Seraphim. Michele Hauf

      “What is wrong with him?”

      “Hmm?” Baldwin turned and looked over the man. Two black eyes beamed at him. Dark hair slicked over his ears, and a shadow of a beard progressed dash-and-scatter from his cheeks to his jaw. There lived an eerie peacefulness in the depths of those eyes. Perhaps he was a little handsome—ah, hell! What was he thinking?

      “Your master.” The man gestured to Sera. “To look over his face one would wonder…”

      Sweet Mother of Wonder, did the man suspect?

      “Is he ill?”

      “Ill?” Not the suspicion Baldwin had feared. He swallowed a melon-size gulp and tried to act nonchalant. He pressed his hand to the stable wall, crossed his legs at the ankle—and winced at the pinch of coin digging into his delicates. “Wh-why do you say that?” He quickly uncrossed his legs.

      “It is only because he looks it. Those dark crescents under his eyes and the gaunt flesh over bone… Mayhap he is frail?”

      “He is no thinner than I, my lord.”

      The obsidian eyes of the stranger took in Baldwin’s lank frame. Dressed in squire’s tunic and the tight-fitted brown leggings borrowed from yet another dead man, Baldwin felt awkward and exposed. But better to distract attention to himself.

      “You’re not a soldier, are you?”

      “A postulant, actually. I am soon to become a monk.” Though for as much as that was worth anymore, he might just as well go back to eating toads.

      “Really? I thought you a squire to this man’s knight.”

      “Well…” Baldwin twisted his head upon his neck, fighting the sin of mistruth even as he babbled a thousand lies. Closing his eyes to avoid discovery, he offered, “That, too.”

      “Have you a condition yourself, man?”

      “Condition?”

      “Your eyes—”

      “No. No, no…just, you see—I’m terrible exhausted, my lord. Traveling all day, you know. It tends to tire my eyes.”

      “Indeed.” Not a spark of belief in the stranger’s condescending tilt of head. “Pray tell, what is your lord’s name?”

      “My lord?”

      “Yes, the man lying here on the straw.”

      Baldwin shrugged, felt the color of blood flush his cheeks hotly. “My lord?”

      “You just said that.”

      “That is what I call, er…him. My—my lord.”

      “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