for bruises or faded blotches that would either condemn or vindicate her in Biddy’s eyes. There was nothing, however. No marks on the ivory smoothness of her body, no scent of human contact, no telltale tenderness between her thighs. Surely a man of his size, his weight, his temperament would have left a mark of some kind, either branded onto her body or seared into her mind.
Lacking proof one way or the other, she drew upon her anger. “Where were you all this time? How do you know he was alone with me for an hour? Why were you not here by my side to defend and protect me?”
A new flood of tears sprang from the matron’s hazel eyes. “I tried, my lady! Oh how I tried to run to your side! It was that wretched Woodcock who held me back. Firstly, he led me on a merry chase around the forest. Then, when he finally returned to the abbey—just in time to see the outlaw leader bringing you in here—the rogue drew his knife and bade me sit in company with several other ruffian misfits while his lord ‘attended his private affairs privately.’ To have moved or cried out would have earned a blade thrust into my breast, and I did not see how I, dead upon the ground of a pierced breast, could have been of any further use to you.”
“What use are you to me now,” Servanne snapped, trembling with anger, “when you refuse to believe me when I say I have no memory of what happened, and no cause to feel shame or guilt over my behaviour!”
A second anguished wail from Biddy’s throat sent Servanne’s eyes rolling skyward and her hands crushing against her temples. A further distraction—the swirl of her uncombed, unfettered hair around her shoulders—sent her anger boiling in another direction.
“Where is he? Where is the rogue: I shall have the truth from him myself!”
“Oh! Oh, my lady, no. No!”
“My clothes,” Servanne commanded. “My combs, my wimple—where are they?”
“Not within my grasp, my lady,” Biddy replied, sniffling wetly. “What trunks were fetched with us in the ambuscade have not appeared since. Where they are or what has become of the contents, I cannot say.”
“Never mind, then. Just help me dress.”
Biddy hastened to collect up the scattered garments. The gown was slightly more crumpled and stained from its stay on the floor, as were the knee garters and short silken hose. The samite surcoat was nowhere to be seen, but Biddy removed her own plain gray mantle and wrapped it securely about her charge’s shoulders for warmth. She was about to part and plait the tousled skeins of hair into more modest and manageable braids, but Servanne pushed the fussing hands away and swept out into the corridor.
After a moment’s pause to gain her bearings, she followed the dank stone hall to the right. It emerged at the top of a shallow flight of steps overlooking the pilgrims’ hall at a point midway between two of the roofless stone arches. The scene before her appeared much as it had the previous evening, with fires crackling in the roasting pit, and torches burning smokily from their wall sconces. Cauldrons bubbled steamy clouds of aromatic mist into the cooler air, adding to the dull sheen of moisture that clung to the charred walls and broken ribs of the abbey.
Trestle tables had once again been set in an open-sided square under the sheltered portion of the roof. He was sitting there on the dais, the vest of black wolf pelts reflecting glints of fire and torchlight. He was engrossed in a conversation with Gil Golden, but when the latter’s eyes flicked to the far wall, the Black Wolf stopped and followed his stare.
Servanne had no notion of the image she presented, nor would she have cared a potter’s damn if she had. The dark woolen cloak she wore completely encased her slender body from shoulders to toes, leaving only the wild, voluminous cascade of silver-blonde hair to outline an ethereal image against the shadows. The ghostlike apparition startled several of the outlaws, even those who were open in their scorn for the legends and superstitions surrounding Thornfeld Abbey. Many went so far as to reach instinctively for their weapons before recognizing the figure as being of this mortal earth.
The Wolf rose and walked slowly around the end of the table and down the hall. If not for the fickle light that kept his features veiled in shadow, she