by Eli Easton
Malcolm’s breath stank of ale and the waft of carrion that always accompanied him these days, as if there were something rotting deep inside him. The smell seemed to go hand in hand with his increasingly erratic behavior, though none except Christian seemed willing to acknowledge it.
Malcolm hissed words into Christian’s face. “You think you walk on water, do you not, your highness?”
“Nay.”
“Are you full up with victory, my Brother? Does your own pretty glory make you hard?”
Malcolm ground a cruel thigh into Christian’s groin, and Christian gasped in shock. Malcolm had always been sadistic, but never before in a sexual way. Christian thanked his stars that Malcolm’s attack had turned his body cold after those warm thoughts of Sir William.
“Get off me, Brother, or I will sink this blade,” Christian threatened. His voice sounded soft and rasping thanks to the pressure on his windpipe, but no less deadly. His dagger’s point dug into Malcolm, piercing his padded hose and, just barely, the skin. Christian took great care with his blades. This one was as pointed as a needle and sharp enough to sink in to the hilt, as if flesh spread as easily as a whore’s thighs.
Malcolm sneered but backed off. “I saw you looking at him.” He spat in disgust on the floor.
Christian shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean. You’re mad.” But he could feel his face burning at being caught out.
“I see through you, Christian. I know what you are. And I will kill you and use your guts for sausage before I let you disgrace our father’s house.”
Christian swallowed a gasp, keeping his expression neutral. Malcolm was always a terror, but Christian had never seen him quite so venomous.
“I would never dishonor this house,” said Christian coolly, but his dagger remained at the ready in his hand.
“I know. I will make sure of it.” As if to show he had no fear, Malcolm reached out and gave Christian’s jaw a caress bitter with disdain. “Remember, you quivering bitch. I am watching.”
Christian jerked his chin away, and Malcolm slunk off. Christian wondered briefly if Malcolm even realized the insult he’d made to himself—calling Christian a female dog, as if it were the lowest creature, when Malcolm himself bore the name Hound.
By the saints, it was pointless to try to understand him. Malcolm was disordered in his mind, truly, and grew more so year by year. Heart pounding, Christian forced himself to walk calmly to his room. But once inside he bolted the door and leaned against it, trembling.
Malcolm hated him, had always hated him. But what had provoked him this time? Was it truly the look Christian had given Sir William from the dais? Or was it the fact that Christian had won acclaim? A nod from his father? Malcolm had always resented any attention Christian got—that was nothing new.
Then Christian remembered the sweet look from Lady Gwendolyn, the way her lips had lingered on his cheek. At the last banquet, he’d seen Malcolm watching her, his eyes greedy and half-lidded with want. And yes, there had been the bitter taint of jealousy in Malcolm’s violent display just now.
God’s teeth!I don’t want her! Christian wanted to open the door and shout it. But Malcolm was long gone.
When Christian was eight, he became a page in his father’s household. Most boys went to a neighboring castle for such duty, but he was the seventh son. Rules and attention to such structured matters were much relaxed by the time Christian came along. His father was stingy with servants, and his older brothers were demanding. Christian did his service at home until he was old enough to squire.
His brothers trained hard and long in the training yard near the castle stables. When he wasn’t doing menial labor, Christian was pressed to join them. He’d looked forward to his training at first, eyes aglow at the blunt wooden swords and the spinning quintain. But once in the arena, he was pushed and bullied and beaten, expected to keep up with his older brothers at once and with no relenting. Training came to mean pain and humiliation, and there was no escaping it.
Thus, darkness ate up the rest of his childhood years, like a black dragon chewing up infants in its razor-sharp teeth. His only comfort had been his sister, Ayleth, who bandaged his wounds, came to him in the night, and held him. She stifled his cries, and sometimes she cried with him.
Malcolm, six years Christian’s senior, had come close to killing him at least twice in the training arena. His hand was stayed only because of the watchful eye of Sir Andrew, the knight in charge of their practice. No one else knew it, or at least no one else would admit it. But Christian knew, and so did Malcolm. Christian’s other brothers all gave him plenty of bruises and halfhearted abuse, but none loathed him as Malcolm did. No other had cracked his ribs, crushed his fingers, or kneed him so hard in the groin he’d pissed blood for a week.
There was something deeply wrong with Malcolm. Christian knew this. It got worse as Malcolm grew older. Christian knew his father and other brothers were worried, but they did not see the worst of it because Malcolm saved his most violent tendencies for Christian alone. If Christian complained, he only looked weak and childish. At times Thomas or Stephen or one of the others would snap at Malcolm to leave off, to let Christian be. But it was not enough to save Christian truly. Never enough. And his father? The great lord dismissed all their infighting as an annoyance.
Christian had had no choice. Forced to toughen or die, he’d toughened until he’d become as brutal and wild in the arena as any of them. His gentle mouth was taught to bare its teeth in hatred. His sharp wits were bent to outmaneuvering and treachery.
Once, when he was fifteen and Malcolm had “accidently” pushed him off the top of a hayrick while they were building it, Christian had cornered him against a wagon and asked him one thing. Why?
“Because you are weak, Brother,” Malcolm had said, his voice low and terrible. “Weak and small. And you know what they do with runts.”
“I’m not a runt!” Christian had insisted, feeling unaccountably ashamed.
Malcolm’s only reply was an evil smile.
Thus Christian kept his doors and windows locked at night, always. Thus he carried several sharpened blades, even inside the castle. He’d escaped for a number of years as a squire, and they had been the best years of his life. But he’d been sucked back in as irresistibly as a man sinking in quicksand. His father ordered him home. Once Christian had earned his spurs, he was a knight, and as a knight, he owed fealty to his father’s castle.
Between those who wanted to bed him, those who wanted to wed him, and those who wanted him dead, the castle was a place more dangerous than any battlefield.
Chapter 3
William had requested a private audience with Lord Brandon. He did not get it until his sixth night sleeping with other visitors in the castle’s great hall. He was impatient, humming with anxiety for Elaine. But he forced himself to wait. Lord Brandon was his best hope.
To pass the time, William helped train the castle’s youth in the training arena. He loaded and unloaded wagons, making himself useful. He took long rides in the surrounding countryside on Tristan. He courted his own patience.
He had conversations with two of the lord’s sons, Sir Thomas and Sir Stephen, talking about battles and distant lords and their armaments. He curried their favor as much as pride and honor would allow.
He saw Sir Christian several times, at a distance. The mere sight of the young knight triggered memories of the gaze they’d shared on the tournament field. And that, in turn, caused William to feel unsettled and angry. He found himself staring at the man despite himself. But when Sir Christian turned to look at him, William looked away. And once, when Sir Christian was clearly walking toward him to speak to him, William pretended he hadn’t noticed, mounted his horse, and rode off.
He knew it was cowardly and rude. But he told himself he and Sir Christian could have nothing in common. It was better to avoid any awkwardness.
On the sixth night, most of the tournament guests had left, and Lord Brandon din
ed alone with his family. William was invited to feast with them and have his audience.
In the great hall, Lord Brandon sat at a table in the place of honor surrounded by his sons. His eldest, Edward, sat on his left. The second eldest, Stephen, on his right, and on down the table on either side. Wives and children sat at another table, and Lord Brandon’s highest-ranking knights and a few guests were at a third. It was as private as a castle was likely to get, and William knew it. It was now or never.
They were on the second course, which consisted of platters of various fowl, when Lord Brandon spoke loudly.
“Sir William Corbet. Come forth and name your purpose.”
William wiped his fingers carefully on his napkin and stood. He walked to the front of the lord’s table. With his legs slightly spread, he thrust his right hand across his breast and inclined his head in a sign of deference.
“Lord Brandon. I’m grateful for your generous hospitality in sharing the bounty of your castle. I thank you.”
Lord Brandon nodded. “I met your father once, Lord Geoffrey Corbet. Not seen him for many a year. He fares well?”
“He fares exceedingly well, thank you.”
Lord Brandon waited for him to go on.
“You may know that my beloved sister, Lady Elaine, was wed to Lord Robert Somerfield when she was sixteen. ’Twas seven years ago now.”
Lord Brandon narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“We’ve received only a few letters from her in that time, letters that were deliberately vague. Then last month we had a visitor from Lord Somerfield’s castle. He….” William’s voice wavered, and he swallowed. “He spoke of horrors visited upon my sister—beatings, imprisonment for perceived infractions, being denied food and water. I’m on my way to Cumberland to defend her honor.”
Lord Brandon sucked on a leg of pigeon, looking thoughtful. “Have you an army?” he asked.
Regret firmed William’s mouth. “Nay, my lord. I know you have a long-standing dispute with Lord Somerfield. I can offer my arm and my shield if you press the matter now. I’ve led men in battle for five years. I can—”
Lord Brandon held up a hand, stilling William’s tongue. William felt his face heat, and he strove to look detached. His request sounded much less reasonable here in the great hall than it had in his head.
“Your father, Lord Corbet—is he with you on this matter?”
William spoke coldly. “He had a large debt forgiven by Somerfield when he gave Elaine in marriage. He is not interested in repaying it.”
Lord Brandon smiled bitterly. “The law regards your sister as her husband’s property. Your own father does not support your cause. Yet you expect me to?” His voice was more curious than anything, but it sent a ripple of shame down William’s back.
“Somerfield is our common enemy. I can help you defeat him.”
Lord Brandon put down the leg, took up his knife, and picked at his teeth with dull eyes.
“What I may do about Somerfield, I will do in my own good time and for my own reasons.”
It was clearly the end of the discussion. William was bitterly disappointed, but he tried to salvage what he could. “I understand, my lord. Thank you for considering my request. Would you permit me to buy supplies from the castle? And hire a few of your men? I’ve never been in Somerfield’s territories. I could well use a guide.”
Lord Brandon opened his mouth to speak. His answer was not going to be favorable—William could see it on his face. But before anything emerged, a voice rang out loud and clear from the end of the table.
“I’ll go. I’ve been in Somerfield’s territories. I’ve seen his army do battle and can advise.”
William knew to whom the voice must belong, even though he had never heard it. He felt a cold wash of fear and anger in his belly as he turned his head to look at Sir Christian. Surely the man jested? He was mocking William. But… perhaps not. Christian was on his feet, facing his father with stoic determination, his arms clasped behind his back.
“Out of the question,” Lord Brandon said dismissively.
“When I squired for Sir Robert of Allendale, our force attacked Somerfield. We were in his territory for weeks.”
Lord Brandon took up his goblet and drank with a frown.
“I know that land better than any of your men,” Christian insisted.
“You were a mere squire then. You were not in the battle.”
“I was a squire with eyes and a strong sense of direction. And now I’m a knight with keener vision. It’s time we took another look at Somerfield’s holdings. I’ll return with maps, lists of his forces, and—”
Lord Brandon slammed his mug down and glowered at his youngest son. “I cannot be seen to support this. Sending my own son—”
“I’ll use another name,” said Christian quickly. “And I’ll not get near the castle. If I’m caught—and I won’t be, you know how slippery I can be—I’ll tell no one who I am. You tell me I need experience. Let me earn it. Let me do this for you, Father.”
Lord Brandon looked thoughtful. He… by the Virgin’s knees, he was considering it! Suddenly William realized it might come to pass. He might be stuck with Sir Christian Brandon. He spoke before thinking it through.
“With all respect, my lord, I would not want the responsibility of safeguarding your son.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The silence that fell in the hall was deafening, and William could hear the thudding gallop of his own heart. Lord Brandon’s face was as stormy as a summer thundercloud. He rose slowly to his feet. And almost as one, all the sons on both sides of him rose also.
For pity’s sake, William was never going to get the chance to let Somerfield disembowel him. It was going to happen right here.
“My son Christian,” Lord Brandon said stonily, “is the best archer in three territories. He may not be the pick of my loins, but by my sword, he’s a knight and a Brandon!”
William did not dare look at Sir Christian, realizing belatedly the insult he’d cast on him and apparently on the entire bloodline, perhaps as far back as a multitude of generations. He kept his gaze steady on the father, his face impassive. “Forgive my rash words. I did not speak true. What I meant to say was that I only expected to hire a few of your men. Allowing your own flesh and blood to accompany me would be… exceptionally generous of you, my lord. It would be a great honor.”
For a long moment, Lord Brandon did not speak. Then one of his sons did. It was Sir Malcolm, a man William’s age but with eyes as black as pitch, a lumpy face, and cruel lips. “Let the Crow go, Father. He needs more dirt on those spurs. And if he can gather intelligence on Somerfield, he’ll have done something useful for once in his life.”
“I am master here. Not one word more on the subject. Sit!” Lord Brandon barked. His sons all sat, except Sir Christian, who, William could tell from the corner of his eye, remained stubbornly standing.
“How do you intend to defend your sister’s honor without an army?” Lord Brandon asked William coldly.
William tilted up his chin. Truly, he had hoped for Brandon’s army. “Lord Somerfield will grant me an audience. I will ask him to release Lady Elaine. If he refuses, I’ll challenge him to single combat.”
Lord Brandon managed not to laugh, but the calculation that came into his eyes was ominous. William didn’t like the odds he saw there, and he steeled his jaw stubbornly. But either Brandon was not averse to games of chance or he had motives of his own. He sat down and took up his knife. When he spoke, it was with finality.
“My son, Sir Christian, will accompany you. I will give you supplies for the journey, but no other men. Christian will lead you to within sight of Somerfield’s castle and do reconnaissance for me. Christian, you will, under no circumstances, enter the castle bailey. And if you are caught, you can expect no acknowledgment of blood and no rescue. Is that understood?”
William finally looked at Sir Christian then. He still stood, arms clasped behind his back, looking at his fath
er. His color was high—that red flush that crawled across his cheekbones like a battle flag unfurling on the field. His eyes were alight with excitement. Cursed fool.
“I understand, Father. It will not come to that.”
“And upon your return, you will wed,” Lord Brandon continued. “Lady Margaret White is besotted with you. Her father has offered me an exceptional dowry. And if not her, you will choose another at once. Are we agreed?”
His tone brooked no argument. Sir Christian froze for a moment and then took a deep breath. “Yes, Father.”
Lord Brandon waved his knife at William. He was dismissed. He had the feeling Lord Brandon had somehow won that skirmish, Sir Christian had been fatally wounded, and he himself had been bloody well routed.
Chapter 4
Two days later William rode out of Lord Brandon’s bailey with Sir Christian Brandon at his heels. He looked round as they passed through the gates, but it was just the two of them.
“You have no squire?” Christian asked.
“My last one just achieved his spurs. I’d no time to look for another before the need for this journey arose,” William answered tersely. “You?”
“I’ve not been beyond my father’s lands since earning my spurs. Haven’t needed a squire of my own.” Something in his voice said that wasn’t the whole story. William didn’t care to hear any more, though, so he didn’t ask.
William assumed he could hire a lad to help him with his armor once he got closer to Somerfield’s castle. Besides, the idea of taking a new squire on such a dangerous quest disturbed his sense of honor. Men who knew what they were getting into and were still willing to fight by his side were one thing; an inexperienced youth was another.
Disturbingly, he had no clear idea which of these Sir Christian was, spurs or no.
William considered hiring additional men along the way, mercenaries who would trade loyalty, or the appearance of it, for his few pennies. But he didn’t have enough to raise an army, and his battle sense told him he either needed to attack Somerfield with a full force or go in alone. A dozen men would only prick Somerfield’s wariness and make him itch to defeat them.