remus would warn them if anyone followed.

  Locked in tight-jawed silence, they picked their way along trails the Raven had chosen. Thierry, still petulant after his earlier setdown, trailed behind. Despite his sulks, she was grateful for his presence—one more safeguard between her and the Raven.

  Their path zagged across a clearing. Barely visible against the snow, the wolf bounded after a flash of russet fur, but the fox dove into its burrow. As the Raven rode beside her across the open ground, she thought he too felt uneasy, exposed to hostile eyes. Beneath a roof of steel gray clouds, the black speck of a bird drifted.

  “The wolf appears well trained,” he murmured. “Is he biddable when danger threatens?”

  “Usually.” She managed an indifferent tone. “I must approve your vigilance, I suppose, since you are my so-called defender on the road.”

  “I will defend you—be sure of that.” The dark purpose in his voice raised goose bumps along her skin.

  “Pray do not concern yourself,” she said curtly. “Remus is the best protector I could possibly have.”

  His gaze searched her, intimate as fingers grazing her face. No doubt he suspected something was amiss. Aye, Richard’s ugly revelation had wounded her, but she would never give the Raven the satisfaction of knowing it. Instead she watched the wolf as he bounded off, chasing another elusive scent.

  “Why does a wolf heed a woman’s hand?” the Raven asked.

  She felt reluctant to tell him anything, to place the weapon of knowledge into his hands. But she could not avoid answering without deplorable rudeness. At length she spoke, begrudging every word.

  “After my mother . . . died, and my father rode off on crusade, I passed many hours roaming the forest. One day I found a wolf pup, abandoned in its den.”

  “Abandoned? That’s not common, from what I know of wolves.”

  “I cannot be certain, but I believe he was outcast due to his unusual coloring.” She smiled without humor. “Wolves are like people, monsieur. They do not abide one who stands out from the pack.

  “I brought the pup home, and why not? At fourteen I was chatelaine of my own estates. I trained Remus by my own hand, but he heeds me from love.”

  Beneath drooping lids, his gaze tracked her. “Belike you were much alone.”

  Her heart contracted with the old familiar pain. Aye, she’d been alone, and desperately lonely. Through four long years, she’d had only a wolf and a crippled old man for company. But those years of solitude had forged her steel in the fire of determination, honed her resolve to prove her worth.

  Then Benedict had returned, with his wrenching tidings. Theobold lay in his grave these four years past. She could never prove her worth to her father now.

  “I was alone in those years.” To hide her sorrow, she turned away. “All told, I preferred that to the convent where I dwelled before, where for six years straight I was never once my own mistress.”

  Ah, but I will reveal too much if I speak of that—my barren cell, the everlasting bread-and-water fasts, the night-long vigils when the wine froze solid in the chalice, and the rod when I displeased them.

  She flicked a glance over her shoulder to Beaumont, still glowering at the Raven’s back. “Come up, Thierry. We will be long on the road—let us not pass the time in anger.”

  Thierry spurred his charger, snow flying as he drew up alongside. Inscrutable, the Raven yielded his place.

  Thierry cast him a triumphant glance. “My lady, I have had a revelation. I am planning how to regain your lands.”

  Like a dagger, the hard edge of the black knight’s regard pierced her. Her skin tingled a warning she did not understand.

  “By my faith, Thierry, I should be grateful for any advice, for the matter weighs upon my mind. I have had no response from my petitions to the king.”

  The gallant brushed a golden curl out of his eyes, all youthful earnestness and resolve. Still my Lancelot, she thought fondly. With God’s grace, that would never change.

  “My lady understands the difficulty in raising an army to retake your manor. Are you still denied all income from your estates?”

  “Aye.” She disliked discussing her penury in the Raven’s hearing. The queen paid her wages and gifted her generously, but accepting largesse from Eleanor’s coffers always smacked of charity in her mind.

  “I will not raise arms against my brother, Thierry. He is not evil-hearted. I am certain I can persuade Benedict to do what is right—if only that cunning serpent of a counselor were not rearing up between us.”

  “Indeed, my lady. Sir Bors of Bedingfield is the crux of your dilemma. ’Tis remarkable a nobleman like your brother would show such deference to a commoner.”

  She defended her younger brother from habit. “When my father fell, fighting the Saracens, Benedict was left alone in a strange and terrifying land—until Bors befriended him. ’Tis easy to influence a grieving child.”

  “Never fear, my lady,” Thierry declared. “I intend to challenge Sir Bors to single combat.”

  Behind them, the Raven chuffed out an impatient breath. Her sinking sense of disappointment took her aback. Hadn’t she always admired Thierry�
�s pure ideals, his adherence to the code of chivalry? If it rendered him impractical—even naive—should she blame him?

  “I am afraid you do not know Sir Bors.” Gamely, she swallowed her disillusionment. “He is a sly and subtle creature who would find some pretext to refuse a fair fight.”

  If I thought he would not, I would challenge him myself.

  “But his refusal would brand him a coward! As your champion—as your own Lancelot—I vow to challenge him.”

  The Raven snorted. “I wouldn’t recommend it, puppy. This so-called knight has an unwholesome repute. Poisons his blades. Let him but scratch you, and you’d die in lingering agony.”

  “Par Dieu!” Thierry flung back his head. “What would a mercenary know about an affair of honor?”

  “I know death,” the Raven growled. “Saw Bedingfield’s work in Outremer. I’d wish it on no man—not even you.”

  The frightened whispers of her brother’s servants hissed through her brain. They had fled Lyonstone one by one, in terror of their new steward.

  “’Tis whispered Sir Bors keeps a laboratory of lethal acids and toxins,” she said, “atop his tower in Lyonstone Keep. ’Tis said his chambers crawl with serpents and spiders and other unholy creatures. He calls himself an alchemist—but my brother’s serfs said worse.”

  “Called him a witch, no doubt,” the Raven said.

  “Aye, they claimed he was a warlock, with the devil’s own favor.” She crossed herself against evil. And this is the viper Benedict clutches to his breast! “Bedingfield’s presence at Lyonstone is my fault. Had I been stronger . . .”

  “Can’t see how it’s your fault.” The Raven spurred Lucifer to her side.

  Reluctance gripped her throat like a fist, bottling up the painful memories. But the words broke through, fired by years of resentment.

  “When Benedict returned bearing news of my father’s death, I—took to my bed. He was four years dead, monsieur, and I’d never known. Never spoken a prayer nor lit a candle to ease his passing. Never paid for a single Mass to keep his soul. He took everything when he left me—even the right to mourn him.”

  She clenched her teeth over the flow of words, appalled by her own passion.

  “By the time I recovered, my brother had installed Sir Bors as his steward. Fearing Benedict acted rashly, I protested the appointment. He knew nothing of his estates after four years on crusade. But I should have saved my breath.”

  “But you spoke—making you Bors’s enemy.” Comprehension glittered in the Raven’s gaze. “He sold you to Ponce to be rid of you.”

  “I appealed to the king to uphold my claim, asked him for a writ yielding Wishing Stone Manor to me. But the Duc d’Ormonde moved too quickly.” Memories of that night made her stomach twist. “I was awaiting the king’s response when the duke arrived, eager to behold his betrothed.”

  “My lady had no recourse,” Thierry said earnestly, “but to flee for Aquitaine and petition the queen—her godmother.”

  But she had never told any man what else transpired that night.

  “If you will not allow me to challenge him,” Thierry added, “I’ll petition King Henry on your behalf. My father has some influence at court.”

  “Bah!” The Raven’s mouth twisted. “Is that your best effort? Your lady relies on you.”

  She struggled to contain a spurt of annoyance—unfair to her shining Lancelot, who was doing his best. “I have already petitioned him twice, Thierry. I appreciate your willingness to champion me, but I do not see how your effort can do more than annoy the king.

  “Besides”—she forced a smile—“I have need of you here.”

  Still circling against the lead gray clouds, a bird cawed. A raven, was it, who tracked them all this way? Reflexively she glanced behind her, across the snowy field.

  The black knight spurred Lucifer to a canter. “We should make haste. With luck, we’ll overtake the road to An-goulême. Our twisting course may foil pursuit.”

  But they’d been too exposed when they departed, and Sir Guy had shown himself to be no fool. Let word of her mission reach Henry’s ears and her lands were as good as lost.

  Alienore spurred her horse—as if by speed alone she could outrace her fate.

  Darkness pressed down on them like a restraining hand. They were stumbling over the treacherous ground by the time they found the road. With a bitter wind howling down from the north, they hurried along until they found what the Raven sought: the blackened shell of a barrel-vaulted church, its door rotted and fallen away. Walls and a roof remained to shelter them.

  Around the apse where the altar had stood, the faded frescoes of saints and angels stared in silence. Alienore’s conscience twinged in protest to use this holy place for common lodging. But surely, this church had been deconsecrated long ago. Their habitation would be uncomfortable, but hardly sacrilege.

  As she stood blowing on her frozen hands, a flurry of black wings fluttered through the door and perched on the roof beam. Wary, she eyed the unholy bird—a raven—as it groomed its feathers. The black knight produced a handful of seeds from his pouch and scattered them. Immediately, the bird flapped down to peck at them.

  She unclenched her chattering teeth. “’Tis your creature then?”

  “Not mine, but he follows me.” He hoisted the saddle from Lucifer’s back. “I call him Mehmet.”

  “’Tis a heathen name.” Thierry crossed himself. “Such a bird is a black omen—a harbinger of evil. We should feather him for our supper.”

  “I’d as soon feather you.” Golden flames flickered in the Raven’s eyes. “Remember that, puppy. My lady, can you make a fire?”

  Hands so numb she could barely feel them, she fumbled in her pouch and struck flint to steel. While the men cared for their horses in the nave, she crouched over the fragile flame. Carefully she nursed it until the fire took hold, casting wavering shadows over the frescoes until the holy figures breathed and stirred.

  Still too cold to speak, they huddled around the fire under the bird Mehmet’s gleaming eye. She saw the Raven decline the cured ham with a grimace, and added the knowledge to her meager cache. He served at a Christian court, prayed to no God she could discern, yet kept a Muslim diet. Still an enigma, no matter how many hours she passed in his presence.

  But the Raven produced a rare luxury—a pinch of tea seasoned with ginger and cinnamon from the east. He steeped it in a tiny pointed pot suspended over the fire. When steam leaked out, he stuffed a twist of straw into the spout to catch the loose leaves and poured the honey brown brew.

  With the tea heating her slowly, like a fire in her belly, she finally managed to stop shivering. Hugging herself, she welcomed the warmth spreading through her.

  The Raven dispatched Thierry to take the first watch. The young man cast him a shuttered look but belted his rich mantle around himself and went out. With a grunt, Owain wrapped in his cloak and turned his back to the fire. Within moments, he was snoring heartily.

  She would have liked to follow suit, for weariness weighed her down like a waterlogged garment. But her senses were keyed up by a litany of fearful whispers she could not silence: the fear of pursuit, of failing the queen, betraying her king, losing her lands, losing her very life for treason . . .

  Absently she drew her knees to her chest. The wolf squirmed into the niche beneath her bent legs and stretched on his belly with a sigh.

  Across the fire the Raven crouched, his aquiline features sharp and cruel, silky black hair raked back at his nape. When he tossed a pinch of incense into the fire, the aroma of musk and sandalwood coiled through the air. It veiled the painted saints until they seemed to close their eyes.

  Sitting cross-legged, he found needle and thread and started mending a tear in his surcoat. She watched his long fingers ply the needle, deft as a woman’s.

  “Do you not have a squire to attend such tasks?” she ventured. “I seem to recall one from the tourney—a Saracen with an eye patch.”

  His gaze narr
owed, and her face heated. Truly, she did not care who squired him. She busied her hands detaching a burr from the wolf’s ruff.

  “Aye,” he rasped. “Vulgrin. Rescued him from the Saracens.”

  “Rescued him, you say?” Perhaps she was slightly interested, no more.

  “From torture,” he said harshly, scowling into the flames. “They’d taken his tongue for some offense—blasphemy or falsehood. But his one eye’s sharper than most men’s pair.”

  “Yet he is not here now.”

  “He’s too old for these northern winters. Left him behind at Poitiers, warming his bones at a fire.”

  More likely he left his lackey behind to spy. But the Raven had given her an opening to ask—only for the queen, of course.

  “How long did you crusade?”

  “Was knighted early, due to my size and skill. I went on crusade at fifteen and fought for some fourteen years.”

  “So long as that?” She stared. “By the grace of God, monsieur! ’Tis a wonder you survived. Did you . . . have no home to return to? No family, no—wife and children—who waited?”

  His features hardened, the lines deepening around his eyes and mouth. His needle continued its steady dip and pull. “No family I cared to claim.”

  “Did you never marry?” she asked—only for the queen’s sake. Eleanor would value knowing his vulnerabilities.

  “Briefly.” The shining needle stabbed the wool. “In my youth.”

  A curious pang shafted through her. “And?”

  His voice grated like rusted iron. “She died.”

  The tightness eased around her heart—but how could that be? She took no personal interest in his affairs.

  “Forgive me for pressing you.” She hesitated. “As you have noted, I am not known for tact.”

  “’Twas a lifetime ago.” He bit off his thread with a deft twist. “I’m . . . unaccustomed . . . to discussing it.”

  She lowered her cheek to her knee. Remus’s ribs rose and fell with his breath.