“Ah. But he must have a name?”
“He is of the d’Anges.” Yes, and leave it at that, Baldwin thought.
For the week they had traveled the roads the moniker of the Black Knight had served Sera’s alibi. He could not just announce to this man that “my lord” was really “my lady.” He couldn’t tell anyone, for that matter. Much as he wished an entire army backing he and Sera on this suicidal quest.
“D’Ange.” The knight, in thought, thumbed the scruff of his beard. “Were they not set upon by Lucifer de Morte? I thought the entire family murdered by that bastard less than a fortnight ago?”
“Yes, well, there were…” Baldwin fidgeted with a stray point that dangled from his shirt, and closed his eyes, “two brothers… One survived.”
“I see.” The knight cast another glance over Sera’s inert figure, then flashed his eerie eyes upon Baldwin. “And his name?”
“Who, sir?”
“The man sleeping on the floor. Your master?”
“Er, Antoine.” Baldwin gripped the bag of bones tightly. Pity he hadn’t been able to procure Jude the Obscure’s wrist bone last market day. ’Twas the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes, he. And this lie was certainly hopeless. “Yes, Antoine d’Ange.”
“Antoine d’Ange.” The stranger walked a few paces across the straw-littered floor, then turned on Baldwin, drawing his angular face up close until his breath hushed in cold clouds across Baldwin’s nose. Within the depths of the steely black eyes, Baldwin sensed the Fates toyed with his string at this very moment. “You’re lying to me, squire.”
“I am not a sq—er—squire. Yes, indeed. I am a squire.”
“Liar.”
“I am but a novice! I—I am not yet accustomed to answering to that title.”
“There is something up.”
“What is that, sir?” Damn, but he needed that bone!
The knight fit his hands at his hips. His studded leather jerkin skimmed his knees, and shiny black boots shrouded his legs from thigh down to his spurred heels. He was a tall man, slender, but possessed of thick arms and muscled wrists capable of matching blows in battle. “I had better find my own nest of straw before all the drunkards come spilling out of the tavern. Good eve to you, squire.”
“Good eve—” All the drunkards?
Baldwin flashed his gaze over Sera’s peaceful form. How soon before someone discovered she was a woman? And what would they then do to her—no, he didn’t want to think of it. He’d heard one perfectly horrific tale of abuse from Sera, had seen enough…
He could not leave her alone.
Baldwin glanced to the tavern, up to the second floor where he and Sera’s room waited. Already paid for. A warm bed waiting to cradle his tired, aching limbs. ’Twould be a shame to let it go to waste.
A sniffle, a crunch of hay, and the chink of chain mail accompanied Sera’s turn upon her makeshift bed. She curled on her side, pocketing her hands up near her chin, her knees arrowing toward her stomach. Sleeping like a babe. A woman’s position.
“You will be the death of me yet,” Baldwin muttered. “You there!” He hailed the stranger back over to his side. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Dominique San Juste,” the knight offered with a short bow. The black stones set around his cloak collar clicked with the graceful movement.
Just what did the man suspect? He hadn’t pressed for the truth behind the lie. Maybe he had just been guessing. Baldwin prayed so.
“Sir San Juste, I’ve a room in the inn with clean water and fresh bedding. But as you can see, my lord has seen to a change of plan. Would you take our room?”
“At what price to me?”
“No price. I’ve simply no desire to see the room sit empty all night.”
San Juste considered the notion, followed Baldwin’s pointing finger toward the lighted window, and then, “Thank you for your kindness, squire, I shall accept.”
Baldwin raised a finger to correct the man, but stopped. It was too late; he was too tired; it wasn’t worth the bother. Squire was perfectly acceptable. For now.
“If I may ask, what is your destination, San Juste?”
“Creil.”
“Ah, ours as well.”
“Indeed? Perhaps we might share the road tomorrow? I do favor friendly conversation.”
A smile captured Baldwin’s countenance, so surprising, that he smoothed a hand over his jaw to verify its reality. To touch such an unrestrained emotion had become something of a quest for him this past week. “That is very kind of you, Sir San Juste, I accept your offer.”
Though he wagered Sera would not be delighted about another traveling companion, the advantage of having this rather imposing, broad-shouldered knight alongside them could not be overlooked. And beneath the wool cloak there glinted a sword and dagger; an extra set of weapons could not be refused.
“Tomorrow morning?”
“I shall meet you at dawn.”
Such luck to procure a room with little difficulty beyond a mere “I accept.” Dominique settled onto the bed, for to stand up straight was impossible beneath the angled pine beams that reduced the height of the room from a man’s shoulders to his waist in less than a stride.
He splashed too-cold water from a dented copper bowl over his face, then shook his head, dispersing droplets across the bed.
Fresh bedding, indeed. The nest of mice sharing the packed straw on the pallet might argue against that. But with the kitchen’s chimney bracing the wall before which the pallet had been laid, the room was warm, so he had no argument about sharing quarters.
It hadn’t been kindness that had prompted the squire to offer his master’s room, Dominique felt sure. For could not the squire have taken the room in his master’s absence?
No, the squire’s need to remain at his master’s side was more necessity. The lank young man had wanted to protect the sleeping knight. He, a mere squire, thinking to protect a spurred knight! But he would not protect for long with the skein of lies he wove.
Dominique wondered now if the squire realized the wide boggled appearance his eyes took on when he spouted an obvious mistruth. Exhaustion? Would not the man’s lids then be heavy upon his sight?
And what exactly was the man protecting? Could it be that his master also danced with an illusory shroud to his steps? Were they thieves?
Dominique had observed the duo in the tavern. The squire had no more thought than most men after riding all the day, to fill his belly. But the other, Antoine d’Ange, had plucked and prodded suspiciously at the fare the tavern offered. So…effeminate his actions. Just not…right.
Perhaps the two were engaged in more than just a partnership of the ride? Mayhaps there was reason the squire chose to bed down next to his master this eve. Dominique knew there were those men whose carnal preferences led them in sinister directions.
He smirked at the thought, then lay back. A few squeaks near his hip protested his position, but soon settled to sleep as well.
THREE
She pouted for two leagues, hunched on the saddle, every so often casting Baldwin the evil eye. She did have a knack for the evil eye. ’Twas a shade more intimidating than the lesser mongoose eye. Her pale blue orbs barely revealed color as her lashes meshed in the squint of hell. Baldwin felt its damning power bore deep into his gut, where it twisted his intestines into a nervous knot.
But he could not ignore the advantage of traveling with real muscle. And Dominique San Juste was just what a wayward monk-in-training-playing-squire and a mixed-up-lady-playing-knight needed.
