The Maiden and the Mercenary

by Nicole Locke

  The tension building since he had approached the guards this morning vanished as Balthus’s words tolled: They know. They always know.

  ‘Jeanne, are you informing me you’ve been sent to announce Lord Warstone desires to leave his private chambers and dine in the hall with his men...tonight?’

  ‘His mistress as well.’

  He ignored a gasp behind him. There were so many people milling about doing nothing it was a miracle anything got done.

  What this trembling servant was telling him far outweighed kitchen duties. For it was lethally evident the Warstones did like their games. No steward present and a stranger was allowed to take his duties? The lord of the manor deciding to dine in the Hall for the first time in a year? Indeed, Ian of Warstone knew he was here.

  Which meant Balthus was at risk and he couldn’t warn him. At least the youngest Warstone wasn’t dead. If Balthus had been caught, there would be no need for games, Louve would also be killed. There was no reason for Ian to keep a mere mercenary and servant alive.

  Still, if he rushed towards the stairs and forced a confrontation with Ian, he’d end up tortured or dead and nothing would be gained. If he played a Warstone at his games, he could still lose, but information regarding the parchment, their entire reason for being here, could be obtained as well.

  Given his skills, he was effective at discovering information, as well as serving food. Now he felt what he always did when approaching an enemy: anticipation.

  ‘Jeanne, get me the Cook,’ he said.

  ‘Cook?’ Jeanne darted a glance behind him.

  Ah, yes, Cook was that lump in the corner. That would need to be addressed, but in the meantime, he was needed tonight.

  ‘The Cook,’ he said. Voices were behind him, but he ignored them. They could wait. Ian and his games were the priority. If the great Lord Warstone wanted to dine in the Hall, Louve would meet him there. ‘Regardless of the past, he’s needed tonight.’

  She glanced behind him again and his annoyance flared. There were people behind him vying for his attention and distracting hers. In the years he’d been a mercenary he’d forgotten how vexing the bombardment of distractions could be.

  Looking wildly around and then at her feet, Jeanne mumbled, ‘Cook has only prepared food for the private chambers. He hasn’t organised the Hall for weeks. Not since—’

  He waited, but Jeanne didn’t raise her head or her voice. Why Cook hadn’t been doing his duties was unimportant for tonight. If Ian wanted to play games, he would be more than happy to play along. And those people behind him were much too close now. He’d take his frustrations out on them soon enough.

  ‘But you stated the guards and household have been fed,’ he enunciated slowly. ‘There’s food. If Cook hasn’t done his duties for weeks, who has been in charge of the kitchens?’

  ‘Biedeluue.’ A voice behind him forced through his conversation.

  A name, among all other names, he knew.

  ‘The woman...with the goblets,’ Jeanne announced helpfully, unerringly. Finally finding her voice, though it wasn’t needed.

  Of course it was her. Louve turned.

  The woman he’d carried to her room and laid in her bed, the woman he alone had partially undressed and tended in her sickness, stood before him, a tilt to her chin he recognised in only a day. She looked...better.

  Another woman stood at her side. Tall and with wild curly blond hair. This one had yelled and added to the chaos. She also stood with an almost aggressive stance, as if she was preparing for battle. No one, not even the most skilled servant, would ever approach their superiors like these two.

  Which lent itself to so many possibilities and all of them in his favour. Provided he could determine exactly who Biedeluue was here, because she was more than a conscientious kitchen servant helping the cook.

  The way she’d rallied the staff behind her games this morning and under the watchful eye of the guards and Lord Warstone himself! If the antics she did hadn’t clashed with his objective here, he’d...admire her. It took courage and a certain wildness to conduct such a spectacle.

  For a moment he thought of Reynold’s well-orchestrated households and the absolute irreverence in this one. Barely hiding the curve to his lips, Louve knew just how he could be victorious here.

  Welcome to the games, Ian.

  * * *

  Bied’s heart thumped in her chest and she was certain the entire household could see it, especially since there was little fabric holding it back, but she didn’t care. Everything Tess alluded to was true. Her sister would be in the Hall this evening. She could get word to her. Could see her, talk to her, at least convey somehow that her older sister was here to rescue her. Everything she’d been hoping for, for weeks, was almost within her reach.

  Yet how was she to do the rest of it? Tess had announced she was in charge of the kitchens. She had no such responsibilities. Over the last sennight, she’d swept, cleaned knives and goblets, did odd tasks to support others. She didn’t meal plan, or source food, or direct the baker what to bake. The Steward did.

  Without him, she had no idea how to start, but she’d do it, she’d do anything for her sister. Even if she had to lie and cheat her way through this.

  The only problem was she could omit the truth, but any falsehood and her pale skin blushed.

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘You’ve been in charge of the kitchen?’

  ‘I’ve been helping, yes,’ she said. Still all true, but she could feel the heat beginning, and she took a deep breath. Or as deep as she could within the constrictions of her gown.

  ‘Helping,’ he drawled. His eyes stayed with her, but she swore she felt that gaze elsewhere. As though he had taken in her appearance, the too-tight gown, her hastily secured hair, the fact that mere hours ago she’d been in a drunken sleep.

  This man made her all too aware she’d slept the morning away. Louve, such an unusual name, but fitting. A wolf with his gaze that told nothing of himself, yet somehow conveyed what he thought of her. A liar. Or at least someone who hid something. Which she did.

  ‘Sir, I’m head baker and, if there is to be a feast tonight, I need to get to the ovens,’ Tess blurted out.

  Bied jumped.

  Louve’s eyes never left hers. ‘What must be done?’

  Bied knew he was testing her, but what did the bakers do except make bread? What more did he want? ‘Obviously, the trenchers.’

  ‘Which were done yesterday, but the pasties and tarts must be prepared,’ Tess added.

  Louve nodded. Bied didn’t dare take her eyes off of him, though she did move towards Tess to block her. She needed her friend here, to lie for her when she couldn’t.

  ‘I’m assuming this is not your gown,’ he said.

  Of course he’d mention the gown. She didn’t need to look down to see her chest was a proper shelf, but it shouldn’t matter to him, though it obviously did. Which irritated her. Still, she tried to keep to the role she’d been playing here as an obedient helpful servant. She was able to keep that persona with the Steward, so why not the Usher? ‘It’s borrowed.’

  ‘You have no others?’

  ‘Her only gown is with the laundress, sir,’ Tess replied. ‘It should be dried by tomorrow.’

  Louve appeared to keep his gaze on hers, but she swore he looked down. Which, after this morning, was too much, and she snapped.

  ‘This is perfectly suited for the kitchens. It won’t—’

  He eyed Tess. ‘Leave...for now.’

  Eyes huge, Tess spun. Her friend seemed half-amused, half-panicky. Bied was certain her glare conveyed how she was all panicky and not a bit amused.

  The rest of the kitchen staff whirled around them. Not with the usual activity as when the Steward was here. Not anything close to what was needed if she was to prepare food fit for a man who personally knew the King of France
and England, and probably all the other rulers in the world.

  ‘Trenchers, hmm...’ He stretched his back, before it collapsed again. ‘How exactly have you been helping?’

  The start of a blush was beginning, but she wouldn’t back down. This had to be done. How hard could it be to fool a man who knew nothing? ‘Wherever my help is needed.’ When his eyes narrowed, she continued, ‘Which has been much over the last few weeks. With Cook and all.’

  ‘Who exactly are you, then?’ he asked. There wasn’t a note of curiosity in his voice. There was only a demand. An order.

  Hours of sleep since this morning. Food in her stomach, freshly washed, dressed. More prepared than she’d ever been to face any adversity, Bied faced this man called Louve.

  But her answer didn’t come tripping off her tongue. Because although the usual and expected words were being said, his far-too-intense eyes seemed to be asking for more than her name.

  For one foolish moment she wanted to answer him with the truth. That she had a sister trapped upstairs and he actually had the ability to help her. This enigmatic, unknown, irksome man had the power to release her sister and all the desperation in her welled up at the thought. The overwhelming feeling of desperation to tell this stranger terrified her, so she did the one deed she always did when she felt vulnerable.

  ‘Who exactly are you?’ she countered.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You ask a question of me, though it’s a strange one. Some time has gone since this morning and Tess just told you.’

  ‘The same logic could apply to you. Some time has gone on since this morning—why ask me who I am?’

  Why, indeed? Had she thought this man simple? That thought had come unquestionably from the ale. ‘I’ve been asleep.’

  ‘You haven’t been asleep. You blacked out on your—are you still ale-addled? Is that why you couldn’t answer my questions?’ He leaned in and sniffed. ‘You don’t smell drunk.’

  No, not drunk, but momentarily stunned. He smelled like steel, like the forests outside her childhood home. It wasn’t her imagination that conjured how glorious this man was. She wasn’t prepared to face him at all. But she wasn’t here for him, she was here for her sister.

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ she said. ‘My friends have taken care of me. I’m clean, dressed, fed and prepared to work.’ Although he didn’t need to know that she’d been undressed and dressed by Tess, or brought food. But he did need to know her name and she needed to not antagonise this man whose expression changed from glowering to something else as she told him what her friends had done for her.

  Did he resent that they took care of her? ‘You won’t punish them for taking care of me? If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be here now.’

  ‘Your friends helped you,’ he said, a certain tenseness vibrating through him as his eyes darkened before he looked away.

  Oh, no, he intended to dismiss her just as she’d told Tess. All because she’d been acting like herself. She’d blame it on the worry for her sister, but if she’d acted like this in front of Steward, no amount of begging would have got her an occupation here.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, changing her tone, and the way she stood. When had she placed her hands on her hips? ‘I’m no more or less than a servant helping in the kitchens. They call me Bied... Louve.’

  A light to his eyes, a twitch to his lips. That did something to him. Changed that blue, dark gaze of his to something more...natural, effortless. As if humour was innate to him and he hid it. But that glimmer was there and gone within a blink. Now she wasn’t so certain he didn’t intend to toss her outside and—he couldn’t toss her. No one man could. And she truly needed to remember who she was here for. Her sister.

  ‘I’ve been helping in the kitchen. Fare has made it to the tables for staff and guards. Lord Warstone when he is in residence eats in his private chambers.’

  ‘And where are those chambers?’ Louve asked. ‘It might be helpful to know the distance to determine the temperature of the food.’

  She frowned. ‘His chambers are up the narrow staircase on the far side of the Hall.’

  He nodded as though what she said was of the utmost importance. ‘And how many guards are up there in case they wanted food?’

  ‘I feed the guards in the Hall,’ she said, again. It was an odd question and one she had no time for. ‘Now, if Lord Warstone desires to eat in the Hall, I need to begin.’

  ‘Am I being dismissed?’ An arch of one dark brow over blue eyes that seemed lit with some light.

  His words were harsh, but the tone—it was almost as though he was amused by her words.

  She was dismissing him, but how to state it and why was she acting like this? All the years of travel from village to village. If she wanted work, she knew to appear meek and grateful for a position. It wouldn’t always last—eventually, she’d insult, make one too many suggestions or play one too many pranks, and she’d be off to search for another job.

  For two weeks, when it came to the staff here, she’d been herself. When it came to her superiors like the Steward, she kept the mantle of a docile servant. It wasn’t always easy, but the stakes had never been so high. She’d turn herself into a completely other person if it meant she’d free Margery.

  But this man kept meddling and prodding until she reacted, but not as a servant. And if she couldn’t remember to be a servant with him, what other parts of herself would she forget? She was here for her sister, yet she continually saw him as a man. He needed to do his duties and leave her alone.

  ‘You wish for me to do my tasks, do you not?’ she retorted.

  One word between tightened lips. ‘Indeed.’

  Bied just kept back the breath of relief as he stepped to turn. Which was good because he pivoted again to face her.

  ‘One more matter,’ he said. ‘I want the dishes to be served sequentially.’

  ‘Pardon?’ she said, watching Louve adjust his back. She had seen him do that before. Perhaps it irritated him and that was why he hunched.

  ‘Tonight, for Lord Warstone, there will not be the first, second and third courses with the variety of dishes at the table at once, I want the dishes to be one after the other.’

  She might know nothing of food preparation or menu planning, but she knew service of food and sweeping floors. Depending on if it was a meat or fish day, the three courses would have multiple dishes set on the table for the diners to serve themselves.

  This Usher wanted the dishes to be brought out one by one. She’d never heard of such manners, not in all of France.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘I do,’ she said. Still, she couldn’t help but ask, ‘But wouldn’t that extend the length of the meal? With the guards, it might be midnight by the time the meal was complete.’

  ‘Exactly. Can you do it?’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’ She’d do anything, even serve a disaster of a meal the incorrect way. But why did she feel like this was a jest?

  Chapter Six

  The feast was underway, with the guards coming in from their duties and Ian and his mistress already descended. The water was prepared for the handwashing, the table set with utmost care. Goblets such as they were, already on the tables. Ale and wine placed on the side table for service.

  The details for tonight needed to be to Louve’s exact specifications. All customs not forgotten, but wholly disregarded. They were in France. The Warstones were half-French, but Louve... Louve was all English. If Ian knew he was here, well, they’d serve in as much the English style as they could. An offensive move on his part in the games started.

  All that was needed was food, which thankfully smelled as though it was being prepared. But that was the only fortuitous detail in the kitchen. The rest? The scents weren’t mouth-watering, more eye-watering. The cleanliness he had secured was once again destroyed. Pots stacked, pe
elings on the floor. Something vile spilled down the sides of one buffet. Perhaps it was wine with sops, perhaps it was something he’d rather not know.

  Bied’s hair was wildly sticking out from her cap. Her stature didn’t allow for space between herself and the pot and her borrowed gown was plastered to her body. Did she have no shawl, some square piece of linen? The stretch of the fabric would be any man’s undoing. It was certainly his.

  She was a woman who was all his fantasies and nightmares in one. Fantasies because of her enigmatic hair and eyes, because of curves she couldn’t and didn’t hide. Because of the way she lifted her chin and demanded answers.

  Nightmares because she lifted her chin and demanded answers. Because she was reckless, and someone determined and reckless took risks and didn’t care about consequences. Someone like that wasn’t...containable. And the familiar stab of lust that thought brought about was dangerous to the mission. To him.

  She thought her friends had undressed her. What would she say if she knew it was he who’d ordered Henry to leave the servants’ room? That it was he alone who’d carried her to one of the beds and had wrenched her soiled gown from her body and bared her to her chemise?

  That he had taken a warm cloth to her hands, to her face, noting in the most intimate ways the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the tiny scar along her jawline, the plush, almost decadent lips that would leave any man wanting until he kissed them.

  Every act he did was in her care and concern. No movement untoward or indefensible. Though, in truth, being alone in her quarters was wicked, a distraction he could ill afford and had no answer for if some woman servant stormed in the room and shrieked.

  Yet, he’d stayed, and prepared to announce he’d unbound her hair from the bun so her head might rest more easily on the thin mattress, which was all very true, but did not explain the heat of desire as he felt the thick plaits. Nor did it justify the wish to sink his fingers into the thick locks to know the texture, to know...

  That smell.