to a cowardly shiver behind their castle walls?”
The bearded man shrugged, scratched his generous belly. “Abaddon’s the biggest and strongest of them all. If any of the de Mortes were to stand off a single, armored man, it would be him. Though rumor tells Lucifer has hired a mercenary to stalk the black knight and cut him down before Abaddon need worry of breaking a sweat.”
“A mercenary? Lucifer not up to the task himself?”
“Perhaps shivering like a coward in his stinking lair. The black knight is a force! They say he rides into battle on his great dragon of a steed, the beast blowing smoke from its nostrils.”
Dominique waved his hand dismissively. Sera did not miss the mocking gesture. “Gossip tends to grow a man’s muscles tenfold and his amours by many hundreds,” he said.
“Aye, but the black knight swung his sword and severed Mastema de Morte’s head from his body with one swift and mighty blow.”
Baldwin shot up like a rabbit bit in the tail by a curious mastiff. He pressed his hooded visage close to Sera’s face. “You severed the man’s head?”
Sera looked away from the greasy-faced squire, zoning in on Dominique San Juste’s furrowed brow. The beguiling knight took great humor in listening to the man’s tale. He didn’t believe a word of it, she could fathom as much from the smile that wriggled his lips. Such white teeth beneath the thin black mustache. Captivating, in a most alarming way.
A hand clamped over her wrist, forcing Sera to redirect her attention. “You cut off the man’s head?”
She shrugged out of Baldwin’s greasy clutch and whispered, “So?”
Taking the eyeshot of a nearby traveler as warning she might speak too loudly and reveal more than she wished, Sera turned and stalked out of the tavern, followed closely by Baldwin. The slam of the heavy wood door released a mist of snowflakes upon their heads.
Baldwin skittered up on Sera’s heels, her pace intent for the stables. “That’s so…so…barbaric!”
She raised a brow, smirked, but did not slow her pace.
“That’s not you, you’re not that—bloody saints!—wicked!”
“I was mounted in the midst of battle,” she hissed under her breath. “The man needed to be taken down. I did what was necessary.”
He gained her side, a sad shake flapping the ragged wool hood on his head back and forth over his still-chewing cheeks. “You’re changing, Seraphim. This is no life for a woman.”
“You are not my lord and master, Bernard.”
Breathing in a deep breath, Sera put the squire’s comments from her thoughts. It would not do to think on what was wrong with her life. Only, she must focus on what must be done to avenge her family. With that vengeance would come peace for many thousands of French villagers who every day suffered at the hands of the de Mortes. The villains raped and pillaged and burned for reasons no more obvious than that of their own twisted pleasure.
For each de Morte slain, dozens of families would benefit.
The chill of nightfall slipped between her cheek and the rabbit fur lining her hood. Sera shook off a shiver and strode through muck of mud and snow to the stable.
Here in the stables it was warm, dank, and sweet with hay and animal-scent. Gryphon nuzzled into her cupped palm. Sera did the same against the magnificent beast’s warm neck. She slipped a hand over the knobby row of witch knots that Antoine kept braided into the glossy black mane. Fond memories of helping Antoine feed the horses and oxen early each morning before the sun broke the horizon filled Sera’s thoughts.
She recalled her insistent daily question to her brother. “When will you let me ride Gryphon?”
Antoine would always smile his wide, devil-take-me smile and chuck a knuckle under her chin. “You do have a way with Gryphon, I can see that. This beast won’t allow any but the two of us to touch him without putting up a raging fuss.”
“Today then?” she’d eagerly wonder, her fingers already curling around the saddle horn in preparation to mount.
“Soon,” Antoine would always say.
And Sera’s hopes would wilt. She knew he hadn’t been ready to share with her his one private passion. For she shared his every other passion, such as sword-fight, tending honor through patience and diligence, and respect for their parents.
“You were good for him,” she whispered now against Gryphon’s smooth black coat. She drew her fingers over the silky and thick hide, shimmery in the rush-light glow. “I know you miss him, but you serve your former master well in allowing me to ride you now. Thank you, Gryphon. Together we will avenge my family’s cruel demise.”
“Not if you insist upon such theatrics.” The squire’s voice echoed in from the stable doors. “Riding into the midst of battle on your great and fiery dragon-steed? A swing of your sword decapitating the enemy? Sera!”
“I don’t want to hear it.” She pat Gryphon’s rear flank and picked up a curry comb that hung from an iron hook on the wall. The horse bristled his coat as she smoothed vigorously over it with the brush. “You may leave my service if you wish.”
“I—your serv—” He struggled to place his tongue on the words.
Sera knew the man had nowhere else to go. He was hopelessly lost when it came to religious pursuits. And toad-eaters were certainly out of vogue.
With a curt straightening of his shoulders and a proud thrust of his chin, Baldwin replied, “I would never.”
“Then silence your objections from this day forth. Do you understand?”
Baldwin Ortolano, tall and slim, his hands and wrists jutting way beyond the hem of his borrowed shirtsleeves, merely nodded, defeated. “I fear my attempts to cease uttering oaths may have to be renewed should I remain by your side.”
“It is not me you must answer to in your final days,” she said. The curry comb skimmed through Gryphon’s sleek hide, warming her fingertips with the brisk motion.
“You would do well to remember the same,” he said.
The fine wire brush stopped on a glossy patch of hide. When her final day did come Sera knew exactly who would ask of her mortal sins. And she did not fear Him. She could not. She was doing the right thing. So many lives would be spared with the swing of her sword.
Though, she sensed there was a deeper reason she had taken on the quest. But that reason was not immediately to hand. Normal females did not take to the sword to sever heads. What was she doing? There was no doubt she had not a clue beyond that she was angry. On the other hand, ’twas very much…a compulsion to battle. She knew not why, only that the rage that boiled within pushed her. Enticed her forward. Someone had to put an end to the de Mortes’ reign of terror.
And that someone would be her.
“Creil is another two days’ journey,” the squire offered in the silence of torch flicker and horse chawing. “Might we bed down here tonight and start afresh in the morn?”
“That
