Unicorn Vengeance Read online

  Though that did not mean that she would not try to gain her way. Her own resolve was not small in this matter, either.

  “Mayhap you have forgotten our bargain, but I will remind you,” Odo snarled afore Genevieve could speak. “Half your coin, your agreement to play with me on demand, and one last condition to be named later. That was our bargain, and ‘tis that bargain I invoke to request your companionship this day.”

  Genevieve stood her ground. “I will not go.”

  “Is your word worth naught then?” Odo asked with a sneer. “You pledged to play elsewhere when I so bade, as I recall.” Genevieve’s color rose hot in her cheeks, but she reminded herself silently of her quest. “Well did I think your word had merit, or I would not have returned to you your lute.”

  “Odo, I cannot do this thing,” she admitted in a low tone. Odo’s eyes narrowed, but Genevieve spread her hands in appeal. “I must play here on this day of days. I cannot afford to leave this place. On the morrow I will accompany you, or on the morrow after that, but please do not compel me to leave this place on this day.”

  “Tell me why,” Odo demanded. Genevieve shook her head with a haste that made his expression turn harsh again.

  “I can confide in no one,” Genevieve insisted. Odo made a sound of exasperation.

  “Then ‘tis an excuse of little import.”

  “Nay. ‘Tis of great import. I cannot begin to tell you—”

  Odo interrupted sharply. “But you would not confide in me?”

  Genevieve shook her head slowly. Little evidence had she that Odo could be trusted with the weight of such a confession. Genevieve could not take the risk of telling another soul of her pledge.

  “Nay. I cannot.”

  “You will not,” Odo said accusingly before he continued in a threatening growl. “A promise did you make to me. And I shall hold you to that promise on this day.”

  “I cannot leave on this day!” Genevieve protested wildly.

  “You will leave on this day! ‘Twas this we agreed and naught else! Gather your belongings, for I bid you play with me, as we had agreed.”

  “And if I do not?” Genevieve challenged, bracing her feet against the ground stubbornly. Odo eyed her stance and shrugged, though the cold determination in his eyes diminished naught.

  “Then you shall play in this city no more.”

  His threat hung in the air between them, his harsh expression reminding Genevieve that she had naught with which to negotiate. She glanced to the Temple gates in desperation, but no one stirred from within at this moment.

  Well it seemed that she had little choice. Was it not better to sacrifice this one day than to lose all days playing in this place? Doubt assailed Genevieve, and she knew not what to do. Should Wolfram not find her here this day, surely he would return on the morrow? Surely she had granted him enough reason to seek her out more than once?

  But then, if she had, surely he would have returned already?

  Had she failed at this task so soon? What if Wolfram had already turned away from her? What if she did not see him again? A despair welled up within her that might have taken Genevieve by surprise with its intensity had she had time to consider the matter.

  In truth, she likely had naught to lose by aiding Odo.

  Mayhap ‘twas better to leave than to sit here and witness the evidence that Wolfram had no intent to return. Her heart aching, Genevieve fastened her cloak about her neck and folded her blanket over her arm.

  “And do not even think of playing badly,” Odo threatened darkly. “Should you see fit to jeopardize our performance, both you and your lute will pay the price.”

  * * *

  Wolfram lasted no longer than the next midday before he made an excuse that would take him near the Temple gates. ‘Twas weak to seek her out again, he was certain of it. Yet he grimly paced the distance regardless of his certainty he should not. Sorely confused he was by the riotous response she launched within him, yet Wolfram could not stay away.

  After all, that sense that she knew Wolfram’s secret could not be shaken, inexplicable as it was. A threat she might well be to his anonymity. Plus, she had witnessed his breaking the Rule—nay, she had been responsible for his transgression in tempting him to grant her a coin that was not his to give. And she had refused to grant her word that she would not tell of his second transgression—again, her fault—that of embracing a woman. Wolfram’s lips thinned at the recollection of how she had flouted his request.

  Indeed, an unpredictable woman in possession of his secrets was well worth watching. His desire to see her was purely logical, naught else.

  ‘Twas not logic that had Wolfram straining his ears as he drew near the gates, but he ignored the taunting voice in his mind that made that observation. No music came to him, and this was of greater concern. Fear quickened his pace and he found himself hastening to the gates. What had happened to the lutenist? Surely she could not have left?

  A worse possibility was there than that even. Surely she could not have guessed his affiliation with the Order and sought to reveal his secrets? All knew the Templars were forbidden the company of women, let alone their kisses. Should she have guessed he was of them, she might well have conspired to reveal his error.

  How angry had she been in truth the day before? Too late, Wolfram wished he had parted with her on better terms. Was it not said that no scorpion’s bite could match that of a woman scorned? Had not the lutenist accused him publicly of spurning her? What retaliation might she seek for that imagined transgression?

  A new fear blossomed in his mind and Wolfram wondered how she had seen to her own needs these past nights without silver. A cold hand clenched his innards. Why had he left her without coin two nights past? Might she blame him for any misfortune that had befallen her that night he left her without coin? Who knew what manner of trouble could befall a woman alone in the streets of Paris?

  Especially one who would kiss a stranger with such incendiary passion. Heat flared within Wolfram at the recollection of her embrace, but he frowned in concentration as he sought her slender form amid the bustling morning crowd.

  There.

  Relief made him weak in the knees. Wolfram’s gaze raked over her, checking every detail, but though she did not play, well enough she seemed.

  And she was yet here. Mayhap she waited for him. The very thought fired his blood and curiously fueled his uncertainties.

  He should talk to her.

  Although now that he stood at the gates with her slender form within sight, Wolfram’s resolve faltered. His pulse rose in his ears and his lips tingled anew. What if she kissed him again? What if he could not find the words? What if they argued again? He saw her smile and was certain that she mocked his indecision.

  Then he saw the other man.

  A red-haired man ‘twas who addressed the lutenist, though his garments marked him as one of little repute. She did not turn away, much to Wolfram’s disgust, or appear to do anything to dissuade the man’s attentions. Wolfram was ashamed to find himself straining to catch the sound of her voice.

  Another man. Well it seemed that she did naught to turn that man aside, and the realization did not sit well with Wolfram. Although the matter was naught of his concern, it took little intellect to see the meaning of that. Only too easy ‘twas to guess where she might have found shelter the past two nights, even without coin in her pocket.

  The man stepped closer to the lutenist and Wolfram turned abruptly away. He could not bear to see whether she saluted this man the same way she had saluted him.

  Mayhap she earned her keep with other talents than her lute playing.

  Anger burned deep within Wolfram at the very thought. He felt betrayed. Indeed, had she not accused him of faithlessness before all, just a day past? The injustice of her words burned within his innards.

  A long-familiar feeling ‘twas, this betrayal, especially the betrayal of women, and it should not have troubled Wolfram as thoroughly as it did. Well should he h
ave known to expect as much. It stung deep within him, though Wolfram knew in truth that the lutenist had promised him naught.

  But she had kissed him. And no passing, casual kiss had it been. He could not conceive that she might kiss another in the same way.

  Not that he was interested in the lutenist’s kisses. ‘Twas only the threat she posed to his own security that concerned him. Naught else.

  Wolfram had turned away because he could not bear to watch, though now he itched to see what transpired between the two of them. Conversely, he wanted nothing less than to stalk away and forget the raven-haired lutenist for good.

  But well he knew her image would not be readily erased from his mind. Wolfram paused and glanced over his shoulder toward the gates. There had been that heart-wrenching moment when she looked into his eyes. He could not erase the shock of the sensation from his mind.

  Still Wolfram was certain that she knew what he was and still the exposure terrified him, yet he had to acknowledge that for that brief moment he had not felt so alone.

  Not alone.

  Much to his surprise, it had not been so dreadful to have another know his dark secret. ‘Twas disappointment, then, that lay at the root of his sense of betrayal, Wolfram admitted with no small measure of wonder. Disappointed he was that she either knew naught of his secret in truth or cared not that she knew.

  Disappointed. He frowned at the cobblestones. Foolhardy ‘twas at best to feel any remorse over the ways of others, and indeed Wolfram could not recall when he last had. He shook himself, telling himself ‘twas fitting that such whimsy be halted before it could truly begin.

  In future, he had best avoid the music of lutes and the spell they cast. And fortresses shrouded in silently seductive fog. He should forget this lutenist, with her clear green sight and her soft kiss. He should erase the entire incident from his mind.

  But a chink there was in the armor of his solitude that could not be denied. She could reveal him. The terrifying thought would not abandon his mind.

  Wolfram glanced through the gates in time to see the lutenist leaving the square with the red-haired man. For but an instant he hesitated, before he knew beyond doubt that he could not so readily let the matter be.

  * * *

  An hour later, Wolfram spared an uncertain glance to the darkening winter sky. Sliding past zenith was the sun, and time ‘twas that he returned to the Temple, lest his presence be missed at the board. He knew that he could not afford to be missed, but neither could he afford to lose track of the hastening pair before him.

  Wolfram would know where the lutenist was destined afore he returned to the Temple.

  Diligently had Wolfram tracked them to a bustling street market, confused as to their intent when they did not disappear into a lodging house. Was it possible he had misread the signs? That the lutenist was less than enamored of the other man’s companionship was readily seen in her expression, and that very matter piqued Wolfram’s curiosity. Where did this pair go?

  They lingered so long in one tailor’s establishment that he feared they had used another exit, but then the lutenist and her flame-haired companion reappeared. Wolfram emitted a sigh of relief that quickly changed to one of wonder at the transformation in her appearance. Garbed in lushly embroidered red and gold was she, and her hair brushed out to gleam over her shoulders.

  But a glimpse had Wolfram of that enticing sight before she threw her cloak about her shoulders and drew her drab hood over all. Clear ‘twas that her mood was less than fine, and Wolfram watched the red-haired man take the lutenist’s elbow impatiently and lead her on.

  Well it seemed that there was a piece to this puzzle that Wolfram had not discerned. He wondered if his first impression had been wrong as he threaded his way through the crowds in pursuit of his swift-footed quarry.

  Now, as all hastened home to the allure of their heavy midday meal. The red-haired man headed purposefully toward the king’s own court. Those high, smooth walls rose ahead, and still he did not check his pace, the lutenist in tow behind him. Wolfram watched in amazement as the pair were confronted by a gatekeeper, and he paused to watch.

  * * *

  “What business have you here?” The burly guard garbed in azure and gold looked none too welcoming, and Genevieve shrank back, wondering what indeed was Odo’s intent.

  That man straightened his shoulders and met the guard’s gaze with a boldness Genevieve was uncertain was wise. “Come to play for the entertainment of the king’s guests are we,” he declared.

  The guard raised a skeptical brow. “Invited are you?”

  “‘Twas the recommendation of one who heard me that my voice should grace the court,” Odo stated brashly. Genevieve refrained from rolling her eyes, certain a child could have contrived a finer lie or delivered it more believably than Odo had.

  “Who might this gentleman have been?” the guard demanded.

  “I know not his name,” Odo confessed without hesitation. He frowned with an intensity that made Genevieve suddenly wonder whether he told the truth, and rubbed his chin as though struggling to recall. “Jean, I believe he said,” he mused. “A tall man was he, with an impressive retinue”

  The guard offered naught. Indeed, his eyes narrowed and he folded his arms across his chest, more effectively barring the entrance than he had before. “Jean?” he repeated. “A common enough name is that, and not enough of a guarantee to see you through these—”

  He managed no more before Odo let out a hoot of delight. “There!” he cried triumphantly. “There is the man who bade me come here!”

  The guard swiveled to follow the direction of Odo’s finger. Before Genevieve could take a breath, Odo had grasped her hand and ducked behind the guard on the other side. She felt the guard spin in search of them, but Odo was hauling her into the milling crowd clustered in the courtyard.

  “Oy! Halt, you ruffians!” The guard shouted behind them as he realized what they had done, but Odo darted onward with quick feet. The swarm of nobles and their retinues swallowed them up and Genevieve heard the guard curse far behind them as he abandoned the chase.

  “Another minstrel, more or less. What be the difference?” His low muttering carried to Genevieve’s ears, and she might have enjoyed the moment under other circumstances. As ‘twas, she was still sorely vexed by Odo’s meddling. Odo flashed her a triumphant smile.

  “A big gathering ‘tis this day,” he said, his eyes gleaming with ambition as he glanced over the assembly. “Well do I think ‘twould be poor thinking to waste such an opportunity on playing in the courtyard alone. Dame Fortune walks with us this day, and I would take advantage of her favor.”

  “Surely you cannot mean to gain the court itself?” Genevieve demanded incredulously. No answer had Odo for her, for he was already approaching a guard at the portal to the hall with a swaggering step, his coin jingling audibly in his pockets.

  Genevieve glanced about herself indecisively, but no choice had she, in truth, but to follow.

  * * *

  Wolfram tapped his toe for a moment after watching the lutenist and her companion disappear through the gate as he decided his path.

  He had come this far, he reasoned. The woman who held his secrets was up to mischief, of that Wolfram had little doubt.

  ‘Twas only logical that he continue to pursue her.

  And should he be forced to stretch the truth a bit to gain admission, ‘twas a small price to pay. He reviewed what he had seen and concocted a tale, surprisingly not far from the truth, and deliberately approached the guard whom the lutenist and her companion had so artfully deceived.

  “Declare your business,” the guard in question said in a booming voice, and granted Wolfram a baleful stare.

  “From the Order of the Temple, am I,” Wolfram confided in a low voice. He thought he saw a flicker of curiosity in those eyes before the guard’s expression closed. Still the man’s manner was disgruntled, and Wolfram well aimed to take advantage of that fact.

  The gu
ard’s eyes glinted with suspicion. “You wear not the cross,” he observed coldly. “Nor is your hair shorn in the usual manner.” Wolfram shook his head hastily and leaned closer, pleased when the guard followed suit.

  “My task is not one that the Order would have any eyes note,” he whispered, eyeing the man who blocked his path.

  The guard was heavyset, burly enough that he could give any who might desire to enter without permission reason to reconsider. Indeed, it looked as though the man’s nose had been broken several times, and his very appearance might be enough to deter most would-be trespassers. Truly the guard did not seem to be a man of exceptional intellect, and well might that be of use to Wolfram.

  The guard’s brows rose, then his eyes narrowed. “No proof is there of that,” he declared suspiciously.

  “Aye, and none should there be, if my task is well fulfilled,” Wolfram countered boldly. He gambled that this guard might know others who were or had been Templars. Fighting men, Wolfram well knew, tended to keep company with each other. “Ask me anything about the Order,” he offered.

  The guard’s expression became calculating, and Wolfram’s heart skipped at the knowledge that he had hit a mark. “My cousin was a Templar and well did he confide in me something few know outside the Order,” he said carefully.

  Wolfram’s heart began to pound in his ears and he hoped he knew the answer to the test he was about to be presented. The burly guard leaned closer and Wolfram could smell his breath.

  “How many horses is a knight of the Order entitled to possess?”

  Some jest must this be. Wolfram blinked, but the man was completely serious. Surely this was not a creature of high intellect, and he thanked the stars above for blessing him with such fortune. One needed not to even be a member of the Order to know such a mundane fact.

  “Three,” Wolfram answered—‘twas the truth, as any fool knew—and the guard nodded with slow satisfaction.

  “Aye,” he agreed jovially, and held up three heavy fingers. “Three steeds. Where is your beast?”

  “No knight am I, but a sergeant committed to a dangerous task,” Wolfram declared, anxious to return the conversation to its original direction before the lutenist disappeared within the maze of this fortress. He nudged the guard, aiming to establish a camaraderie. “Well should you know that those above oft do not appreciate the talents of those in the lower ranks.”