From This Moment On

by Lynn Kurland

  She’d been lucky enough to have had a garderobe always to hand, so relieving herself hadn’t been a problem. And her flux had been something else entirely, but looking back on it now, she realized that every time she’d had it, the lady Isabeau had kept her near her, reading or doing some other such activity in the ladies’ solar. It had come upon her seldom enough, the saints be praised, and she had assumed that was because of either some saint’s doing or because she was most often terrified of being discovered. Each time it had arrived, though, the lady Isabeau had been there, demanding some undemanding service from her.

  But then a truly awful thought occurred to her. Who would look out for her once she departed with Sybil to Colin’s home? Colin himself?

  She stripped, set her coins aside, then cast herself into perilous waters before she could give that ridiculous idea any more thought.

  The water burned her like hellfire and she had to clamp her teeth together not to cry out from both fear and pain. But she sat just the same, because sound would have brought any number of people running to see how she fared.

  She looked around her and found that a glob of soap had been left for her, as well as water for rinsing and a fine linen towel. She’d never used any cloth so fine in her own house, though she’d seen Marie use the like. She raised her eyebrows in silent speculation over that. Was her father given such luxuries, or was he left with rough cloth as well? She wouldn’t have been surprised to find that was the case.

  She realized then that she had lingered long enough. She washed—faintly alarmed at the skin she seemed to be rubbing off with the soap, for the skin underneath was certainly a far different color than that above—then did the same to her hair and hoped she wouldn’t lose any more of it than she had already. She’d cut off her hair when she’d fled, leaving behind four feet of it in an unmarked grave in the deep woods near her home. Now, not a lock of it was more than the length of a finger, though she suspected she should have had someone besides herself sawing at it with a knife. The saints only knew how unkempt she looked.

  She crawled from the tub, dried herself off as quickly as ever a body had, biting her tongue to keep from making any noise, then pulled on new hose that almost fit. They still required a bit of string around her waist to do the task for her, but at least there was little danger of them falling down. She hesitated putting back on the bandage around her chest, given how filthy it was, but she knew she had no choice. She wrapped and wrapped it until she’d done what she could, then tucked the edge under the top as was her wont.

  “So, how do ... you ... um ...”

  Ali whipped around in surprise, winced at the pain of sudden movement, then found to her displeasure that Jason was standing there with a cup in his hand and a look of utter satisfaction on his face.

  She gritted her teeth and yanked the tunic he’d brought her over her head. She snatched up her coins, shoved them under her shirt, and then carefully folded her arms over her chest and glared at him.

  “What are you staring at?” she demanded.

  He returned her look of challenge. “Something I suspected from the start.”

  “’Tis an old war wound,” she snapped.

  He laughed.

  She drew herself up and gave him the same look she had seen the lady Isabeau give Lord Humbert’s fellows when they’d had far too much ale and had seemed to find her potential sport. “Be off with you,” she said.

  Jason leaned against the wall and took a long drink of his brew. “You’d best confess your secret,” he said conversationally, “lest your soul be in peril.”

  “Never.” And let my soul be damned. Better that than finding herself receiving Marie’s tender ministrations.

  He looked quite unconcerned at her refusal. “Well, now I know what you are; the question becomes who you are. And you should know that I am a master at solving mysteries of all kinds.”

  No doubt. The saints only knew what this one had learned at his master’s knee. Did he charm his victims into submitting, or had Christopher of Blackmour taught him darker, fouler arts to gain his ends? Ali knew that if she told him her name, he would want to know more, and who knew where it would end? Would he go to Colin and tell him the tale?

  He was smiling at her now. Ali pursed her lips. So, it was to be charm that he wielded like a sharp blade. That she could resist.

  “Confess,” he urged. “Unburden your soul. Perhaps I can aid you.”

  She took a deep breath. “Never.”

  “You should.”

  “I will never.”

  He smiled, taking up the challenge. “Then I will find you out.”

  “Not whilst I live.”

  He lifted his cup in salute. “So be it.”

  The saints preserve her, the man was in earnest.

  And she’d thought the previous two years had been dangerous. She suspected the next half hour might be far more perilous than anything she’d endured in the past.

  Chapter 8

  Colin walked into the hall, well satisfied with his brief morning’s exercise. He supposed he could have taken more time with Sir Etienne’s instruction, but what was the point? The man had deserved a good thrashing, he’d gotten it, and now he would have a goodly amount of time to think over his poor choices as he lay in the healer’s house for a handful of days, recovering.

  Colin made his way through the kitchens, looking over the day’s possible offerings on his way, and noted the screen blocking off a corner. Was his newly acquired garrison member having some kind of tryst already with a handsome serving wench? Well, a lad did what he had to to restore his dignity. And after the thrashing Henri had taken today, Colin honestly couldn’t blame him for doing whatever he had to do in order to accomplish that.

  “Confess.”

  “Never.”

  Colin paused and frowned. That was Jason, to be sure, and that womanly voice surely belonged to the lad, Henri. But what could Jason possibly be intending to find out? And what could Henri have to confess?

  He rounded the screen and took in the scene before him. Jason was leaning against the wall, looking quite unconcerned—a sure sign the lad was set to use whatever methods necessary to discover whatever he’d set his mind to. Henri stood in the corner, his dark, shorn hair dripping down into his very pale face. His chin, however, had a very stubborn set to it.

  Well, obviously the lads were fighting over some serving wench. Mayhap Henri had wooed someone Jason had taken a fancy to and Jason sought to find out how it had been done. Though Jason wasn’t the sort of man to tumble serving wenches, and Henri didn’t look man enough to woo anything.

  Colin shook his head and sighed. If he weren’t careful, he’d be trying to beat the tale from the both of them. He was just certain the details couldn’t possibly be worth the effort. He crossed the floor and slapped Jason heartily on the back.

  “Leave the lad alone.”

  Jason stumbled forward, trying to save the last of his ale from spilling from his cup. Colin turned to the lad.

  “You seem little worse for the wear,” he remarked.

  The lad only quivered—in fear, no doubt.

  “Henri, isn’t it?” Colin asked.

  “Sir Henri,” Jason said, straightening with a groan.

  Colin looked at the boy. “However did you earn your spurs?” he asked, in frank astonishment. “You fight like a woman.”

  “Valor,” Jason put in. “The lad was knighted for valor. I daresay his training has been less than adequate, though.”

  Colin grunted. That was being kind, but Artane’s get was nothing if not kind. He himself, however, was never troubled overmuch by that sentiment when it came to matters of war.

  “Your training is nonexistent,” he said bluntly. “I’ll not have a man in my house who cannot fight.” He considered whom he might foist the lad off upon, then had another look at the terror-stricken child before him. Nay, this was one who would require a master with peerless skill. Colin sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to se
e to you myself.”

  Jason burst out laughing.

  Colin glared at him, then turned back to Henri, who looked even paler than before. Well, the boy was certainly not showing the amount of joy he should have at such a declaration. After all, how many men had the opportunity to even cross swords with him and come away unvanquished? That he should even take the time to consider a helpless lad’s training should have left the helpless lad in question weak with delight.

  Perhaps Henri was so intimidated, he couldn’t muster up the appropriate responses. Aye, that was obviously the case.

  Jason, however, seemed to have no trouble expressing himself. He was leaning against the wall, gasping quite helpless with mirth. Colin glared at him.

  “Be silent, you,” Colin commanded.

  Jason raised his cup in salute, then buried his giggles within that cup. Colin looked at Henri. There was no time like the present to be about discovering just how far his lack of skill extended.

  “Have you spent no time in the lists?” Colin asked sternly.

  “N-not m-much,” the lad answered.

  “Then what, pray, have you been doing with yourself?” Colin demanded. “Playing the lute for your mistress in her solar?”

  “Um—”

  “Answer enough. But why?” Colin demanded. “None other willing to do it?”

  “Ah—”

  Colin shook his head in disgust with thoughts he simply could not voice. The lad was in dire straits and that only added to his own personal burden. An untrained knight, a bride who would not emerge from a bolted solar, and a journey to see his father.

  A lesser man would have been simply borne down to the dust under like circumstances.

  But, fortunately for all involved, he was not a lesser man, and even such heavy tasks as those that lay ahead of him were not enough to discourage him. He tossed Henri’s sheathed blade at him.

  “Here’s your sword. You left it behind in the lists.”

  The lad, predictably, jumped out of the way, allowing the blade to land quite forcefully on the floor.

  Colin sighed. This was going to take longer than he’d thought.

  “Leave your mail here,” he said briskly. “We’ll have a squire see to it and bring it to you later. Let us seek out a meal and you will tell me of yourself. Once I’ve determined just how little you know about swordplay—”

  Jason cleared his throat. “If you’d care to have me train Sir Henri, I would be pleased to do it. I think I would be particularly suited to seeing to our Henri’s ... um ... particular needs.”

  Colin snorted. Jason was better suited to ridding women of their clothing. Besides, why should Jason care what happened to Henri? He shook his head. “Don’t need you,” he said. “I’m perfectly capable of seeing to Henri’s training myself.”

  “Um,” said Henri, sounding faint. “You needn’t trouble yourself—”

  Colin fixed Henri with a steely look. “I have decided to train you. Many would kill to be in your place.”

  “Ah,” Henri said, looking as if he might just fall down in a dead faint.

  “The lad is obviously overcome with gratitude,” Jason said dryly.

  Henri did indeed look quite overcome. Still not an appropriate amount of enthusiasm, to Colin’s mind, but perhaps the lad couldn’t be blamed for that. Perhaps he was weak with quiet pleasure. After all, that he himself should deign to share his own vast knowledge and enormous skill with one such as this was truly a remarkable and noteworthy event.

  He paused and frowned. Passing odd, that he should feel such a compulsion to aid the lad.

  Ah, well, what was the use of his skill, if he didn’t use it to some charitable purpose now and then? He turned back to Jason.

  “Begone,” he said shortly.

  Jason only bowed politely. “My lord Christopher has no need of me today. I am at your service.”

  Wouldn’t want your service was almost out of his mouth before Colin thought better of it. If he was to concentrate on Henri’s training, he might need a bit of aid with less important matters. He nodded to Jason. “Well then, if you’ve nothing better to do with your time, go see if you can lure my bride from her hiding place. I should likely have speech at least once with her before we wed. And,” he added reluctantly, “we should likely leave for my brother’s monastery soon. Perhaps even within the fortnight.”

  “Will you have me come with you?” Jason asked. “To help you contain your, um, entourage?”

  And keep your bride from escaping? Jason hadn’t said the words, but Colin had heard them well enough. He gave Jason a look he hoped spoke well enough his irritation with the sudden tendency Jason’s mouth had acquired of quivering, as if he could barely contain a smile.

  “I doubt they’d let you into a monastery,” Colin said curtly. “Your reputation is nearly as foul as Christopher’s, and well deserved, I might add.”

  Jason inclined his head. “Perhaps, but you know the truth of it.”

  Colin snorted. “What I know is where you spend your leisure time. One cannot consort with witches and remain unsullied.”

  Sir Henri began to sway a little. Colin reached out and clamped a hand on the lad’s shoulder.

  “Aye, lad,” Colin said heavily, “witches. Three of them, and viler practitioners of the art you’ll never meet.”

  “Here?” Henri whispered.

  “If you want to know where not to go, all you must do is follow Jason. He knows the way to their chamber well enough.”

  “And you don’t?” Jason asked with a laugh.

  Colin drew himself up. “They seek me out.”

  “Aye, to sprinkle you with all manner of things to improve your aspect,” Jason agreed. He reached out and tugged Henri away from Colin. “Come with me and I’ll introduce you to those healers Colin so callously refers to as sorceresses. No doubt they’ll have something that might even improve your swordplay.”

  Henri looked even less than enthusiastic about that than he had about Colin’s most generous offer, and Colin honestly couldn’t blame the lad. He tugged on Henri’s other arm.

  “What will improve the lad’s swordplay is time in the lists with me,” he said, looking at Jason pointedly.

  Jason tugged Henri back his way. “I’ll take him with me.”

  Colin took a firmer hold and fair lifted the lad off the ground as he pulled him his way. “And I’ll keep him with me.”

  Henri squeaked.

  “We’re going to pull the lad apart, do you continue to tug on him thusly,” Jason said. “Let him go.”

  “He’s mine now,” Colin said, “and I’ll worry about him.”

  “I doubt you’ve the time,” Jason said. “Needing to see to your bride and all.”

  “You go see to her,” Colin said, glaring at the youngest lad from Artane. “Release you my lad here. You’re going to break him before I have the pleasure.”

  Henri truly began to teeter then, and damn him if he didn’t slip right from Colin’s hold and sway right toward Jason.

  Obviously Colin had work to do to teach the lad some taste.

  Jason held the lad up with an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll watch over him whilst you’re about your business of wooing your bride. After all, surely she is your highest priority.” He smiled pleasantly. “And it would be a great honor for me if you would allow me to accompany you on your journey. I could certainly be prevailed upon to give young Henri the closest scrutiny possible.”

  Henri pushed away from Jason, looking perfectly horrified at that thought. And rightly so. Colin felt somewhat cheered to know that Henri was not completely confused when it came to matters of character.

  Colin dismissed Jason without further comment, then took Henri by the scruff of the neck. “Let us see to a meal,” he said. “You can watch me as I think on your training.”

  Henri whimpered.

  Colin assumed it was from pain and loosened his grip on the lad. Obviously, the training would have to wait a few hours until Henri
had recovered some of his strength.

  He pulled Henri with him through the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively. Things smelled good and he was hard-pressed not to filch bits from platters as he passed. But he was, of course, nothing if not disciplined, so he forbore.

  But the saints pity Gillian of Blackmour if she stood in his way of a decent repast.

  He came to a dead halt at the entrance to the great hall. Diners were already seated at various tables, and who should be gracing the lord’s table but Sybil of Maignelay-sur-mer herself. Awake. Lucid. And helping herself to a substantial amount of everything in front of her.

  “By the saints,” Jason said, sounding as stunned as Colin himself felt, “she’s out.”

  “And conscious,” Colin agreed.

  “A miracle,” Henri muttered.

  Colin considered his options. He could, of course, remain in the shadows and allow the girl to gain some sense of peace. But then again, why should she be afeared of her own betrothed?

  Decision made, he strode out into the great hall. The souls who made Blackmour their home took no notice of him. The wenches who stood behind Sybil took one look at him and, as one, screeched in fear.

  Colin quickened his pace until he stood directly before his bride.

  “My lady,” he began.

  She stood, her eyes rolled back in her head, and then she fell over backward, over the arm of the chair and onto the floor in a flurry of skirts and legs.

  Colin sighed. Would the nightmare never end?

  He leaned over the table and peered down at her. She was quite senseless, with her feet sticking straight up in the air. Fortunately for her, her skirts were covering all they should, leaving only her ankles and feet open to the view of anyone who cared to look. Her wimple covered her face, and her voluminous veil seemed to have pillowed her head well enough. He then watched as something rolled out from beneath her coiffure.