by Megan Derr
The man struggled to stand, but immediately collapsed again, this time passing out entirely. Another crash jerked Lyon's head around and a sinking feeling began to settle in his stomach as he watched Chastaine bolt for the fallen woman. Leaving the collapsed figure to a servant, Lyon stood up—and nearly fell over again as the dizziness struck worse than ever.
Comprehension dawned as the nausea roiled in his stomach and up his throat, and the world began to spin. "Chastaine—the food—get the princess—"
The world went black as he heard the ominous sound of swords being drawn.
Chastaine lifted his head as Lyon sat up, relief spilling through him at the clarity in the eyes which immediately found him. "You finally wake."
"How long have I have been asleep?" Lyon asked, wasting no time with pointless niceties. "What happened? The food was poisoned."
"Aye, so it was," Chastaine confirmed grimly. "Twenty people died from ingesting too much, another twelve slain when the brigands attacked. They bore no marks or insignia by which to be identified, but their accents—when they spoke unguarded—were from the moorlands."
Lyon narrowed his eyes and slowly stood up, grimacing as he swayed a bit. "They took her."
Chastaine nodded. "Aye. Nearly all were crippled by the poison and I was unable to best so many brigands. My leg was injured, although 'tis sufficiently healed now. The majority of the castle is by now nearly recovered. You ingested much poison. Six days you have been unconscious."
"Why are you still here?" Lyon demanded. "You should be retrieving Lady Winifred."
"I could not leave so many sick to die nor could I move until my leg healed sufficiently. This past day only have I been able to walk more than a pace without it giving out."
"Then you should be packing to head out," Lyon snapped.
"I was," Chastaine said, "but you woke briefly, earlier, and I had a hope of leaving you with a full report ere I vanished. I was about to give up on you when lo—here you are."
Lyon nodded, holding fast to the table to steady himself. "Then tell me all I must know and be off."
"As I said, most are fully healed now." Chastaine stood and joined him at the table. "Snow fell heavily two nights ago, and while the castle is of course well-prepared, it will make recovery of Her Highness more difficult. I do not know how long I will be gone; I've appointed various persons to attend certain of my duties in my absence, but you will have to take up the bulk of it."
Lyon grunted in acknowledgement.
Chastaine knew that Lyon would prefer to go with the rescue party, but the hard truth was that one of them must remain to watch the keep—and prevent His Majesty from learning of the kidnapping. Not because it would mean that their lives were forfeit, but because Lady Winifred had said that her father had been negotiating peace. Nothing must be done to upset those negotiations until they knew for a certainty who was responsible. Far more importantly, if her father raised a battle cry, then her life was in greater danger. As Lyon was still sick and weak, he was the obvious choice to stay behind. "I have taken a thousand gold for the journey, as well as five men. My keys are with yours."
Lyon nodded. "Bring her back, no matter the cost."
"Aye," Chastaine replied.
"Return before spring," Lyon said, scowling in that fierce way that only he could.
Chastaine nodded and pulled out the small scrap of velvet that he had tucked into his sword belt. He had intended only to leave them, but with Lyon awake he could more formally make the promise. They had both failed in their sworn duty to protect the princess; no longer did they have the right to the titles bestowed upon them by the king.
Lyon picked it up with a frown and unwound the velvet—comprehension dawning as he realized what he held. He looked up, eyes going to the jewels sparkling in Chastaine's ears. Moving to the candle set upon the small table beside Chastaine's abandoned chair, Lyon thrust the post of the earring he held into the flame, holding it there for a long moment. When it was sufficiently hot, he reached up and shoved the heated metal through his right ear. A brief grimace was his only acknowledgement of the pain and he swiftly repeated the process with his left ear. The light of the nearby fire gave the sapphires a hard shine.
"Ere the spring thaws," Chastaine said, "I will return with our lady."
"I will maintain the keep and await your return."
"Should I fail, retrieve her body and bury her properly."
"Yes," Lyon said. "I will see that her body is restored here."
Because if they failed to save her, neither one would live; they would not permit it. Their bodies could rot neglected and forgotten, shamed knights unworthy of the most minor courtesy.
"Farewell."
"Ride swiftly."
With a final nod, Chastaine turned and strode from the room, calling to the men waiting patiently in the great hall. They strode out into the main courtyard, shuddering at the biting wind as they tramped through the snow to mount their horses.
"Raise the gate and lower the bridge," Chastaine roared. He reached up to briefly touch the amber studs in his ears, then held fast to the reins and led the way through the portcullis, across the drawbridge, and into the valley beyond.
Behind them, the bridge was once more drawn up, the portcullises slamming down, sealing the castle up tight. Snow was falling lightly, blanketing the world in unbroken white, while the wind rattled the branches of the bare trees. Chastaine waited to speak until the castle was out of sight, and then only to give orders to the five who rode with him—good soldiers all, and along with ten others the only ones outside of Chastaine and Lyon who knew the true identity of the one they guarded.
"Two each to the neighboring villages," he said. "Report back to me at Milton in five days' time. These brigands are six days ahead of us and we know not in which direction they headed."
Dividing the men up—keeping one with him to travel to Milton—Chastaine watched as the other pairs raced off in their respective directions, mouth tight.
"Think you, Sir Chastaine, that we will find them ere real harm is caused to Her Highness?"
"We have no choice but to do so," Chastaine said firmly. "Come, Milton is three days away in this weather. I would prefer to make it in two."
"Aye, my lord," the solider replied, and obediently kept up with the hard pace Chastaine set.
*~*~*
Shenan was larger than the surrounding villages, a fact that lent unwarranted arrogance to its inhabitants. That they thought they could be so rude to one who wore spurs provoked Chastaine's temper, a difficult feat to manage; only the fact that Lady Winifred was in more danger every second kept it tamped down. Two weeks they had searched for any clue as to the whereabouts of their princess, and only by a twist of luck had they managed to discern that the brigands had made for the port town of Shenan. Upon arrival, however, the trail once more grew cold. Although they searched diligently, no clue as to which ship the brigands had taken could be found. He had nothing to go on expect that there had been about ten of them, at least two bearing the accent of the moorlands. Strange, to say the least—the kingdom had not quarreled with that portion of the world for many generations, yet given how nomadic many of them could be, they could merely be part of the band and not the origin of the protagonists.
Problems and more problems, but Chastaine was nothing if not determined.
He called again for more ale; however, the lad running tables ignored him in favor of two mincing merchants, acting as though they were something greater. They were overdressed, gaudy, and distasteful, flashing their gold as though no one else could possibly have as much. Chastaine sneered, thinking of the coffers of Castle Triad and, should he choose to use it, the power of his name. He was only a youngest son, but the name was still rightfully his to use. Unfortunately, he could not unless there was no other recourse—if word spread that he was traveling, Lyon would be hard-pressed to suppress the reason. When the lad ignored him again, Chastaine's temper finally snapped. He snagged the boy
hard by his shirt and threw him to the ground, planting his boot on the boy's back. "What see you before your eyes, my lad? Unless you are blind to all but gold."
"S-sir?" The lad's voice was strained, threaded now with fear.
Lyon might be quicker to show his temper, but the slow burn made Chastaine's the more dangerous. "I said, boy, what do you see?"
"Uh—n-nothing, sir. Naught but your boot."
Chastaine pressed harder and twisted his other foot before the boy's face, making the steel spurs, decorated with sapphire and gold, flash in the firelight. "Upon my boot, then. I can see that you are thick and stupid."
"Spurs, Sir Knight," the boy said thinly.
"Aye, now you begin to get it. Explain to me, then, why you have been rude to this knight all evening, but show manners aplenty to mere merchants?"
The boy was slow to answer, the fear now tangled with what sounded like an effort not to cry. "I am thick and stupid, Sir Knight."
Grunting, Chastaine removed his boot and bent to haul the lad to his feet. "Fetch my ale, boy, and tell your master that for the rudeness of his workers he will pay for my drink this night."
"Y-yes, Sir Knight," the boy—surely not more than nine or ten—said miserably before bolting.
Nearby, the merchants roared with laughter. "Be silent," Chastaine said, "Ere you learn why my steel weighs more than all the gold you possess."
The merchants wisely shut up.
Chastaine dismissed them from his thoughts, turning his full attention back to his men. "Have we had no luck this day?"
"Nay," replied Simon, his second, glumly. "Too many rumors to sort it all out. Wise brigands, as these clearly are, would find some way of disguising our lady."
"Aye," said Tomas, a short man nearly better with his fists than his sword, an oft broken nose proving it. "We seek for something no one saw, because they would have been certain that no one saw the truth."
Chastaine grimaced. "As you say. What, then, shall we look for? Moorlands?"
"Tried that," said another man with touches of gray to his hair and a solemn cast to his face even in times of revelry. "Too many of them pass through for anyone to make particular note. All we have to go by is the remark made that one among them bears a scar across his face, and seeking him has not so far turned up any clue."
Before Chastaine could respond, a brimming tankard was set down in front of him. He turned to thank the lad and saw instead a large, wide man. "I apologize, Sir Knight, for the rude behavior of my serving boy. The ale is, of course, on the house. Is there anything else you require?"
"Nay," Chastaine replied. "I thank you."
"My pleasure," the man replied, and then shuffled off to tend other tables.
Chastaine turned back to his men, but another hour's worth of discussion gained them nothing. Disgusted with himself, with their failure, Chastaine sent them off to bed and ventured outside for a walk to clear his head. As he passed by an alleyway, a small, thin figure crashed into him, sending him stumbling. Catching hold of the offender and righting both of them, Chastaine shook the youth's shoulder when he would not look up. Finally, the boy slowly did and Chastaine's breath hissed out to see that it was the boy from the tavern. In the light of the full moon and the braziers scattered about the street to keep back footpads, the livid cut and growing bruise on the boy's cheek were plain as day. Chastaine vaguely recalled a heavy iron ring on the tavern owner's hand, dismay crashing over him as comprehension dawned.
"S-s-sorry, S-S-Sir K-Knight," the boy stuttered, furiously wiping away tears from the eye not half-closed from bruising. "I did not m-mean—"
Wincing, thoroughly and rightfully chastised for his own behavior, Chastaine gently cupped the boy's chin between finger and thumb. "Ach, lad. My intent was to scare some manners into you, not cause you genuine pain. Did your master do this?"
The boy nodded.
"Where are you running at this hour? 'Tis dangerous for such a youth to be out alone."
The boy shrugged and attempted to look away, but Chastaine's grip was firm.
"Tell me," Chastaine commanded gently.
"I do not know," the boy confessed, tears streaming anew, all the harder when they stung the still seeping cut on his cheek. "He said he would not keep s-s-someone too s-s-stupid to be courteous to a knight and that I was to g-get o-o-out."
Shame filled Chastaine. He had been perfectly within his rights to be harsh with the lad and to demand his ale be free—but he had not intended to cause the lad real pain or cost him his place. That was going too far.
Chastaine knelt and pulled off his gloves, gently wiping away the tears from the boy's cheeks and using the sleeve of his tunic to clean away what he could of the blood. Beneath the grime and tears, and with some meat on his bones, the lad would grow into a fine figure with his brown hair and matching eyes, and a frame Chastaine bet would someday not lack for muscle. "Ach, lad. 'Twas not my intent for such hard things to fall upon you."
The boy only nodded.
"Have you no family waiting for you?" Chastaine asked.
"N-no, Sir Knight," the boy replied, voice low and thin. "Mama passed away winter last."
Chastaine nodded, realizing what he should do and surprised that he did not mind. He wondered how hard Lady Winifred would laugh, and if Lyon would roll his eyes or simply scowl before he found a woman to stuff the boy with the food. "What is your name, lad?"
The boy looked at him with genuine fear and Chastaine wondered suddenly if the boy had reasons unspoken for so pointedly ignoring knights. As always, he should know not to let his temper get the better of him. He missed home. Two weeks gone, the homesickness should have eased. He had not been so upset to leave behind the royal palace or his family's rich lands … but he missed simple, humble Castle Triad. His temper almost never flared there, and he had Lyon to temper it, Lady Winifred to cool it.
"Kodey," the boy said at last.
"I am Chastaine Delacroix, a knight of Castle Triad. You may address me as Chastaine and are never to use my surname, understood?"
"Y-yes, S-Sir Chastaine," the boy said, sniffling as he continued to regard Chastaine warily.
"I am sorry that you were hurt, lad, and that my temper cost you your place." Although if the tavern owner was so harsh as to throw a boy out on the street simply for being a boy, Kodey was better off away from him.
He took Kodey's hand and stood up. "Come, tonight we will tend that cut and find you a bed. Tomorrow, you will be properly cleaned and fitted. I suppose somewhere in all this we shall have to find time to properly train you, as well."
"Sir?" Kodey asked, brow furrowed in confusion.
Chastaine tugged him along when his steps faltered until they reached the inn where he had taken rooms. "You are my squire now, boy, although I warn you that there may never be a knighthood for you."
Kodey's eyes widened, joy flashing briefly before it was subjugated by doubt and fear. "I am naught but a peasant, Sir Knight."
"You are my squire," Chastaine repeated. "That makes you more than a peasant." He pointed to a chair in the corner of his room, next to a scuffed but serviceable table. "Sit there." He went to the pack at the foot of his bed and rifled through it a moment, coming up at last with the supplies he needed. Striding back across the room, he quickly tended to the cut on Kodey's face, daubing it with the salve Lady Winifred and the women of the keep excelled at making. Kodey sat in tense and miserable silence.
"What is wrong, lad?" Chastaine smiled faintly. "Besides the fact that this night has proven to be most wretched for you."
"I think I will be a terrible squire, Sir Chastaine," Kodey said, looking very close to tears again. "I was an awful serving boy and being a squire is much, much harder."
Chastaine gripped his shoulder. "I was overly harsh with you before. The real source of my temper was not you and you should not have borne the brunt of it."
Kodey nodded. "Knights frightened mama," he confessed with a whisper.
"I see," Cha
staine said. "I suppose I only encouraged that notion, but I assure you I am seldom the scary one." He smiled. "When at last I am able to return home, you will see my comrade, Sir Lyon, is the one more inclined toward growling—although that is about all he does." He winked. "Lady Winifred, the woman who was stolen from us and for whom I search, keeps us both from getting out of hand."
"I saw a lady once," Kodey said with a wistful smile. "She gave me a bit of the food I brought her. She was pretty and nice and smelled like flowers even though she was dirty from travel."
Chastaine chuckled, glad to see the boy focus on something else. "Did she have long golden hair and crystal blue eyes?" he teased.
"Brown hair, like mama," Kodey said, face intent as he recalled. "Green eyes, like the jewels in her ears."
"What?" Chastaine whipped back around, supplies tumbling to the floor. "When did you see this woman?"
Kodey's eye widened. "Um … not too long ago. She was locked up in her room. Men made her cut her hair and she got mad. One hit her and I saw him with a black eye later … "
Relief and joy flooded Chastaine. "Kodey, tell me, do you know where they went when they left here?"
"Across the channel," Kodey said, frowning in confusion. "She yelled about it."
Laughing in sheer delight, Chastaine swept Kodey up and hugged him tight. "Oh, my lad, you are truly the fortune I have been seeking. Strip out of those clothes and climb into bed."
Kodey's eyes got as wide as saucers. "Your bed, Sir Chastaine? I could not."
"I will not be using it," Chastaine said with a smile. "Sleep. Rest. For you will be coming with me across the channel and will need your strength. Can you be awake at dawn?"
"Aye, Sir Chastaine!" Kodey exclaimed.
"Then get to bed and be at the stables before the sun is up. I will have fresh clothes waiting for you. Make certain my things are packed neatly and secured for travel. Understood?"
"Aye, my lord," Kodey said, eagerly nodding his head despite the shadows still lingering in his eyes.
Chastaine smiled and motioned for him to climb into bed, then snuffed the lantern once he was settled. Ensuring that he had what he needed, he went off to rouse his men and finally pen a note home that Lyon might know how things progressed.
