Читать книгу Seraphim - Michele Hauf - Страница 8

She pouted for two leagues, hunched on the saddle, every so often casting Baldwin the evil eye. She did have a knack for the evil eye. ’Twas a shade more intimidating than the lesser mongoose eye. Her pale blue orbs barely revealed color as her lashes meshed in the squint of hell. Baldwin felt its damning power bore deep into his gut, where it twisted his intestines into a nervous knot.

But he could not ignore the advantage of traveling with real muscle. And Dominique San Juste was just what a wayward monk-in-training-playing-squire and a mixed-up-lady-playing-knight needed.

Sera hadn’t been able to argue with Dominique’s request to accompany them; he had already been mounted and ready to ride. Instead she’d purposely stepped on Baldwin’s foot on her passage to Gryphon’s side, and had twice knocked him to the ground with an elbow to his ribs before they rode out of Pontoise.

Heaven knew no fury like that of an angry angel.

Dawn gifted the chilled riders with a slash of vibrant color. Pink painted the horizon as far as the eye could see, followed by amber, and orange, then the bright flash of sun, before all too quickly fading. To find the sun in the winter months was rare; most days it hid behind clouds that filled the gray sky, as if that were the natural tint instead of cerulean. And so Baldwin cherished the few moments of color.

Hours later he’d learned little of Dominique San Juste, save that the dawn beguiled him as well, yet it was midnight that truly bewitched the moonlight knight.

“It’s too damn dark,” Baldwin said. “Especially riding through the forest. A man cannot know when a creepy will jump out and rip him to shreds.”

“It is a time when I feel the greatest strength,” Dominique offered as his mount, Tor, sidled to a walk alongside Baldwin. “If there are enemies to be felled I shall wait for the moonlight. Perhaps I’m one of those creepies you fear?”

Baldwin shot the mercenary a look. All seriousness in the man’s expression. Much as he favored having him along for the ride, he did not have to trust him.

“And yet, you find the dawn most beautiful as well?”

“It is a compulsion I must meet every morning as the sun rises. And yet, I am drained and oddly weak at that moment. A bit testy, too.” He offered a shrug and a knowing grin. “I cannot explain it. Never have been able to, for as much as I’ve questioned it over the years. Have you an hour in the day during which your energy seems most frenzied?”

“I do favor the supper hour,” Baldwin said with a grin. “Aye, I challenge any man to stand against me when there’s a fine roast boar waiting on table with apples stuffed in its mouth and wine flowing from a fat wench’s pitcher.”

Dominique cocked an agreeing nod at Baldwin. “I shall see to remember such when we stop to fill our bellies, lest I might lose a finger to your ravenous appetite.”

With renewed interest Dominique changed tactics. “Have you a voice, sir?” he prompted from the other side of Baldwin. The squire’s master rode a horse-length ahead of the trio. “While I find your squire’s conversation most enjoyable, I wonder how you find this fine gray morning.”

A thick cloud of frozen breath blossomed before the rider’s face, and he rasped out, “Cold.”

Dominique raised an inquiring brow to Baldwin. The squire merely shrugged and looked ahead over the stretch of white-frosted ground. Rabbit tracks stitched a line in the quilting of snow and led to the forest edge where black-striped white birch grew tall and slender amidst the thick trunks of decades-old oak and elm. Within hearing distance, the Seine sang crisply, her waters impervious to frost. Beneath the snow cover verdant earth and grass slept in a moist bed until spring.

“I feel I’ve offended in some way,” Dominique said, more to himself than anyone. Not that anyone listened.

The gruff-voiced man who led their motley trio certainly did keep to himself. Fine with him. The squire offered enough conversation to keep a man’s jaw oiled in the stiffening chill. “What is your business in Creil?”

Baldwin started, “We’re to—”

The squire’s master blasted over with a quick, “What is yours?”

“Ah, a tidbit of conversation.” Dominique heeled his mount to catch the faster pace of the man.

What was his name? Ah yes, Antoine d’Ange, of the ill-fated d’Ange disaster less than a fortnight ago. So he would allow him the morose brooding. Surely he had lost much to Lucifer de Morte’s cruel rampage. “As for my business, I am on a mission.”

“Aren’t we all—”

“Squire!” d’Ange quickly silenced.

Dominique could feel the air crackle between the two. Tension held both stiff upon the saddle. Something had lit a flame beneath d’Ange’s mail chausses.

“I stop in Creil,” Dominique added carefully, all the while gauging the vibrations between the two. Though d’Ange spoke little, each word, every movement was charged with a remarkable energy.

“So you are a mercenary?” Baldwin called.

Such perception. Or rather, an obvious guess, for he was a lone rider, fit out with sword and a mysterious manner. No gold spurs on his heels. There was no necessity in remaining a mystery. Clues to finding the black knight were welcome from any and all. And he much intended to get to the core of this intriguing tension that shot back and forth between his travel mates.

“Indeed, a mercenary. I’m sure you’ve heard much of the dark knight who swoops into battle to claim the members of the de Morte clan? I’ve been instructed to seek this legendary knight.”

“Oh?” Baldwin and his master exchanged looks. There was a glimmer of—something—in Antoine d’Ange’s pale eyes. Dominique couldn’t place what it was, but it overwhelmed the haggard condition of the man’s face. An inner fire, perhaps that is what kept the poor soul going after his entire family had been murdered.

“Don’t tell me you’ve not heard of the black knight?”

“We have not,” Antoine d’Ange rasped, and in a stir of hoof-sifted snow, turned his horse from the trail. With a nod of his hooded head he beckoned the squire to his side. “A moment to converse with my squire, if you please, San Juste.”

Dominique inclined his head and crossed his hands over the hard, leather saddle pommel.

The twosome dismounted and walked off. D’Ange positively steamed as he pumped his fists and worked his way toward the forest. Filled with a raging force, he was. Their boots kicked up little parallel mountains in the soft layer of snow following their wake.

An interesting reaction to Dominique’s mention of the black knight. They must know something. Or perhaps they knew no more than any of the villagers claimed to know? That the knight was all-powerful and stealthy in his pursuit of the de Mortes. A legend amongst mere mortals.

Hmm… Dominique just couldn’t get a grasp on d’Ange’s physicality. The squire he’d already pinned as faithful, eager to spin a mistruth to protect those he served, and not entirely cut out for the journey he’d most likely been persuaded to embark upon. But d’Ange was a tough read. He purposely kept apart to avoid consideration.

What hid beneath that cold facade of utterly serious silence?

Slipping a hand down the side of his leg, Dominique mined for the itch that had tormented his ankle for the past few minutes. When he returned his gloved hand to the pommel he cursed the coruscation that coated his gauntlet.

“A fine day it is when you’ve invited the enemy to accompany us like hell’s guardian to our deaths,” Sera hissed, and punched her gloved fist against Baldwin’s tunic.

He gripped his shoulder and groaned, “Sera.”

“He is the one,” she said in harsh whispers, her eyes alight with accusation.

Dominique San Juste sat out of hearing range, but both were aware he kept an eye on them. Overhead, a hawk spread his wings wide as it skimmed the ground, plunged, and snatched up a field mouse in a graceful act of violence.

“What one?” Baldwin wondered, as he pulled his gaze from the death peals of the mouse.

“You recall the rumor we heard in the inn, that Lucifer de Morte has sent a mercenary to stop the black knight before he can get to the Demon of the North.” She punched a fist into her opposite palm. “Well?”

“Sera, do you not think if San Juste wanted to kill you he would have done it by now?”

“He knows not who I am!”

“And he never will. If only you would let him know you are a woman, his suspicions would never come to fruition.”

“He suspects me? What say you, squire?”

“He does not.”

“Then why speak such a thing?”

“I don’t know!” He gripped his scalp, then spread out a hand in dismay. “Your foul mood sets my brain aquiver. I cannot think aright with you hounding me like a rabid dog. I like San Juste. He’s a personable fellow. And I rather enjoy speaking with him.” Baldwin followed her frantic footsteps. “Did you hear he lives on his own? An available man, Sera. And quite the handsome face, too.”

“You change the subject to serve your lies. Besides—” she crossed her arms over her chest with a scriff of mail to armor “—I know nothing of his looks.”

“Come, my lady, every look you give the man is that of a swooning goose.”

“Geese do not swoon.”

“Very well, but women do.” Baldwin playfully tweaked his hand near her cheek.

“Don’t touch me, toad-eater!” She slapped his hand and he recoiled, but more from her words than her actions. “Sorry,” she rushed in at sight of his morose expression.

“I am no longer,” he managed, feeling the remorse for his past misdeeds coagulate in his throat. “Never once did I take a man’s life, only his money. You know I have always done what must be done to survive.”

“I should not have said it,” she said, punching her fist into a palm. “You coax me to false anger atimes, Baldwick.”

“It is false, for you use it to cover up those emotions you’d rather not touch.”

She did not reply, only fixed her gaze to the knight standing yonder by the brilliant white stallion. Fire had burned her path from the horse trail to here. But now the flames flickered in her cold blue eyes…and settled. Baldwin watched Sera’s anger simmer to a nodding acceptance.

Whew, he’d barely missed another punch to the shoulder.

With a thoughtful finger to chin, she finally offered, “He isn’t like most men, is he.”

“Doesn’t sound like a question. More an observation.”

“I’ve observed many a man.” She looked him right in the eye. Difficult to escape her arrow-true gaze. “Often.”

“Really?”

“How else could a woman blend into a man’s world? He’s different,” she said, as she turned to place the mercenary in eyesight. “Dark, yet peaceful.”

Indeed—but she spent all her time observing men? For some reason that information set a tickle to the back of Baldwin’s neck. What did she do when she observed these men? Did she think, well…things about them? When could she have had the time?

“So you watch men…all the time? Have you ever, er—” he drew a wide arc in the snow with his boot toe, trying to act nonchalant “—observed me?”

“Certainly.” Her summation of his expression worked a catty wink and a one-sided smirk to her thick lips. “Castle d’Ange’s reluctant postulant, who spends the hours he should be studying religion in the battlements watching the knights practice in the lists. He drinks the holy water after the abbe Belloc has left the chapel—”

Baldwin stifled a gasp.

“And,” Sera continued, “he attracts the women with a mere curl of his lips and a roguish wink.”

Baldwin released his held breath. “You have observed all that?”

“Aye. You are lithe, agile—now that you have mastered your growing legs—”

“Not quite, but I’m working on it. And about that holy water—”

She smiled, freely. “And—unless it has to do with religious pursuits—you are ever willing to please and learn. Very much opposite our mercenary. For some reason I feel San Juste has no need to learn, that he possesses wisdom untold.”

“Quite an observation for a morning spent fuming.”

“Aye.” She punched a fist into the birch trunk. “You have had your say then, squire. Forgive my rude treatment of you this morning. I remove the curse of the evil eye. Though, I shall not forgive you for inviting the mercenary along.”

“But what is wrong with seeking help? And moreso, with allowing softer emotions?”

Her mood quickly changing again, she slammed a clenched fist to her breast and croaked out in her battle-roughened voice, “This heart will not feel until all the de Mortes lie six feet under. And if you can even think I will bat my lashes at the very man sent to kill me, you’ve eaten one too many poison toads in your lifetime, squire. Now come, we are leaving San Juste behind.”

“Oh? And you think he will just sit there and allow us to ride away? Where, then, are you two off?” he mocked the mercenary’s proposed question. “Oh, we favor a head-start before you fell us with your sword.”

Sera paced in the snow before him, chewing her lip and punching her fist in her glove. The scaled platelets of armor riveted along each finger chinked. Erratic the rhythm. So…unsure about this new challenge.

“Men don’t do that,” Baldwin commented. She looked to him and he gestured to her mouth. “Chew their lips.”

She released hold of her lip. Baldwin noticed that what had once been plump pink mounds to tempt every man’s dreams of passion were now cracked and dry. Winter and the stress of battle had taken a toll on this precious angel.

Dominique had been right at guessing she was ill. But ’twas not a physical malady that darkened her eyes, but a ghost of weeks ago. A ghost that clung to her with horrid memories of the first night of the New Year.

“We must be rid of him.”

“Sera, you mean—” Baldwin sliced a hand across his throat in horrific display.

“It is the only way.” She gripped her sword hilt and slithed the blade in and out of the steel scabbard. “I must take him out before he assassinates the black knight.”

What could they possibly be discussing beneath the skeletal bower of birch branches? Dominique unwrapped the leather reins from around his gauntlet, then draped them between his thumb and forefinger. Perhaps he should skrit over there?—a series of movements so agile and quick, not even an ultra-alert deer could sense his presence.

No. He wrapped the reins tight again. He didn’t have time for tricks. Much as he had enjoyed conversing with the squire for the past few hours, he highly doubted the other would suddenly be gifted with the urge to speak any more than a few mumbles.

Though, the twosome were involved in a very animated conversation at the moment.

Hmm… Were his suspicions true? Could they possibly know something about the black knight? Mention of the mythical knight had been what set d’Ange into a sudden flurry of motion.

Dominique pricked his ears. He could not hear them talking from here. The only audible sound was Tor’s bursts of breath through gray velvet nostrils, and the press of the beast’s heavy hooves into the snow-packed ground. And Dominique’s own tense breathing.

Just ride, his conscience implored. You do not require conversation. Ride on to Creil and locate the black knight. End your own search for answers that much quicker.

Easier to think than to actually do.

Creil was a good-sized village, set apart from the imposing walls of Abaddon’s fortified battlements. Would the black knight be so foolish to just ride in to Creil, all glorious black armor and sword held high? The de Mortes had to be fully aware of who, or what, had taken down the first two brothers.

No, if the man had any sense to him at all—and Dominique highly questioned that for the brazen acts of riding into battle and felling two of France’s most notorious villains—surely he would lie low. A sneak attack this time. There were no rumors of a siege on Abaddon’s part. Dominique had not been alerted to such. And he would know as soon as the idea had birthed in the de Morte camp. For the Oracle was a relentless visitor.

It was decided. He would be off. Those two could offer no information that would help Dominique. He suspected something sinister between the squire who claimed to be a postulant and his mysterious partner. But that was of a personal nature; it did not concern him.

“San Juste! Dismount!”

Dominique jumped at the sound of the rasping command, which set Tor to a nervous stamp.

“Is there a problem?” Dominique wondered, as he slid from Tor’s back and his boots crunched upon the hard-packed trail. A glance to his heels reassured he’d not exposed himself with a cloud of telltale coruscation.

“Yes, there is a problem,” d’Ange announced. He paced before Dominique, his scaled black gauntlet working around his sword hilt. “But it shall be solved soon enough. Bertram!”

D’Ange’s sword was drawn in a sing of steel. Dominique was fleetingly aware that the squire led Tor away from him and d’Ange. The instinct to unsheathe his own sword worked the action before he realized he stood at the ready to defend himself.

Defend himself?

“What say you this problem?” Dominique barked. “Is it me?”

“Indeed.” D’Ange stalked the ground before him, carefully measuring his strides as each step closed him in to Dominique. “You seek the black knight?”

With a simple reply clinging to his tongue, Dominique bent to dodge the sweep of d’Ange’s broadsword. A quick riposte brought the blade of finely tempered steel back his way. Had Dominique not stepped back his head would be rolling toward Tor’s hooves.

“I,” Antoine d’Ange rasped, “am the black knight.”

“You?”

Seeing his challenger’s overhead hammer-drop slash toward him, Dominique swung his blade to the left, caught the tip in his gloved hand, and thrust it above his head to block the blow. The jar of contact rippled through his bones and shuddered to his feet.

Morgana’s blood, but the man had a powerful thrust!

But what the man had just announced. It could not be. Him, the black knight? Not this man, this—gangly excuse for a man. Especially a man he suspected to be something entirely different, at least regarding his sexual nature. Certainly not the type to become a knight, let alone, the legendary black knight.

Though he did have strength…

Drawing his sword arm down, Dominique’s blade slashed over the chain mail tunic that clung loosely to d’Ange’s lithe torso. The hindrance of the tightly meshed rings stymied his intentions and his sword merely slipped, steel over steel.

“Careful!” Baldwin yelled from where he stood by the trio of horses.

Dominique figured ’twas not he for whom the squire was concerned. But should the man not have more faith in his master?

There was something very odd about his opponent. Dominique could feel it through to his bones. And it was not that he suspected the knight and squire shared the same bed. Indeed, the man’s effeminate mannerisms in the tavern returned to thought now. So delicately he’d held his meat…with slender hands…

By all that is sacred—could he be?

“Why do you seek to stop the man who wishes to aid you in your efforts?” Dominique yelled. He ducked. Another slash of steel whooshed over his head.

“Aid me? Is that what you call murder then?”

“Murder? I no more wish to murder you than I wish my own heart to cease beating. Which it yet may if you are successful in this twisted attack. Cease, man! I surrender.”

“There is no surrender but death!”

The heavy blade of his opponent’s steel skimmed Dominique’s thigh. Pain-heat pinged and shivered in his serrated flesh. The blade had sliced through his leather braies.

Still the attack did not cease. “Did you hear me? I don’t wish you harm. I’ve been sent by a higher power to ensure the black knight succeeds in exterminating the de Morte clan.”

This time the angry d’Ange heard. He tried to stop a forceful swing, but the sword pulled him forward, and he had to jab the tip into the snow to break his attack. “A higher power? You speak insanity.”

“You think I am Lucifer de Morte’s mercenary?”

“Can you prove otherwise?”

“Nay.” What did the man require? A letter de cachet? The sacrifice of his head? “I do not work for the devil. How dare you? I was called to serve the black knight by one who wishes him success. It is your puny hide I’ve been sent to protect. And I see now why I was needed.”

“A higher power—” Antoine d’Ange spat out. He paused, huffing in exertion “—has sent you to see the de Mortes are murdered?”

“I have been instructed not to interfere in your quest, only to navigate and to provide protection on your journey from one de Morte to the next.”

“What is this nonsense? A higher power? Do you speak of God?” Forgetting his sword, the man splayed his arms before him and declared to all, “Murder cannot be sanctioned by the church. What sort of god do you serve?”

“A god that tires of watching the de Mortes reign over the innocent men, women, and children of France. A god that confuses me as well, for he has chosen a gangly misfit of a man to bring down his greatest enemies. Are you sure you are the black knight?” He looked to Baldwin. “He is not, is he?”

The squire stepped to his mount and lifted a wool blanket slung over the leather saddlebags. Beneath was revealed a collection of shimmering black armor.

It took an unnatural amount of control to keep his jaw from dropping at such a sight. Dominique swung back on his aggressor, who stood lean and lithe, yet heaving from a simple tryst of matched steel. Much as he could not believe it—did not want to believe it—this man truly was the legend whispered of in villages stretching from southern Corbeil to Paris and beyond. He’d expected a great and hulking man, virile and strong. A warrior. Not…this.

“I need no protection.” D’Ange turned, retrieved his sword that had been stuck into the packed snow, and gestured to his squire that he mount. “Take your sacrilegious beliefs and be gone with you. Creil is but a day’s ride. Abaddon de Morte awaits the end of his cruel reign.”

Had he known the black knight would be so obstinate, Dominique might have refused the delectable offer the Oracle had used to coax him to such a task. But the fact remained, he had accepted. And he never surrendered to opposition. “Tell me, black knight, how much do you know about Abaddon de Morte?”

“I know he is a bloodthirsty bastard, and the devil’s brother; there is nothing more necessary.”

How had this fool man succeeded in murdering two de Mortes thus far? Dominique felt sure Abaddon would not be the third. Not when this knight planned to blindly ride into de Morte’s fortress of clever ambushes and ensorceled traps.

“So you are aware of the man’s penchant for booby traps?”

Already mounted, the knight regarded Dominique with a cold-air huff, and a nod to the squire to get on with it and mount as well.

“You think you can just march into the man’s castle and slay him in his own bed?”

Dominique felt laughter most appropriate, and answered the call of humor. It felt good to draw in the cold air and fill his lungs. But this moment of mirth was oddly bittersweet.

“What need I know about Abaddon de Morte that you cherish so to your breast?”

Dominique crossed his arms over his chest. “I will tell you, if you will allow me to protect you.”

“Never.”

“My lord.” Baldwin’s voice sliced a sharp edge through the chill air. “Perhaps it would do to hear the man out. If he knows things about Abaddon—”

“Damnation! Already you’ve turned my squire against me, San Juste. And you wish me to put trust in you after such?”

Dominique tilted his head back to meet the traveler’s eyes, shadowed by the dullness of cloud cover. “Abaddon de Morte has many strengths—both physical and occult—that will keep your blade far from his neck. He has a weakness as well.”

The knight’s brow lifted. Considering. He smirked, pressed his thick lips together. Not a shadow of beard on the man’s face. Could he be much more than a child? Insanity! That the people’s legend was a mere, why a mere—Dare he think it?

“How do you know so much?” rasped out of the black knight’s throat. “Explain exactly why I should trust you and your misguided God.”

Certainly the Oracle had not provided a means to ingratiate himself into the black knight’s trust. But trust was not necessary to provide protection. Though tolerance would be a fine trade-off.

“I cannot say why, or even if trust is necessary. Only that you must take benefit of the knowledge I possess. We have a common goal, to see the de Morte clan terminated. You have taken down two-fifths thus far, I shall join you in the final rounds.”

“And how do you know what lies ahead? Have you spies? Inside the de Morte lairs?”

“Of a sort. Difficult to believe,” Dominique offered, at surprised looks from both his traveling companions, “but necessary.”

“Then why has nothing been done to stop the de Mortes until now?” The knight’s steed pawed the ground, impatient as his master. Power and cold air pressed out from the horse’s nostrils with each puff of breath. Counterbalance to its master’s fiery demeanor. With d’Ange’s smoothing glove to its neck, the horse settled and turned its master back to face Dominique. “Why? When so many have suffered and died at the hands of such demons?”

Dominique felt the pain in the black knight’s voice as he rasped out his tirade. ’Twas akin to the pain that clutched his own heart, a pain that had forced him to accept this one final mercenary mission. He just wanted to know why.

“You hold your tongue to keep me from success. I do not believe you, Sir San Juste. Ride on!” D’Ange hiked a spur to his horse’s flanks. “I’ve a mission, and I’ll not have you underfoot to hinder it.”

“Abaddon de Morte’s castle is a veritable cache of booby traps,” Dominique called, as d’Ange pressed his horse toward the trail where he and Tor stood. “Boiling water cast down from the battlements, spikes screaming out from hidden murder holes. Live spiders and locusts. There is a spell of enchantment over parts of the castle that can forever spin a man into a confusion of the senses. But if you can pass through the rumored seven hells your reward shall come with cleverness and planning.”

“Seven hells?” Baldwin’s voice cracked.

“Abaddon de Morte, Demon of the North, Master of the Seven Hells,” Dominique said. “You have not heard the moniker?”

“I’ve heard of the Demon of the North,” Baldwin said shakily. “Everyone knows of the four villains set to each corner of the compass, and their ruler, Lucifer, planted in the very center, somewhere deep within Paris.”

“The Dragon of the Dawn,” Dominique confirmed.

“You say Abaddon has a weakness?” D’Ange stopped his mount alongside Tor. The two horses mustered little regard for one another.

“Yes, but unfortunately it will do none of the three of us any good to know such.”

“Why is that?”

No harm in revealing the little he knew of Abaddon. Dominique had no intention of allowing the black knight to press on without him anyway. “He favors women something fierce. The man missed the siege at Poissy because he instead chose to stay home and indulge in a ménage. The man goes through women like a worm boring through a rotting corpse. He’s quite vain, as well.”

“Baldwin.”

Dominique followed d’Ange’s eyes to the squire’s face, a visage that had grown paler than the snow at ground with mention of the seven hells. The twosome had a way of communicating with a single look—

“Oh, no. If you even think to attempt such,” Baldwin said, “I shall tell San Juste all.”

“All?” Now this was beginning to sound interesting.

Dominique marched over to the squire’s mount and jerked the reins from his hands. “I knew you were a liar.” He released his dagger from his waist-belt in a swift move that defied any mortal man’s eyesight, and pressed it to the squire’s neck. “Tell all,” he barked at the black knight. “Now.”

“You call this protection?” d’Ange protested.

At his move to unsheathe his sword, Dominique pressed his blade harder. A narrow spittle of blood dribbled from Baldwin’s neck.

“My lord!” Baldwin managed, his eyes closing to squeeze out tears from the corners.

D’Ange turned on his mount. So he was a coward to allow his squire death while he turned his back?

“The black knight is a woman,” Baldwin spat carefully from behind Dominique’s faltering blade. “Her name is Seraphim d’Ange.”