The Maiden and the Mercenary

by Nicole Locke

  ‘Not willing to divulge anything more?’ Balthus sighed. ‘You were different in Troyes. You talked—I think you even smiled.’

  He’d been different in Troyes, he’d been different at Mei Solis, but the more risks he took for someone else’s games, the less he found humorous. There was nothing light-hearted about his vow to protect Balthus of Warstone. Facing this dark fortress of death could be his doom as well.

  ‘If you’re concerned about finances,’ Louve said, ‘I’m certain some of your own great fortune you left behind is inside the fortress.’ Louve indicated with his chin. ‘You could walk through the gates and greet your brother. After all, you are a Warstone.’

  ‘One Ian tried to kill, so no thank you to your idea.’

  ‘Ian doesn’t know you know of his treachery.’

  ‘Still, why would I show up and remind him I’m alive?’

  ‘Thus, we are left with my original scheme.’

  ‘Which I disagreed with,’ Balthus said.

  ‘We are out of any options. The routine of the watch guards is never consistent, and they are frequently rotated. We know they train. Can see their inflicted injuries even from this distance.’

  ‘Ian must leave the fortress at some point. His wife and two sons aren’t in residence.’

  ‘Which implies he is a loving father and husband who misses his family. Given your familial history, that’s unlikely. Further, he hasn’t surfaced since he killed the messenger at Reynold’s gates. Reynold is too aware of him now for him to risk exposure. Will you tell me why your brothers are determined to kill each other?’

  ‘Reynold and I are not,’ Balthus said.

  ‘You and Reynold aren’t trying to kill each other...yet.’

  ‘I’ll prove my honesty to him,’ Balthus said.

  Louve had his doubts, but then he mistrusted many people, including himself because nothing he had done over many years felt true. He wanted coin to earn something of his own and dreamed of finding a woman to accept him, yet here he was, spying over an impenetrable fortress and scheming to destroy its owner.

  ‘I am Reynold’s brother in heart and will prove it with my deeds,’ Balthus repeated.

  Louve pointedly looked at Balthus’s wrapped hand. ‘Mere words.’

  Balthus lifted his left hand. ‘This means nothing.’

  ‘If so, why do you keep it wrapped? Why not show what your mother did?’

  ‘The wrapping is a reminder, that is all.’

  Another reason why Balthus could only be trusted so far. The pain of the injury should be enough of a reminder. Balthus’s mother, a woman bent on defeating her husband and the King, required her sons to repeatedly hold their left hand over a flame to prove their loyalty.

  Which begged the question, one that directly affected him. ‘Is it healing?’

  ‘If it comes to a battle of swords, it won’t matter if my left hand is healing or not.’

  ‘Until your sword arm is rendered useless, then you would be useless to me. I care very much how well you fight.’

  ‘Should we prove ourselves to each other again, Louve? Last time, I was restraining my full skills.’

  ‘Mere posturing. All I know with certainty was that I was holding back,’ Louve said. ‘I have no knowledge of your skills.’

  ‘I told you—’

  ‘It’s not only your sword arm I worry about—I’m concerned you won’t be able to perform the hand signals,’ Louve pointed out.

  ‘Those are useless,’ Balthus said.

  ‘Not if we’re stuck in the room, but unable to talk. We may need to divide the room on attack and it’s best to know what we’re doing without letting the enemy know.’

  ‘The enemy being my family.’ Balthus exhaled loudly. ‘What makes you think you can get into Ian’s fortress?’

  ‘I was something else before your brother hired me.’

  ‘Your estate management,’ Balthus scoffed.

  Not his estate, but a childhood friend’s. For now, though he had much coin, he needed more for the estate he wanted for his lineage.

  ‘Disdain it all you want, but my experience will save this wretched mission,’ Louve said. ‘I’m approaching the fortress and asking for work. No mercenaries, no reinforcement. Ridiculous though they might be to any of you, my past skills will be useful.’

  He might be a mercenary now, but before he’d only managed another’s estate. He wanted his own; he wanted land. If he kept to that plan, if he remembered what all this intrigue was for, perhaps he’d keep his head.

  ‘You won’t get to use your skills when they gut you.’

  ‘They don’t know who I am.’

  ‘They know!’ Balthus said. ‘They always know.’

  Reynold had often argued the same. ‘Fair enough. They know, and they’ll let me in as some form of amusement, or they gut me. But what other choices do we have? None. You can’t go and the rest of the men only know how to swing swords. It will be me who completes the tasks. It always was.’

  ‘If they let you in and you find work, what then?’

  ‘I search all the rooms for this mysterious parchment Reynold insists Ian must have.’

  ‘It won’t be merely lying about, and what happens if it doesn’t exist?’

  ‘Then we capture Ian and you can torture him for information.’

  ‘Why am I talking to you? You’re a dead man...’ Balthus exhaled ‘...who shouldn’t be worried about some great treasure no one knows about except Reynold.’

  ‘We don’t know if no one knows of it. Ian might have already guessed, given he’s got the parchment, and your parents probably know, too.’ Louve shrugged. ‘If they know of the Jewell of Kings and the parchment and put them together... You appreciate neither Ian nor your family can gain any treasure that can fell countries.’

  ‘It’s foolish going after treasures,’ Balthus said. ‘What will truly tip the balance is to acquire the legend. We should be pursuing the dagger and jewel, not information. Why can’t you or my brother understand the Jewell of Kings resurfacing has changed everything with the war against Scotland?’

  ‘Which is why your family wants it and so does the King of England. But the legend only holds if there’s something to support it. Hence the treasure. As much as King Edward believes it is, the gem isn’t truly magical like Excalibur.’

  Louve couldn’t believe the weight of the world and his hope of a peaceful life rested on legends, but they did. Over the last years, the Jewell of Kings, a green gem, much compared to Excalibur, resurfaced thanks to the Warstones’ intrigues. The legend was that whoever held the gem held Scotland. Whether true or not, the perception of it was enough to sway everything to King Edward’s side. Since the Warstones wanted more power than the King, they coveted it as well.

  But Reynold had studied the gem, which had been hidden in the hollow handle of a dagger, and was certain it had another meaning. Together they’d point the direction to enough wealth to bring all monarchs to their knees. Reynold didn’t want anyone to have any of it. In that, Louve agreed.

  ‘We must obtain the gem, the dagger and any written words leading to the legend or to any treasure. We’re here to obtain at least the parchment hidden somewhere in Ian of Warstone’s fortress.’ Louve loosened his hands on the reins. ‘We can’t let your family obtain more wealth or power.’

  Balthus scoffed. ‘Some stupid legend, some gaudy gem and here we are, breaching a fortress for a scrap of paper, and have no strategy to get out.’

  ‘I’m to go in as a humble servant. We’re agreed to my plan?’ Louve said.

  ‘No,’ Balthus said. ‘But we are resolved.’

  Chapter Two

  Biedeluue let out a rough exhale, then another. Over forty goblets now in front of her, over forty gulps of ale.

  For the first time in her life, she wasn’t happy with her s
hort legs and arms, nor the shelf her breasts made in front of her. Breasts she’d proudly inherited from her grandmother were no good now. She was two heads shorter than Galen, who could dust the ceiling with his head if he wanted. And he was thin like a broomstick, with these unnaturally long arms which meant the ale should have hit him by now.

  She narrowed her gaze on him. All five of his legs were as unsteady as the rest of him. It wouldn’t be long now. All she had to do was...hmm.

  She shoved her breasts to one side, then the other. When they bounced back to the front, she tried moving the left one over the... No, that just hurt. She willed them to suddenly decrease.

  ‘Need some help with those?’ Henry shouted in her ear. ‘Ow!’

  ‘That’s what you get for startling someone,’ she said.

  Henry rubbed the side of his head. She didn’t think she’d hit him that hard with the goblet.

  ‘I was here the entire time, Biedeluue.’

  ‘And standing too close!’ If he bumped into her one more time, she was truly going to hurt him.

  ‘Of course I’m standing close. How am I to hold them away for you!’

  Someone guffawed.

  She elbowed Henry. ‘Maybe you should get someone to hold yours first.’

  The crowd roared and Henry, who was as round as she, stepped gingerly back. She knew he wouldn’t let the insult rest. She hoped he wouldn’t make her pay now when she was up against his closest friend and someone she’d only known for a couple of weeks.

  All these people she’d only known for a couple of weeks. Hence, she played games like this in the hope of ingratiating herself with people who’d known each other their entire lives. She needed to be their friend, too. Needed them to trust her without question. She needed them to think her honest and fun and all good because she needed to... Because her sister, her sister was...

  Goblets! She clenched the one in her hand and eyed the wobbling tower she’d made before her.

  She approached the table again as an idea entered her head. If she bent to the right and used her left arm at just the right angle, it was possible. Oh, yes, it was possible. Flashing them all a grin she couldn’t contain, she shouted, ‘Watch and weep, Galen. Watch and weep.’

  The chanting grew to an all-out roar.

  * * *

  Louve had never seen such utter chaotic carnage before in his life. This was saying a lot after years on the road, of inns, of mercenaries, of drinking until he woke up with two women the next day, only to discover he’d blacked out before anything had begun.

  The mercenaries had told the tale over and over for a year. He’d been grateful when their contract ended and they were dismissed. Most of the mercenaries he knew only a short time. Only he stayed in the employ of Reynold of Warstone, which was like befriending a dagger pointed towards you. One which he parried with jests and a continual meddling that eased the dark nights and even darker deeds they were forced to do.

  Humour he knew, but this pandemonium was pure recklessness on a scale that had no known limit. For one moment, only one, he let himself revel in the sheer entertainment. The crooked goblets, the spilled ale. The ruddy faces of those imbibing and those simply filled with laughter at the frivolity.

  At one time in his life, this was something he would have encouraged, would have done. But now, with everything at risk, this enjoyment could get him killed. He refused for there to be a slip. Not this soon, and fast, not after each step had been carefully cultivated.

  It was nothing to gain access into the fortress despite the mesnie surrounding the gates. Not a weapon upon him, hunched shoulders and clothing indicating poverty. He looked no more or less like any other villager or tenant as he approached the five guards.

  He told the first watchmen he was looking for work within the household. There was a burst of laughter, but the man on his right who was just out of his direct sight sobered up too quickly, which instantly alerted Louve. As Louve glanced his way, the man forced a chuckle and reported it was their lucky day. He pointed the way to the porter who allowed access through the fortress door.

  With a quick glance at the guards, the porter swung the door open and told him to find the Steward. When he approached the Steward, he seemed almost frightened of Louve. So Louve kept his eyes lowered and hunched his shoulders even more.

  From his experience, stewards from grand houses were often more arrogant than the lords. With good reason—their duties were both financial and ministerial. They oversaw everything from deciphering ledgers for the lord’s children, down to what the brewer needed from the fields to make more ale.

  This Steward’s temperament would not ease and Louve couldn’t slump any further without stooping, and he couldn’t make his voice any less menacing as he answered the typical questions. Even so, through his agitation, the Steward became sycophantic, almost ridiculously grateful.

  It was true Louve knew the duties of a steward. He was educated in ledgers as well as the supplies needed for the poulters, but something wasn’t right. Still, when he was offered the position of usher, he took it. Everything about this mission was dangerous. If it was a trap, it was too good of a one to ignore.

  An usher oversaw the hall, the cook and food supplies. He was denied access to the coffers and spices, but with everything else he had access to most of the house and to Ian of Warstone.

  He could poison or capture Ian to bring to his brother Balthus for questioning. Or, if he was fortunate, he could rifle through his private rooms and find the parchment Reynold sought to defeat the Warstones.

  Weeks of scheming, of examining this entire mission from every angle, and nothing came close to this opportunity, which meant absolutely nothing could jeopardise it.

  When the Steward waved him to the kitchens, saying he’d follow him in shortly, Louve entered the cavernous rooms with a confidence he felt to his bones. This was the mission that would earn him the last bit of coin he needed. Not only the wealth, but the power he needed to protect it.

  Which meant the scene before him was insupportable. Over thirty servants in the middle of the morning, drinking, chanting, chairs overturned, the whitest of flours spilled through a doorway, and two tables stacked with what was could only be described as a steward’s nightmare: goblets for banquets that could topple, break and the cost lost!

  If the Steward saw the debacle in front of him, Louve wouldn’t oversee anything on the Warstone estate, he’d be marched right out as easily as he came in.

  * * *

  ‘Stop this at once!’ The voice behind Bied boomed across the kitchens. The resonating authority of it quashed all joviality and startled every party involved, including herself, shattering any bit of concentration Bied had to stay steady with one knee on the table, one leg off. One arm stretched over the stacked goblets, one chest pointed the opposite direction. One sweaty palm on a table ledge, which spasmed and slipped.

  She didn’t stand a chance then. Though she truly tried, because her first instinct was to fall forward onto the table. Less distance than the floor, and most of her weight was already on it. Self-preservation demanded she fall forward.

  But the goblets, the goblets, the goblets. She might as well be falling on priceless daggers. So, swinging her goblet-holding arm over her head, she propelled herself towards the floor.

  Sounds began then. Cursing from that cutting voice, shouts she recognised from Tess, the baritone of Henry’s. Something wetter, fouler, as Galen heaved whatever he’d eaten.

  When had he had time to eat? Cheater!

  All of it she was aware of, as if it was happening outside herself. Her fingers suddenly releasing the heavy goblet; her horror as she registered its trajectory. Tess appearing on the other side, reaching her arm out like a bread paddle, swatting it away from her tower and towards Galen’s. Henry’s great arm thrusting forward to block. His fingertips making contact, sending her goblet so it hit
only the side of Galen’s goblet tower. One tumbled, two, three... Henry scrambling full into her view to stop the next goblet’s fate.

  That wasn’t right. Her vision changed to the top of the ceiling, the thick oak beams heavy with smoke, and bird droppings that needed to be—

  Oh, my. She was falling and it was going to hurt. ‘Henry! Henry, you were supposed to remain behind—oomph!’

  Her head cracked against the top of a shoulder, two arms snapped around her waist, her body continued to plummet, but didn’t fall. Only continued to press, press, press against an unyielding object, who cradled her body until her feet slid to the floor one after the other.

  A clumsy safe landing that was part drunkenness, part the fall and entirely the fault of the man who was holding her steady.

  She swung around in his arms, stared at a chest that no amount of poorly weaved tunic could disguise as less than absolutely glorious and stabbed her finger right into the middle of it. ‘How dare you!’

  The arms around her constricted, her breasts pressed tighter, her nose bumping forward, flattening her palm between them. A palm that might have ever so slightly brushed across to feel every ripple. Oh, yes. Glorious.

  ‘Can you even stand?’

  She peered upward to an unknown strong jawline. ‘Where’d you come from?’

  ‘Bring a chair,’ he boomed.

  That voice! She shoved against his chest—he didn’t move. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Chair, now! Remove that man from the kitchens, clean up the mess he made. You and you, get these goblets back to the pantry, and, you, take care of this ale. You as well. And all those gawking in the doorways, if you don’t clean the floor immediately, and that includes the flour, I’ll wipe it up with your carcases.’

  People moved. They moved as if this glorious-chested man with his strong jawline had anything to do with any of them.

  ‘Now, wait! You have no authority here. This is a private...affair. We’re conducting important matters for the lord, we are. You can’t barge in here.’