Unicorn Vengeance (28 page)

The familiarity of the Germanic tongue he had spoken little since she had cast him aside beckoned him closer. A language ‘twas that summoned emotion from the depths within him, much as Genevieve's lute had done, for ‘twas a tongue that spoke to his ears of that sweet time of his childhood. Wolfram braced himself against its allure, not in the least ready to surrender even the small victory of welcoming his mother's language to her as yet.

“I would know the truth,” he said tightly. His mother's nod was so slight as to be imperceptible.

“Then come,” she invited tonelessly. She lifted one hand to him, and Wolfram hesitated as he stared at her outstretched fingers. He wanted to know, but she had been the one to betray him. A part of him wanted to concede naught to her, to turn his back and deny her what she asked, though ‘twas but a simple thing. A part of him wanted to hurt her in return.

But he knew all the while that such a course would gain him naught. Wolfram steadied the shaking of his fingers, reached out and took his mother's hand.

To his astonishment, her fingers trembled within his grip and a tear glinted on her eyelash before she turned briskly away.

“Cold you are,” she said hastily, her back to him as she led him into the tavern. “Come sit by the hearth.”

When they were seated on a pair of stools, facing each other warily, the firelight illuminating one side of their faces, they fell silent for a moment that stretched to eternity. Wolfram waited. Well it seemed his mother struggled to find the words as she stared down at her hands. Finally, she swallowed visibly and looked up at him, her expression like one who was seeing him for the first time.

“So like him you are,” she murmured wonderingly. “Indeed, I would have known you anywhere.” She reached out as though she might touch his face. Wolfram kept his expression impassive, and her gaze faltered slightly from his. Her hand dropped away to twist with its mate in her lap once more.

“Who was my sire?” Wolfram asked bluntly. His mother arched a brow.

“A nobleman he was, his name is not of import.” Wolfram wanted to argue that point, but his mother hastened on. Well it seemed that she feared an interruption would silence her confession for good, and the words spilled from her lips in a ceaseless torrent.

“He came to the inn where I was playing in those days, and well enough did I note him from the very first. Tall he was and well-wrought, fair of hair and blue of eye, and confident of his own charm, you can be sure. I knew well his name and his rank and granted him no attention in return, though I was aware of him, for my mother had taught me that naught of merit can come from the nobility.

“And well she knew that those within our family are passionate. We love without reserve, Wolfram, and once our hearts are granted, they cannot be so readily reclaimed. My mother but fretted for my own happiness, for as musicians, we were not considered fit to be wed into the blooded classes. Beware your legacy in this, for love grants no guarantees to those who surrender their hearts. Those there are who think love no more than a game, but always have our kind been deeply loyal, as you will see.

“Well I wished that I could have heeded my mother's advice better than I had, but I was young and this nobleman was determined to win me. Flowers he sent, and gifts, jeweled trinkets, but these were easy to ignore, for we were musicians and had little use for such finery.

“‘Twas when he discovered my passion for food that I was lost, for he sent then wine and delicacies such as were far beyond my purse. ‘Twas not long before he insisted upon feeding them to me, on carrying me off to the woods for impromptu meals in the grass. Clear did I make my demands from the beginning, and never did he touch me, just as I had dictated. But he charmed me, as only one trained to do so can, and ‘twas not long before I regretted making my demands.” Wolfram's mother sighed and impaled him with a single glance that spoke eloquently of the pain within her heart before her gaze dropped away again.

“Despite my mother's warnings,” she confessed softly, “I fell in love with a nobleman. So far above my station he was that there was naught good that could come of this love.” She shrugged almost to herself. “Mayhap part of the appeal in those early days was that our love was stolen away and forbidden. I know not. It matters little, in truth.”

She fell silent, and Wolfram watched the firelight play over features so like those in his memories, yet subtly changed. He wondered whether the years had been kind to her or not and checked the thought harshly.

Had she spared a thought to his welfare on that snowy eve so long past? Why, then, should he consider hers?

But Wolfram recognized that the harsh judgment he had long held against this woman was softening, even as she sat before him. His faded recollections of warmth and love were rekindled by the sight of her features, and Wolfram knew he had Genevieve to blame for this weakening of his resolve.

Genevieve, who had coldly abandoned him, precisely as he had feared she would. That Wolfram had anticipated the loss did naught to mitigate the pain of the knife turning in the wound.

“A
t any rate, I slowly fell in love with this irrepressible young nobleman, so bent was he on earning my approval. I hid my regard for him for a long while, mayhap out of some tardy respect for my mother's advice, but one day I could resist no longer. A stone had he tossed through my window early that spring morn, and I had known immediately that it could be no other than he. He urged me to join him, for he had a surprise, and indeed, the air was so fresh, the hills so verdant, that I could not decline.” She stifled a smile of recollection that sent a pang through Wolfram's own heart. “Helped me climb from the window, he did, and laughing under our breath all the while, we fled the town before any awakened.

“The sunrise ‘twas he wanted me to see from a particularly secluded and lovely hill. Deer there were there, and birds of so many kinds I could not name them all. Early flowers there were in bloom, crocuses and periwinkle mixed in the young grass, and the dew was thick and cool under our feet. A blanket had he brought, as well as a handsome repast, and we ate our fill, silently watching the sky turn from indigo to pink and thence to gold.

“When the sky tinged blue and our repast was long gone, he requested of me a kiss. In the magic of that morning and with the fullness of love dawning within my heart, I could not decline. And in the end, ‘twas that kiss and more I granted him that morn. Indeed, ‘twas nigh eventide when I returned to town with regret lodged firmly in my throat.”

Was he the product of this illicit union? Wolfram could barely stifle his shame at the thought. Out of wedlock had he been born, the product of a rake's passion and a maiden's naiveté, but the telling of the tale was less than welcome. His mother cleared her throat and frowned as though she meant to continue, but Wolfram knew not what she might say in addition.

‘Twas a sordid enough tale as it stood, and he was not certain he wished to hear more. He made to stand, but his mother's frown deepened. She laid one hand on his arm and looked to him in confusion.

“More there is that you should know,” she advised in a low tone that brooked no argument. Wolfram found himself sinking back into his seat. “This may well astonish you as much as it did me, but that nobleman did not disappear from my life. Well I imagined that once he had had his pleasure, he would be gone, and truly my mother would have made that point if she had but guessed my transgression.

“Remarkably, my reticence had proved a purpose, for in courting my submission so ardently, my nobleman confessed to have fallen in love with me, as well. His ardor diminished naught after our mating, and soon ‘twas known to all that we belonged to each other alone.” She shook her head slightly and met Wolfram's gaze steadily. “Those halcyon days were the happiest of my life, Wolfram, and you must believe that ‘twas no small thing to love and be loved by such a man. Everything he was to me and I to him.”

She paused, and the next words fell flat from her lips. “And so it continued until his family insisted that he wed.”

Wolfram must have made some sound of surprise, for his mother's expression turned grim as she glanced to him again. Instinctively he knew that she was not the one his sire had wed, and he was surprised to feel a trickle of sympathy for her that she had been ill-used.

“Aye,” she said softly. “‘Twas not I he wed. His family, of course, knew well about me, and mayhap ‘twas that union they sought to destroy. The legitimacy of line was paramount, the selection of a mate from acceptable levels of society critical to ensuring the fortitude of the family. Or so they said. He argued with them, to no avail. The arrangements had been made, the dowry paid, the bride en route to his family château even as he first learned the news. He threatened to flee, they called upon his honor, and being the kind of man he was, he could not deny them.

“He learned the truth on the eve of his own nuptials, and as soon as it could be contrived, he fled to me that night. ‘Twas late and we held each other close, secreted in my garret room, and whispered that my mother might not suspect anything amiss. I wept, and though he tried to console me, there was naught in truth either of us could say or do. He vowed to keep me as his mistress, but we both knew it could not be. Our last night together ‘twould be, and once we realized that, we pledged to make love yet once more afore we turned away. A few fleeting hours of passion ‘twould be, a tribute and a dirge both, for we well knew that we would never lay eyes upon each other again.”

She swallowed carefully and reached across to touch the back of Wolfram's hand. “‘Twas that night you were conceived, my son, and I knew it well even as his seed spilled within me. God did I praise weeks later when ‘twas clear that you would I have, instead of merely the fleeting mist of memories. A child to hold close to my breast, a child to love, a child to cherish as I grew old without my one true love.”

She straightened and blinked back the gleam of tears, her gaze snared now by the dancing flames, her manner purposeful. “I left the town before ‘twas evident that I carried the fruit of his seed, and left all those I knew, that I might not bring shame to them. No desire had I to see my beloved's bride, no need had I to learn whether he became accustomed to his fate over time. I refused to let the knife be turned in the wound. Naught did I have but you, my wits and my lute, and though I ached with my loss, it seemed for a while that it might be enough.

“Born you were one autumn when the wind rattled the chimney. A finer and plumper babe has never been seen on this earth, and from the beginning you were hale and hearty. Made me smile again, you did, and thence to laugh, a sound I had thought never to hear fall from my own lips. A humble living did I make, but steady work did I find in a tavern where the keeper was kindly and granted us a room beneath the roof. ‘Twas warm and we were well fed and I fancy happiness did we find together.” She flicked a glance to Wolfram as though seeking confirmation of his agreement, but he could not treasure her sweet reminiscing while the specter of what lingered ahead loomed large in his mind.

“Until you saw fit to desert me,” he charged flatly. She flushed and looked back to the fire. Her hands twisted in her lap again, but Wolfram was not prepared to grant her any respite. He waited impassively for what could only be a meager explanation.

“He came for me,” she admitted finally, in a voice so small as to be virtually inaudible. “You were but four. Well can you imagine my shock to find him standing in the corner of this tavern years after he had first watched me in the same manner many leagues away. A sadness there was in his eyes, a hunger from which I could not turn away. He talked to me, he told me of his undying passion, his misery in his marriage. Indeed, so great was his dismay that his wife had agreed to permit me to live within their home and openly be his mistress.

“Her sole condition was that I never bear to him a child.” She licked her lips nervously. “I knew not what to do. ‘Twas evident he knew naught of you, but his fierce expression when he told me of this condition made me wonder what in truth he might do should I tell him. Well it seemed that he was prepared to let no obstacles come betwixt us, and I feared for your safety should he hear tell of you.”

“You chose him over me,” Wolfram interjected coldly. “Spare me your pretty tales and but confess the truth.” His mother straightened proudly, and Wolfram knew well that he had insulted her, but she held his gaze unswervingly.

“I chose him over you.” She bit out the words. “I chose my lover over my child, ‘tis true, but at the time, I well imagined that I could somehow tell him of you if I but had more time. Fully did I intend to return for you, for certain was I that he would not deny you.” Her eyes clouded with tears as she regarded Wolfram.

“I was wrong,” she whispered, and her pain could not be denied.

That his father had denied him was a blow Wolfram had not been expecting. He caught his breath and wished otherwise, but his mother's eyes told him the truth. His sire had not wanted him. She did not look away now, her gaze locked to his as the words spilled from her lips in haste once more.

“You cannot know what a blow ‘twas to my regard for the man that he did this thing,” she murmured urgently. “Not only did he deny you and refuse to retrieve you, but he forbade me to seek you out. Too late did I see that I had forsaken the one thing that was important to me—too late did I see that I had not appreciated the fullness of what lay within my grasp. I had discarded all for what looked a finer fate, only to have that bright promise fall to tatters around me.”

Her lips twisted and her tone became savage. “Never could I look upon him in the same way again,” she said tightly. “Never could I reconcile the man I loved with the man who had declined to see his son.”

Her mouth worked silently for a moment as she fought for control of her emotions, and Wolfram felt an overwhelming wave of sympathy for her.

For this woman who had abandoned him. ‘Twas astonishing that he could feel such compassion for her, even after all that had gone before, and instinctively Wolfram knew that ‘twas Genevieve who had awakened this gentler side of his nature.

“But once the moment was past, ‘twas as though it had never been,” his mother continued tonelessly. “At least to him, it seemed thus. Never was the issue mentioned again, and indeed, we had some happy times together. But a shadow ‘twas on my horizon, and I suspect on my horizon alone, for he was completely untroubled by the matter.”

She took a deep breath and glanced down to her hands. “I loved him so deeply that there were moments when I forgot his slight.”

Wolfram glanced away at that, though he respected her strength in telling to him the truth. His mother's tale began again and he attended her silently. “Though indeed, the life itself was a comfortable one,” she admitted, “and I did remain there in his home, for I had given him my pledge in an early moment of weakness that I would remain by his side. Years passed, and ever did I think of you and wonder what had become of you.

“Ashamed I am to admit that in some corner of my soul, ‘twas a relief when my lover was wounded in battle and died. Summoned me to his side he did, instead of his lawful wife. I suppose a last token of his regard ‘twas to be the one holding his hand when he left this earth, but all I could think as I watched the life flow from him was that I would have been better served if he had never found me in that tavern. A weight was lifted from my back that day, and I knew ‘twas beyond time to seek out what I had lost.”

She sighed again. “‘Twas then I returned to Metz to seek you out, for ‘twas here I had entrusted you to the monks. Unhelpful they were at best, and told me only that you had taken vows and moved they knew not where. Alone I was then, as I had never been alone before, and I know not how long I wandered these streets pondering my own folly.

“Fate conspired that I would stumble upon that selfsame tavern once more, the one where you and I had passed such happy years. Well did the proprietor remember me, and I realized suddenly how well he had treated me when I was but a perfect stranger to him. Solicitude he showed me again that night, when I was in the deepest despair, and offered to me the same task and room.”

She gestured about herself with one hand, and Wolfram instinctively knew what she would say. “‘Tis here I still stay, ‘tis here I still play to earn my keep, ‘tis here I have awaited you, hoping that one day you would return.”

She lifted one hand and laid it against Wolfram's face, and this time he could not move away. “‘Tis here, where we began, that you have found me again.” Her eyes glazed with tears and Wolfram was shocked to see his own vision blur. Something warm spilled over his cheek. His mother smiled sadly and brushed it away with a warm finger.

“Do not imagine that I did not love you,” she whispered urgently. “Light of my life you were, but like some addlepated fool, I saw not what I had until ‘twas gone. My heart and soul would I have given to have you back at my side, but my error was not something so easily undone. I regret but one thing I have done in my life, and that was leaving you on that stoop.”

“With a lump of salt,” Wolfram said quietly. His mother nodded.

“With a lump of salt,” she agreed. “That they would know you were baptized. I was not so foul a mother as to see my own child without the grace of protection.”

Another tear spilled over Wolfram's cheek, and it seemed his mouth was so dry that he could say naught. His mother shook her head, her own tears beginning to fall as she framed his face within her hands. “Say something to me, my child,” she begged brokenly when she evidently could guess naught of his thoughts. “Forgive me if you can. If not, I ask only that you not despise me.”

“Never.” The word broke from Wolfram's lips with unrestrained fervor, and he saw immediately that his mother had misinterpreted him. Her expression of disbelief was so pained that he could think of naught but reassuring her. “Never could I despise you,” he whispered. Her features fell as she began to cry in earnest, and Wolfram hauled her into his arms with nary a second thought.

“I forgive you, Mother, and wish you had not been so ill-used,” he murmured into her hair as she crumpled against him. Strange ‘twas to embrace her after so much time, for her scent was achingly familiar, yet their relative sizes had been transposed over the years and ‘twas she who was the smaller now.

“I understand now, as I never did afore,” Wolfram whispered. “And well you know that I love you, as well.” She answered not, but her fingers clutched at his neck as she sobbed openly. Wolfram rocked her in his arms and whispered soothing nonsense to her as a warmth began to glow within him.

‘Twas this love he had been denied so many years, and its return near made him dizzy. So much had he lost but it mattered naught, for now ‘twas all his again. He pondered the details of his mother's tale and vowed silently to himself to learn from her error.