much growth in too short a span. Other signs of encroaching manhood had been brought to his attention by the castle seneschal; one of the kitchen maids—older by some ten years—was regularly seen hobbling out of the stables after energetic trysts with the young squire.
A son any man would be proud of: his own words.
“Please … Father,” Eduard whispered tautly, at great cost to his pride. “I would ride to guard your back.”
“By all means,” Nicolaa drawled, coming up behind them. “Take the bastard with you. Perhaps you can offer him in lieu of the unpaid ransom for your sweet bride.”
Wardieu’s expression did not change. It did not so much as flicker a warning as he brought his gauntleted hand swinging up and around. The slap would have ripped away half of Nicolaa’s cheek had he not checked his fury at the last possible instant. Nicolaa flinched all the same, the blow delivered as sharply and brutally through the stunning rage in his eyes.
“You had best watch where you spit your venom, woman,” he said harshly. “I am about at the end of my humour over your petty jealousies.”
“Petty, my lord?” she snapped, her cheeks flaming and her lips thinned to an ugly slash of red. “My jealousies are indeed petty compared to yours … and your brother’s.”
A vein pulsed noticeably to life in the Dragon’s temple. The skin across his cheekbones seemed to stretch so taut, the surface became more like wax than living flesh.
He raised his hand slowly and cupped it beneath Nicolaa’s chin. The fine metal links of the gauntlet depressed the whiteness of her skin, digging deeper and deeper as he increased the pressure to excruciating limits.
“D’Aeth has often expressed an unrequited interest in you, dear Nicolaa,” he said quietly. “Perhaps an evening or two in his genteel company would cut a few barbs from your clever wit and remind you by whose generosity you continue to enjoy the use of your tongue. Eduard—arrange an escort for Lady De la Haye. She will be returning immediately to Alford Abbey to be by her husband’s bedside.”
“Aye, my lord,” the squire said quietly, his face still stinging with humiliation. “My lord—?”
“See to your duties, Eduard; trouble me with no more favours.”
“Yes … my lord.”
“And Eduard—?”
The boy turned, his eyes brightening with a spark of hope. “Never, ever address me as ‘father’ again. Is that understood?”
The boy looked from one coldly dispassionate face to the other and knotted his hands into fists. “Yes, my lord. Perfectly understood.”
15
The Wolf had seen the signal several minutes earlier: a single horseman approaching; all clear behind.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “So you are still a curious bastard, after all these years.”
From the shadowy mouth of the gorge, hazed with late afternoon mist where it spilled open onto the common, came distinct, echoing sounds of a horse’s hooves striking the rocks that lined the banks of the narrow creek. The sky was low and sullen, threatening rain, and dusk was a chilly breath away. The scent of wood and pine, of loamy soil and heavy dew accompanied the hour and moodiness of the day, but the Wolf did not notice. His gaze was fixed on the far side of the gently sloping meadow. His fingers were as tight as they could be around the shaft of his longbow without crushing it.
Flanking him, perched at scattered intervals along the stone wall of the abbey were the silent silhouettes of six of his best archers, including Gil Golden. Friar and Sparrow had led groups of the other men into the forest to guard all approaches against a surprise attack.
Cold, steely-nerved, the tension in the Wolf’s body was mirrored in the hardness of his eyes. He was so well prepared to see the lone horseman emerge from the shadowy trees, that when he did, the sensation was anticlimactic.
The destrier was reined to an abrupt halt the instant the abbey came into view. Even at a distance, and with the failing light, there could be no mistaking the Dragon of Blood-moor Keep. He sat tall and imposing in the saddle of his fully caparisoned warhorse, man and beast dominating the meadow, reducing it to a small patch of deergrass. He wore a long-skirted hauberk of polished chain mail, as well as chausses of closely fitted iron scales to protect his long, muscular legs. His surcoat was a splash of bright blue against the sombre backdrop of trees; the crest emblazoned on his chestpiece was just a blur so far