Always There

by Megan Derr

  Or kill them.

  The shouting reached a deafening crescendo and Lyon snapped. "Bring that rapscallion to me at once," he roared, startling the hall into silence, until the housekeeper bobbed a hasty curtsy and bolted off to retrieve Brice from the kitchens.

  Brice appeared a moment later, looking much like he had lost a war, although to tell from the excited flush to his cheeks he was not suffering overmuch from the loss. He was covered head to foot in the work of the kitchens: evidence of slaughtering chickens and flour from baking, his hair tied back with a strip of leather and a streak of something on one cheek. Did Lyon not know better, he would never believe Brice to be among those who knelt before the king to memorize his most secret and important messages.

  "Boy," he bellowed. "There is work to be done, and if you insist upon contributing, I will thank you to stop destroying my kitchens. Your family is clearly not what it once used to be, if such behavior is what they teach their whelps."

  "Do not malign my family, you vagrant knight," Brice retorted, all but shouting the words. "You hold me hostage here, refuse to inform me where Her Ladyship might be found … I see not why you think you have any right to call my behavior into question."

  Lyon sighed, wondering what had become of his homelands that children were raised to behave so abominably. He reached out and yanked Brice close. "Because this is my keep and a lack of manners annoys me, boy, and should you continue to provoke my ire, you will find yourself sleeping not in the south corner room, but in our disused dungeon. They are old enough that we have naught but one key, it and the locks so ancient that I cannot promise they will properly operate. It could very well be that once you are locked in, we will be unable to get you out. Do you take my meaning, boy?"

  Brice glared at him, but it quickly withered beneath Lyon's. "Yes, my lord, your meaning is taken well." He made no protest as Lyon roughly let him go, merely resettling his messy clothes as best he could. Lyon wondered where he had obtained them, but dismissed the thought as irrelevant. When Brice finally looked up again, there was a faintly hurt look upon his face. "My name is not 'boy', you know."

  "When you cease to act like one," Lyon snapped, "I shall address you as a man. If you want to prove yourself worthy of such respect, you could try not to engage in battle every hour. There are more dignified ways to disagree with someone." Even at their worst, when they had been unused to one another, he and Chastaine had never bellowed and thrown things.

  "I am a messenger, my lord," Brice said stiffly, "fit for very little else."

  Lyon rolled his eyes. "I am a knight, yet I manage quite well in the role of Seneschal. It seems to me you do well enough in the kitchens when you are not attempting to drive my cook from the keep. Behave, ere you find yourself locked away rather than given freedom to move about the keep."

  "Yes, my lord," Brice replied, looking miserable but resigned.

  Restraining an urge to smack him, for at least Brice was trying, Lyon shoved him back toward the kitchen. Perhaps there would be peace for a time.

  Problem managed for the moment anyway, Lyon returned to rereading the missive he'd received three days prior.

  Lyon,

  Good news at last. Her Ladyship is a half-day's ride ahead of us and we have already formed a plan to take her back. If all goes accordingly, we shall be on our way home in not more than a week's time, and it should be much sooner than that.

  I gather the messenger incurred your wrath straight away, to be locked up so swiftly in that drafty room. If it is one of those Beauclerc he sent, then I think the south corner room far too generous. We have a dungeon—make use of it.

  I regret we will miss the Winter Banquet. Do not eat all the pudding or we shall have to be at odds immediately upon reuniting, and I think Her Ladyship would prefer we hold the bickering for at least an hour.

  Direct your scowls at the sky that the weather holds until we are safely returned.

  Chastaine

  Lyon realized that he was smiling as he tucked the note away and immediately scowled.

  "Sir Lyon."

  He looked up, stirred from his thoughts, and stared at the woman who was second to the princess. "Yes, madam?"

  "The head cook says that if you are displeased with her services, then you have only to say and she will take herself elsewhere."

  Lyon's lips twitched. "It is not the cook who dissatisfies, it is the boy. If anyone can beat that idiocy out of him, it is she."

  "I will tell her you said so, Sir Lyon, but I think she will not believe you." She chuckled and held out a plate. "She and Master Brice managed to contrive something new between the battling, using the currants and a bit of brandy. She wanted to know if it might be fit for the banquet."

  Accepting the plate, Lyon slowly ate the bit of thick, rich cake. He was surprised at where his thoughts immediately turned. "It is most suitable and she might consider making it again for the homecoming. Chastaine would adore it."

  "Yes, my lord," she said with a smile, taking the dishes away. She faltered to a stop as a resounding crash came from the kitchen, followed by a great deal of shouting. Heaving a sigh and rolling her eyes, she braced her shoulders as though going to battle and stalked into the kitchen.

  Lyon pinched the bridge of his nose, then turned and walked from the main hall, out into the courtyard.

  "Rider, ho!" he heard the guards call. One turned, catching sight of him. "Looks like a messenger, my lord," he said. "Thankfully, not royal."

  Keeping his thoughts to himself, Lyon pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and waited. Sure enough, several minutes later a messenger came clattering through the portcullis and slid nimbly from his horse. He spotted Lyon and strode toward him, boots crunching in the light fall of fresh snow. Dropping to one knee, he lowered his head and spoke. "I seek Sir Sauveterre of Castle Triad."

  "I am he," Lyon replied, accepting the missive as it was held out. "To the kitchens with you, and if you like, be most welcome to join us at our banquet this night. Would you be willing to take a reply at first light?"

  "Aye, my lord," the messenger replied with a quick grin, before remembering his head should remain lowered.

  "My thanks. Be off to the kitchens, then." Lyon watched him go, then saw the horse was tended to before venturing back inside. Still he could hear squabbling from the kitchen. He hoped the cook beat Brice senseless. He dropped his hand to the heavy ring of keys at his waist, quickly finding and thoughtfully stroking the large iron one which belonged to the dungeons.

  Ignoring the chaotic kitchen, he made his way to his bedchamber and dropped down in his seat beside the cold fireplace, lighting a taper before finally breaking the wax seal on the missive.

  Lyon,

  It would seem my words of good tidings were written with haste.

  Fortune seems not to favor us, for instead of finding our Lady Winifred and disposing of the brigands, I have recovered her wedded beyond all annulment, to a man claiming to be the bastard son of the King of Koromor. My tale only grows more grim:

  His Majesty, it seems, attempted to use his daughter as a pawn in getting Rothland to obey his commands. When he sold his daughter to Koromor rather than Rothland, the Roth's retaliated by poisoning our keep and stealing our lady. Ere she could become the wife of a Roth, she was stolen again by the moorlands and married to the bastard son.

  Against my wishes, the bastard still lives. Against Her Ladyship's wishes, he is Brigand until we grant him permission to stay both alive and married to our lady.

  I will tell you the tale in full upon arrival; this message journeys to you the eve of our journey home.

  If you can, attempt to coerce that royal messenger to cooperate. The king, regretfully, needs to know what Rothland attempted to do.

  Perhaps in the fervor sure to be stirred up, they will forget to remove our heads. I should think our duties quite tricksome to perform without them.

  Chastaine

  Lyon held the note tightly in one fist, crumpling the
parchment and shaking with the force of it.

  Damnation. This was a fine mess to be dropped upon them.

  Lady Winifred married, no doubt in a ceremony wholly unworthy of a princess, without the blessing of her father or the royal priest, not even her mother or sister to comfort and guide … it was no way for a maiden to go into her marriage, and he hated that she had been treated so callously. Chastaine was correct: this Brigand would be nothing more until he proved himself worthy of keeping both his head and their lady.

  Lyon smoothed the parchment out and read it all again, then carefully tucked it away with the other beneath his tunic. What to do, what to do … As Chastaine said, the king would now have to be informed. They knew the enemy and what had been done—even if it meant he would shortly be headless.

  Sighing, Lyon stood and crossed the room, stepping outside and bellowing for assistance as he reached the main hall.

  "Aye, Sir Lyon?" a young maid asked.

  "Send that fool messenger to me in my chambers—and see that he cleans himself up first. Also see that my midday meal is brought."

  The maid bobbed a curtsy. "Aye, my lord."

  He waited until she had gone, then went back to his room. A couple of minutes later and his food appeared. Lyon could not help smiling—rather than the usual repast of stew and bread, they had sent him samples of some of the foods to be eaten that night. It would seem that despite the chaos, his kitchens were accomplishing something.

  Drinking the mulled wine sent with it, Lyon dove cheerfully into the hearty repast, and was enjoying the last of his custard tart and wine when a sharp knock came at his door. "Enter," he called, just to annoy.

  Annoyed Brice was, but smart enough for the moment not to complain. Lyon was not certain if he was better or worse off for being stuck with a youth for this task.

  "Sit," he said, setting aside his wine as Brice obediently sat across from him. "I have never seen my cook so easily riled in all the years I have known her."

  "That woman is terrifying," Brice said fervently.

  Lyon's mouth quirked briefly in a smile. "Aye, but the food she prepares makes amends. You seem to be at least as skilled, an odd trait for a king's messenger."

  Brice grimaced and shrugged, but did not otherwise reply.

  Lyon picked up his wine and drained the last of it. "You have been wondering where my lady has gone."

  "Yes," Brice said slowly, looking at him warily, but sitting up straighter in his seat.

  "She will be returning shortly," Lyon said grimly, "but I need your help, for there is something her father must know … "

  Brice nodded eagerly, eyes wide. "I will help, gladly, only tell me—please."

  Lyon lifted one brow at the odd compliance. "First, I must have from you the message to be delivered to Her Royal Highness."

  "I cannot—"

  "The time for your games is over, boy," Lyon said firmly. "I cannot trust you if you will not trust me."

  Brice's shoulders sagged. "Aye," he said sadly. "My message for her Highness was thus: matters are at last concluded and all arrangements made. You are to be wed ere the spring flowers are in bloom. Make ready to journey with all haste the moment winter is sufficiently thawed. Send word by way of this messenger the very moment you begin your journey."

  Lyon nodded. "Did he not say to whom she was to be wed?"

  "Nay, Sir Lyon," Brice said, slumping back in his seat. "The rumors about the palace, however, say she is to marry the cur moorland king."

  Groaning, Lyon wished longingly for something stronger than mulled wine. He was a knight, however, and knights did not indulge in the stronger spirits, even if they were in most sore need of them.

  Thinking of spirits turned his thoughts to Chastaine and how many times after cold days like these he had drawn brandy for them both, leaving Lyon's in his room that he might enjoy it before bed. It had been one of the few comradely gestures exchanged between them. In his turn, Lyon had ever repaired Chastaine's tunic along with his own. Knights tended to all their own belongings, but Chastaine was hopeless with needle and thread. Neither of them would trouble the already busy castle servants with such trivial work, so Lyon had managed it while sipping his brandy before bed.

  Never had they drunk together, Lyon realized, something he supposed would be common enough practice between knights who spent so much time together. It simply was not possible, however, an unspoken arrangement between them that Chastaine rose early and so could go to bed earlier, while Lyon rose late and so found his bed later. Ever the arrangement had worked. He had not touched the brandy in all the time he had run the castle alone and he realized now that he had no desire to do so. 'Twas not the same, and as much as the thought confounded and irked, it was the simple truth.

  "You must listen to me closely, boy," Lyon said at last, shunting away the trivial thoughts. "There is no time for the foolishness which spurred me to toss you to the kitchens. I need to know I can trust you, for one mistake may cost my lady, Her Highness, much. Understand you, this?"

  "Aye, my lord," Brice said.

  Lyon nodded, still reluctant but having no choice in the matter, and swiftly related all that he knew of the matter. When he finished, Brice spent several minutes staring. Finally he shook himself. "Ach, my lord, that is quite a different tale than the one I had been imagining."

  "Pray tell, what tale were you imagining?" Lyon asked, dreading the answer.

  Brice smiled sheepishly, scrubbing a hand through his red hair. "With both Her Highness and Sir Delacroix missing, it seemed to me they had eloped."

  Lyon blinked—then burst out laughing. "Chastaine? Elope with the princess? I shall have to tell them that, if only to see the looks upon their faces!"

  "It did not seem that amusing to me," Brice muttered, slinking down in his seat.

  "That is only because you do not know them," Lyon said, finally getting control of his laughter. "She is our lady and I believe she regards us as particularly aggravating older brothers." He reached up to touch his cloak pin, clenching his hand into a fist before it could stray higher to the sapphires in his ears. "Guarding her has proven difficult enough—neither I nor Chastaine seek the role of her husband. I think such a damsel is not to his taste and she is certainly not to mine."

  Brice rolled his eyes. "A princess is not to your taste? What strange men, to find such a woman inadequate—I can think of hundreds who would disagree with you. A Delacroix especially, I should think, would find a princess adequate," he drawled. "What then, pray tell, would either of you prefer, if a princess lacks?"

  Lyon started to reply—annoyed as ever by Brice's impudence—but the question drew him up short. He did not know. As knights sworn to guardianship they had no time for dalliances or marriages. Yet every man had needs, and he realized suddenly that he did not know where Chastaine slaked his lust. Not that it was his business and certainly he did not care … but at any given moment, he could predict where Chastaine was and when he would appear, and he knew Chastaine could do the same with him. They jointly controlled the castle; it only made sense that they were familiar with one another's patterns. Yet going over all that they did in the course of the day … as knights they were fully within their rights to take their pleasure where they pleased. However, neither of them preferred the tawdry dalliances in which so many knights indulged, and such behavior would distract them from the duty of guardianship. Did Chastaine dally with one of his hunters when they were a field? Nay, he would not fraternize with his men so, which cut out the soldiers as well.

  Realizing with horror the black recesses to which his mind had strayed, Lyon furiously brought his mind back around to where it should be dwelling. "You will take word to His Majesty, then?"

  "Aye, my lord," Brice said.

  "You are oddly cooperative," Lyon said slowly. "What happened to calling me 'brigand' and threatening to have my spurs taken away? Was the fight beaten out of you in the kitchens?"

  Brice looked at his hands. "I want only to be us
eful, my lord. I am not properly a Beauclerc, not as they have always been. My father gave up his lands and title to marry my mother, who was naught but a peasant, a cook in my father's keep, before he surrendered it to marry her and live in peace. 'Twas from her I learned kitchens. When illness took them, my uncle took me in on the provision I fit properly into the family." He shrugged. "This was my first mission and I have failed to perform it according to his dictate. If taking this message back will repair that shame, gladly will I take it."

  Lyon grunted. "If it is the kitchens you prefer, then in the kitchens you should stay. A man true to himself is worth a thousand who spend their life living a lie. Pack your things, Brice, and be off with all haste."

  Jerking his head up, Brice blinked, and then smiled hesitantly. "Aye, my lord … although, if I may … "

  "What is it?" Lyon asked, not really wanting to know what ridiculous boon was about to be asked of him.

  Brice ducked his head again. "Might I stop by the kitchens, to see that all of my efforts came to success?"

  Lyon stared at him, then chuckled softly and shook his head. "Aye, Brice. Perhaps next year you might come and enjoy the banquet properly, and under happier circumstances."

  "Aye, my lord. Thank you."

  Nodding, Lyon motioned him out, staring broodingly into the fireplace. He finally forced himself to rise, leaving his room to return to the main hall in time to bid Brice a final farewell. Flagging down a servant, he gave orders for the dishes to be fetched from his room and writing implements brought. Ideally, they were well on their way home, naught but a few more weeks away—but he should keep Chastaine as informed as he possibly could, as there was no telling what could go awry when.

  Taking a seat at one of the long tables, Lyon murmured his thanks when a maid brought him a fresh tankard of mulled wine. By the time his writing implements were brought, he had decided upon what to write.