Always There

by Megan Derr

  "Now, my fine rescuer," the duke said with a faint smile, "you should not look so distraught. That will not do at all. Tell me how you came about such fine skill."

  Kodey smiled, unable to resist a chance to relate to fresh ears the tale of how he had come to be squired by Sir Chastaine, stubbornly ignoring the icy glares he could feel at his back all the way home to Castle Triad.

  Two hours later, the duke recounted the full of his tale to them over the grand meal Lady Winifred had, indeed, seen prepared for their return. She sat with Shad at the head of the table, Chastaine and Lyon to her right, and the duke to the left. At the Duke's insistence, Kodey sat beside him, and while he was excited at being so honored … well, it was perhaps just as well. Brice continued to cast occasional glares upon him and the cold anger was easier to bear from afar.

  "I cannot believe it," Lady Winifred said with a shake of her head as he completed the tale.

  Indeed, Kodey could scarce believe it himself, that one noble should be so angered by another that he would lower himself to such base recourse as hiring brigands to slaughter the object of his wrath. "Surely this Duke de Capre will be made to pay for his transgressions?"

  "If I can locate proof 'twas he who ordered this deed done," the duke replied. "Alas, he is wise enough to make certain his name is kept well away from the affair. Mayhap I will have more luck in five weeks' time." He grimaced as he tested his arm. "Although I fear the reality is that now I shall be naught but a spectator."

  Chastaine looked down the table. "So you were headed for tourney, Your Grace?"

  "Aye," the duke replied. "A guest of honor, rather than a competitor proper, of course, but … " He suddenly paused and turned to regard Kodey thoughtfully. "I have come upon a grand idea, my fine rescuer. What say you to taking my place in the tourney?"

  Kodey choked on the sweetbread he had been swallowing. "Beg pardon, Your Grace?"

  The duke threw an arm around his shoulders, a gesture he was making with increasing frequency. "Yes, that is a grand idea indeed, my fine lad. You are a most splendid combatant indeed; I can see Lord Chastaine knew you would take quite well to knightly ways and drilled you thoroughly. Have you ever been to tourney? Of course not, you turn eighteen for not a month yet, you said before. This will be most splendid. I will insert you as my replacement and a much more fitting participant you will make. This is a tourney for young men such as you, anyway."

  A tourney? Him? That was …

  "I am not so certain," Chastaine frowned. "He has scarcely been preparing for such a thing and a fortnight is not near enough time. Never mind he has not the equipment, nor the proper blazons and clothing readied … "

  Lyon snorted. "Nor is he a knight," he said firmly.

  Oh.

  Kodey had not realized until Lyon dashed them that his hopes had risen. Tourney! He likely would not show himself as well as others, who did such thing regularly, but to attend a tourney for even a day … as a true combatant, even, not simply a peasant spectator.

  "Nonsense," the duke said firmly, arm still around Kodey's shoulders and holding him close. "He is my replacement and he is close enough to knighthood that if he proves himself enough in tourney, I have no doubt that the grand duke will award him spurs in the name of the king."

  Spurs. He could be a knight—a real knight, like Chastaine and Lyon. Surely Brice would find no flaw with him then. He looked eagerly at Chastaine.

  Chastaine looked back at him and sighed. "Kodey, although the tourney may be for young men, those newly knighted, they … " He trailed off, glancing briefly at Lyon, then sat back with another sigh. "As you wish, then. We will see that you are properly outfitted before you leave."

  "Truly?" Kodey asked, and when Chastaine nodded, he let out a shout of excitement and grinned at the duke, who embraced him briefly. He looked down the table at Brice, eager to see—

  That Brice had gone.

  Kodey struggled to keep his smile in place, hiding the brief faltering of it behind his heavy wine goblet.

  So Brice was mad at him. He would not stay so; Brice never did. It mattered not: Kodey would return with full honor from tourney and spurs that declared him a true knight of the realm, and then Brice would not be able to help but fall madly in love with him.

  Aye. It was a perfect plan.

  Brice had known it would happen, but he had somehow fooled himself into thinking it was yet some years away. Eight years, he supposed, left too much time to grow foolishly complacent. It should not have blindsided him so, yet it had, and that only made his ire all the greater.

  Ire. Brice grimaced at himself and notched an arrow, firing it off with barely a glance at the target, wishing furiously that it was a certain duke's head and not mere straw. 'Twas not ire he felt and he knew it—he was filled to the brim with naught but pure jealousy.

  He notched another arrow and fired. A perfect hit, even in the darkness. His vision was excellent, day or night—except when he looked upon Kodey … then everything went horribly wrong. From the very moment of their first meeting, the boy had confounded. Boy; fie on that. Kodey was a boy no longer, but well and truly into manhood, which meant his boyhood adoration was at last fading away. Brice had reminded himself innumerous times that Kodey would eventually cease to look so at him. Biting back an angry curse, Brice let fly three arrows in rapid succession, the hard thunk as they struck the target nowhere near satisfying enough. It was to be expected; he had, after all, anticipated that matters would conclude thus. Kodey was neither the first nor last to be taken with Brice's appearance. It was all too easy for one such as Kodey to take to a pretty face, which was also constant and familiar, after the rough way he had lived until taken in by Chastaine. Still, Kodey drove him mad with his antics, his odd need to contrive plans for every last thing, his pranks, and strange sense of humor. Brice swore that Kodey constantly thought up ways to anger him. However, never had that prevented him from thinking too fondly Kodey, who gazed at him with such blatant regard. It had only grown worse when Kodey had grown old enough to be an object of lust, and now that he was so very close to being properly considered an adult …

  He was riding off to tourney with a handsome, flirtatious duke, who Brice wished had gone the way of his bloody entourage instead of surviving to steal away the smiles that ever had belonged to Brice.

  This time he did not bite back the curse as he let his arrows fly, striking one target after another, going until his arrows were depleted and his arms burned with the strain. He sat down hard on the ground, bow across his lap to keep it from the wet grass, and buried his face in one hand. Ever had he known that Kodey's feelings were impermanent; it was the very reason he had strived constantly to keep Kodey at a distance, so that when the adoration inevitably faded, it would be less painful for the both of them. Brice had carried some vague hope that at the end of it all they might remain friends. Someday, after all, they would take over the ruling of the keep and …

  Perhaps now Kodey would choose to go somewhere else. Strange that amongst all of the thoughts plaguing him, he had not once considered the possibility that Kodey would leave Castle Triad. The way he looked upon the duke, however, all smiles and eagerness with the occasional flustering that belied his youth, Brice could all too painfully see Kodey becoming enamored of the thrice-damned fool.

  He vaguely recalled the Duke of Lons, although they had seldom crossed paths back when Brice had lived in the royal palace as a messenger for the king. There had been nothing about the duke he had particularly liked or disliked, although he had noted that the duke was at ease in the life of a noble. It was an ease that even then Brice had known he himself would never possess. Nay, he was at ease only with his kitchens and his arrows.

  His fingers moved of their own volition to the small bundle of cloth still tucked into his belt. He had risen early that morning to get ahead in his chores, just so he might have the hours to spare to journey to the village in order to fetch the gift he had commissioned some months ago. Nothing like wh
at a fancy duke could afford, of course. The thought was a bitter one, settling unpleasantly in his stomach. A stronger, wiser man would accept the situation for what it was—Kodey finally coming of age and realizing that there was much more to the world than one castle and a single red-haired cook. ‘Twas perhaps fortunate that the events of the day had passed, for they brought the reality of the situation to the fore much more rapidly than it might have otherwise come. This way, no terrible mistakes had been made.

  Brice closed his fist over his paltry gift and pondered tossing it into the well. Tempting, but he knew he would never be able to bring himself to do it. His only regret now was the inscription; it had been an impulse he would have done better to resist. At the time it had seemed so fitting and he realized now that perhaps more wistfulness had gone into it than he cared to admit. Although knowing Kodey, it would matter not. He would not notice the inscription lest someone else pointed it out to him.

  Tucking the bundle of cloth away, Brice lifted his bow and stood, turning to go back inside. He paused as he saw Lyon striding toward him, cloak flapping in the cool night breeze.

  "If you have worked out the better part of your temper now," Lyon said, "we must talk."

  The tone was a serious one and he did not need light to know that Lyon would be glaring something fierce—but the discontent was not directed at him or he would have already been cuffed hard for his offense. "What is the matter?"

  Lyon irritably shoved back the hood that the wind had blown up. "What do you recall of the squabbling which has always existed between the Houses of Lons and de Capre?"

  "They have disliked one another since the dawn of creation," Brice replied. "I recall vaguely the way the late dukes were always insulting and challenging one another. Ever were their matches called to a halt for fear one would kill the other."

  "When have you ever known them to go to such lengths as this?"

  Brice shook his head. "Never, yet surely it comes as no surprise? Such matters always climax before coming to an end, bloody or peaceful."

  "We do not like it," Lyon said, referring to himself and Chastaine. "Nor does Lady Winifred. Her godfather was of the de Capre, and so this affair troubles her. She does not believe any of that line would act in so cruel a fashion without cause most just and certain."

  "I see," Brice said with a frown. "What do you suspect the truth to be?"

  "We know not," Lyon replied. "Perhaps it is true that de Capre has resorted to these vulgar methods to extract revenge for an insult delivered by His Grace."

  Brice grimaced. "More likely some vital piece of the story is missing."

  Lyon nodded. "Aye."

  Brice frowned in thought and turned over the duke's story in his mind, focusing on that rather than the infuriating way His Grace had flirted with Kodey. Two months ago, the dukes had faced one another in a challenge put forth by de Capre. The match had been brought to a halt by the spectators, who had declared honor satisfied on both sides. The Duke of Lons, in his recounting, had stated calmly that he likely would have taken the bout if it had been permitted to carry to a proper end—something rarely allowed in challenges. This, apparently, had angered de Capre beyond all reckoning. Lons had been anticipating trouble, but not on the scale of the recent attack, and so it had taken his caravan by surprise. Yet Lons did not seem inclined to lodge formal protest or even take revenge.

  Lyon was right—it made no sense. So hideous an affair should be brought before the throne and it was in no small way strange that the throne appeared not to notice such brutality was being inflicted upon one of the kingdom's most powerful families.

  "You want me to make further inquiries," Brice said at last.

  "Aye," Lyon confirmed.

  Brice nodded in agreement, for there was no way he could refuse. "What of Kodey?" he asked, voicing the only fear he held in this matter.

  "He should be safe enough," Lyon said, "else I would never have told Chastaine to let him attend the tourney." He glared at things unseen. "He is no small part of the reason we choose to involve ourselves in this affair, for if something takes a more terrible turn, he will be close enough to His Grace to face some risk."

  "Yet you say he should be safe enough." Brice struggled to ignore the sudden tightening in his chest from fear of what might happen to Kodey for his closeness to the duke, on top of all of the injuries he could incur attending the tourney. Why had they permitted him to go? 'Twas foolishness. Kodey should remain at Castle Triad and celebrate his coming of age—

  He cut his thoughts off with a silent curse.

  "Very likely we worry for naught," Lyon replied, "although of course we are sending several of our own men to discreetly safeguard him. Would that we could go ourselves, but neither Chastaine nor I like to leave the keep so long when there is chance we have been dragged into an affair which may prove dire indeed. Journey to the capital and investigate the full of the matter, Brice. Do so with all haste, but do not sacrifice thoroughness."

  "Aye, Sir Lyon," Brice said, bowing his head and clasping Lyon's arm tightly as they shook.

  "Be careful," Lyon said, not releasing his grip. "Chastaine is reluctant to send Kodey off simply from the worry any true father would feel for his son. In much the same manner it gives me no joy to send you off to discern the truth of a matter which could prove to be quite dangerous. Do not be reckless, Brice."

  Brice nodded and did not attempt to speak for fear of sounding unsteady. "Aye, Sir Lyon," he finally managed.

  Lyon released his arm and grasped the back of his head, tugging Brice sharply forward and holding him in a brief embrace, before releasing him just as suddenly to turn and stride back into the keep.

  Kodey would be protected. Likely the matter would come to naught. Lyon trusted him to discern the truth of the matter. If the Duke of Lons proved to be a liar, no one would take it amiss if Brice put an arrow through the man's heart. After he cut off that confounded arm, which the duke could not seem to help draping across Kodey's shoulders with such crass boldness.

  Hefting his bow, Brice returned to the keep to pack his things that he might depart come the dawn.

  Inside, braziers still burned in the main hall, although it appeared at first glance to be deserted. Then he saw a goblet and a platter of sweetmeats, and a better look revealed Kodey kneeling before the fireplace, carefully placing various piles neatly into a trunk. Another stood nearby and Brice knew that when Kodey departed for the tourney, both of his trunks would be filled with at least half the keep.

  "You are so eager to depart?" Brice asked, striving to sound casual, but painfully aware of the bitterness that tainted his voice. He could not help it, especially when Kodey startled and turned to look at him.

  Kodey would never be mistaken for possessing noble breeding, although he very likely had been sired by a knight who had forced his attentions upon Kodey's mother—the little Kodey had recalled of his past seemed to indicate such. Far from noble, but he was easily as handsome as any. Extensive hours in the sun had put a burnished gold tone to his brown hair, which in turn drew out a similar gold in his brown eyes. Small as a boy, he had grown into the manner of build that knights strove their entire lives to obtain and keep.

  Brice wanted nothing so badly as to cross the room and kiss him, to push him against the wall and indulge one wicked fancy after another, bind Kodey to him and keep all others way. But he would not, could not, do such a thing. Kodey stood on the edge between boy and man, and such a position was all too easily manipulated by feelings he had not yet learned to master. For boyish infatuation and youthful lust were not the same thing as love, and Kodey would not know the difference until irrevocable damage had been wrought. Brice would rather have nothing than see the adoration in those eyes turn into vehement dislike. Better to let the infatuation fade away as it would and hope that someday they might be genuine friends. "Brice," Kodey said, as happy as ever to see him, although there was some hesitation in his manner. "So you did hear I am going to tourney. How do you
think I will fare?"

  He would show himself honorably. Kodey should be a knight; he had all of the inherent ability of Chastaine and Lyon. The tourney in question was intended for young knights, men who had only just won their spurs. They all would have been extensively trained and tested, but precious few of them would have been blooded. All of the drilling in the world did not make up for true combat and Kodey had been thrust into his first true battle at the age of fifteen, already too old for his age from a life on the streets before Chastaine had found him. So already did he possess a strong advantage over many of his opponents, and because Chastaine and Lyon were never less than thorough, he was well-trained in the more traditional aspects of knighthood. Although he likely would not be named a champion, Kodey would flourish.

  "I suppose it depends on whether or not you can keep from gawking and stumbling about like a child at his first banquet," Brice said coolly, hating himself even as the words came out. He wanted so badly to kiss away the pain he had put on Kodey's face, but that want only made him push forward with his harsh words. "You are not used to the ways of nobles; certainly you are not used to the ways of courtly ladies. Simply remember to do as you are instructed and do not give in to your childish impulses. If you manage that, I suppose you may survive it."

  Kodey stared at him and although there was much anger there, it did not hide the hurt he struggled to repress. "Fie on you, then!" He picked up the platter of sweetmeats and pitched them at Brice, then turned and fled sharply from the hall.

  Brice did not bother to dodge the sloppily thrown platter, merely brushed off the smeared bits and scattered crumbs, then set the platter back upon one of the long tables. He set his longbow on the table opposite, and then wandered down the aisle between the two long tables, sitting down at the very edge of one of the long benches. Resting his chin on his folded hands, he closed his eyes against the turmoil turning his stomach sour. The fire had long since been put out, but he thought that if it roared, it still would not banish the cold sunk all the way to his marrow.