Her Honorable Mercenary--A dramatic Medieval romance

by Nicole Locke

  Margery looked over her shoulder at him. He wondered what her light eyes saw. A man too crudely made for her, too imperfect? A man who could hear of her beauty, but could not see it? At least not the way others did. He wished, again, that with her he could. Still, he loved the beauty he did see.

  He held her gaze for as long as she was willing to look at him. Wished it could be more.

  ‘Warstone Fortress works very well without me,’ she said. ‘Is there a reason for me to stay?’

  ‘Your sister is here,’ he said.

  ‘But I’m ignoring her too.’

  He felt that familiar tenseness and rolled one shoulder. She was sitting on the ground whilst he stood over her. He must seem enormous, frightening, to her. Carefully, he folded his legs under him and sat as she did. The gravel path wasn’t comfortable and, unlike her, he was hardly hidden. It wouldn’t do for his reputation or his authority to be seen like this, but he didn’t care.

  ‘You’re not ignoring me now,’ he said.

  ‘That’s because you’re sitting on the ground with me.’

  ‘Does it help?’

  She twisted around to face him. ‘Oddly, yes. I may have not been fair these last days, ignoring you. But it wasn’t only you. It was Jeanne, and my sister. It was...everyone.’

  He’d watched her ignoring everyone. Seen Margery stride smartly by her sister, and seen the resignation in Biedeluue’s face afterwards. He knew he looked that way too. But Bied never forced Margery’s attention, so he didn’t either.

  ‘I needed to understand a few matters,’ she said. ‘I didn’t feel like talking with any of you.’

  He could believe that. ‘I took hope in that.’

  ‘In my ignoring you?’

  He had simply been relieved that she’s stayed when she could so easily have left. Except...

  ‘Have I done wrong now? By coming here?’

  Her eyes softened and a curve went to her lips. ‘Never. You have made my apology easier.’

  ‘What were the matters you needed to think on?’

  ‘My life has been subject to others’ desires. Ian forced me here. I know I’m not anything more than a woman who sold her virtue—’

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  He wouldn’t hear it. She hadn’t given up her honour by doing what she’d had to to help her family, any more than he’d given up his for his mother and sister.

  Her eyes searched his, looking for answers. ‘I still want the truth, though. I need it.’

  She was questioning his honour? ‘And I’ve lied to you?’

  ‘You speak words—but do you speak enough?’

  He spoke more with her than he did with anyone.

  ‘I have talked to Jeanne and my sister. Both of them told me far more than you,’ Margery said. ‘I know you’re quiet, but did you deny me knowing what happened in the Great Hall because of the way you are, or because of some other reason?’

  If a sword was aiming for her neck, he’d block it with his own. If a blade was thrown, he’d stand in front of it. If harsh words, deeds, the ugliness of life, which he had known of for almost ten years, was directed her way, he’d block that to. What good was he, what use, if he didn’t protect this woman?

  ‘I would deny you nothing.’ Including the life he wished he’d been spared. It did him no good to know of the killing of innocents or that a mother pitted against her sons.

  Margery would have a life of orchards and kneeling in gardens that smelled like her. And he knew he’d answered her rightly when all the lightness of the gardens in sunshine lit her from within and she smiled at him again.

  * * *

  She’d overreacted. Margery had hoped she had. It was the worry over the lives of everyone she cared about. The sheer rage at her captivity. But to have judged this man as she would have the villagers who had thought they knew better than her? Evrart wasn’t like that. He was simply quiet. She needed to stop having doubts—at least about trusting him. Her past, however, would have to stay in the past.

  Of course, her anger didn’t start and end with him. But Jeanne didn’t deserve her avoidance. Did her sister? Well, that was still possible, but Margery would have to apologise to her, too.

  Standing, Margery brushed the dirt from her gown and then held out her hands. He looked at her waving fingers, then back at her face.

  ‘I can help pull you up!’ She laughed. ‘Oh, you do have the best expressions.’

  He stood on his own, brushed his clothes as she had. ‘I have no expressions.’

  Margery straightened and stretched. ‘The sky is changing again.’

  Evrart rolled his shoulders and exhaled roughly. Then slowly, slowly, he looked up at the sky like her.

  ‘You don’t notice the sky, do you?’ she said.

  ‘Rain, storms, snow, heat...my duties don’t change for the weather other than the tasks are easier or harder. They still need to be done.’

  He didn’t see the sky like she did, but he still looked at it because of her. The more they found about each other, the more she realised how different he was from other men—including her brothers. They would never have sat on the ground in a garden.

  And he was different from the men in her life who had dictated what she could and could not learn, what she should be and what she should do. He didn’t care she had sold herself to save her family. Or at least he didn’t want to talk of it. She still felt she should tell him, but then...he was different. And he didn’t care what she looked like because he didn’t see the world like everyone else. Maybe he was different enough.

  She felt as if she was repeating hope to herself. But maybe for now she needed to do so. He might be protective, but he told her of matters when she needed to be told. When she asked. To have found a man such as him when she’d spent weeks terrified...? Her fortune was too great. Perhaps that was where her doubt lay.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ she said.

  He looked down at her.

  ‘What’s to happen now?’ she repeated.

  This was the other matter that occupied much of her time while she was wandering around, going from the cook to the pantler, to the chapel gardens. Seeing if there was some other occupation she could have. If perhaps she could earn coin another way.

  But always she came back to this man. His life was here—but had that changed since Ian’s death?

  She didn’t think so. She’d often seen Louve and Evrart talking. She’d tracked the hours he spent with the guards and mercenaries. As much as she teased him on not being skilled, he was, and to take him away from this...

  But then...where did she fit? And this man was quiet again.

  ‘Evrart, what do you want here?’

  ‘It has never been about my wants.’

  They were so similar, and yet she longed for more and was willing to include him. His feelings aside, what more could there be for them? She had her past, and he had his future here.

  ‘But isn’t it now?’

  ‘There is much to do here.’

  She was a fool even hinting at a future together. ‘I’m finished. Should we go?’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘I am certain you are eager to be training instead of sitting in a garden.’

  Evrart shrugged one shoulder. ‘There is much training to be done, and even more loyalty to be earned before Balthus departs.’

  ‘When Balthus returns surely he’ll help with the men?’

  Evrart looked to the courtyard, to the many people hurrying past them. Only a few looked their way. Margery couldn’t get used to their lack of curiosity when it came to her. It was welcome, but still odd.

  ‘When Balthus leaves we may never see him again. The loyalty between the brothers is tenuous.’

  Hence why Ian had thrown a dagger at his brother, and the reason Guy’s death hadn’t been mourned.<
br />
  ‘What if he leaves with someone to help him?’ she said. ‘Someone who would want to return here?’

  His brows drew in. ‘None of the guards or mercenaries would want to.’

  ‘Not even for protection or their family?’ she said. ‘This is a formidable fortress.’

  ‘If Balthus leaves, the safety of this fortress will be suspect. Especially with the Warstone parents, who will want it back. But...’ Evrart exhaled roughly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I wonder if they are pulled in too many directions.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘They know of Ian’s death and Balthus’s injury. Louve sent messengers to Reynold. The first one was captured.’

  ‘If I had a child...any child...’ She couldn’t understand not wanting to protect family. ‘And they are still not here?’

  He shook his head. ‘Reynold has been working for many years to undermine his parents’ influence. I wonder if it has begun.’

  ‘Then Balthus will want to return here all the more—to claim his right.’

  ‘He doesn’t want this home. He has barely visited in all the years I’ve been here. No, this is one piece of rubble he’d gladly give away.’

  ‘He should still be here to help Louve establish his authority. And for a man who is silent, you certainly have opinions.’

  ‘I stood at Ian’s side as his personal guard. I heard much.’

  Somehow she’d forgotten that. What this man knew would be beneficial to Louve’s defence here. He might not be able to go.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  He was needed here. She was not. And, in truth, even if she was, she didn’t want to stay. She might have met Evrart, but she’d been captive here, and spent too many hours wondering if her life would end.

  Why burden him with any of that? She was supposed to be living a life of her own. Not writing letters asking for rescue or begging favours from horses. Or wondering over a future together with a man she wanted...

  ‘So no mercenaries or guards for Balthus or else he might not have reason to return here after he recovers Ian’s wife and children. What of Henry?’

  ‘Henry? The butcher?’

  She might have stayed away from everyone, but she did enquire about the man who had looked so friendly that first day.

  ‘A Warstone wouldn’t want a butcher, a mere servant, at his side.’

  Ian wouldn’t have, but they didn’t know Balthus. She didn’t like that the very fortress her sister lived in might be under attack. It would be better fortified if Balthus was here as well. ‘I’ll let Biedeluue know maybe she can make the suggestion.’

  ‘Balthus won’t take orders.’

  ‘No, but if it is suggested, Balthus can think it was his own idea. And a butcher would be perfect because he’d want to return here and not go wandering about. Thus, Balthus would return as well.’

  Evrart’s eyes narrowed. Margery kept hers wide. It was so obviously a ridiculous plan. They held their eyes like that until they both laughed.

  ‘Did you have a decent butcher in your village?’ she blurted.

  ‘My village?’

  Why was she asking questions about his village? To see whether she’d hate it? Or to torture herself with what she couldn’t have?

  ‘We never used his services. The sparse meat we caught was cut by my mother, and all too often put in soups to stretch it.’

  This was another commonality they shared—both of them had come from poor rural families. She hated her village, but Evrart’s eyes shone with memories. Were his village and its people decent?

  ‘And your mother and sister?’

  ‘They live in the same village. I send them coin, but fields don’t tend themselves, so there is always work to be done. My brothers are built like me, and others have trained them with swords and weaponry. It has been a long time since I’ve seen them.’

  Margery rearranged the flowers in her basket. He sounded wistful. As if he missed his family and wanted to see them again. Was that true? Or was it her wishing it was true so they could ride together and live—?

  A gentle finger under her chin raised her eyes to him before he quickly let her go.

  ‘Margery, these are very curious questions you ask.’

  They seemed bold and obvious to her. Hinting for him to take her to his village... The poor man!

  ‘I don’t want to stay here.’

  ‘To avoid your sister?’

  She needed to apologise to her sister. It wasn’t the first argument they’d had, but it was certainly the worst. She had written that note and, as she always did, Biedeluue had come to help. That was hardly Bied’s fault.

  ‘Is it your sister?’ he asked again.

  How to explain when she barely understood? That she just had a feeling, but it kept getting stronger the longer she stayed. It wasn’t merely because she missed the danger, intrigue and carnality of her former life. None of that ever called to her. The garden called to her. Being outside, watching and feeling the weather change called to her. But Warstone Fortress was too well run. She wasn’t needed here. She had no place.

  ‘Not her, truly. But it is Biedeluue’s home now.’

  He frowned. ‘And it can’t be your own.’

  It was a ridiculous argument—what person had a home of one’s own? If a family was truly wealthy or truly poor, it lived and worked together. And that was where she’d failed.

  ‘There’s not enough to do here. For me. I don’t think the pantler will let me near his supplies again.’

  Evrart’s lips curved. ‘What is it, Margery. Your eyes tell me so much.’

  ‘You can’t see the colour of them.’

  ‘You shine out of those eyes you tell me are lavender.’

  ‘Is that all you see?’ She tried to make her tone light, but her need to know cracked her voice and she clenched her hands. Was she so desperate? ‘I have no place here, but you...you don’t have a place back there.’

  His eyes widened. ‘My village? Oh, Margery. I have never, not once, wanted to be here. I was taken from my home.’

  ‘Taken?’ She looked away. ‘When Ian came through your village.’

  ‘I didn’t freely take the coin.’

  She looked back to him, her eyes searching his if she pained him by bringing it up or letting him think she forgotten. When she hadn’t...couldn’t. ‘I know; I understand. What happened?’

  Exhaling, he continued, ‘That is a tale I don’t wish to tell now. Just know that I was given no choice but to be here.’

  That didn’t answer the question of whether he liked or didn’t like where he currently lived. ‘So you didn’t want to leave your village? You liked it there?’

  ‘It was all I knew. This...here...is all I know now.’

  ‘And you’re good at it.’

  He gave a curt nod.

  There was no solution to this!

  He chuckled.

  ‘This isn’t humorous. For a sennight now I’ve been trying to find a way... But you are always occupied and needed. I don’t want to deprive my sister of your skills. What if we leave and then they are attacked?’

  ‘So serious... Margery, if you’re asking to go to my village, and for me to accompany you, I would do so wholeheartedly.’

  She couldn’t hope!

  ‘My village is only three days away. If the fortress is attacked, who is to say that my coming from behind would not be a benefit?’

  He flexed his hands, as if he wanted to hold her. She wished he did. Instead he tilted his head, his eyes searching hers. ‘You would go to my village?’

  ‘If you would go with me.’

  He leaned down, as if to kiss her. ‘You’ve never been to my village. You might not like it.’

  But she loved him—though she hadn’t
said it to him. Some seed of doubt or cowardliness was not letting her tell him. Or maybe she was just trying to protect herself, as she had all her life.

  He had told her he had feelings for her, but what those were, she didn’t know. If he loved her, he would have said that—wouldn’t he? Yet feelings counted, and maybe it wasn’t everything, but with her past she wasn’t going to ask for more. He was a good man. His family were probably good, too.

  Perhaps at his village it would be different, and she could be useful there. She wrapped her arms around his middle, felt him stiffen before he held her back.

  Her heart was so full it pained her. Did she deserve such a man? No. This was too much, even for her. She pulled away. He wore that same puzzled expression that endeared her so. As if he was half confused and half delighted by her.

  ‘I’ll need to talk to Jeanne...let her know what we’re doing.’

  ‘Then talk to Jeanne.’

  ‘Could she come and visit, or me visit her?’

  ‘If it’s safe,’ he said.

  Could it all be this simple? She didn’t want to be here, so Evrart would take her somewhere else. How could it be this easy? He’d simply tell her things when she needed them, and not care about her past? She hated these doubts. Hated them and still...

  She had to know.

  ‘What happened with Cook and Thomas?’ she blurted.

  She’d seen Michael, the cook, wandering around the fortress. Some days he was in the kitchens; other days he was in the gardens. He wasn’t an old man, but he walked like one. She could have asked Jeanne, but since she had seen him she’d held herself back. It seemed too intrusive.

  ‘You wanted to know of the butcher and now of Cook?’

  ‘When I arrived, he wasn’t well. He’s not...’

  Evrart’s eyes softened. ‘Cook’s son died. Thomas isn’t much older, and he often cares for the boy. They’re both grieving.’

  She shouldn’t have asked, and yet she was glad she had because now Evrart talked to her. She hated these doubts, but maybe in time... If he was protective, she’d be protective right back.

  ‘Do you miss your family?’ she asked.

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘Did you not mention it before because of your past, or because you thought I was happy here?’