From This Moment On

by Lynn Kurland

  “You babble overmuch,” Colin said briskly, then walked off the field. Mayhap he could get himself back to the house and down to the cellar before anyone caught him. Then he would douse himself in ale and rid himself of the stench that bathing and perfuming had given him. Then, he supposed with a heavy sigh, he would have to seek out his bride and make her acquaintance.

  If she could cease fainting long enough for him to do so, of course.

  Colin strode back to the hall. His nose recognized the pleasing odors of a yet-to-arrive afternoon repast the moment he entered. He immediately put aside all foolish thoughts of parleying with his bride and made his way without interruption to the high table, took his seat, and looked about him hopefully. When sustenance did not immediately appear before him, he pulled out his knife and began to bang on the wood.

  “That really isn’t polite.”

  Colin scowled as his primary tormentor, Gillian of Blackmour, sat down next to him. True that she was his dearest friend’s wife. True, too, that he was rather fond of her himself, so he couldn’t just up and bellow at her to be silent. But could he bear a meal with her judging his every move and measuring it against some ideal of perfection no man had ever attained?

  “I was,” he said loftily, “testing the balance of my blade.”

  “You were,” she said archly, “banging for your supper. Patience is a virtue.”

  “Patience is a virtue that leaves the patient weak-kneed from hunger,” Colin countered. “I have manly business. I need to be fed. I smell, but I do not see. Cook apparently needs to be prodded to action.”

  Gillian raised a single finger and suddenly food appeared before them.

  Colin was quite frankly amazed at her powers of persuasion, but he wasn’t going to let that admiration of the like get in the way of getting something to his mouth as quickly as possible. He looked to Gillian’s far side to find that Christopher had joined them and was making quick work of piling pleasing things upon his trencher. Well, if he was doing it, Colin could as well, without fear of a scolding. He reached for a platter only to hear the dreaded tsk-tsk from Christopher’s lady.

  Colin glared at her. “What now?”

  “You should serve me first.”

  “What the bloody hell for?” Colin asked, astonished. “Have you been out in the lists all morning, working like a fiend?”

  Food spewed well across the table as Christopher guffawed out what he’d managed to ingest without having been forced to serve his bride. And a damned goodly bit of food it looked to have been.

  “I am your trencher partner,” Gillian said.

  Don’t want you was on the tip of his tongue, but this was the lady Gillian, after all. Colin found himself looking down into her sweet green eyes. When she gave him that smile that seemed to bring all men with any sense straight to their knees, he knew there was no point in protesting. She would have her way with him despite his best intentions.

  “Chris?” he said conversationally.

  “Aye?” his friend answered around a substantial hunk of bread halfway into his mouth.

  “I hate you.”

  Christopher only continued to chew contentedly. Colin glared at Gillian, just to let her know he wasn’t going soft, then with a grumble set to topping her side of the trencher with things that looked fairly edible to him. The saints only knew what Gillian would think of them.

  He waited until she had begun to delicately pick through the offerings before he applied himself earnestly to the task of filling his belly. Meat, the occasional vegetable, bread, cheese—in truth he couldn’t have cared what he ate as long as there was a goodly amount of it and it was unimpeded in its progress from the table to his mouth.

  Once his initial appetite was appeased, he looked about for things to fill in the cracks, as it were. He considered a bowl of eggs. The saints only knew how Cook had decided to ruin these today. Colin reached out and poked one clear through with his finger.

  “Colin!” Gillian exclaimed. “Do not poke the eggs.”

  “I want to know what’s in ’em.”

  “Then take a bite.”

  “And what if I don’t like it?”

  “Swallow it anyway.”

  “Daft notion,” he grunted under his breath, and reached for some odd bit of stuff smothered in some odd bit of sauce. Trying to be polite—the saints pity him—he took a bite.

  And spewed it immediately forth where it deserved to be, namely on the floor where the dogs could have at it.

  “Don’t spit!” Gillian exclaimed.

  He pulled up a comer of the cloth covering the table and wiped his mouth liberally.

  “And don’t use the cloth to wipe your mouth!”

  He reached in desperation for the goblet of wine before him with every intention of downing the entire cupful. Or he would have, had it not been pulled away from him before he could get it all down.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Share,” she warned.

  He tried to tug it from her, but she was stronger than she looked. He pulled, but she frowned at him, as if she thought that would persuade him to let go. With narrowed eyes, he released the cup, but she’d been pulling so hard that the half-full cup flew from her fingers and landed with a splat and a ding on the side of Christopher’s head.

  He, predictably, bellowed with rage.

  “Not my fault,” Colin said, shoving back his chair. “I’m going elsewhere to eat in peace!”

  He lifted a loaf of bread and an enormous chunk of cheese from off the table and escaped the great hall whilst he still could. The thought of facing his bride was sounding more appealing by the moment, especially if it meant his table manners would no longer be scrutinized. He walked down the passageway toward Gillian’s solar, wherein was bolted his bride. It wasn’t his ideal destination, but perhaps there would at least be an empty seat therein where he might ingest a bit more sustenance without comments on how he was doing it.

  He slowed as he approached the solar. The young knight who’d been flattened in the courtyard stood before the solar door, apparently standing guard. Colin snorted to himself. As if that one would ever be able to defend the lady Sybil from any but the smallest and least ferocious of rats.

  But at least he was making an effort, despite how feeble an effort it was. Colin came to a halt before the lad, peered at him, and was left again with surprise that such a one as this had ever been knighted. Why, he looked no older than ten-and-five! Not a shadow of beard adorned his face, and there were no lines of living adorning that smooth skin either. A babe, that’s what he was, saddled with the task of playing nursemaid to a wench who couldn’t even face a true man without fainting.

  Colin pitied the boy his task.

  Well, the least he could do was do something to strengthen the boy during his unpleasant labors. Colin untucked the loaf of bread from under his arm and held it out.

  “Here,” he said. “Eat something.”

  The lad gaped at him.

  “All right,” Colin grumbled, holding out the bottle. “Take this as well. You may as well not die of thirst whilst you’re about your useless vigil.”

  The boy shut his mouth with a snap and looked as surprised as if Colin had been some kind of bloody angel of mercy, come to give him reprieve from a hangman’s noose.

  “Thank you, my lord,” he whispered.

  Colin was hardly accustomed to those kinds of looks of wonder and surprise. Generally, those who thought him to be ruthless were in a position to be recipients of that ruthlessness. He was used to looks of pleading; he wasn’t used to such open looks of surprise—as if the lad had fully expected him to remove his head from his shoulders and now that Colin hadn’t, he hardly knew what to think.

  Colin pursed his lips. If the lady Sybil’s keeper was this daft, what did that betide for the lady herself?

  Better not to know, likely.

  Colin turned his attentions back to the boy before him. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

&nb
sp; The boy gulped. “Sir Henri.”

  “Hmmm,” Colin said, regarding him skeptically. “A knight?” He shook his head. “Impossible to believe,” he muttered. “But then again, this is France spewing forth girls in mail without a decent idea of how to wield their blades. Mayhap I am overdue for a visit there.”

  Sir Henri began to breathe in a most unsteady fashion. Colin looked at the boy from under his eyebrows and wondered if it would be better to slap some proper breath back into him, or leave him to sorting it out himself. When Sir Henri began to wheeze, Colin decided on the latter. A healthy slap on the back might just do the lad in.

  “Don’t choke on the bread,” he said heavily. “And there’s more below, if you can get your delicate self downstairs to ingest any of it. I wouldn’t share with your mistress, however. Perhaps she’ll find her way out the door if she’s hungry enough.”

  Sir Henri only nodded, his breath still coming in unwholesome-sounding gasps.

  Colin walked away before he had to watch the boy humiliate himself further. He had no doubts Sir Henri would break down soon and sob with fear. Apparently the lad was not unacquainted with his own intimidating reputation. No doubt having to see Colin in the flesh had been too much for him.

  But France, now that was something he could certainly give more thought to. He’d assumed that he’d left an indelible impression upon the country the last time he’d been there. Apparently, their memories were short and their training methods dwindling to nothing.

  Obviously, it was time he returned for a visit.

  That thought cheered him considerably. He would finish up the foul work of getting himself wed, then turn his attentions to the more pleasurable work of setting foot on yonder shore and instructing the men there on the proper comportment of a knight. How could they fail to be impressed by his own modest example? Perhaps this time he would stay a bit longer, instruct more men than he’d been able to the last time, and finish his work properly.

  It was the least he could do for the noble cause of chivalry.

  He found himself eventually out in the stables. Ah, now here was a place he could understand, with occupants he could be at ease with. How often was it he longed for the companionable noise of wickers and the pleasant smells of dung and hay? Too often, likely. Perhaps it was time he wed before he found his mount’s company preferable to a wench’s.

  He leaned over the stall and rubbed his stallion’s nose. At least here was a being who found him not offensive. And why not? A horse cared nothing but that its master was brave and courageous and Colin was surely those things and more. A pity none of his potential brides had possessed the same good sense. He sighed. It did him no good to wonder why horses loved him and women did not.

  Women were, obviously, of less wit than his mount.

  He was satisfied with that realization, but it did little to aid him any in his current undertaking. He sighed and bowed his head. Mayhap he could just put Sybil on her horse, drag her to Harrowden and let his sire see to the rest of it. After all, his sire was controlling the rest of their lives. Perhaps he could talk a bit of sense into the wench whilst he was at his scheming. It was a certainty Colin would never manage the like.

  He sighed and turned his mind away from unpleasant thoughts of matrimony and travel. Mayhap he could lure the more ferocious part of Blackmour’s garrison out into the lists and spend the afternoon grinding them into the dust one by one.

  Aye, that was the task for him. Brides and sires could wait. He gave his stallion a pat and left the stables, whistling a happy tune.

  Chapter 5

  Ali fled, terror clutching at her heart, knowing that the sword that swung behind her was coming closer with each swing. She forced herself to go faster and was faintly surprised to find that she was managing it. Perhaps that had aught to do with the fact that she was running on four feet—and she was running on four feet because she had been transformed by some foul spell into a rabbit.

  She found it in her to curse her now quite large ears. Smaller ones perhaps wouldn’t have been capable of so clearly hearing the ring of the sword coming closer and closer to her. She risked a glance over her furry shoulder to find herself being pursued by none other than Colin of Berkhamshire, his wicked blade in his hand, a ferocious frown on his face. He stooped suddenly, reached out and grasped her by the scruff of her neck.

  “Aack!” she cried out in terror.

  She was jerked backward.

  It was then that she woke fully and found that whilst she was most certainly not a rabbit, she was definitely being hauled backward—into the solar, fortunately. That meant, though, that she’d fallen asleep sitting straight up against the solar door.

  She wanted to weep with relief. Her first night had passed safely at Blackmour with only foul dreams to show for it. It could have been much worse. Any number of souls could have happened by and done the saints only knew what to her whilst she slept.

  She was deposited without care onto the solar floor and Sybil’s maids leaped for the door to heave it to and bolt it. Ali rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then slowly crawled to her feet and turned to find Sybil sitting in a chair. She was looking, unsurprisingly, pale and terrified.

  “Henri,” Sybil whispered, as if she thought the walls might be eavesdropping, “you are well?”

  “Well enough,” Ali said, shaking off her unsettling dream. She stood quite happily on two feet and forced herself not to reach up and assure herself of the proper shape of her ears. “And you, my lady?”

  Sybil looked to be on the verge of fainting again. One of her maids appeared instantly at her elbow with some strengthening bread and a large goblet. “I will survive it,” she said, chewing industriously, then taking a large swallow of wine. “But barely.”

  In all honesty, Ali couldn’t blame her for her terror. Just the thought of being chained to Colin of Berkhamshire for the rest of her life was enough to bring any sensible woman to take drastic measures.

  As Ali would certainly know.

  “Have you seen him?” one of the maids asked.

  “Is he as horrible as the tales say?” asked another.

  “Has he killed anyone yet?” asked the third.

  Ali pointedly ignored the fact that she’d just spent half the night dreaming of Colin pursuing her, his sword at the ready, no doubt planning on having her for his supper. She could hardly blurt that out without sending Sybil burrowing deeper into her sack of sustenance.

  But, aye, she had seen Colin. Not only had she seen him, he’d given her food the night before when it would have been just as easy to have run her through, burst into Sybil’s solar, and drag the girl out by her feet to converse with him. He hadn’t seemed cruel beyond measure then.

  But that was one occasion and perhaps he’d been overcome by unwholesome feelings of pity. She’d certainly given the strong impression of someone about to expire from terror. Would he be moved by such pity again? She had no idea; there was no sense in raising Sybil’s hopes unnecessarily.

  But neither could she frighten the girl further without good cause.

  “I have seen him and, aye, he is fierce,” Ali conceded slowly. “And he does have quite a peculiar smell about him, as the rumors have said. But I haven’t seen him kill anyone yet.”

  “A pity he hasn’t done in Sir Etienne,” one of the wenches offered.

  Ali agreed heartily, but didn’t say as much.

  “He is so large.” Sybil moaned. “So intimidating. So fully without any mercy at all.”

  How Sybil could tell that when she’d fainted at the mere sight of him Ali surely didn’t know, but she didn’t bother to point that out to her charge. Sybil was eating and Ali couldn’t bring herself to ruin the girl’s one pleasure.

  “Enormous,” one of her maids repeated.

  “Merciless,” another added.

  “And we’ll likely see him kill someone before we leave,” the third added in a hopeful tone. “Wouldn’t you think?”

  Ali frowned at the
serving maids. By the saints, these three were no help at all. ’Twas little wonder Sybil was so terrified if this was what she listened to for the whole of the day.

  Then she clapped her hand to her forehead. She had seen Colin of Berkhamshire, she had thought him as awful as the tales had said, and she was just certain, given the right amount of time, that she would see him kill someone as well. Who was she to think to defend him?

  She rubbed her hand over her face and wondered if there was something in the air at Blackmour that rendered all within its reach bewitched. The place certainly reeked of secrets and works wrought in the cover of darkness.

  Mayhap someone would take pity on Sybil and render her just as enspelled. It might be a mercy, given the fact that Sybil had no choice but to wed Colin.

  Ali steadfastly refused to think on the fact that if she did but reveal herself, Sybil would be freed of her obligation—and Ali would find herself in the wench’s unenviable position as the Butcher’s bride.

  She rubbed her hands together the way her sire had always done when he’d been finished talking of unsettling matters and was ready to be off and doing, then looked about her purposefully. She had business to attend to—somewhere far from Sybil and her foodstuffs, far from Sybil’s maids and their foolish babblings.

  And very far from her own troubling thoughts.

  “Have you adequate sustenance here in the solar, my lady?” Ali asked Sybil politely.

  How Sybil managed to look famished with a platter of sweets at her elbow Ali couldn’t imagine, but the girl looked fair to perishing.

  “Bread,” Sybil said weakly. “Meats under sauce, if possible. Anything to keep up my strength.”

  Which she would need, Ali had to agree. And if food was the girl’s comfort, then well was she entitled to it. Ali bowed and left the chamber, charged with her accustomed task of venturing to the kitchens for Sybil’s extra rations. This she could do—assuming she didn’t meet anyone untoward in the process. There were, after all, so many souls to avoid.