by Megan Derr
It was the noise that bothered him, Lyon realized in annoyance. Or rather, the lack of it. Outside, he could hear the bustle and clanking as the servants woke to start breakfast and the morning chores, and a colorful curse as someone tripped in the dark. Those sounds, however, were only what he heard well after he had woken. Since Chastaine's departure three weeks ago, Lyon had woken every morning confused and annoyed. It had only been a couple days ago that he had ascribed the foul mood to Chastaine's absence. That was perturbing enough, since it made no sense.
Well, perhaps it did. They had been working together for eight years. It was, Lyon conceded, only natural that things should feel strange when so long established a pattern was broken. Still, Chastaine's confounded racket every morn drove him mad. To miss that made no sense—yet miss it he did and Lyon chafed beneath the realization. But scowl all he like, the truth was plain as day.
There was no creak as Chastaine climbed from bed, his clothes rustling as he dressed and boots scuffing against the stone floor, the clatter of dishes as he ate the cold breakfast he always set out the night before. Early morning and the opening of the castle had long been Chastaine's duty, while Lyon had ever managed the evening and closing of the castle. Missing was the grating of wood as Chastaine opened his door, the sound of his boots louder as he passed Lyon's door on his way to the main hall.
A hesitant rap at Lyon's door dragged him from his thoughts. "Enter."
The pageboy who stumbled in looked scared half to death. "Come, come, boy," Lyon said, trying to sound as though he were in a good mood rather than foul. He failed in the effort, to judge by the way the boy barely gave him the small scroll before bolting again from the room, calling, "Message for you, Sir Lyon. Messenger to take your reply."
Rolling his eyes—honestly he was not that frightening so early in the morning—Lyon turned his attention to the scroll. It was the seal which caught his eye, the triad crest pressed into the blue wax Chastaine always used. Lyon had not expected a missive at all, although he had hoped to hear some word.
Lyon,
We are at Shenan awaiting a ship to take us across the channel. The soonest even generous amounts of gold could manage was dawn. The journey goes as well as such a journey can be expected to go. We hope to locate her nearly as soon as we are landed.
The weather has been poor, but the sailors say it will not impede us upon the waters. I am rather inclined to believe them, so by the time this message finds you, we will in fact be well on our away across.
Hopefully this message also finds the castle still standing, not felled by your temper.
Chastaine
P.S. Do not take liberties with my ales, but leave the men to brew the summer ales according to our usual recipe.
Grunting, Lyon stood and finished dressing, combing impatiently through his short, thick black hair. Snatching up his cloak—for the castle was always miserable in the winter—he strode from his room and through to the main hall. "Bring me writing implements," he ordered one of the servants darting about, and then caught a kitchen maid. "Breakfast, please."
"Aye, Sir Lyon."
Lyon turned his attention to those approaching him, dispensing orders and making decisions as necessary, wishing he could go back to his routine of the past several years. But Lady Winifred and Chastaine were gone, and until their return, all fell to him; being in charge of what had once been divided among three left him no time to bemoan the situation.
When the writing implements were brought—the lad nearly crashing into the girl bringing his breakfast—Lyon had already decided what he would pen in reply. Hopefully, the letter would cross the channel without too much trouble.
The main hall upon their arrival had been a dreary thing, drafty with more than a few holes in the walls and ceiling. Those had been among the first things repaired, followed by improvements to the massive hearth. Two long tables, each set with benches, ran the length of the hall. On special occasions, a third, shorter table was brought out and set at their head for Lady Winifred and her knights to sit. For now, there was no need for it.
Taking a seat nearest the fire at the end of first table, Lyon quickly penned his letter. He stalled sending it, on the chance that he had more to add, and then called the staff heads to hear their reports. If there was anything about which to be grateful in this situation, it was that disaster had struck with the advent of winter. The duties to attend were not nearly what they would have been in the spring and summer months.
"I see no reason to send the hunters out today," he told the Head Huntsman. Normally this was entirely Chastaine's realm with Lyon content to deal with the meat once it had reached the kitchens. "The weather is mild enough today to permit travel, so take them instead to the village and ensure that all is well there. Send word if you will be delayed beyond returning midday tomorrow."
"Yes, Sir Lyon," the Head Huntsman declared, bowing and stepping back so that Lyon might address the next matter.
It was far too early for such thinking, Lyon thought with a mental sigh, but he forced himself to focus and continue listening to the reports and problems. He settled each as best he could, feeling inadequate when he could not make as knowing a decision as Chastaine would have.
"What of the Winter Feast?" the housekeeper asked, hands fisted in her apron. Lyon marveled that she could look so tidy and gathered at so wretched an hour. Three weeks he had managed to wake himself at Chastaine's hours, always going to bed now well past that to which he was accustomed. He knew he looked not half so together as she.
"What about it?" Lyon asked, smothering a yawn. "Is there something missing in the supplies laid aside for it? Did the village boys steal the geese again? I will string them up from the turrets by their feet."
Those gathered smiled briefly at his words, but the housekeeper swiftly returned them to her concerns. "Nay, Sir Lyon—only, it seems … wrong, somehow, to celebrate when … "
"Ridiculous," Lyon said, shoving aside the writing implements and dragging his breakfast close. Thick, warm bread with honey and a hunk of cheese, simple but filling fare. He took a bite and washed it down with a swallow of warmed ale. "Lady Winifred would be most distraught to know that we lived so listlessly in her absence. That is not what she would want and Chastaine will have all your heads if you do not enjoy the winter ales he and the brewers labored over for the occasion."
They all nodded, but did not look convinced. "What would you rather have us do?" he demanded, glaring at all of them. "Sit here in solemn silence, acting as though my lady and Chastaine are already dead? Or would you rather celebrate as usual, because shortly they will return and things will carry on as normal?" He took another swallow of ale and thought longingly of his bed. "What say you?"
Silence reigned for a moment, and then the housekeeper spoke again. "If those dratted boys do not run off with our geese, we shall have a fine feast indeed, my lord." She smiled. "Shall I tell the cook to begin preparing the pudding, then?"
"I should hope so," Lyon said, resuming eating. "If I do not have a pudding to enjoy this season, my displeasure will reach all new levels."
Laughing, the housekeeper bobbed him a curtsy and vanished to attend to her duties, no doubt eager to reach the kitchens and begin the preparations he could now see that many feared they would not be making. Absurd. Lady Winifred was gone. Chastaine was gone. It would accomplish nothing but more misery to acknowledge their absence with solemnity. Better to keep the rhythm as best they could and hope that Chastaine did not take too long in retrieving Lady Winfred and returning home.
From his tunic he pulled out Chastaine's missive, reading over it once more. Shenan, was it? And crossing the channel. Reaching the opposite shore would put them at fully a month away from the castle, and assuming that Chastaine found Lady Winifred within days of landing, it would be just over a month before their return—on yet another assumption that the weather permitted safe and speedy travel. The king's messenger could arrive at any time, although it was quite likely t
hat His Majesty would not bother to send one before the snow began to melt, meaning that at best Chastaine had three months and one week remaining to return home. Yet he was traveling farther and farther away.
Lyon reached up to touch the jewel in one ear, the sapphires already familiar, normal. Scowling, he quickly finished his breakfast and drained the last of his ale. Shoving the dishes back for one of the kitchen boys to fetch for cleaning, he pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and went to check in with the guards. "Hail and good morning, Sir Lyon," they greeted as he climbed the stairs to the battlements.
He absently returned the greetings, gazing out over the land. Beyond the castle wall was a world of white fields, black trees, and a heavy gray sky. Far in the distance, smoke curled from the village chimneys, adding darker threads of gray to the sky. Nothing seemed amiss and the guards swiftly reported that all was indeed clear.
"Rider, ho!" the east-facing guards suddenly bellowed, and Lyon whipped around, swiftly walking along the battlements to join them. He frowned deeply as he spied the familiar bright blue tunic under the rider's dark cloak, which fluttered open while he rode along a path laboriously cleared by the hunters and several guards over the course of a week—an endeavor that had to be repeated every time it snowed, else there would be no way of getting to or from the castle. The tunic, no doubt trimmed in white, was emblazoned with the golden unicorn of Chieldor upon the breast.
Damn. What was a royal messenger doing here already? Lyon waited with the guards in tense and miserable silence. "I do not suppose we can tell him we are all sick and dying, and no one is permitted for fear of spreading the disease?" a guard asked, longingly stroking the crossbow he held. Lyon was sorely tempted to tell him to fire, but repressed the impulse. Killing royal messengers only caused problems unless there was a war in the vicinity—and every war of which he knew was months away.
Instead, he snorted at the guard's suggestion. "It would not be too far from the truth, at that," he replied, thinking with a grimace of the few who were still not fully recovered from the poison which had laced at least half the foods at the banquet. Lyon had yet to determine how the deed had been done—and too many of those who had prepared the food had fallen sick for him to believe that any of the kitchen staff had betrayed them. "Such rumor, however, would only cause more problems than it would solve. The fewer lies we tell, the fewer problems we will create for ourselves." At least the brigands had wanted only to slow them rather than slaughter. Whatever poison had been used, Lyon knew that it could have been much worse. That meant that the brigands had not intended harm first and foremost … interesting, when they had so boldly kidnapped Lady Winifred.
Interesting, but not a riddle he could solve. That, too, would have to be trusted to Chastaine. His only concern at the moment was what to do with an unwanted royal messenger. He returned to the towers flanking the gate, motioning for the bridge to stay up.
"Ho, there," he called down.
"Hail and good tidings," the messenger greeted, far more cheerful than Lyon was used to hearing from the lot of them. "I come with a private message from His Majesty for the Lady Winifred."
Lyon snorted. If they wanted the man to maintain her secret, they should have told him not to wear a royal blazon. No royal messenger would have business with a remote and humble lady at a time of year when travel was nigh on impossible. The notion was absurd. "I find that hard to believe, good sir," he shouted back. "One in such fine colors could have no business here."
"Do you dare challenge a man of the king?" the messenger demanded in outrage. He threw back his hood and Lyon almost groaned aloud. The man was naught but a boy, no more than eighteen summers, likely less. His hair was a fiery red, falling just past his shoulders in the current fashion and fanned out messily after being shoved so long beneath the deep hood. Lyon doubted that he could even use the longbow or sword fastened to his saddle with any true skill.
Around him the men rolled their eyes and jostled one another, until a look from Lyon stilled them. He vaulted onto the embrasure, bracing one hand on the tower beside him. In the light of the newly risen sun, his ornate spurs, decorated with gold and pearls, were impossible to miss. He might wear the simple clothes that worked best for the hard work required of a Seneschal, but he was by royal decree a knight of the realm. "Aye, messenger, I challenge a man who claims to be a man of the king."
"I am Brice Beauclerc, a personal messenger of His Majesty, the King," the messenger stated, voice ringing out sharply. "Who are you, who dares to wear the spurs of a knight, but dresses like an uppity peasant?"
Well, that name he knew, although he had never known that line to possess such vibrant hair. Beauclerc was indeed the family which had long served as exclusive messengers for the King. Either the message was of little importance or of such importance that they dare not make it obvious by sending one more experienced. The way Lyon's luck had been running of late, he had a sinking suspicion that it was the latter case.
"I am Lyon de Sauveterre," he bellowed. "Appointed by the king alongside Lord Chastaine Delacroix to guard my Lady Winifred."
"You look like no knight I have ever seen," Brice replied.
"No doubt because you seldom see knights working at more than swordplay and courtly machinations. Here in the country, we must toil for our bread."
Beauclerc rolled his eyes. "Enough, Sir Sauveterre. I demand entrance to your keep, that I might convey the king's words to Her Ladyship. Lower the bridge, in the name of the king!"
"Aye, aye," Lyon replied. "Let him in!" he called to the guards. He turned to make his way down the steps and into the courtyard, motioning for someone to take the messenger's horse.
"Master Beauclerc," he said congenially upon his arrival, extending his arm.
"Sir Sauveterre," Beauclerc replied, grasping the extended arm. Up close, the hair was more fiery still, his dark gray eyes a startlingly solemn color for such an obviously impetuous youth. "Come inside," Lyon invited, leading the way inside the keep. He was pleased when servants came rushing in with tankards of hot ale and a platter of food for their guest. Taking his usual place by the fire, he motioned for Beauclerc to sit close to him. "You must have traveled through the nights to reach here at so early an hour and in such foul weather."
"The weather is not so foul as all that," Beauclerc replied, but belied his words by drinking half his tankard in one deep swallow. "Is Lady Winifred available? I am to deliver my message with all haste."
Lyon repressed a sigh. "I am afraid, good sir, that I am the only one currently available to take your message."
"No," Beauclerc replied. "My orders are to deliver it solely to Lady Winifred. No other."
"I was afraid of that," Lyon said.
Beauclerc frowned. "Why?" he demanded, temper sparking and his youth showing. "What have you done with her, brigand?"
"I am no brigand," Lyon retorted, gratified that his glare worked as well on this courtly youth as it did all others. "Her Ladyship is indisposed for the time being. I am afraid that you will have to wait here until she can hear your message."
"No, I must see her at once."
"Impossible," Lyon said.
Beauclerc jerked to his feet, glaring fiercely. "Sir Sauveterre, cease with this foolishness at once. I demand to see Her Ladyship."
"As I have already stated," Lyon replied, "that is impossible."
"What is going on here?" Beauclerc demanded, hand going to the sword at his waist.
Lyon sighed and stood. "Nothing, except that I am afraid you will not be permitted to leave until Her Ladyship says you might."
Beauclerc snarled and launched himself at Lyon. "Brigand! What—" He hit the floor with a grunt, hand going to his jaw. In a few minutes, there would be rather a nice bruise. "Take him away," Lyon told two of the guards who had followed him inside. "See that he is locked up somewhere he cannot cause trouble. Hopefully no one will notice his absence before all is set to rights."
Beauclerc attempted to speak
, but his words were garbled as the guards dragged him away.
Lyon sighed and finished his own ale, then went to speak with the brewers about what was to be done for the summer ales. He thought of all the other things he must tend to after that, wishing that he was not so wretchedly alone.
And as he had previously suspected, he had more to add to his letter to Chastaine.
Chastaine,
The weather so far has been harsh, but not brutal. If you do not tarry, it might hold long enough not to impede your return. As of this writing, all holds steady. The Winter Feast nears; hopefully it will raise the depressed spirits about the place.
You are a fine one to speak of tempers.
My time is too constrained to waste any of it on such pointless mischief as tampering with your ale. If you have time to pen such trivial things, you are not working hard enough.
Lyon
P.S. Not an hour after this penning, a royal messenger arrived with a private message for Her Ladyship. I have locked him in the south corner room. He reminds me why I do not miss the royal palace. Speed home; I know not how long I can contain this new dilemma.
Chastaine grunted and tucked the missive away. "You can take a reply?" he asked the lad standing before him.
"Aye, my lord," the boy said, although he looked blue with cold and ready to fall over from exhaustion.
Smiling faintly, Chastaine motioned to Kodey. "Get him fed and find him a bedroll. He can take my reply in the morning."
"Yes, Sir Chastaine," Kodey replied, immediately taking the older boy across camp to the fire and the food cooking there.
Chastaine sighed, unable to even take pleasure in the fact that in the past two weeks, Kodey was showing remarkable progress. The boy was coming to life; he would make a fine addition to the castle. It was not, however, enough to improve Chastaine's mood.
A royal messenger. That made things considerably more difficult. He smiled briefly at the idea of Lyon locking the man up. He wondered what the messenger had done to so quickly spark Lyon's ire—normally Lyon was courteous to such officials, even if he did not like them.