by Diana Cosby
“Tell me the truth,” Nicholas said.
Distress flashed in Thomas’s emerald-green eyes.
Nicholas laid his hand upon the roughened stone of the sill. “You know Lachllan, the steward of Wolfhaven Castle?”
After a brief hesitation, Thomas nodded.
“And Lord Terrick?”
“Aye.” His answer fell out in a quiet hush, hinting at more than a passing acquaintance.
Secrets, his mind echoed. Nicholas curled his hand into a fist. “How?” The wood on the fire shifted. Hot embers rebelled with a loud snap.
His squire drew a deep breath, slowly exhaled. “I used to live there.”
Of all the answers he’d expected, the lad living in Wolfhaven Castle was not one of them. He’d suspected Thomas of reiving their cattle and being caught, then punished. As a criminal, ’twould have explained the lad’s nervousness around the men and the Wardens of the Western Marches as well.
His squire looked away. “I tend to be a bit headstrong.” Thomas slanted a nervous look toward Nicholas, and a blush crept up his cheeks. “To be a bit set in my ways.”
Set in his ways? An understatement. In the short duration Thomas had lived beneath his care, his strong will had laid siege to every aspect of Nicholas’s well-controlled life.
“At times my stubbornness gained the attention of the steward, and too often, the lord’s son, Giric.”
With ease he could envision Lord Terrick pushed to the brink by this wisp of a lad. In only a few days, how often had he experienced the same frustration?
“Once, in a fit of temper, I snuck a burr under Giric’s saddle.” A flicker of a smile touched his lips, then faded. “He was angry as a boar, and I canna blame him, but at times he is as pigheaded as they come.” He shrugged and his thin frame drooped. Any glint of rebellion vanished. “ ’Twas but one of my many exploits.”
“And Lord Terrick tolerated this?”
Guilt spread over his face. “I didna stay around to find out.”
“So you ran?”
“ Aye.”
Afraid a powerful and respected man like Lord Terrick would seek him out, and with nowhere to go, Thomas had turned to a life of reiving. Until the lad had tried to rob him.
Nicholas grimaced. The leather of his sheath creaked as he set his hand upon his blade. Steel, cool and firm, lay against his fingers; a sword designed to defend as well as protect. His temper began to ebb. His squire’s admission answered many questions, and explained the haunted eyes and the fear, but it also emphasized the lad’s need to learn to make wise decisions.
“ ’Tis better to face your mistakes then flee from them,” Nicholas said. “Wiser still to think before you act irrationally.” Which is why when this was settled he would send Thomas away. The lad needed guidance, but not from him.
Irritation flickered on his squire’s face. “Think you I didna try? As often as I am wise, I am a fool. For as my own mother stated”—his voice broke—“ ’tis my heart that rules my actions.”
Passion. It emanated from the lad in waves. Terrified by the longing Thomas inspired, Nicholas refocused on their discussion. “Where is your mother?” His squire’s face paled, and he wished he could recall his harsh words. “Is she dead?”
“Aye,” Thomas whispered, the words forlorn.
“And your father as well?”
Thomas nodded and looked away.
A sense of hopelessness for the lad infused him. Blast it. “Is there anyone kin or friend you can ask for help?”
His squire turned, his eyes dry, filled with anger. “If I had another option, do you nae think I would have chosen it?” He brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen onto his cheek and his emerald eyes grew fragile. “In but days you offered me pride, hope, and respect, more than my da offered me my entire life. For that I thank you. Neither do I expect you to understand what I needed. You never were supposed to.” A sad smile touched his mouth. “But you did.”
The tension between them shifted, became personal. Nicholas silently cursed.
“As I said before, I didna want to like you, but now I do, too much,” Thomas finished in a harsh rasp, the regret of his words tangible as if torn from his heart.
Nicholas swallowed hard and stared out the window. The full moon spilled across the moors in a surreal glow. A dense mist hung over the land as enchanting and as alluring as Thomas.
His emotions crumbled and he clung to one, the overwhelming urge to protect. “There is much you need to learn, but ’tis not my expertise that would serve you best. On the morrow I am sending a missive to my brother, the Earl of Carridon, to request he continue your training.” He didn’t turn at the lad’s sharp intake, but stared unseeing across the rugged terrain. Though he’d anticipated the lad’s distress, it still hurt. “Once I receive confirmation, you will depart. I expect you to depart within a fortnight for his home, Raedwulf Castle, which is located on the northeast border of England. My brother will ensure that you are given shelter and continue your training.”
“Why?”
At his squire’s pained whisper, Nicholas turned, hurting inside at the devastation on Thomas’s face and wanting him with his every breath. He remained silent. Let the lad believe his reasons were based on the secrets he’d kept from him. “Considering the circumstance,” Nicholas finally answered, “ ’tis for the best.”
The self-condemnation in Nicholas’s voice tore Elizabet apart. Though his mind saw a lad, his body sensed the woman. If only she could explain, but she’d already said too much. And his noble act to want to protect her from himself only endeared him to her more. “If ’tis your wish.”
“ ’Tis.”
With a heavy heart, she walked across the room to make her pallet.
The soft scuff of the castellan’s boots echoed into the silence as he moved up behind her.
She remained still, afraid if she faced him she’d admit everything.
Tense silence hung between them, then he released a frustrated sigh. “I have an errand to see to. Do not wait up for me.”
A lump grew in her throat. “Aye.”
“Thomas . . . I never meant to hurt you.”
Silence.
Several moments later, wood scraped as he pulled the door shut behind him.
Hurt? A pale feeling compared to love. Overwhelmed by emotion, Elizabet knelt on the cold stone. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and sobbed, tears falling until they refused to come. Soon she would leave. When she had disappeared he would be angry, but with the passage of time he would forget her. But never would she forget him.
A few days remained to spend by his side, time she would forever cherish. And in that time, she would figure out a way to free her men. Then, she would go. ’Twas best to let it end this way.
The candle sputtered at Nicholas’s side, casting long shadows into the small chamber as he penned the missive to his brother. Finished, he set the quill aside and lifted the parchment. Sipping his wine, he reread the letter asking for Hugh’s assistance. A simple message. Although the request was anything but.
Laying the yellowed parchment upon the desk, he rolled it tight, then sealed it with heated wax. Before the wax cooled, he pressed the face of his ring into the thickening gel, then set the missive aside.
Exhaustion washed over him. He should rest, but he hesitated at the idea of returning to his chamber and Thomas. He rubbed his eyes, wishing the missive was long sent and his squire was already ensconced within his brother’s care; then his life would return to normal and he would again have peace.
As if he bloody believed that!
Nicholas shoved back his chair, stood, and paced the small confines. He doubted distance, much less time, would smother his growing feelings toward the lad. And with his emotions tangled, ’twould be foolish to return to his room.
Muttering an oath he sat at the desk, withdrew the castle’s ledger, and flipped past his own neat entries to Sir Renaud’s narrow scribbles. If he could not attain rest or san
ity of mind, he could at least search for proof of the previous castellan’s smuggling.
The scent of tallow filled the small chamber as he scanned page after page. Grit grew in his eyes and the poorly blurred notations swam before him. Nicholas glanced at the half-burned taper then back to the many unread pages left to review.
Thus far, all he’d found was documentation of the accounts of the castle’s daily expenditures, the wine drunk, bread eaten, oats fed to the horses, along with a long list of other used goods.
The final entry on the page before him recorded a visit by Lord Dunsten. Along with the number of his household staff, including horses that traveled with him, the inscription ended with an onerous remark, of how it was the last day of feeding the heathen lot.
Intrigued, especially in light of Lord Dunsten’s subtle proposition to him, he marked the location of this entry then moved on to the next page.
A strand of raven black hair lay caught within the crevice.
With an irritated sigh he pulled the silken wisp free and brushed it away. For a moment, like a fairy’s wing, it became illuminated by the flame’s golden glow. Then it slowly spiraled to the floor.
What was he bloody thinking? With a curse, Nicholas returned his attention to the ledger as pleased by the thoroughness of the entries as he was frustrated. With painstaking attention, he scanned page after page. As he reached to rub his brow, the candle sputtered. He glanced over.
A thumb’s width of wax remained.
Except for the personal comments on Lord Dunsten’s stay, he had found naught more. A nagging feeling persisted, insisting that he’d missed something significant.
As he sat back, an ache built in his head. Nicholas rubbed his eyes. He needed sleep. Though only a few hours of the night remained, he would try to rest.
With a sigh, he closed the thick, leather-bound book, slid it into the drawer, then pushed it closed.
Wood scraped, then the ledger stuck two-thirds the way in.
Blast it! He jerked open the drawer, straightened the book, then shoved it closed. This time the drawer slid neatly into place.
Cramped muscles screamed as he stood. He flexed his fingers and stretched his back, more than ready for bed. Lifting the near-gutted taper, he departed.
The faint odor of cooked meat and spilled ale greeted him as he stepped into the great hall. The snores of knights bedded down for the night echoed around him. Hounds lay amongst the rushes, and several raised their heads as he passed.
With quiet steps, Nicholas headed up the turret. Once he’d rested he would review the ledger again and try to discover what he had missed. At the moment his brain was too fogged for logic.
Jagged rows of early morning sunlight slanted across the curtain wall as Nicholas rode into the keep with the king’s courier at his side. He scanned the darkened entry to the stable and frowned, his lack of sleep having already left him on edge. He didn’t need to be chasing down his squire as well.
Another lad stepped from the stable and nodded. “Sir Nicholas.”
“Where is Thomas?”
“He is in the dungeon, my lord.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw as Nicholas glanced toward the turret. He remembered the night the lad had all but passed out when they had carried the bodies from the dank confines. And now, against his explicit orders, he dared to return. “Why?”
“To aid the healer as he does every day,” he added, his voice hesitant. “Did you wish me to fetch him?”
Stunned he stared at him. “Every day?”
The lad shot a nervous gaze toward the dungeon, then back to Sir Nicholas. His face paled and he nodded. “Aye. Once you depart for rounds he . . .” He cleared his throat. “I—I thought you knew.”
God’s teeth, once he was finished with the king’s man, he would know why his squire had disobeyed him! Nicholas dismounted and handed the reins to the lad.
The courier followed suit.
Nicholas held out the reins. “Take both horses to the stable and tend to them.”
With a wide-eyed nod, the lad led the horses away.
Nicholas turned to the courier, keeping his simmering temper in check. “Follow me.”
The king’s man kept pace as they headed toward the keep.
With each step, Nicholas mulled his squire’s deception. After breaking his fast with Lord Dunsten and once the earl had left, he’d departed for his daily rounds. He’d looked forward to the morning’s ride, hoping to rid himself of some of his pent-up anxiety after the frustrations of yesterday.
But when he’d spotted the king’s courier in the forest, any hope of relief had ended. He’d sent his men on to finish their rounds. With the messenger in tow, he’d returned to the Ravenmoor Castle, sentenced to remain within the walls after all. To make matters worse, upon his return he’d expected to find Thomas readied to tend to his mount. Instead he’d learned his squire had his own agenda.
The dungeon!
Anger rumbled in his chest. After he’d strictly forbidden him from going there. Nicholas fumed as he strode with the courier to the keep, but as the anger faded, understanding bloomed.
Hadn’t Thomas said he’d lived at Wolfhaven Castle? He would know those in the dungeon, and ’twould be the lad’s way to aid, to nurture. From the first he’d seen it. Not only did his squire perform his duties with great care, but often after he’d finished his chores, he aided others in completing theirs.
Though he didn’t want the lad exposed to the horrors of the dungeon, his squire obviously believed it necessary for him to fulfill his duty.
Like it or not, Thomas would learn to obey him or the knight whom he served when given an order.
After he’d left the king’s man in the great room with a cup of ale, bread, and a trencher of meat, Nicholas strode toward the castellan’s office. Once he shut the door behind them, he broke the blood-red seal and viewed the king’s missive.
News that negotiations between the Scottish parliament and King Edward in choosing a new Scottish king pleased him, but the tone of the missive drew his concern.
Ever since Queen Eleanor’s death, the king’s temperament had worsened. On his few visits to Westminster Abbey he’d witnessed the great affection between them, a closeness he wished within his own marriage when he took a wife.
On his sovereign’s journey to Scotland, the queen’s illness then sudden death had dealt the king a stunning blow, a wound from which he’d yet to recover. Whispers abounded that without the queen’s intercession the king’s inherent cruel streak would rage unchecked, spread like wildfire through the realm.
Well aware of his king’s volatile temper, Nicholas prayed King Edward could overcome his grief in his dealings with Scotland. Anger would serve to kindle already volatile negotiations between their countries.
Nicholas penned his reply, giving the status of the castle’s progress, information as to his concerns about Sir Renaud’s inappropriate behavior toward the castle’s occupants and the Scots along the border, and his possible involvement with smuggling. Once finished, he rolled the missive and sealed it with wax, again pressing his ring into the cooling liquid.
A short while later Nicholas stood near the stable before the king’s man. He handed the missive to the courier. “May God ride at your side.”
“To you as well, Sir Nicholas.” The messenger tucked the missive safely away, mounted, and kicked his steed into a canter. Hoofbeats echoed as he rode from the castle.
A light breeze scented with peat and a hint of heather swept in from the moors as Nicholas watched the man depart. When the courier had disappeared from sight, he focused on a much more immediate concern.
His squire.
On a muttered curse, he strode toward the dungeon. After last night’s discussion and everything they’d gone through, he’d believed they’d exposed all of the lad’s secrets.
Obviously not.
As he stepped inside the turret, mildew and the faint stench of death usurped the sweet fragrance of th
e moors. The solid slap of his boots echoed around him as he climbed the spiral, carved steps, debating his censure.
The knight guarding the entry opened the door, then came to attention as Nicholas topped the steps. “Sir Nicholas.”
“Sir Jon.” Nicholas stepped past, scoured the narrowed, torch-lit corridor between the cells. No sign of Thomas. The muscles in his shoulders relaxed. “I came to speak with my squire. I see he has left.”
“Aye, Sir Nicholas. A short while ago. He went to tend Lord Terrick in the keep.” The guard pointed toward a cell near the end of the dungeon. “The healer is still here mending a wound within if you wish to speak with her.”
“Thomas went alone?” Anger trickled into his voice.
His knight cleared his throat. “He did.”
Was the lad addled? Though Thomas admitted knowing Terrick, the earl was still his prisoner, and a dangerous warrior at that. “Sir Nicholas, the lad has worked side by side with the healer and tended the prisoners for the past several days,” his knight explained. “At first I hesitated to leave your squire’s side as he tended the wounded, but he insisted that because he is a Scot he would be safe. After seeing how the prisoners have taken to the lad, I believe him.”
“Unless I give orders otherwise,” Nicholas said, his each word crisp, “my squire is not to be left alone with the prisoners again, especially Lord Terrick. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir Nicholas.”
Scot or otherwise, how dare Thomas risk his life due to his foolish pride? He whirled and stormed down the steps. His blood still pounding hot, moments later, he entered the corridor on the second floor.
At his approach, the guard snapped to attention.
Nicholas shook his head when the guard made to speak. He stepped before the open doorway. Standing beside the prisoner, his squire was bathing the man’s face with a tender hand. The blasted fool. If the Scottish lord wished, he could snap the lad’s neck in a trice.
