by Lynn Kurland
Or mayhap he was so calm because it wasn’t his secret about to be shouted from the eaves of the monastery.
Sir Etienne was sleeping peacefully in his place when Ali finally sat up. He snored fit to wake the dead, as if he hadn’t a care in the world and surely hadn’t tossed and turned the night away. What of it he hadn’t been out eavesdropping or combining other mischief, of course.
Ali hovered near Colin throughout the rising and preparing for the day, waiting for Sir Etienne to rise, stretch, and blurt out her secret.
Instead, he didn’t spare her a look.
After breaking her fast, she passed the rest of the morning trampling another bit of a farmer’s field with Colin, learning more defensive strokes. She did the best she could, partly to avoid earning any of his wrath, partly to receive those almost imperceptible nods he gave her after she’d spent hours perfecting a single movement, and mostly because she wanted to move on to offense. She certainly couldn’t kill Sir Etienne if the only thing she knew was how to keep him at bay.
What she wanted to know was how to plunge her dagger into his heart.
They gathered back in the guest hall for a midday meal. Ali watched Colin ignore his sister as she very loudly criticized him. How was it the woman dared sharpen her tongue so fully and so freely on such an intimidating brother? A pity Ermengarde couldn’t see to Sir Etienne for her. Ali suspected he might step back a pace and consider conceding the battle were he but faced with that woman.
Throughout the rest of the day, Ali made certain she was one pace behind either Colin or Jason. Not only did it give her a small modicum of peace, it also allowed her to continue to convince Colin that Sir Etienne was beneath his attention. And given the way Sir Etienne seemed to open his mouth and spew forth whatever crossed his mind, that was no small task.
By sunset, she had almost forgotten why she’d been so worried. That and she was past being tired. Training took more effort than she ever would have imagined, and she could scarce wait until she could cast herself down on her pallet and surrender to peaceful oblivion.
The last danger of the day was a final trip to the privy. She looked about her for companionship, but saw no chance of it. Colin was arguing with his sister, and Jason was having himself a final nibble before bed. She couldn’t bring herself to ask either of them to accompany her. Sir Etienne was laboring under Agnes’s suffocating ministrations anyway, so perhaps he wouldn’t trouble her. She bolted from the hall and hurried to the privy.
She saw to her needs, then opened the door and stepped back into the night air. The stars were bright and the night moonless. She wondered, briefly, how pleasant it would be to have nothing more to do than to stand there and stare up into the sky, marveling at God’s creations—
She was jerked off her feet and back into the shadows. Before she could scream, she felt cold steel against her neck. She shut her mouth immediately and prayed ’twould be a quick and painless death.
“You cannot seem to control your tongue,” a voice whispered pleasantly in her ear.
Ali swallowed with difficulty, trying not to slit her own throat.
“Perhaps I was unclear,” Sir Etienne continued. “You are to say nothing of me. Not to Artane’s brat, not to Berkhamshire, not to the monks.”
Ali didn’t dare move, and she certainly didn’t dare speak. So she waited, knowing that whatever else he had to say to her, it couldn’t be good.
“One more word to the lad and I’ll kill him.”
“Nay—”
“And then Berkhamshire. Or perhaps,” he said slowly, “I should rather begin with the lady Sybil. First her, then her maids. Then the runt Peter. One soul slain for each word you speak. That seems fair to me.”
“You wouldn’t.” She breathed.
“Wouldn’t I? Mark who doesn’t live to see the dawn—”
“Nay,” she pleaded. “I’ll say nothing else.”
He was silent for a goodly while and Ali began to hope that perhaps he would agree. But that hope was short-lived.
“Another chance,” he said. “Another chance to prove you can be trusted. But watch how I move among these souls who trust me with their lives. Watch and you’ll see how easily I could slip a knife between their ribs and smile in their faces all the while.”
She wanted to tell him what she thought of his disgusting self, but didn’t dare. After all, even she knew it wasn’t wise to insult the man who held a knife to your throat.
“As for what else I want from you,” he said softly, “I’m still thinking. There are so many things.”
The next thing she knew, he had spun her around in his arms, taken her face in his hand and ground his mouth down upon hers.
That was, perhaps, his first mistake.
His breath was so foul, his kiss so disgusting, that she gagged.
He stepped out of the way and flung her down to her knees. He delivered a hearty kick to her side, then strode off, muttering under his breath. Ali didn’t stop to be grateful for that. She concentrated on trying to catch her breath and stop her tears.
It was a goodly while later that she returned to the hall and lay down in her place between Jason and Colin. Colin leaned up on one elbow and looked at her with a frown.
“Do not,” he said quietly, “leave this hall again without me. Understood?”
“But—”
“Understood?”
She closed her eyes briefly. “Aye.”
“I don’t know what he holds over you,” Colin rumbled, “but it cannot be worth what you suffer.”
“Nay, my lord.”
He grunted and lay back. Ali stared up at the ceiling and wondered how a single day and night could be so miserable. It made her wish quite heartily that she had never left Colin’s side for a single moment.
As odd a thought as that was.
She closed her eyes and allowed the tears to trickle down the side of her face unimpeded. She felt Jason’s warm hand close over hers.
And then something quite unthinkable happened. Colin reached out and patted her, rather gently all things considered, on the shoulder before he rolled over and soon began to snore.
It was a very long time before she managed to surrender to sleep.
Chapter 17
Colin had passed better days in his score and twelve years upon the earth. He wondered, grimly, if he would spend the rest of his days looking back on those thirty-two years and counting them the best he’d had. If events at present were any indication, that might very well be the case.
He’d been at Harrowden less than three days and in that time had regained his healthy disgust for monks, monastery food, and his siblings. Why he had been burdened with those three things together at the same time was anyone’s guess. He suspected that, again, his father had given much thought to inflicting upon him the things that would annoy him the most. Colin could only hope that his sire would arrive quickly, so that he could finish up his very unpleasant business of saddling himself with a wife and then make his escape to somewhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere he didn’t have to associate with the rest of his family.
Ermengarde was in full battle mode, commandeering her troops. That she had most of the monks cowed, and had even prevailed upon the abbot to attend their suppers, only lent credence to Colin’s belief that she should have been a man. He supposed that had she been, she might have been a match even for him.
And if that thought wasn’t enough to give a man pause, he didn’t know what was.
Agnes had embarked on her usual journey into madness. Despite having found Sir Etienne unresponsive to her ploys, she continued to pursue him with religious zeal. Colin had to admire her tenacity, it being a virtue he considered quite important in a knight. Now, if he could only persuade her to ply that virtue on an appropriate man. Colin had begun to wonder if their sire had as difficult a time finding a husband for her as he’d had finding a bride for Colin. Then again, marrying off a daughter would mean giving a dowry, which surely answered the mystery
of that well enough.
Agnes would, no doubt, remain unwed until their sire was safely in his grave.
Of course, Peter hadn’t been able to keep himself out of the fray either. He had apparently taken upon himself the role of comforter to any and all maids in danger of wedding his older brother. Colin had watched—more often than he’d cared to—as his brother had sat next to Sybil, holding her hand, handing her dry cloths to wipe her eyes, and whispering words of comfort in her ear. It wasn’t possible that he was regaling the silly wench with tales of Colin’s prowess. Nay, knowing Peter, they would be tales of Colin’s supposed flaws.
Flaws he was certain were quite overstated.
And if all that weren’t enough to drive a man to the lists permanently, that morn had heralded the arrival of none other than Sybil of Maignelay’s parents.
Parents who had taken an immediate and thorough dislike to him.
He supposed, if he were to be completely honest, he could have been more gracious than he had been. Perhaps after such a journey, they had deserved more than a grunt and a “she’ll beggar me to feed her” thrown at them on his way out to trample more vegetables.
All of which had left him where he was now, standing in the hot noonday sun in mud up to his ankles, doing his damnedest to teach his fledgling knight the rudiments of swordplay.
It had seemed the only thing he could do to save himself and the lives of his sorry siblings.
He contemplated what he needed to do next. Today was the first day of teaching Henri the most basic and simple of offensive strokes. He suspected it was going to be a very long day.
“Nay, nay, and nay,” he said, stomping over and whirling Henri around. “You thrust this way. This way.”
He put his hands over Henri’s and showed him precisely how the movement was to be accomplished. And as he did so, he was again impressed by how slight the lad was. That led to his pursing his lips over the boy’s supposed age, and that left him with a mouthful of very fine, wispy hair.
It was, oddly enough, very soft hair.
And it smelled not unpleasant.
Colin realized, with the appropriate amount of horror, that he was actually beginning to lust after the boy.
He leaped back, wondering if this might be just the reason to place his sword hilt-down in the mud and fall upon it. Many souls had suggested the like to him over the years, but he’d never considered it.
He considered it now.
Henri had turned around and was looking at him as if he’d lost his wits.
“My lord?”
By the saints, even the lad’s voice was pleasing!
Colin looked about him for somewhere to run, but saw no place. Mud, cabbages, and various and sundry other vegetables stretched out far into the distance. All running would earn him was more gold in the farmer’s pocket for decimating his harvest. Colin had paid dearly enough for the little plot of ground he’d now trampled into compost.
“My lord Colin?”
Colin looked hard at the boy, peering at him as closely as he’d ever scrutinized another living soul. The boy returned his gaze steadily from eyes that would have made any woman proud. And those eyelashes! What lad could possibly be proud of those things that fair curled above his infinitely delicate eyebrows? Slight of frame, fair of face, gentle of expression, completely incompetent with a sword?
Colin felt a rush of pity for the boy. It was a wonder he managed to face each day, when those were his failings.
Colin turned his mind to searching out the slightest manifestation of manliness. He scratched his cheek absently as he considered the boy before him. Henri’s face was dirty enough, he supposed. Likely far too dirty for any girl to have allowed. And his clothing was patched and mended scores of times. Nay, no wench would have stood for that. And the lad was wearing mail and at least sporting a sword—never mind that he could scarce wield it to save his own neck. Surely no woman would bedeck herself with that kind of gear.
Henri’s stance was also growing more manly by the day, though he certainly had Colin to thank for that. It had taken hours alone for Colin to teach the lad how to draw his blade, hold his blade and put it back up. Teaching him how to walk like a man had been a constant and ongoing process that Colin wasn’t certain wouldn’t last him several more months. The poor lad. Colin could only speculate as to the circumstances in his family.
“Do you have sisters?” Colin demanded suddenly.
Henri blinked. “My lord?”
“Sisters, boy,” Colin said. “And are they as pretty as you, or did you come away with the prettiness and they have the beards?”
The blood drained from the lad’s face and he began to sway. Colin realized in an instant that he had hit upon a very sore spot. He reached out and shook the trembles from the boy.
“Never mind, lad,” he said gruffly. “We make a fine pair, for you’ve all the handsomeness and I have none. I didn’t mean to strike at your weakness. No doubt many over the course of your life have made sport of your, um, delicate features.”
“Aye, my lord,” Henri said, looking for a moment as if he were on the verge of tears.
Colin quickly sought a diversion to save the lad’s pride. “For me,” he said, rubbing his own less-than-delicate features, “’tis quite the opposite. Not a soul looks at me that they don’t comment on my ugliness.”
“Well,” said Henri, bravely putting his shoulders back, “I’ve seen worse.”
Colin paused. “Have you?”
“Much.”
“Hmmm,” Colin said thoughtfully. “Indeed.”
“Besides, what does a visage have to do with swordplay?” Henri asked. “Fair or foul, it doesn’t make up for a man’s skill with a blade.”
“Well spoken!” Colin exclaimed. Finally, a lad who understood where a man’s true worth lay. Colin gave Henri an approving nod, then turned them both back to the business at hand. “It is as you say, Henri, so let us see to improving your skill. In time, you might make a passable swordsman.”
“Thank you, my lord,” the boy said, blushing beneath his dirt.
Colin, having happily resolved his unsettling feelings, turned his mind, also very happily, away from the tangle that awaited him back at the abbey, and concentrated on the business at hand.
Of course, the pleasures of the afternoon didn’t last as far into the evening as he might have wished. He was forced to play the host to Sybil’s parents, and, worse yet, try to repair whatever damage he’d already done that morning to their finer sensibilities. The mother, the lady Isabeau, was easily appeased and seemed to find his gruffness amusing. She also spent a bit of time inquiring after Henri, which led Colin to believe that she had an overly tender heart and was given to caring for the runts of any litter. An admirable trait in a woman, he supposed.
Lord Humbert, however, seemed to be well-enough acquainted with Colin’s reputation that he felt the need to prove that he wasn’t intimidated. Colin passed a very long, very boring evening listening to the man’s exploits and trying not to yawn too obviously. It was during one such tale of eternal length that he happened to look about the chamber and saw the lady Sybil doing something besides either feeding herself or fainting.
She was, oddly enough, staring at his brother, Peter.
The would-be monk.
Indeed, she was staring at him with the same intensity that she likely used for a particularly tasty sweet she couldn’t wait to ingest.
Colin frowned. This couldn’t bode well, though at the same time he couldn’t help but wish he were seeing something that might be possible. By the saints, what he wouldn’t give to deposit Sybil in someone else’s arms!
A pity he couldn’t find himself a woman with a few of Henri’s finer characteristics—namely a willingness to hoist a sword and tramp about in the mud without complaining about the condition of her shoes.
He studied Peter and Sybil and supposed he had no one but himself to blame for this turn of events. Hadn’t Peter been slobbering over the
girl’s hand for the past three days? Hadn’t Peter been filling her ears full of foul reports of Colin’s fierceness? Who could blame the girl for looking for a bit of sanctuary?
Much, the thought occurred to him suddenly, as Henri had tried to do.
By the saints, was he so fierce then that he drove anyone with faint hearts straight into priestly arms?
Well, let Sybil have her dreams whilst she could. The time would come soon enough when she would have to step into the fray like a man and put away her girlish fancies. She was betrothed to him, like it or not. Besides, his brother was on the verge of becoming a priest. What use had he for a woman to clutter up his praying?
Colin felt someone breathing down his neck quite suddenly and he looked up in annoyance to see Sir Etienne hovering over him, his knife in his hand. Colin spared a thought for the man’s foolishness even as his own hand was striking out to encircle the other man’s.
“What do you?” Colin demanded. “Putting a knife so close to another?”
“I was reaching for cheese,” Sir Etienne said, looking none too innocent. “By your leave, my lord.”
Colin flung the man’s hand away from him. “There’s cheese farther down the table that’s good enough for you. Seek it out there.”
“My mistake,” Sir Etienne said with a little bow. “Perhaps Henri could show me where—”
“He’ll do nothing of the sort. Be off with you, fool. Sit, Henri. We’ll finish our meal.”
Out of the comer of his eye, Colin watched Henri sink back down into his chair. The lad’s face was unnaturally pale and he looked to be on the verge of heaving up his supper. Colin took his wine and shoved the cup into the boy’s hands.