Once Upon a Knight

by Jackie Ivie

  “What’s wrong with this one?”

  “A shirt. Do you own one?”

  “Mayhap,” he returned.

  “Where is it?”

  “Why?”

  “So you’ll don it, of course.”

  “Hmm. The lady of the house dinna’ seem to mind.”

  “How would you ken? You had your eyes closed.”

  She knew that? Vincent felt the satisfaction pump through him with the next three or four heartbeats. He knew exactly what it was. The little wench was warming to him. And here he’d thought she’d be a challenge.

  “Ears that are open sometimes ken more than eyes do. And her tone said she found much to her satisfaction,” he answered.

  “Wondrous. You’re a spy as well?”

  “I use my senses and you call it spying? Verra well. I spy. What of it?”

  “Are you sufficiently recovered then?”

  “For what?”

  “Seeing the back of your arse as you leave,” she answered crossly.

  “What will I get if I were to do so,…Sybil?”

  She sucked for a breath. Vincent watched it as well as heard it.

  “What do you want?” she finally managed.

  “An introduction will do for a start.”

  “You’re in the keep. My stepmother is bemused and interested. I dinna’ ken what else you need.”

  “The female in you would,” he replied.

  Her silver-gray eyes flashed up at him, showing the ire she was hiding. He pursed his lips.

  “Come along, then. Let’s test your wound.”

  “T’isn’t much. As you already ken. But…I am at your mercy. Be gentle, fair maid.”

  She didn’t answer, but her movements did it for her. He watched her fumble in her cloak to pull a large, unwieldy-looking key from somewhere in the folds of it, and then she was shoving it into the lock with more force than was necessary. He couldn’t help the grin, and then he was gasping with the size of the animal that slammed against his chest and backed him up fully two steps, pinning him against the wall with a paw to each side of his head and a mouth full of hot breath and wicked-looking teeth at his nose.

  “Dinna’ let him move, Waif.” She whispered it so softly he almost didn’t catch the wolf’s name. And then she shut the door, leaving him with a man-killer in the hall.

  Chapter Four

  Vincent tried everything in his repertoire that he could think of. Nothing moved the light gold stare of the wolf from contemplation of what a tasty bite he would be. If such an animal had thoughts, it was clear what they were. The only thing it wasn’t doing was licking its lips. Waif didn’t have to bait or trap his prey. He already had it. Vincent looked to where his boots were being caressed by hot breath from the animal reclining right in the center of the hall, and the animal stared right back.

  It was more than he expected.

  When she’d first shut the door, Vincent had actually felt a tremor of something resembling fear. He hadn’t even a skean on him, and even if he did, he couldn’t reach it. The animal wasn’t allowing him any movement. Not at first. Not until enough time had passed that his ears had started buzzing with keeping his breathing modulated and his eyes from betraying emotion. The animal had finally dropped onto all fours, prowled a bit in a circular motion, and then sat…right in the center of the hall.

  The animal gave him an area by the wall roughly equivalent to his body length. It hadn’t done more than blink once when Vincent slid onto his haunches to give his legs a rest from their trembling. There was sweat soaking his palms where he rubbed them on his plaide. And his belly rumbled, too, telling of its displeasure at missing the feast he’d barely had time to smell.

  He had to do it…although he didn’t want to. He had to give the little wench this exchange as well. She was rapidly and markedly getting beneath his skin, and that wasn’t what he’d bargained for. When he’d bargained. Vincent sat and thought. He’d been offered his freedom from that dungeon and offered good food and employment. He hadn’t had much to think over.

  Vincent moved away from the wall a bit to scratch at where a stone was rubbing at his lower back. The animal moved its head slightly toward him. Vincent sighed. It was a good thing he hadn’t put a time frame on this endeavor.

  “I was na’ escaping,” he said aloud and watched in disbelief as the animal nodded its head. Twice. And looked a tad less attentive.

  Vincent studied the wolf. Then he spoke again, using the same tone as he would if addressing another man. “I was just settling myself. Against this cursed rock. ’Tis nae much more.” He shimmied into a more comfortable position, sliding along the wall until he was reclining on his side. He was studiously ignoring how the movement scraped the skin above his knee and onto his upper thigh as the kilt didn’t move with his motion and the slate of the floor beneath the rushes wasn’t smoothed.

  The wolf made the same motion, only it moved until it was on its front and cooling its belly with the rock.

  “Na’ much for creature comfort is it?” Vincent asked, still in the same companionable voice but feeling a total fool.

  The animal responded with a low whine in its throat.

  “And even less for sustenance.”

  The wolf growled again.

  “And the smells. They’ve cooked a huge banquet below, and what? They let us starve?”

  The wolf huffed that time. Vincent had never had a conversation with an animal, but it was better than envisioning the death grip of his throat in those teeth.

  “Well? Do we receive a platter? Do you ken?”

  Another huff.

  “They make you share my punishment? Well, that’s hardly fair.” He couldn’t help it. There’s was no one about, and the hint of injured male pride crept into his voice. He probably sounded like he was whining.

  The animal eased a bit toward him in response, moving along the shale floor. Vincent held his breath.

  “Methinks wenches have had the upper hand for overlong in this keep. This is what I’ve decided. What say you, Waif, fellow? We agreed?”

  The animal got closer, breathed a bit on his leg, and then leapt to its feet, snarling and snapping foam-flecked teeth. Vincent damn near screamed and would have if his heart hadn’t been blocking his throat.

  It wouldn’t have been heard over the huge clatter of a dropped wooden serving platter, followed by the crash of a tankard, with the resultant foaming mess of spilled ale, and the sharp cry of the servant carrying them as he took in the scene.

  Vincent moved his eyes to the end of the hall. It was the only part of him he dared move.

  “Is—was that my sup?” he asked, stopping after the first word to lower his voice back within the masculine range.

  “Aye,” the serf whispered.

  “And…what was it…to have been?” Vincent could still feel hot breath against his calves from the wolf, but it wasn’t reacting to his words. It was more than he’d counted on—and he stored that information for later use.

  “The boar is gone. So I’ve brought a joint of mutton. Bread. Gravy. Cabbage. A melon. There was…also ale. Freshly drawn. I did it myself.”

  “Sounds…pleasant. Smells…better. Did you bring a blade with it?”

  “A blade?”

  Vincent breathed a sigh hard enough to lift any stray hairs at his forehead if they hadn’t been plastered to his skin with sweat.

  “To control this beast.”

  “Nae!”

  The lad was horrified. It sounded in his voice.

  “Verra well, then. Did you bring me a leg of that mutton?”

  “Oh. Aye.”

  “Good. Toss it here.”

  “What?”

  “I said, toss it.”

  “It’s been in the rushes, Sir! It’s na’ worth eating.”

  Vincent’s mouth quirked before he could help it. The wolf didn’t react. “’Tis na’ for me, but a bribe.”

  “Bribe?”

  This time Vincent did look to th
e roof of their tower hall. Then returned his gaze to the yellow one at eye level to him, since he was still on his backside and the wolf hadn’t moved. “For the animal. Do you see anyone else about?”

  “Lady Sybil’s pet does na’ ken bribes, sir.”

  “Have you ever tried one?”

  There was silence except for what was probably his tankard as it found step after step in its descent. Vincent slid his glance to where the serf stood, pondering his words as if they merited such. The entire keep was full of fools, he was rapidly deciding.

  “Well?” Vincent continued.

  “She has na’ used her pet on me afore. I would have nae need.”

  “Then toss me a joint!”

  Waif turned, and they both watched as the servant gingerly picked up a leg and flung it. A splat of sound accompanied its deflection off the opposing wall before it rolled to a stop near Waif’s back leg. The wolf didn’t move. Vincent didn’t move. Nothing seemed to be moving except the tankard as it resounded from the bottom of the stairwell.

  “It does na’ work,” the serf said.

  “My thanks, good man. Could you bring me more sup, then?” Vincent asked it with the same modulated tone he’d been using. Waif blinked and turned back to watch Vincent.

  “If he does na’ take a bribe now, why would he take it later, sir?”

  Vincent blew a huge sigh. He could have sworn the wolf did the same, but that was just fanciful, and Vincent had never been one for fancy. Thieving, lying, cheating, womanizing, self-appreciation, and contentment, yes. Fancy—never.

  “A new sup for me. Since you have ruined mine.”

  “Oh.” The serf started backing away, the scrape of leather shoe sole loud between Waif’s breaths.

  “Wait!”

  Vincent was as amazed at his daring as the serf was, although Waif didn’t move. Vincent swallowed the fear down and continued. “If you check the stables at the end stall, you’ll find a horse. Wearing blue and black colors. With a bridle of silver. Can you search out this horse for me?”

  “Is it yours?”

  Nae. ’Tis the wolf’s. Vincent almost said the instant retort. He swallowed around the words right on his tongue. He had to. If this lad was the only thing he had for an accomplice, it wouldn’t do to alienate him. Yet.

  “Aye. All of it, even the sword and shield. There will be a saddle near it. With bags. Two of them. With my initials sewn into the sides. V.E.D. In stained hemp.”

  Vincent stopped for a moment in fond remembrance of the lass who’d done the stitching and the payment she’d received. If he wasn’t mistaken, it looked like Waif appreciated it, too. Vincent cleared his throat and glanced again at the serf. “Can you find these?”

  “I am na’ a squire, sir. I dinna ken if I’ll be allowed near the stable or na.”

  “You have to be a squire to attend the stables? What manner of castle is this?”

  “’Tis the Lady Sybil’s order, sir.”

  “I suppose I should have kenned that already.” It was obvious the Lady Sybil was in charge of everything—and holding her reins with fear. For the first time, Vincent felt himself warm a bit at this assignment. The lass needed a comeuppance. He was the one to give it to her. That was certain.

  “What?” the servant replied.

  “You look stout enough. I think you can do it.”

  “Do what, Sir?”

  “Hie over to the stables, find the horse I have described, and fetch me one of the bags. His name is Gleason. He answers to that.”

  “I hardly think so, sir!”

  “Why na?” Vincent asked, still in the same patient, modulated tone.

  “If I snuck out to the stables to do what you ask, that’s one thing. Getting a bag back in and up here to you? I’d be noticed. I’d be caught.”

  “Why? Am I na’ allowed my own bag?”

  The serf made an impatient grunt. “Nae. I am na’ allowed in the stables. I would be caught. I would be sent to other labors. I’ve barely made it above status of the latrine, Sir. I’m na’ willing to risk it.”

  Vincent caught the smile. That lad was self-serving, too. That bode well. He understood selfishness best of all. Vincent eased a hand down to his lower leg, fishing for a moment in his sock for a bit of silver and sliding it up his flesh until he could palm it without the wolf noting. It didn’t work. It was as if the animal was watching and seeing everything in order to report later to his mistress. Vincent mentally shook off that fancy as well.

  “I dinna need the entire bag, my good man. I only need my fipple. Can you fetch that for me? It will be in one bag. The smaller one.”

  “A what?”

  “My reed. ’Tis a long tube that I’ve notched holes in. For making music. Can you find it and bring it? Perhaps with my next sup?”

  “I na’ certain….”

  The lad’s voice trailed off as he saw the coin held between Vincent’s two fingers as he moved them slightly so the silver caught what light there was.

  “My fipple. And the bag it’s in?” Vincent said.

  “Done.”

  The lad was moving for the stairs, although he was backing at first, before turning to run. His steps betrayed either his fear of the animal or his lust for the silver. Either way, he was a man after Vincent’s own heart, and that helped right the powers in his world again.

  Then Waif moved away, nosed the meat joint, and started eating, delicately tearing pieces with teeth that could take out a man’s throat. Vincent watched him for a bit and then eased his feet beneath him. The animal ignored him for the most part. Vincent lifted into a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet for a moment before attempting to rise. The moment he rose above a certain size, the animal was looking, and with grease shining on its teeth looked more devilish than ever. Vincent eased back onto his haunches, and the wolf went back to eating.

  He tried again, slower this time. The moment his height exceeded a certain point on the wall, the wolf was looking. Not threatening, just looking until Vincent went back to a crouch. Again he rose, at the same speed, and to the same point. And got the exact same reaction from the wolf.

  Vincent slid a fraction higher, and the wolf reacted, turning so quickly and violently that Vincent’s collapse onto his backside wasn’t graceful or anything other than exactly what it was: his legs going weak and giving out on him. Vincent had to consciously control the quivering of limbs that he’d worked into a surfeit of muscle and brawn—and adding to that was the queasy reaction in the pit of his belly. He was appalled at his cowardice and lack of luck. Being held prisoner by a wolf? Nobody outside this keep would believe it. And he was beginning to think that no amount of pay was worth this.

  It took some time to get his breathing back to normal and his heart to dull from the powerful thud it had been hampering him with. Vincent watched the wolf attack and demolish the joint of meat, until the snap of bone showed the point he’d reached. And each time, Vincent felt an odd leap of his pulse as he realized it could very well be his bones receiving the crushing pressure. This trained pet of hers was a better jailer than any Sassenach brute he’d met.

  “Tasty, is it?” Vincent finally asked.

  The animal growled slightly and started licking along the edge of its bone.

  “You do ken that she’ll pay for this?” Vincent asked.

  The wolf huffed with what could be amusement. The animal had every right—if it were mortal and had the ability to think. Vincent’s threats were idle and a waste of breath. They were doing what he needed them to, though. They seemed to have a calming effect on the animal, and using his voice was giving him a sense of courage. Which was worse than odd. Vincent Erick Danzel had never been accused of being unmanly and frightened.

  Until now.

  “I was promised gold. As much as I can carry. You ken what for?”

  The wolf didn’t respond, although it did stop the loud slurp of each tongue lap on the bone and seemed to wait.

  “To take her…heart. Make her
love me.”

  The wolf growled. Vincent smiled slightly.

  “And then to leave her.”

  The wolf was on its feet and snapping at him from just beyond his tucked-under ankles. Vincent pursed his lips and hoped it hid the way they trembled.

  “That’s right, Waif, old fellow. I’m to just go. Never look back. Leave her…to her heartburnings. All of them. And I’m to make certain she has plenty of them and that they’re strong. What say you to that?”

  The animal came closer, looming right over his bent knees and breathing hot, mutton-scented breath at Vincent’s nose. There was a moment when Vincent wondered if his heart was going to make it to the next beat, and then it decided it would with a thud so strong it pained his throat. Vincent swallowed around the obstruction.

  “Ho! I’ve go it!”

  The serf was back. Vincent hadn’t heard the lad’s approach over the force of his pulse combined with the growl that was emanating from Waif. But he didn’t need to hear anything. The wolf’s reaction was telling him of it. He realized what it was about now as the beast started snarling and snapping and looking altogether like he was starved and hadn’t just eaten a large joint of meat. The animal was acting out his role…for the effect.

  “Jesu!”

  The serf said it for him, and Vincent turned what was probably a sickly smile toward the lad.

  “You have my fipple?” he asked without making much sound.

  “Aye.” The lad held up the flute, and Vincent closed his eyes for a moment. It cleared the sheen of moisture on them, as well as hiding the weakness from everybody, including himself.

  “Pitch it at me. Be perfect with the aim, lad.”

  The serf did an underhanded toss, and it was so well-aimed that it landed in the sling of material made by the kilt between Vincent’s knees.

  “I—I’m going to need some…bread,” Vincent managed to say.

  “I’ve nae time for a second platter yet, sir,” the serf explained.

  “Did you na’ bring it with the first?”

  “Oh. Aye. Black bread. Baked this morn. Tasty. But dust-covered now.”

  “Toss it this way.”

  “There’s a pat of butter, as well.”