“Where the whores live,” Brogan wasn’t a man of tact. He simply told the truth. “The men call that reeking hole the Sirens’ lair. It is downstairs. I will take you.”
With a somewhat appalled glance at St. Alban, she followed the massive soldier down the steps. St. Alban, thinking perhaps he should, also attended simply to keep Brogan from following through on interest from last night and brought up the rear. He simply did not think the lady was healthy for Brogan, in more ways than one.
At the bottom of the steps, Brogan took the lead. St. Alban, being the gentle knight that he was, took the lady’s hand into his elbow and properly escorted her down the dim hall. Halfway down, Brogan turned around to make sure she was behind him and saw that St. Alban had her well in hand. A bolt of jealously shot through him, such a surprise that he almost grunted with the force of it. Then he cursed himself for being so stupid. Had he been a knight with fine manners, he would have thought of taking the lady’s hand himself. But he had not. Still, that did not stop him from retracing his steps and visibly challenging St. Alban’s for the lady’s companionship.
“I will take her.”
His massive hand was extended. St. Alban looked at it, understood the meaning, and backed off graciously. The expression on Brogan’s face turned astonishingly gentle as he tucked they lady’s hand into the crook of his elbow, covered by the grimy tunic. St. Alban could only shake his head, following behind the pair as the filthy, dirty soldier escorted the very elegant lady down the corridor. He would not have believed it had he not seen it. But now that he was seeing it, he could do no more at the moment.
Remember your manners, lad, he thought. Remember what I’ve taught you.
Brogan, in fact, hardly remembered a thing at the moment. Having the small, lovely lady on his arm filled his head with fog; a delirious, lovely fog. It was kind of like walking on air, as if his whole being was being lifted and floating free. He hardly even remembered where he was going, only that he was walking with her on his arm; he could have kept walking like that forever.
“You look as if you’ve been very busy this morning,” Avalyn’s soft voice wafted up to him.
He gazed down at her, drinking in that lovely face. “We have two hundred new recruits,” he told her. “It is my job to train them to be soldiers.”
“That must be difficult.”
He shrugged. “I do not think so. I have been doing it for many years.”
“Did you do it in Germania?”
“Nay.” That is almost where he ended the conversation but realized he should probably explain. As always, dialogue did not come particularly easy to him. “I grew up as a child in Germania and came to England after my father died. I was ten years old at the time.”
“When did you become a soldier for the crown?”
“Almost as soon as I arrived. My mother married an English merchant who decided I should become English, too. He said that the only true way to do that was to fight for my new country. So he pledged me to the barracks of the Tower as a runner.”
It explained a little bit about him, she thought. The runners were the small boys who worked with the soldiers, literally ‘running’ from post to post, carrying messages or weapons or food. “But you eventually became more than a runner. You did not become a servant. You learned a skill.”
He nodded. “My father had been a great knight in Germania. I was raised on stories of valor. But he died before he could complete my training as a knight. When I became a runner, I already had some education in warfare thanks to my father.”
“Then why did you not become a knight?”
He looked at her again, a half-smile on his lips. “You know as well as I do that knighthood in England is only reserved for the English nobles. I am not one of them.”
She knew that, but her mind worked in a more detailed manner. Surely there had to be a way, a loophole, for him to gain his knighthood, even if his father was a foreign nobleman. Avalyn did not like dead-ends; if there was a solution, she would wrack her brain to try and find it. She was curious why Brogan might have given up so easily.
“Did you never try to find a sponsor who would support you for the knighthood?”
He shook his head, his eyes fixing straight ahead. “I believe that the king’s knights want me right where I am. They have put me in a position of trust and power training recruits, and when the king’s troops are pulled into battle, I lead the infantry. I am big and I am loud, and the men follow me.”
Avalyn gazed up at him, imagining how the knights might be intimidated by him. Why would they want to compete against someone like him? Naturally they would rather keep him in a position of submission. That was how the upper nobility tended to think; better to control him than to have him as a potential adversary. Jealously was a nasty thing.
With that thought, she was coming to think that perhaps this man might have been greatly mistreated by his adopted country. There was a bitterness to him she had sensed from the start. Perhaps this was part of it.
“I think you would make a fine knight,” she said simply, not knowing what else to say.
They had apparently reached their destination, for he came to a halt in front of a nondescript door. He faced her in the dim torch light.
“I am contented to be where I am,” he replied without emotion.
“Aye, but are you happy?”
His brow rippled with confusion. “I exist. Happiness is not a part of that existence.”
His reply shocked, even concerned, her. She opened her mouth to respond when the door they stood in front of suddenly flew open. Three women, one of whom she recognized as the lady she sought, were clustered in a writhing group in the doorway. A short, red-haired woman spoke in a shrill voice.
“Brogan,” she gasped happily. “I thought I heard your voice. We rarely see you, and suddenly we have the pleasure of seeing you two times in two days.”
Avalyn looked at Brogan, her mouth unconsciously gaping as thoughts of him visiting the whores suddenly crossed her mind. Brogan, however, was focused only on the three women in front of him. His expression, so relaxed moments before, was frighteningly hard.
“The lady has come to return Thel’s garment,” he said gruffly.
The three women looked at Avalyn as if just noticing her for the first time. Their eyes were wide with surprise, then disappointment, then suspicion. Thel, standing slightly behind the other two, pushed forward and lowered herself in an awkward curtsy. She could feel the heated, envious gazes of the women behind her; any new female in the barracks, no matter who she was, was cause for instant jealousy.
“My lady,” Thel said, somewhat hesitantly. “You… you look much better this morning.”
This woman was tolerable, Avalyn thought, but she definitely could do without the other two. There was something very dirty and loud about them. She handed the dress to Thel.
“I am much better, thank you,” she said. “I wanted to return your dress and thank you for its use. It was very kind of you.”
Thel nodded her head in acknowledgement. “You are welcome, my lady.”
The visit abruptly came to an end. Avalyn was trying to think of a way to gracefully excuse herself when Brogan suddenly put his massive arm around her shoulders and turned her away from the door. It was a very protective, shielding gesture. He didn’t say a word to the three women standing dejectedly and enviously in the doorway, but the glare he shot them was quite enough.
Avalyn looked over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of at least Thel. Somewhere over Brogan’s wrist she made eye contact.
“Thank you again,” she offered, half-farewell, half-apology for the strange departure.
Thel merely lifted a hand, twitching her fingers in a weak wave. The pasted-on polite smile faded as Brogan, Avalyn and St. Alban faded back down the hall. It was a wistful expression she now held. Not for Brogan; for what she wished to be. She wished to be a lady, too. But it was a secret wish, one that would never come true. Still,
it had made her feel good to have come into contact with a fine woman. Somehow it had made her better than the others. Softly, she closed the door.
Far down the hall, Avalyn looked up at Brogan. “That was very rude of you not to have at least offered a farewell,” she said frankly.
He looked at her. “Why?”
“Because it is,” she couldn’t believe she actually had to explain his behavior. “That woman, what is her name? Thel? Was kind to me. Did you ever thank her for her assistance?”
He was surprised. “Me?”
“Did you, or did you not, seek some sort of assistance from her after finding me in the river?”
He had. “I did not have any dry garments for you.”
“Did you ever thank her?”
He blinked. He didn’t think he had, but he could not remember. In truth, the thought had never occurred to him. He finally shook his head. Avalyn, receiving her answer, put her hands on her hips.
“You must go thank that woman immediately.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Why?”
An exasperated sigh escaped her lips. Then she looked to St. Alban, standing silently a few feet away. The old man had maintained his distance for the past several minutes, observing Brogan and the interaction with the lady. He was still very protective of his young friend. But he understood what the lady was driving at, and she was not wrong. St. Alban had been attempting to teach Brogan manners since the day he met him, twenty-five years ago. Clearing his throat softly, he took a few steps towards Brogan.
“Because it is right that you should thank those who have helped you, no matter who they are,” he explained patiently. “The lady is correct. You must go and thank Thel immediately.”
At first, Brogan felt as if they were ganging up on him. Then he thought about it, and realized they were probably correct. A well-mannered man would do such a thing. With a long look at St. Alban, he turned and made his way, however slowly, back down the hall towards the Sirens’ lair.
Avalyn and St. Alban stood watching as he knocked on the door. Two eager faces appeared, but not Thel’s. A few words were exchanged. After a moment, Thel made an appearance. As they watched, Brogan apparently made something of a very short speech and abruptly turned away. He headed back to Avalyn and St. Alban much faster than he had left them.
“Do you suppose it was a proper thanks?” Avalyn wondered aloud.
St. Alban sighed heavily. “Probably not,” he said. “But, then again, Brogan was never one for pleasantries. It is momentous enough that he has even made this effort.”
Avalyn turned to the old man, once again studying him. There was much interesting, and perhaps much secretive, in that old face. It intrigued her.
“He seems very bitter,” she commented.
St. Alban’s expression darkened. As Brogan approached within earshot, he turned away from her. “Lady, you have no idea.”
The words stuck in her head like the ringing of a shrill bell as Brogan came upon them. But she did not have time to pursue the thought as Brogan claimed her hand again. Avalyn didn’t notice; she was still looking at the old man, several feet in front of them, as they proceeded back down the hall.
What did he mean?
Silently, they entered into the foyer at the end of the hall where the main door was. Sunlight streamed in through the half-cracked door, almost blinding in the weak light of the entry. Avalyn realized where they were and further realized that her time with Brogan had come to an end. She was sorry. The more she discovered about this big, silent, awkward man, the more she wanted to know. And she was especially interested in St. Alban’s last statement.
She turned to Brogan, her hand still in the crook of his elbow. He was gazing down at her with that relaxed expression and a hint of a grin. With a forced smile, she removed her hand.
“Then I suppose my work here is done,” she said, looking between Brogan and St. Alban. “Thanks to you both for your graciousness. I do hope our paths cross again.”
“I believe that our paths crossing in the first place was a stroke of fortune, my lady,” St. Alban spoke before Brogan could. “It is doubtful that a fine lady such as yourself and lowly fighting men like us should meet up again.”
That was more than likely true. Avalyn smiled weakly, bobbed a curtsy, and headed for the door. As she put her hand out to open it, the door suddenly swung away and she looked up to see Brogan standing beside her, opening the door.
“A true gentleman would not let a lady walk unescorted,” his deep blue eyes glittered at her. “I would be honored to walk you home.”
Her smile at him was genuine. “That is kind of you, my lord.”
He returned her smile, held out his elbow, and she took it. Together, they walked out into the bright morning sunlight.
St. Alban stood silently, watching the two fade into the courtyard beyond, knowing that whatever barriers he had been trying to create between Brogan and the lady had been weak attempts. He cursed himself for his ineffectiveness because he knew, for a fact, that Brogan could not take another broken heart. Certainly, the lady was a nice distraction for the moment. But anything more than a moment and Brogan might not recover from the devastation sure to come. St. Alban could sense this heading towards disaster already. But he knew that Brogan would not see it that way. With a sigh, he headed back to his chamber.
Brogan, in fact, couldn’t see anything other than the sky, the birds, the grass, and the lady by his side. Up until last night, such things had lost their beauty for him. But today, the beauty was back. Every time he glanced at the lady on his arm, she would smile coyly and lower her lashes. She had charming dimples in her cheeks, creating more delight to her appearance. Brogan would smile back, deep grooves carving the vertical length of his cheeks, and avert his gaze. It was a very strange, and very pleasant, game of flirting. The amazing thing was that Brogan did not even realize it. He was just caught up in the moment.
“You mentioned your mother earlier,” Avalyn started the conversation. “Does she still live in England?”
Brogan nodded. “In London, still, with my stepfather.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“A half-brother, who will inherit my step father’s merchant business.”
“Is it a successful business?”
“Aye.” The one-word answer hung in the air and he realized he should probably say more. What would St. Alban tell him? Ask her about herself, fool! “What of you? Do your parents still live?”
Avalyn shook her head. “Nay. My mother and father passed away a few years ago, so I came to live with my aunt and uncle and two cousins.”
She’s Warwick, man. St. Alban’s words suddenly rang in his head. Brogan wasn’t a man of tact or politics, only one of truth. He was blunt with his question because he knew of no other way.
“Where do you live?”
She glanced up at him. “In the Beauchamp Tower.”
“I meant when you are not in London.”
She looked back down at the ground, wondering if she should tell him. But she could not lie; if he knew who occupied the Beauchamp Tower, then he knew very well where she lived.
“Warwick Castle.”
“Who are your aunt and uncle?”
She still did not look up. “My aunt is Anne de Neville. My uncle is Richard.”
She did not know what she had expected; that he would perhaps turn and leave her at that moment or curse her for her familial relations. She almost held her breath to see what his reaction would be. But Brogan kept walking, the pace leisurely, acting almost as if he hadn’t heard her answer. After a few moments, he finally let out something that sounded like a low whistle.
“I serve the king, lady.”
“I know.”
“Your uncle is at odds with the king.”
“Aye, he is.”
“Why?”
It was she who came to a halt. She looked up at him curiously. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”
He lifted
his huge shoulders. “Just that. Why is he at odds with the king?”
She looked more closely at him, realizing that it wasn’t a surly or foolish question. Something about his expression told her that he really wanted to know. How could he not know? She spoke before she could stop herself.
“Are you serious?”
He snorted, a grin on his lips. “Aye.”
Now she wasn’t sure if he was teasing her. “You are a soldier, Brogan. How could you not know this? Surely you must.”
His smile faded. He almost looked embarrassed. “I am infantry. I am told who I must fight and not always why I must fight them. I do what I am told. It is not my business to know politics.”
It was coming to occur to Avalyn that Brogan wasn’t toying with her. The manner in which he spoke and the things he said did not suggest a highly knowledgeable or politically savvy individual. In fact, he came across as something of a simple man. Not stupid, but very uncomplicated and direct. She suspected the knights he spoke of, the king’s knights, liked him that way. There would be nothing worse than an educated killing machine forming his own opinions that could quite possibly go against their own.
“Politics is an ugly affair,” she said after a moment, her voice gentler. She felt pity for the man. “My uncle used to be an ally of the king; very much so. In fact, he was instrumental in putting Edward on the throne about nine years ago. I remember the time; I was very young, but I still remember the excitement and violence of it. But my uncle and the king eventually had a falling out, as sometimes happens, and now they are at odds. My uncle believes that Henry should sit upon the throne, not Edward.”
Brogan nodded seriously, absorbing every word. “Why did he argue with the king?”
Why indeed, Avalyn thought. There were so many reasons, the least of which was the fact that the king was reluctant to wed his brothers to her young cousins, Anne and Isobel. That in particular seemed to greatly anger her uncle, but he had found a way around that. He believed he very much deserved ties to the royal family. She gazed up into Brogan’s curious face, searching for an answer that would not give him too much information. If the man was indeed deeply clever and this was all a ruse to get her to talk, then she would have to be very careful about what she said.
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