The Mercenary: Order of the Broken Blade

by Mecca, Cecelia

  She watched as the man looked down to her waist as any good girdler would do. Waiting, Sabine sucked in a breath and held it.

  After a long moment passed, the white-haired man crooked a finger to her. Sabine took a step toward him, distantly aware of Guy standing just behind her.

  “Who made that?”

  His voice crackled like dry firewood.

  “I made it myself, Master . . . ?”

  “Roger.”

  Roger. Was it his given name or a surname?

  “Master Roger.”

  Sabine looked back at Guy and nearly laughed at his expression. He was glaring at Master Roger as if the man had just proclaimed himself a loyal servant to the king and accused them of being traitors.

  And then she realized why.

  Locking eyes with him, Sabine only turned back to the girdler when the older man cleared his throat.

  “Splendid” was all he said.

  Sabine did not know how to proceed. She didn’t even know what she wanted from the girdler. Her surprise at seeing him here had overridden all other considerations.

  “A girdler’s shop in a village this size,” she said, realizing she’d not actually asked a question. Or even introduced herself.

  But the man’s kindly eyes urged her to continue. This was not, she sensed, a man who would reject her simply for being a woman.

  “I am Lady Sabine. And this is my husband, Sir Guy Lavallais.”

  The man’s brows drew together. “The mercenary with a sword arm like none other.”

  She nodded as if she’d had some part in honing her husband’s skill.

  “Aye,” she said, belatedly realizing Guy may not want his name being spread more than necessary. It was likely some might question his presence, especially with Bande de Valeur camped nearby. Though since Noreham already knew, it hardly mattered. But Master Roger said nothing more about Guy.

  “My father served the lord of Noreham, and his father did the same before him. My grandfather built this shop. We have been favored by the lord here, and by God, for many years.”

  That he could stay in one place without having to travel from market to market was indeed a boon.

  “May I?” she asked. When Roger nodded, she began to pick up the pieces arrayed before her. Some leather, some woven braid, and still others made from embroidered fabric and even metal. Sabine picked up a woven silk belt with two decorative metal mountings, one shaped like a rose and the other a woman’s head. “’Tis lovely,” she murmured.

  Sabine hadn’t realized so much time had passed, but the next time she looked at Master Roger, he’d finished the belt he had been working on as they entered the shop. Thin leather capped with a belt chape, it looked much like the engraving on the sign.

  “I would love to learn this technique,” she said, more to herself than the two men in the room.

  “How long will you be in the village?” Master Roger asked.

  She looked to Guy, but he said not a word.

  “I am unsure how long I . . . we . . . plan to stay.”

  “You are welcome to return on the morrow. I had an apprentice who left for London a sennight ago.” The girdler shrugged.

  Sabine understood. It was well-known that the best girdlers resided in London, but it was also quite difficult to be accepted into the guild that would allow for trade in the city. Her father had promised they would visit one day, but that day had never come.

  “I am honored, but ’tis unlikely I shall be able to do so,” she said sincerely, knowing Guy would not approve of the plan. It would bring too much attention to her, to them.

  “Nay.”

  She and Roger both turned to Guy in surprise. The single word reverberated throughout the small room.

  “If it pleases you to come here, do so.”

  “You are not opposed to it?”

  “I am not.”

  It seemed to please the girdler that she sought permission from her husband. In truth, she wanted only to ensure the arrangement would be safe.

  Smiling at Roger, she agreed to visit the next day. “Many thanks for the offer.”

  “Until tomorrow, my lady.”

  On the way out of the shop, Sabine found herself questioning Guy’s decision. Being out in public, taking part in the village—it would expose them. Which meant he very much wanted her to apprentice with Master Roger.

  Of course he did.

  When de Chabannes returned to France, they would part ways. But Sabine knew Guy felt increasingly responsible for her safety. He would feel better about leaving if he knew she had the means to earn coin and practice her art. Then he could gather men for the company he’d dreamed of starting. Travel as he loved to do.

  Without the burden of a family.

  Neither spoke on the ride back to the inn. Perhaps there was naught left to say.

  Unless . . .

  Unless she had misread the situation.

  “Guy?” she asked, aware of the import of what she was about to say. But Sabine had to know. They’d just dismounted outside of the inn and handed their horses’ reins to the stable boy. “Do you wish for me to apprentice with Master Roger so I might remain here? After you leave?”

  Sabine’s heart thudded so hard in her chest she could hear the sound in her ears. But she wasn’t done; she knew she had to be direct. She’d never forgive herself if she didn’t at least ask.

  Voice quivering, she continued, “Do you still wish to part ways when this is over?”

  Chapter 28

  He’d given her no explanation. Nothing other than a terse “aye,” followed by silence.

  That night was the first they’d not made love since coming to the inn. Yesterday, the first they’d spent apart. Sabine had gone to Master Roger both days, and she’d found him a kind and patient teacher, and an even more skillful girdler. His tutelage had allowed her to forget, for brief moments, the horrors of the past few months.

  Her parents. The abbey. Guy’s declaration. His rejection.

  She was bathing in the wooden bathtub in their room that second night when a knock came on their door. Guy rushed to answer it, stepping outside to speak with the visitor.

  “An invitation to the camp,” he announced upon reentering the room.

  Guy walked up and handed her the missive.

  “This eve.”

  Sabine read it and handed the parchment back to him, noticing he seemed to have a sudden interest in the bathwater.

  Tearing his gaze away, he began to change his clothes. When he pulled up his tunic and a part of the undershirt lifted too, she turned away. Sabine did not need to see more of him. She was already tormented by memories of his body. By the way he continued to look at her even after he’d admitted he still wished for them to separate. Would things have been different had she answered him the other day, when he’d declared himself to her?

  She stood in the bath and reached for the drying cloth, only then noticing he was watching her. Shirtless. Muscles poised as if he were prepared to grab her should she run into his arms.

  She knew from his expression Guy would not reject her now. Not in this, at least.

  He would embrace her. Touch her. Make love to her, to a point.

  But then he would pull away from her, a harsh reminder of the temporary nature of their arrangement.

  Drying herself, Sabine moved to the bed and began to dress. Refusing to turn to him, she donned her hose and shift. Growing up, she’d always had a maid to help her, but she’d become accustomed to performing her ablutions without any assistance. And so she pulled down the simple kirtle she’d purchased in the village and began to brush her hair.

  Which is when she noticed him.

  Guy still hadn’t moved. And he clearly wanted to say something.

  Unable to remain silent any longer, she finally relented. “Do you wish to ask me a question?”

  His bare chest filled with air. Finally, he shook his head.

  “Do you wish to say something, then?”


  She was becoming angry now. How could he look at her like that, his eyes full of heat, after what he’d said?

  “Tell me, Guy. Say it,” she nearly yelled.

  “I . . .”

  She dropped her hands from her hair.

  “What is it? Please,” she pleaded. “Either tell me or do not continue to look at me so.”

  “I . . .”

  For a wild moment she imagined he would say, “I love you.” But it was foolish of her to think it. He clearly regretted what he’d said to her the other day. That short answer he’d given her in response to her question about parting—“aye”—was how he truly felt.

  He looked at her a moment longer, his gaze tortured, then turned from her.

  Sabine wanted to throw the brush at him in frustration. Instead, she gripped it so tightly her hand hurt, though not nearly as much as the poor hair she now abused in anger.

  She tried to tell herself to stop, but it was no use.

  The simple fact was that she loved her husband. And should have listened to him at the outset. He was no gentleman. Sabine had married a mercenary and now was paying dearly for that decision.

  * * *

  “Outrageous.”

  The amount the mercenary leader had asked for would be impossible for him to deliver, even with the bishop’s support, and de Chabannes knew it.

  “You must consider the damage to Bande de Valeur’s reputation if we were to renege on a promise made to the king.”

  Sitting next to his wife and across from his former master, Guy tried to remain calm. But he was in the foulest of moods. His silent stand-off with Sabine haunted him. It was his fault, he knew, but that made it no easier. The end result was that he was in no mood for de Chabannes’s games.

  “I’ve given you the amount we can pay, and you’ve admitted ’tis nearly double what John has pledged. And we both know you don’t give a shite about your standing with either king. So tell me, Aceline”—he used his given name apurpose—“what are you about other than to squeeze more coin from me?”

  De Chabannes made a noncommittal sound and turned toward Sabine.

  “What say you about your husband’s treason?”

  Guy stood.

  But Sabine put her hand on his arm. Reluctantly, he sat back down.

  “I am but a servant here,” she said, “as you well know.”

  He didn’t like de Chabannes’s look. The man knew something, and Guy had a feeling they were about to learn what that something was.

  “A servant, you say? Of your husband’s? Or your king?”

  “Aceline,” Guy warned.

  “Or perhaps ’tis your late father who possesses your loyalty? Robert de Stuteville was his name, was it not?”

  This time, his wife would not waylay him. Guy drew his sword before de Chabannes could even stand.

  His former master was quick.

  But he was quicker.

  “Bastard,” he snarled.

  De Chabannes tsked. “Is this your preferred manner of negotiation?”

  Guy did not put down his weapon.

  “Only with those who have betrayed me.”

  Reaching out a hand, de Chabannes pushed down Guy’s sword. He allowed it for one reason—Sabine was watching.

  And she was scared. He could see the terror in her eyes, and perhaps it was warranted. Killing this man would do little for their cause other than to ensure the failure of the order’s plan.

  “I am a servant of England,” Sabine said, her voice unwavering.

  They both turned to stare.

  “’Tis your right to refuse my husband’s offer. You may also fault all of us, my father included, for opposing the king’s oppression. But Guy spoke of you as an honorable man who would not betray him, so if you will . . . please prove that his words are true.”

  She lifted her chin in defiance.

  “Or not.”

  This was the woman who had cornered him in the abbey and forced him to marry her.

  Perhaps “forced” was too strong a term. He’d never truly been forced to do anything—it wasn’t in his nature. Nay, Guy had wanted Sabine as much that day as he did in this moment.

  It was a shame he’d made such a mockery of their marriage.

  “Very well.”

  De Chabannes squared his shoulders, and Guy knew in that moment that they had lost. Aceline would not do it. And with Bande de Valeur behind John, the barons who were still undecided would be much less likely to give their support.

  “We stay.”

  He did not give his former master the satisfaction of a response. He’d fought with him for many years and knew no words would sway him.

  They’d discovered the one thing more valuable to Aceline de Chabannes than coin.

  The king’s favor.

  A king he did not even call his own. One whose ancestors his people had fought against.

  But de Chabannes’s own words came back to him.

  To be a mercenary is to be loyal to one person. Yourself. Remember it well.

  And he did.

  Sheathing his sword and taking Sabine’s arm, he prepared to walk away. But he did have one question for the man. He had to ask, if only for his wife.

  “What will you do with this knowledge?”

  He did not have to elaborate.

  De Chabannes looked him in the eye. “Ensure there are no repercussions for my choice.”

  He nodded, their understanding mutual.

  None but the order would know Bande de Valeur had been given an opportunity to join the rebellion by leaving England’s shores. Sabine would be safe.

  Guy would leave Noreham with his head.

  But nothing else.

  Chapter 29

  Surely the innkeeper thought it odd that a married couple who’d stayed in the same chamber for many days should suddenly secure a separate chamber. Sabine had made the suggestion three days ago, and for the past few nights, she’d been alone in their original chamber while Guy slumbered in the room next to hers. The only other one in this wing of the inn.

  He’d balked at the suggestion at first, but Sabine had reminded him she would soon be completely alone. It would be better, she’d argued, to get used to that fact now.

  She’d decided to stay with Roger.

  He’d offered her—and Guy—his former apprentice’s room above the shop. They’d built it many, many years ago, he and his wife, with the hope it would one day be used by children. But they’d never had any. After his wife’s passing, he’d given the room to his apprentice.

  When she realized it was loneliness, not obligation, that had prompted him to offer the room, Sabine had decided to accept the offer. But she’d put off sharing her decision with Roger. Once she told him, she wouldn’t be able to change her mind without devastating the man, and she still wasn’t totally certain about Guy.

  Roger had asked her about their background, of course. She’d not wanted to lie to him, so she had offered partial truths. That her family had been killed, her inheritance forfeited. That Guy was a knight without lands of his own.

  True enough.

  Rather than wait for Guy to escort her, Sabine left her room and walked down to the hall to break her fast. She’d done the same yesterday. He’d reacted with anger, of course, and she’d been quick to remind him that he was the one who wanted them to part. She would have to learn to do things alone. He hadn’t accompanied her to the shop after that, nor had she seen him walk past the shop during the day, something he’d done in the past. He had come at sunset to escort her back to the inn, and if Roger had noticed the chill between them, he’d said nothing about it.

  “So this is how it will be?”

  Sabine spun around at the sound of his voice, hating how the anger reverberated through her body. The thought of never hearing his voice again brought tears to her eyes.

  Oh, she wouldn’t let herself cry over him. She simply wouldn’t. There was no point. She’d asked. He answered. Her husband would soon be leaving,
and she refused to beg him to do otherwise.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said softly, keenly aware of the innkeeper’s gaze on them both.

  “Until I deem it safe—”

  “I should remain in my room. Alone. Staring at the door and waiting for my savior to walk through?”

  “Sabine—”

  “Did we not have this same discussion yesterday morn? Will we repeat it each day until you leave?”

  His eyes flashed, but Sabine was not daunted. Sad, aye. Devastated too. But not daunted.

  “You are most anxious for me to do so, it seems?”

  She had no answer to that. Of course she did not wish for him to go. She had asked him to stay, had she not?

  “I’m no longer hungry.”

  Turning away from him, Sabine marched through the hall and out into the cool morning mist. She’d brought a cloak today as the weather had begun to turn. It seemed summer was suddenly quite over.

  Fitting.

  “Sabine?”

  Praying for strength, she faced him. Ignored the tic in his jaw. The way his tongue stuck out for the briefest of moments and licked his lips. Ignored, or tried to, the tug on her heart.

  “Aye?”

  “Stand behind me.”

  She raised her chin. “Never.”

  Did he not know her at all? Had he not listened all those times she’d spoken about her role in their relationship? In the rebellion? Stand behind him?

  “I beg you, stand behind me.”

  She would not. Though . . . why would he ask her to do so?

  Sabine found herself being hauled to that very spot as if she were a sack of grain. How dare he . . .

  Only then did she hear the riders approaching. Peering around her husband, she saw Noreham’s men approaching as if their need was urgent. How had no one known they were coming? Still holding her in place, Guy was preparing to draw his sword when one of the men stopped him.