by Megan Derr
"Sir Chastaine! River and Salal have returned."
Chastaine stood at the news, brightening when the men who rode into camp looked as though they could barely contain themselves. They all but threw themselves from their mounts, falling to one knee as Chastaine approached. "Sir Chastaine," the one named River said, "we have come upon great news." He looked up, foregoing a measure of formality to grin brightly. "Evidence of a camp, perhaps half a day's ride from here. We spoke with trappers who knew of it and followed a trail far enough to be certain that such a camp might truly be without giving away our own presence."
"Well done indeed, my merry men," Chastaine grinned, satisfaction warming him. "Rise. Get some food." He turned away to begin work on a real plan. "Simon!" he called, motioning to his second. "Bring the guide." He strode to the fire to join the others, smiling briefly when Kodey immediately brought him a drink. Ruffling the lad's hair, he finally turned to the matter at hand. "Simon, convey all that River and Salal know to our guide. We need to know where to go to cut off the brigands. If we attempt to catch up to them, we will only alert them to our presence."
"Aye, my lord," Simon replied and rapidly fell into speaking with the other soldiers, translating.
Chastaine felt his inadequacy. He hated that he did not know the foreign tongues, but language had never been his forte. When such matters came up, he left them to Lyon. At least he had thought to take Simon, knowing such a problem might crop up. Still, if he could speak the language himself, matters would run more smoothly.
"Sir Chastaine, he says that if we ride hard, in three days' time we could make the canyon just beyond the Tantalle Bridge; all journeying deeper into the country must go by way of that bridge or venture well out of their way to reach other crossings. The brigands are likely headed that way, else they would already be turning away to take those other routes. We must get ahead of them and await them beyond the bridge."
Chastaine nodded. "Pack up camp and let us be on our way. We stop only when the horses require it."
"Aye!" the men all cried, then raced to obey.
"Kodey, fetch my writing implements, then pack up my things and ready my horse. When that is done, fetch the messenger. I hate that he must go without proper rest, but I must get a missive out now. There likely will be no chance later."
"Aye, my lord," Kodey said, and darted off.
Chastaine pondered what he would write while the tools were fetched, finding it difficult to focus. They were so very close to success … But the journey home would be long in its own right and there was no telling in what condition he would find Lady Winifred. He tore his mind from such black thoughts, remembering fondly what Kodey had said about her giving one of the brigands a black eye. Their lady tolerated nonsense from no one, except perhaps him and Lyon.
Lyon. Chastaine wondered how he was holding up, running the castle by himself. He was more than up to the task, certainly—such a small keep did not truly require two Seneschals; it was only that they each preferred different things.
He smirked briefly to think of Lyon forced to rise early every day, as he must to tend to those chores which could not wait until the sun was up. He hoped none of those normally under his command were slouching; they were all good people, but with the cold and the trouble and a lack of proper supervision … Well, if they were, they would quickly feel the fury of Lyon's fist. He might be from a lesser house, but he had always held his own amongst the greater families. What would Lyon do in a situation such as this?
Trap the enemy between them, of course. If Lyon were here, Chastaine could trust that such a tactic would work. As it was, he dare not split his few men. The brigands were at least double their number and it would be too easy for them to somehow slip out of the trap.
Chastaine repressed a sigh as Kodey appeared with his writing implements. "Thank you, lad."
Smiling shyly and bobbing his head, Kodey bolted off again to finish tending to his duties. La, Lyon and Lady Winifred were going to harass him terribly for Kodey. Well, he would take it gracefully, if only they were all home that he might be harassed.
Soon, he swore. They were so close now.
Nodding, decided, Chastaine bent to his letter and swiftly wrote. A few minutes later, he sent the messenger off with good coin, then rose to join his men. "Are we ready?" he asked, mounting his horse.
"Aye, Sir Chastaine."
He reached down and pulled Kodey up to ride behind him. Kodey needed a proper horse, but there was no time for lessons. "Then Simon, you and our guide will take lead; Tomas, the rear. We go."
*~*~*
My lord … "
Chastaine nodded and motioned Simon to silence. Dusk was falling, shadows long and dark. Even now he could see the brigands approaching. He wished that Lyon were here to attack from behind, secure them well and truly. Yet Lyon would be the first to say that it was useless to dwell on things which could not be helped, and so Chastaine shunted the thought aside.
Lady Winifred was unmistakable, although her hair had been cropped and she was dressed like a man. Oh, the tale that would make later. He smiled briefly.
They drew closer and he gave the signals—get to Lady Winifred. He wanted the men alive, if at all possible, but she was the priority. He looked questioningly at Simon, who gave him a nod—the guide and Kodey were well away from danger. Chastaine drew his sword and took a deep breath, waiting … waiting—and then gave the signal to his bowmen.
Three brigands fell, the horses startling, and with a roar, Chastaine threw himself from his hiding space in the canyon wall, knocking the nearest man from his horse. He regained his footing swiftly and knocked away the man's sword before spinning to meet the attack of another.
"Stop!"
The command cut through his battle focus, Lady Winifred to be obeyed above and beyond all else. He halted in the process of shoving the man he held against the canyon wall, snarling as he turned to regard his lady.
"Chastaine, release him please, I beg of you."
"What?" Chastaine demanded, tightening his grip on the foul brigand—but the tears in Lady Winifred's eyes drew him up short. With a grunt, he threw the man to the ground and sheathed his sword. "My lady, what is this madness? Here we are come to rescue you and you bid me spare the brigands who took you? Has this debacle taken your mind?"
Lady Winifred shook her head, short hair whipping against her cheeks with the fierceness of the movement. "Nay, Chastaine. These men are not those who stole me away from the castle.
Chastaine frowned. "My lady?"
Instead of replying, Lady Winifred moved toward them and bent to help the fallen man up. Chastaine's frown deepened at the gentle way she touched him, hand straying to the hilt of his sword.
"I would like an explanation, my lady," he said tersely. "That brigand will also unhand you, ere I remove his hands myself."
Lady Winifred smiled faintly. "Alas, my knight, your sword must remain sheathed. My husband has every right to touch me."
Chastaine stilled at the words, eyes widening. "What?"
"La, my knight," Lady Winifred said tiredly. "The story is long and complicated, and I fear my father has earned my eternal ire. Let us make camp and I will tell you the whole of it."
"Aye, my lady," Chastaine said heavily, wishing suddenly that Lyon were here to glare everyone into submission. Only the king, perhaps, was immune to Lyon's fierce stares. Feeling weary and thoroughly disheartened, Chastaine motioned to his men and called for his horse.
He dredged up a smile for Kodey, who appeared leading his horse. "All right there, lad?"
"Aye, Sir Chastaine," Kodey said warily, eyes widening as his gaze fell upon Lady Winifred. "My lady!"
"La, what have we here?" Lady Winifred said, her familiar warm and rippling laughter spilling out, easing those around her more than she likely knew. "The tavern boy. What do you here?"
Kodey drew himself up, shooting an uncertain look toward Chastaine before finally lifting his chin. Chastaine hid a smile and n
odded for the boy to speak. "I am Sir Chastaine's squire, my lady."
"I see," Lady Winifred said, eyes twinkling with mirth as she glanced at Chastaine. "La, after my tale, I sense that one will make good hearing."
Chastaine did not reply, merely mounting his horse and pulling Kodey up behind him, and then waited as Lady Winifred and the brigands did the same. "Lead the way," he said coolly to Lady Winifred and the man she claimed to be her husband. If he did not like what they had to say, he would quite cheerfully take the man's head—not least of all because now he must tell all of this to Lyon, who would not take the news well at all.
*~*~*
Lady Winifred contemplated her hands, wrapped around a wooden cup filled with mulled wine. A hard half day's ride had brought them to a nearby village, where they had emptied the tavern and claimed it for their own use.
"Speak," Chastaine said. "I am tired of the mystery."
"Yes," Lady Winifred said slowly, taking a delicate sip of her wine. Beside her, the brigand husband gently touched the back of her hand.
Chastaine narrowed his eyes, wishing vainly that he could take that hand right off. No one touched his lady without approval and it would be a very long time before he gave the bastard that.
"The men who kidnapped me … hailed from Rothland."
Well, that was no surprise. Rothland was, of the three countries the king had been battling, the most problematic. Lady Winifred had mentioned that her father would be summoning her home to marry; Rothland would of course be the most logical choice. That would bind the problematic country nice and tight. "You were set to marry the Rothland prince, I should think."
"Nay," Lady Winifred said sadly. "My father originally promised me there, but negotiations went afoul and to put them in their place, he instead gave my hand to Koromor."
Koromor. The moorlands. Chieldor had no issue with them, neither good nor bad. Koromor was hardly worth Chieldor's time, except that they were neighbors. Except … it would be insulting in the highest were the king to marry off his daughter to a country of no value, snubbing a country as powerful as Rothland. Such blatant disrespect would, ideally, bring Rothland to heel. Unless they decided to act upon their rage and take matters into their own hands by kidnapping the princess and forcing the issue. Had Winifred been forced to marry the Rothland prince, her father would have had no choice but to cave to Rothland's wishes or make of his daughter an enemy.
Chastaine wondered which decision the king might have made, but it was a useless one to ask. He focused instead on the question which mattered. "So you married this brigand who saved you, rather than risk your hand being lost to Rothland?"
"He is no brigand," Lady Winifred said quietly, taking the man's hand in her own, her other still curled tightly around her wine. "He is the bastard son of the King of Koromor, sent on royal command to retrieve me safely by whatever means necessary. I am safely wedded now, not to be undone. At the time, it was the only way." She smiled sadly. "Do not be too angry, Chastaine."
Of course he was angry. He had failed his lady entirely, leaving her to make these miserable choices—and safely wedded could only mean that there was no chance of annulment. He was furious with himself. "Bastard son, Brigand?"
"Aye," the man said softly. His hair was black with eyes so dark a brown that they might as well be the same. He was worn and grizzled from the fighting and days of hard travel. "She was originally intended to be married to my father, who neither acknowledges nor denies I am his blood. We were in a bind and the matter was only going to get worse—this nullifies everything, although I know it is neither for what my lady wished nor what you, her knights, could desire for her." He sighed. "I attempted to intercept the Rothlanders sent to kidnap her, but simply could not catch them up. I ambushed them after they landed here. When you ambushed us in turn, I was taking my lady to the estate my sire gave to me in token apology."
The bitterness that tinged his voice was familiar. Chastaine had ever felt the sting of not being good enough for his own father, merely a spare should his grander brothers fall to some foul fate. It was a feeling that Lady Winifred and Lyon shared; it had bound them from the start.
It was a mark Chastaine would begrudgingly put to the brigand's favor—but one favorable mark was a long way from approval. "What do you intend for my lady now, Brigand?"
"His name is Shad, not 'Brigand'."
"He is Brigand until he earns our approval," Chastaine retorted, for he knew just how hot Lyon's rage would burn over this. They had failed their lady utterly and could do nothing now to repair the damage done ere their heads were removed.
"No," Lady Winifred protested, holding fast to Brigand's hand. "He is—"
"Lady," Chastaine cut in, "upon my return, there is naught can be done but to tell your father all. For our failure to protect you, our heads are forfeit. If my life is the price I must pay for this matter, then I will see what I get in return is worth that. This man is Brigand until our approval he does gain and naught my lady might say will change our minds."
Lady Winifred frowned, but subsided at the gentle touch to her arm. It was, unfortunately, another mark in Brigand's favor that he so gently regarded and guided Lady Winifred. She did not need a husband who resembled her father in temperament and manner.
"We are returning to Castle Triad," Chastaine said at last.
"Are you certain that is wise?" Brigand asked.
Chastaine subtracted a mark; this man had no right to question him. He had as much failed in his duties as Chastaine and Lyon, in that he had not prevented the kidnapping ere it occurred. "I am certain we have no choice," he replied curtly. "Lyon sent word that a royal messenger arrived at the palace, perhaps three or four weeks after I left to retrieve you, Lady Winifred. Lyon has secured him, but knows not how long he has before another is sent to discover the reason for his extended absence."
"I see," Lady Winifred murmured, brow pinching. "That is news most dire indeed. We had best return, then, and hope further disaster can be averted." She gave Brigand a tired smile. "Regretful, for I would have liked to see your home."
Brigand shrugged. "'Tis only a place to sleep, my lady fair. I travel too much to call naught but my men home."
"Then perhaps we can make Castle Triad home to you."
"Aye, my lady," Brigand said, lips quirking. He slid a glance at Chastaine. "Assuming I gain approval rather than a beheading of my own."
Chastaine reluctantly gave him back his lost mark for possessing a sense of humor.
"So tell me how you come to have a squire, Chastaine," Lady Winifred said. "He is a handsome fellow, I thought so before."
Kodey flushed bright red and looked down at his thinned hot wine. Ruffling the boy's hair, Chastaine quickly related the tale, taking Lady Winifred's stern looks with good grace and grimacing as she snickered at the conclusion of the tale. "La, Chastaine. Lyon will be highly amused at your expense."
"Regretfully, I am in full agreement with my lady," Chastaine said, rolling his eyes. "Now if you will pardon me, my lady, my men and I are most weary, and I have no doubt you are the same. I say we take to our beds and leave at first light. Traveling with all due haste, we can hopefully make home in a month and a half."
Lady Winifred nodded. "Let us hope so," she said quietly. "There has been enough turmoil."
Chastaine nodded, and then motioned for Kodey to follow him, striding from the room and up the stairs to the room allotted him. "Fetch my writing implements, Kodey, if you please. Then find Tomas and tell him to hunt out a good messenger for me."
"Aye, my lord," Kodey replied, quickly retrieving the required tools. When he returned carrying a fresh ale, Chastaine still lingered over his missive, not quite certain what to write. There seemed too much, more than he could set in his mind and far more than he could set to paper.
It would be easier if Lyon were here, for he would understand Chastaine's tumultuous thoughts; would, in fact, share them. Lady Winifred was a princess and knew well the ways of the w
orld, but she was no knight. She clearly believed the worst of their problems solved and likely that with her return to Castle Triad matters would conclude entirely. However, Chastaine knew the problems had only begun. Her father would not take the news well and there was no telling what he would do to secure his daughter for his own use—and he and Lyon would not live long enough to assist and protect their princess in whatever she chose to do.
Chastaine reached up to touch his ear, feeling the cool of the amber set in it. Slowly he let his fingers fall away and reached for his quill, sharpening the point before dipping it into the dark ink. Bending over the small strip of parchment, he finally began to write.
Lyon lifted his eyes to the ceiling as another resounding crash came from the kitchen, followed by the now-familiar bellowing of Brice as he once more started a war with the cook. Lyon pinched the bridge of his nose at the sound of something heavy and metal hitting the wall. "That lad is a menace. I think they sent him not to deliver a message, but to rid the palace of him."
The housekeeper chuckled. "He has a temper to match that hair, for a certainty."
Not a day after they had locked him away in the south room, Brice had given up his rage over being imprisoned and had switched to complaining about everything he could possibly think up. He had been ignored—until he had maligned the food. At that point, Lyon had been outside with the guards. He had not become aware of the feud which had sprung up between his prisoner and his cook until he had heard the crash which had become the first of many.
Keeping Brice locked up had failed abysmally. At his wits end, Lyon had finally tossed him into the kitchen, thinking that actually having to do work would silence him and at last end the matter. Instead—and he should have expected it really—Brice had showed startling skill and opinions completely opposite those of the head cook. Lyon had tried more than once to silence them, to keep them separated, but he might as well have given up breathing. Perversely, the two of them seemed to enjoy the battling. Lyon rather thought the cold had affected both their heads, but so long as it kept Brice from demanding to see Lady Winifred or be set free, he would endure it.