by Tamara Leigh
“Since she prefers your company and appears to be of aid, the king agreed she should stay your side until you depart.”
“Generous.” As he picked the apple from his plate, he saw her reach and the shape of the goblet she raised to her mouth.
Amid the din of those succumbing to the pleasure of drink and food, was this an opportunity to learn what she had yet to reveal of herself and what she knew of his family? “Lady, I would understand—”
“Sir Theriot.” Princess Cristina curled fingers over his arm.
Because he had moved his attention elsewhere? “Princess?”
“I am thinking you prefer your apple sliced the same as I. Have you need of a meat dagger, you may use mine.” He heard its blade slide across the wood of his plate and wondered how quickly someone would correct her for offering a weapon. Though Malcolm allowed his prisoner much freedom, it was unseemly to provide him a blade, especially in close proximity to one of the royals.
He touched the handle. “Peeled. I find the skin unappetizing.”
“Then remove it. That is…I mean…”
That she who had been intent on offending now hesitated, roused sympathy for one who must be bereft of attention to so soon set aside anger and prejudice. It could not be easy dwelling in the shadow of a brother who was to have been king and a sister who was to be queen. Too, though it was said she was pretty, the older sister’s beauty was lauded.
Pricked by guilt over so closely attending to her, he said, “I appreciate your concern and belief I can be trusted with a dagger, but even in the absence of sight, I remain capable of peeling an apple.”
“I would like to see that.” It was said with enthusiasm as if she wished a trick performed. And it was something of a trick. Though the boy of him had perfected the technique, absent sight it would be more challenge than amusement.
He moved his right hand to the plate, slid fingers over the rim, and turned them around a handle so smooth he knew it was fashioned of bone.
Within sight of any who looked their way—and for certain Marguerite watched—he verified the blade’s upper edge was dull, moved his grip higher, and raised the apple in his other hand. Angling the dagger’s point upward, he placed its keen lower edge near the stem, set the thumb of the dagger-wielding hand on the smooth surface to guide the way forward, and began turning the apple. Providing he did not err, the skin would come away in what would be a narrow ribbon without break.
The apple was nearly shed of its clothing when Cristina exclaimed, “Were your chin not up, I would question if ’tis true you cannot see.”
It amused she was easily impressed, but embittered it was not the swing of a sword that gained her admiration.
Coming to the bottom of the apple, he twisted the blade to sever the last of the peel, dropped the spiraling length atop his plate, and turned the dagger’s handle toward Cristina. “I thank you.”
Wishing her touch disturbed the same as Marguerite’s, he took a bite of what was barely ripe and flicked a thumb across his lower lip to wipe away juice intent on wetting his whiskered chin. Once more sinking his teeth into the apple, he returned his thoughts to what remained unanswered about Marguerite.
“I begin to understand why my sister expends prayer on you,” Cristina said, “though so great a regard is inappropriate for a lady betrothed to another.”
Though he understood what she alluded to and thought it bred of jealousy, he asked, “Inappropriate?”
“She visits you at the hut.”
“With her betrothed’s consent and many an escort.”
She shifted on the bench. “Even so, our mother concurs better her time spent beseeching the Lord’s blessings on her marriage to a man who is… Well, outside of battle, even your William is more civilized.”
As told by the gasp on his other side, she had not sufficiently lowered her voice. Unfortunately, Marguerite rose from the table.
“You are unwell?” the physician asked.
She stepped over the bench. “My appetite is satisfied and I am weary. Good eve.”
As she moved away, Cristina made a sound of disgust. “Also inappropriate is how much interest that lady shows her king.”
Despite annoyance with the princess, Theriot mulled what he knew of Marguerite’s relationship with Malcolm, but not for long. He sympathized with Cristina, but she could stir much trouble at court.
“Once your sister weds Malcolm, will you remain with her?” he asked.
She hesitated. “As she is not to give herself to the Church, ’tis for me to do. Though I know not when I shall take the veil, that is my fate.”
“You sound displeased.”
Breath whistled through her nose. “I believed it possible one day I would wed and bear children. I was not sure I wished it, but there was comfort in knowing I might choose life with a man over life in service to God. But what I want…” She sighed. “My mother says all must do their duty.”
Though he sensed she wished him to disagree, he said, “So we must. Thus, I am where I do not wish to be, just as you may find yourself where you prefer not to be.”
“Oh, pity us, Sir Theriot! If only our lives were our own.”
Realizing she who denied him the opportunity to learn more about Marguerite might supply the answers, he said, “And pity Lady Marguerite. For all her kind regard for the king, he seems bent on wedding her to one of his choosing.”
She tsked. “Her departed sire was highly regarded. Thus, she is spoiled for the blood in her veins.”
So speaks one spoiled for the blood in hers, Theriot thought of the woman who scorned life at Malcolm’s court, believing more was due her than what was given rather than earned.
He judged her, he knew, though not as harshly as he would if he did not acknowledge he had been spoiled with his claim to the D’Argent name. For it, what he now faced that he might to his end days would make it more difficult to accept.
“Colban is fine looking, learned, and more civilized than most men at court,” she continued. “If she accepts him, a good husband he will be, though why he wants such a lady I do not know.”
“I assumed she is lovely. Is she not?”
“For the sake of one who should have wed years past and out of kindness for the king’s ward, I am tempted to mislead you, but I will not. As you must have noted, the lady has a youthful voice, but there is little to recommend her to a man such as yourself with an eye toward beauty.”
An assumption, Theriot thought, though he was drawn to women of comely face and lovely figure ahead of what lay beyond what was seen. He liked those sharp of mind and kind of heart, but rarely did he delve what was invisible to the eye, there being little need since it was all flirtation, marriage for this D’Argent a distant possibility.
The only time he had seriously considered joining his life with another’s was during the short time he served as keeper of one of his brother’s castles and it was thought possible it would become a permanent position. But then King William removed that castle and its lands from his brother’s holdings. Once more a warrior earning his living by the sword, Theriot had settled back into that life thinking it likely his until he was an old man telling stories to the offspring of a landed brother. Now even that might prove impossible.
“Not that she is unsightly,” the princess said.
Though Theriot doubted he would learn the truth of Marguerite’s appearance from her, it was the door through which he might pass to discover the rest of that lady’s tale that intersected with his.
“Whereas my hair is a vibrant brown, hers is… Oh, this sounds cruel, but it is nearly the color of dried mud.”
He kept his face impassive. Shades of brown were known to him, and Marguerite’s was rich and deep—more so than Cristina’s and far from the grey-brown of thirsting dirt.
“And whereas I am little more than a score aged, she is quite beyond that.”
That he did not believe, but he asked, “How much beyond?”
She mewled
as if giving it thought. “I think near ten and twenty. As for her figure… Well, if she does not better control her appetite, her gowns will have to be altered further.”
He shifted his jaw. Not only had Marguerite fed more to her dog than herself this eve, but when he had held her after the attack in the wood and later kissed her, he had learned that where she curved, she curved prettily.
Moving the conversation toward what he hoped would not be answered with further jealousy-induced exaggeration, he said, “It is understandable the king indulges the daughter of one loyal to him, but that he does so to the extent it endangers her? That surprises.”
“Endangers?” The princess gasped. “Ah, you speak of her going to the glen, which no lady should do without escort.”
He did not speak of that, though he concurred Marguerite should have an escort, especially after what happened. “It seems an unnecessary risk,” he said, “though it hardly compares to her presence in the village over the border.”
Though he hoped Cristina was too intent on belittling Marguerite to recall the reason he had also been there, she went silent. Then she blew out breath. “You who meant my brother harm make it easy to forget we are enemies.”
“I did not wish him harm, only to sooner end what ails England.”
“And you think what ails it is Edgar rather than your king?” she snapped.
“I am sorry for your brother’s loss, but that is what it is—a loss, which I believe he must accept the same as it is required of you to accept your loss of a choice between becoming a bride of man, a bride of Christ, or no bride at all.”
And you shall have to accept the loss of sight if that is to be your fate, reminded a voice within.
She returned to silence, but after a time said, “It pains me to hear such, but I shall forgive you since I believe it told without malice. And you may be right—just as I must accept my life is for others to command, Edgar may have to accept the crown of England is another’s.” She touched his arm. “Much to the Lord’s displeasure, I am a jealous creature. It is just painfully difficult to be moving in an agreeable direction, then turn a corner that forces one to go a different way. You cannot know—”
“I believe I do,” he tempered resentment as best he could.
“So it seems,” she said, then asked, “I see the clouds upon your eyes, but is it certain you will not see again?”
Containing his roiling, he said, “Not certain, but increasingly likely.”
“Then when you depart Scotland, you shall enter the Church the same as I?”
As he did not care to speak there, and believing better she turn from him than he from her, once more he ventured where he was not welcome. “It is bothersome to discuss what may or may not be. Would you not tell what was?”
“What was?”
“The reason Lady Marguerite was in the English village the night Hendrie and I fought.”
She harrumphed. “You take too much interest in that lady.”
“She is a curiosity.”
“I know not why you do not ask her yourself, but I shall answer. Shortly after our family came to Scotland, the lady was given an escort to retrieve her mother from her Norman family’s demesne across the border.”
That he knew. And more.
“When she did not return, it was believed she was slain the same as her escort. Not until many months later did she begin the journey home. On the night my brother and his men fled those you set upon them, en route she stopped at the village they passed through.”
Theriot nodded. “So now the question of where she was all that time. And why she did not return sooner.”
“My mother and I would like to know as well, but it is between the lady, the king, and my sister.”
Six months or more gone from Scotland, Theriot reckoned. Plenty of time for their paths to cross, enabling her to look upon him even if he had not seen her, thereby allowing her to recognize him the night she feigned pursuit by Normans.
“Regrettably, what is left untold of her tale you shall have to gain from her or another, Sir Theriot. And share with me.”
He inclined his head. She might take it as agreement, but it was only acknowledgement. Though he continued conversing with her when prompted, in between he searched his memory for when he might have had an opportunity to first come to the notice of the woman he should not have kissed.
Chapter Twenty
It was time to depart, and easier that amid the many so he not be on display again.
Taking the apple core and peel from where he had set them on the right side of his plate, he said, “I thank you for the company, Princess.”
She stood. “Allow me to be your guide.”
Dubh having come out from beneath the table, he nearly declined, but he stamped down pride. “Much appreciated, though I shall prevail only as far as the doors.”
“Since it would be unseemly for me to venture further without escort, agreed.” She chuckled. “You will find me more proper than Lady Marguerite.” When he did not comment, she set a hand on his arm and they traversed the dais behind others whose figures were so near he could differentiate one from the other only by the color of their garments. Though many were of similar browns and greens, at least they were no longer smudges of grey.
“Why the peel and core, Sir Theriot?” the princess asked.
“It is for the horse I injured when the king and I were set upon in the glen.”
“It has not recovered?”
“It has, but still I visit.”
Halfway across the hall, feeling curiosity which was surely greater for Cristina’s accompaniment, Theriot caught a voice not heard since its owner kicked him in the head en route to Dunfermline. Hendrie conversed with others near the hearth as revealed by heat emanating from that direction and the crackle and pop of burning wood.
“Sir Theriot?” Cristina said.
Realizing he had halted, he said, “Forgive me,” and continued forward.
“I have angered you?”
“You have not.”
“Then who? And do not say you were not roused. Such darkness rose on your face, I nearly looked up to see what clouds gathered.”
Seeing no reason not to be truthful, he said, “I heard Malcolm’s man. Though Hendrie did what he believed necessary to preserve his life, as long as darkness is as much my day as my night, I can have no good regard for him.”
“Understandable,” she said, then, “Here are the doors. I shall ask a man-at-arms to guide you to your hut.”
Though barely acquainted with the steps whose descent would be more dangerous than ascent, especially now they were slick, he said, “Not necessary. I know the way.”
She loosed him, and the porter opened a door, letting in the breath of rain once more falling softly.
“Chevalier,” Cristina said, “if you would welcome my prayers as you do my sister’s, mayhap I shall gain an escort and visit you.”
Though her interest in him might prove of benefit, he pitied her for grasping at whatever attention this former enemy might provide. “I would be honored.”
“Then we shall meet again soon.”
Theriot continued forward, trading the light of the hall for the dark of night and rain that torchlight around the walls struggled to defy.
As expected, descent of the steps was more challenging. Just as earlier he had bumped the toe of a boot against the vertical support of the next step up to ensure his footing, now he bumped the heel of a boot against the support of each step down while Dubh stayed his side—and not for the first time wished a walking stick in hand. But as always, his stomach turned at thoughts of how pitiful and weak he would look with one guiding him forward.
And how will you look if you tumble down the steps? demanded an inner voice. If not dead, then a prideful fool, and more they will laugh no matter how quickly you gain your feet.
Feeling watched by those about the bailey, great his relief when he came off the steps. That success tempted him to eschew
the stable lest between here and there he give them something over which to laugh, but he turned toward that building.
Occasionally, the hound nudged him as if to correct his course. In this instance, Theriot did not require aid, the torch on the wall beyond the stable allowing him to see the building’s silhouette, but he would not discourage her, so fascinated was he by instincts that seemed almost as natural to her as breathing. Regardless of the state of his sight, when he departed Dunfermline, he would regret leaving her behind.
Thoughts moving to the woman from whom he would also be parted, he shook them off, opened the stable door, and entered an interior dimly lit by a single lantern hooked on the back wall.
No sooner did Dubh and he cross the threshold than a feral cry sounded and a body low to the ground shot past, causing the hound to whip around and give chase.
As with each time Theriot encountered a cat since his blinding, he tensed. They abounded in the bailey, serving the palace inhabitants by controlling the rodents. Many made the stable their home, ascending to the loft and rafters when Theriot was accompanied by Dubh. This time one was caught unawares, and the hound had every intention of making it pay for not better attending to its senses.
Leaving the door ajar for her return, Theriot strode toward the light between the stalls and caught movement left and right as the great beasts stuck their heads above the gates and nickered.
Theriot murmured greetings and touched their muzzles as he passed, and when he reached the farthest, the stallion he had named Grendel fully extended his head. “I am returned,” he said, setting a hand on its great jaw.
The animal huffed.
“Oui, I have brought you something.” After feeding him the peel and core, Theriot slid his hand over the muscular neck and past its shoulder to the ridge that attested to this warrior’s inability to differentiate between horse flesh and that of its rider. As told the princess, the wound was healed, and soon the Norman’s mount would belong to an esteemed Scotsman.
As with each time Theriot visited the stable, he wondered who had claimed his blue-eyed destrier left outside the village and if he might regain Ciel. If that fine animal had not been sold, he would be—else one of the D’Argents would retrieve Ciel when they came looking for his owner. Had they yet? Would they soon?
