Unicorn Vengeance (30 page)

He met Wolfram's gaze squarely.

“Give it here,” he said firmly.

Wolfram handed the Master the vial and he removed its stopper warily, the tip of the sword blade hovering a finger's span from his throat. He sniffed the concoction, put the vial to his lips and dropped his head back as he drained its contents.

He eyed Genevieve and Wolfram, the three of them barely drawing breath as they waited expectantly. Genevieve could not believe the poison took so long to take effect, yet in truth, her heart beat mayhap thrice.

Then the Master's eyes rolled upward and he slumped against the table. The vial slipped from his limp fingers and shattered on the floor.

‘Twas over. She exhaled shakily as Wolfram lowered his blade and stepped forward to check the pulse at the older man's throat.

“Aha!”

The Master's head snapped up, eyes burning, and his hand darted out to grasp Wolfram's throat. With the grip of a man who knows he has not long, he pinched Wolfram's windpipe and clamped one hand on the back of Wolfram's neck. Genevieve's heart stopped in fear. Wolfram struggled to shake off his opponent to no avail.

The men fell to the floor, Wolfram pounding on the Master with his fists and clawing at the man's fingers. His face grew ruddy beyond compare as he kicked and twisted, but the Master's grip was sure. Genevieve tried to leap into the fray, but the older man could not be shaken from his grip. His breathing grew more labored, but a determination was there in his eyes and Genevieve knew he would not surrender to the poison's call while his opponent yet drew breath.

What could she do? The men rolled and grunted as her gaze danced over the room. The entwined men hit the table and the lamp teetered precariously. Another blow sent the table lurching across the floor. The oil spilled across the wood and the flame leapt hungrily in pursuit.

They would all perish here unless she did something to aid Wolfram!

Suddenly Genevieve spied her lute.

With nary another thought, Genevieve snatched it up. Her heart in her mouth, she stood over the men and awaited her moment. What seemed an eternity was in truth but an instant. The Master rolled to the top, obviously intending to squeeze the last breath from Wolfram as his own features contorted in pain. Genevieve swung hard and cracked the lute hard over the back of the Master's skull. It shattered into a thousand pieces, but the Master crumpled bonelessly beneath the blow.

Wolfram shook off the other man's weight and cleared his throat with an effort. His breathing was raspy, but when Genevieve might have fallen upon him in relief, he pointed to the other side of the room.

The tapestries on the walls were consumed by flames. The bed blazed high, and the fire licked at the wood timbers overhead. Genevieve stared in astonishment that the fire could have spread so quickly, but Wolfram rolled to his feet. He kicked open the shutters over the window, ignoring the flames curling around their base. Genevieve tasted the cold bite of the night in her lungs and felt the strength of Wolfram's arms lock around her for but a moment before he leapt out the window.

They fell and landed with a thud on the thatched roof of the stables. Heat flicked at Genevieve's calves and she glanced down to find her beleaguered kirtle in flames.

“Nay!” she cried. Wolfram rolled her hastily across the roof and the fire was crushed to extinction, but not quickly enough that the roof itself did not catch. The straw was dry, and they were hard-pressed to roll to safety in time.

No sooner did their feet hit the ground than Wolfram left Genevieve. Her hands rose to her mouth as she watched him dash into the burning stables. Too long it took to see the horses run wildly from the smoke-filled interior. A trio of squires accompanied the coughing ostler, and she could not take another breath until Wolfram's own tall silhouette came forth from within. Genevieve fell upon him and he gathered her close as they retreated from the growing heat and watched the stables burn. High above, the window on the Master's room revealed naught but a dancing orange inferno.

‘Twas frightening to realize how close they had come to perishing there. Genevieve shivered at the very thought. Well it seemed that Wolfram's thoughts followed Genevieve's own, for he cradled her close against his chest. Already a crowd had gathered to watch the flames, and whisper among themselves at its cause, and Wolfram slipped them unobtrusively into the group.

“You, boy!” the ostler cried to one of the squires. “Hasten yourself into the tavern and see that all are roused! It looks as yet as though only the south end is past saving.”

“‘Twas milord's chambers!” wailed one squire in distress. Genevieve stiffened, but she dared not look to Wolfram, though she knew he, too, had noted the young boy's words. Well it seemed that Wolfram had missed one from the Master's retinue. “I must awaken him!” The boy might have plunged into the flames, but the ostler held him back with one burly arm.

“But thank the Fates that you were not sleeping at his foot this night,” the ostler told the boy. Tears began to run down the squire's young face and he turned to the ostler in distress.

“‘Tis only because the lady was with him this night that he bade me sleep in the stables,” he said.

The ostler ruffled the boy's hair. “Aye, some ‘lady' she was, I am certain.”

“Nay! ‘Twas not like that!” the squire declared, outraged that his lord's intent was being mistaken. “‘Twas the Lady Genevieve de Pereille whom he escorted back to Paris. Well do I know that to be the truth, for a tall, fair man came to seek them out. On a mission from the king was the Master of the Temple of Paris.”

The ostler smiled sadly and pulled the boy into an affectionate hug as his gaze rose to the crackling orange flames. “Naught is there you can do for any of them now, boy,” he counseled. “Mayhap ‘tis best you inform the king of his emissary's demise.”

The squire straightened at that, as though he found the idea a fitting tribute to his lord. “I will do so, sir,” he informed the ostler stiffly. “I will ride forth to Paris this very day.”

The import of his words barely settled in Genevieve's mind before Wolfram pulled her to the back of the watchful group.

“Come,” he said, offering her his hand. “Since Genevieve de Pereille is dead, no reason is there that you cannot go home.” His eyes glowed with some nameless emotion, and Genevieve could not quell a surge of pleasure that he had chosen to accompany her to Montsalvat.

A change had there been betwixt them, and possibilities lingered temptingly on the horizon. Genevieve took his hand as she summoned a shaky smile and knew somehow all would come right, should they but give themselves some time.

She felt the certainty within him that had not been there before and realized that the man before her had reclaimed some lost part of himself since she had met him. Genevieve eyed him curiously, but he revealed naught more as he strode purposefully from the blazing flames.

The odd thought occurred to her that ‘twas Wolfram who had risen from the ashes of the Order's destruction to re-create himself, not the Order of the Templars itself.

S
pring was ripe in the air when Genevieve and Wolfram climbed the long road to Montsalvat. The gates to the old fortress hung open on their hinges, the wind whistled over the high walls. They said naught to each other as they crossed the bailey, and Genevieve wondered if Wolfram saw the same majesty here as she.

Wordlessly she took his hand and led him to the north ramparts that she had climbed long ago with her grandsire. They climbed to the sentry turret and looked out over the rough land falling away from the outer face of the wall, Genevieve's eye picking out the bright green of new growth far below.

“‘Tis a good site,” Wolfram said finally. Genevieve heard approval of more than the location in his voice and turned to him with a smile.

“Nowhere else in Christendom could be home to me,” she confessed. She shivered in the cool caress of the wind and he pulled her close before him so that they both faced out over the hills. Genevieve closed her eyes at the reassuring solidity of Wolfram against her back and knew she had been fortunate indeed to find a man whom she could so rely upon. Too late she had seen that Alzeu had not been worthy of her trust, but well it seemed that she had learned from her error.

When he spoke, his breath teased the hair above her ear. “Long ago, we vowed to tell each other a tale of love,” he reminded her in that pensive deep voice she had grown to love. Genevieve glanced up in time to see Wolfram's lips quirk in a smile. “Never did you tell me yours,” he prompted. A glimmer in the quicksilver of his eyes tempted her with the possibility that he had yet changed his mind about their future together, and Genevieve caught her breath.

Wolfram but smiled. “Tell me,” he urged.

Genevieve turned back to face the hills, momentarily uncertain of what to say. At that time in the garret, she had intended to tell him of the love her parents held for each other. Now she hesitated, but knew she owed him no less than the truth.

But she trusted Wolfram. And at this point, he well deserved the tale, whether he chose to remain with her here or not. Genevieve took a deep breath before she began.

“Once, long ago, a woman arrived in these parts. She came alone and departed from a ship in a port not far from here, her belly round with a child. That she was beautiful gained her little, for whispers there were about her in the region from the very first. Some said she had come from as far as the kingdom of Prester John, some said she was a witch, some said she ran from the charge of murdering her babe's sire. The woman neither confirmed or denied these tales, and but settled in to begin a quiet life.

“The accusers stopped their whispering when a local man began to court the woman, apparently oblivious to the seed of another man rounding her belly. She laughed in the company of her suitor and they were oft seen together in public, such that none were terribly surprised when they announced their nuptials. The man, it seemed, had a remote property that he had inherited and the new couple headed off into the countryside, waving off the objections of any who observed with concern the advanced state of the woman's pregnancy.

“A home did they build on this property, situated as it was at the top of a hill. ‘Twas indeed remote, though they loved it that way, and they named it appropriately. Montsalvat was the name they chose, and well do you know the name means none other than ‘Wild Mountain.' ‘Twas at Montsalvat the woman's child was born. Even as far away as the coast where they had wedded, there were tales told, which were said to have emanated from the midwife, that the babe had a curious birthmark on his chest in the shape of a cross.

“The child was said to have been remarkable, for he had an affinity for small creatures and ‘twas said even the birds came to him when he was but an infant. ‘Twas rumored he had but to touch an ailing neighbor to see the malady remedied and that the larder of Montsalvat was never bare. When one had the audacity to question the mother on her curious child, she but smiled and said the boy was like his sire. ‘Twas all that was ever said of that man and none knew his identity in truth, though over time, the flurry of interest faded away.

“When this child grew to manhood and took a wife, the tales of his birth resurfaced, for the child of that union bore the same curious mark. People knew no more what to make of this than they had afore, though the family was growing to be a respected one in the neighborhood. As the generations passed and the family's fortunes grew, the matter became of less consequence and diminished to the importance of an oddity regarding a local family. The family prospered in the meantime, their reputed skill with healing attributed to knowledge passed quietly from generation to generation.

“Time passed and the radius of territory with which people concerned themselves grew broader. The powers of other families, particularly in the north, grew stronger. At one point, a daughter of the house was requested by a king far in the north. She was sent north with a generous dowry to cement relations for the family elsewhere, as was becoming increasingly common. Children three she bore her lord—three sons, no less—and none was more shocked than those hereabouts when the tale filtered over the hills that the king, his wife and his sons had been slaughtered in the woods while taking a day of leisure together.

“The custodians of the palace were said to have seized the crown and ruled in the place of those divinely chosen for the task, and folks here grumbled at the injustice, though there was naught they could do. The Pereille family grieved the loss of their own openly, until suddenly they withdrew into their own silence.

“Years later ‘twas revealed that the youngest son of this northern union had escaped the carnage and somehow made his way south. ‘Twas when he arrived that the family turned into itself to shelter him safely. Named Sigisbert, he was, and his existence here was only acknowledged when he mustered troops long years later in an attempt to regain his legacy. He lost that bid but never gave up the fight, retreating here and swearing his own sons to the task of restoring to the family the crown that had been lost.

“And so it has been these years. Efforts to recapture the crown, some more elaborate than others, each and every one resulting in failure. Well do I suppose that Alzeu was the last of his line in hungering after that task.” Genevieve fell silent and examined her folded hands.

“What of the woman who first began your line and the sire of that first babe?” Wolfram asked. Genevieve smiled sadly.

“If ever her identity was known, ‘twas lost in the mists of time.”

“And the Grail?” he asked quietly.

”San Graal,”
Genevieve said, her gaze unwavering from his as she willed him to understand. “Another rumor lost in time and one of which I know naught, but a curious coincidence has occurred to me that reminds me of a persistent tale told within our family. Consider that should you but move the break betwixt them, the two words become
Sang Raal.
”

“
Sang Raal.
Blood Royal,” he murmured in wonder.

“Aye,” Genevieve admitted. “Long has it been held within our family that our bloodline, from wherever it sprang, bears the duty of kingship within it. Alzeu well believed that he was destined to rule by virtue of his lineage alone.”

Wolfram's gaze brightened, and Genevieve knew he was making the connections. “And ‘tis the sister who alone bears the burden of the Grail,” he continued. Genevieve nodded and dropped one hand over her belly where her womb was secreted.

“‘Tis said that the repository of the family's lineage is the vessel lodged within me.”

Wolfram shook his head in amazement. “‘Tis the blood at the root of it all,” he whispered, as though struggling to make sense of it all. “Do you believe this tale?”

When Genevieve finally spoke, her voice was harsh. “The blood it is that carries the lineage to each of us, a lineage that marks our flesh and renders our spawn alone fit to rule all of Christendom. The blood royal, they call it, and tell us ‘tis a gift, even when it brings naught but grief to any who pursue the dream.”

“You do not believe these claims.” ‘Twas more a statement than a question from Wolfram. Genevieve shrugged and frowned.

“I believe there is naught to be ashamed of in my lineage,” she murmured, then lifted her chin to stare blindly out over the hills. “But my grandsire oft said that his father feared the blood royal had been diluted overmuch, that now it ran too thin to manifest its attributes in each of us who is fruit of the vine. Mayhap ‘tis naught now but an old tale fit to regale children.”

Wolfram's hands cupped around her shoulders, and Genevieve savored their warm weight. “What attributes might those be?” he asked quietly.

“An ability to heal by merely laying hands upon the ill is one oft recited,” Genevieve recounted.

“Mayhap a greater measure of compassion for our fellow creatures than most?” Wolfram demanded.

Genevieve glanced up, uncertain what he meant.

“You did not plunge the blade into my back when you had the chance,” he reminded her quietly.

Genevieve shook her head hastily, knowing he gave credit where ‘twas not due. “I loved you even then. You had saved my life and shown me kindness.”

“And killed your brother,” Wolfram observed.

“‘Twas the Master's hand that guided your deeds then. I understand that now.”

Wolfram shook his head sagely. “It matters not, Genevieve. When first we met, you knew fully who and what I was, yet you did not turn away from me.”

“To vengeance was I sworn,” she argued, but Wolfram shook his head once more.

“Nay, ‘twas more than that at work. ‘Twas compassion I saw in your eyes,” he said, and his hand rose to stroke her cheek, “and I knew not what to make of it.” He leaned closer, and his gaze bored compellingly into hers. “Is it not said that one should love one's enemy rather than seek retaliation?”

Genevieve flushed and might have turned away if Wolfram had let her go. “‘Twas naught but weakness,” she said to excuse her behavior. “Surely you see virtue where there is none.”

“Nay,” Wolfram argued. “‘Tis you who would mistake strength for weakness.”

Genevieve shook her head, still not convinced. “I cannot heal. Right my grandsire was that the blood royal runs too thin for any good effect.”

“I would argue that point.” To her surprise, Wolfram ran his fingers lightly down her arms to capture her hands within his. She turned slightly, not understanding what game he played, only to have him place her hands over his heart. Genevieve felt the fluid pulse of his heart pound beneath her fingertips even as the heat of his palms trapped her hands there. She met his eyes in confusion, and Wolfram smiled.

“Do you not think you have done as much for me?” he murmured, his tone urgent, for all its low timbre.

“Wolfram,” she whispered, and her voice caught in her throat. “No healer am I. Do not be deceived by what you wish to believe.”

“Nay? Feel it, Genevieve,” Wolfram urged as he flattened her fingers against his chest. “The warmth of a loving heart now beats where once there was the chill of stone. Even I thought naught could be changed, but your sweet love has proved me wrong.” Genevieve blinked back her tears as Wolfram urged her closer.

“I can take no credit for this,” she protested, wishing all the while that what he said would prove true. “‘Twas finding your mother that set your fears to rest alone.”

“Nay, Genevieve. I could never have spoken to her, were it not for you.” Wolfram's lips grazed her temple and he bent to whisper in her ear. “This heart beats but for you, my own gentle healer, and none can tell me otherwise.”

“You have a task with the Order,” she argued. “Surely you cannot mean to leave their ranks?”

Wolfram shook his head sadly. “The Order of the Templars, for better or for worse, is no more. One cannot leave something that exists no longer.” His lips quirked with unexpected amusement, and Genevieve regarded him with curiosity. “And none too soon, I would say, for it seems that reclaiming some lost part of myself has made me lose my touch in certain matters.” He smiled then, openly, though Genevieve was not yet ready to share his confidence in their match.

She pulled back and looked into his eyes, certain she needed to warn him of her own lack of worldly ambition. “No interest have I in pursuing my family's legacy of retrieving the crown,” she admitted hastily. “Times have changed, and such a feat is no longer feasible, if indeed it ever was. Do not imagine, Wolfram, that I will commit myself or my children to such a path.”

To her astonishment, Wolfram did not turn away. Instead, his arms slipped around her and he regarded her with an indulgent smile. “What then do you desire from this life, my Genevieve?” he asked. The way he said her name made her heart skip a beat, but Genevieve would not grant herself any false promises.

She looked past him to the windswept bailey with its soft new grass. “I would make my home here at Montsalvat,” she said quietly. “I would live simply here, raise my children and be safe from the troubles of the world.”

“None can make the troubles of the world go away,” Wolfram observed matter-of-factly. Genevieve smiled.

“Nay, but I would not invite those woes to my board.”

“As Alzeu did,” he offered. Genevieve nodded.

“Aye, I would be safe and untroubled.”

“Alone?” Wolfram asked, with a lack of curiosity that must be feigned. Genevieve flicked a glance upward to find a twinkle lurking in his eyes. The very sight emboldened her, and she forced a mock sigh.

“I know not who I might coerce to live in such a wild place with me,” she said coyly.

“Ah.” Wolfram leaned back against the wall and surveyed the bailey. “Mayhap you should consider one who might help you secure that safety you so desire,” he suggested with apparent idleness.