“I’ll not keep you, however,” the prince offered generously. “I know you have much to do to prepare for the tourney this afternoon, so if you would prefer simply to leave one of your men in charge—?”
“I will wait.” La Seyne scowled, the chill in the fireless room giving his words a ghostly substance through the black silk.
John, warmed by his thick velvet doublet as well as well as his smug self-satisfaction, leaned back and formed a tent with his gloved fingers, the tips pressed against his lips. “It should take no more than an hour or two. For a moneylender, he tends to count slowly to avoid any chance of error.”
La Seyne crossed his arms over his chest, presenting a formidable tower of immovable strength. Inwardly he was thinking: If it was a ploy to unsettle him before the match, it was a feeble effort at best. Outwardly, he let the silk mask crease in an imitation of a smile. “I will wait.”
* * *
Servanne jumped when she heard the knock on the outer door. Both she and Biddy were standing by one of the tall, arched windows and, as one, they reached for the comforting grasp of each other’s hands.
“Who comes?” Biddy called, her voice querulous but remarkably firm. She had had to ponder a great deal in the past few hours—from the Wolf’s identity, to the confirmed proof of Etienne Wardieu’s duplicity, to the very real possibility they could all be betrayed, beheaded, and their corpses left to rot on spiked poles by way of example to others.
The sight of De Gournay’s young squire brought another quailing start to Biddy’s breast, a condition augmented by the puffed, split bruises on Eduard’s face.
“Eduard!” Servanne gasped, leaving the embrasure to rush to the young man’s side. “What happened!”
“’tis nothing, my lady. It is your welfare, not mine, which concerns me more.”
“My lamb’s welfare?” Biddy exclaimed, hurrying over. “What do you mean?”
“There is no time for explanations, mistress goodwife. Only know that the Dragon’s mood does not bode well for anyone who chooses to cross him this day. He is already in a rampage over the messages my lady has sent to explain her absences at chapel and table this morning. He has been pacing like a caged lion in his chamber all this time, refusing to appear without you by his side. To that end, he has given me explicit instructions not to return to the hall without you.”
A small flaring of defiance sent a flush into Servanne’s cheeks. “How dare he issue such orders. I am not his chattel. Not yet, at any rate.”
Biddy was more practical. “Eduard—what trouble do you anticipate?”
“Too much for any of us to handle alone, but do not fear, Mistress Bidwell. I will not let the bastard touch a hair on my lady’s head; on this you have my word.”
Servanne pressed cool fingers to her temple. “It is not for my safety I fear the most. Eduard—we must find some way of warning your father … your real father; the real Lucien Wardieu. There is no telling what Etienne may do now out of desperation to keep his secret intact. He will set a trap, at the very least—a trap your father will walk into blindly unless he is forewarned.”
“You will have to warn him, my lady,” Eduard said.
“Me? Willingly, but … how?”
Eduard retraced his steps to the door and retrieved a bundle of clothing neither woman had seen him set on the floor when he arrived.
“I brought these—” He shook out the folds of a long-sleeved shirt, jerkin, and buff-coloured leggings, and handed the lot to Biddy. “It was the best I could do in such short order, I am afraid, but even if the disguise is only good enough to get you through to the outer bailey, it will have served its purpose. Beyond there, the confusion and revelry should be sufficient protection.”
“You want me to dress in these?” Servanne asked. “Is it necessary?”
Eduard flushed as he allowed himself a bold assessment of the frothing yellow silk gown she wore. “A dead man would sit up and take notice if you passed,” he said with unabashed reverence. “Yes, my lady: it is absolutely vital to conceal yourself. Unfortunately, it would not be wise for me to guide you to safety myself, but I have taken the liberty of whispering a word in the ear of your man, Sir Roger de Chesnai. Without revealing the reasons