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.”
“Come, my lady, every look you give the man is that of a swooning goose.”
“Geese do not swoon.”
“Very well, but women do.” Baldwin playfully tweaked his hand near her cheek.
“Don’t touch me, toad-eater!” She slapped his hand and he recoiled, but more from her words than her actions. “Sorry,” she rushed in at sight of his morose expression.
“I am no longer,” he managed, feeling the remorse for his past misdeeds coagulate in his throat. “Never once did I take a man’s life, only his money. You know I have always done what must be done to survive.”
“I should not have said it,” she said, punching her fist into a palm. “You coax me to false anger atimes, Baldwick.”
“It is false, for you use it to cover up those emotions you’d rather not touch.”
She did not reply, only fixed her gaze to the knight standing yonder by the brilliant white stallion. Fire had burned her path from the horse trail to here. But now the flames flickered in her cold blue eyes…and settled. Baldwin watched Sera’s anger simmer to a nodding acceptance.
Whew, he’d barely missed another punch to the shoulder.
With a thoughtful finger to chin, she finally offered, “He isn’t like most men, is he.”
“Doesn’t sound like a question. More an observation.”
“I’ve observed many a man.” She looked him right in the eye. Difficult to escape her arrow-true gaze. “Often.”
“Really?”
“How else could a woman blend into a man’s world? He’s different,” she said, as she turned to place the mercenary in eyesight. “Dark, yet peaceful.”
Indeed—but she spent all her time observing men? For some reason that information set a tickle to the back of Baldwin’s neck. What did she do when she observed these men? Did she think, well…things about them? When could she have had the time?
“So you watch men…all the time? Have you ever, er—” he drew a wide arc in the snow with his boot toe, trying to act nonchalant “—observed me?”
“Certainly.” Her summation of his expression worked a catty wink and a one-sided smirk to her thick lips. “Castle d’Ange’s reluctant postulant, who spends the hours he should be studying religion in the battlements watching the knights practice in the lists. He drinks the holy water after the abbe Belloc has left the chapel—”
Baldwin stifled a gasp.
“And,” Sera continued, “he attracts the women with a mere curl of his lips and a roguish wink.”
Baldwin released his held breath. “You have observed all that?”
“Aye. You are lithe, agile—now that you have mastered your growing legs—”
“Not quite, but I’m working on it. And about that holy water—”
She smiled, freely. “And—unless it has to do with religious pursuits—you are ever willing to please and learn. Very much opposite our mercenary. For some reason I feel San Juste has no need to learn, that he possesses wisdom untold.”
“Quite an observation for a morning spent fuming.”
“Aye.” She punched a fist into the birch trunk. “You have had your say then, squire. Forgive my rude treatment of you this morning. I remove the curse of the evil eye. Though, I shall not forgive you for inviting the mercenary along.”
“But what is wrong with seeking help? And moreso, with allowing softer emotions?”
Her mood quickly changing again, she slammed a clenched fist to her breast and croaked out in her battle-roughened voice, “This heart will not feel until all the de Mortes lie six feet under. And if you can even think I will bat my lashes at the very man sent to kill me, you’ve eaten one too many poison toads in your lifetime, squire. Now come, we are leaving San Juste behind.”
“Oh? And you think he will just sit there and allow us to ride away? Where, then, are you two off?” he mocked the mercenary’s proposed question. “Oh, we favor a head-start before you fell us with your sword.”
Sera paced in the snow before him, chewing her lip and punching her fist