Always There

by Megan Derr

  Yvain could lie, mayhap, and say that his feelings had eased, that he would settle for camaraderie … which really only proved, at least to himself, that mending the rift was not good enough for him. It should be; to expect more than that was the height of foolishness. Corentin had not held him in anything but contempt before his lover died and after that … Nay, to think that they could be more than comrades was the sort of boyish fancy he would do better to leave well behind.

  What, then, should be his focus? If he could answer that question, mayhap there was yet chance for some happy resolution. As happy, at least, as he could dare to hope. But Yvain's mind was blank, refusing to think upon any idea that did not involve kissing Corentin deeply and begging upon his knees to be given a chance at being the object of Corentin's deepest affection … save explaining that he had been besotted upon first sighting the pale beauty Corentin ever had been, and the way infatuation had taken root and blossomed into something far deeper and stronger as they grew. Ever had he been captive to the quiet strength Corentin carried. Precious few nobles would be willing to give up all they possessed for a peasant, yet Corentin had been prepared to give up one of the most powerful titles in the kingdom for precisely that. Only the antagonism between their families had kept Yvain at a distance, from seeking more than a casual acquaintance with the man that he had been told he must dislike. He wished he had been less obedient, that he had dared to make a friendship where all said 'twas impossible to find it. If he had, mayhap their present situation would be something else entirely.

  Dwelling on such things accomplished nothing, and so Yvain tried again to put his mind to where it could do some good. Rising back to his full height, he gave the bright, white valley below one last look before turning and going back inside, continuing his walk through the winding hall. Two days it had taken him to memorize the layout and he had felt the slattern indeed when he saw that it had taken Corentin mere hours to do the same. Truly his mind seemed made for all manner of puzzles. 'Twas something Yvain had appreciated in passing, but never witnessed so close. He appreciated it truly, now, and wondered sadly what else he did not know about a man he professed to love. He wondered what Corentin knew of him, thought of him, aside from hate.

  Oh, this would not do. 'Twas nights like this where Yvain wished he could simply return to his room and drown his thoughts and sorrows in a healthy dose of brandy. Instead he turned down a dark stretch of hallway, one that contained naught but meditation chambers along one side, another stretch of balcony opposite, and the massive doors to the library at the far end.

  Voices.

  Yvain stilled, hand going immediately to the sword he ever wore—then he was yanked roughly to the side, nearly colliding with the archway before he was pulled around and then pushed up against it. A leather glove covered his mouth and Corentin pressed a finger to his own. Yvain nodded, torn between the voices he could still ever so faintly hear and Corentin pressed up against him. Vexing in the extreme to force him to focus upon duty when desire could scarcely be more distracting.

  The glove over his mouth slid away and the press of Corentin's body against his own eased as he realized Yvain would not thrash about and struggle. Swallowing a sigh of mingled relief and disappointment, Yvain lifted his brows in silent query. Corentin shook his head, mouthing only the word 'monks.' Going still, Yvain rested his head against the wall. He was grateful for what protection his hood and cloak could offer from the cold, for it seemed they might be here for some time. He wished he knew what was about and why Corentin had not seen fit to share the knowledge with him.

  Putting a finger once more to his lips, Corentin pulled entirely away and moved toward the door from which the voices emanated, pressing himself up against the wall. Yvain waited a moment, frowning, and then followed him, taking up position on the opposite side of the barely open doorway. Voices spilled out, but they were too low for Yvain to make sense of the words. A brief glance told him that Corentin fared no better. They could, however, hear when the voices shifted and were accompanied by the telltale sounds of activity being finished. Yvain looked to Corentin and lightly touched fingers to the hilt of his sword, but Corentin shook his head and again put a finger to his lips.

  Secrecy, then. Aye, Yvain tended to agree. Reckless, unwitting monks were far more useful than scared, caught monks. Nearly as one they moved back to the balcony, precisely where they had hidden before, and if Yvain happened to wind up once more trapped between Corentin and the wall, well, no one but he and the heavens need know he had done it on purpose. They waited in silence as the monks emerged from the room, still talking in their low voices and he would have to learn that trick from them, for he knew he was never so hard to hear when he spoke in low tones. The voices abruptly cut off, and then Yvain heard one of them whisper furiously as at least two more unmistakably bolted. What … ?

  A shadow moved toward them, stark against the pale tile beneath the full moon, and he realized too late that their own shadows were equally plain. Stupid. He reacted with only the thought of preserving the true purpose of their presence, reaching up to grasp the sides of Corentin's head and draw him down, taking his mouth and using his surprise to immediately take the kiss deep. Only faintly did he hear the monk gasp and the scuff of his slippers as he turned and bolted.

  As silence fell, Yvain could only hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears as he tried and failed to break the kiss—but 'twas beyond his powers; Corentin tasted liked mulled wine and some faint hint of salt, all warmth and maleness beneath that. So hot, and all the more when the world around them was frozen. Corentin was kissing him back and Yvain thought hazily that he must be lost to some wondrous dream, wishing that all of them were so pleasant. He might have stayed that way eternally, but for the sound of his own voice moaning deep and low. 'Twas jarring and he realized abruptly that this was no dream—and he had just made a great mistake.

  Tearing away, Yvain pushed Corentin back. "Forgive my impertinence," he said hoarsely, fleeing the balcony—except he could not flee to his room. Duty before all else and they must know what the monks had been about. Only a coward would run and leave the work to his comrade.

  With an effort, Yvain pushed open the door to the room recently vacated by the monks. The smell of smoke was still sharp and pungent in the air, and relighting the recently doused torch in the far corner required little effort. Light filled the room, casting shadows on … nothing. There was not even a prayer mat upon the floor.

  "I was—" Corentin stopped short and cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was nearly normal. Nearly. But Yvain had spent too many years obtaining every crumb he could from Corentin, from the way he smiled to the sound of his voice, not to know it was not quite right at the moment. He wondered what damage he had caused with his ill-thought kiss … and furiously pushed thoughts of it aside. He would have entirely too much of that later when he finally found his bed.

  "I was here earlier today," Corentin said, "and thought briefly that I had found an anomaly in the floor. However, monks interrupted my explorations and I did not want to give away that I had found something on the chance I had, indeed, found something. I declared the room contained nothing and moved on."

  Yvain frowned. "You did not think to tell me that you had very likely chanced upon something?"

  "How was I to tell you?" Corentin asked, voice sharp, but eyes upon the floor. "The few times we were together, I could not capture your attention to convey there was something we needed to discuss. When finally I ventured to your room to seek you out, I found it deserted."

  "Aye," Yvain conceded with a wince. "I wander at nights and I should have mentioned to you I did thus. My apologies."

  Corentin shrugged. "There is fault on both sides; it makes no difference now. Look here." Gingerly he lifted up a tile in the floor.

  Yvain knelt opposite him on the floor, and reached down into the dark hole once the tile had been well cleared. He explored hesitantly, wary of tricks … and laughed softly
at what his fingers finally struck upon. Getting a firm grip, he lifted out the heavy—full—earthenware jug.

  Corentin groaned. "We have wasted the night spying upon monks devoted to entirely the wrong manner of spirits?"

  "Aye," Yvain confirmed, torn between aggravation and amusement. "Well devoted, indeed, if in the middle of all this mess they still indulge. I wonder if we dare wake the good Father for this matter or let it wait 'til morning."

  Corentin reached down into the hole and extracted another jug. From the way he hefted it, 'twas not near so full as Yvain's. His expression was grim, and Yvain wished suddenly and painfully that he had thought to look upon Corentin when he had been well-kissed.

  Yvain swore silently at himself; what was wrong with his mind tonight, that it lacked any manner of focus? Truly he needed to run himself through and have done with the madness.

  "I say we wake the good Father," Corentin said. "They would not be able to brew this on the premises, which means that they must do so far enough away to not be seen by the others, but close enough that they would not be missed."

  Yvain nodded and slid the tile back into place, then once more hefted his jar. "Come, then, let us wake Father Drogo and put the fear of the heavens back into a handful of monks."

  "Aye," Corentin agreed, carrying the other jug as he led the way from the room.

  Following close behind him, Yvain struggled to bury thoughts he should not be having, and an urge to taste the contents from the jug in vain hope that it might banish the taste of Corentin which lingered still; he feared that it ever would.

  Corentin could feel no pity as the monks received lashings for their misbehavior. All men took vows at some stage in their life. Vows shaped a man and his ability to keep those vows showed the measure of a man—which meant that Corentin's own measure was all but vanished, for a certainty. 'Twas a heavy weight upon his chest, especially in the face of what Nash had done, what Yvain had done … Corentin oft wondered why the grand duke—the king—had not seen fit to punish him for his transgressions. His behavior had been disgraceful enough to warrant the loss of his spurs, the stripping of his title. Yet no one had done aught to him.

  Despite the matter of his own leniency, Corentin could not bring himself to feel pity for the monks. Their behavior broke the vows they had sworn to their Father, their brothers, and the heavens. Their reckless, foolish behavior put everyone at risk, most especially if 'twas true that they did venture by way of secret means to some location beyond the monastery. Mayhap Corentin did not give it because he despised that it had been bestowed upon him. 'Twas a wonder for certain that Yvain managed to speak to him at all. He wondered constantly what Yvain saw in him, that he once—and perhaps even still, despite everything—loved Corentin.

  Free of the blinders he had worn for far too many years, forced to see that Yvain had never looked upon him with the same dislike … truly he wondered only that no one had managed to steal Yvain away. The very epitome of a knight, willing to give everything, and ne'er had he asked for aught in return. He had nearly scared Corentin half to death before, when they'd spied upon the monks. So focused had he been upon the room, barely in time had he heard near-silent footsteps headed in his direction.

  Around the corner had come a figure of black, although at the last moonlight had revealed the cloak was in fact deepest green. Corentin did not need moonlight, however, to mark Yvain. Nay—countless were the number of times he had stolen glances at the man he wished he might deserve, despite the guilt and shame and confusion which tore at him. He would know Yvain's stride—confident without being arrogant, every step made with a purpose even when his direction was aimless—anywhere.

  Of course, thinking of that moment forced Corentin to think upon others. He felt like some simpering twit from a bard's tale to be so deeply affected by a mere kiss. Nash's kisses had ever left him longing for more … but he did not recall them leaving him so breathless. Did it make him fickle? Untrue? To be so captivated by the kiss of one he could not have when his lover had been dead for only a year and a half? Yet he would not compound his sins by lying to himself. Yvain's kiss, ruse though it had only been, had left a deep mark. Corentin had liked far too much the press of their bodies, of knowing he held Yvain firmly captured, and although Yvain had initiated the kiss, he had been utterly pliant beneath Corentin's reflexive response. For all of his compliance, however, Yvain's strength had been there. 'Twas humbling, that great strength so sweetly offered up. A knight indeed; Yvain obviously had oft been made to bend through the years, yet never had strife broken him. Yvain would not be so—

  Corentin broke the thought off, refusing to dwell upon it here, now, when his attention should be upon other matters. He did not want to think upon it, hating himself for the thought, the emotions. Nay, he would not think that way. Instead, he focused his attention upon the three monks who struggled not to make a sound as they were lashed by older brothers. Every face in the hall was downcast and more than a few of the youngest looked near to tears.

  Good. Mayhap it would teach them the importance of keeping their vows. Mayhap his own father had not cuffed him enough in his youth, although truly Corentin could not lay the blame for his sins at his father's feet. Except, perhaps, that he had raised his son to hate a family without good cause, but Corentin was as guilty for blindly accepting the lesson as his father was for administering. He wished he were as strong as Yvain had proven to be in overcoming meaningless dislike; it only spoke all the poorer of him that it had taken losing so much to make him see reason. Wisdom, however, extracted too cruel a price.

  At last the awful sound of leather against skin ceased and monks rushed forward to assist their brutally beaten brothers. Corentin wondered if they were properly grateful for the that fact they were monks. Had they been knights, and so endangered the keep under their charge, they would not be walking.

  Corentin carefully avoided looking directly at any of the brothers, for they were not so filled with holy mercy and love that they would be above looking upon the visiting knights with vehement dislike. In their eyes, 'twas outsider brigands and knights that had brought all this upon them. Brothers struck down by sword and arrow, and now three more beaten. There would be no assistance from those quarters, for a certainty; he and Yvain were well and truly on their own now. Father Drogo, of course, would assist, but he surely was none too pleased at the continued unhappiness brought down upon his normally peaceful monastery.

  As the hall emptied, Corentin stepped away from where he had stood just behind Father Drogo to stand before him, aware nearly to the point of pain that Yvain stood beside him, less than an arm's length away.

  "What did you learn from them?" he asked, implacable and focused, at least on the surface.

  Father Drogo grimaced. "That I have been too lax in many things, that they saw fit to do these things even beneath the danger looming over us. Aside from that, they related to me their knowledge of a secret passage and where it lets out in a grove where they do their brewing. Come."

  "I am sorry we bring this down upon you," Yvain said quietly, and Corentin could hear the sincerity of his words. He wondered how Yvain did it and could only admire it—and hated himself all the more for missing it all these years. He wondered what else he missed and yearned to know—yet how could he ask? 'Twas hopeless.

  "Nay," Father Drogo replied, lifting one hand in a show of peace. "These events are not your fault; you are here to do what we could not. If that includes drawing out those secrets my monks have kept from me … well, better to catch it now rather than later when it has grown much worse."

  Corentin felt something in his chest ease to know for a certainty that they had not angered or upset Father Drogo overmuch. They followed as Father Drogo moved past them and down the vast hall, leading them through the myriad hallways—and now Corentin knew every room they passed, which turns led where and how to get to where he needed. He felt easier for not being confused by his surroundings; his companion caused more than eno
ugh of that.

  "Here," Father Drogo said, voice near startling after the long minutes of silence, in a monastery that was far quieter than Corentin had ever heard it. He grabbed one of the torches from the wall and then pushed open the door to a storage room, leading them past shelves filled with neatly arranged miscellany. Behind the farthest shelf, Father Drogo knelt. "Did you not find this one, Sir Corentin?"

  "Nay," Corentin said.

  Yvain stirred beside him, laughing softly. "You have not explored this far, I would wager."

  Corentin shrugged.

  Father Drogo chuckled and a faint click echoed through the small chamber. Seeing what he was about, Corentin moved forward—and nearly collided with Yvain as he tried to do the same. He stumbled, attempting to both stop and move away, but succeeding in neither, and feeling a thousand times foolish for such unusual clumsiness. A hand landed on his back, catching and steadying, and it slid away slowly before Corentin was even certain it had been there. Stubbornly ignoring the moment, he motioned Father Drogo out of the way and knelt alongside the massive stone which now rest slightly askew in the floor. Opposite him Yvain knelt and at a nod, they worked as one to lift the stone.

  "How do monks manage this?" Yvain asked with a grunt as they lifted the stone from the floor.

  Father Drogo laughed. "A man can manage much when he is into mischief and we try to keep them from mischief by working them hard."

  Corentin rolled his eyes and stood up to take the torch Father Drogo still held. Moving back to the hole in the floor, he drew his sword and quickly descended the steep stairs just revealed by wavering torchlight.

  "You last," he heard Yvain command Father Drogo. "That you might flee back to safety should things go awry."