by Nicole Locke
For once Margery wanted to carry her family away from harm. That was why she’d gone with Josse. And it was why she was trying to find a way to escape Ian without their help.
His eyes narrowed on her, as if he’d guessed her thoughts. ‘I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight. Fortunate for you that my men reported you spoke only to servants who had already been there and remained there.’
That was because she’d asked the young man not to deliver her messages until they’d left. The coin she’d given him had been enough for twenty messages, which had helped, but there was no certainty he’d done it.
She wouldn’t have sent them had she known how little reason but how much fierce cunning Ian seemed to have. For all she knew, he’d left someone behind at Roul’s to watch for messengers, and she’d risked that poor man’s life.
‘Now you refuse to ride into my home whilst my people are watching?’ Ian hissed. ‘Perhaps I might have given you some leave, but since you abuse the freedom I’ve given you, no more! You’ll stay in my private chambers. Never to see anyone else. Never to go outside again. Yes, I like that very much. For your slight that is fitting, isn’t it?’
Margery felt the mercenaries’ anticipatory stares. They expected violence. As if she was in some trap or waiting for a flogging.
‘It’s my horse,’ she repeated, almost begging. She spoke louder, hating the almost strident tone, but Ian’s eyes were wide, wild... ‘She’s stopped moving. It’s not me!’
Ian stared at the palfrey, then at her, and then at his men. He looked back at her...then, slapping his thigh, he chuckled.
There were dots before her eyes, and her heart beat so weakly she thought she’d faint. She wasn’t used to this constant fear...wasn’t used to threats. His laughter was terrifying.
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Ian laughed again, as if they’d drunk the heartiest of ales and told the bawdiest of tales. The men around them laughed as well.
No, Ian wasn’t distracted...he was mad.
Grabbing the palfrey’s reins from Margery’s frozen fingers, Ian tugged.
Margery felt that tug as if she truly was being led towards a public flogging, and as she went under the portcullis she was certain she’d entered the place of her punishment, perhaps her death.
She couldn’t help but wish she hadn’t been hungry that night, or that she’d run faster so as not to be caught. She regretted sending those letters, which might harm her brothers if they came, and yet she hoped they’d get here as soon as they could to rescue her.
Chapter Two
Evrart knew before the announcement was made that Ian of Warstone was returning to Warstone Fortress.
It wasn’t the shouts from the different sentries along the path, or the franticness of the steward as he organised the household. Nor was it the old porter who hobbled across the courtyard to open the doors. It wasn’t even the village boys, who usually raced down the slight hill, trying to be first to notify him because if they did they’d get a treat, or food, or a trinket they could gloat upon for weeks or months to come.
It was the damn hairs on the back of the neck that warned him. Some shift in the air.
It was always a turbulent time when the Lord returned from his missions, having left Evrart to defend the fortress, but never more so than now—because he wasn’t anywhere near the fortress courtyard but in the lake behind, scrubbing off mud, blood and sweat.
Bathing in the middle of the day would be a perceived shirking of his duties that wouldn’t escape Ian’s observant eye. It didn’t matter that he’d spent hours in the lists that morning and had worn out Ian’s men. It wouldn’t matter that he was just getting clean. It would matter that Evrart wasn’t there when the Lord arrived. Appearances were everything to Ian of Warstone.
Sluicing water over the remaining soap on his body, Evrart shook his head to release the excess. The lake was outside the fortress walls, near the back gate, but not close. It would take him some time to return and be in position.
Swiping the too-small linen from the rock, he rubbed the cloth over as much of his body as he could.
One factor worked in his favour. Ian always liked to arrive at his residence slowly, for the greatest attention. Evrart could only hope this would be the case today. After all, the Warstones were one of the most formidable families in France and England, but they hadn’t gained their fame by fair deeds or their coin by good fortune.
Tossing the soaked linen to the ground, Evrart wrapped his braies and tugged on his breeches. No, the Warstones and their four sons—Ian of Warstone being the eldest—weren’t revered because of any goodness. In the ten years Evrart had worked as Ian’s personal guard, he hadn’t got used to it—not once, not ever. Just when he thought he’d seen enough intrigue or horror, they’d surprise him.
Which begged the question: why didn’t he leave his position as Ian’s guard and find employment elsewhere?
He pulled his tunic over his head, tied his belt, and sat on the largest rock to lace his boots. Evrart wasn’t of noble blood or good connection. He was nothing more than the third youngest of a poor family, and who had been tilling a field on the outskirts of the Abbey of St Martial when Ian spotted him.
His entire family were often noticed, because there were trees smaller than his father and houses smaller than his mother. His sister, oddly enough, was finely boned, as if whatever had made up the rest of their family was trying to correct itself. Unfortunately for his ears, or any continued peace, when last he’d seen her, Peronelle had been taller than any of her friends—a fact she bemoaned to no end.
Evrart strode across the land towards the castle. The watchguards on the ramparts were already conversing and positioning themselves along the walls.
He ran.
Such was his life now. Castles and swords. Ramparts and great halls. All he wanted was a fine plough and some oxen. A thick roof and a well-stoked fire.
Ian had been gone longer than he’d reported. Anything out of the ordinary with Ian was concerning. Ten years of being his personal guard, and Evrart had seen many changes. But not like the ones over the last year.
Ever since his brother’s Guy’s death, Ian’s behaviour had turned from merely cold-hearted to terrorising. Frequently, he’d left Evrart behind. Going off on missions, leaving Evrart to hear rumours of legends, of treasures, of betrayal. Recently, he’d become certain Ian had tried to have his own brother, Balthus, murdered, and lately he’d looked at his steward in a way that didn’t bode well for the old man. He talked more frequently of his wife and children, how they had been lost and saved.
And something about a dagger had been lost and found but lost again. That appeared to agitate him the most and Evrart had had to step in once or twice to save a wayward strike towards a servant.
Ian’s reason was slipping day by day, which made his time away all the more concerning. Who would Ian be upon his arrival, and why had his schedule been disrupted? It either meant celebrations or punishments. The latter was more probable. Thus, if he wasn’t in position where he was expected, Ian would take his wrath on him.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Such would be his life until his death. And it wasn’t for the coin, or the position, or the power.
Oh, he’d amassed some fortune for himself in the ten years he’d been with Lord Warstone, after Ian had trained him to be his personal guard. More coin than he’d ever wanted or desired. However, unlike his two older brothers, Yter and Guiot, Evrart had been content to stay at the village and help his surviving mother and youngest sister. He hadn’t wanted to go anywhere.
It wasn’t loyalty that kept him. It was Ian of Warstone’s threat of a brutal death to his mother and sister if he was ever betrayed. Evrart didn’t question the threat. If a Warstone made such a statement it was fact—like the sun rising and setting.
So, though he loathed every moment in his employ, he did it.
He did it and would do it until he rotted in some unmarked grave.
Rushing through the back gate, he bolted around the south tower into the courtyard.
The front gates were already open.
He was late.
Ian had already dismounted, and men surrounded him. Horses were being led away by stable boys. Some of the men wore Warstone colours; some did not. A few Evrart did not recognise. But it wasn’t the men who held his attention. It wasn’t Ian either, though the Lord acknowledged the distance between them with a raised brow.
No, what held his attention was the child on a palfrey. The cloak looked like one of Ian’s and it swallowed the poor creature.
Ian had a wife and two boys, all of whom he had taken away six years ago. They had never returned. Rumour was that his wife had taken the children and run somewhere that Ian wouldn’t find them.
This creature was too small to be Ian’s wife, and yet she didn’t peer around the hood with the curiosity of a child.
Whoever she was should be inconsequential to him within the thick stone walls and heavy gates of the fortress surrounding them. Insignificant to the duty of his sword and him sword arm. Whoever was on top of that horse shouldn’t hold any meaning in Evrart’s world—but she did. Merely because she had been brought here by Ian of Warstone, and Ian didn’t bring anyone here who wasn’t a guard or a mercenary...who wasn’t meant for battle, death, or to serve him his wine.
With a sweep of his arm towards the diminutive shape, Ian grinned. The mad Lord was showing off.
Something vigilant and dark struck deep through Evrart’s bones, and he strode through the parting crowd to enter Ian’s circle.
The fact many had to scurry around him was not his concern. He was Ian’s guard. He was expected to be close to the Lord. He knew whoever rode the palfrey was either dangerous...or in danger.
Ian grasped the creature around the waist, parting the cloak to reveal a gown underneath. When her feet touched the packed dirt, her hood fell to her shoulders.
Reeling, Evrart widened his legs. Ian had brought back a woman, but she was not his own. Her hair was light, her eyes were clear, innocent... She didn’t belong to Ian—to whom did she belong?
Ian’s arm went out and she placed her hand on it, separating the enormous cloak from her body, revealing gently curved breasts, a sharply indented waist above ample hips. A woman finely wrought. But innocent? She couldn’t be—not if she was here.
Something wasn’t right. They were...awkward with each other. Something that went beyond the formalness of Ian’s mannerisms, and her stiff-backed response. She smiled, and so did Ian, but both smiles were forced, both were playing a role. With certainty this was another game then. Perhaps she was innocent, perhaps she was here by force—but that wasn’t what alerted him.
In truth, something had eased within him when he saw she was a woman, not a child. Though he couldn’t quite shake that feeling of vigilant protectiveness. But that would go soon once the newness of her arrival had disappeared.
Ian was speaking now, introducing her as his mistress. Margery.
In ten years Ian had had no woman, no mistress, and never had he lain with his own servants.
Another intrigue, then...and brought to his home. She must be a powerful ally, but Evrart didn’t recognise her name. Her clothing was fine, so it was possible she was from a noble family, but he’d never seen her before at any residence or castle.
However, it appeared everyone around him knew something of her that he didn’t.
Then he knew what was wrong. It was the crowd...they seemed rapt with attention. As if they were witness to some display of great entertainment. The woman again? But why? Her features were fine, with almost a perfect symmetry between her nose, her mouth and her eyes. She had two arms and legs and hands...
But someone gasped and pointed. One child clapped, and a few of the guards at the gates, who hadn’t travelled, were elbowing each other and looking at her meaningfully.
Was his own poor background to blame for why he didn’t recognise her? Or was it something older, and established before the decade he’d been here?
It was a possibility.
However, the two little girls giggling at her, and being shushed by their mother, made no sense. They wouldn’t know who she was, and yet they appeared to be beside themselves with delight at her appearance here.
Was it that Ian had brought back the woman because she caused such a reaction? Another possibility, since Ian had stayed faithful to his wife, Séverine. But these possibilities were all guessing. There was nothing that should cause him concern, and yet he felt it. Those raised hairs on the back of his neck weren’t going away.
Evrart swept his gaze farther afield, to the ramparts and the various buildings that butted against the great wall, to any movement around the chapel’s garden. All was as it should be.
Most of the crowd had disappeared now. The horses were gone, and Ian was talking with the woman. Her gaze was going from one man to another, to him, to the cordwainer at his side, to the child next to the pantler.
He waited until her gaze swung to him again. Everyone looked at him. Then her eyes gentled as she looked at the kitten clenched in the child’s hands.
He waited some more, and matters changed again. It was quieter, and there was an air of expectation. Evrart stopped looking at this woman, this... Margery...and looked instead at Warstone, who was looking directly at him. He realised that Ian had asked him a question, and he needed to answer.
When he didn’t, Ian’s smile became sharper. ‘See, my dear? Evrart’s as silent as the walls of my castle; you won’t notice him being your guard whilst I’m gone.’
Her guard while Ian was gone.
There—right there—was the danger.
Chapter Three
Margery kept the smile on her face, her hand gently resting on Ian’s arm. All the while her heart thumped and her body shook.
Staring at the kitten had felt like a reprieve—until Ian’s words had registered. She was to have a guard.
She was days away from anything and anyone she knew. She could barely ride a horse. Roul certainly hadn’t fought for her to stay—she knew he wouldn’t be coming after her. Now she was in a castle courtyard, with enormous stone walls and mercenaries surrounding her. And she had...a guard. Right next to her. This man—this Evrart.
Ian had been correct. He was silent like the fortress’ massive walls. And just as cold and unfeeling.
Except... There was a flash of something in eyes that were blue but wanted to be brown. Or were they brown and almost blue?
Margery had seen many hazel eyes before; they were often a blending or mixture of colours. But Evrart’s were different. Distinctive in that parts of them were blue, others were brown. She could almost trace the swirling...
The longer she looked, the more she noted other things about him: the broadness of his nose, the heavy weight of his brow. Everything about him was brutally carved except for his lips, which looked soft, and his ears which peeked out from his oddly cut dark brown hair.
His expression had turned wary at her scrutiny and he looked away. No, it was not wariness, most likely displeasure. She needed to stay strong.
For all she knew Evrart was indeed like the walls, and that meant he was only good enough to secure her and no good for anything else. That would bode well if he was to be her guard. She’d need some freedom if she was to escape—and she would escape.
She might be terrified now, but that couldn’t last. She’d been frightened, but resolute when she had accepted Josse. Then betrayed and angry when she’d been forced to accept Roul’s bed, but she had survived that.
Although neither of them was like Ian of Warstone. Neither had threatened her life, her family, nor held a dagger to a woman’s throat. When they’d left that afternoon, she hadn’t seen Roul or that woman. Ian kill
ing them both—killing her—wasn’t outside the possibilities.
She needed to get around this guard and escape.
With an enigmatic look towards her, Ian swung away. Evrart was immediately at his side. They were steps away before she realised she was meant to follow them across the open outer courtyard and through another wall opening into a smaller courtyard.
She faced an imposing castle, numerous buildings, unusual sounds and then the abrupt lack of them. Margery looked to the people hastily jostling for a better view. None of them came up, as they had in the village, except one man, the steward, whose reedy voice gave her goosepimples.
Ian treated him horribly, and from Evrart’s expression he didn’t like him either. Still, the man scraped and bowed before he was dismissed.
Other eyes were not so oily...most were curious. One large man, with his arms crossed over a bloody cook’s apron, looked almost friendly. None looked prepared to rescue her, though, and Margery dutifully climbed the steps into a great hall. Here, she slowed her steps to gaze at the tapestries, the ornate carvings, but Ian only hurried his pace, and then suddenly stopped.
‘I need to gather my men,’ he said to her, before turning to Evrart. ‘Take her to my chambers. Secure her in the room with the bed. You’ll need to set a guard until we get a blacksmith to fashion something of a lock for the outside. But do it now.’
She was to be locked in a room? ‘Do I not get fare to eat, or somewhere to clean my hands?’ she asked.
Ian gave one of those smiles he gave when they were being watched. ‘I’ll have something sent, my dear. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’
Margery stood at the bottom of the stairs along with Evrart as Ian went swiftly out through another archway.
She felt the weight of his stare, heavy against the back of her neck. What now? She’d asked for food, to get clean. How else to delay?
