by Nicole Locke
She’d also learned tasks she never would have if she’d remained sequestered in wealth and privilege. Skills she was proud of—cooking, tilling fields, cleaning, serving, and one year she’d travelled with a healer and learned to set broken bones and assist women to birth babies. So much had happened over the years it wasn’t inconceivable that she wouldn’t immediately recognise Balthus, and even so he was different after so many years.
The way his gaze had taken her in. The hut had been dark, but his eyes had roved over her as if he couldn’t believe he’d found her. Not surprised, not predatory, but pleased. The emotion displayed hadn’t been haughty or cold but...uncommon. Unexpected.
The way he’d moved...something wasn’t right with his arm, and he’d hidden it before she could look at it more closely. It’d pained him. She wished she could—Séverine shook her head. He was a Warstone! If he’d injured his arm, he’d have a thousand healers taking care of him.
Most likely, it wasn’t injured at all because Warstones had others do their will, to be harmed or killed in their place. How many times had Ian and his brothers left her in the care of his parents?
Ian’s mother was the dagger she had never seen coming. Moments after Ian had announced at the betrothal celebration that he would marry her—moments when she should have run or laughed or played his words like a jest—she’d felt the iron grip around her wrist that had wrenched her away from gazing at a tapestry.
That serene smile as Lady Warstone had hissed, ‘My son wants a word with you. Give him the respect of listening.’ Then she’d turned to the hall and declared, ‘I believe the child is stunned with her good fortune.’
Parting the laughing crowd, Ian had walked towards her so she’d had direct sight of the dais and Lord Warstone, her parents, and Beatrice, her sister, whose skin had paled to bone white. Her sister, who had spent weeks on her appearance, had had her fists clenched, lips pursed, and an expression of such venom that Séverine had looked behind her to see the object of her sister’s wrath.
There had been no one there, and no one to stop her fate. The youngest Warstone son who almost smiled...she couldn’t face him again. The rest of the crowd had displayed a mix of false delight and cunning malevolence. Spiteful glee and tittered words. Her only instinct had been to run, but Lady Warstone’s grip had dug in. Only her innate good manners and a thousand eyes had kept her from crying out, but they hadn’t stopped her eyes watering as she’d gaped at the man in front of her.
Ian of Warstone was stunning, charismatic. In royal circles he was coveted, revered, respected, feared.
His hair had a few waves in it. Enough to keep it away from a face carved by angels or the devil. A smile that was entirely too self-satisfied over conquests, but his eyes were the true draw. In all her reading, in all her gazing at tapestries or conversing with everyone and everything, she had never seen eyes like his. Grey with no warmth, no storms. Pale, like ice.
‘Perfect,’ he’d said. ‘You’re absolutely perfect.’
She hadn’t known what that meant, not for weeks, or months, or years, but she’d understood eventually. It was a lesson hard won, but never forgotten. She’d been young, naive, innocent, and completely malleable in the hands of one who’d already been well forged. She was perfect because if his mother was the dagger, he was the sword at her neck.
Chapter Three
Months later...1298, still in France
‘I’m sorry,’ Henry said. ‘I didn’t expect such a woman to have the strength in her.’
Balthus ignored the servant riding beside him. Henry had been apologising for months, but as far as he was concerned he could apologise for a year and that still wouldn’t be enough. It’d been almost winter when he’d surprised Séverine in the woodcutter’s hut. Now the days were already getting longer. Would it be spring before they caught her?
Henry stretched his meaty fingers wrapped around the reins. ‘Ignoring me? And how’s that going to go when you haven’t accepted my apology?’
Balthus had no intention of accepting any apology or excuse. Henry was supposed to have blocked the door, watched for any attacks, and, if a woman escaped, to hold her until Balthus came around. The task had been simple, direct. Henry was built like an ox. To get around him would be impossible, to subdue him, improbable. It was a solid strategy that shouldn’t have failed, and yet Séverine had taken one of those branches in her arms and felled Henry with a strike against his head.
While Balthus had been rubbing his arm stump, feeling pity, pain, and ruminating on how to proceed, she’d gathered her two sons and disappeared.
‘Perhaps I need to apologise more than once a day,’ Henry said. ‘That should do it. Hasten a return to friendship between us.’
He was trapped in a nightmare. ‘It gains us nothing. There is nothing to hasten.’
‘Ah, there you are.’
Where else would he be? He was on the laziest of horses tied to another plodding horse. Instead of being surrounded by mercenaries with trails of servants behind him, he rode alongside the worst kind of human: a servant who didn’t understand his station.
He had no one to blame but himself for his companion, just like he had no choice but to ride like an infant. His lack of a left hand precluded ease of manoeuvring, but it was the constant pain, the frequent blacking out and falling off his horse that was the true indignity. When Henry had tied them together so that he could catch his master if he fell, Balthus couldn’t protest.
Henry, on the other hand, felt it was his obligation to ease whatever awkwardness was between them by conversing.
‘You know, you haven’t said a word to me all day,’ Henry said. ‘Not one, and we’ve shared two meals already. I was beginning to wonder if some of the trees around here would be better company than you.’
They would be better company than him. Or at least safer because he felt like a desperate man with sword drawn, and if this jovial man kept up his congeniality, he would be the brunt of terrible violence.
‘Talk to the trees, then,’ he said. ‘Or the grass, the insects, or birds, it matters not to me.’
Henry laughed. ‘Oh, you’d like that while I slowly went mad. Maybe we could find some strays along the way. A pack of dogs would be nice.’
‘To draw attention to ourselves?’
‘My talking to trees would do enough for that.’
Balthus refused to add any more to the conversation. He needed to concentrate on easing the breath from his body, pushing away the arm pain aggravated by the minute shifts of the reins as he—
‘How long is this supposed to take again?’ Henry stretched his neck.
Weeks, months, years until it was accomplished, but what could he tell a mere butcher about obsession and thwarting a powerful enemy? How could he explain that to fail meant harm to thousands? Or that it was his own fault Séverine had escaped?
When he’d set out on this quest of retrieving his missing sister-in-law, he’d expected years to go by, not to discover her in the first location they stopped. Now that she knew he was close, she could make it harder to locate her.
All he needed was to ask her about a piece of parchment she may have taken from the old keep, and tell her that her husband, his brother, was dead. He’d needed to tell her and not jeopardise any of it. The irony was he’d told her none of it, and couldn’t if he didn’t find her again.
‘However long it takes,’ Balthus said. ‘You get paid regardless of whether you’re here or at home.’
‘Not complaining about the coin.’ Henry gave him a sidelong glance. ‘No man would...except those who aren’t motivated by coin.’
This was ridiculous. ‘You imply you’re not motivated by riches?’
‘I had a home, friends and a trade I loved. This is practically theft.’
Theft of his own servant. If his arm would give him any relief, he’d have travelled alone. It irke
d him that he needed someone. It irked that he’d chosen Henry even knowing, with certainty, that anyone else on this trip would be a far worse companion. How far he’d fallen!
His short temper was in part because of this impossible mission that was both a vow to a dead man and a quest. It wasn’t even a vow he had made, but his friend and mercenary, Louve, who’d made the vow to his brother Ian as he’d died. That he would find his wife, and he would apologise for deeds Ian had done. That he would report that his brother loved her.
Louve had told his brother he would do so, but they both knew a Warstone needed to fulfil that vow. Because Balthus was the only Warstone without a wife, children, without responsibilities, he’d volunteered to find Séverine, who’d been missing for years despite the efforts made to find her. That impossible task was problematic enough, but to add the fact he had ulterior motives in finding her...
Even if she forgave him for reporting the death of her husband, she wouldn’t forgive him that he intended to steal from her. Of course, she’d stolen from his brother first. That parchment. He didn’t even know what it looked like, what was written on it. Nothing. Reynold had said he’d know it when he saw it. Helpful bastard.
So off he was on this quest, which wasn’t his quest. Reynold was the one obsessed with obtaining the Jewell and dagger...the treasure. If nothing of this mad quest was his, why was he here? Because in a moment of weakness he’d said he would help, even though the whole mission was too unbelievable to be true. Yet here he was, because his parents and the King of England wanted an ugly gem called the Jewell of Kings, to which was attached the legend that whomever held the Jewell held the power over Scotland.
If it was as simple as locating the gem, all would be easy because some Colquhoun clan had it in their possession. Attack clan, obtain gem and be done. Except Reynold insisted that there was a treasure behind the gem and they now also needed some bits of parchment and a gemmed dagger with a hollow handle to find it.
This whole quest seemed a waste of his time, but he’d offered his help to Reynold, and meant it. Long estranged from his older brother, he wanted to know what a true family was like. Not his parents, though, who had an order for his capture, and no doubt wanted him dead by their own hands.
Add in the fact his left hand had been axed from his wrist months ago, his life, however short now, was full. Especially because, although his wrist wound had healed, by some twisted fate the agony of it had only increased. The end of his arm felt constantly on fire, the jarring of anything stopped his heart, his breath.
That made him short on patience. The way he was behaving right now was testament to that. He’d done nothing but rebuke Henry’s every offer of help and ordered him about as if he was...a servant. In the past, he had never been cheerful or had friendships. He had never trusted anyone enough for that. His first and only friendship was with Louve, and even that he wouldn’t admit to. However, he’d never been abusive with servants, even when his parents were around. He could afford the poor man some courtesy.
‘You were not stolen. It is not outside the realm that I’d order one of my own servants to assist me.’
‘Except I’m not one of your servants,’ Henry said. ‘You gave us all away, along with Ian’s fortress, to that Louve fellow. Although since he’s wed Biedeluue he’s agreeable.’
The Warstone fortress owned and maintained by Ian of Warstone was a sizeable property. Ian’s death, however, had left Balthus a probable heir. Except he hadn’t wanted it. So, with some parchments signed, notarised and sent off to two kingdoms, it was now the property of his mercenary friend Louve, who’d married a servant, Biedeluue.
‘You don’t belong to anybody, according to Louve. This is merely a courtesy you do.’
‘You didn’t tell me what I was getting into. If I’d known I’d be in your surly company for more than a sennight, I would have brought all my knives instead of the essentials.’
Balthus turned on him. ‘Then why did you?’
Henry looked down, a flush across the top of his ears giving him away. ‘It looked like you... Never mind.’
Balthus refused to acknowledge that Henry pitied him because he’d lost his hand. He was almost grateful Henry looked away instead of answering a question that Balthus already knew the answer to. He was a mere excuse for a man, and absolutely worthless as a Warstone.
‘It’s done,’ Balthus said. ‘You need to concentrate on the landscape. Séverine had something in her hair. It wasn’t red.’
‘Ash, then, or soot, no doubt.’ Henry wagged his finger as if it was of some import. ‘I was watching the two boys in the field. They seemed happy.’
Clovis and Pepin were together. He didn’t know what to make of that. His own parents had pitted one brother against the other since their births. They were united if anyone attacked the family, but amongst themselves they were more enemies than brothers. He was the youngest and always at a disadvantage, but he’d grown fast and had learned to look for weaknesses rather than asking to play.
His childhood had been one of opulent survival. He didn’t know what to make of the boys’ seeming poverty, or the fact that they were happy.
‘I am sorry,’ Henry said.
Here they were back to the apologies again. True, he’d asked for Henry to help contain them, but he was the one who hadn’t approached them properly. He’d been stunned they were there. Riveted that Séverine still had a hold on him after all these years.
‘No apologies are wanted or needed,’ Balthus said.
‘It needs to be said,’ Henry pointed out. ‘You hired me to help find Séverine and the boys and tell them about Ian, and the woman conked me on the head and ran past me. Me!’
It was safer Henry only knew part of the mission. Balthus had not regaled him with tales of treasure and legends, especially as it could get him killed, so it had seemed prudent. As for Séverine’s escape, at least Henry had the excuse that he had been bashed in the head with a log. Balthus’s reason was only Séverine’s beauty.
‘What did the steward ever say to you when you made a mistake?’
‘I got less pay, or a physical punishment, but that ended when I gained this.’ Henry pinched the fat of his belly and jiggled it.
Balthus smirked. He didn’t want to like Henry—his life wasn’t safe for friendships.
‘I don’t have the coin of Warstone Fortress, so you had better enjoy that now.’
‘Always food to find if you know where to look,’ Henry said. ‘It’s fortunate for you I do.’
Balthus shifted in his seat, and his horse stepped sideways, jolting his arm.
‘The boys seemed happy,’ Henry blurted. ‘Seems a shame to take them from the life they’ve found.’
Balthus rubbed his bandaged forearm to ease the pain. He appreciated the change of conversation, but there was no point. He didn’t intend to know about the boys’ lives. It was better they knew little of each other until the transaction was complete. He’d get the parchment, then tell Séverine she was free of Ian. As for his own soul... Balthus gazed at the useless limb bound to his chest. Useless agony.
Two words that summed up his entire existence.
‘Fine, we take them from their life,’ Henry said. ‘These one-sided conversations are enlightening.’
‘I didn’t hire you for conversation.’ Why did the man keep trying to converse with him? He could barely tolerate his own company. His arm wouldn’t stop throbbing!
‘What is a man of noble blood and heritage to do with a butcher as a companion if not for good conversation?’ Henry exhaled. ‘I have no sword skills, but I can tell you that you need to skin a deer starting at their leg joints. However, sometimes I wonder if you care about anything.’
Not when the pain overtook him. How was he to explain why he’d asked Henry on this trip that could take years? He simply didn’t want to be surrounded by men who were proficien
t in what they did, not while he needed someone to help him dress.
Henry brought his horse to a standstill. Balthus had no choice but to halt his own mount as they were tethered together.
‘I know my place in the world, and the world knows your place in it. Everywhere we go, a mighty Warstone enters a village, dines at an inn, and eats soup. You’re the worst companion. Do you know what it’s like, travelling with you?’
All too much, and he was sick of it, but there was something else Henry had said that alerted him. People knew who he was. ‘We may need to split up.’
Henry eyed him. ‘For what purpose?’
‘To go from village to village and make some enquiries. Perhaps even find her.’
‘How am I to find you again?’
‘We’ll know our destinations. If we don’t see each other by the next full moon, we travel in the other’s direction.’
‘That’s too long.’
‘It’ll take that long if the weather turns again.’
‘It’ll be spring soon, and how...how will the rest go?’
The rest... His disfigurement and the constant reminder that he wasn’t who he had once been. With unexpected discretion, Henry helped him mount, ride, dress. He was grateful for that, but he wanted this farce over.
‘There are four directions in which they could have gone. We need to follow with two.’
‘I’m at your service,’ Henry said.
‘Remind me to remedy that soon.’
Chapter Four
A fortnight later...
