by Lynn Kurland
“Do not lie to me,” he warned.
As if she could tell him the truth! She put her shoulders back and looked him full in the face. “I hit my face against the wall,” she said. There was truth enough in that. No matter that she was flung against that wall against her will.
Colin studied her for a moment or two, then grunted. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how your face came to meet that wall, will you?”
“I would have to lie.”
“As if I couldn’t guess the identity of your abuser easily enough.”
“But—”
He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “He’ll be repaid.”
“Nay—”
“Say no more,” he said, shaking his head sharply. “He cannot use you so ill and not pay the price.”
She fought the desire to drop to her knees and begin to pray.
“Then again,” Colin said slowly, “perhaps ’twould be a better justice if I taught you how to do it yourself.”
“Aye,” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “A perfectly wonderful idea.” She prayed fervently that he would decide that such was the better course of action. In the time it would take him to make her into such a warrior, she would have likely come across some way to make a life for herself. Either that or Sir Etienne would have died of old age.
One way or another, perhaps Colin might be thusly persuaded to leave the man alone and she would be safe.
For the moment.
She passed the rest of the evening at Colin’s heels, watching him order men about and listening to him discuss the journey with Lord Christopher. The longer she sat on a stool behind him, the sleepier she became, until she was certain she would never manage to stay awake until they were ready to leave. Would these two never cease with their babbling?
“Enjoying your last few days of freedom?” Christopher asked politely.
Colin grunted. “I daresay I won’t find myself at Berkham overmuch, even do I succeed in getting that silly wench to the altar. I’ll have freedom enough still.”
“She might surprise you.”
“The only thing that would surprise me would be to see her coherent and without food in her hand for longer than the space of a hour. The girl is hopelessly terrified of me.”
“Can you blame her?” Christopher asked. “The fierce and intimidating—and pungent, I might add—Colin of Berkhamshire as a husband? At least she didn’t flee.”
“She’s of too little wit to flee.”
Ali propped her head up against the wall and hugged herself to keep warm. Colin had it aright there. Sybil would never have thought to do aught but what her sire told her. But at least she would have Colin’s larder to comfort her. It was likely all she would need for a happy life.
“Now,” Colin continued, “if I could have just found a wench with wit and courage, not even to equal mine, of course, for I know that would be asking too much, but even just a bit of both, then I would have wed willingly. Someone with a stomach for strategy, a head for thinking, hands unafraid to hold a sword. Aye, that would be a woman I could abide for a wife.”
“You don’t need a wife,” Christopher laughed, “you need a squire.”
Colin grunted. “I’ve considered it. They’re a far sight less trouble than a wench.”
“Then you consider your little lad snoring back there on his stool to be less trouble than a wife?”
Ali pulled herself away from the too-tempting lure of sleep. Had she been snoring? She shook herself awake. Weariness was making her careless, that and the comforting sounds of Christopher and Colin’s talk. She could call to mind many times of falling asleep in her father’s solar whilst he talked to his allies. When she’d been younger, of course. Before her mother had died.
“Perhaps you should offer young Henri a place in your guard,” Christopher said. “It would free him from having to attend Sybil at all hours. Surely he deserves some sort of reward for having endured it for so long.”
Ali kept her eyes closed, but her heart began to race. A guardsman? To Colin of Berkhamshire?
Was there anything more unnecessary in the world than that?
“Don’t need a guard,” Colin grumbled.
Ali couldn’t have agreed more.
“Perhaps not, but he needs a place, don’t you think? It couldn’t be any worse than being nursemaid to your lady Sybil.”
“I suppose not,” Colin agreed. “And the lad does need protecting. He’s too pretty by halves and I daresay he’s spent his life suffering for it. I doubt anyone would dare tease him, did they think he belonged to me.”
There was that, Ali had to concede. But being his? In truth?
Hadn’t she been trying to avoid this very thing?
She opened her eyes in time to see Christopher slap Colin on the back.
“There you go,” he said, rising. “Wed the wench, then spend the rest of your time with the lad. It sounds as if you like him better anyway. I daresay you can find wenches enough for your needs, leaving Sybil happily alone with your stores and some peace. Then that leaves you with all your time to see to young Henri. Make him over in your image, Colin.” He snorted with amusement. “I’m sure he would be overjoyed at the prospect of it.”
Colin stroked his chin thoughtfully. Ali managed to close her eyes before he looked over his shoulder.
“A goodly work,” he agreed. “One worthy of my complete attentions.”
“See?” Christopher said cheerfully. “I told you it would all work out for the best. Now, I’m off to bed before my lady comes to fetch me. What a fortunate lad Henri is to have you all to himself. I’m sure he’ll realize that in time.”
And with that, he walked away, laughing. Ali could see no humor in his words and she wondered with a goodly bit of suspicion if Christopher knew far more than he should have, even without Gillian having told him anything. He was the Dragon of Blackmour, after all. And handsome though he might have been, there were still those unsettling rumors surrounding him, ones Ali couldn’t discredit. She opened one eye and watched him suddenly pause and guffaw so fiercely that he had to hold himself upright by walls near the stairs. He straightened and disappeared into the stairwell.
His laughter floated down behind him.
Colin belched, then rose, his chair scraping across the stone. “Henri, awake. ’Tis past time we were abed.”
Ali made a great pretense of waking up whilst she tried to ignore what he’d just said.
Bride. Squire.
Was she doomed to be with this man for the rest of her life one way or another?
She found herself being peered at by that man, who had stooped down a bit to better accomplish his task. He looked at her, muttered a bit under his breath, then shook his head.
“Poor lad,” he said, pulling her to her feet and turning her toward the stairs. “Too pretty by half. Well, you’ll sleep just inside my door this night where you’ll be safe.”
“Of course, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”
“Manly tones, Henri,” Colin instructed. “Bring them up from your belly and put some meat on them.”
Ali took a deep breath. “Of course, my lord,” she said in her most squirely fashion.
Colin sighed. “We’ll work more on that tomorrow. We have a long ride to Harrowden. You’ll have ample time to practice.”
Ample time? She had the bloody rest of her life! And with no coin, no useful trade, and no true calling to the convent, she would likely be spending that life trying to be something she most certainly was not.
She chewed on that thought until she was comfortably rolled up in a blanket on the floor of Colin’s chamber, listening to him snore peacefully. Weaver? Nay. Minstrel? Assuredly not. Player?
Now, that was something she might consider, as she certainly had experience enough with pretending to be what she was not. She would give it further thought on her ride to Harrowden. For now, it was enough to be somewhere she could sleep safely. And to think she had Colin of Berkhamshire to t
hank for it. She greatly suspected that wasn’t what Marie had had in mind when she’d fashioned the betrothal contract.
But, by the saints, forever as Colin’s squire?
Oddly enough, it didn’t sound as horrifying as it might have two years ago.
Obviously she hadn’t been sleeping enough if that thought didn’t send her over the edge into an abyss of terror.
She closed her eyes, pulled her blanket up over her head, and forced herself to ignore any more foolish and completely far-fetched notions. She would serve Colin for as long as it took for him to wed Sybil, then truly be about the business of fashioning herself a life. Perhaps by then she would have acquired enough skill to force Sir Etienne to give her back her coin—and that at the point of her sword. And once she had her coin, she could do as she pleased.
Chapter 15
Colin dragged his sleeve across his sweating brow. Perhaps it had been too long since he’d passed any time away from the shore. He’d grown soft and frail under the cool breezes that continually washed in from the sea. No such things so far inland. He was momentarily tempted to strip off his mail, but knew ’twould be just his luck to have his father lurking about the countryside, arrow cocked for just such an occasion.
He closed his eyes briefly and breathed deeply. Ah, but to have the leisure of loitering about in some orchard in merely a tunic and hose. To feel the warm summer sun beating down on his face, fresh fruit from a tree above just there for his pleasure, and the knowledge that everything around him belonged to him and was his to care for. Aye, there was something to be said for that. Mayhap his father had it aright and ’twas time for him to wed.
Not that he’d ever admit the like to his sire, of course.
And not, he decided as he looked over his shoulder to see his bride shielding her face from the sun with her voluminous veil—and no doubt hiding what she was seeking to shove into her mouth—not that this one would possibly appreciate the finer pleasures of such loitering. She would likely have rendered herself unconscious long before he’d managed to pry her from the cellars.
He stared at the road before him and scowled, his pleasure in the day ruined. After a se’nnight’s travel, he could come to no other conclusion than that his father’s sole design in making him come to Harrowden was to irritate him. Unfortunately, the wily old bastard’s plan had succeeded all too well. His temper, which had been simmering since before he’d left Blackmour, was coming to a boil quite rapidly. He feared that the least thing would set him off in an eruption that would live on in memory long after he’d gone down into his grave.
If only he’d had some reason nearby for that temper to truly show itself, he certainly could have made himself much more comfortable. He looked about him for a likely cause—and found a half dozen of them surrounding him. Beginning with his bride.
Aye, there she was, huddled on her mount, swathed in enough cloth for three of herself, in which she had no doubt hidden various and sundry items to stave off starvation. Colin wondered if she ever lost that aroma of ripe cheese that clung to her like perfume.
Could he perform his husbandly labors with that scent to greet him in bed?
Best not to think on that overlong. He quickly turned his attentions to his three healers. They had behaved perfectly, uttered not a peep, and offered only the mildest and most traditional of brews when asked for “a little something to ease the pains of travel.” Damn them anyway. He would have truly enjoyed skewering a witch or two on his blade.
He turned disappointedly away, then sought out another likely victim. His gaze fell immediately upon Jason of Artane, who rode easily, traveled easily, and was a fair companion on a long journey.
Damn him as well.
Colin had tried to bait the lad numerous times thus far, just for a bit of sport, but found him frustratingly unresponsive. It had made Colin all the more determined to rub the lad the wrong way, as it were, but perhaps that would have to wait for later when he’d had a chance to think up something truly annoying. For now, a glare would have to suffice.
But Sir Etienne, now there was food meet to assuage his irritation. The man stared at him boldly, as if he dared Colin to come and challenge him. Ah, the perfect chance to do the like. Colin started to, deciding that he could come up with a suitable reason afterward for why he’d beaten the man to a bloody pulp.
He suddenly found Henri in his way.
“Move,” he said briskly.
“My lord,” Henri said, bobbing his head deferentially, “tell me of our destination. Will your family be there?”
Colin glared at him. “My family be damned. I’ve a lesson in manners to teach Sir Etienne and you’re in my way.”
“But, look, my lord,” Henri exclaimed, pointing with a trembling arm to something in front of them, “is that something there on the horizon?”
“Aye, trees and a little hill,” Colin said, not sparing the view a glance. “Now, move aside. I’ve business here.”
“My lord, nay,” Henri pleaded, sounding altogether quite frantic. “Surely not. Your family will expect you in good time, aye?”
Colin paused and stared at Henri in surprise. Why, the lad was fair frothing at the mouth to prevent an altercation. But for what reason? Colin looked at the boy, noted the bruises and healing cuts on his smooth cheeks. What would possess this lad to endeavor to protect the man who had used him so ill?
Well, there was mischief afoot here, Colin could smell that from a hundred paces. He looked over Henri’s head to find Sir Etienne smirking in triumph. Colin frowned, then returned his regard to Henri only to find him very enthusiastically avoiding having to meet his eyes.
He considered halting and solving the mystery right then, then decided against it. He would see to it later, after he’d gotten on with the unpleasantness that awaited him ahead. Best have that over with so his mind was distracted. He relented with a scowl, then urged his mount forward. He would just ignore Sir Etienne.
For now.
They continued on without further interruption. And he had to admit, as he rode under the late spring sun, that this part of the land was pleasant enough. His sire’s keep was several miles to the north, but in just as pleasing a bit of countryside. Colin supposed it would be his keep in the end. Or mayhap his father would insist Colin take the title and the land immediately, then settle his own sorry self into some kind of monastic keeping.
And mayhap faeries would spring up from the grass and invite him to dine with them in the boughs of a willow tree.
Colin decided that perhaps he had been traveling overlong. He turned his face forward and concentrated on reaching his destination before he lost what few befouled wits he had left.
They made a brief halt at midday for a bit of supper, then continued on. Colin could see his brother’s monastery in the distance, but the sight of it brought him no joy. The closer it came, the closer came his doom and he had little liking for either.
By the saints, did every man dread his nuptials thusly?
Another hour brought them to the gates. Colin found that they were expected, for they were ushered inside the gates and directed to the guest hall. Colin felt fortunate to have gotten so far. The first and only other time he’d come to visit his brother, he’d been required to remain outside the gates. Perhaps having a woman or two in his company instead of a group of grim warriors led the monks to believe he was harmless enough to let in.
He dismounted in the little yard, but no one came to look after his horse, or to offer him sustenance. It was enough to make him wonder if perhaps he’d assumed too much about his welcome. He looked about him to find that the rest of the company had dismounted. The lady Sybil, as usual, looked to be on the verge of fainting, but fortunately she had aught to fortify herself with. Colin was half tempted to ask her if he might investigate the folds of her veil for something to tide him over until dinner.
He was spared her reaction to that request by the arrival of his brother. Peter was but a novice here at Harrowden, thou
gh he stood to take his final vows within months. Perhaps their father wanted them both at the same place to spur each other on to each making some kind of commitment. Colin wasn’t tempted to think of trading places with his brother. The monastic life was not for him, and it had more to do with swordplay than wenching. He could not imagine handing his sword over to whoever was in charge, surrendering the daggers in each boot and the crossbow on his saddle. Unarmed and with nothing on under that itchy-looking robe? Surely that required a kind of strength Colin did not possess. How his brother managed to muster it up was beyond his capabilities to understand.
Perhaps with Peter it was less a matter of courage and more a matter of cowardice in facing a more vigorous life. Then again, he might not be qualified to judge that. After all, it wasn’t as if Colin knew Peter very well. Peter was ten years his junior, having been born following Colin and his three younger sisters. Colin had been long away from home before the lad had come along. He shuddered to think what kind of torments Peter had suffered with the girls looking after him.
’Twas little wonder the lad wanted to hide in a monastery.
Peter stopped in front of him and made him a low bow. “My lord brother,” he said, straightening and giving Colin a faint smile. “Welcome to Harrowden.”
Then again, perhaps Peter had peeped once too often in a polished silver platter and had no illusions about his visage, the ugliness of which dimmed his matrimonial prospects quite thoroughly. Colin stroked his chin before he could stop himself. Was he himself this ugly? Or had Peter been unfortunate enough to inherit all their father’s unwholesome features and none of their mother’s faint beauty?
Best not to know, especially when it might lead to speculation about his own poor face.
“Where is the whoreson?” Colin asked bluntly. “He told me to meet him here and here I am.”
Peter squirmed. “I fear, brother, that our sire has not yet arrived.”
Had the day suddenly sprouted tongues of fire to heat itself so suddenly? Colin dragged his sleeve once again across his sweating forehead.
“Not here?” he asked, trying to contain his annoyance. “He bid me come immediately.”
