are both dead,” he advised hoarsely. “Quickly, go down the stairs and wait for me at the bottom.”
Servanne nodded blindly, too frightened to even search the shadows for her rescuer’s identity. She gathered the folds of her robe and tunic in her hands and fled down the winding corkscrew staircase as if the steps behind were on fire. At the bottom, she spilled out into the dimly lit corridor and sagged against the opposite wall, out of breath, out of courage, out of wits at what to expect next.
He found her there a few moments later huddled against the abrasive, cold stone, trembling so badly he could hear the chatter of her teeth clearly in the hollow silence.
“Come, my lady, we must get you into your own chambers and warmed by a fire.”
“Eduard?” she gasped. “Is it you?”
“My lady.” He bowed slightly, and when he straightened —when Servanne dashed at the tears blurring her vision— she could just make out the bold squareness of his jaw and the darkly familiar slash of eyes and brows.
Eduard! The Wolf’s son! The discovery was a shock, to be sure, yet somehow she was not surprised.
“Eduard … you were in the room? You heard everything?”
The boy’s face tensed visibly. “We must not talk here, Lady Servanne. We must get you safely into your chambers.”
Servanne offered no resistance as he guided her swiftly and silently along the gallery to the entrance to her tower. He supported her up the stairs and, when he would have hesitated at the outer door, preferring to leave her in the hands of a waiting-woman, she adamantly held fast to his hand and led him through the two smaller anterooms to her solar.
Biddy was there, fast asleep and snoring open-mouthed on a chair by the bed.
“Please,” Servanne whispered to Eduard. “Will you add another log to the fire. I doubt an inferno will be able to warm me, but it would help.”
Eduard’s soft gray eyes flicked askance at Biddy.
“She sleeps the sleep of the dead,” Servanne replied, shivering through a slight premonition of dread at her own words.
It took a few fumbled attempts to loosen the bindings of the woolen cloak and cast the bulky garment aside. By then Eduard had selected a suitable length of wood and was bending over the glow of the fire to seat it properly over the burning embers. Servanne moved quietly up beside him, her hands extended to the warmth. For lack of knowing what to say or do next, she studied his features slantwise through her lashes wondering what she could possibly do or say to open the conversation.
If he had been in the wardrobe and had heard what had transpired between Nicolaa de la Haye and the Dragon de Gournay, then he knew Etienne Wardieu was not his father. Moreover, he also knew Etienne Wardieu was Etienne Wardieu and not the man he had supposed him to be all these years.
“I am sorry you had to hear all of that, my lady,” Eduard said, his voice forced out of a tautly constricted throat. “I am sorry either of us had to hear it or see it, but most especially you.”
“Me, Eduard, but—”
“No.” He stood up so suddenly he might have had springs in his ankles. And his face was so gloweringly angry, she could almost see his father standing there in his stead. “No, my lady. Do not feel you have to offer your pity or your sympathy. I have always known I was a bastard. Whether the product of one man’s by-blow, or another’s, it makes little difference.”
“My pity … if I were going to offer it,” she said evenly, “would not be for you, but for them. And it does make a difference, Eduard. A very great difference as to which man sired you.”
“The feared and valorous Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer?” Eduard’s jaw quivered with tension. His eyes narrowed and glittered brightly for a moment before he averted his face and stared into the fire. “He means nothing to me. I do not even know him.”
“In that case, you have something in common, for he does not know you—nor even about you, I would hasten to guess. There the advantage is yours; at least you know he exists.”
The thirteen-year-old boy struggled mightily with the sudden burdens of a man and the sternness in his face faltered somewhat. “I … have heard he is a knight without equal; a knight whose sword was forged on Satan’s anvil, and whose