Word and Deed

by Rachel Rossano

  “That is strange.”

  “It is. But you should hear what they are saying in the kitchens.” She then spilled all the bits of news she gathered while claiming my tray of food.

  Tension welled in my middle as I listened. Despite the apparent jubilation of the new arrivals, the gossipmongers whispered that the presentation of his armed men resembled an invasion force more than a peaceful wedding party. Also circling was the suspicion that his helmet hid a grotesque countenance awful enough to bring even me to vapors.

  Finally as I sat warmly wrapped in a blanket with a large trencher of stew, she recalled the letter.

  “From Lord Silvaticus.” She offered it like a missive from God, with fear and anticipation. “I cannot stay. My hour is past.” As though the guard listened at keyhole, a rap on the door underlined the truth of her words. With a final glance to the parchment packet, she shuffled past the looming guard and was gone until morning.

  Left to silence, I glanced at the window. Night lay in dark curtains against the lattice, still despite the steady patter of rain against the stone. A single candle held the darkness back within my small room. Reluctantly, I focused on the letter.

  The handwriting, perhaps his scribe, appeared to lash the page, heavy yet clear and adequately formed. Not the writing of a hand accustomed to the sword.

  Maid Verity Favian,

  I presented myself and found you below in the garden. I beg leave to visit at noon on the morrow.

  Lord Silvaticus

  Gravy congealed in my stomach. I swallowed cautiously and set aside my stew. Appetite absent in light of the future, I curled up in my blanket.

  -----

  Chapter Three

  Morning brought the faded light of a cloudy sky. I stood at the lattice watching the wind blow the clouds across the expanse. Ealdine, coming early to prepare me, fluttered about brushing my hair a seventh time, fixing the fall of my clothing, or chiding me to behave properly toward my husband to be. All of her ministrations faded like distant noise. Numb with exhaustion from a sleepless night, my head resembled the gray skies above.

  Lord Silvaticus arrived promptly. Wearing his mail beneath his scarlet tunic and the figure of a gray wolf’s head blazoned across his chest, he filled my small chamber with the masculine scents of fresh air and leather.

  “We have no need of you,” he informed Ealdine.

  His voice, deep and modulated for the open air of the practice yard, assaulted my ears and drove me back a step. I attempted to hide the movement by turning toward the window again, but he tensed nonetheless.

  Ealdine retreated with fluttering hands and a wobbly curtsey, leaving us very alone.

  He cleared his throat. “Might I have the benefit of seeing your face?” Tone and volume more acclimated for the small confines of the room; he made an obvious effort to speak courteously.

  I complied, stepping back from the window to allow the light to fall on my face.

  “You are comely.”

  I didn’t blush at the words.

  “Thank you, my lord.” I lifted my gaze to his face, but encountered only eyes. Chain mail obscured all else. “Why do you hide your features, my lord?”

  His regard intensified. “You are the first to ask.”

  “A test in bravery then? Only the bravest ask?”

  “Nay, but it is telling just the same. You may consider it an affectation with a purpose.”

  “You wish to hide in plain view. Maintain respect and fear with mystery.”

  “Ah, you have discovered my purpose. And you? Why do you retreat behind these stone walls? Do you conceal some defect? I discern nothing wrong with your face beyond lack of sleep.”

  My cheeks warmed, but it was not fueled by modesty. Anger kindled with my belly.

  “My lord, I am not here of my own choice. I angered my brother with my words and he wished to silence me. I disturb his delusions.”

  “What delusion do you threaten?”

  I laughed. “Many, my lord, but primarily his misapprehensions of innocence, power, and good opinion. I remind him that he cannot tame me and the people don’t respect him, though they fear to speak or show it.”

  He tensed as I spoke. “And innocence?”

  “That he fears most of all. He tells himself none will listen to my accusations, but to be certain none will, he locks me behind wood and stone where no one can hear my words. Try as he might, he cannot expunge the truth from my knowledge. He killed our father.”

  Silvaticus sucked air sharply through his teeth. “That truly is a weighty accusation. Have you proof?”

  “My own witness, which is so valueless I still live.”

  “Tell me what you witnessed.”

  I frowned at him. “Why do you wish to know?”

  “I seek justice for your father. Rumor of a foul hand came with the news of his death. I knew him and grieved his untimely death. I swore to find the culprit and bring him forward to meet justice.”

  I studied the area of his face I could observe. Crows’ feet bracketed his eyes. The creases created by laughter or worry, I couldn’t discern which. Regardless, his eyes didn’t reveal his age or honesty.

  “How did you know my father?”

  “Familial association, my sire and he fostered together under Sir Ligonier. When the time came, I fostered under your father.”

  Memories of lanky boys sent from lesser lords to learn from my father flooded my mind.

  “I do not recall you,” I pointed out.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. You still toddled in your step-mother’s shadow when I left. I was recalled to my home upon my father’s death.”

  He gave me nothing beyond what common knowledge or a conversation with a servant would have provided.

  “You are going to have to trust me, Verity.”

  “Aye, it seems I must.” I turned to look out the window. The telling of my father’s death always brought tears. I didn’t wish him to see.

  “Seven months past, Father had just returned from a journey to visit the king. He retired before the evening meal asking for only a mulled wine brought to him in an hour’s time. I visited the kitchen, resolved to be the one to bring him the cup. Verdon had already claimed the right. I left the kitchen intent on going to the stables. I practically fell over my brother crouched over the cup on the ground just outside the kitchens. As he rose to chastise me for not watching my steps, he tucked a small packet away in his pocket. I thought it strange, but my thoughts were on my task.”

  I took an unsteady breath.

  “If only I had stopped him, called for Father’s steward, or done something.” Lead weights seemed to pull at my chest with the memory of that crucial moment. “Within the hour Father was casting up the contents of his stomach. His agony brought him to screaming. By midnight, he was gone. The silence almost a relief, I clung to the fact he was no longer in pain. But I ache every time Verdon wears father’s sword.”

  Emotion knotted at the back of my throat.

  “It was not meant for him.”

  Silence followed my final words. After a few measured breaths, I regarded my audience. He now stood just behind me, his solid shoulder a hand’s breadth from my head. His closeness was a relief and a discomfort. He had listened. More than many others would do.

  Finally he spoke. “Few are worthy of such a prize as that sword, forged by Trisan the sword master. Rease was proud of it.”

  In the following pause, I marveled he called Father by his first name. Few did.

  I considered mentioning that Father promised the sword to me, a petty claim considering the graver issues at hand.

  “Did you accuse your brother?”

  “Aye, privately.” Out the window, a watchman paced above the gate. “He laughed in my face.” Venison-flecked spittle had coated my skin, making my whole being feel greasy. My stomach roiled.

  “Did you speak to anyone else about your suspicions?”

  I shook my head. “Not until publicly accusing him
a week past.”

  “Hmm…” He stepped away.

  I released a forgotten breath. My hands shook. I pressed them to my abdomen to hide their trembling. Familiar sensations of weakness and helplessness bit at my fear, riling it. In the face of my inability to bring justice to my father’s killer and peace to my father’s memory, anger grew out of fear. I needed to quench this fire in my being. Only resolution would extinguish my ire.

  “I will investigate, and return on the morrow.”

  I lifted my head to witness the door close behind him and listened for the bar’s fall. One day the guard would forget and I would escape. It was only a matter of time. Perhaps time I didn’t have. I scowled out the window.

  Ealdine arrived with the midday meal.

  After she left, I climbed down into the garden. The shade of the blossoming bushes eased my flaring anxiety until I sat, relaxed against a tree trunk.

  “Lord Silvaticus led me to believe I would find you in high dudgeon over your father’s murder. Instead I find you dreaming peacefully.”

  My limp lids flew open, and I found Bryn gazing down at me from a great distance. In falling asleep, I slid to the side and now lay in the grass at the base of the tree. I scrambled to rise, smoothing my skirts.

  “I didn’t expect you to visit now that Lord Silvaticus assessed me for himself.”

  He shrugged, a raising of only his right shoulder. “His description of your state concerned me. I wanted to perceive for myself that you were well.”

  “Well as can be for a woman facing a life not of her choosing.”

  “You find him so repulsive?” He attempted disinterest, yet still observed me. He was probably just doing his job, reporting back to his master my state and my response.

  “Not repulsive, as far as I could see. It was hard to assess his appearance when I can appraise so little of his face.”

  “True. Silvaticus prefers people acquaint themselves to his manner before seeing his features.”

  “Is he deformed?”

  His shoulder movement was less casual this time. “No more than I.”

  “You are not deformed,” I pointed out.

  Besides the patch, his face was well-formed, not handsome, but strength of character showed clear in the set of his jaw and the way he held his head. The movement of expression across his mouth and in his eye appealed to me. I liked men who were direct and honest. Right now his clear azure eye met my gaze with silent laughter.

  “I will be sure to inform Lord Silvaticus you don’t consider me deformed. I am certain he will draw reassurance from the assessment.”

  Heat pricked my ears, yet I did not lower my eyes.

  “You can tell him I am concerned more with the nobility of his soul than the attraction of his body.”

  “No man is completely noble when it comes to a maid. If he is, he is no man at all.”

  “Spoken like a ruffian of the practice yard, not a lord.”

  “Nay, maid, ‘tis true, especially with maids as comely as you.” His expression said he hadn’t intended to speak aloud. “I must go.”

  He walked to the corner farthest from the tower, braced his boot on a hidden ledge, and climbed the wall like a ladder. I expected him to simply disappear over it, but he paused.

  “Don’t attempt to follow me. Silvaticus wishes a whole bride on his wedding night. What Silvaticus wants, he gets.”

  Before I reminded him I wasn’t Silvaticus’ yet, he dropped from sight.

  Alone once again with my thoughts, I paced toward the stairs. I grasped at a decision on how to face my fate now that it had a form.

  ~~~~~

  The next morning I woke to bird song from below. A lizard sunned on the windowsill outside the lattice. The air breathed of hope and life. Spring was at hand.

  The atmosphere within me grew more reserved in its anticipation. Silvanticus would return again. I had to tell him I didn’t wish to marry him. I wondered what he would say if I told him I preferred his servant Bryn Wolfe to him. Bryn at least faced me, scars and all, and didn’t hide behind a hood of chain mail.

  Before I settled on what to say instead, Ealdine arrived with food.

  On her heels Bryn entered. He appeared much the same as I last saw him, worn clothing and dusty boots. Unlike before, though, his scabbard held a sword, plain and serviceable. He scanned the room as he entered, visibly noting the latticed window and the barred door to the garden.

  My guard stood in the open doorway, watching and strangely on edge. “Deliver your message.”

  Ignoring him, Bryn strode to the window and looked down into the garden. “Look, my lady, a bird.”

  I crossed willingly to his side.

  As I expected, he leaned over to point at nothing while his other hand pressed a wrapped parcel into my hand. Our bodies blocked my keeper’s view. I did not expect the hard metal edges that pressed against my skin as my fingers closed around the wool wrapping. Three blades?

  “She requires more blankets.”

  Bryn abruptly confronted the guard, stepping between me and the open door as he did so. “This spring weather is too cold at night for only one covering. Silvanticus will be displeased if his bride is ill on her wedding day.”

  Hidden for the moment, I slipped the bundle behind the water bucket beneath the window.

  “I will speak with Lord Ravenridge, but I doubt he will agree to it.”

  “Why? A single cover more or less will hardly change her mind about the wedding. What is she going to do with it, escape?”

  “I will speak with him, no more.” He glared at Bryn. “Lord Ravenridge allowed you access to deliver Silvanticus’ missive. Deliver it.”

  Bryn’s hand fisted, but he complied. Drawing a thin bit of parchment from within his doublet, he offered it to me.

  My Verity, the greeting produced a shudder. I was not Silvanticus’ yet.

  I regret I am unable to visit you this noon as planned. Pursuing our mutual desire requires more time than expected. I will come on the morrow. In my stead, I enclose a way to pass the hours should the garden not suffice.

  Your humble servant,

  Silvanticus

  Stepping closer, Bryn spoke so that only I heard. “I will return later to show you how to use them.” Then he raised his voice to normal volume. “Do you wish to send a reply, my lady?”

  “Nay, except my thanks.”

  He bowed, avoiding my gaze like a normal servant and exited. I dove for the water bucket the moment the bar settled into its place across the door outside. Drawing forth the bundle, I unwrapped it. Three daggers lay in my lap.

  “What are those?” Ealdine asked, her face unnaturally pale in the shadows.

  “A gift from my betrothed,” I answered.

  “What does he expect you to do with them?”

  “Learn to defend myself, I surmise.”

  “Why would it be necessary?” she asked.

  It was a question worth asking. Was Silanticus warning me that my life was in danger? If so, from whom? My brother? I doubted Silvanticus would arm his own wife against himself without reason.

  Ealdine moved toward the garden door, intent on shaking out my bedding. Apparently she had dismissed the daggers from her thoughts. I wished I could do the same. Verdon had every reason to want me dead, and Silvanticus dead too, though my brother didn’t know yet.

  I rewrapped Silvanticus’ gift and reached for the dry bread on the tray. I intended to ask Bryn for clarification.

  -----

  Chapter Four

  The sun was four hours past its apex when Bryn appeared, a shaggy head of hair above the ivy covered wall. He dropped to the ground with a soundless ease that belied his graying hair. His strode to the foot of the stairs with smooth confidence, the movements of a man used to activity and comfortable in the habits of his limbs.

  “Is your master asking for me to fend him off or is he warning me I might be attacked?” I asked him before he reached me.

  He stopped a few feet a
way and regarded me seriously. His one eye was so intent I had to force myself to meet its gaze.

  “What do you think?” he asked finally.

  “Verdon wants me silenced and he has killed before. It is only because Silvanticus is paying for my hand that he lets me live now. If he knew Silvanticus believes me about my father’s death, both of us are in danger.”

  He nodded slowly. “My master believes your brother grows suspicious. That is why he sent the knives.”

  “I can handle a long blade, but not these.” I offered him the bundle.

  “He doesn’t expect you to fight, just master the basics in case.”

  “Why not give me a sword? I have experience with them.”

  “A knife can be hidden; a sword, not as easily. Besides, a hidden dagger can mean the difference between victim and victor, or in your instance, survivor.” He nodded toward a small open area in overgrowth beneath a tree. “Come, I will teach you.”

  “Why is he requesting this of me?”

  I followed him to where he indicated. Bryn adjusted my stance, feet shoulder-width apart, and pressed a practice knife into my palm, the pressure of his touch gentle.

  “You need to be prepared. There will not always be someone to protect you.”

  “The walls protect me. A blade will not further protect me from a poisoner’s hand.”

  “Lord Silvaticus is seeing to your brother and has set a taster to check your food,” he assured me as he showed me the way to stop an attack. “However, he cannot guarantee no one will steal in as I do and harm you.”

  He had a point.

  I listened and practiced without protest. We were so intent on our task, the door opening above startled me. Bryn stepped into the shadow of the tree along wall while I turned to greet Ealdine, practice blade hidden behind my back and naked dagger beside my feet beneath my skirts.