His brother showed definite promise.
“You are the son! ’Tis your duty to show honor to your sire. ’Tis your responsibility to speak first to him, especially as ’twas you who fled his hall.”
Bayard shook his head. “’Tis true that I fled my father’s hall with no more than my hauberk, my sword, and my steed. Did he not tell you why?” He caught Amaury’s chemise with the tip of his blade in a sudden move that his brother clearly did not anticipate. The strike left a long gash in the linen and a thin line of red along Amaury’s flesh. Those gathered to watch gasped and the brothers’ gazes met.
Aye, Amaury knew that Bayard could have sorely injured him.
“Because you would not heed him,” Amaury retorted.
Bayard snorted at this variant of the truth. “’Tis true enough, though only part of the tale. I did not heed him because he would have sheltered me, as he has sheltered you.”
“I...”
Bayard lunged again and left a cut in Amaury’s tabard this time, directly over his chest. Amaury jumped back in alarm, eyed the gash, then lunged at Bayard again. Their blades clashed time and time again as they fought with greater vigor.
“When a man earns his spurs, Amaury, he assumes the responsibility of knighthood. He can only win that status if he has proven himself to be worthy of it. He must be skilled with his weaponry but he must also have the resolve of a man to do what is just and to see a matter finished.”
“I know this,” Amaury interjected impatiently, punctuating his claim with a swift strike. “I am a knight.”
Bayard darted out of harm’s way, though his brother’s blade glanced off his hand. “Aye, but your father, my father, chooses to ignore this fact. He treats you yet as a child, just as he would have treated me as a child.”
“He is protective!”
“He is a fool.” Bayard halted his assault for a moment to consider his brother. “I understand that he was forced to make war too young, but in this matter, he corrects his own experience overmuch.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like all men, our father grows older, yet his refusal to let his son be a man means that all he yet holds can be lost upon his demise. What do you know of waging war? What do you know of defending what is your own? What do you know of treachery and intrigue and the machinations of greed? What have you learned of swordplay, when your opponent is not a tutor intent upon letting the son of his lord and suzerain win?”
Amaury dove forward, taking advantage of Bayard’s pause. Bayard laughed and parried his blow with less ease than before. “Better!” he cried and his brother’s smile flashed. “If Father died—and I by no means wish for him to do so—you would take the reins of Villonne as its lord. If another neighbor attacked Mother, as one did seven years past, how would you retrieve her?”
Their blades clashed between the two of them and Bayard leaned closer, holding his brother’s gaze even as he held the weight of his sword. “If I came with an army to wrest Villonne from you, would you know what to do to stop me?”
Amaury lowered his blade, clearly shaken by the prospect, and stepped back. His response could be read in the fear flickering in his eyes. “Would you do as much?”
“Nay, I have no desire for Villonne.” Bayard gave his brother a minute pause to be relieved, before he continued. “Others will, though, Amaury, others with less honor than me. ’Twill be both your prize and your burden to defend.”
“I am certain that Father has considered as much and means to grant me experience when I have need of it.”
“No man knows when he will die, Amaury.” Bayard shook his head. “What if Villonne were assaulted and Father were killed in the defense of it? You would have to decide, over his fallen body, what to do. You would have to make a strategic choice, and that with no time to consider your choice and with grief coursing through your veins.”
Amaury opened his mouth and closed it again.
“Could you do it?”
“I pray I shall not have to.”
Bayard shook his head, then lifted his blade once more. Their swords clashed with greater vigor and he felt the chill of the air so keenly that he knew his chemise was soaked with perspiration. “Prayers have their place, but experience is a better partner in war. You are a man yet you stand on the cusp of responsibility without the skills to assume it. Though I appreciate that Father wished to protect us from the rigors of his own early years as a knight, I fear he has been overzealous.”
“’Tis disloyal to say as much.” Amaury swiped at Bayard’s knees.
“Is it?” Bayard leapt aside, then thrust before his brother had gained control of his blade once more. He made another slash in Amaury’s tabard, pulling back on the blade so that he drew no blood.
Amaury stared down at the gaping cloth and swallowed.
“And I do not even have a desire to kill you,” Bayard muttered. “Do you always say what Father would have you say? Do you always believe what he tells you to believe? His intent is not malicious, but ’tis damaging all the same. Do you desire aught, Amaury, independent of what Father would desire for you?”
“I desire Villonne and a wife, a happy household like our own.”
“And so you are here, at Father’s dictate, to win the bride he has chosen for you.”
Amaury bridled at this. “He merely suggested ’twas a good idea. He does not tell me what to do!”
Bayard did not reply to that, for he knew that his father had a talent for sounding so reasonable that ’twas impossible to argue with him without sounding like a fool. The pair battled anew, both of them breathing heavily as they circled and their blades clanged.
Then Bayard struck a ringing blow upon his brother’s sword, driving the blade from Amaury’s hand. It fell heavily to the ground and Amaury reached for his knife.
But Bayard rested his blade upon his brother’s neck. Amaury froze. He looked up, fear in his eyes, and Bayard realized that his point had finally been made. The group assembled fell silent, clearly uncertain of what Bayard would do.
“Recognize, Amaury, that Father was summoned to just such a bride quest as this by his own father, yet he refused to participate.” Bayard took a deep breath. “Father spurned all that his father would have granted him, that he might win the heart of our mother. What came to his hand, what he would bequeath to you now, was what he won through his own skill. He did not desire what would be merely granted to him.”
“If you are suggesting that Father is wrong-”
“I am suggesting that you do not wait to be told what it is you desire, but that you seek it yourself. Though our family is divided, I would not see you injured for a lack of foresight, Amaury. I am suggesting that if Father denies you the chance to win the experience you need, just as he denied me, that you leave him and seek it yourself, that you follow his example and perhaps prosper as he has done.”
“I could not defy him, as you did!”
Bayard shook his head and stepped away. “Then wait for him to tell you to become a man. Perhaps he will do it one day.” He sheathed his blade with a smooth gesture, though his brother did not move. “And tell Father that he and I may make amends when he allows you to tourney and to ride to war.”
With that, Bayard strode away, his anger simmering. He was surprised to discover that he was shaking. The old anger at his father’s protectiveness was still simmering, as was his own protectiveness toward his younger brother.
He was furious that his father had not changed his course over these past years, for he had hoped that his own departure would spur some sort of change. ’Twas he who had always defied his father, and Amaury who accepted what he was told to accept.
Aye, part of Bayard’s reason for challenging his father so harshly was to win better training for his brother. He had seen it at the time as granting his father a second chance to train an heir, for Bayard had never doubted that he would win an estate of his own. Villonne, to his thinking, had always been destined for Amaury—good, ho
nest Amaury who made the most of what he was granted and did not yearn for more, as Bayard always had.
Amaury spoke aright—they had always been close. Perhaps the differences between them had allowed them to appreciate each other without the taint of competitiveness. Bayard had kept his brother from many a misstep.
’Twas irksome, indeed, that he had left his family to grant his father a lesson and that lesson had been one his father refused to take. That his father did not see the threat posed to Amaury’s future made Bayard want to shout at him anew.
Perhaps he would speak to his father again.
Bayard was surprised not only that his fury at his father lingered but that ’twas so intense. He had been certain that his past was left surely behind him, of as much import to him as the tale of another’s woes.
’Twas illogical to be so concerned with matters so long behind him.
Perhaps he had not spoken to his father at Ceinn-beithe because he could not have trusted himself to do so in a civilized manner. He might have raged, he might have wept, he most certainly would not have exchanged polite greetings with a bow.
He recognized the same impulse in himself now.
“Andrew! Michael! Hasten yourselves,” he shouted, needing only to be away from this place. “We ride on this day!”
* * *
But in keeping with Bayard’s recent lack of good fortune, Esmeraude herself stepped from the solar as he was riding for the gates. She headed directly into his path, clearly determined to speak with him just when he was in no mood to be persuasive.
Curse Dame Fortune and all her ilk!
“Your eyes are too blue,” Esmeraude said with a winsome smile. “Surely I cannot have riled you already this morn.” She looked as if she had slept well—or loved lustily enough not to care—and annoyance rolled through Bayard in response.
’Twas unfair that she should torment him, yet be immune to his own allure!
Though hers was undoubtedly meant to be a teasing comment, Bayard had to force his answering smile. “Save by your absence.”
She regarded him quizzically, her gaze slipping over his sweat-soaked chemise. No doubt he looked a poor sight for a man who courted her favor!
Her gaze brightened though, and Bayard knew he did not imagine the flush that stained her cheeks. He recalled all too well how she flushed abed and yearned with sudden vigor to hear her whisper his name as she found her pleasure again.
And again and again and again. The very thought tightened his chausses and made him yet more restless to be gone. He could not think clearly when she addled his wits with desire.
“Nay, there is another reason,” Esmeraude insisted. “You are angry or otherwise impassioned.”
Clearly his charm was sadly lacking this morn if he could not even have a compliment accepted. “I have been angry this morn, but the cause is not of import. If you will excuse me?” Bayard gathered the reins and gave her a curt nod.
Esmeraude laid a hand upon the bridle and Argent—wretched, faithless beast!—stilled. “If any matter has angered you, it must be of import. I of all souls should know that you are difficult to vex.”
“I would not have you concern yourself.”
She propped a hand upon her hip but did not loose her hold upon the destrier’s harness. “Do you think me too simple of wit to understand matters of men?”
Ah, now he had insulted his lady fair! This morn grew better and better! Bayard hastily tried to make amends. “Nay, I think you most clever and indeed you are uncommonly talented with riddles.” Her manner eased slightly, but Bayard knew he would have to tell her more.
Bayard supposed Esmeraude’s curiosity was a good portent for his suit and was relieved enough by that to smile slightly for her.
Esmeraude smiled back and he was vastly encouraged.
“If you must know,” he confessed quietly, “I am simply vexed to learn that my father has not changed his ways since my departure from his abode.”
Esmeraude leaned upon his leg, her curiosity clear. Her fingertip slid along his thigh absently, as if she knew not what she did or how she made him burn for more of her touch. “Was that why you left Villonne, because of him?”
Bayard pursed his lips, then decided he had naught to lose in telling her the truth of it. “We argued, for he refused me the opportunity to ride to war or to tourney.”
“Surely any father would do as much.”
“Nay, Esmeraude. I had earned my spurs and the station of a knight. He was wrong to deny me the chance to hone my skills on the field.”
“But you could have been killed!”
’Twas cheering how the prospect seemed to trouble her. Bayard took her hand in his and let his thumb slide across her knuckles. The lady inhaled quickly and lifted her gaze to his in a way that made his own heart begin to pound. “But without such training, I could have lost much more.”
“How so?”
“I was his heir. Imagine if he died and I took his place, yet knew naught of defending what was now my own.” Bayard found himself confessing more than he intended. Indeed, the lady was cursedly easy to talk to, for she was keen of wit and seemed to understand his concerns. “Many might have died if the keep was attacked, and lost to another.”
“Is that a threat?” Esmeraude watched him carefully. “What happens abroad in these days? Is there peace?”
“I fear that war brews in France, betwixt the King of France and the King of England. They hold many adjacent territories and each is desirous of the rich holdings of the other.”
“Like Villonne?”
“’Tis unaccountably prosperous and near contested lands in Normandy.”
“And your father did not train your brother, after you left.”
Bayard shook his head. He felt his lips tighten and looked away that she might not read the fullness of his frustration in his eyes.
But Esmeraude seized his hand with her own. “You fret for him.”
“How could I not?”
She smiled at him sunnily, a most inappropriate response to his thinking. “Aye, how could you not when you love him so?”
Bayard bristled at the very suggestion. “He is my brother, Esmeraude, there is naught improper between us.”
“He is your blood and you fear for him because you love him.” Esmeraude shook a playful fingertip at him. “I think there is naught improper about the impulse. ’Tis most honorable for a man to be protective of those he loves.”
Bayard regarded her warily. Impulses warred within him, his old instinct for hiding any affection for another warring with the potential of winning favor from his intended.
“Do you intend to speak to your father about the matter?” Esmeraude asked, untroubled by his silence. “Perhaps you could persuade him to reconsider.”
“Clearly I cannot.” Bayard spoke with undisguised annoyance. “For he has ignored all I said to him five years ago.”
“You left to compel your father to do better with Amaury,” she whispered with evident delight. “Bayard, that is a most noble impulse, for surely you were his heir afore that. You put aside a prosperous estate for the sake of your brother, then won one for your own elsewhere.” She shook her head and smiled at him. “How can you suggest that you do not believe in love?”
“’Twas reason alone,” Bayard insisted. “’Twas simple good sense. There is no reason for a man to risk death and the loss of his holding for a lack of preparation. My father corrects his own father’s error with too much enthusiasm and I merely made the truth of that clear to him.”
“Then why are you so angered with him still?”
“’Tis only sensible to be vexed when one’s efforts come to naught.”
“And why did you leave Villonne for Amaury then?”
“He is less competitive than I and less ambitious. I knew I would win another holding, and indeed I have, but Amaury is wrought of more gentle matter.”
Esmeraude smiled. “You love Amaury and I know it.”
“�
�Tis only good sense!”
“’Tis love.”
Bayard could not leave the matter be. Truly this discussion proceeded in the wrong direction! “Esmeraude, I would not have you misunderstand. I do not share your faith in the merit of love...”
She laughed at him. “Call it what you will, then.” She leaned closer, her eyes twinkling in a most beguiling manner. “But I would bestow a kiss upon a man who loves his brother as much as you do your own.”
Before Bayard could decide whether to clarify the matter or accept the kiss he sorely desired, a cry rang out from the gates.
“A guest! A guest arrives!” shouted the herald, then stepped back to let the party pass under the portcullis.
The only man whose presence might have made Bayard’s day less promising rode beneath the gates of Airdfinnan, his fair hair swept back from his brow and his steed prancing proudly.
“Simon de Leyrossire,” he muttered sourly, without intending to do so, knowing beyond all doubt that his former luck had utterly abandoned him.
“Oh, another knight from France,” Esmeraude murmured. She looked far more excited about the prospect than Bayard would have preferred.
“He is a rogue and a scoundrel,” he told her darkly. “He cheats and will do whatsoever he can to win his desire. He courts you for some foul reason of his own.”
“No doubt because he desires a bride,” the lady retorted, then shook a finger at him. “How unlike you to be so ungracious, Bayard.” She then turned and smiled at the arriving knight.
Bayard seized her elbow. “You will not go to him!”
“Of course I will. I must greet him in my sister’s place.” Esmeraude had a stubborn glint in her eye that told Bayard that not only was she provoked but that he would lose if he forbade her to go to Simon.
So he smiled instead and slipped his arm around her waist. He bent low and drew her to her toes, liking how her eyes widened in anticipation. “Then I will have my kiss first, my Esmeraude,” he murmured, “and truly it shall be one you do not easily forget.”
The lady reached up and pushed a lock of hair back from Bayard’s brow, touching him with a possessive ease that made him catch his breath. “Aye, Bayard,” she whispered with a seductive smile. “Grant me a kiss that will warm my lonely pallet this night.”
The Bride Quest II Boxed Set Page 93