“Assuming you were alive to give the command,” the Wolf pointed out.
Wardieu glanced away, letting the silence drag for a long moment, and when he looked back, there was a wry, sardonic smile on his lips. “Why am I not surprised to learn your word still means nothing? Nothing then … nothing now.”
The Wolf crooked an eyebrow. “I gave my word you would leave the abbey alive. I said nothing about the meadow, or the forest, or the Lincoln road.”
The Dragon’s smile lingered, the smug satisfaction in it rankling the Wolf more than if he had drawn his sword and challenged the affront. It struck him then that his brother had expected the archers on the wall. He had come onto this field fully accepting that death might come from one source or another—further, that he would be judged to have met it boldly and bravely, with his honour as a knight unimpeached.
The Wolf relaxed his grip on his bow. “Did you really think I would make it this easy for you? An arrow through the heart, an honourable exchange of swordplay? Quick … painless …”
The blue eyes narrowed, but the Dragon said nothing.
“No. No, you seem too eager to see an end to it. Methinks I should let you live a while longer. Live … knowing I am here—” The Wolf spread his hands congenially to encompass the trees, the sky, the meadow. “Knowing I am watching you, biding the perfect moment to strike—a week from now, perhaps. Or a month. Perhaps in a year, when you have grown short of temper and twitch with sweat each time a shadow creaks at your back.”
“We will end it now, damn you,” the Dragon vowed, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword.
Before he could draw it from its sheath, the Wolf had raised his bow and nocked a slender arrow to the string.
“I have determined not to kill you this day,” he warned. “But I would gladly give my arrow a taste of maiming you in any limb you choose. An elbow … or a knee? You were sorely disappointed not to see a cripple walk onto this field— perhaps we can arrange to have a cripple leave it?”
The Dragon slowly, furiously lowered his sword back into its leather seat.
“A wise decision. A comforting one as well for your bride, who seems not to have the stomach for violence.”
“The Lady Servanne.” The words were grated through the Dragon’s bloodless lips. “Where is she?”
“Awaiting your pleasure. And since she has already provided me mine, you may take her away with my fondest wishes for wedded bliss.”
If it was possible, the Dragon blanched whiter. “If you have dared to touch her—”
“Be assured,” the Wolf broke in bluntly. “I have indeed touched her; would you have expected less? Frankly, I expected a good deal more. Oh, she is a pretty enough piece to look at, but between her weepings and swoonings she would sooner shrivel a man’s best intentions as slake them. I found her hardly worth the trouble. Then again, I assume it is not a zealous craving for her body that hastens you to the altar. As I understand it, the lady comes to you dowered heavily enough to more than compensate for any shortcomings between the sheets.”
The Dragon’s steed bolted an agitated step sideways in response to the sudden tension communicated through his master’s body. He was brought quickly and savagely under control again, but his flanks quivered and his nostrils flared with the scent of possible violence.
“You will release her to me at once,” Wardieu seethed.
“Gladly. We will even waive the ransom—consider it my wedding gift for you and your lovely bride.”
He turned and passed a signal to Gil, who nodded down to someone behind the closed gates of the abbey. The oaken doors creaked open on their wooden hinges and Mutter appeared first, leaning forward to urge a reluctant white palfrey through the narrow archway.
Servanne de Briscourt, cloaked against the chill and mist of the evening vapours, sat astride Undine, her small hands gripped to the leather pommel, her face a pale, wan oval beneath the draped folds of the scarf she wore around her head and shoulders. A second horse, led by Stutter, clopped out of the courtyard and through the gates with Biddy sitting as straight as Fury, her expression bleaker than an ax blade.
Soft yellow whispers of hair were dragged forward across Servanne’s cheeks by the breeze. She had not been permitted an