From This Moment On

by Lynn Kurland

  Aliénore was on the tip of Colin’s tongue, but he bit the name back. Why did everyone persist in speaking of her? She hadn’t wanted him, the bloody wench, and he certainly wouldn’t have her now.

  Colin scowled at Jason. “She’s gone missing and is likely dead.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have her, if she could be found?” Jason prodded.

  Colin stood, pushing his chair back. “She can’t be and I wouldn’t. Come, Henri, and let us be about our business. No doubt the smith has need of you.”

  Henri followed him. Jason squawked suddenly and Colin looked over his shoulder. Jason had shoved his chair back from the table and was brushing frantically at his tunic and the sodden mess that had once been clean hose. Henri was wiping his hand surreptitiously on his own tunic, but Colin saw the movement and deduced that Henri had somehow dumped the contents of a pitcher of drink onto Artane’s youngest. With the way Jason was swearing at the boy, Colin knew he had things aright.

  Colin watched Henri scamper toward him in a most unmanly fashion. The poor lad looked a damned goodly bit like a girl, the saints pity him.

  Well, there was obviously a great deal of heavy labor here to turn this one into something useful. And who was he to shy away from heavy labors?

  Nay, he would take the burden upon himself.

  ’Twas a much more appealing project than marriage to a witless girl who fainted at the very sight of him.

  Chapter 12

  Ali stood in the lists with the sun beating down on her head and thought back with fondness to the time when she’d imagined that being Colin of Berkhamshire’s bride would be what killed her. Now she knew that having him train her in the gentle arts of war would be what did her in.

  “We’ll do that stroke again.”

  Ali wanted nothing more than to leave her sword where it was—point down in the dirt—and crawl off to somewhere cool and have herself a long rest, preferably without any mail, swords, or other trappings of war. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a possibility at present, not with the Butcher of Berkhamshire at the helm of her ship, as it were. They’d been at this training business for only three days, but Ali suspected that Colin very much begrudged the sun its going down, for it robbed him of time to grind her further under his heel.

  And he didn’t even have her death on his mind. She pitied those who weren’t as fortunate as she.

  Not that she actually considered herself all that fortunate, and not that she’d lost any of her fear of him. He was, after all, who he was, and every moment in his presence reminded her of why she’d fled in the first place and what she had to lose if he discovered her.

  Colin reached out and tapped her blade with his. “Again, Henri.”

  Ali swallowed back her fear, cast a final desperate prayer heavenward, and lifted her blade. Her arms shook as she did so, even though her newly fashioned sword was much lighter than her brother’s had been. It was a beautiful sword; even she had to admit that. And it flashed quite nicely in the sunlight. She finished her stroke, then looked at the blade with admiration.

  That she should have a newly fashioned sword was possibly the most noteworthy thing that had ever happened to her. She’d never owned anything so expensive. She’d watched the smith during his various labors and realized quite fully all that had gone into its construction. She’d also watched Colin hand over substantially more coin than she’d ever seen, and surely far more than she herself had tucked into one of Blackmour’s passageway walls, and hand it over as if it meant nothing to him. When he’d given her the blade with but a “ ’tis yours now, may it serve you well,” she’d been tempted to weep.

  Her very own sword.

  It had been almost enough to give her the desire to learn how to use it properly.

  Of course, that enthusiasm had faded with every subsequent day that passed—especially given that those days had begun at dawn the very morning after her sword had been finished, and lasted without fail far into the afternoon.

  On the first day, she’d passed half the day learning to draw her sword, then put it away again. After a hearty meal, Colin had taken her back out to the lists where she’d learned to hold her blade properly. The only reason she’d known he had been satisfied with her work was because he’d then moved on to a proper fighting stance. That had been followed the next day by an examination of the previous day’s work, then an immediate commencement of the first few swipes with her blade.

  And, as Jason continually reminded her each chance he had, the true business of training had scarcely begun.

  She had wondered often during the past few days if dousing him with that pitcher of ale had been wise. He’d certainly missed no opportunity since to describe in the most glorious of detail all that she would face whilst Colin did his best to make her over in his image.

  She’d asked him archly the night before if all lads from Artane had such a finely honed sense of vengeance. He’d only grinned and reminded her that he would hardly be the one meting out any portion of justice over the next period of indeterminate length. That hadn’t seemed to stop him from thoroughly enjoying his seat on the bench in the shade of the wall, watching her go through whatever torments Colin saw fit to inflict on her.

  And damn that Artane lad if he hadn’t come up with anything useful for her to be. His suggestion the night before of a fierce mercenary had almost earned him his supper in his lap.

  “Henri!” Colin bellowed.

  Ali snapped to attention and grasped her blade with both hands. “My lord,” she said as bravely as she could. She dragged her full concentration away from thoughts of Jason’s demise, the sheen of her blade, and her future, to the matter at hand. Whatever might come after, for now learning swordplay was a goodly work and one she didn’t intend to fail at.

  A pity Marie couldn’t have seen her, or been the recipient of Ali’s finished lessons.

  “Are you finished thinking?”

  Ali raised her blade. “My apologies, lord. Your reputation intimidates me.”

  Colin nodded as if such a thing were merely his due. “No doubt it does. But I am your master now, and I’ve no mind to separate your head from your shoulders. Unless,” he added, “you continue to lose yourself in foolish dreaming.”

  Ali forced herself to ignore the complete ridiculousness of actually having the cheek to train with the man facing her. Apparently he thought nothing of it, so perhaps she shouldn’t either.

  She struggled to ignore the pain in her arms that progressed to pains in her back and then in her legs from such unaccustomed labor. Colin, though, seemed to find nothing painful about the day. He continued to deliver his instructions with calmness and a surprising amount of patience. His expression, however, gave new meaning to inscrutable. He neither smiled nor frowned at anything she did, no matter how many times he made her do her strokes over again.

  Then again, perhaps there was nothing to be excited over yet in her quest for mastery of her blade, though Jason had told her earlier that morning that she was a good student. Despite herself, she felt as if she were actually succeeding at something.

  How ironic it was that the something was swordplay—and learned at Colin of Berkhamshire’s tender hands, no less.

  “Henri, I vow you’ve the concentration of a witless serving wench!” Colin bellowed. “Your head will never remain atop your neck if you cannot do better than this!”

  Ali shook herself and gave up thinking. The remainder of the afternoon passed with her standing next to him, trying to copy the precise movement of his blade with her own. And, for the first time, the simple discipline of it gave her an odd kind of peace.

  Of course that peace began to fade a bit as Colin kept her at her task the whole of the afternoon. By the time the shadows grew long and she had been released from torment, she was dripping with sweat and trembling with weariness.

  Colin, still looking as fresh as if he’d just woken from a fine night’s sleep, put his blade up and looked around him.

  “Are t
hey all gone?” he asked, sounding very disappointed. “No one left for a little swordplay?”

  Jason rose from where he’d been lounging on the bench. “All save me, my lord, but I’m weary from just watching you train our poor Henri. ’Tis enough to make a lad consider something else as his life’s calling. Smithy work? Masonry? Cobbling? What do you think, Sir Henri?”

  What she thought wasn’t at all what a young lady of her station could utter. Obviously she’d passed too much time in hose. She contented herself with glaring at Jason, then she turned back to see what Colin would require of her further.

  She found him staring at her in a most unsettlingly probing manner.

  “Henri seems to be holding up well enough,” Colin conceded. “Or,” he said slowly, looking at Jason, “does he seem a bit weak to you? Not as strong as a lad his age should be? These girlish tendencies he shows—”

  “Not everyone can have your strength, my lord,” Jason said, jumping to his feet and coming across the lists.

  “Aye,” Ali agreed quickly. “I crave your patience with my feeble nature, my lord.”

  “But ’tis a most womanly nature,” Colin insisted, looking at her from under his eyebrows.

  “Ah, leave off tormenting the boy,” Jason said, slinging his arm around her shoulders. “Perhaps he comes from poor stock. Will you shame him beyond measure by reminding him of it?”

  Ali could only nod uneasily.

  “Hmmm,” Colin said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose so. Very well, Henri, I will torment you no longer. A meal, then some rest for you. Perhaps you’ll overcome your weak stature at some point.”

  “No doubt,” Jason said heartily, pulling Ali toward the great hall. “Come, Henri, and let us seek out sustenance. I’m weary from all your hard labors today.”

  Ali watched as Colin strode past them, making quick work of reaching the great hall before them.

  She looked up at Jason. “My thanks.”

  “I could do nothing less.”

  “Think you he suspects?”

  “Who you are? Never. What you are? Aye, perhaps. Unfortunately, the man is far less dense than you might think. Then again, he is so wrapped up in swordplay, he wouldn’t notice you were a girl if you stood there naked—as long as you had a sword in your hand and were pointing it at him.”

  “I suppose,” she said doubtfully.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll put him off the scent.”

  “You’ve saved yourself another drenching, my lord.”

  “Oh, I’ve that still to repay you for,” he said with a laugh, “but I’ll bide my time.”

  “No doubt,” she muttered, but went with him willingly back to the hall. It meant supper, and she found that she longed for meals like she never had before. Could the rigors of a convent life possibly be this difficult? Or the smells of pigs? Or the labors of brewing ale?

  She followed Jason into the hall, but found herself sitting alone at one of the lower tables. It didn’t trouble her overmuch. She had eaten more than one meal without Jason at her elbow and survived well enough. What could possibly happen to her before Jason finished his obligations to Lord Christopher?

  She reached for her cup of ale, then froze as Sir Etienne appeared from the shadows of the hall and sat down across from her. She looked at him briefly, noticed the rearranging of his nose—no doubt thanks to Colin’s fists—then lowered her eyes and refused to look at him again, though she could feel him willing her to do the like.

  Ali turned her attentions to the high table, merely to have something else to watch. And as she looked at the faces of those sitting there, she wondered how it was that after little more than a se’nnight she could have lost so much of her discomfort at being near these people.

  The Dragon she avoided just on principle, even though she’d begun to doubt that he was as full of evil as was rumored. She had given much thought to all that the lady Gillian had told her. Ali could well see where Lord Christopher’s warriorly form alone could lead those around him to back up a pace and reconsider any jests at his expense. His visage, its unworldly handsomeness aside, was stern, but in nothing more than a manly way.

  Ali watched him with his lady wife and saw that whilst he frowned at others around him, his look infallibly gentled when turned toward her. And to be sure, he treated her with deference enough. Gillian herself seemed to have no fear of him. Perhaps he was in truth just a man, but a man whom the gossips had cloaked with a foul enough reputation to keep everyone in fear of him.

  And if that held true for him, how did it hold for Colin? Christopher of Blackmour had the very blackest, the very vilest fame reaching as far as her home, yet he appeared to be a mere man—a man with a gentle woman by his side and two very small sons who seemed to fear him not at all.

  Christopher’s lads didn’t seem to have any fear of Colin. Ali watched as the younger one made an appearance at the table and immediately crawled over bodies and chairs until he had ensconced himself in Colin’s lap. Ali watched in surprise as Colin not only allowed the familiarity, but put an arm around the lad to keep him from falling backward.

  And then the true entertainment began.

  The boy soon tired of Colin’s food and turned to the man himself. Colin’s shoulders were used as a place to perch, his hair was tugged enthusiastically, and his ears were used as reins. And all the while, Colin merely continued his conversation with Blackmour, seemingly undisturbed by the young lad’s ministrations. Small fingers investigated eyes, nose, and mouth, but Colin’s only response was to pat the lad on the back and settle him more firmly on his shoulders.

  Ali began to wonder, unwillingly, if she might have taken rumor as fact when it should have been counted as mere fancy.

  Had she made a mistake?

  That was, however, a thought she simply could not entertain. She had set her foot to her accursed path and there was surely no turning back now. She purposefully turned her attentions back to her meal only to find Sir Etienne staring at her with an expression she couldn’t quite identify. She glared at him briefly, then concentrated on her food.

  “Beware, boy,” he said in a low voice, leaning forward so she couldn’t help but hear him. “I’ll not stand for such cheek from you. You aren’t his yet.”

  Ali felt an unwelcome rush of fear sweep through her. She remembered all too well what it felt like to be at Sir Etienne’s mercy. It was the last place she would again find herself willingly. She gave serious thought to how she might escape to a place where Sir Etienne wouldn’t be able to follow. Mayhap she would offer to take something up to Sybil and thereby hide herself in the solar. The foolish twit hadn’t come down for the meal—again. Ali found herself quickly losing sympathy for the girl. After all, if Colin allowed a lad to crawl all over him thusly, surely he couldn’t be all that bad.

  His smell aside, of course. Even she, who shunned bathing as a dangerous and foolhardy practice, could see the wisdom of it in his case. Then again, too many more days out in the lists and she would be seeking out a tub of her own free will. There was something about roasting in chain mail in the heat of the day that brought out a body’s most pungent odors.

  The hall door opened and shut with a resounding bang, making her jump. She watched as the man who had entered the hall strode across the rushes, made straight for the high table, and bowed before Colin.

  “Lord Berkhamshire,” he said in a loud voice, “I bring a message from your father.”

  The change that swept over Colin was truly startling in its swiftness. Colin very carefully handed Blackmour’s son to him, then stood to face the man standing before the table.

  “Aye?” he said, and there was no welcome or warmth in his tone.

  “He bids you depart for Harrowden. ‘Within the hour,’ said he. He is anxious to have the lady Sybil delivered.”

  The entire company held its breath. Ali stole a look at Sir Etienne and found that even he had stopped watching her long enough to look at the high table. For herself, once s
he looked back at Colin, she could not look away from him. Gone was the expression that gave nothing away. Gone, seemingly, was the endless patience he’d shown her. In its place was a cold fury that was plain to the eye. She was suddenly thoroughly grateful that she was not the focus of his ire.

  The thought came to her that she surely would be, did he but know who she was.

  Colin looked at the messenger with an expression of such malice that the man backed up several paces. “I’ll leave when it pleases me,” Colin said, each word clipped.

  The messenger cleared his throat. “Your sire bid you—”

  “My sire can rot in Hell!” Colin shouted. “Return and tell him I’ll leave when I’m ready!” He sat down and bellowed for more wine, which a page hastened to give to him.

  The messenger was no fool. He bowed, then immediately turned and made for the door, not even asking for supper.

  There was silence in the hall for a goodly while after that. Conversations returned, but they were at first whispered ones.

  Ali concentrated on breathing and keeping her dinner down. What a fool she had been, to think she could so easily have dealings with the Butcher of Berkhamshire! To think on him as a man who, though gruff and warriorly, was not dangerous.

  Sir Etienne leaned over the table toward her. “Imagine how he will treat his wife. I shouldn’t want to taste his wrath,” Sir Etienne said, with an unpleasant smile. “As a woman. A defenseless, helpless woman.”

  “But you’ve already had a taste of that, haven’t you?” said the man next to him, clapping him on the back with a laugh. “How did it sit with you, Sir Etienne?”

  A brawl ensued and Ali wasted no opportunity to bolt from the hall. She knew she couldn’t stay inside any longer, not after what she’d just witnessed. Whatever comfort she’d felt in Colin of Berkhamshire’s presence was completely gone. She’d seen the side of him that grown men feared—and feared with good reason. Her only surprise had been that he hadn’t reached over and pulled the messenger’s innards out through his skin with his bare hands.

  Perhaps with a woman he might have shown a slight bit of restraint whilst beating her or screaming at her. Perhaps. But with a man, one of his guardsmen, he would show none. He’d surely shown none to Sir Etienne.