when it was sent slamming into her rib cage by a second one. A deep, melodic baritone gave response to Wardieu’s question, the ail-too familiar voice coming from one of the guests seated at the far end of the dais. Servanne inched her head around by degrees, leaning forward when she found her view blocked by Wardieu’s broad shoulder. A painfully constricted breath later and she was able to follow the flow of a capacious black wool sleeve to the ermine collar and gold link chain of office that ornamented the otherwise plain, voluminous robes. A plaited sallet tamed the riot of jet-black hair, and the soft brown eyes that turned to meet hers were as guileless and solemn as they were the day the sandal-footed Friar had greeted her at the gates of Thornfeld. Only this time the sacrilege was not in feigning the posture of a humble monk. This time, Alaric FitzAthelstan had aspired to the robes and rubies of a bishop!
“I bring you God’s greetings and the blessings of the church, my child,” he murmured piously. “If I am not mistaken, however, we have met once before … perhaps in the company of your late husband, Sir Hubert de Briscourt? A brave and gallant crusader, to be sure. And his yearly alms to the church were most generous. Most generous indeed.”
A wave of faintness passed through Servanne. What was he doing here? How had he come through the guards, the sentries, the numerous sullen challenges at each tower and gate? And how was it that he was sitting at the Dragon’s table, eating the Dragon’s fare, chatting with the Dragon and his guests as if they were fond acquaintances?
“Bishop Gautier comes to us all the way from Canterbury,” Wardieu said. “Our own Bishop of Sleaford was taken ill last week, and since Canterbury was visiting the area, he agreed to preside at the services.”
Servanne met Friar’s eyes again. “I … thank you for your blessings, my lord bishop,” she managed to stammer. “And yes, I do believe we have met before.”
For the briefest moment she thought she saw something— relief?—flicker across the lean, hawklike features, but a wan smile reprieved the blandness of his previous expression and he turned to address Wardieu again.
“As to La Seyne Sur Mer, I believe I passed his party on the road from Lincoln yesterday. He claimed to have some business or other to attend to in town, but I was … er … pressed to assure you he would be arriving at Bloodmoor before nightfall. A surly, unpleasant fellow, I must say. Very”—a ring-laden hand wafted absently in the air— “enamoured of himself, and not at all friendly to strangers, regardless of their station in life.”
“Is it true,” Nicolaa asked in her best purring voice, “that he wears a silk hood at all times?”
“As true as sin, my lady,” Friar nodded. “An accident early in his youth, I am told, left his face so severely scarred it cannot be looked upon without inciting screams of horror. Queen Eleanor, whom he serves so devotedly, has seen it only the once and was so overcome she ordered hoods of the finest oriental silks to be made expressly so she could enjoy his company without the need of salts or screens. Notwithstanding the hood, however, he has a surly eye and a sharp tongue, neither of which would endear him to a sensible woman’s company, I should think.”
“Eleanor was never said to be sensible,” Nicolaa mused, fondling the mutilated remnants of her pear as if it were living flesh. “Still, I have heard the uglier and more brutish a man is, the more he strives to compensate in … other areas. Perhaps our randy old dowager queen has retained La Seyne for more than his ability to merely wield a sword with undaunting chivalry.”
Wardieu grinned crookedly. “He does not like straying too far from his beloved Brittany. I imagine if the queen herself had not issued the command for him to attend, he would be there still, nursing his ill temper and counting his trophies.”
“Indeed,” Friar concurred gravely, “he wants a stout comeuppance where his boastings are concerned. Do you know he travels with the pennants of every challenger he has met and fought in the lists? Too many to count, I can tell you, and strung on poles like catches of dead fish. I am told” —he leaned forward as if imparting a great secret—“he not only pledges his own armour and gear