Readalong Monday…Chapter Eight

It's Monday again, so another stirring, rousing, exciting chapter of Through A Dark Mist.  I hope everyone is enjoying the adventure so far.

I must apologize again for the goofy way this chapter has copied and pasted. I still can't figure out how to fix the settings on my farking Office Word to get rid of the little square dufus things that mark the corners of each page, and if anyone out there DOES know how to fix it or even what it's called, please email me.  The text looks fine in the original file, but when I copy and paste it here, the formatting is all screwy. I've tried clearing the formatting, setting the margins to zero.  AUGH just AUGH.  Why is it cutting sentences in half?????  Why is it chopping the first line of each paragraph off after three words????  Any ideas?

Through A Dark Mist  Copyright © Marsha Canham

Chapter Eight

Servanne slept

twelve hours without so much as rolling from one hip to the other. She would

have slept even longer if not for the loud blowing of a ram's horn from

somewhere beyond the refectory walls, calling the outlaws to their evening

meal. She awoke with a groggy, thick sensation stalling her eyelids, and would

have gladly lowered her head to the furs again had she not caught a fleeting

glimpse of the nerve-shattering glare Biddy launched at her from across the

room.

"Biddy? What is

the time? How long have I been sleeping?"

"I am not

familiar with the hours these wolverines keep," Biddy replied archly, her back

as stiff as a swaddling board. "There are no bells to toll Vespers; thus I have

been praying quite fervently on my own for some time now."

"Praying? For

what?" Servanne yawned.

"For salvation,"

Biddy declared. "For redemption in the eyes of God and man—assuming it is not

too late to plead for forgiveness before either!"

"Oh Biddy—"

Servanne frowned and stretched cozily within the warm cocoon of furs. "What are

you talking about? What has happened now that requires forgiveness?"

"What has

happened?" she demanded shrilly. "You can lie there and ask me what has

happened? Better it is I who should be asking you—as if mine own eyes have not

already given me the answers. Sweet Mary Mother in Heaven, I should have known

it would come to this. I should have known it was his intent from the outset.

And you! I blame only myself for what has become of you. Too innocent, you

were. Too much talk, too great the temptation. Oh yes, I could see the

temptation; who could not? Who could not?"

The older woman

blew her nose savagely into a sodden scrap of linen and cursed as she was

forced to wipe her fingers on the hem of her tunic. In the next wailing breath,

she resumed her self-condemnation before an utterly confused and bewildered

Servanne de Briscourt.

"In all of my

eighteen years as your nurse and companion, I never dreamed I would bear

witness to such wanton behaviour. From other women—plain women, common women,

trulls and whores, oh yes, I should have expected it and known how to deal with

their urges. For women such as those, taking a lusty man to their beds is as

commonplace as lifting a leg to piss."

"Biddy!"

Servanne gasped, jolted wide awake.

"But you! I

thank the Lord your sweet, saintly mother did not live to see such a thing. And

with such a one as him! Sweet Jesu, had I but suspected such a need in you, I

would rather have seen you serviced by one of the guardsmen along the way—"

"Biddy!"

"—than by that

great, lustful brute! At least it could have been arranged with some

discretion! Not like this! Not … not brazenly walking through the hall, with

him naked as a bull and you"—Biddy waved a hand in unfathomable distress—"you

hanging off his neck, looking as if you could scarce wait to have a bed beneath

you!"

Servanne made a

strangled sound in her throat and sat bolt upright. "Biddy! What are you

saying? What are you accusing me of doing?"

"Do you deny you

were hanging off his neck when he carried you in here?" Biddy demanded with

narrowed eyes.

"I was not

hanging off his neck!. I was in a faint!"

"So would any

normal woman be to see the size of him," came the scandalized retort. "Curse me

if I did not think he had grown a third arm to support you!"

Servanne

flushed. "Biddy! He was naked because he was bathing in the pond. I fainted

because I was … I was exhausted—you, of all people should know why! And he must

have carried me back here because I could not walk the distance on my own."

Biddy stopped

fussing with the bit of linen long enough to arch a brow sardonically. "And I

suppose he helped you out of your clothing because he was concerned they might

choke you in your sleep? I suppose he remained with you in here for nigh unto

an hour because he was worried you might not be able to fall asleep on your

own?"

Servanne

clutched the layer of furs to her naked breasts. "He … unclothed me?"

"He did indeed.

And he enjoyed the view for considerably longer than it should have taken to

fold the garments and lay them neatly aside—had he troubled himself to do so,

that is."

Servanne

followed an accusing finger and felt her mouth go dry at the sight of her gown

and under-garments strewn across the earthen floor. She swallowed hard and

pressed a trembling hand to her temple.

"I do not

remember," she whispered. "I do not remember anything after I fainted."

Yet that was not

exactly the truth either and she did not have to hear Biddy's snort of disdain

to feel the heat creeping upward in her cheeks. She did remember something—a

feeling, or a sensation of intense warmth and pleasure. But … it was not

possible for him to have lain with her and not left something of his presence

behind.

Servanne flung

the pelts aside and examined herself critically, searching 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 might have noticed

the strange gleam that mellowed the gray of his eyes, softened them, even, to a

shade verging on pale blue.

"I trust you are

feeling better for your rest?" he asked.

Servanne said

nothing until he had come to a full halt before her. When she did speak, it was

in a voice so low he almost had to bend forward to hear.

"I trust you

enjoyed the liberties you took while I was resting?"

"Liberties, my

lady?"

"How dare you

touch me," she snapped, "let alone remove so much as a slipper from my foot!"

"Ahh," he said,

and straightened. "Those liberties. You would have preferred to sleep in cold,

wet clothes?"

"My clothing was

not wet," she objected. "I was no nearer the edge of the water than I am to you

now."

His grin

broadened. "You were very nearly headfirst into the mud and weeds had I not

caught you in time. Furthermore …" His gaze raked appreciatively down the

shapeless form of the cloak and left no doubt as to what he recalled seeing

beneath. "I did what any chivalrous fellow would do to save his lady the

possible discomfort of fever or flux."

Servanne

clenched her small hands into fists. "I am not your lady. And if you were so

concerned over my health, why did you not call my waiting-woman to attend me?"

"I could have,"

he agreed blithely, "but I thought it a convenient opportunity to assess the

precise value of the goods I am holding to ransom. Had I done so earlier, I

heartily believe I would have put a much higher price on returning them

undamaged."

"Then … you did

not—" Servanne bit her lip, resenting the flow of ruddy colour that made his

smile widen further.

"I am crushed,

indeed, my lady, that you should have to ask."

"Biddy believes

you did more than see to my comfort. She does not believe I have no

recollection of what happened after I fainted beside the pool."

"My reputation

as a lecher will be in shreds," he murmured.

"Did you or did

you not take ill advantage, sirrah?" she demanded, giving her foot a little stamp

of annoyance.

"If I did?"

"If you did"—she

searched his face in vain for a trace of humanity—"then you are a lower, viler

creature than ever I could have imagined."

The Wolf

laughed. "I was under the impression your estimation of my character could sink

no lower than it was already."

"I have erred

before in crediting a man with too much character," she retorted. "For that

matter, most men in general tend to show a glaring lack of consistency when

their true faces come into the light."

"Spoken like a

woman who is tired of being sold into marriages with one stranger after

another."

"Nay, wolf's

head. I am simply tired of men who continually deign to know what is best for

me and who then proceed to rearrange my life to suit their needs."

"And what needs,

might I inquire, would you prefer to have tended?"

Servanne flushed

again. "Mon Dieu, but you are an exasperating cur! Will you or will you not

answer my question truthfully?"

"Truthfully—" He

said the word in such a way as to raise a spray of gooseflesh along her arms.

"Had I seen to my own comforts as well as yours, you would not now have the

shield of a blank memory to hide behind. Nor would there be a need to ask what

manner of liberties I had taken, for your body would still be singing their

effects loudly and clearly."

Servanne's jaw

dropped inelegantly. She took a small, stumbling step back, and then another,

but before she could turn and run from the mocking gray glint of his eyes, a

sharp fff-bungg! split the air and left an ashwood arrow quivering in the

wooden arch beside her. A shriek sent her jumping forward and the Wolf suddenly

found himself standing with an armful of trembling, soft femininity.

"Runner coming

in, my lord!" someone called.

"Who?" the Wolf

asked, not troubling himself to turn around.

"Sigurd's

handiwork," said Gil Golden, noting the arrow's fletching with a wry grimace.

"No one else wastes so much quill."

None of the

other outlaws contributed comments. None even appeared to have heard Gil's, or

so it seemed to Servanne. Everyone—the men at the tables, the men not yet in

their seats, even the two women who bent over the cooking fires—all of them

stood frozen in place, like statues turned to stone. Apart from the hiss and

crackle of the fires, there was only silence. A silence so acute that when a

second arrow streaked through the darkness to strike the same archway, one

could almost swear to have heard the resonant twang of the bowstring.

Like magic, the

tableau dissolved. The men and women resumed their conversations and their

tasks at hand. Servanne, having once again buried her face in the protective

thickness of the wolf pelts, felt a pair of gentle hands pry her loose.

"We use the

double signal to ensure the men coming in are our own," the Wolf explained.

"Even those who possess limitless courage have been known to give away the

deepest of secrets under expert torture, and, since it is not inconceivable to

assume the sheriff has sent his pack of hounds out after us, we have arranged

different signals for each day."

"Bah! Old Noddypeak

should have chased his tail into a fine tangle by now," Sparrow chuckled,

materializing out of nowhere. "Especially since he was sent chasing it in ten

different directions."

"I should think

Sigurd will be bringing news of a new hound in the forest," the Wolf mused

thoughtfully. "One whose nose is tuned to a sweeter scent."

Wardieu,

Servanne realized, the excitement flaring within her like a sudden flame. Lord

Lucien Wardieu was in the forest, come to rescue her from this … this …

With a start,

she became aware of how close she was standing to her tormentor. Her fingers

were curled around shanks of gleaming black fur; his hands were still resting

on her shoulders, the intimacy of the contact hidden from view by the flowing

mass of her hair, but one that was felt most disconcertingly throughout every

inch of her trembling flesh.

His potent

maleness was unsettling; more so when a vivid picture of him flashed into her

mind and remained there—a picture of him standing naked in the knee-deep water

of the Silent Pool, his flesh steaming, his muscles rippling beneath the sheath

of taut skin.

Conscious of the

fact that he seemed to have little difficulty in reading her thoughts, Servanne

quickly lowered her lashes and extricated herself from his embrace. As before,

she missed the flicker of colour that came and went in his eyes, nor did she

see the way his fingers curled and hoarded the distinct, tingling memory of her

warmth.

"I would like to

return to my chamber now," she said.

"Whereas I would

enjoy your company beside me at the table again."

"I am not

hungry."

"I am. And

unless you would care to see my appetite roused for more than food, you would

be wise not to attempt to defy me in this."

Servanne looked

up. The promise was there for a blind man to see, as was the disturbing

realization it had only been by the slenderest thread of chance she had

awakened alone in her bed.

"I … should at

least like to make myself more presentable," she said tremulously, reaching up

with an unsteady hand to smooth the flown wisps of her hair.

"You are more

than presentable just the way you are," he insisted, extending an arm in a

mockingly gallant gesture.

Servanne doubted

she could touch him again and come away unscathed. She gathered the folds of

her skirt and cloak in her hands to lift them clear of the fouled rushes on the

floor, and, with as much indifference as she could put into the tilt of her

chin, preceded him to the raised dais.

The meal

progressed as it had the previous evening, the exception being that Servanne

shared her settings with the outlaw leader rather than with Sparrow. The

latter, happily taking on a joint of mutton almost as large as he was, kept the

conversation light and easy, but though he tried his valiant best, failed to

win a smile from their silvery-haired hostage. He assumed it was because she

had overheard Sigurd's report, delivered halfway through the meal, that there

was indeed a new player in the game of hide and seek. While he was not far

wrong in his guess, he was not exactly right, either. For every one thought

Servanne had concerning the whereabouts of the Baron de Gournay, she had three

for the man who sat on her right-hand side—the man who met her gaze each time

without a hint of shame, or guilt, or regret; just the infuriatingly smug

self-assurance of someone who believes his way is the only way.

"Who are you?"

she asked quietly. "Why have you come toLincoln?"

"I have already

told you who I am."

"You have not

told me why I should believe you."

He seemed to

want to smile at that. "Have I ever lied to you?"

He was looking

at her, into her, through her, and Servanne felt the flesh across her breasts

and belly tighten, as if left on a tanner's rack too long. "As far as I know,

you have lied to me about everything."

"Everything?" he

asked, his thigh brushing not-so-accidentally against hers.

Servanne shifted

on her stool and laced her fingers tightly together on her lap. "You have lied

about who you are, and what you are," she insisted softly. "You hide behind the

lincoln-green badge of an outlaw, yet your motives for being here in these

woods have nothing to do with bettering the conditions of the poor, or righting

injustices committed in the king's name, or fighting against oppression—real or

imagined. You have gathered about you a few local villagers to give some

credence to the charade, but you are not from these parts. I doubt you have

been in England as long as it took to grow the hair past your collar—or long

enough to know there have been no black wolves in Britain since King Henry laid

a high bounty on their pelts. Certainly not enough to fashion so fine a mantle,

or be willing to throw so casually on a bed."

The Wolf was

mildly taken aback; moderately impressed. After some consideration for the

surprised silence that had fallen over the other outlaws seated on the dais, he

carefully wiped the blade of his eating knife clean, sheathed it, and stood up,

indicating the door with a tilt of his head. "Come. Walk with me. There is but

a half moon tonight, perhaps enough to hint at what the gardens may once have

held."

"Absolutely

not!" she gasped, horrified at the suggestion.

The Wolf gave

her a moment to reconsider of her own accord, then leaned over close enough

that his words went no further than her pink-tipped ears. "You can either walk

with me now, or lie with me later; the choice is yours where we take a few

words of private conversation."

The mist was

more pervasive out-of-doors. Thick, opalescent sheets of it swirled at knee

level over the slick cobbles, masking the weed and rot, the neglect, and the

decay. There were no torches lit outside the hall, but as Servanne's eyes

adjusted to the faint light of the crescent moon, she could see the vague

outlines of the other ruined buildings, the stone cistern in the centre of the

court, the vine-covered arches that formed a narrow walkway leading toward the

chapel. She was thankful for Biddy's warm woolen cloak, and drew it close about

her shoulders. Tiny droplets of mist clung to her face and throat, and coated

her hair like a fine-spun silver web.

"The gardens are

this way," said the Black Wolf, walking toward the arches. "If you look closely

enough, you can still find the odd wild rosebush growing amongst the bracken."

How vitally

important to know, Servanne thought angrily, stepping around a jagged gap in

the stone cobbles. She stretched her arm out for balance, startled slightly

when she felt his huge, warm hand take hold of hers. Rather than jerk it away

and appear twice the fool, she permitted the infringement until the footing was

once again solid beneath her. A short distance into the steeped silence of the

ancient gardens, she balked completely, refusing to go another step in the

company of a man whom she had every reason to believe would kill her without

hesitation if the situation arose.

"Who are you?"

she asked again. "And why have you come toLincoln?"

He stopped on

the path just ahead of her and slowly turned around. "My name is Lucien

Wardieu," he said quietly. "And I have come home."

"You say you are

Lucien Wardieu, but if you are, why do you hide here in the forest like a

common outlaw? Who is the man who is now residing in Bloodmoor Keep? Why has he

taken your name if it does not belong to him? And how has he managed to keep it

all these years without anyone challenging his identity before now?"

The Wolf crossed

his arms over his massive chest and leaned back against one of the arches.

"A great many

questions, my lady. Are you sincere in wanting to know the answers?"

"I want to know

the truth," she said evenly.

"The truth

should not require proof, and a man should not have to prove who he is if he

swears to that truth upon his honour. I know who I am. So does the impostor

residing at Bloodmoor Keep."

"That …

impostor, as you call him … has ridden to war with Richard the Lionheart."

"I do not doubt

he has."

"Prince John

trusts and confides in him."

"You would use

such a recommendation to vouchsafe a man's character?" he scoffed.

"It has even

been whispered that if John ascends to the throne, he will be sufficiently

indebted to the Baron de Gournay to appoint him chancellor, or marshal!"

"John Lackland

does not bear up well under debts; he prefers to hire assassins to repay them.

As for his ascending the throne—how do these whisperers of yours say he will

overcome the annoying matter of Prince Arthur ofBrittany?"

Servanne bit her

lips, sensing yet another verbal trap looming before her like a snake pit. Of

King Henry's five sons, only Richard—the eldest—and John, the youngest, were

still alive. Geoffrey, next to youngest, had died several years ago, but had

left as his heirs, a son and a daughter. Since he would have been in line to

the throne after Richard, the right of succession would naturally pass to his

son Arthur upon the king's death, and after him, his sister, Princess Eleanor.

The snakes in

the pit writhed a little closer as Servanne offered lamely, "But Arthur is only

a child. Prince John would never—" She stopped again, catching the treasonous

thought before it took on substance.

The Wolf held no

such reservations.

"John would

never kill his own nephew? My dear deluded lady: Prince John of the Soft Sword

would kill his mother, his wife, his own children if he thought their removal

would win him the crown of England.

How long do you suppose Richard would have survived poison in his cup if he

were not already hell-bent on killing himself on the end of some infidel's

sword?"

"I do not

believe you," she said without much conviction. "Not about Prince Arthur, at

any rate. And besides, he is quite safe with his grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitaine,

in Brittany. She would never allow any harm to befall him, most decidedly not

at the hand of her own son!"

The Wolf looked

away, looked up at the slivered moon for a long moment, then looked back at

Servanne. "What if I were to tell you an attempt has already been made on the

prince's life? What if I told you he and his sister were kidnapped from the

dowager queen's castle at Mirebeau four months ago?"

"Kidnapped?"

"Stolen away in

the middle of the night under the eyes and ears of a thousand of Eleanor's most

trusted guards. It took a full week just to discover how the kidnapping was

done—a rather cleverly executed gambit, I might add. Two men shinnied up the

small tower that carries the castle wastes down into the moat. Someone should

have smelled the pair about their task if nothing else, but alas, no one did,

and the children were smuggled out the same way.

"Luckily," he

continued with a sigh, "their escape from Brittany was not

so well planned or executed, and Arthur was safely retrieved before he could be

put on board a ship for England. One of the men involved in the kidnapping was taken alive and

revealed quite an interesting tale to his, ah, inquisitor. The more questions

that were asked, the more answers were received, and in the end, most of the

pieces of the puzzle made sense once they were fit into place."

"No! It makes no

sense at all!" she cried. "Why would anyone want to kidnap the prince? He is

but a child."

"A child first

in line to the throne," the Wolf reminded her. "Keeping him prisoner, or better

yet, bending his mind enough to eventually have him judged insane, or

incompetent to rule … John would be the natural choice to assume the throne in

his stead."

"You are

forgetting the Princess Eleanor."

"The sister of a

mad prince? Hardly a likely candidate."

"So you think

John was behind it?"

"No one else

would have half so much to gain."

Thrust and

counterthrust. Talking to him was like taking a lesson in swordplay.

"Has the queen

challenged John with the accusation?" she asked.

"Challenge a

ferret to explain the feathers stuck to his mouth? What good would come of it,

especially when the chick came to no harm?"

Servanne's brows

drew together in a frown. "You speak with a great deal of liberty and

familiarity. I hope … I trust you are not daring to imply that you hold the

queen's confidence?"

"Me, my lady? By

your own words a rogue and wolf's head?"

"A rogue most

certainly," she said carefully. "But as I said before, no more born to the

forest than I was. I may not know who you are, sirrah, but I do know what you

are, and have known from the instant you stood your challenge to us on the

road."

"Have you now,"

he mused, his eyes catching an eerie reflection from the moon. "Suppose you

tell me what you know … or think you know."

"Will you tell

me if I am right?"

"That depends on

how right you are."

Parry, and

thrust. Servanne accepted the challenge, however, knowing this was as close as

she was likely to come to a confession, or an admission.

Mimicking his

arrogant stance, she crossed her arms over her chest and slowly walked a

half-circle around him, inspecting the powerful body with a detachment better

suited to choosing livestock at a fair.

"Throughout most

of my life I have watched knights training and fighting," she began. "I know

the musculature of a well-practiced sword arm, and the look of limbs that are

more accustomed to feeling horseflesh between them than soft deerhide. Your

arms and shoulders have been thickened against the constant chafing of heavy

chain-mail armour, and the scars I saw on your body this morning were not

earned in a forest or on a farm, but on a battlefield, and in the tournament

lists."

He said nothing

to either confirm or deny her observations, and Servanne continued even more

boldly.

"You carry your

years well," she said, glancing speculatively up at the shadowed face. "But

there are more behind you, methinks, than ahead. Five and thirty, I should

guess."

"Too close by

three to the grave," he chided dryly, "But commendable."

"Take away at

least twenty of those years for the time it took you to earn your spurs, and

that leaves … mmm … twelve full of mysteries to solve. Too many, I think, for

one quick judgment, but shall I pick one or two for consideration?"

"I confess, I am

intrigued, madam. Pray go on."

"Will you acknowledge

your knighthood?"

"Will it change

your opinion of me if I do?"

"Not one wit."

"Then I

acknowledge it," he grinned, bowing to her cleverness.

"And yet," she

murmured, almost to herself, "You are well schooled in the use of a bow—not a

common weapon for a knight. In fact, I rather thought nobles disdained any

knowledge of archery beyond the value of entertainment."

"The result of a

physic's wisdom," he conceded, shrugging his broad shoulders. "He had some idea

the drawing of a bowstring would quicker restore the strength to my arms while

I recovered from my wounds."

Servanne spared

a thought for the incredible corded tautness of his muscles and applauded the

physician's judgment.

"And your men?

Were they all recovering from wounds as well?"

"Wounded vanity,

perhaps. They are a competitive lot and would not see their captain with a

skill better than they possessed."

"Captain?" she

asked, pouncing on the slip. "Past rank, or present?"

The Wolf took

too long to answer, which was all the answer Servanne required to feel a surge

of triumph.

"That you have

been on Crusade is scarcely worth the breath to debate, but I would hesitate to

put forth the suggestion that any infidel could have wrought such damage as in

the scars I saw today."

"You question

their skill as worthy opponents?"

"Oh, I have no

doubt they are most worthy; both savage and dangerous, as well as fearsomely

skilled fighters, else King Richard would have laid their army to dust years

ago. But to fight you, my lord wolf's head, they would have to have the added

skill and knowledge of how to attack a man who favours the left hand. Most

soldiers never encounter a left-handed opponent in a lifetime of battle and

thus are rarely able to defend an attack, let alone overcome an enemy with your

skill and strength. No. Whoever left his mark upon you knew exactly what he was

doing. He knew where your weakest, most vulnerable points lay, and he struck at

them with relentless accuracy. Moreover, he would have had to have been almost

your equal in size and skill to have done as much damage as he did and live to

walk away."

The Wolf frowned

with genuine curiosity. "What the devil leads you to suppose he lived?"

"When you were

bathing, you were very meticulous about touching upon each scar—a ritual of

some sort, I imagine. Men do not continually refresh the memory of wounds

delivered by dead men, only those delivered by enemies upon whom they might

still seek revenge."

The Wolf fell

silent. And waited.

"Therefore," she

concluded, "we now have a man who was—or is—of the order; a man who makes vague

claims to be engaged in the honourable service of Eleanor of Aquitaine, yet who

definitely took a dishonourable foray into kidnapping so that he might … what?

Revenge himself upon an old enemy? An enemy he claims has stolen his name and

birthright?" Servanne stopped and glanced up in the darkness. "You call this

supposed usurper by the none-too-amiable appelation of Dragon. What was he once

called … friend?"

The Wolf shook

his head slowly, too far into the battle to sound a retreat.

"Worse than

that, my lady," he said with frightening intensity. "He was once called

brother."

**************

If you're enjoying Through A Dark Mist, I might remind you there are two other books in the trilogy: In The Shadow of Midnight  and The Last Arrow.  And if you want all three volumes in one book, check out The Robin Hood Trilogy

And while you're out and about, check out my website at www.marshacanham.com  Thanks to Nancy Davis over at www.RomanceReaderatHeart.com I was finally able to take down the out of date pages and put up the new ones.  I never said I was a techie *sigh*