Sera hadn’t been able to argue with Dominique’s request to accompany them; he had already been mounted and ready to ride. Instead she’d purposely stepped on Baldwin’s foot on her passage to Gryphon’s side, and had twice knocked him to the ground with an elbow to his ribs before they rode out of Pontoise.
Heaven knew no fury like that of an angry angel.
Dawn gifted the chilled riders with a slash of vibrant color. Pink painted the horizon as far as the eye could see, followed by amber, and orange, then the bright flash of sun, before all too quickly fading. To find the sun in the winter months was rare; most days it hid behind clouds that filled the gray sky, as if that were the natural tint instead of cerulean. And so Baldwin cherished the few moments of color.
Hours later he’d learned little of Dominique San Juste, save that the dawn beguiled him as well, yet it was midnight that truly bewitched the moonlight knight.
“It’s too damn dark,” Baldwin said. “Especially riding through the forest. A man cannot know when a creepy will jump out and rip him to shreds.”
“It is a time when I feel the greatest strength,” Dominique offered as his mount, Tor, sidled to a walk alongside Baldwin. “If there are enemies to be felled I shall wait for the moonlight. Perhaps I’m one of those creepies you fear?”
Baldwin shot the mercenary a look. All seriousness in the man’s expression. Much as he favored having him along for the ride, he did not have to trust him.
“And yet, you find the dawn most beautiful as well?”
“It is a compulsion I must meet every morning as the sun rises. And yet, I am drained and oddly weak at that moment. A bit testy, too.” He offered a shrug and a knowing grin. “I cannot explain it. Never have been able to, for as much as I’ve questioned it over the years. Have you an hour in the day during which your energy seems most frenzied?”
“I do favor the supper hour,” Baldwin said with a grin. “Aye, I challenge any man to stand against me when there’s a fine roast boar waiting on table with apples stuffed in its mouth and wine flowing from a fat wench’s pitcher.”
Dominique cocked an agreeing nod at Baldwin. “I shall see to remember such when we stop to fill our bellies, lest I might lose a finger to your ravenous appetite.”
With renewed interest Dominique changed tactics. “Have you a voice, sir?” he prompted from the other side of Baldwin. The squire’s master rode a horse-length ahead of the trio. “While I find your squire’s conversation most enjoyable, I wonder how you find this fine gray morning.”
A thick cloud of frozen breath blossomed before the rider’s face, and he rasped out, “Cold.”
Dominique raised an inquiring brow to Baldwin. The squire merely shrugged and looked ahead over the stretch of white-frosted ground. Rabbit tracks stitched a line in the quilting of snow and led to the forest edge where black-striped white birch grew tall and slender amidst the thick trunks of decades-old oak and elm. Within hearing distance, the Seine sang crisply, her waters impervious to frost. Beneath the snow cover verdant earth and grass slept in a moist bed until spring.
“I feel I’ve offended in some way,” Dominique said, more to himself than anyone. Not that anyone listened.
The gruff-voiced man who led their motley trio certainly did keep to himself. Fine with him. The squire offered enough conversation to keep a man’s jaw oiled in the stiffening chill. “What is your business in Creil?”
Baldwin started, “We’re to—”
The squire’s master blasted over with a quick, “What is yours?”
“Ah, a tidbit of conversation.” Dominique heeled his mount to catch the faster pace of the man.
What was his name? Ah yes, Antoine d’Ange, of the ill-fated d’Ange disaster less than a fortnight ago. So he would allow him the morose brooding. Surely he had lost much to Lucifer de Morte’s cruel rampage. “As for my business, I am on a mission.”
“Aren’t we all—”
“Squire!” d’Ange quickly silenced.
Dominique could feel the air crackle between the two. Tension held both stiff upon the saddle. Something had lit a flame beneath d’Ange’s mail chausses.
“I stop in Creil,” Dominique added carefully, all the while gauging the vibrations between the two. Though d’Ange spoke little, each word, every movement was charged with a remarkable energy.
“So you are a mercenary?” Baldwin called.
Such perception. Or rather, an obvious guess, for he was a lone rider, fit out with sword and a mysterious manner. No gold spurs on his heels. There was no necessity in remaining a mystery. Clues to finding the black knight were welcome from any and all. And he much intended to get to the core of this intriguing tension that shot back and forth between his travel mates.
“Indeed, a mercenary. I’m sure you’ve heard much of the dark knight who swoops into battle to claim the members of the de Morte clan? I’ve been instructed to seek this legendary knight.”
“Oh?” Baldwin and his master exchanged looks. There was a glimmer of—something—in Antoine d’Ange’s pale eyes. Dominique couldn’t place what it was, but it overwhelmed the haggard condition of the man’s face. An inner fire, perhaps that is what kept the poor soul going after his entire family had been murdered.
“Don’t tell me you’ve not heard of the black knight?”
“We have not,” Antoine d’Ange rasped, and in a stir of hoof-sifted snow, turned his horse from the trail. With a nod of his hooded head he beckoned the squire to his side. “A moment to converse with my squire, if you please, San Juste.”
Dominique inclined his head and crossed his hands over the hard, leather saddle pommel.
The twosome dismounted and walked off. D’Ange positively steamed as he pumped his fists and worked his way toward the forest. Filled with a raging force, he was. Their boots kicked up little parallel mountains in the soft layer of snow following their wake.
An interesting reaction to Dominique’s mention of the black knight. They must know something. Or perhaps they knew no more than any of the villagers claimed to know? That the knight was all-powerful and stealthy in his pursuit of the de Mortes. A legend amongst mere mortals.
Hmm… Dominique just couldn’t get a grasp on d’Ange’s physicality. The squire he’d already pinned as faithful, eager to spin a mistruth to protect those he served, and not entirely cut out for the journey he’d most likely been persuaded to embark upon. But d’Ange was a tough read. He purposely kept apart to avoid consideration.
What hid beneath that cold facade of utterly serious silence?
Slipping a hand down the side of his leg, Dominique mined for the itch that had tormented his ankle for the past few minutes. When he returned his gloved hand to the pommel he cursed the coruscation that coated his gauntlet.
“A fine day it is when you’ve invited the enemy to accompany us like hell’s guardian to our deaths,” Sera hissed, and punched her gloved fist against Baldwin’s tunic.
He gripped his shoulder and groaned, “Sera.”
“He is the one,” she said in harsh whispers, her eyes alight with accusation.
Dominique San Juste sat out of hearing range, but both were aware he kept an eye on them. Overhead, a hawk spread his wings wide as it skimmed the ground, plunged, and snatched up a field mouse in a graceful act of violence.
“What one?” Baldwin wondered, as he pulled his gaze from the death peals of the mouse.
“You recall the rumor we heard in the inn, that Lucifer de Morte has sent a mercenary to stop the black knight before he can get to the Demon of the North.” She punched a fist into her opposite palm. “Well?”
“Sera, do you not think if San Juste wanted to kill you he would have done it by now?”
“He knows not who I am!”
“And he never will. If only you would let him know you are a woman, his suspicions would never come to fruition.”
“He suspects me? What say you, squire?”
“He does not.”
“Then why speak such a thing?”
“I don’t know!” He gripped his scalp, then spread out a hand in dismay. “Your foul mood sets my brain aquiver. I cannot think aright with you hounding me like a rabid dog. I like San Juste. He’s a personable fellow. And I rather enjoy speaking with him.” Baldwin followed her frantic footsteps. “Did you hear he lives on his own? An available man, Sera. And quite the handsome face, too.”
“You change the subject to serve your lies. Besides—” she crossed her arms over her chest with a scriff of mail to armor “—I know nothing of his looks.”
