he indeed wishes to protect you,” Baldwin said softly, “then you can go about your business without fear. At least you will have someone watching your back.”
“And what is wrong with you?”
“Sera, I am not a knight. I’ve no inclinations to the sword. I am but a miserable toad-eater who relies on a bag of worthless bones to see him through strife. But I do wish the extra protection San Juste can offer.”
“And if it turns out he really is the enemy, sent to kill me at the finest moment?”
Baldwin opened his mouth to speak, but Sera stopped him with a curt response to her own question, “Then so be it.”
At least she would die knowing she had given her all to avenge her family.
Trust him? Never. But use his knowledge to make her quest easier?
“Perhaps Dominique will share all he knows of this castle of the seven hells?” Baldwin offered.
“He will, or he will answer to my blade.”
Baldwin opened his mouth to comment but Sera cut him off. “I thank you,” she muttered in the quiet of the chilled air. “You allow me to see through my rage with your simple wisdom.”
He shrugged, allowed a smile to wriggle his mouth. “I think that was a compliment.”
Despite her misgivings, the knowledge of this new protection released a cord of tension from Sera’s neck and shoulders. She had much to face in the coming days. Instinct must be honed, reaction burnished to mere seconds, and above all, she must keep her senses about her.
But now they were three. And Sera had to admit, this man did not so much frighten her, as put forth a challenge to the heart of the silk-clothed damsel hidden deep within.
FIVE
The moon glowed high in the sky when the traveling trio decided to stop at the edge of the thick forest that bordered the winding green waters of the Seine. Sera, who had been silent since granting San Juste his desire to protect, now settled against the rough, icy bark of an elm. She spread her wool cape out around her thighs and tucked it up over her knees to fight the chill.
They’d passed the Abbaye de Royaumont a half hour earlier. Now its single spire rose up majestically in the distance, decorating its little unpopulated spot of land with quiet grace. A sanctuary from evil, open to all who sought sanctity. Save the English.
Yes, please, Sera thought now, as scrapes of flint striking stone produced sparks at her traveling mate’s direction. Grant me sanctity. I want to be free of this quest, free of the rage and anger.
But Sera knew that such freedom must be earned. ’Twas the price she must pay for being the only survivor. Her brother and father would have done the same.
Soon a roaring blaze lighted their snug encampment. Fire sprites danced up toward the unreachable moon. Gryphon, tied close by, had settled to rest and Tor, untied, wandered the edge of the forest, seeking sustenance. The squire followed Tor’s untethered steps, then looked to Dominique—who offered but a silent shrug.
The mercenary excused himself, and took off over a hard pack of snow.
He needed a few moments away from Seraphim’s hard blue gaze to collect his thoughts. Every time she looked at him she gazed straight into his eyes. Not an evasive, coy look, as most women were wont to express. The feeling that she touched his soul with an imperceptible appendage was so strong. What did she spy in his own eyes of such interest?
He also sensed she still did not completely trust him. Wise woman.
But all for naught. He had every intention of protecting Seraphim until her mission was complete. Woman or no, he would not be granted release from the burning question of his parentage until he did such.
The chill air quickly attacked his exposed cock as Dominique drew a line in the snow with steaming urine. A man should wonder if the thing might take up the freeze and fall off for the times he must whip it out just to relieve himself. He could think of far warmer places to put it. Though present company would go unconsidered. The last woman he wanted to expose his starving lust to was a sword-wielding vixen like Seraphim d’Ange. That woman could emasculate with a mere glance. Rather, with the evil eye.
Securing the leather codpiece to his soft linen undershirt with a tug of the points, Dominique then slipped his fingers over the narrow slash in the thigh of his leather braies, courtesy of the black knight. ’Twas shallow, the cut. His flesh had taken on the chill, though the wound had already healed. There was not a drop of blood on his skin or clothing—at least not of the red variety. He smoothed away the congealed iridescent liquid, rubbing it between his fingers until it became powder and glistened into the air.
The only pain he felt was that of succumbing to his opponent’s blade. A woman’s blade, for the love of the Moon! He most certainly was not accustomed to such a bold woman. She deserved to be put in her place.
No. She deserves as much respect as you wish for yourself.
Indeed, he must set aside petty male/female comparisons. Seraphim d’Ange traveled a perilous course; she deserved nothing but his support. As their path drew closer to Creil, that course would only become more dangerous.
Tugging down his jerkin and drawing his gauntlet back on his hand, Dominique then punched a fist inside his other palm to stir his blood to a faster pace. He hated the chill and was most susceptible to drafts. Especially right between the shoulder blades. Once he exposed a bit of flesh the cold crept under his skin and remained until spring. He much preferred to grow a thick bushy beard to keep in the warmth, but the damned thing would do no more than sprout a thin shadow over his chin and upper lip.
Sorry man he’d turned out to be.
“Damned faery blood,” he muttered, as he cupped his palms before his mouth and blew. His warm breath briefly touched his nose and cheeks, but disappeared all too quickly.
“Your mission is progressing nicely.”
Dominique spun around, a stealthy movement bending him at the waist and crouching him into fight position, his dagger unsheathed and flashing before his face.
“You?” He relaxed his fight stance and jabbed the dagger-tip into the snow. “Morgana’s spine, but you follow me even when I am taking a piss!”
The Oracle remained serene, an odd expression on the figure that appeared to Dominique to be a boy of perhaps nine or ten. Short spikes of palest brown hair spurted here and there, as if bed-tousled. A flat nose only made his eyes appear all the more generous. A sweet fragrance, like a fresh spring meadow, overwhelmed him always.
The wide brown gaze of innocence teased Dominique to question his beliefs every time the Oracle glimmered into form—for that is the only term Dominique could summon for the sudden appearance of the apparition—swept in on a glimmer.
But for as young as he appeared, Dominique suspected the Oracle was decades older in wisdom. And if he were really a ghost of some sort, he could have been dead for ages.
“Do you realize the black knight is a woman?” Dominique asked.
“I…did not know that until now.”
Difficult
