a cushion of half-rotted leaves, his own squire—a lad by the name of Timkin—supporting his head and shoulders.
“Sweet God in Heaven,” Nicolaa murmured dryly, peering down over Wardieu’s shoulder. “Can he have any blood left in his body?”
De Vere was breathing badly, with great difficulty. A cloth had been wrapped around his neck to staunch the flow of blood, but the effort of moving him had started the wound leaking again. His tunic looked as if it had been used to mop the floor of a charnal house. His skin was completely colourless and glistened with a sheen of cold, clammy sweat.
Wardieu lowered himself on one knee and gripped the knight’s arm. “De Vere, what happened?”
Glazed brown eyes opened tremulously. “My own fault, sire,” he gasped. “I did not see them. They were on us before we felt the wind shift … like ghosts … or devils. This—” He wavered a sodden glove toward his bandaged throat, but the explanation was shivered away on a wave of pain.
“Eduard—some wine, quickly,” Wardieu commanded.
De Vere rolled his eyes open again and gritted his teeth against the necessity to speak. “A message, my lord. He … wants to meet with you. Alone. At the abbey. He says … if you are too cowardly to meet him, or … if he sees a single man behind you … he will make use of the altar in the abbey and … and leave the Lady Servanne’s heart as a blood offering to Satan.”
A few of the knights gathered around recoiled in horror and crossed themselves at the thought of such a profanity. The more hardened veterans raised glowering eyes to the surrounding greensward, their faces grim, their hands touching the symbol of the holy cross they had earned on Crusade.
Eduard ran up with a wineskin and a ram’s horn cup. A goodly portion of the strong red wine dribbled over De Vere’s chin, but enough found its way down his throat to ease the way for a few more gasped words.
“He … also sends his pledge that you … you will leave the abbey alive.” The gloved hand reached out and clutched a fistful of Wardieu’s gypon. “I do not trust him, my lord. I believe it is a trap! He would lure you to the abbey alone, and … and—!”
Sir Aubrey arched against Timkin’s arms and a deep, ragged groan rattled from his chest to his throat. Wine and blood formed a pink froth at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes bulged with the vision of some unknown agony. The spasm passed and his body slumped back. A final hiss of escaping air signaled the end and brought his head lolling forward onto his chest.
Wardieu studied the face of the dead knight for several long moments before reaching down and gently prying the clawed fingers away from his tunic.
“Eduard … bring my horse.”
Nicolaa, absently musing over a memory of the virile Aubrey de Vere groaning in much the same way during a recent visit to her bed, was startled enough by Wardieu’s command to grasp his arm as he stood up.
“No! You cannot mean to go to the abbey as he asks! You heard Sir Aubrey say it was a trap!”
The icy blue eyes looked from Nicolaa’s face to the hand she had clasped possessively around his forearm. “And I say again, if he meant to kill us, we would all be dead by now.”
“What if he has determined just to take you hostage?” she demanded. “Will you feel so confident of your suppositions when he takes a blade to you and begins to peel the flesh from your body strip by strip?”
“Then we will have discovered his plans, and you will know to be leery of any future invitations.”
He pulled his arm away and brushed past her. Eduard was waiting beside the huge white destrier, his eyes burning as if he was battling twelve kinds of fear before daring to speak.
“M-my lord?”
Wardieu did not spare him a glance.
“My lord, I would beg leave to accompany you to the abbey. I am no threat to this Black Wolf, and ’tis sure he would not countenance it a breach of faith for you to bring your squire.”
Wardieu stared hard at the boy. Thirteen years of age and he was only a hand’s width shorter than the master he served. His shoulders and chest promised great strength and breadth; his legs were already long and well-formed with none of the awkward gangliness of too