Squire's Honor

by Peter Telep

  Doyle rose. He flashed back to their lovemaking, his hands clasped around the backs of her thighs, her ankles high in the air, her toes pointed. Gooseflesh began at the center of his spine and worked its way to the backs of his arms, sending the tiny hairs there reaching out­ ward, as if they, too, wanted more.

  “I can’t stay long,” she said. “I have to go down to meet your friend.”

  “I’m coming with you,” he told her, repressing the strong desire to run a finger across her delicate cheek. She smelled too good, and her eyes were too bright.

  “Oh,” she said, caught just a hair off guard. “Then I didn’t even have to come up here. But then I wanted to—”

  “How come you—” “-talk to you alone.”

  Doyle grinned. “You talk,” he said. I’ll listen.”

  “I just—” She swallowed. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  He nodded, not knowing why she had apologized. He wanted to ask her why, but maintained his silence.

  “Last night. I led you to think—you and I, we can never—”

  There were many ways he could have calmed her. His lips did the job most effectively. She didn’t respond to him at first, attempting a feeble withdrawal from his advance, but he was an excellent marksman, and after a dozen rapid heartbeats, her tongue soon played hide­ and-seek with his.

  If Jennifer smelled too good and her eyes were too bright, then she tasted even better. As their arms found each other, Doyle marveled at the speed in which he’d fallen in love with her. Christopher had tried more than once to describe the feeling to him, but Doyle had never been able to wholly understand it until now. All at once everything his blood brother had been trying to tell him about Brenna and Marigween made perfect, crystalline sense. The love Doyle had for Jennifer made him feel proud and full and strong. It made him want to thrust his chest out and beat on it with his fists. He wanted to burst through the roof of the inn and shout to all of Blytheheart that he adored Jennifer and no one would ever take her away from him. When it came to this feeling, this love, he was like a varlet-in-training, naive and dreaming of glory. Doyle lifted her off her feet as he kissed her, then he pulled back and spun her around. She kept laughing and he kept on spinning until they were both so dizzy that they fell onto his bed.

  But after catching her breath, her smile faded. “Why do I want this so badly?” She balled a hand into a fist and squeezed, her small knuckles turning pink and white.

  “Because it’s right.” Doyle sighed. “You don’t have to be a whore all of your life. I see far past that.”

  She lowered her gaze to the blanket. “No, Doyle. It has nothing to do with being a whore. It’s what you want to do with your life. I don’t want to interfere with any of your plans.”

  Doyle grabbed her hand with his good one. “I won’t make plans without you.”

  She whimpered through a sigh, as if gripped in an icy agony, her gaze still averted.

  “What is it?”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “You don’t under­ stand. You can never understand.”

  “Yes I can!” He squeezed her hand. “If I knew what you were talking about”!

  “One day you may work for the abbot. If he ever found out about us, it would destroy everything.” She sniffled, then closed her eyes.

  Doyle shook his head in disagreement, then smiled weakly. “You of all people should know that the abbot won’t hold my courting you against me—since he uses Morna’s services himself.” Doyle pondered her reserva­tions further. Then a stray fact leapt home. “Wait. You’re not, well, not the abbot’s favored girl or some­ thing, are you”?

  “Not exactly,” she said softly, then opened her glossy eyes. “I’m his daughter.”

  Doyle drew back from her—only a few inches—but she noticed it. “His daughter?”

  “Yes, not that he’d ever admit I am. No one else knows. No one but me and Moma, and now you. And maybe Montague. Let me say he’s been a wonderful father.” Her humor was as black as it came, her voice as sad as it had been the night before.

  “Then I presume your mother was also in the same line of—”

  “Moma is my mother,” she finished for him, her tone dark, cynical. “She has been an even better parent than Father—teaching me her trade with an amazing amount of skill.”

  Lines formed on Jennifer’s small face and drew toward her nose. She closed her eyes and began to sob. Doyle wrapped his arms around her and pulled her head into his chest. He stroked the back of her head with a gentle, even hand, feeling even more in love with her. He was truly not alone in his pain. She would under­ stand his situation with his own parents. She would understand everything. In a sense they had both been banished from normal lives; both had parents with a warped view on how their children should be raised—if they could be called parents in the first place. She would understand his loneliness, relate to the condition of his soul. She could share in the idea of never being content, and knew the lost feeling of never having a true and complete family. They were both scarred.

  And then there was God. Doyle still held a candle of contempt for Him. Surely, Jennifer had mixed feelings about the Lord. What kind of God would permit her to have a father who could never recognize her as a daughter. What kind of a God would curse her that way?

  He knew he would one day reconcile with the Lord; but that day was many moons off. Perhaps they could help each other come to terms with Him. They needed each other. That fact was so obvious that it wanned him. What ever it would take, Doyle knew he had to be with her. He would only let her go if she denied him. Circumstances would not get in their way. He would fight to preserve their union.

  Doyle reached down and wiped the tears from one of Jennifer’s cheeks. He gently lifted her head away from his chest and looked down into her sore eyes. “It’s you and I, Jenn.ifer. You and I against the realm. We can do it together. It’s hard. I know.”

  “It’s never going to—”

  He shushed her. “Our lives are going to change. Have faith in that and it will come to pass. I can’t tell you how many times I have wanted to die. But being with you makes me want to live.”

  Though her face was still wet, her tears ceased. He felt as if he had made progress with her, but it was too risky to go deeper. He’d said enough for now.

  He kissed her softly, drew back as she closed her eyes, then rubbed them with her fingertips. “Come on.”

  She sighed and sniffled again. “Your friends are prob­ably wondering where I am.”

  He touched her cheek—as he’d wanted to before. “I can tell them to wait a while longer if—”

  “No, I’m all right,” she said, drawing up her shoul­ders. “Let’s go.”

  4

  The stable behind the Bove Street Inn was extensive and housed over one hundred steeds, Brenna guessed. As she led her rounsey past the south side of the weatherwom building, she observed that three of the stable’s six rectangular doors were pushed fully open, and presently several horses and their owners entered and exited the stable. The stalls within were cast mostly in shadow, but Brenna could detect a lot of movement from inside.

  She had thought the abbot of Glastonbury’s stable was elaborate; it was a peasant’s lean-to compared to the one before her. She moved behind the main stalls to come into full view of three other thatch-roofed barns. Judging from the hammering going on within one of them, she assumed it was the blacksmith’s shop. She stopped a page and asked the young boy where she could find a doctor for her mount. He pointed to the smallest barn closest to St. Thomas Lane, and said, “Better make haste. The line is growing.”

  Brenna didn’t understand the boy until she was directed behind the building by a farmer goading his slow-moving, rather sick-looking sow. There she found a long line of people who stood alongside their animals. One angry, middle-aged woman wrestled with the rope around her goat’s neck, while another man had trouble getting his ox to move as the line stepped forward a bit. All shifted res
tlessly as they waited to pass through a large square doorway.

  With a grimace, she found the end of the line and tapped on the shoulder of a thin, gray, slightly hunch­ backed farmer in front of her. “Is everyone waiting to see the doctor?”

  “It’s our stock that need to see the doctor, love. But we got to do the waitin’ for them,” he said in a dry tone that robbed the effect of his wit.

  Brenna loosened up and settled in. She patted the rounsey’s shoulder. The horse’s wound, though not as swollen, looked worse. The skin beneath his hair was a blue-red and small bumps had erupted around the scrape. It was true that if the mount died, she would owe Hallam the money to buy a new one. But it was more out of concern for the horse’s well-being than out of selfishness that had brought her here. It was in her power to save this rounsey, and the horse’s eyes pleaded for her to do so.

  She let her mind drift over recent events, landing here and there to survey the damage.

  But her thoughts kept alighting on him.

  No. Stop it. Stop it now. Or you’re going to be hurt. You know that.

  She forced herself away from his mental picture and thought about how she’d shot the two Saxon sailors. At the time it had been mechanically simple. Windlass, load, and fire. Windlass, load, and fire. Down number one. Down number two. Screams of agony. Now as she stared at the fuzzy picture of the men gripping their wounds, it dawned on her that she could have killed them. She hadn’t thought about it then. She’d had to stop them. And it was her poor aim that had spared them. They probably shared that thought, probably believed that a young woman could never accurately fire a crossbow. But that wasn’t true. Less than a moon ago she wouldn’t have been able to hit the sailors, but her aim, though still wild, was improving. She felt good about that, yet the idea that she had almost taken two lives left an eerie impression on her. She had received the tiniest taste of what Christopher had once tried to define for her. He had said that every time he’d taken a life a little part of him had died with that person. A little part of what it was to be a man escaped from him. And though Brenna had not killed the sailors, the fact that she nearly had left the little parts of what it was to be a woman hanging on by spider­ webs. She couldn’t put her finger on the feeling, and would probably have as hard a time explaining it as Christopher had had, but she was aware of its effect on her, how it made her want to put the crossbow down for good. It wasn’t that she knew killing was wrong and that God would punish her for it; it was something else that made her actions feel ugly and horrible. Whatever the case, she did not want to shoot anyone ever again. She hoped the Lord was listening to her thoughts.

  Brenna had forced her mind away from Christopher, but had inadvertently allowed him to find a place in her introspection about shooting the sailors. At least think­ ing of him indirectly did not tug as hard on her heart. She wondered if she loved him more than she felt sorry for him. His situation was bleak. She decided that both feelings were backed with iron, yet she could sympa­thize with him only to a point. The line was drawn at the feet of Marigween and his son. She would shed no tears over their loss. But to show joy over it when Christopher would be lamenting would be cruel and gain her nothing. It would make him resent her. To understate, it was a difficult situation. How would she tell him she was sorry about their loss without her joy seeping through? How would she tell him and make it sound sincere? She couldn’t lie to him that way. Maybe she would not console him. Maybe it would be best to stay away and let him come to her when the time was right. And then she should tell him the truth, tell him of the struggle within her. Tell him she was not very sad about the deaths of Marigween and his son, that their lives only represented chains on her heart. With them gone, both she and Christopher were free to resume their love. Yes, she would tell him that. She knew how much he valued the truth. He could not hold her heart against her. She would only be speaking how she felt. He would have to thank her for that.

  And he probably knew all about her feelings anyway. Brenna felt the weight of a hand on her shoulder.

  Startled, she turned around.

  It was Montague, his expression tentative.

  “What do you want?” she demanded quickly, ripping his hand from her shoulder.

  He closed his eyes, then lifted his palms to chest height in an act of surrender. “I can get you to the head of the line, if you’ll permit me, lassie.”

  “No, thank you,” she said curtly. She barely noticed that her stomach had become a cauldron. That is, she barely noticed until the heat flushed her face. “And if you’re wise, you’ll stay away from me.”

  Montague opened his eyes and lowered his palms. He leaned past the man in front of Brenna to view the length of the line. “You’re going to be here a long time.” “That’s all right,” Brenna said darkly, her gaze turning and fixing on anything that wasn’t him.

  “I thought saving your life would be stronger than just an apology. I guess I thought wrong,” he said from behind her.

  She whirled to regard him. “I said thank you. I appre­ciate what you did for me. But don’t expect it to wipe away the past.” She blew air, then looked to her boots.

  “I saved your life, lassie. That sailor was getting the best of you until I intervened. I don’t think there’s any­ thing more I could ever do for you than that. And all I want in return is for you to tolerate me. I don’t want an apology. I don’t think that’s possible. I’ll give you as many sorrys as you want. So Jong as you don’t cringe every time I walk into a room. What do you say?”

  Brenna wanted to look up at Montague to see if he was being honest, or at least looked so, but memories of his attempted rape still gnawed at her already-frayed menial edges. She sensed the flicker of his tongue on her nipple, and quaked with the horror of being tied and taunted by his boys as if it were happening once again. Even Montague admitted that his actions had been inex­cusable, and there was no way she could forgive him for them. She kept her gaze lowered and said, “If you want me to tolerate you, you have to stop something first.”

  “Anything. Montague can stop anything,” he assured her, his tone tinged with the pent-up energy to leap at her command.

  “My name is Brenna,” she said slowly. “Not lassie.” “Aye, a simple matter, lass—Brenna,” he said,already slipping. “I should tell you I talked to Christopher and Doyle about what happened before we ate. They don’t exactly forgive me either, but rest assured, I’ve changed a lot since then. Doyle knows that. I chance to say that you and Christopher will dis­ cover the same if you give me time.”

  An evil thought occurred to Brenna. It seemed Montague was now at her disposal. It was obvious he wanted to preserve his friendship with Doyle, and in order to do so he had to reestablish relations with her. He’d seized the opportunity to save her, probably think­ ing it would gain him leverage in her forgiveness of him. He was trying very hard, what with talking with Doyle and Christopher, and now coming to her for a private apology. He wanted to get along with her so badly that he could probably taste it.

  She could exploit his hunger for her acceptance. Montague might go after the Saxon cog with them.

  Doyle certainly was, and the fat man would probably follow his friend. She could persuade the brigand to make sure that Marigween wasn’t saved. In fact, he was the type of fellow who could make sure that Marigween would never be seen again.

  Brenna shuddered. This was the most evil notion she had had thus far. And base though it was, the fact remained that she could probably get the fat man to do it in return for full forgiveness.

  Another, perhaps more clever thought came to her. Even if she didn’t go through with this plan, it would be a unique way to test whether the fat man had really changed or not. If he was now the angel he purported to be, he might wholeheartedly refuse to take part in her little con­spiracy. If he was still the highwayman she felt he was, then he’d take the job and she would know the truth.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Am I that repulsive to loo
k on? Do you think I’m lying about all of this?”

  The line moved a few steps forward, and Brenna kept pace with it. Montague assumed a place behind her. She stopped and turned back to regard him. “Are you com­ ing with us after Marigween?”

  “I think I can lend a helpful hand, lass.” His mouth dropped as he realized his second slip. “Brenna,” he corrected quickly. ·

  “Do you want me to truly forgive you? That’s possi­ble,” she teased.

  “You don’t have to. Like I said. But I hear a deal com­ ing on. Explain.”

  She lowered her tone to the interrogative level of a watchman. “Are you really sorry for what you did, or do you just want to make sure you don’t lose Doyle as a partner?”

  He frowned, looked away from her for a heartbeat to consider that, then glanced solemnly back to her. “Do you think what I did to you is the only thing I regret in my life, Brenna? I could spend the rest of this day telling you stories that would make you swoon with horror.” His gaze burned into hers. “If there is a God, I’ll be cleaning his garderobe after I die. Cleaning it for eter­nity. That will be my penance for all I’ve done, you see.

  Running into you that foggy day is the least of things I have done to be sorry for. But yes, I regret what I did—what I did to you. Doyle has nothing to do with that. It’s just unfortunate for me that you and he are friends. Believe that if you will, or not.”

  He’d uttered a word she could twist against him. “Why don’t you start your penance now? Penance for what happened with me.”

  His expression clearly conveyed his confusion. “What more can I do than save your life?”

  If Montague had lied about being sorry, he had done an excellent job. It was hard not to believe that he regret­ ted the past. She didn’t have to trick him. She could take what he’d said on faith, for it seemed to be more than enough. And yes, he had saved her, questionable motiva­tions or not. He would probably not harm her again. But there was too much she didn’t know about him to ladle out that kind of trust.