The Maiden and the Mercenary

by Nicole Locke

  Another slam of the kitchen door and Tess carried a tray with three goblets. She walked steadily towards them, her eyes conveying a meaning Bied was desperate to understand.

  As Louve turned to her friend, his expression never changed. He released her wrist to grasp two of the goblets and Tess’s eyes widened as he lessened the burden she carried.

  ‘Refreshments for the servants, my boy,’ the elder Lord Warstone declared. ‘Something different, I presume?’

  ‘Ale!’ Ian said. ‘They might celebrate with us, but I won’t waste our wine on them.’

  ‘Rightly so, dear. Some servants can be such a disappointment.’ Ian’s mother held out her goblet for a server with a pitcher to refill it, but the lady’s arm was shaking and some of the wine hit the floor.

  Louve handed a goblet to Bied. He, too, was trying to tell her something. But there was so much in that blue gaze of his, so much that had nothing to do with any of the malevolence surrounding them, and everything to do with something softer. True. What—

  ‘I love you,’ he mouthed before he turned away and his expression was once again void of emotion.

  Overflowing with emotion, Bied’s heart thumped hard in her chest. Right on the back of the utter joy of seeing those words from Louve was the realisation that she didn’t silently say them back. That she couldn’t say them back because he’d purposefully turned away. And the realisation, too, of if she could, would it be true for her?

  How could he say such words to her? If they got through this chilling celebration, she’d throw linen-wrapped goblets at him.

  If, because they were served ale. She didn’t need to question whether it was from the poisoned cask. It had to be, though she couldn’t decipher the colour, and the scents of onion and roasting meat wafting from the kitchens masked anything unusual in the smell.

  With an almost macabre fascination, she watched Tess traverse between the tables and men, to stand before Evrart and the Steward and raise the tray for one of them to take the remaining goblet.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Careful, Bied,’ Louve whispered.

  No one looked their way—whatever she had said or done, only Louve noticed. But Margery’s Evrart was at risk. He might be taller than the sky and as wide as the earth, but poison could fell any man. She’d vowed, she’d promised she’d take care of him. Louve had made fun of her, but she meant it and—

  Steward grasped the goblet with the weakest of holds.

  ‘Come, come, Steward,’ Ian said. ‘Take care of the ale and goblet. They were both made with the utmost care as you well know.’

  Bied exhaled, noticing that Evrart had a goblet already, one with wine, and that Tess, with a glance her way, was returning to the kitchens along with Henry and Galen. She might be stuck in the perilous Hall, but her friends were safe.

  Ian raised his goblet. ‘Now before we partake of a feast to end all feasts, I’d like us to give thanks for the Warstone bounty that never ceases.’ He turned to his parents. ‘To give thanks for generous parents whose journeys can never be restful, but still they come to visit their children.’

  Ian surveyed the room, the eerie silence of the Hall sending a roar in Bied’s ears. ‘Are all goblets filled?’

  Seemingly satisfied, he lifted his goblet up again. ‘And finally, I’d like to thank my brother for returning home, for the time we shared on the hunt. It meant far more than I could ever say.’

  Balthus straightened; Bied felt Louve tense. She clenched her goblet, prepared to use it if she had to. Balthus raised his goblet, eyed the Hall as a whole, his gaze snagging on her and Louve before he returned to staring at his family.

  ‘To your good health, dear brother,’ Balthus cheered.

  Ian’s smile was broad and wide, and with another resounding cry that was echoed by all he drank deep of his cup.

  As did Evrart, as did Louve. And with a look behind her, filled with a tinge of remorse and relief that Margery wasn’t there, so did she.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Louve silently cursed the whole lot of them for causing the woman, who courageously and stubbornly remained at his side, to fear.

  At any moment she could have wrenched her hand free and walked away. He didn’t know what would happen if she did. He felt that this gathering wasn’t for them, but it could have been. However, when the kitchen doors opened and servants carrying goblets entered, he knew with certainty it was not.

  It had been the Steward he’d spied in the woods. The Steward who was too relieved when he’d first arrived at the fortress and much too eager to get away. The same Steward standing next to Evrart as goblets were dispensed. What was in the goblets? They would soon discover.

  Warstones and their games.

  Maybe he liked to play games, too, because he enjoyed telling Bied he loved her. Revelled in the widening of her eyes and the parting of her lips. Adored that moment when his words registered. Despite the ache in his heart that their time was drawing near, it was everything he could do not to laugh at her reaction.

  Though he was served ale, he wasn’t worried at all when Ian toasted to his family. He didn’t like that he couldn’t tell Bied his thoughts as he drank it, hoping Bied would do the same. Keeping appearances of strength was sometimes more important than having any.

  ‘Is there something wrong with the ale, Steward?’ Ian’s voice shot across the happy echoes of cheers which immediately died.

  The Steward startled. ‘No, my lord, it is quite satisfactory as would be expected at any Warstone fortress.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you drink?’ Ian said.

  There were over a hundred people in the Hall and all of the exits were blocked.

  ‘I did, my lord,’ Steward said in his reedy tone. ‘I, who have been a part of your life since you were a child, am humbled to celebrate with your family.’

  The smile Ian gave then was one of a man who risked everything against an enemy and won. ‘Then celebrate, please, have a drink.’

  ‘Come, son,’ Lady Warstone said. ‘He has been a loyal servant for our family for many years. Perhaps serving him ale was a poor choice.’

  Ian stared at his mother. His eyes did not blink, he did not flinch. He did not acknowledge her existence. Then he whipped his head, that same pale predatory focus on the lean servant who was visibly shaking.

  ‘You are correct, Mother, Steward is too loyal for me to treat him as such. Therefore, I insist he drink what’s in that cup and, after that, I will give him wine.’

  ‘I would like some wine,’ his father boomed, and a servant with a pitcher skittered over.

  The room was riveted to the Steward. With Balthus remaining the requisite space apart from the next warrior, Louve’s only concern was Bied, who was visibly trembling. He wanted to warn her, to comfort her. She’d have guessed what would happen when the Steward drank. There would be something within her wanting to prevent it and also to escape witnessing it.

  She could do neither and he willed her to understand. If she even closed her eyes, it might be used against them. Still, he stepped closer to her, a brush of his arm against hers, an opportunity for her to lean on him if needed. She might not trust him at all after this, but while she was close, he’d be there.

  It was all he could do, as the Steward drank, his height and frailty revealing to all the rhythmic movements in his throat as he gulped every drop.

  When he was done, he turned to set the goblet down on the table behind him. He didn’t make it. His body jerked and he gave a harsh sound as his breath was cut off. A moment more until his body slammed on to the table with a dull thud. An arm flung out and Evrart stepped to the side to avoid it. The goblet, however, hit the rushes at their feet, rolled and remained perfectly intact.

  A quiet hush and Louve, hating her every tremble, pressed his arm against Bied. Silently willing her to take comfort because it wasn’t ove
r yet and all heightened attention needed to remain away from them.

  Ian strode over to the Steward and upturned his goblet of wine over the dead body. With a glare at Evrart, he said, ‘Get rid of this, it’s in an inconvenient spot for when we dine.’

  Bied’s trembles stopped. If she used her reckless courage, it wouldn’t bode well for any of them. He leaned over. ‘Hold, Bied, there’s more to come.’

  ‘How much?’ she whispered back. ‘Margery?’

  ‘Is safe—Evrart will soon be. They might not be looking at us, but we are noticed.’

  She looked at him, understanding in her eyes. ‘Balthus,’ she whispered.

  Balthus was in danger and knew it for he had been moving around the room, each step he took bringing him closer to Bied’s side.

  Evrart disappeared with the Steward’s body and Ian turned to the crowd. ‘Now shall we eat? Everybody, eat!’

  Servants streamed through with trays laden with food and the crowd released sound, voices, scraped benches as all of Ian’s guards sat at tables nearest the high table and far from where they stood in the back. The senior Lord Warstone eagerly walked to his position on the dais, but Lady Warstone stopped her son as he strode to do the same. Their guards remained standing.

  Louve should not have heard all that was said between mother and son, except Ian never lowered his voice.

  ‘But the food is prepared... Stay... It is too costly to move about so often... Yes, I understand... Take some repast with you?’

  ‘We need to sit at the empty table near Balthus and away from the parents.’ At her wide eyes on him, he leaned down and whispered, ‘The Steward altered the ale we tasted. It was always his fate.’

  ‘But he—’

  Shaking his head, Louve threaded his fingers through Bied’s and squeezed. She clasped back just as hard. No more trembles. If they got through this day, he vowed he’d get her to safety.

  Bied wanted to crumple to the floor or storm the Hall. It was the violence of the conversation, the swiftness of the murder. It was the utter discount of both of those by the audience that drained everything from her. When Louve released her hand, she almost protested, until he pressed an arm against hers and she drew from his warmth and strength. Days ago, she couldn’t imagine leaning on any man and even this man she shouldn’t. If they left this room alive, there was still so much separating them. But her heart... It hurt for her, for Louve, and she needed to stay strong for her sister, who had to be alive. Bied couldn’t think any other way.

  ‘I’m a mere kitchen servant, shouldn’t I leave—’

  ‘I won’t let you out of my sight, and there are women here.’

  Those women were for the men and they weren’t exactly sitting. ‘My gown isn’t like theirs.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Your gown will stay as it is.’

  She didn’t question why they didn’t simply leave. Not as the rest of it all unfolded. Evrart disappearing, Ian’s guards sitting down despite their lord not sitting, other guards leaving the Hall to the outside or up to their quarters. Were they leaving?

  Positioning them on the corner of a bench, Louve kept his body turned outwards; she, however, being on the inside, was restricted by the bench and the table.

  The conversation between Lady Warstone and Ian was barely audible, but Lady Warstone’s skin was flushed, her eyes resembling grey daggers. The rest of her, however, was serene. Her hands simply clasped in front of her in that eerie way she had. Bied was certain at any moment she would strike.

  No. Bied’s mind spun, taking all that she had seen, all that Louve had told her, but her thoughts were too terrible. Had Lady Warstone already struck...and lost? The Steward was a servant whom Ian had inherited from his family. Steward couldn’t look away from Ian’s mother as if begging her to save him. Biedeluue had experienced and seen much harm in her village, but this... How could she order a servant to poison, to kill, her son?

  And Louve called these games? As for Ian, his pale eyes were manic, a grin on his face that wouldn’t ease even as his voice was overly soothing.

  He was proud of killing the Steward; however, the elder Warstone didn’t appear pleased. He sat, demanded food and repeatedly lifted his knife to his mouth while never taking his eyes from his wife’s back. Balthus, who was now on their side of the room, also kept his eyes on his father.

  ‘Bied, I would get you out of here if it was safe.’ Louve’s gaze was on Warstone’s guards, who were flowing throughout the room, their movements efficient as if they were prepared for this precise departure. ‘When we rushed down here, I had hoped we’d make it to the kitchens.’

  She didn’t doubt Louve’s words. ‘If I could grab my sister, I would get you out of here, too.’

  His chin dipped and for a moment she thought he’d look at her, but she liked that his mouth lifted enough for one of his dimples to appear. ‘At least I know my importance.’

  Oh. Bied coughed before her sudden laugh could be heard. But her laughter couldn’t ease and Louve patted her back as if she truly was choking. Was this panic? She needed to stay strong for her family.

  ‘There can’t be a guard up there, so Margery’s purposefully remaining in the rooms,’ Louve said, seemingly knowing the direction of her thoughts.

  She didn’t know if that was any comfort because what had Margery experienced to know it was safer to be in that room versus the Hall?

  ‘How long is it safe?’

  Louve’s gaze was now on Balthus. His free hand was making some sort of gesture. ‘We’re about to find out.’

  Balthus’s relaxed mien belied the fact that at the side of his leg, he, too, was rapidly moving his fingers. Counting? Or some signal?

  ‘Do I need to know?’ she said.

  Louve’s eyes were still that blue that was unfair for any man, but his grave expression chilled her. ‘I hope you never know.’

  Whatever it was, it was soon. Ian was striding towards his father, while Lady Warstone swept down the aisle towards Balthus, who straightened and reciprocated his mother’s kisses and touch. Who mimicked the same regretful tone as she said her farewells.

  Her words were of a loving mother, promising she’d visit him soon as she clasped Balthus’s wrapped hand and snapped a finger.

  If they hadn’t been sitting so close, and heard the break, Bied wouldn’t have known. Other than a flare from his nostrils, Balthus gave no indication of the agony she caused him.

  Pivoting, Lady Warstone stopped in front of Louve, who immediately stood and bowed his head.

  ‘You’re very odd for a servant and are all too familiar with my sons,’ Lady Warstone said. ‘Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?’

  The hairs on Bied’s arms rose. She hated being wedged between the bench and table, and slowly slid to the end. She didn’t know what she would do, but if it came down to it, she’d do...something.

  Balthus remained stoic, his injured hand at his side. He wasn’t trying to fix his broken finger and his expression remained neutral. However, if his mother tried that with Louve...

  ‘As Usher for this fortress, here is the best place for me to be of service now that the Steward is indisposed, my lady,’ Louve said. ‘I am sorry you could not stay.’

  Lady Warstone’s eyes turned calculating. ‘Having met you, I can see how our time here could have been interesting. Alas, I’m afraid, I’ve overstayed my welcome.’

  ‘There will always be a next time for family to share a good drink together,’ Louve said.

  One brow rose and her mouth curved. None of the humour reached her eyes, though, and Bied tensed.

  ‘Ah, yes, family. Please do tell that...man who is no longer our son he will not win this.’

  Lady Warstone joined Ian and her husband and a few words were exchanged.

  ‘Pretend to eat,’ Louve whispered in her ear. He grabbed a trencher and loaded
it with meat, vegetables, fish and almonds, and set it before her. He, however, did not sit.

  Even if she was starving, Bied couldn’t get the fish with parsley on top of the lamb with hot rosemary sauce down her closed throat. Let alone the fact there was no knife, which might have come in use. Had he done it on purpose?

  Over the voices of people eating, Bied could hear the mounting of horses. A household that large could not have been packed to leave this quickly unless it was anticipated that the Steward would get killed in front of everyone. Lady Warstone had purposefully ordered the Steward to poison her son, and then...knew that her son would prevail? Or that she’d need to make a quick escape? Just as she thought before: it was incomprehensible.

  To think her sister had been witness to these types of events! Despite the Warstones leaving there was no ease to the room. And as Ian strode towards Balthus and Louve, her own caution tightened once again.

  Clapping his hands loudly, his stride sure, Ian declared, ‘And that’s another day they tried to kill me and failed.’

  Louve’s laugh chilled Bied’s heart. She’d never heard that sound from him before.

  ‘They were trying to kill you, but you killed the Steward,’ Louve said.

  ‘He was following Mother’s orders. Apparently, his loyalty to her trumped mine. Foolish man, as if I couldn’t taste that foul tisane as many times as she made us drink it. He should have tried something else.’

  ‘Maybe it was another test,’ Balthus said. ‘Unlike your attempts.’

  Ian’s grin faded. ‘I thought we resolved all that on the hunt.’

  ‘Trust takes years, Ian,’ Louve said. ‘Remember?’

  Ian’s gaze drew blank before he blinked. ‘Ah, yes, but trust was for friendship, correct? Something brothers surely do not need. Thus, a dagger thrown here or there doesn’t matter.’