by Lynn Kurland
What would he show to her when she, as Sir Henri, displeased him?
She fled down the steps and made it to the side of the chapel, her breath coming in gasps. Then she dropped to her knees and wept. What she wanted were great, noisy, wrenching sobs that would rid her of all her fear. Instead, she wept with her hand over her mouth to stifle the sounds.
He would kill her. Did he but know who she was, he would kill her, likely in the most painful of ways. But what could she do to avoid it? Flee? How, when he watched her all the time? How, when she was soon to be his as part of Sybil’s dowry?
She dragged her sleeve across her eyes, her breath coming in gasps. Maybe if she banged loudly enough and wept convincingly enough, Sybil would allow her inside the solar where she might at least hide until she could decide on a plan. And if not Sybil, perhaps Gillian would aid her....
She shook her head, dismissing the thought immediately. Gillian was wed to Christopher, who was Colin’s dearest friend. She would be asking Gillian to turn against her husband, and that she couldn’t do.
She struggled to her feet. If she could just hide for the remainder of the night, perhaps she could flee out the gates at first light. Though she would have to go back inside the keep for her coin. Leaving it behind had been a foolish decision after all. Obviously, she would have to fetch it. Putting her shoulders back, she started toward the hall.
Then she froze.
Sir Etienne stood leaning against the stone of the hall, watching her. He pushed away and started across the dirt path.
The hall door opened at the same time. Light spilled down the steps. None other than Colin of Berkhamshire stood there, looking even fiercer than her foul imaginings had made him.
“Henri,” he called, “come in. I’ve a task for you.”
Ali threw a look at Sir Etienne, but he had slipped back into the shadows.
Now, here was something to decide. Torture from Colin or torture from Sir Etienne. How could a body possibly choose between the two?
She wondered if she could make the stables before either of them could reach her. Was the portcullis down already? The drawbridge up? Would she survive if she jumped off the wall into the sea, or would she merely dash herself to pieces against the rocks below?
The chapel door opened behind her and Ali spun around, certain she was in the midst of a miracle. The priest stood there like a rescuing angel.
Ali didn’t hesitate. “I want sanctuary,” she said, throwing herself to her knees before him.
He frowned down at her. “Nay.”
She gasped in surprise. “Why not?”
“I’ll not have a sniveling knight cluttering up my chapel.”
“But you must give me sanctuary when I ask it of you,” she cried. “You must!”
“I must do nothing,” the priest said stubbornly.
What kind of fiendish place was this, where demons ran amok and priests shirked their duties? Ali felt tears coursing down her cheeks and she could do nothing to stop them. She was doomed. Her best chance for salvation had just been denied her. She would die a horrible death at Colin’s hands—
She was hauled to her feet by the back of her tunic. She squeaked in surprise.
“Damned useless priest,” came the grumble from above her head. “Be off with you, Father, to where you do your best business.”
The priest drew himself up stiffly. “My duties for the day—”
“No doubt continue at the ale spigot,” came the reply.
The priest strode off in a fine temper. Ali wished she possessed such cheek. Unfortunately, ’twas all she could do to remain where she was, up on her feet thanks to Colin of Berkhamshire’s fist in her tunic, and not weep out loud. He turned her around to face him.
“I saw Sir Etienne leave the hall,” he said, looking down at her with glittering eyes. “He seems recovered enough. Was he troubling you again?”
What could she possibly say? Should the more dangerous man protect her from the less dangerous one? Or were they equally lethal where she was concerned?
Colin grunted. “You’ll attend me from now on. Sybil can fetch her own food.”
She blinked in surprise. “What?”
Colin looked to his left, into the shadows where Sir Etienne was no doubt still lurking, then back down at her. “A foot behind me at all times is where you will remain. Do you understand that simple instruction?”
The saints pity her, she certainly did. “Aye,” she managed.
Colin looked at her with pursed lips, then shook his head and turned back to the hall. “Come. We’ll seek our rest. I’m sure you’re as eager as I to put an end to this foul evening.”
An end? Ali had to put her hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing in a most daft fashion. The madness wasn’t ending, it was just beginning! Forever as a shadow to the Butcher of Berkhamshire? The very thing she had been trying to avoid and was now doomed to endure?
By the saints, not even her nightmares had been this diabolical!
“Henri, come,” Colin said, taking her by the arm and tugging on her.
She would have dug in her heels, but the saints only knew what kind of retribution that would have brought down upon her. So as she walked up the steps to the great hall with him, she comforted herself with the small hope that he wouldn’t want to damage her until he’d trained her.
She wondered, absently, what her father would have to say about her current straits. Would he have ever agreed to the betrothal if he’d known where it would lead?
She had to find another path, some other way to live her life. If she had to endure many more days of this, she was certain she would drop dead from fright.
Mayhap the convent was her only choice in truth. She might have enough coin to buy her way inside with what Isabeau had given her and if she sold the sword Colin had given her.
She shied away from the thought immediately. She touched the hilt and found the cold steel to be surprisingly comforting. Nay, she could not sell this. Whatever else she chose to do, she couldn’t give up a gift that had been so freely given, given with the expectation that she could make good use of it.
Colin paused just inside the hall and his hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Stay by me,” he commanded.
“Aye, my lord,” she whispered.
“I’ll see you’re kept safe,” he grumbled. “Poor whelp.”
Ali gulped. A foot away from the Butcher of Berkhamshire at all times.
By the saints, could her life become any more dangerous?
Chapter 13
Was there truly ever a time when a man was at peace? By all the bloody saints, a body couldn’t even think in the lists anymore without some foolishness or other troubling him. Colin swore in disgust. He’d been fuming for the whole of the evening before and well into the morning now. There he’d been, understandably doing his damnedest to forget about his upcoming nuptials, and he couldn’t even have a decent meal without his sire pestering him. As if Colin couldn’t manage to get his bride and his own sorry arse to Harrowden on his own! Nay, he apparently required a messenger to be sent after him, calling him to heel like a disobedient hound. Just the irritation of it had put him off his food and ruined his pleasure in swordplay.
Well, there was nothing to be done about it but come to heel as his father wished and have the whole sorry affair over with. Perhaps then he could concentrate on more important matters.
Colin looked at Henri, who stood in front of him, quaking as was his custom. The lad’s sword was still hovering in the air before him and belatedly Colin realized that he’d ceased with his instruction in midswing.
He resheathed his sword and considered the boy before him. Now, here was a problem. After noticing Henri bolting from the hall the night before, then watching Sir Etienne leave off beating on one of his fellows to leave the hall as well, he’d decided that the little lad simply was not safe on his own. And when he’d arrived and found Henri quaking in the courtyard, looking quite like a rabbit prepar
ing to be eaten, he’d known that Sir Etienne had to be nearby.
Henri’s cries for sanctuary had actually touched his heart. By the saints, when was the last time he’d watched a man be reduced to woman’s weeping?
Well, the last time he’d stepped onto a battlefield actually, but that was another tale entirely.
Colin paused and stroked his chin. It had been rather womanly weeping, hadn’t it?
He took three paces forward and peered down at Henri. Damned unmanly features that boy had, if his own humble opinion were being asked. Unmanly enough that they certainly could be viewed as unmanly in the extreme.
Ah, the poor lad. What torment he must have endured, with features like that. Perhaps he deserved credit for even attempting to hoist a sword, given that he likely would have been more suited to the undemanding and womanly calling of a player. Colin had no doubts that any traveling company of jongleurs he’d ever seen would have been happy to have claimed this one as one of their own. He could have filled all the women’s roles with ease.
Well, there was nothing to be done about Henri’s face except make certain that whoever deigned to tease him for it would pay the price with the lad’s fine swordplay. And again, who better than he himself to improve that swordplay?
Unfortunately, with his father clamoring for him to come to Harrowden, Henri’s swordplay might have to wait whilst Colin saw to his preparations. Unless there was someone else who might be prevailed upon to take up Henri’s training for a bit.
Colin looked to his left to see Jason of Artane loitering in a most annoyingly useless fashion upon a stone bench. By the saints, hadn’t that lad more to do than keep a critical eye on Henri? As if he had some interest in how the lad was trained! Well, like it or not, Jason had a goodly bit of skill and he could certainly keep Henri safe from Sir Etienne for the morning. With a heavy sigh, Colin beckoned to him.
“See to Henri’s sword skills for the rest of the morning,” he said reluctantly.
Jason rose gracefully from the bench and lifted one eyebrow in a perfect imitation of his father’s most irritating look of feigned surprise. “You trust me?”
“I don’t, but I’ve things to see to this morn. Teach him strokes of defense and only from the right. Do not proceed until he’s mastered each one completely. You should manage at least one before supper.”
“Your faith in him leaves me breathless.”
“I’m not speaking of his ability to learn,” Colin said pointedly, “I’m speaking of your ability to teach. When I’m finished with him, he’ll be a match for you despite his small stature. Now, see if you can avoid undoing all my fine work, else you leave me no choice but to find someone else who can.”
Jason made him a low bow. “It shall be as my lord wishes.”
“You have,” Colin said, pursing his lips, “many of your father’s most annoying mannerisms. I vow I don’t know how you came by them, given that Christopher should have pruned them from you years ago.”
“I daresay ‘tis in the blood,” Jason replied cheerfully. “I don’t know why it troubles you so. Perhaps ’tis that you have no love for my sire.”
“Robin doesn’t care for me.”
“He respects your skill, though,” Jason said. “Personal feelings for your family aside.”
Well, that was something. Not that Robin, who had plundered more virginal beds—including Colin’s aunt’s—than he ought to have in his misspent youth, would ever have admitted the like.
Colin looked at Henri. “You’ll stay no farther than a pace away from Jason until I return. Understood?”
Henri nodded with wide eyes.
Colin turned to Jason. “Keep Sir Etienne away from him. If anything happens to him, you’ll answer to me.”
“Such tender care you take for the lad,” Jason said with a grin.
Colin momentarily considered repaying Jason for that, but decided it could wait until his other plans were seen to. He gave Artane’s lad a look of promise, then patted Henri on the shoulder with a touch light enough only to send him staggering about a bit. He strode from the lists, his mind already on what he needed to prepare.
Horses, gear, men, and enough food to keep his bride alive until they reached Harrowden: The list was endless. And given what he’d seen being carried up the stairs to her lair, the last would require a large cart. Perhaps two. Not that Colin begrudged her a meal. The trouble was, she ate as much as he did, but he was the one sweating it all out in the lists. The saints only knew what sorts of things she did hiding up in that solar. Mayhap she used much energy praying that a miracle would occur and she would find that her husband was someone other than he.
It was enough to make a man consider a small trip to that chamber of horrors that masqueraded as Christopher’s personal healers’ quarters to see to an herb or two to make himself more desirable.
Not that Colin believed in magic. He most certainly didn’t. And he wasn’t at all certain he believed that any of their potions could work. Oh, they could brew a fine numbing draught. He’d imbibed a rather hefty one the night he’d learned Aliénore of Solonge had disappeared. And they could certainly brew up any number of things to ease a man’s aches and pains, unplug his nose, or relieve the infection of a wound.
But potions to improve a visage?
Ha!
He found himself, however, making a most unwanted journey toward their chamber, as if his feet were no longer part of him and had decided on their own to trot their merry way toward complete folly. Colin allowed it, only because he was a bit stiff in the neck and perhaps the old wenches might have something on the fire that would serve him.
Black smoke was coming from under the door; never a good sign. Colin lifted his hand to knock, but the door was flung open before he could and he was jerked inside by women who had more strength than they should. He was shoved into a chair and commanded to sit there.
Magda was fanning the smoke with frantic motions toward the large window the chamber boasted.
They needed the damned window, what with all that that one burned.
Nemain was, as usual, cursing Magda thoroughly from head to foot. Berengaria merely sat in a chair by the small cooking fire and smiled through the clearing smoke at Colin.
“Taking up your journey, my lord?” she asked.
“Deciding upon the company,” he said unwillingly. “Will likely need a healer along, I suppose.”
And just from which crack and crevice of Hell had that come?
Colin listened to himself and wondered why it was he could no longer call back words that he surely hadn’t meant to say, nor stop them in the first place! He gaped at Berengaria, then gaped at her two helpers who were already beginning to throw things into satchels for travel.
“We would be honored to come,” Berengaria said.
“But,” Colin began.
“Beauty,” Nemain said, slapping Magda’s hands away from her selection of pots on the wall. “He’ll need all of it he can have.”
“Courage, too,” Magda insisted.
“Why?” Nemain asked with a mighty snort. “He has plenty of it, and to spare!”
Colin had to agree. His opinion of Nemain went up sharply.
“For his bride,” Magda said.
“I know of whom you speak,” Nemain snapped.
Colin suspected that the lady Sybil needed more than courage, but given that he’d only seen her a handful of times, and only one of those times was she coherent enough to sit at table, he was certainly not one to be advising anyone on what she did or did not require. He sighed heavily and looked at Berengaria.
“I suppose you can come,” he said, trying to sound as ungracious as possible on the off chance she would take offense and decide to remain at home.
“Not that you need me,” Berengaria agreed, “unless it was to staunch some life-threatening wound.”
“Of course.”
“But there may be those in your party who might have a use for us.”
“No dou
bt,” he said grimly. “Perhaps you could spell Sir Etienne into better humors.”
“He is an unpleasant man.”
Dangerous, too, Colin wanted to add, but he didn’t. He had no use for the man and honestly couldn’t understand why he insisted on tormenting Henri. Unless he was of the kind who simply couldn’t stop themselves from harrying those weaker than they. Where was the sport in vanquishing a body that couldn’t possibly defend himself against you? Colin did what was required on the battlefield against those less skilled than he, but he took no joy in it.
Now, did he find himself coming against an opponent who could make him sweat, aye, there was some pleasure. And besting a man of that ilk was certainly something to be proud of.
Besting young lads who looked like girls did not qualify as that.
Well, Colin would be rid of Sir Etienne soon enough, he supposed. No doubt his sire had sent word to Sybil’s parents about the location of the nuptials. When they arrived, Colin would see that Sir Etienne was immediately returned to them with thanks for all his great usefulness. Then Colin would drop Sybil off in his keep with the best-stocked larder, then be on his way.
To where? was the question, but it was one he couldn’t answer at present. He could always come back to Blackmour. Christopher had uses for him, if for nothing else than to put fear into the hearts of those who dared trouble him.
Besides, these folk were his family. He wasn’t above admitting that he had fond feelings for Christopher, Gillian, and their little ones. And if he weren’t here, whom would William find to torment at supper? The lad would have no place but his own nose for his fingers and that would likely be a lifelong sorrow for the lad. ’Twas Colin’s duty to return as often as possible and spare the little lad such misery.
And if he were to be completely frank with himself, Blackmour was the one place he felt at home. His father had sent him to foster at seven, but that had been but the beginning of years of being sent from place to place. He’d never had the chance to even make himself comfortable before his father had irritated whatever foster-father he’d foisted Colin off upon, and Colin had found himself summarily being ushered out the gates and sent elsewhere.