“I already told you that I would stay away from her.”
“Good.” St. Alban clapped him on the shoulder. The clap turned into support as the old man stood up. “Now, I intend to retire for the night. You should, too. It seems as if you have had an eventful night.”
Brogan merely nodded, still staring into the flames. He could not seem to shake the vision of the beautiful woman with the chestnut-colored hair and golden eyes. She had spoken kindly to him, not knowing who he was, not having the disadvantage of having heard of his reputation. It had been such a long time since he had met someone who had treated him with kindness.
Over against the wall, St. Alban grunted as he settled himself in his straw-stuffed bed. The blankets were old and woolen, rubbing up against his weather-worn skin. When he finally finished tossing and turning, he sighed heavily.
“Brogan?
Brogan turned from the fire to the old man. “What is it?”
“What were you doing at the Thames tonight?”
Brogan felt as if he had been struck. He should have known that the question would eventually come, but he was unprepared when it finally did. He turned back to the fire.
“I was thinking,” he muttered.
St. Alban gazed at the back of Brogan’s brown head for a moment, not voicing what he was thinking. He knew how depressed the man had been. The accidental death of his young son a few months prior had very nearly destroyed him and he’d not been the same since. St. Alban reminded himself to pay more attention to Brogan and not the let man wander alone anymore. Not that he didn’t trust him not to do anything foolish, but grief could do strange things to a man’s thinking. The next time, there might not be a lady there to distract him from self-damage.
He was beginning to wonder who really saved whom.
Avalyn was up early the next morning and prepared to go about her business. It was a brilliant day, the sky pale blue with puffy clouds blustering across it. A steady wind poured in from the Thames, stirring up leaves and dust upon it. Clad in a soft blue linen shift and a heavier, darker blue brocade surcoat, Avalyn smoothed her chestnut curls as they were lifted by the breeze. Crossing the courtyard from the Beauchamp Tower to the barracks, she hoped her aunt hadn’t put a spy on her tail. Aunt Anne was not beyond checking up on those around her, especially after the conversation they’d had last night. But Avalyn reasoned that even if her aunt had put someone up to following her, she had a very logical reason for doing what she was doing; she had to return the borrowed gown. There was nothing treacherous about it.
Aye, it sounded reasonable enough. But truth be told, she wanted to catch a glimpse of d’Aurilliac again. But that was her secret and no one else’s.
Reaching the long row of stark and unadorned barracks, she paused a moment, trying to remember which door she had come from the previous night. The last thing she wanted to do was wander around in a building full of men. As she stared at the structure, she thought that she might have come out from the door in the middle of the building so she walked in that direction. Coming upon the door, she lifted the heavy iron latch and went inside.
It was dark and smelt of must and body odor. Wrinkling her nose, she thought she recognized the stairs off to the right. Mounting the steps, she made her way cautiously to the second floor. It was strangely empty. The corridor on the second level was dark and foreboding, and she frankly didn’t recognize anything at first. But a door at the far end looked oddly familiar the way it was offset along the axis of the hallway. It was crooked. Hesitantly, she moved towards it.
Avalyn paused at the door, studying it closely, attempting to discern if this was indeed the chamber she remembered from the night before. She was slightly fearful to knock. Leaning forward, she put her ear near it; she could not hear anything inside. With a deep breath for courage, she knocked softly.
There was no reply. She knocked again, more loudly this time. The door suddenly flew open and a great booming voice came from within.
“Why are you knocking, you blasted fool?” came the shout. “The door is op…”
The old man who had been so kind to her the evening before shut his mouth when he saw who it was. His old, yellowed eyes widened at the sight and he nearly stumbled back in surprise. But he caught himself.
“My lady,” he gasped. “Forgive me, I thought you were… well, it does not matter who I thought you were. Please, come in.”
Avalyn hadn’t been given the opportunity to say a word; her momentary fright at his shouting quickly faded. The old man was blustery, gruff and kind all in the same moment. He ushered her into the room and she stood there a moment, awkwardly, clutching the borrowed dress she had sought to return.
“I am sorry for the intrusion, my lord,” she said. Then she held out the dress like a smashed offering. “But I wanted to return this and to thank you again for your kindness.”
The old man smiled and took the garment. “You are most welcome,” he, too, held the dress awkwardly, as if he didn’t know what to do with it. “I am afraid we did not have the chance to meet formally last eve, my lady. I am St. Alban de Sotheby, at your service.”
She nodded politely. “’Tis a pleasure, my lord.” Her eyes darted around the room, briefly. “Brogan is not here? I wished to thank him again also.”
St. Alban shook his head. “Not at the moment.” He didn’t want her lingering. Brogan was sure to be back at any time and he did not want the man to run into her. He was positive Brogan hadn’t slept all night and he suspected the reason was standing in front of him. It was not healthy, for a variety of reasons. “I will tell him that you returned with the dress and your thanks.”
Somewhat disappointed, Avalyn nodded her thanks. “Where is the woman who loaned me the gown?”
St. Alban nodded. “Her name is Thel. I will tell her that you were most grateful for her generosity.”
“Is she your wife?”
“Nay, lady.”
“Is she Brogan’s wife?”
“Nay.”
Avalyn realized she felt some relief at that knowledge. “Then where is she that I might thank her myself?”
St. Alban lifted an eyebrow and cleared his throat. He seemed to grasp for words. “She is… well, that is say, she lives here. At the barracks. I doubt a lady such as yourself would find her living situation appropriate and I would be honored to relay your thanks to her.”
For the first time since her arrival, the awkwardness faded and Avalyn seemed to relax. Her gazed lingered on the old man; a sharp, wise gaze that made even a seasoned man like St. Alban uncomfortable. For a moment, he thought she might be reading his thoughts, so piercing her stare. It was clear that she was studying him, like one opponent studies another. As if she was trying to figure everything out.
“She’s a whore for the knights,” she stated after a moment.
St. Alban nodded steadily. “Aye, my lady.”
Avalyn digested that. She looked at the gown in St. Alban’s hand and the old man was waiting for her to explode with the impropriety of loaning her a borrowed dress from a whore. But Avalyn, amazingly, did no such thing; she reached out and took the gown from his gnarled grip.
“Then perhaps if you would be kind enough to tell me where she does reside, I shall return this personally,” she said quietly.
St. Alban was surprised. What lady would not have expressed her distress at learning she had been wearing a whore’s garment? Surprise turned to respect. Perhaps the lady was not as shallow as most finely bred women tended to be. Already, he could tell she was shrewd. The forgiving part was unexpected.
“I would be honored to take you myself,” he moved for the door before she could deny him. “It is only a short way.”
In truth, Avalyn had no intention of denying his escort. She was rather grateful for it. Silently, she followed the old man from the chamber and back down the dark corridor. He was a big man, gone mostly to fat, and filled up most of the hall. But when they reached the stairs, he suddenly stopped and she
smacked into the back of him. She could hear his voice lifted in greeting.
“Ah,” he said loudly, perhaps too loudly. “Brogan, what a surprise. See who has come to return the garment you borrowed from Thel.”
St. Alban stepped aside about the same time as Brogan mounted the top of the stairs. Immediately, his deep blue eyes zeroed in on her golden ones and, for a moment, Avalyn’s breath caught in her throat. He would have been less shocking had he reached out to grab her, for the heat from those eyes was jolting enough.
“My lady,” Brogan’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of an unexpected smile. “I trust you are well this morning after your difficult night?”
She nodded, her heart thumping painfully against her ribs at the sudden sight of him. “I am excellent, my lord. I’ve come to return the dress and again extend my thanks to you for saving my life.”
“We were going to take the dress to Thel,” St. Alban’s interjected, his manner rushed as if he was anxious to leave Brogan’s presence. “We shall be but a moment. I know you must be tired and wish to rest.”
For the first time, Avalyn looked away from his eyes to notice the state of the rest of him; Brogan was in heavy leather breeches, a rough tunic, and heavy boots that were covered with grime. His hair, dark blond curls that were dark with sweat, was also dirty. It was, in fact, rather intriguing. Most of the men she knew, knights included, were somewhat fine living and not prone to dirty themselves with mundane things like raw training. A few of them would, genuine knights and not those men more inclined to politics than warring, but for the most part, a genuinely dirty and exhausted man was, in her world, an anomaly. Upon further consideration, she thought it was oddly attractive.
“Of course you do not need to trouble yourself with me, my lord,” she said to Brogan. “I am sure you have many other pressing duties to attend.”
With the shadow grin still lingering on his lips, Brogan shook his head. “I have no other pressing duties.” He turned around and headed back down the stairs, pausing after a few steps to make sure the lady was following him. “Come along, my lady. I will take you to the Siren’s lair.”
Avalyn’s brow furrowed as St. Alban, knowing the indelicate subject, closed his eyes and shook his head. “The Siren’s lair?” she repeated. “What is that?”
“Where the whores live,” Brogan wasn’t a man of tact. He simply told the truth. “The men call that reeking hole the Siren’s lair. It is down stairs. I will take you.”
With a somewhat appalled glance at St. Alban, she followed the massive soldier down the steps. St. Alban, thinking perhaps he should also attended simply to keep Brogan from following through on interest from last night, brought up the rear. He simply did not think the lady was healthy for Brogan, in more ways than one.
At the bottom of the steps, Brogan took the lead. St. Alban, being the gentle knight that he was, took the lady’s hand into his elbow and properly escorted her down the dim hall. Half way down, Brogan turned around to make sure she was behind him and saw that St. Alban had her well in hand. A bolt of jealously shot through him, such a surprise that he almost grunted with the force of it. Then he cursed himself for being so stupid. Had he been a fine knight with fine manners, he would have thought of taking the lady’s hand himself. But he had not. But that did not stop him from retracing his steps and visibly challenging St. Alban’s for the lady’s companionship.
“I will take her.”
His massive hand was extended. St. Alban looked at it, understood the meaning, and backed off graciously. The expression on Brogan’s face turned astonishingly gentle as he tucked they lady’s hand into the crook of his elbow, covered by the grimy tunic. St. Alban could only shake his head, following behind the pair as the filthy, dirty soldier escorted the very elegant lady down the corridor. He would not have believed it had he not seen it. But now that he was seeing it, he could do no more at the moment.
Remember your manners, lad, he thought. Remember what I’ve taught you.
Brogan, in fact, hardly remembered a thing at the moment. Having the small lovely lady on his arm filled his head with fog; a delirious, lovely fog. It was kind of like walking on air, as if his whole being was being lifted and floating free. He hardly even remembered where he was going, only that he was walking with her on his arm and he could have kept walking like that forever.
“You look as if you’ve been very busy this morning,” Avalyn’s soft voice came wafting up to him.
He gazed down at her, drinking in that lovely face. “We have two hundred new recruits,” he told her. “It is my job to train them to be soldiers.”
“That must be difficult.”
He shrugged. “I do not think so. I have been doing it for many years.”
“Did you do it in Germania?”
“Nay.” That is almost where he ended the conversation but realized he should probably explain. As always, dialogue did not come particularly easy to him. “I grew up as a child in Germania and came to England after my father died. I was ten years old at the time.”
“When did you become a soldier for the crown?”
“Almost as soon as I arrived. My mother married an English merchant who decided I should become English, too. He said that the only true way to do that was to fight for my new country. So he pledged me to the barracks of the Tower as a runner.”
So it explained a little bit about him, she thought. The runners were the small boys who worked with the soldiers, literally ‘running’ from post to post, carrying messages or weapons or food. “But you eventually became more than a runner. You did not become a servant. You learned a skill.”
He nodded. “My father had been a great knight in Germania. I was raised on stories of valor. But he died before he could complete my training as a knight. When I became a runner, I already had some education in warfare thanks to my father.”
“Then why did you not become a knight?”
He looked at her again, a half-smile on his lips. “You know as well as I do that knighthood in England is only reserved for the English nobles. I am not one of them.”
She knew that, but her mind worked in a more detailed manner. Surely there had to be a way, a loophole, for him to gain his knighthood even if his father was a foreign nobleman. Avalyn did not like dead-ends; if there was a solution, she would wrack her brain to try and find it. She was curious why Brogan might have given up so easily.
“Did you never try to find a sponsor who would support you for the knighthood?”
He shook his head, his eyes fixing straight ahead. “I believe that the king’s knights want me right where I am. They have put me in a position of trust and power training recruits and, when the king’s troops are pulled into battle, I lead the infantry. I am big and I am loud, and the men follow me.”
Avalyn gazed up at him, imagining how the knights might be intimidated by him. Why would they want someone like him to compete against? Naturally they would keep him in a position of submission. That was how the upper nobility tended to think; better to control him than to have him as a potential adversary. Jealously was a nasty thing.
With that thought, she was coming to think that perhaps this man might have been greatly mistreated by his adopted country. There was a bitterness to him she had sensed from the start. Perhaps this was part of it.
“I think you would make a fine knight,” she said simply, not knowing what else to say.
They had apparently reached their destination, for he came to a halt in front of a non-descript door. He faced her in the dim torch light.
“I am contented to be where I am,” he replied without emotion.
“Aye, but are you happy?”
His brow rippled with confusion. “I exist. Happiness is not a part of that existence.”
His reply shocked, even concerned, her. She opened her mouth to respond when the door they were standing in front of suddenly flew open. Three women, one of whom she recognized as the lady she sought, were clustered in a writhing group in the
doorway. A short, red-haired woman spoke in a shrill voice.
“Brogan,” she gasped happily. “I thought I heard your voice. We rarely see you and suddenly we have the pleasure of seeing you two times in two days.”
Avalyn looked at Brogan, her mouth unconsciously gaping as thoughts of him visiting the whores suddenly crossed her mind. Brogan, however, was focused only on the three women in front of him. His expression, so relaxed moments before, was frighteningly hard.
“The lady has come to return Thel’s garment,” he said gruffly.
The three women looked at Avalyn as if just noticing her for the first time. Their eyes were wide with surprise, then disappointment, then suspicion. Thel, standing slightly behind the other two, pushed herself forward and lowered herself in an awkward curtsy. She could feel the heated, envious gazes of the women behind her; any new female in the barracks, no matter who she was, was cause for instant jealousy.
“My lady,” Thel said, somewhat hesitantly. “You… you look much better this morning.”
This woman was tolerable, Avalyn thought, but she definitely could do without the other two. There was something very dirty and loud about them. She handed the dress to Thel.
“I am much better, thank you,” she said. “I wanted to return your dress and thank you for the use. It was very kind of you.”
Thel nodded her head in acknowledgement. “You are welcome, my lady.”
The purpose for the visit abruptly came to an end. Avalyn was trying to think of a way to gracefully excuse herself when Brogan suddenly put his massive arm around her shoulders and turned her away from the door. It was a very protective, shielding gesture. He didn’t say a word to the three women standing dejectedly and enviously in the doorway, but the glare he shot them was quite enough.
Avalyn looked over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of at least Thel. Somewhere over Brogan’s wrist she made eye contact.
Romantic Legends Page 4
