The Centurion

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She was engrossed in her daydreams as Lance marched past, hardly noticing her. Biting her lip, Alyx cautiously peered around the corner and nearly lost her head when Torston turned sharply and clipped her with his armor. She gasped with surprise, rubbing her shoulder where he had bruised her.

  “I’m sorry, Pidgy,” he said regretfully. “Did I hurt you?”

  Alyx shrugged weakly as his big hand reached out to touch her throbbing shoulder. “A little,” she admitted, purely for the fact that she wanted him to continue his sympathy. “But I will survive. What’s happening?”

  His features were full of displeasure. “You should not concern yourself with political matters.”

  “I realize that. But won’t you tell me anyway?”

  He eyed her inquisitive expression. Then, he dropped his hand from her. “Your father has invited Douglas Kerr for the evening meal to discuss a possible truce.”

  “And you disagree?”

  “I do.”

  “But why?”

  With a weary grunt, he removed his helm and ran his fingers through his damp hair. “I have been battling Kerr for many years,” he said. “Up until just a few days ago, we were fighting viciously. I simply cannot believe that, suddenly, the man decides he wants peace.”

  “So that is why the Scots came? To propose peace?”

  “Aye.”

  Alyx descended the last two steps, gazing at his tense face. “And you believe that Kerr is trying to trick my father and Lord Harringham somehow?”

  Torston shrugged weakly, staring off into the dimness of the corridor as he thought on her question. “Anything is possible,” he said quietly. “Prudence demands we proceed slowly, carefully, but your father does not agree. He is prepared to welcome Douglas Kerr with open arms and call his lack of caution a display of hospitality.”

  Alyx continued to watch him a moment before slowly, deliberately, turning down the corridor. As she hoped, Torston followed.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  He snorted softly, tucking his helm beneath his arm. “There is nothing I can do,” he said. “I am merely a warrior, sworn to obey my liege. No matter how foolish the venture.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I sense terrible hostility and mistrust, Torston. Must I sit on you tonight throughout the feast to ensure that you will not do something rash that would possibly spoil an accord?”

  He matched her raised eyebrow and then some. “You will not be at the feast tonight, my lady,” he said firmly. “You will be locked in your rooms, protected personally by six of my finest men.”

  She paused, a frown on her face. “I am chatelaine at Makendon. There will not be a feast without my supervision.”

  He could see an argument coming, perhaps greater than the one he had just left. “I realize you are chatelaine, Alyx. But considering the circumstances, you must acknowledge the fact that the dining hall will not be a safe place for you this evening.”

  Alyx turned her back on him. “Ridiculous. Nothing will happen to me and I will not be absent from my duties as hostess.”

  He grabbed her by the arm before she could march away, so swiftly, in fact, that she gasped with surprise. Pulled against his armored chest, Alyx found herself gazing into his hard expression.

  “You will not argue the point.”

  “And you are not my master.”

  He regarded her, coolly. Then he released her. “We shall see what your father has to say.”

  “He has already asked me to wear my finest gown.”

  She could see color come to his cheeks. “Then you knew about this?” Torston was struggling to keep his anger in check. “Alyx, you knew about this even as you plied me with questions and made me look the fool for telling you what you already knew?”

  Alyx backed down a little. “I did not know very much, truthfully. All I was told was that there would be a special feast tonight and to wear my finest garments. You merely enlightened me with the details behind the request.”

  Torston stared at her. Alyx gazed back anxiously, hoping he wasn’t too terribly angry with her. After a moment, he turned on his heel and marched in the direction he had come from. Alyx, in a panic, dashed after him.

  “Torston!” she called. Catching up to him, she grasped his arm. “Please don’t be angry. But you must understand that…”

  He came to an abrupt halt, grabbing her so harshly that she emitted a painful little cry. The corridor was dim, devoid of probing eyes or ears, as Torston pinned her against the stone-cold wall.

  “I understand that your father is all but handing Douglas Kerr the keys to Makendon,” he growled. “Exposing you to the Scots is like bringing a lamb to slaughter and I simply cannot comprehend his reasoning. I fully intend to tell him so.”

  She relaxed in his grip, seeing that he was far more concerned than he was angry. She was touched and flattered.

  “Won’t you protect me?”

  “With my life. But that is not the issue.”

  “What is?”

  He stared at her a long, long time. The fingers that had been biting into her upper arm slackened and gently, almost imperceptibly, began to caress her.

  “Mayhap my imagination is running wild.”

  “Let me decide. Tell me what has you so worried, other than the obvious.”

  Slowly, he sighed. Then, he cocked his head thoughtfully. “Kerr says he wants peace.”

  “And?”

  He lifted his eyebrows as if to force her to align with his train of thought. “And what would be the most logical way of cementing an alliance?”

  She looked at him blankly. “I… I do not understand your question, Torston.”

  “A marriage,” he said softly. “Do you suppose your father wants you to attend the feast tonight to attract Kerr or one of his men?”

  Alyx was stricken with horror. “But… but he would not do that! Kerr came to my father with the offering of peace, not the other way around!”

  “Do you know the details of Kerr’s terms?”

  She shook her head, her blond curls swinging. “Nay.”

  Torston’s grip on her tightened once again. “Neither do I. But the fact that your father wants you to attend this war conference disguised as a feast concerns me terribly.”

  Alyx watched his features, more tense than she had ever known him to be. Joy filled her heart, for she knew that his distress was due more to his thoughts of her possible betrothal than of Kerr’s actual presence.

  That fed her giddy, dreamer’s heart.

  “Oh, Torston,” she breathed, a hand coming up to his stubbled cheek. “You do not want another to have me.”

  He eyed her, determined not to agree with her statement but having a difficult time forming an acceptable lie. “Certainly not a Scot.”

  She smiled knowingly and he could see that he was losing ground. “Just a Scot? Or anyone else?”

  “Well… certainly not a Scot.”

  “You already said that.”

  Her eyes were sucking him in and he made a conscious effort to move away from her. “It’s the truth.”

  She followed him as he wandered down the hall. No longer was he the enraged warrior, but the confused man who was finding it more and more difficult to fight off his emotions where it pertained to a certain young lady.

  “Torston,” she said softly, “why can you not admit that you do not want anyone to have me because you want me for yourself?”

  He drew in a deep, steady breath, still walking and listening to her soft slippers gliding across the stone behind him.

  “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

  Alyx suddenly threw herself in front of him, blocking his path. They were at a crossroads of corridors, weak light from a lancet window high in the wall illuminating the cold Makendon interior. Alyx threw her arms around his neck and his helm fell to the floor, rolling into a corner as her slight body pushed him off-balance.

  “Tell me, Torston,”
she murmured, her lips against his cheek. “Tell me you want me and I shall live on your words the rest of my life.”

  The smell of her, the feel of her, was too strong. Torston was a mere man with fallible mortal weaknesses and could hardly prevent himself from responding to her warmth. His arms went about her of their own accord and he listened to her soft laughter in his ear. He sighed raggedly, realizing very quickly that he had denied himself the feel of her for far too long. Her supple body pressed against him was too much to bear and he cracked like a weakling, enjoying her sweetness more than he could express.

  “I cannot tell you,” he whispered. “I cannot give you such hope when there is no hope to give.”

  Alyx’s soft lips kissed his jaw and he groaned, his limbs growing weak even as his grip on her tightened.

  “’Tis no hope you give me, Torston, but a promise,” she said softly. “Tell me you want me.”

  “Alyx, I…”

  “Tell me!”

  “I cannot.”

  She pulled her face from the crook of his neck, smelling of chain mail and his comforting musky scent. Her eyes bored into his, melding together in a maelstrom of emotion.

  “Why can’t you?”

  Her demand was soft, from the heart. Feebly, Torston shook his head. “I told you why, Pidgy. You’ve known for nine years. My betrothal comes due at the end of this year and there is nothing I can do about it.”

  “But you can break the betrothal. Won’t you even try?”

  He sighed heavily. “My father made the contract with an ally. I had no say in the matter, for it was made when I was young.”

  Alyx continued to stare at him, her gaze finally leaving his apologetic brown orbs and moving down his magnificent face.

  “Write to your father. Tell him that you have had an accident and cannot possibly keep your end of the marriage contract.”

  He studied her carefully, not surprised to realize that her words intrigued him. “My father has been dead for several years,” he said. “But if I were to consider such a story, what sort of accident did you have in mind?”

  Alyx felt a stab of genuine hope at his question and his acquiescence nearly caught her off-guard. “I… I am not sure, truly,” she said, quickly trying to think of something. “Mayhap an accident like Sir Gerard had last year when he fell from his warhorse and lost the use of his legs. I’ve heard the servants say…”

  She suddenly seemed hesitant and he squeezed her gently. “Go on.”

  Her cheeks mottled faintly, unusual for the normally-outspoken Alyx. “Well… I’ve heard the servants say that he cannot perform as a… well, as a man should.”

  A trace of a smile creased his lips. “I see. And you think I should write my betrothed and tell her that I have had a similar mishap, therefore, I cannot marry her?”

  She toyed with the edges of his hauberk. “Would you?”

  He laughed, then. “Alyx, you are a devious little wench.”

  She suppressed a grin as he chortled. “You did not answer my question. Would you?”

  His chuckles faded and he met her inquisitive gaze. “What you mean to ask is if I would do this for you.”

  “Aye.”

  “And then I would have to marry you.”

  “Aye. Because I would know your secret and if you do not marry me, I shall tell anyone who would listen.”

  It was a lightly-given threat and he didn’t believe her for a moment. But his smile left him completely and a gloved hand found its way into her hair, unable to feel the silken strands but touching them just the same. Thoughtfully, he stared at her.

  “Mayhap.”

  It was the answer Alyx had been waiting nine years to hear. But it wasn’t good enough, not at this climactic moment, and she exhaled sharply with all of the pent-up emotion she had ever harbored.

  “Don’t toy with me, Torston,” she whispered. “I have been begging you for nine years to marry me. Will you or won’t you?”

  “A rather aggressive demand on the part of an innocent young maiden. Now, let me think…”

  She emitted a shriek. “Torston!”

  He could see how tormented she was. He had been tormented, too, until she had proposed a very interesting solution to their situation. Now, for the oddest of reasons, he wasn’t entirely tormented anymore and he laughed softly as her features twisted with frustration.

  “I shall think on it, Pigeon,” he said. “If I believe there is a viable way to rid myself of this betrothal, then I promise I shall consider it.”

  Her frustration immediately turned to glee. “Torston, do you mean it?”

  He stroked her chin affectionately. “I do.”

  Alyx smiled so broadly that Torston thought her face was going to split in two. “Truly?”

  He smiled in return, feeling his own sense of euphoria. Gazing into her lovely face, he realized what a fool he had been all along. Hiding behind a betrothal that had been made before Alyx had even been born. But Torston’s father could not have anticipated Winslow de Ameland’s beautiful daughter, nor Torston’s secret emotions for her that had deepened beyond compare. The prompting of Douglas Kerr’s presence had forced him to admit that he could not, would not, give her up.

  He was only sorry it had taken a crisis for him to admit it.

  “Truly,” he replied belatedly to her question, his voice soft. “And now I have all but confessed my mad devotion to you, do you still mean to attend this feast tonight?”

  Alyx was close to swooning with delirious joy. “Heavens, no! I’ll stay in my rooms as you have asked if that is your wish.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her down the corridor with him. In fact, he could see the flight of stairs leading to the second floor and he made haste in its direction.

  “It is my wish,” he said as he pushed her toward the steps. “Go upstairs now and lock the door.”

  Alyx nearly stumbled, so preoccupied and flushed that she could hardly think. “Torston?”

  “What is it?”

  She paused on the first step, weaving back and forth and smiling lazily. “Tell me you want me.”

  “I thought we just covered that particular subject.”

  She shook her head, the corkscrew curls gleaming in the weak light. “You merely said you would consider breaking your betrothal,” she murmured. “You did not tell me that you wanted me.”

  His gaze raked her from head to toe, a vision of extraordinary beauty in the persimmon-colored silk. It was his favorite.

  And so was she.

  “I want you.”

  He turned and left her. Alyx was fortunate she made it up the stairs in one piece with her jellied knees and spinning head.

  The feasting hour was upon them.

  The fortress of Makendon was silent under the cloak of dusk, smoke from the cooking fires covering the grounds in a blue haze. But the silence of early night was brittle, as indicated by the heavy guard on the battlements watching the Scot encampment in the distance. Knights stood alongside men-at-arms, Makendon’s troops shoulder to shoulder with men from The Lyceum, and all of them waiting with anticipation for the evening feast.

  None more filled with anticipation than Torston.

  He and Lance finished patrolling the walls and, satisfied they were amply prepared for anything the Scots might decide to throw at them, descended into the hazy bailey. Their mounts were waiting for them, scarred warhorses with a gleam of blood to their eyes, and the knights mounted swiftly. Squires made sure additional weapons were lashed to the armored saddles, preparing their masters for what might lie ahead at the hands of the unpredictable dinner guests.

  The men from Clan Kerr were on time. Douglas Kerr and five of the most hairy, burly men Torston had ever seen arrived at the edge of the moat promptly two hours after sunset. Torston ordered the drawbridge lowered and, along with Lance and six other knights, rode across the heavy bridge to escort the visitors inside. The Scots were as distrustful as the English, and the tension in the atmosphe
re mounted.

  Torston took a good look at Douglas Kerr as the man announced himself. He was at least in his fifth decade but appeared younger than his years, a surprisingly handsome man with a crown of blond hair several shades darker than Torston’s. He wore a full beard, though neatly trimmed, and his kilt was clean and neat. Torston dismounted silently, his helm still on and his visor down, and motioned Douglas and his men to follow.

  The great hall of Makendon was warm and inviting. Torston promptly announced the men from Clan Kerr, whereupon Winslow took over duties as official host and introduced Lionel, dressed in his ceremonial toga to which Douglas raised a confused eyebrow. Torston was so entirely focused on the conversation taking place between the three men that he failed to notice a slight figure in deep blue brocade seated at the center of the great feasting table. Only when he turned away as the men prepared to take their seats did he catch sight of Alyx’s face.

  His eyes began to smolder beneath the lowered visor. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his faceplate, focused on Alyx’s uncomfortable features. She refused to meet his gaze as he removed his helm, and further refused to look at him as he seated himself on Harringham’s left. Winslow and Lionel sat next to one another, with Alyx and Torston on either side of them.

  Douglas and his men took seats on the opposite side of the great table, suspicion and hardness reflecting in their eyes. The conversation between Laird Kerr and his hosts barely went beyond pleasantries until Lionel introduced Torston. Then, the hostility seemed to grow as Torston and Douglas exchanged cool glances. Realizing the already-brittle situation had taken a downturn, Winslow introduced Alyx purely to divert the focus and was not surprised to note Douglas’s almost instant change in demeanor.

  “I hadna realized Sassenach women were so beautiful,” he said in his heavy burr. “Ye have the face of an angel, m’lady.”

  Torston’s jaw ticked, the battle lines more defined than ever before. “You will speak with respect to the Lady of Makendon, Kerr.”

  Douglas’ men looked at Torston with varying degrees of menace, but Douglas merely lifted an eyebrow. “Ye will address me as Laird Kerr, Knight,” he said, deliberately pointing out Torston’s rank. “I have shown no disrespect tae the lady.”