Something wasn’t right.
But while doubt niggled at the back of his mind, the lure of the game was irresistible.
Cardin cupped the dice in his fists. Raised them to his lips. And blew on them for luck. Rattling the ivory cubes by rubbing them loudly between his palms, he hurled the dice onto the table, rolling an eight for the main.
And nicked with a twelve for the win.
Xabi leapt into the air, hooting and hollering with joy.
Several of the Breton knights who had won side bets gripped Cardin’s shoulder with gratitude and vigorously shook his hand. The jovial innkeeper—thankful that Cardin had not caused a destructive brawl and had instead attracted a thirsty crowd—heartily congratulated him on the win and rewarded him with a pitcher of golden mead.
A scowling Zilar—closely followed by his dozen loyal henchmen and a few disgruntled losers—stormed from the inn, muttering expletives and cursing Cardin’s incredible luck.
Musicians resumed their lively play. Patrons began to dance. And Cardin, securing his silver in two sturdy bags to carry back to the castle, exited the noisy inn with Xabi.
“You took all his silver. Got your revenge. And now, you can settle your debt with Baroja. And I’ll buy the wedding ring for Euri. God’s bones, Basati! You won a bloody hundred pounds!” Xabi’s white teeth gleamed in the moonlight as the two men strode up the cobblestoned path toward the toweringChâteaude Montmarinat the top of the oceanfront cliff.
The hairs on the back of Cardin’s neck stiffened in sudden warning. But, hindered by the weight of the bags of silver, he was unable to draw his dagger as a dozen henchmen emerged from the shadows.
With a sickening thud, the back of his head exploded in blinding, debilitating pain.
And Cardin succumbed into darkness.
****
Andoni Zilar sat at his oval table, savoring the rich Basque wine, patiently awaiting the return of his reliable, impeccable men.
The closing and latching sounds of the heavy front door announced their arrival.
“We seized the silver, my lord.” The coins clinked and jingled as Urdin—his bearded face partially concealed by the dark woolen cloak—hoisted the two heavy bags onto the wooden table.
Zilar eyed the black velvet sacks, caring little for the contents. The staged theft of the silver masked the real reason for the robbery. Pulse pounding in his parched, tight throat, he leaned forward in breathless anticipation. “And the knife?”
“Hemen, nagusi.Here it is, boss.” Gizon—Zilar’s most skilled thief—proudly laid the prized dagger before his exigent, exacting lord.
Zilar tilted the treasured weapon in his hand, admiring the exquisite details in the glowing candlelight.
The sleek, sharp, lethal blade.
The curved bone handle with the glittering emerald eye.
And—carved into the hilt—the distinctive feature that every citizen in Biarritz would recognize.
The damning evidence which would implicate Basati in Ibarra’s assassination.
The massive head of a snarling, savage wolf.
Chapter 6
Back to Brocéliande
Gaultier loved her luxurious chestnut hair. Her dark brown eyes, smoldering with desire. Her soft, smooth skin, seductively scented with rosewater. The voluptuous curves that drove him absolutely wild.
Cradled in his sinewy arms, a long, lean leg draped across his hip, she was a tantalizing temptress. And he could never get enough.
He—the wandering knight who’d always flitted from females like a bee collecting nectar from flowers—had finally fallen.
And fallen hard.
