Devil, no doubt about it. Unreadable. Unpredictable. Unfriendly. And unflinchingly possessive of his property. How should he be expected to react to the kidnapping of his bride?
Halt. Swivel. Pace.
There had to be a reasonable explanation of how thirty armed guards could allow themselves to be taken by surprise, stripped of everything of value, and herded out of the woods like guinea fowls, dressed only in shirts and chausses … but what was it? By what possible reasonable logic could he, Onfroi de la Haye, hope to explain how an outlaw had managed to dig himself a forest lair that had defied discovery for nigh on two months now? How could he begin to explain the existence of a spectre in black wolf pelts who struck and vanished, struck and vanished and never left so much as a turd behind to show he had ever been there? Men could not track him. Hounds could not track him. Armour —no matter how thickly forged—could not deflect his bowmen’s arrows, nor could the swiftest of horses outmaneuver the silent death that stalked them from the greenwood.
Halt. Swivel. Pace.
Reasonable? The very word mocked him. Why, by the Devil’s loins, could he—Onfroi de la Haye—have not contented himself with the two small estates his father had bequeathed him? Why, by the fruit of those same viperous loins, had he allowed Nicolaa to push and prod and manipulate him into seeking the appointment as reeve of Lincoln?
Nicolaa! Bah! A beauty to look at, but long ago corrupted by greed, ambition, and a lust for immortality. She was a clever bitch. Cold and conniving. And so in love with herself it was no surprise she had little room for anything else in that frigid heart of hearts. Onfroi knew he was a laughingstock because of Nicolaa’s excesses. Truth be known, it was just as well she sought her perverted pleasures in every other bed but his own; truth be told, he was more than a little afraid of where those perversions might lead someday. Blood and pain delighted her; torture was viewed as an evening’s entertainment; a victim’s disembowelment was a prelude to a hearty feast.
A bitch, a reclusive warmonger, and a vengeful wolf’s head. Was it any wonder his blood had turned sour and his belly ran liquid from morning till night?
Halt. Swivel …
Freeze!
Onfroi stood stock-still, his eyes briefly startled wide enough to show the red-veined whites. A low and distant rumble was drifting toward them from the east, carried on a breeze that smelled of sweat and anger.
Christ Almighty! Could it be Wardieu already? If so, he must have ridden out of Bloodmoor in the dust of the messenger, and by the sound of it, brought his entire castle guard!
A panicked glance around the campsite caused the veins in Onfroi’s neck to swell and pulsate. Half of his guards were lounging about in blank-eyed boredom, the others were gathered about a tapped keg of ale.
“Insolent oafs!” he screamed, kicking viciously at two men who were stretched out, fast asleep. “Up! Get up, damn you!”
He ran across the grass, boots and fists launching out at anyone foolish enough to remain in his path. “Lazy, insolent oafs! I’ll see how easily you sleep with hot irons poking out of your skulls! Arrest those men!” he shouted, pointing at the two unfortunates. “Get them out of my sight before I take a knife to them here and now!”
“God curse me for a fool,” he continued, ranting to himself, searching for more flesh to abuse in the scattering troops. “It is no wonder that damned wolf’s head has no fear of the forest. He could be a dozen paces away … pissing into the soup pot! … and not one of these oafs would notice!”
Onfroi ran out of obscenities just as the thunder of hooves rounded the sweeping mouth of the valley. Wardieu’s destrier commanded the lead; a huge white beast, a trained ram-pager hewn from solid muscle, with the blazing red eyes and flared nostrils of a demon bred in hell. His master was hardly less fearsome. Riding tall in the saddle, his blue mantle rippling out from broad, armour-clad shoulders, Lucien Wardieu wore an expression of cold, grim fury. Directly behind were his squires, their mounts less formidable but still throwing back clods of torn earth on every galloped pace. In heir ominous wake, two score of armoured knights appeared, each wearing surcoats embroidered with the Wardieu dragon, but carrying kite-shaped shields emblazoned with their own distinctive