by Diana Cosby
The pleasure at his squire’s promptness changed to caution at the lad’s stilted actions.
Thomas walked to his steed’s head, caught the halter without meeting his gaze, and waited for him to dismount.
So, his squire didn’t like the setdown he’d received earlier this morning? He would learn that life’s lessons often came with a price. Nicholas dismounted. “After you have cared for my horse, meet me on the practice field.”
Without turning, Thomas nodded.
Upset or not, the lad would show him respect and learn that he must face the situations life dealt him head-on. “I will have an answer, and you will look at me when you do it.”
Thomas’s shoulders stiffened. He curled the reins tight in his slender hands, drew himself up to his full height, and turned.
Nicholas had expected to see anger or irritation carved into his expression, but the fragile pain, the swollen redness rimming his eyes, and the heart-wrenching loss filling his gaze threw him off guard. Without hesitation, he stepped toward his squire then halted, realizing his intent. He’d almost swept the lad into a hug to whisper words to soothe, to try to ease his obvious hurt.
His squire watched him unsure, his eyes too wide, his face too pale, and his anguish tangible, painfully so. For a brief moment need flashed in the emerald depths before fading to despair.
God’s teeth, he was going insane! “Go and be quick about it,” Nicholas snapped before he gave in and consoled the lad. On a curse, he dismissed the slash of need in Thomas’s gaze—a trick of the light, a bedeviling of his mind. He’d but censored his squire. ’Twas not as if he’d beaten him with a stick.
And sometimes words hurt the most.
Guilt erased the hard edge of anger. Battered by self-doubts, he stared at his squire as he hurried away. None of this made any sense.
Nicholas struggled to pinpoint exactly what he’d said to the lad to instill such a grief-stricken reaction, but as if an illusion of its own, the answer eluded him. He gritted his teeth wanting to scream, but finding through it all that he wanted to help.
On a muttered curse, he strode to the armory and called himself every kind of a lack-witted fool. No doubt his brother, Hugh, would be amused by his confusion. Until a moment ago, he would’ve joined in as well.
As he entered the armory, Sir Jon looked over. “Everything is set for this eve’s meeting as you requested.”
Nicholas nodded. So caught up in the moment, he’d forgotten to inform his squire of the upcoming evening’s events. “I will be pleased when it is over.”
Sir Jon nodded. “ ’Twill not be a gathering for the faint of heart.”
“Indeed.” Nicholas glanced toward the dungeon. “Take several men and move Lord Terrick to an empty chamber on the second floor of the keep. Ensure it remains under guard.”
“Aye, Sir Nicholas.” Mail clanked as the knight strode out the door.
Though Lord Terrick’s condition weighed heavy on his mind, Nicholas focused on the upcoming eve. Meeting with the Wardens of the Western Marches from both English and Scottish soil, along with other border officials, was a necessary evil. He’d been warned that many times their discussions turned into drunken, fist-crunching brawls, and often the wardens on both sides of the border were as guilty of reiving as those charged. This night he was determined to keep peace between them, or at least a semblance of order for the few hours they would remain within Ravenmoor Castle.
From their assembly he hoped to establish his quest for peace and unravel any further dealings of the previous castellan, illicit or otherwise.
He walked to where the weapons were stored. Tonight and its worries would come soon enough. Now, to find Thomas a sword. After skimming through the pitiful selection, making a mental note to send the battered lot to the blacksmith along with a request to forge more, he withdrew the best from the bunch.
The tarnished steel of the sword would be Thomas’s task to polish and maintain. For now the sharpening of the blade could wait.
The weapon balanced well in his hand. Pleased, Nicholas moved the sword through a rapid succession of maneuvers, wielding the blade with quick, efficient sweeps. He selected a partially moth-eaten but serviceable gambeson and headed toward the lists.
The clang of swords echoed behind Elizabet as knights began to spar in pairs around her while she kept watch for the castellan to appear.
Inside, her stomach churned. She’d thought herself composed, prepared to face Sir Nicholas upon his return from his rounds. But when he’d ridden through the gates, her emotions had begun to shatter, inch by unnerving inch. Then he’d dismounted and gazed at her with sincere concern, and the last barrier of her resistance had crumbled. When he’d taken a step toward her, it’d required all of her willpower nae to throw herself into his arms.
The desperate need to be held, to draw from his endless strength, startled her, but her unexpected vulnerability toward Nicholas left her off guard.
Elizabet glanced in the shadowed nooks of the repaired walls, half-expecting to see fey eyes brimmed with mischief glittering at her plight.
Blades rang out with a solid clash paces away.
“Saint’s curse!” the knight to her right called out.
She glanced over as the fighter danced away from the bite of the sword.
His stocky opponent feigned to the left and away from his opponent’s blade, then attacked.
Sadness slid through her as the men continued their practice. She appreciated their skill and respect for one another, and ached for both in her own life.
“Thomas,” Nicholas called.
She turned. The castellan walked toward her with a smooth, deadly grace. A man accustomed to the fight as well as the win. ’Twas easy to imagine him wielding his sword, the play of his muscles as he moved through a series of quick rapid thrusts, or the gleam of victory in his eyes at his conquest.
Desire for Nicholas pulsed through her. Shaken, she shoved the emotion aside. How appropriate for the castellan to choose this moment to enter, in the midst of challenge, with the meeting of steel echoing around them.
Nicholas halted before her. Steel-gray eyes searched hers, darkened, then became guarded. “You are ready then?”
Never for you. “Aye.”
He handed her a sword and a gambeson, then gestured toward a vacant corner sprinkled with sparse patches of grass. “We will begin the lessons there.”
After donning the worn, padded tunic, she followed. As she was used to her lighter crafted claymore, the English broadsword weighed heavy in her hands. ’Twould be a test to adjust to this heavier, bulkier weapon, but when had anything with him been anything but a challenge?
After explaining the basic maneuvers to Thomas, Nicholas stepped back and moved into a defensive stance. “Remember what I said.” He lifted his broadsword waist high.
Determination glittered in his squire’s eyes as he nodded and followed his lead.
Nicholas walked him through each maneuver, pleased by Thomas’s quick grasp of his instructions and proficiency at handling his weapon.
“This time,” Nicholas said, “try to block my advance.” He swung.
Thomas lifted his blade to fend off his blow as instructed.
He stepped to the side and delivered another hard strike.
His squire made the proper countermove and deflected his blade once again.
“Good,” Nicholas said, impressed by the lad’s innate ability. “Again.” They worked for the next half hour without pause.
Sweat slid down his squire’s face as Thomas feigned and lunged toward him, becoming more aggressive.
Nicholas danced back and easily averted his attack. A quick study indeed. The lad was ready for the next lesson. “On the battlefield never let your opponent unsettle you. Every swing must be wielded with purpose, not passion. When emotions become involved, they can overrule common sense, then ’tis easy to make mistakes. Remember that.”
Emerald sparks flashed in his eyes. “I am nae a fool
.”
No, far from it. At this point, Nicholas wasn’t exactly sure what the lad was; thief or victim, or mayhap a combination of both.
Again the secrets the lad withheld taunted him as did the change in their relationship. Through their time spent together over the past sennight, an intimate bond had ignited between them as precious as rare. It’d become more than the teaching, but personal. Yet Thomas refused to trust him enough to confide his worries.
Nicholas neatly avoided his squire’s charge when he feigned to the right, then swung a quick, sharp blow. Questions festered. “Who hurt you so that you close yourself off to anyone?”
Surprise darkened to anger in Thomas’s eyes. He blocked Nicholas’s thrust. With a grunt he twisted his blade and served one of his own. “ ’Tis my affair.”
That damn wall his squire chose to erect around him. The scrape of steel shuddered around them with a ragged hiss. “I would help you if you would give me the chance.”
Thomas’s eyes flashed. “Keep your bloody sympathy. I do nae need it.”
Irritation severed Nicholas’s good intent. He caught his squire’s swing, then advanced with a series of intricate thrusts, pushing the lad back.
Pride and anger caught in a ruddy swirl in Thomas’s expression as he fought for each breath, meeting him swing for swing.
At his squire’s continued defiance, his anger rose. “You do not need anyone but your bloody self, do you?”
“I do nae need a blasted Sassenach!” The scream of their blades backed his decree, hard, unforgiving.
Nicholas repelled another swing and drove forward with his sword. The lad stumbled back, cornered, but in the confusion of emotions, he felt as trapped as the lad. Bloody hell! ’Twas supposed to be a lesson in arms, naught more.
He rotated his sword and caught the hilt of Thomas’s blade. With a sharp jerk he flung the weapon to the ground, leaving his squire unarmed. Without hesitation he lifted the tip of his blade to Thomas’s neck.
The lad stilled. His breath tumbled out in jerky breaths, but instead of fear, Thomas’s ferocious spirit burned in his gaze.
Shaken, Nicholas removed the sword. The intensity of emotions this youth incited unnerved him. “If your focus slips, even for a moment, you will lose all you sought to gain and mayhap more.” His fingers clenched tight upon the hilt of his blade. In dealing with Thomas, ’twould do well for him to remember that advice as well.
Elizabet touched her throat where Nicholas’s blade had pressed. Though the weapon was heavy and awkward to use, it’d taken every shred of her will to withhold her full ability with the sword he’d given her; but a part of her wanted to see how well she would hold her own against Nicholas, more so with her own blade.
“Thomas.”
Startled by the intensity that had unfolded between them, she met his gaze. Shame filled her at the pride on the castellan’s face, admiration she’d nae earned. Even in this, the simple act of learning to protect oneself, she deceived him. It appeared in her effort to free her brother she would lose a piece of her pride as well.
The castellan nodded. “You did well for your first spar.”
Heat swept up her cheeks. Unable to face him further, she turned away.
Silence spanned the void broken by the nearby clash of steel.
“We are done for the day,” Nicholas said. “When you are ready to trust me, I will be here.”
His slow intake of breath then sigh of frustration matched her own. The day to trust Nicholas with the truth would never come. She tried to gather herself, halt this ridiculous flow of dismal self-pity. Regardless of how much she was coming to care for him, her destiny was set. Whatever the cost she would free her brother.
“Your muscles will ache on the morrow.” The slide of the castellan sheathing his sword whispered behind her. “Clean your blade,”
She faced him, as off balance by the rough edge of his voice as the hurt in his eyes.
“Do you know how to care for the weapon?” the castellan asked.
“ Aye.”
He nodded. “Then be off with you.”
Shaken by the emotions he inspired, she hurried off, anxious to be away from him, aware that she cared too much.
“Thomas,” Nicholas called as she reached the exit.
She stopped, her breathing rapid, her pulse racing. Time. She needed time alone to settle her nerves, but even that small token was nae to be. She turned.
“I have called a meeting of the Wardens of the Western Marches this eve, along with other officials along the border. Your blade is to be readied by then and worn at your side. See Sir Jon about a leather belt and sheath.”
Elizabet nodded, nae trusting herself to speak. She turned and almost stumbled as she hurried away. It’d been easy to fool the English knights of Ravenmoor Castle and the few remaining local villagers of her identity, but what about the wardens and the other gentry who would arrive in a few hours?
Over the years, her father, a respected leader of this land, had played an integral part in the keeping of law and order throughout the marches. On many occasions she’d welcomed the Wardens of the Marches and border officials into their home. Dressed as a lad and playing the role of a squire, would she be recognized by them?
At the armory she gathered the sand needed to clean her sword. Elizabet settled into a solitary corner near the guard shack and began to scrub the neglected steel. What was she going to do? She couldna risk the chance of being identified, but Nicholas expected her to attend him throughout the meeting.
A small patch of the tarnished blade began to gleam beneath her ministrations. Worry for her brother fevered in his cell ate at her as she continued working in slow circles. It would all work out, she had to believe such. Regardless, at this point, there was no turning back.
Hours later, a pitcher of ale in her hands, Elizabet hurried around the corner of the great room.
“What out!” a deep authoritative voice boomed.
Too late, she barreled into a tall, sturdily built man.
Narrowed hazel eyes glittered with unsheathed malice when she dared to glance up. “You clumsy fool. Out of my way.”
The stench of mead clung to her as she scrambled from his path. “I am so sorry, my lord!”
Mail rattled as he stormed past.
Elizabet closed her eyes as the rich brew dripped from her bangs to slide down her cheeks like golden tears. So lost in her own worries, she hadna even considered that the Earl of Dunsten would be in attendance. Thank goodness he’d nae recognized her.
Fighting for calm, she bent down to mop up the spilled mead, and slid a glance toward the dais where Nicholas and the other officials sat, their voices raised in heated debate.
Lord Dunsten stepped onto the raised platform, confidence as well as arrogance embedded in his stride.
Conversation halted.
Nicholas stood and turned toward the new arrival, his gaze assessing. “Lord Dunsten, I am Sir Nicholas, castellan of Ravenmoor Castle, I bid you welcome.”
After a brief introduction, Lord Dunsten took a seat. Within minutes the men became engrossed in the discussions of border law.
With a relieved sigh, Elizabet finished mopping up the sticky mess, then moved to the shadows. She must keep out of Lord Dunsten’s sight.
As she stood shielded by the murky light, Dunsten’s entreaty to her father for a marriage contract echoed in her mind. Thank heaven Giric had intervened and swayed her father’s decision. Though they had played as children while their fathers discussed concerns of Scotland’s future, she didna love Dunsten. Aye, a foolish belief in this day, but the wish to marry for love throughout the years lingered.
Nor could she forget the rift between her brother and Dunsten spanned many years. At the age of six and ten years, Giric had gone on a hunt with Dunsten. Her brother had returned, anger carved upon his face. When asked, Giric refused to reveal what had passed between them, but from that day forth her brother and Dunsten had remained at odds.
&n
bsp; Giric’s insistence to their father to deny Dunsten’s request for marriage had served to add another wedge of dissent between the now grown men, one that still thrived.
Elizabet took in the earl as he debated with the officials halfway across the room chamber. Was he aware Sir Nicholas held her brother imprisoned within his dungeon? A shiver stole through her. More than likely he was aware, news that had pleased him. A new fear arose. Would he use her brother’s imprisonment to his advantage, charge him with false crimes, and rid himself of Giric for good?
A warden slammed his fist on the table and rose; another heated argument ensued.
Elizabet jumped. What was she thinking? She couldna hide. Nicholas had sent her to fetch another round of mead. With a prayer she could avoid Lord Dunsten’s notice this eve, she turned and hurried to refill her pitcher.
Tension began to ebb between the powerful men seated at the table, and Nicholas paused, intrigued by his squire’s cautious approach, curious as to his drenched state. He lifted his tankard and drained the last few drops.
Considering the two times during the heated discussions that swords had been drawn in an angry retort, and twice he’d diffused each confrontation, he was pleased with how well the evening had fared. It had taken all of his experience as a mediator to keep the men focused on the topic without bloodshed; not an easy feat when mixing Englishmen and Scots.
Thomas worked his way along the table, refilling cups with the golden brew, but all the while he kept his gaze averted, and his body remained tense.
Sinking back in his chair, Nicholas took a long drink of his ale. He covertly scanned the powerful wardens surrounding him. The lad’s cautious manner assured him Thomas knew at least one of the influential leaders. Whoever it was, the man terrified his squire.
Thomas halted at his side. “Would you like more, Sir Nicholas?”
Nicholas met him square in the eyes and kept his voice low. “Which man is it?”
Color fled from his squire’s face. “Which man is what?”
