The Dark Knight (29 page)

He had been hiding close enough to the lean-to that he had been able to overhear almost all of the conversations between Faulke and Avalene. It always amazed him how close he could get to his enemy undetected when they thought themselves safe because of sheer numbers, or because they were within their own walls, or within their own camp. Oh, they would rouse to a full-on attack quickly enough, but it never seemed to occur to anyone that a lone man with a talent for stealth could get almost as close as he wished, especially after he liberated a Segrave surcoat and cloak from one of the men sent to hunt for firewood.

He had overheard enough to know that Faulke was dead set on the marriage, and although the very idea turned his stomach, Dante couldn’t find fault with his reasons. For a man in Segrave’s position, a child with
Avalene would ensure the loyalty of every Welshman in his territory. Still, Avalene did not sound as pleased about the marriage as she had just a few days ago. Was it because Segrave had all but announced that she would be marrying a traitor, which meant she would be branded a traitor as well?

There was also Faulke’s belief that the king intended to imprison Avalene in the Tower. The theory was plausible, close enough to the truth that Avalene probably believed it as well. Perhaps she would appreciate the opportunity to make a life for herself in a convent. Or would she see it as another form of imprisonment? Either way, her opinions didn’t really matter. The convent was the only choice left to her, since there was no longer any possibility that she would become his mistress.

His fists moved reflexively as he looked down upon the man responsible for taking away that last prospect, still frustrated that the only thing he could do to punish Segrave was take Avalene away from him and make sure he would never again touch her. Now the only question was would she be grateful for her latest rescue?

At the very least, she should be happy that he had saved her from marriage to a traitor, as well as a man so clearly unsuited for her. He had noticed the way she flinched each time Segrave touched her. Aye, she would be much happier in a convent.

Why her happiness should matter to him, he didn’t know. He was simply doing what he had pledged to do, although he no longer had a pleasurable reward to look forward to. Her distaste for Segrave would look paltry next to her terror when she realized he had recaptured her. Likely she would scream whenever he tried to touch her in the most innocent of ways. All because of one man’s interference.

Faulke Segrave should consider himself the luckiest man in England to still be alive.

He knelt down next to Segrave, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled his rival’s head back. Faulke’s eyes opened but it was obvious he had trouble bringing anything into focus.

“Can you hear me, Segrave?”

Faulke made a lunge against his restraints with a sudden speed and ferocity that surprised Dante. “I’ll kill you!”

“You can try, but first you must find me,” Dante said. Faulke’s eyes closed, so he slapped the man’s face to bring him around again. He wasn’t gentle. “Listen to what I have to say, Segrave. You know that we are bound for London. Do you intend to follow us all the way to the city?”

“Kill you. London,” Faulke muttered.

“Aye, London,” Dante said agreeably. “We are bound for London, and that is where you and I will finish our business. There is a place in Southwark called the Ox Head Inn. Have you heard of it?”

Faulke’s struggles to comprehend Dante’s words were readily apparent. His head bobbed and weaved, but he carefully watched Dante’s mouth. “London.”

“Southwark,” Dante clarified. “The Ox Head Inn. Now, repeat what I have just told you.”

“Kill you!” Faulke said with more feeling. “London!”

“Meet me at the Ox Head Inn at Southwark,” Dante repeated, without any real conviction that Faulke would remember this conversation. He was even more skeptical as Faulke showed no reaction when Dante drew his dagger.

Rather than threaten Faulke, he began to scratch a pattern into one of the leather bracers that covered Faulke’s forearms, a crude but recognizable symbol for
an ox. Unfortunately, Faulke’s arms were bound behind him so he couldn’t point out the markings and it would only antagonize the man if he carved the symbol someplace more noticeable, such as his thigh. It was a tempting thought, but when he had finished the pattern on the bracer, he carved the same symbol deep into the dirt next to him and made certain Faulke saw it. “The Ox Head Inn. Southwark. The day after you reach London, I will be there at midday. Do you understand?”

Faulke looked from the symbol to Dante’s face, but the movement seemed to once again throw his focus off balance. “Aye.”

“You can go to sleep now,” Dante told him. His spies would let him know when Faulke entered the city. He would send a street urchin to deliver the same message to Faulke, just to be certain. “I will be waiting for you at the Ox Head Inn. There is nothing else for you to do now but sleep.”

Faulke wanted to argue with him, that much was apparent. In the end, his chin eventually returned to his chest and his eyes drifted closed.

“Everything is ready, my lord.”

Dante looked up to see Rami peering over his shoulder at Segrave.

“All of the men are tied and those who are alert are gagged,” the boy said. “The girths are cut and their horses are on three lunge lines. Are we really going to leave them in the wilderness without horses?”

“We will leave their horses tethered on the road a day’s walk from here,” Dante said. “The men will likely free themselves by morning. Between searching for their horses and repairing their saddles, ’tis doubtful they will cause us any additional trouble on our journey. Now, go mount up and take your line of horses from Oliver.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Dante returned to Avalene, eyeing his own men as he walked. They would have their hands full until they rid themselves of Segrave’s horses. Already the animals were jostling each other, unaccustomed to being herded so tightly together. He could tell it was a challenge for Oliver and Armand to control their own mounts as well as their lunge lines, but Rami seemed to have no problem with his line of animals. Still, they needed to move quickly.

He spared a quick glance at Avalene’s pale face before he hefted her over one shoulder like a sack of grain. It was a challenge, but he managed to mount his own horse with his burden and then he settled her more comfortably in his arms. He turned his horse away from Segrave’s camp and finally let himself enjoy the familiar feel of her. He pressed his nose against her temple and took a deep breath, inhaling her scent. His body reacted predictably, but this would be the last time he felt the yielding warmth and softness of her body in his arms. When she awoke, she would no longer look at him with wonderment shining in her eyes. Segrave’s words made certain she was lost to him. The loss was inevitable. Hadn’t he always known that this innocent creature was never truly meant for a monster like him?

Even his imagined future with her had been a short-lived one, a future that would have lasted only as long as it took her to see the darkness in his soul and realize he was not the honorable, chivalrous Sir Percival who would take her to her family in Wales. Instead she would see a liar and thief who would use her trust and abuse her innocence.

On the other hand, he could not imagine forcing her from his life in just a few short weeks. She was everything he wanted, and everything he would never have. He knew with a certainty that defied logic that even if he
lived to a very old age, he would never find another woman like her.

He studied her face in the fading light from the campfires, memorizing her peaceful features. His heart had been a cold stone for longer than he could remember. There had been no room in his life for tender emotions, yet somehow she had reached past his barriers, brought light into the darkest corners of his soul. Just yesterday morn he had counted the long weeks until they reached Venice the way a miser counted his gold. Now they stretched out before him as a trial of endurance, the penance he must pay for daring to dream that she would be his, even for a little while.

Mordecai’s last words in the Tower came to him unbidden.
Marriage or murder, mistress or nun, the girl is yours to do with as you wish once Segrave is convinced his marriage prospects lie elsewhere
. Marriage and mistress were off the table. What if he was unable to convince Segrave to relinquish his claim to her? Would the convent also become an impossible future for her? That left only one other possibility. If Mordecai gave the order, could he end her life?

The answer should be obvious and immediate. He had never hesitated in his duty, no matter his opinion of a situation. His faith in Mordecai’s strange abilities was absolute; he had seen the proof of it too many times to have any doubts. It was Mordecai’s abilities that had shaped Dante’s life in England and guaranteed his success in his quest for vengeance. In every sense of the word, he owed Mordecai his life. His willingness to destroy one innocent girl should not even be a question in his mind and yet it echoed there incessantly.
Can you kill her?

He knew the answer. Something inside him had changed when he met her, every goal and objective in his
life revised to include her. He would kill anyone who tried to harm her. Given Mordecai’s prediction, his own death might be counted among that number.

… it is imperative she remain alive until you convince Faulke Segrave to choose the English bride. Your own fate does not change until that time. Only then will you have a choice of what to do with the girl
.

Who was the English bride?

He was suddenly anxious to be back in London, to meet with Mordecai again and get answers to the questions he should have asked in the first place. Somehow Segrave must be convinced. He would not think of Avalene’s future again or torture himself with doubts until Mordecai shed more light on the situation. If he could not have her, he would make certain a convent would.

He turned his thoughts to the immediate task of putting more miles behind them. He would not risk another meeting with Segrave until he could be certain Avalene was safe. And that led back to thoughts of her constant presence in his life until they reached Italy. His arms ached already with emptiness and she was still in them. It would be torture to see her every day and yet know she was forever beyond his reach.

The beast inside him whispered sinister suggestions in his ear, ever selfish, ever plotting. Where would be the harm in drugging her again if the yearning to hold her this way became too unbearable over the weeks ahead? She would never remember if he stole a few kisses. He could kiss her now and she wouldn’t remember. He could—

She began to stir in his arms and her eyes fluttered open, as if she had heard his dark thoughts. “Sir Percival?”

Her words were slurred from the effects of the poison and he knew that she was no more alert than Faulke and
his men. She would remember nothing of this conversation, but it was time to own up to the truth. Let her see him for what he was.

“Nay, my lady.” He gave her a grim look. “Faulke Segrave guessed correctly. I am the King’s Assassin.”

It was the sunlight that awakened Avalene, the light so bright behind her eyelids that she lifted her hands to shade her face … at least, she tried to lift her hands but for some reason they wouldn’t cooperate. Strangely enough, that did not alarm her. She felt as if she were floating along the edges of a dream. There were voices nearby, familiar voices, those of a boy and a man. Rami and Sir Percival. She couldn’t understand the words, and then realized they were speaking in Italian. She turned her head and tried to drift deeper into the dream, but something kept pushing against her shoulder.

“Lady. Lady.” The insistent nudging continued.
“E ’ora di svegliarsi.”

She opened her eyes to the blinding sunlight, then quickly closed them again and groaned. “Rami?”

“Sì, signora.”

The sunlight felt warm on her face, stirred by a breeze that also set leaves to rustling, and she could smell crushed grass as well as the damp earth. It was the middle of the day and she was lying on the ground, but why? Her mind felt as sluggish as her body. She wanted nothing more than to roll over and continue to sleep, but then fragments of memories came back to her in a sudden rush. Faulke Segrave. Sir Percival. Assassin.

Her eyes flew open and her hands worked this time as she cupped them over her forehead to shield her eyes from the sunlight. “What … where am I?”

“Mi dispiace, non capisco.”

She tried to think of the right Italian words but failed. Given the trouble she was having speaking her own language, translations into Italian were beyond her at the moment. Instead she concentrated on taking deep, cleansing breaths. Something was wrong with her. Her limbs felt weighted with lead and her thoughts refused to take focus. Rami made matters worse by tugging on her arms in an obvious attempt to make her sit up.

She finally gave in to his prodding and managed to get herself upright with his assistance, although a wave of dizziness made her thankful she had not tried to stand. At the same time, a shooting pain took up residence between her temples.

“Good. You are awake.”

That
voice she would know anywhere, the way its deep timbre set her pulse to racing. And yet her pulse no longer fluttered with giddy desire, but a healthy dose of fear. Bits and pieces of the day she had spent with Faulke Segrave were coming back to her. Sir Percival was
not
Sir Percival. She struggled to gather her scattered wits.

“W-what happened?”

“You were poisoned.”

“W-what?” She tried to look up at him, but the sun sat directly over his shoulder. The blinding rays were more than her head could tolerate and she swiftly lowered her gaze again. Aside from a splitting headache, her stomach protested each abrupt movement and she put one hand over her mouth, hoping that would quell the feeling.

“You were poisoned,” he repeated. “I put a potion in the cook pots.”