knight story II
Jul. 26th, 2007 05:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrPart I
*~*~*~*
It was the noise that bothered him, Lyon realized in annoyance.
Rather, the lack of noise.
Outside he could hear the bustle and clanking as the servants woke to start breakfast and the morning chores. A colorful curse as someone tripped in the dark.
These sounds, however, were only what he heard well after he had woken.
Since Chastaine's departure three weeks ago Lyon had woken every morning confused and annoyed. It was only a couple days ago that he had put the foul mood to Chastaine's absence. That perturbed enough, because it made no sense.
Well. Perhaps it did. They had been working together for eight years now. It was, he conceded, only natural that things feel strange when so long established a pattern was broken.
Still, Chastaine's confounded racket every morn drove him mad. To miss that made no sense.
Yet miss it he did, and Lyon chafed beneath the realization. But scowl all he like, the truth was plain as day.
There was no creak as Chastaine climbed from bed, the rustling as he dressed, the scuff of his boots on stone, the clatter of dishes as he ate the cold breakfast he always set out the night before.
Early morning and the opening of the castle had long been Chastaine's duty, and Lyon had ever managed the evening and closing of the castle.
Missing was the grating of wood as he opened his door, the sound of his boots louder as he passed Lyon's door on his way to the main hall.
A hesitant rap at his door dragged Lyon from his thoughts. "Enter."
The page boy who stumbled in looked scared half to death. "Come, come, boy," Lyon said, trying to sound as though he were in a good mood rather than foul. He failed in the effort, to judge by the way the boy barely gave him the small scroll before bolting again from the room, calling a "Message for you, Sir Lyon. Messenger to take your reply."
Rolling his eyes, honestly he was not that frightening so early in the morning, Lyon turned his attention to the scroll.
It was the seal which caught his eye.
The castle seal, set into the blue wax Chastaine always used.
He had not expected a missive at all, though he had hoped to hear some word.
Lyon,
We are at Shenan awaiting a ship to take us across the channel. The soonest even generous amounts of gold could manage was dawn. The journey goes as well as such a journey can be expected to go. We hope to locate her nearly as soon as we are landed.
The weather has been poor, but the sailors say it will not impede us upon the waters. I am rather inclined to believe them, so by the time this message finds you we will in fact be well on our away across.
Hopefully this message also finds the castle still standing, not felled by your temper.
Chastaine.
P.S. Do not permit them to brew the summer ales according to that foul recipe you favor.
Grunting, Lyon stood and finished dressing, combing impatiently through his short, thick black hair. Snatching up his cloak, for the castle was always miserable in the winter, he strode from his room and through to the main hall.
"Bring me writing implements," he told one of the servants darting about., then caught a kitchen maid. "Breakfast, please."
"Aye, Sir Lyon."
Lyon turned his attention to those approaching him, dispensing orders and making decisions as necessary, wishing he could go back to his routine of the past several years.
But Lady Winifred and Chastaine were gone, and until their return all fell to him, and being in charge of what had once been divided among three left one no time to bemoan the situation.
When the writing implements were brought – the lad nearly crashing into the girl bringing his breakfast – he had already decided what he would pen in reply. Hopefully, the letter would cross the channel without too much trouble.
The main hall upon their arrival had been a dreary thing, drafty and more than a few holes in the walls and ceiling. Those had been among the first things repaired, followed by improvements to the massive hearth. Two long tables, each set with benches, ran the length of the hall. On special occasions, a third, shorter table was brought out and set at their head for Lady Winifred and her Knights to sit. For now, there was no need for it.
Taking a seat at the first table, at the end nearest the fire, Lyon quickly penned his letter. He stalled sending it, on the chance he had more to add, then called the staff heads to hear their reports.
If there was anything about which to be grateful in this situation, it was that disaster had struck with the advent of winter. The duties to attend now were not nearly what they would be had he to do this alone in the spring and summer months.
"I see no reason to send the hunters out today," he told the Head Huntsman. Normally this was entirely Chastaine's realm, Lyon content to deal with the meat once it reached the kitchens. "The weather is mild enough today to permit travel, so take them instead to the village and ensure all is well there. Send word if you will be delayed beyond returning midday tomorrow."
"Yes, Sir Lyon," the Head Huntsman declared, bowing and stepping back that Lyon might address the next matter.
It was far too early for such thinking, Lyon thought with a mental sigh, but ruthlessly squashed the thought and focused and continued listening to the reports and problems, settling each as best he could, feeling inadequate when he could not make as knowing a decision as Chastaine would have.
"What of the Winter Feast?" the housekeeper asked, hands fisted in her apron, and Lyon marveled she could look so tidy and gathered at so wretched an hour. Three weeks he had managed to wake himself at Chastaine's hours, always going to bed now well past that to which he was accustomed. He knew he looked not half so gathered together as she.
He smothered a yawn. "What about it? Is there something missing in the supplies laid aside for it? Did the village boys steal the geese again? I will string them up from the turrets by their feet."
Those gathered smiled briefly at his words, but the housekeeper swiftly returned them to her concerns. "Nay, Sir Lyon – only, it seems…wrong, somehow, to celebrate when…"
"Ridiculous," Lyon said, shoving aside the writing implements and dragging his breakfast close. Thick, warm bread and a hunk of cheese. He took a bite and washed it down with a swallow of warmed ale. "Lady Winifred would be most distraught to know we lived so listlessly in her absence. That is not what she would want, and Chastaine will have all your heads if you do not enjoy the winter ales he and the brewers labored over for the occasion."
They all nodded, but did not look convinced.
"What would you rather have us do?" he demanded, glaring at all of them. "Sit here in solemn silence, acting as though my lady and Chastaine are already dead? Or would you rather celebrate as usual, because shortly they will return and things will carry on as usual?" He took another swallow of ale and thought longingly of his bed. "What say you?"
Silence reigned for a moment, and then the housekeeper spoke again. "If those dratted boys do not run off with our geese, we shall have a fine feast indeed, my lord." She smiled. "Shall I tell the cook to begin preparing the pudding then?"
"I should hope so," Lyon said, resuming eating. "If I do not have a pudding to enjoy this season, my displeasure will reach all new levels."
Laughing, the housekeeper bobbed him a curtsy and vanished to attend her duties, no doubt eager to reach the kitchens and begin the preparations he could see now many feared they would not be making.
Absurd. Lady Winifred was gone. Chastaine was gone. It would accomplish nothing but even more misery to acknowledge their absence with misery. Better to keep the rhythm as best they could, and hope that Chastaine did not take too long in retrieving Lady Winfred and returning home.
From his tunic he pulled out Chastaine's missive, reading over it once more.
Shenan, was it? And crossing the channel. Reaching the opposite shore would put them at fully a month away from the castle. Assuming he found Lady Winifred within days of landing, it would be just over a month before their return – on yet another assumption that the weather permitted safe and speedy travel.
The King's messenger could arrive any time, though quite likely his Majesty would not bother to send one before the snow began to melt, meaning that at best Chastaine had three months and one week remaining to return home. Yet he was traveling farther and farther away.
Lyon reached up to touch the jewel in one ear, the sapphires already familiar, normal.
Scowling, he quickly finished his breakfast, draining the last of his ale. Shoving the dishes back for one of the kitchen boys to fetch for cleaning, he pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and went to go check with the guards.
"Hail and good morning, Sir Lyon," they greeted as he climbed the stairs to the battlements.
Absently he returned the greetings, gazing out over the land. Beyond the castle wall was a world of white fields, black trees, and a heavy gray sky. Far in the distance smoke curled from the village chimneys, adding darker threads of gray to the sky. Nothing seemed amiss, and the guards swiftly reported that all was indeed clear.
"Rider, ho!" the east-facing guards suddenly bellowed, and Lyon whipped around, swiftly walking the wall to join them.
He frowned deeply as he spied the familiar bright blue tunic as the rider's dark cloak fluttered open while he rode along a path laboriously cleared by the hunters and several guards over the course of a week – and every time it snowed, the work must be renewed, else there would be no way of anyone getting to or from the castle.
Blazing blue, no doubt trimmed in white, with the golden unicorn crest of Chieldor upon his breast.
Damn. What was a royal messenger doing here already? Lyon waited with the guards in a tense and miserable silence.
"I do not suppose we can tell him we are all sick and dying and no one is permitted for fear of spreading the disease?" a guard asked, longingly stroking the crossbow he held.
Lyon was sorely tempted to tell him to fire, but repressed the impulse. Killing royal messengers only caused problems if there was a war in the vicinity, and all the wars he knew of were months away.
He snorted at the guard's suggestion. "It would not be too far from the truth, at that," he replied, thinking with a grimace of the few who still were not fully recovered from the poison which had laced at least half the foods at the banquet. Still he had yet to determine how the deed had been done – and too many of those who had prepared the food had fallen sick for him to believe any in the kitchens had betrayed them. "Such rumor, however, would only cause more problems than it would solve. The fewer lies we tell, the fewer problems we will create for ourselves."
At least the brigands had wanted only to slow them rather than slaughter. Whatever poison had been used, Lyon knew it could have been much worse. That meant the brigands had not intended harm first and foremost…interesting, when they had so boldly kidnapped Lady Winifred.
Interesting, but not a riddle he could solve. That too would have to be trusted to Chastaine.
His only concern at the moment was what to do with an unwanted royal messenger. Grimfaced, he returned to the towers flanking the gate, motioning for the bridge to stay up.
"Ho, there," he called down.
"Hail and good tidings," the messenger greeted, far more cheerful than Lyon was used to hearing from the lot of them. "I come with a private message from his Majesty for the Lady Winifred."
Lyon snorted. If they wanted the man to maintain her secret, they should have told him not to wear a royal blazon. No royal messenger would have business with a remote and humble lady at a time of year when travel was nigh on impossible. The notion was absurd. "I find that hard to believe, good sir," he shouted back. "One in such fine colors could have no business here."
"Do you dare challenge a man of the King?" the messenger demanded, outraged. He threw back his hood, and Lyon almost groaned aloud.
The man was naught but a boy, no more than eighteen summers, likely less. His hair was a fiery red, falling just past his shoulders in the current fashion, fanned messily out after being shoved so long beneath the deep hood. Lyon doubted he could even use the longbow or sword fastened to his saddle with any true skill.
Around him the men rolled their eyes and jostled one another, until a look from Lyon stilled them. He vaulted onto the embrasure, bracing one hand on the tower beside him. In the light of the newly risen sun his ornate spurs, decorated with gold and jewels, were impossible to miss. He might wear the simple clothes that worked best for the hard work required of a Seneschal, but he was by royal decree a knight of the realm. "Aye, messenger, I challenge a man who claims to be a man of the King."
"I am Brice Beauclerc, a personal messenger of his Majesty the King," the messenger stated, voice ringing out sharply. "Who are you, who dares to wear the spurs of a Knight but dresses like an uppity peasant?"
Well, that name he knew, though he had never known that line to possess such vibrant hair. Beauclerc was indeed the family which had long served as those who ran messages exclusively for the King.
Either the message was of little importance, or of such importance they dare not make it obvious by sending one more experienced. The way his luck had been running of late, Lyon had a sinking suspicion it was the latter case which would prove to be true.
"I am Lyon de Sauveterre," he bellowed. "Appointed by the King alongside Chastaine Delacroix to guard my Lady Winifred."
"You look like no Knight I have ever seen," Brice replied.
"No doubt because you seldom see Knights working at more than swordplay and courtly machinations. Here in the country, we must toil for our bread."
Beauclerc rolled his eyes. "Enough, Sir Sauveterre. I demand entrance to your keep, that I might convey the King's words to her ladyship. Lower the bridge, in the name of the King!"
"Aye, aye," Lyon replied. "Let him in!" he called to the guards.
He turned to make his way down the steps and into the courtyard, motioning for someone to take the messenger's horse.
"Master Beauclerc," he said congenially, extending his arm.
"Sir Sauveterre," Beauclerc replied, grasping the extended arm, shoving back his hood with his free hand.
Up close, the hair was more fiery still, his eyes dark gray, so startlingly solemn a color for an obviously impetuous youth.
"Come inside," he said, leading the way inside the keep, pleased when servants came rushing in with tankards of hot ale, a platter of food for their guest. Taking his usual place, a seat close to the fire, he motioned for Beauclerc to sit close to him. "You must have traveled through the nights to reach here at so early an hour, and in such foul weather."
"The weather is not so foul as all that," Beauclerc replied, but belied his words by drinking half his tankard in one deep swallow. "Is Lady Winifred available? I am to deliver my message with all haste."
Lyon repressed a sigh. "I am afraid, good sir, that I am the only one currently available to take your message."
"No," Beauclerc replied. "My orders are to deliver it solely to Lady Winifred. No other."
"I was afraid of that," Lyon said.
Beauclerc frowned. "Why?" he demanded, temper sparking, youth showing. "What have you done with her, brigand?"
"I am no brigand," Lyon replied, gratified his glare worked as well on this courtly youth as it did all others. "Her Ladyship is indisposed for the time being. I am afraid you will have to wait here until she can hear your message."
"No, I must see her at once."
"Impossible," Lyon said.
Beauclerc jerked to his feet, glaring fiercely. "Sir Sauveterre, cease with this foolishness at once. I demand to see her ladyship."
"As I have already stated," Lyon replied. "That is impossible."
"What is going on here?" Beauclerc asked, hand going to the sword at his waist.
Lyon sighed and stood. "Nothing, except that I am afraid you will not be permitted to leave until her ladyship says you might."
Beauclerc snarled and launched himself at Lyon. "Brigand! What—"
He hit the floor with a grunt, hand going to his jaw. In a few minutes there would be rather a nice bruise.
"Take him away," he told two of the guards who had followed him inside. "See that he is locked up somewhere he cannot cause trouble. Hopefully no one will notice his absence before all is set to rights."
Beauclerc attempted to speak, but his words were garbled as the guards dragged him away.
Lyon sighed, finished his own ale, then went to speak with the brewers about what was to be done for the summer ales, thinking of all the other things he must tend to after that, wishing that he was not so wretchedly alone.
And as he had suspected, he had more to add to his letter to Chastaine.
*~*~*~*
Chastaine,
The weather so far has been harsh but not brutal. If you do not tarry, it may hold long enough not to impede your return. As of this writing, all holds steady. The Winter Feast nears, hopefully it will raise the depressed spirits about the place.
You are a fine one to speak of tempers.
My time is too constrained to waste any of it on such pointless mischief as tampering with your ale. If you have time to pen such trivial things, you are not working hard enough.
Lyon
P.S. Not an hour after this penning, a royal messenger arrived with a private message for her ladyship. I have locked him in the south corner room. He reminds me why I do not miss the royal palace. Speed home, I know not how long I can contain this new dilemma.
Chastaine grunted and tucked the missive away. "You can take a reply?" he asked the lad standing before him.
"Aye, my lord," the boy said, though he looked blue with cold and ready to fall over from exhaustion.
Smiling faintly, Chastaine motioned to Kodey. "Get him fed, find him a bedroll. He can take my reply in the morning."
"Yes, Sir Chastaine," Kodey replied, immediately taking the older boy across camp to the fire and the food cooking there.
Chastaine sighed, unable even to take pleasure in the fact that in the past two weeks Kodey was showing remarkable progress. The boy was coming to life; he would make a fine addition to the castle. It was not, however, enough to improve Chastaine's mood.
A royal messenger. That made things considerably more difficult.
He smiled briefly at the idea of Lyon locking the man up. He wondered what the messenger had done to so quickly spark Lyon's ire – normally Lyon was courteous to such officials, even if he did not like them.
"Sir Chastaine! River and Salal have returned."
Chastaine stood at the news, brightening when the men who rode into camp looked as though they could barely contain themselves. They all but threw themselves from their mounts, falling to one knee as Chastaine approached. "Sir Chastaine," the one named River said, "we have come upon great news." He looked up, foregoing a measure of formality, to grin brightly. "Evidence of a camp, perhaps half a day's ride from here. We spoke with trappers who knew of it, and followed a trail far enough to be certain such a camp might truly be without giving away our own presence."
"Well done indeed, my merry men," Chastaine said with a grin, satisfaction warming him. "Rise. Get some food." He turned away to begin work on a real plan. "Simon!" he called, motioning to his second. "Bring the guide."
He strode to the fire to join the others there, smiling briefly when Kodey immediately brought him a drink. Ruffling the lad's hair, he finally turned to the matter at hand. "Simon, convey all that River and Salal know to our guide. We need to know where to go to cut off the brigands. If we attempt to catch up to them, we will only alert them to our presence."
"Aye, my lord," Simon replied, and rapidly fell into speaking with the other soldiers, rapidly translating.
Chastaine felt his inadequacy. He hated that he did not know the foreign tongues, but language had never been his forte. When such matters came up, he left them to Lyon. At least he had thought to take Simon, knowing such a problem might crop up.
Still, if he could speak the language himself, matters would run more smoothly.
"Sir Chastaine, he says that if we ride hard in three days time we could make the canyon just beyond the Tantalle Bridge – all journeying deeper into the country must go by way of that bridge, or journey well out of their way to reach other crossings. The brigands are likely headed that way, else they would already be turning away to take those other routes. We must get ahead of them, and await them beyond the bridge."
Chastaine nodded. "Then pack up camp, and let us be on our way. We stop only when the horses require it."
"Aye!" the man all cried, even Kodey, then raced to obey.
"Kodey, fetch my writing implements, then pack up my things and ready my horse. When that is done, rouse the messenger. I hate he must go without proper rest, but I must get a missive out now. There likely will be no chance later."
"Aye, my lord," Kodey said, and darted off.
Chastaine pondered what he would write while the tools were fetched, finding it difficult to focus. They were so very close to success…
But the journey home would be long in its own right, and there was no telling in what condition he would find Lady Winifred. He tore his mind from such black thoughts, remembering fondly what Kodey had said about her giving one of the brigands a black eye. Their lady tolerated nonsense from no one – except perhaps Lyon and he.
Lyon. He wondered how he was holding up, running the castle by himself. He was more than up to the task, certainly. Such a small keep did not truly require two Seneschals – it was only that they each preferred different things.
He smirked briefly to think of Lyon forced to rise early every day, as he must to tend to those chores which could not wait until the sun was up. He hoped none of those normally under his command were slouching; they all were good people but with the cold and the trouble and a lack of proper supervision…
Well, if they were they would quickly feel the fury of Lyon's fist. He might be from a lesser house, but he had always held his own amongst the greater families. What would Lyon do in a situation such as this?
Trap the enemy between them, of course. If Lyon were here, he could trust that such a tactic would work. As it was, he dare not split his few men. The brigands were at least double their numbers and it would be too easy for them to somehow slip out of the trap.
Chastaine repressed a sigh as Kodey appeared with his writing implements. "Thank you, lad."
Smiling shyly, bobbing his head, Kodey bolted off again to finish tending his duties.
La, Lyon and Lady Winifred were going to harass him terribly for Kodey. Well, he would take it gracefully if only they were all home that he might be harassed.
Soon, he swore. They were so close now.
Nodding, decided, he bent to his letter and swiftly wrote. A few minutes later he sent the messenger off with good coin, then rose to join his men. "Are we ready?" he asked, mounting his horse.
"Aye, Sir Chastaine."
He reached down and pulled Kodey up to ride behind him. The lad needed a proper horse, but there was no time for lessons. "Then Simon, you and our guide will take lead. Tomas, the rear. We go."
"My lord…"
Chastaine nodded, and motioned Simon to silence.
Dusk was falling, shadows long and dark. Even now he could see the brigands approaching.
He wished that Lyon were here, to attack from behind, secure them well and truly. Yet Lyon would be the first to say it was useless to dwell on things which could not be helped, and so Chastaine shunted the thought aside.
Lady Winifred was unmistakable, though her hair had been cropped and she was dressed like a man. Oh, the tale that would make later. He smiled briefly.
They drew closer and he gave the signals – get to Lady Winifred. He wanted the men alive, if at all possible, but she was the priority.
He looked questioningly at Simon, who gave him a nod – the guide and Kodey were well away from danger.
Chastaine drew his sword and took a deep breath, waiting, waiting – and gave signal to his bowmen.
Three brigands fell, the horses startling, and with a roar Chastaine threw himself from his hiding space in the canyon wall, knocking the nearest man from his horse, regaining his footing swiftly, knocking away the man's sword before spinning to meet the attack of another.
"Stop!"
The command cut through his battle focus, Lady Winifred to be obeyed above and beyond all else. He halted in the process of shoving the man he held against the canyon wall, snarling as he turned to regard his lady.
"Chastaine, release him please, I beg of you."
"What?" Chastaine demanded, tightening his grip on the foul brigand – but the tears in Lady Winifred's eyes drew him up short. With a grunt, he threw the man to the ground and sheathed his sword. "My lady, what is this madness? Here we are come to rescue you, and you bid me spare the brigands who took you? Has this debacle taken your mind?"
Lady Winifred shook her head, short hair whipping against her cheeks with the fierceness of the movement. "Nay, Chastaine. These men are not those who stole me away from the castle.
Chastaine frowned. "My lady?"
Instead of replying, Lady Winifred moved toward them and bent to help the fallen man up. Chastaine's frown deepened at the gentle way she touched him, hand straying to the hilt of his sword.
"I would like an explanation, my lady," he said tersely. "That brigand will also unhand you, ere I remove his hands myself."
Lady Winifred smiled faintly. "Alas, my Knight, your sword must remain sheathed. My husband has every right to touch me."
Chastaine stilled at the words, eyes widening. "What?" he asked coldly.
"La, my knight," Lady Winifred said tiredly. "The story is long and complicated, and I fear my father has earned my eternal ire. Let us make camp, and I will tell you the whole of it."
"Aye, my lady," Chastaine said heavily, wishing suddenly Lyon were here to glare everyone into submission. Only the King, perhaps, was immune to Lyon's fierce stares. Feeling weary and thoroughly disheartened, Chastaine motioned to his men and called for his horse.
He dredged up a smile for Kodey, who appeared leading his horse. "All right there, lad?"
"Aye, Sir Chastaine," Kodey said warily, eyes widening as his gaze fell upon Lady Winifred. "My lady!"
"La, what have we here?" Lady Winifred said, her familiar warm and rippling laughter spilling out, easing those around her more than she likely knew. "The tavern boy. What do you here?"
Kodey drew himself up, shooting an uncertain look toward Chastaine before finally lifting his chin. Chastaine hid a smile, and nodded for the boy to speak. "I am Sir Chastaine's squire, my lady."
"I see," Lady Winifred said, eyes twinkling with mirth as she glanced at Chastaine. "La, after my tale, I sense that one will make good hearing."
Chastaine did not reply, merely mounted his horse and pulled Kodey behind him, waiting as Lady Winifred and the brigands did the same. "Lead the way then," he said coolly to Lady Winifred and the man she claimed was her husband.
If he did not like what they had to say, he would quite cheerfully take the man's head.
Not least of all because now he must tell all of this to Lyon, who would not take the news well at all.
Lady Winifred contemplated her hands, wrapped around a wooden cup filled with mulled wine. A hard half day's ride had brought them to a nearby village, where they had emptied the tavern and claimed it for their own use.
"Speak," Chastaine said. "I am tired of the mystery."
"Yes," Lady Winifred said slowly, taking a delicate sip of her wine. Beside her, the brigand husband gently touched the back of her hand.
Chastaine narrowed his eyes, wishing vainly that he could take that hand right off. No one touched his lady without approval and it would be a very long time before he gave the bastard that.
"The men who kidnapped me…hailed from Rothland."
Well, that was no surprise. Rothland was, of the three countries the King had been battling, the most problematic. Lady Winifred had mentioned that her father would be summoning her home to marry…Rothland would of course be the most logical choice. That would bind the problematic country nice and tight. "You were set to marry the Rothland Prince, I should think."
"Nay," Lady Winifred said sadly. "My father originally promised me there, but negotiations went afoul and to put them in their place, he instead gave my hand to Koromor."
Koromor. The moorlands. Chieldor had no issue with them, neither good nor bad. Koromor was hardly worth Chieldor's time, except they were neighbors.
Except…it would be insulting in the highest were the King to marry off his daughter to a country of no value, snubbing a country as powerful as Rothland. Such blatant disrespect would, ideally, bring Rothland to heel.
Unless they decided to act upon their rage and take matters into their own hands by kidnapping the Princess and forcing the issue. Had Winifred been forced to marry the Rothland Prince, her father would have had no choice but to cave to Rothland's wishes or make of his daughter an enemy.
Chastaine wondered which decision the King might have made, but it was a useless one to ask. He focused instead on the question which mattered. "So you married this brigand who saved you, rather than risk your hand being lost to Rothland?"
"He is no brigand," Lady Winifred said quietly, taking the man's hand in her own, her other hand still curled tightly around her wine. "He is the bastard son of the King of Koromor, sent on royal command to retrieve me safely by whatever means necessary. I am safely wedded now, not to be undone. At the time, it was the only way." She smiled sadly. "Do not be too angry, Chastaine."
Of course he was angry. He had failed his lady entirely, leaving her to make these miserable choices – and safely wedded could only mean there was no chance of annulment. He was furious with himself. "Bastard son, brigand?"
"Aye," the man said quietly. His hair was black, eyes so dark a brown they may as well be black. He was worn and grizzled from the fighting, many days of hard travel. "She was originally intended to be married to my father, who neither acknowledges nor denies I am his blood. We were in a bind, and the matter was only going to get worse – this nullifies everything, though I know it is not what my lady wished for, nor what you her knights could desire for her." He sighed. "I attempted to intercept the Rothlanders sent to kidnap her, but simply could not catch them up. I ambushed them after they landed here. When you ambushed us in turn, I was taking my lady to the estate my sire gave to me in token apology."
The bitterness that tinged his voice was familiar. Chastaine had ever felt the sting of being not good enough for his own father, merely a spare should his grander brothers fall to some foul fate. It was a feeling Lady Winifred and Lyon shared, it had bound them from the start.
It was a mark he would begrudgingly put to the brigand's favor – but one favorable mark was a long way from approval. "What do you intend for my lady now, Brigand?"
"His name is Shad, not brigand."
"He is Brigand until he earns our approval," Chastaine retorted, for he knew just how hot Lyon's rage would burn over this. They had failed their lady utterly, and could do nothing now to repair the damage done ere there heads were removed.
"No," Lady Winifred protested, holding fast to Brigand's hand. "He is—"
"Lady," Chastaine cut in, "upon my return, there is naught can be done but to tell your father all. For our failure to protect you, our heads are forfeit. If my life is the price I must pay for this matter, then I will see what I get in return is worth that. This man is Brigand until our approval he does gain, and naught my lady might say will change our mind."
Lady Winifred frowned, but subsided at the gentle touch to her arm.
It was, unfortunately, another mark in Brigand's favor that he so gently regarded and guided Lady Winifred. She did not need a husband who resembled her father in temperament and manner.
"We are returning to Castle Triad," he said at last.
"Are you certain that is wise?" Brigand asked.
Chastaine subtracted a mark; this man had no right to question him. He had as much failed in his duties as Chastaine and Lyon, in that he had not prevented the kidnapping ere it occurred. "I am certain we have no choice," he replied curtly. "Lyon sent word that a royal messenger arrived at the palace, perhaps three or four weeks after I left to retrieve you, Lady Winifred. Lyon has secured him, but knows not long he has before another is sent to discover the reason for his extended absence."
"I see," Lady Winifred murmured, brow pinching. "That is news most dire indeed. We had best return then, and hope further disaster can be averted." She gave Brigand a tired smile. "Regretful, for I would have liked to have seen your home."
Brigand shrugged. "'Tis only a place to sleep, my lady fair. I travel too much to call naught but my men home."
"Then perhaps we can make Castle Triad home to you."
"Aye, my lady," Brigand said, lips quirking. He slid a glance at Chastaine. "Assuming I gain approval rather than a beheading of my own."
Chastaine reluctantly gave him back his lost mark, for possessing a sense of humor.
"So tell me how you come to have a squire, Chastaine," Lady Winifred said. "He is a handsome fellow, I thought so before."
Kodey flushed bright red and looked down at his thinned hot wine.
Ruffling the boy's hair, Chastaine quickly related the tale, taking Lady Winifred's stern looks with good grace, grimacing as she snickered at the conclusion of the tale. "La, Chastaine. Lyon will be highly amused at your expense."
"Regretfully, I am in full agreement with my lady," Chastaine said, rolling his eyes. "Now if you will pardon me, my lady, my men and I are most weary and I have no doubt you are the same. I say we take to our beds and leave at first light. Traveling with all due haste, we can hopefully make home in a month and a half."
Lady Winifred nodded. "Let us hope so," she said quietly. "There has been enough turmoil."
Chastaine nodded, then motioned for Kodey to follow him, striding from the room and up the stairs to the room allotted him. "Fetch my writing implements, Kodey, if you please. Then find Tomas and tell him to hunt out a good messenger for me."
"Aye, my lord," Kodey replied, quickly retrieving the required tools. When he returned carrying a fresh ale, Chastaine still lingered over his missive, not quite certain what to write. There seemed too much to say, more than he could set in his mind, far more than he could set to paper.
It would be easier if Lyon were here, for he would understand Chastaine's tumultuous thoughts; would, in fact, share them. Lady Winifred was a Princess, and knew well the ways of the world, but she was no knight. She clearly believed the worst of their problems solved, and likely that with her return to Castle Triad matters would conclude entirely.
Chastaine knew the problems had only begun. Her father would not take the news well, and there was no telling what he would do to secure his daughter for his own use – and he and Lyon would not live long enough to assist and protect their Princess in whatever she chose to do.
He reached up to touch his ear, feeling the cool of the amber set in it. Slowly he let his fingers fall away, and reached for his quill, sharpening the point before dipping it into the dark ink. Bending over the small strip of parchment, he finally began to write.
Part III
It was the noise that bothered him, Lyon realized in annoyance.
Rather, the lack of noise.
Outside he could hear the bustle and clanking as the servants woke to start breakfast and the morning chores. A colorful curse as someone tripped in the dark.
These sounds, however, were only what he heard well after he had woken.
Since Chastaine's departure three weeks ago Lyon had woken every morning confused and annoyed. It was only a couple days ago that he had put the foul mood to Chastaine's absence. That perturbed enough, because it made no sense.
Well. Perhaps it did. They had been working together for eight years now. It was, he conceded, only natural that things feel strange when so long established a pattern was broken.
Still, Chastaine's confounded racket every morn drove him mad. To miss that made no sense.
Yet miss it he did, and Lyon chafed beneath the realization. But scowl all he like, the truth was plain as day.
There was no creak as Chastaine climbed from bed, the rustling as he dressed, the scuff of his boots on stone, the clatter of dishes as he ate the cold breakfast he always set out the night before.
Early morning and the opening of the castle had long been Chastaine's duty, and Lyon had ever managed the evening and closing of the castle.
Missing was the grating of wood as he opened his door, the sound of his boots louder as he passed Lyon's door on his way to the main hall.
A hesitant rap at his door dragged Lyon from his thoughts. "Enter."
The page boy who stumbled in looked scared half to death. "Come, come, boy," Lyon said, trying to sound as though he were in a good mood rather than foul. He failed in the effort, to judge by the way the boy barely gave him the small scroll before bolting again from the room, calling a "Message for you, Sir Lyon. Messenger to take your reply."
Rolling his eyes, honestly he was not that frightening so early in the morning, Lyon turned his attention to the scroll.
It was the seal which caught his eye.
The castle seal, set into the blue wax Chastaine always used.
He had not expected a missive at all, though he had hoped to hear some word.
Lyon,
We are at Shenan awaiting a ship to take us across the channel. The soonest even generous amounts of gold could manage was dawn. The journey goes as well as such a journey can be expected to go. We hope to locate her nearly as soon as we are landed.
The weather has been poor, but the sailors say it will not impede us upon the waters. I am rather inclined to believe them, so by the time this message finds you we will in fact be well on our away across.
Hopefully this message also finds the castle still standing, not felled by your temper.
Chastaine.
P.S. Do not permit them to brew the summer ales according to that foul recipe you favor.
Grunting, Lyon stood and finished dressing, combing impatiently through his short, thick black hair. Snatching up his cloak, for the castle was always miserable in the winter, he strode from his room and through to the main hall.
"Bring me writing implements," he told one of the servants darting about., then caught a kitchen maid. "Breakfast, please."
"Aye, Sir Lyon."
Lyon turned his attention to those approaching him, dispensing orders and making decisions as necessary, wishing he could go back to his routine of the past several years.
But Lady Winifred and Chastaine were gone, and until their return all fell to him, and being in charge of what had once been divided among three left one no time to bemoan the situation.
When the writing implements were brought – the lad nearly crashing into the girl bringing his breakfast – he had already decided what he would pen in reply. Hopefully, the letter would cross the channel without too much trouble.
The main hall upon their arrival had been a dreary thing, drafty and more than a few holes in the walls and ceiling. Those had been among the first things repaired, followed by improvements to the massive hearth. Two long tables, each set with benches, ran the length of the hall. On special occasions, a third, shorter table was brought out and set at their head for Lady Winifred and her Knights to sit. For now, there was no need for it.
Taking a seat at the first table, at the end nearest the fire, Lyon quickly penned his letter. He stalled sending it, on the chance he had more to add, then called the staff heads to hear their reports.
If there was anything about which to be grateful in this situation, it was that disaster had struck with the advent of winter. The duties to attend now were not nearly what they would be had he to do this alone in the spring and summer months.
"I see no reason to send the hunters out today," he told the Head Huntsman. Normally this was entirely Chastaine's realm, Lyon content to deal with the meat once it reached the kitchens. "The weather is mild enough today to permit travel, so take them instead to the village and ensure all is well there. Send word if you will be delayed beyond returning midday tomorrow."
"Yes, Sir Lyon," the Head Huntsman declared, bowing and stepping back that Lyon might address the next matter.
It was far too early for such thinking, Lyon thought with a mental sigh, but ruthlessly squashed the thought and focused and continued listening to the reports and problems, settling each as best he could, feeling inadequate when he could not make as knowing a decision as Chastaine would have.
"What of the Winter Feast?" the housekeeper asked, hands fisted in her apron, and Lyon marveled she could look so tidy and gathered at so wretched an hour. Three weeks he had managed to wake himself at Chastaine's hours, always going to bed now well past that to which he was accustomed. He knew he looked not half so gathered together as she.
He smothered a yawn. "What about it? Is there something missing in the supplies laid aside for it? Did the village boys steal the geese again? I will string them up from the turrets by their feet."
Those gathered smiled briefly at his words, but the housekeeper swiftly returned them to her concerns. "Nay, Sir Lyon – only, it seems…wrong, somehow, to celebrate when…"
"Ridiculous," Lyon said, shoving aside the writing implements and dragging his breakfast close. Thick, warm bread and a hunk of cheese. He took a bite and washed it down with a swallow of warmed ale. "Lady Winifred would be most distraught to know we lived so listlessly in her absence. That is not what she would want, and Chastaine will have all your heads if you do not enjoy the winter ales he and the brewers labored over for the occasion."
They all nodded, but did not look convinced.
"What would you rather have us do?" he demanded, glaring at all of them. "Sit here in solemn silence, acting as though my lady and Chastaine are already dead? Or would you rather celebrate as usual, because shortly they will return and things will carry on as usual?" He took another swallow of ale and thought longingly of his bed. "What say you?"
Silence reigned for a moment, and then the housekeeper spoke again. "If those dratted boys do not run off with our geese, we shall have a fine feast indeed, my lord." She smiled. "Shall I tell the cook to begin preparing the pudding then?"
"I should hope so," Lyon said, resuming eating. "If I do not have a pudding to enjoy this season, my displeasure will reach all new levels."
Laughing, the housekeeper bobbed him a curtsy and vanished to attend her duties, no doubt eager to reach the kitchens and begin the preparations he could see now many feared they would not be making.
Absurd. Lady Winifred was gone. Chastaine was gone. It would accomplish nothing but even more misery to acknowledge their absence with misery. Better to keep the rhythm as best they could, and hope that Chastaine did not take too long in retrieving Lady Winfred and returning home.
From his tunic he pulled out Chastaine's missive, reading over it once more.
Shenan, was it? And crossing the channel. Reaching the opposite shore would put them at fully a month away from the castle. Assuming he found Lady Winifred within days of landing, it would be just over a month before their return – on yet another assumption that the weather permitted safe and speedy travel.
The King's messenger could arrive any time, though quite likely his Majesty would not bother to send one before the snow began to melt, meaning that at best Chastaine had three months and one week remaining to return home. Yet he was traveling farther and farther away.
Lyon reached up to touch the jewel in one ear, the sapphires already familiar, normal.
Scowling, he quickly finished his breakfast, draining the last of his ale. Shoving the dishes back for one of the kitchen boys to fetch for cleaning, he pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and went to go check with the guards.
"Hail and good morning, Sir Lyon," they greeted as he climbed the stairs to the battlements.
Absently he returned the greetings, gazing out over the land. Beyond the castle wall was a world of white fields, black trees, and a heavy gray sky. Far in the distance smoke curled from the village chimneys, adding darker threads of gray to the sky. Nothing seemed amiss, and the guards swiftly reported that all was indeed clear.
"Rider, ho!" the east-facing guards suddenly bellowed, and Lyon whipped around, swiftly walking the wall to join them.
He frowned deeply as he spied the familiar bright blue tunic as the rider's dark cloak fluttered open while he rode along a path laboriously cleared by the hunters and several guards over the course of a week – and every time it snowed, the work must be renewed, else there would be no way of anyone getting to or from the castle.
Blazing blue, no doubt trimmed in white, with the golden unicorn crest of Chieldor upon his breast.
Damn. What was a royal messenger doing here already? Lyon waited with the guards in a tense and miserable silence.
"I do not suppose we can tell him we are all sick and dying and no one is permitted for fear of spreading the disease?" a guard asked, longingly stroking the crossbow he held.
Lyon was sorely tempted to tell him to fire, but repressed the impulse. Killing royal messengers only caused problems if there was a war in the vicinity, and all the wars he knew of were months away.
He snorted at the guard's suggestion. "It would not be too far from the truth, at that," he replied, thinking with a grimace of the few who still were not fully recovered from the poison which had laced at least half the foods at the banquet. Still he had yet to determine how the deed had been done – and too many of those who had prepared the food had fallen sick for him to believe any in the kitchens had betrayed them. "Such rumor, however, would only cause more problems than it would solve. The fewer lies we tell, the fewer problems we will create for ourselves."
At least the brigands had wanted only to slow them rather than slaughter. Whatever poison had been used, Lyon knew it could have been much worse. That meant the brigands had not intended harm first and foremost…interesting, when they had so boldly kidnapped Lady Winifred.
Interesting, but not a riddle he could solve. That too would have to be trusted to Chastaine.
His only concern at the moment was what to do with an unwanted royal messenger. Grimfaced, he returned to the towers flanking the gate, motioning for the bridge to stay up.
"Ho, there," he called down.
"Hail and good tidings," the messenger greeted, far more cheerful than Lyon was used to hearing from the lot of them. "I come with a private message from his Majesty for the Lady Winifred."
Lyon snorted. If they wanted the man to maintain her secret, they should have told him not to wear a royal blazon. No royal messenger would have business with a remote and humble lady at a time of year when travel was nigh on impossible. The notion was absurd. "I find that hard to believe, good sir," he shouted back. "One in such fine colors could have no business here."
"Do you dare challenge a man of the King?" the messenger demanded, outraged. He threw back his hood, and Lyon almost groaned aloud.
The man was naught but a boy, no more than eighteen summers, likely less. His hair was a fiery red, falling just past his shoulders in the current fashion, fanned messily out after being shoved so long beneath the deep hood. Lyon doubted he could even use the longbow or sword fastened to his saddle with any true skill.
Around him the men rolled their eyes and jostled one another, until a look from Lyon stilled them. He vaulted onto the embrasure, bracing one hand on the tower beside him. In the light of the newly risen sun his ornate spurs, decorated with gold and jewels, were impossible to miss. He might wear the simple clothes that worked best for the hard work required of a Seneschal, but he was by royal decree a knight of the realm. "Aye, messenger, I challenge a man who claims to be a man of the King."
"I am Brice Beauclerc, a personal messenger of his Majesty the King," the messenger stated, voice ringing out sharply. "Who are you, who dares to wear the spurs of a Knight but dresses like an uppity peasant?"
Well, that name he knew, though he had never known that line to possess such vibrant hair. Beauclerc was indeed the family which had long served as those who ran messages exclusively for the King.
Either the message was of little importance, or of such importance they dare not make it obvious by sending one more experienced. The way his luck had been running of late, Lyon had a sinking suspicion it was the latter case which would prove to be true.
"I am Lyon de Sauveterre," he bellowed. "Appointed by the King alongside Chastaine Delacroix to guard my Lady Winifred."
"You look like no Knight I have ever seen," Brice replied.
"No doubt because you seldom see Knights working at more than swordplay and courtly machinations. Here in the country, we must toil for our bread."
Beauclerc rolled his eyes. "Enough, Sir Sauveterre. I demand entrance to your keep, that I might convey the King's words to her ladyship. Lower the bridge, in the name of the King!"
"Aye, aye," Lyon replied. "Let him in!" he called to the guards.
He turned to make his way down the steps and into the courtyard, motioning for someone to take the messenger's horse.
"Master Beauclerc," he said congenially, extending his arm.
"Sir Sauveterre," Beauclerc replied, grasping the extended arm, shoving back his hood with his free hand.
Up close, the hair was more fiery still, his eyes dark gray, so startlingly solemn a color for an obviously impetuous youth.
"Come inside," he said, leading the way inside the keep, pleased when servants came rushing in with tankards of hot ale, a platter of food for their guest. Taking his usual place, a seat close to the fire, he motioned for Beauclerc to sit close to him. "You must have traveled through the nights to reach here at so early an hour, and in such foul weather."
"The weather is not so foul as all that," Beauclerc replied, but belied his words by drinking half his tankard in one deep swallow. "Is Lady Winifred available? I am to deliver my message with all haste."
Lyon repressed a sigh. "I am afraid, good sir, that I am the only one currently available to take your message."
"No," Beauclerc replied. "My orders are to deliver it solely to Lady Winifred. No other."
"I was afraid of that," Lyon said.
Beauclerc frowned. "Why?" he demanded, temper sparking, youth showing. "What have you done with her, brigand?"
"I am no brigand," Lyon replied, gratified his glare worked as well on this courtly youth as it did all others. "Her Ladyship is indisposed for the time being. I am afraid you will have to wait here until she can hear your message."
"No, I must see her at once."
"Impossible," Lyon said.
Beauclerc jerked to his feet, glaring fiercely. "Sir Sauveterre, cease with this foolishness at once. I demand to see her ladyship."
"As I have already stated," Lyon replied. "That is impossible."
"What is going on here?" Beauclerc asked, hand going to the sword at his waist.
Lyon sighed and stood. "Nothing, except that I am afraid you will not be permitted to leave until her ladyship says you might."
Beauclerc snarled and launched himself at Lyon. "Brigand! What—"
He hit the floor with a grunt, hand going to his jaw. In a few minutes there would be rather a nice bruise.
"Take him away," he told two of the guards who had followed him inside. "See that he is locked up somewhere he cannot cause trouble. Hopefully no one will notice his absence before all is set to rights."
Beauclerc attempted to speak, but his words were garbled as the guards dragged him away.
Lyon sighed, finished his own ale, then went to speak with the brewers about what was to be done for the summer ales, thinking of all the other things he must tend to after that, wishing that he was not so wretchedly alone.
And as he had suspected, he had more to add to his letter to Chastaine.
Chastaine,
The weather so far has been harsh but not brutal. If you do not tarry, it may hold long enough not to impede your return. As of this writing, all holds steady. The Winter Feast nears, hopefully it will raise the depressed spirits about the place.
You are a fine one to speak of tempers.
My time is too constrained to waste any of it on such pointless mischief as tampering with your ale. If you have time to pen such trivial things, you are not working hard enough.
Lyon
P.S. Not an hour after this penning, a royal messenger arrived with a private message for her ladyship. I have locked him in the south corner room. He reminds me why I do not miss the royal palace. Speed home, I know not how long I can contain this new dilemma.
Chastaine grunted and tucked the missive away. "You can take a reply?" he asked the lad standing before him.
"Aye, my lord," the boy said, though he looked blue with cold and ready to fall over from exhaustion.
Smiling faintly, Chastaine motioned to Kodey. "Get him fed, find him a bedroll. He can take my reply in the morning."
"Yes, Sir Chastaine," Kodey replied, immediately taking the older boy across camp to the fire and the food cooking there.
Chastaine sighed, unable even to take pleasure in the fact that in the past two weeks Kodey was showing remarkable progress. The boy was coming to life; he would make a fine addition to the castle. It was not, however, enough to improve Chastaine's mood.
A royal messenger. That made things considerably more difficult.
He smiled briefly at the idea of Lyon locking the man up. He wondered what the messenger had done to so quickly spark Lyon's ire – normally Lyon was courteous to such officials, even if he did not like them.
"Sir Chastaine! River and Salal have returned."
Chastaine stood at the news, brightening when the men who rode into camp looked as though they could barely contain themselves. They all but threw themselves from their mounts, falling to one knee as Chastaine approached. "Sir Chastaine," the one named River said, "we have come upon great news." He looked up, foregoing a measure of formality, to grin brightly. "Evidence of a camp, perhaps half a day's ride from here. We spoke with trappers who knew of it, and followed a trail far enough to be certain such a camp might truly be without giving away our own presence."
"Well done indeed, my merry men," Chastaine said with a grin, satisfaction warming him. "Rise. Get some food." He turned away to begin work on a real plan. "Simon!" he called, motioning to his second. "Bring the guide."
He strode to the fire to join the others there, smiling briefly when Kodey immediately brought him a drink. Ruffling the lad's hair, he finally turned to the matter at hand. "Simon, convey all that River and Salal know to our guide. We need to know where to go to cut off the brigands. If we attempt to catch up to them, we will only alert them to our presence."
"Aye, my lord," Simon replied, and rapidly fell into speaking with the other soldiers, rapidly translating.
Chastaine felt his inadequacy. He hated that he did not know the foreign tongues, but language had never been his forte. When such matters came up, he left them to Lyon. At least he had thought to take Simon, knowing such a problem might crop up.
Still, if he could speak the language himself, matters would run more smoothly.
"Sir Chastaine, he says that if we ride hard in three days time we could make the canyon just beyond the Tantalle Bridge – all journeying deeper into the country must go by way of that bridge, or journey well out of their way to reach other crossings. The brigands are likely headed that way, else they would already be turning away to take those other routes. We must get ahead of them, and await them beyond the bridge."
Chastaine nodded. "Then pack up camp, and let us be on our way. We stop only when the horses require it."
"Aye!" the man all cried, even Kodey, then raced to obey.
"Kodey, fetch my writing implements, then pack up my things and ready my horse. When that is done, rouse the messenger. I hate he must go without proper rest, but I must get a missive out now. There likely will be no chance later."
"Aye, my lord," Kodey said, and darted off.
Chastaine pondered what he would write while the tools were fetched, finding it difficult to focus. They were so very close to success…
But the journey home would be long in its own right, and there was no telling in what condition he would find Lady Winifred. He tore his mind from such black thoughts, remembering fondly what Kodey had said about her giving one of the brigands a black eye. Their lady tolerated nonsense from no one – except perhaps Lyon and he.
Lyon. He wondered how he was holding up, running the castle by himself. He was more than up to the task, certainly. Such a small keep did not truly require two Seneschals – it was only that they each preferred different things.
He smirked briefly to think of Lyon forced to rise early every day, as he must to tend to those chores which could not wait until the sun was up. He hoped none of those normally under his command were slouching; they all were good people but with the cold and the trouble and a lack of proper supervision…
Well, if they were they would quickly feel the fury of Lyon's fist. He might be from a lesser house, but he had always held his own amongst the greater families. What would Lyon do in a situation such as this?
Trap the enemy between them, of course. If Lyon were here, he could trust that such a tactic would work. As it was, he dare not split his few men. The brigands were at least double their numbers and it would be too easy for them to somehow slip out of the trap.
Chastaine repressed a sigh as Kodey appeared with his writing implements. "Thank you, lad."
Smiling shyly, bobbing his head, Kodey bolted off again to finish tending his duties.
La, Lyon and Lady Winifred were going to harass him terribly for Kodey. Well, he would take it gracefully if only they were all home that he might be harassed.
Soon, he swore. They were so close now.
Nodding, decided, he bent to his letter and swiftly wrote. A few minutes later he sent the messenger off with good coin, then rose to join his men. "Are we ready?" he asked, mounting his horse.
"Aye, Sir Chastaine."
He reached down and pulled Kodey up to ride behind him. The lad needed a proper horse, but there was no time for lessons. "Then Simon, you and our guide will take lead. Tomas, the rear. We go."
"My lord…"
Chastaine nodded, and motioned Simon to silence.
Dusk was falling, shadows long and dark. Even now he could see the brigands approaching.
He wished that Lyon were here, to attack from behind, secure them well and truly. Yet Lyon would be the first to say it was useless to dwell on things which could not be helped, and so Chastaine shunted the thought aside.
Lady Winifred was unmistakable, though her hair had been cropped and she was dressed like a man. Oh, the tale that would make later. He smiled briefly.
They drew closer and he gave the signals – get to Lady Winifred. He wanted the men alive, if at all possible, but she was the priority.
He looked questioningly at Simon, who gave him a nod – the guide and Kodey were well away from danger.
Chastaine drew his sword and took a deep breath, waiting, waiting – and gave signal to his bowmen.
Three brigands fell, the horses startling, and with a roar Chastaine threw himself from his hiding space in the canyon wall, knocking the nearest man from his horse, regaining his footing swiftly, knocking away the man's sword before spinning to meet the attack of another.
"Stop!"
The command cut through his battle focus, Lady Winifred to be obeyed above and beyond all else. He halted in the process of shoving the man he held against the canyon wall, snarling as he turned to regard his lady.
"Chastaine, release him please, I beg of you."
"What?" Chastaine demanded, tightening his grip on the foul brigand – but the tears in Lady Winifred's eyes drew him up short. With a grunt, he threw the man to the ground and sheathed his sword. "My lady, what is this madness? Here we are come to rescue you, and you bid me spare the brigands who took you? Has this debacle taken your mind?"
Lady Winifred shook her head, short hair whipping against her cheeks with the fierceness of the movement. "Nay, Chastaine. These men are not those who stole me away from the castle.
Chastaine frowned. "My lady?"
Instead of replying, Lady Winifred moved toward them and bent to help the fallen man up. Chastaine's frown deepened at the gentle way she touched him, hand straying to the hilt of his sword.
"I would like an explanation, my lady," he said tersely. "That brigand will also unhand you, ere I remove his hands myself."
Lady Winifred smiled faintly. "Alas, my Knight, your sword must remain sheathed. My husband has every right to touch me."
Chastaine stilled at the words, eyes widening. "What?" he asked coldly.
"La, my knight," Lady Winifred said tiredly. "The story is long and complicated, and I fear my father has earned my eternal ire. Let us make camp, and I will tell you the whole of it."
"Aye, my lady," Chastaine said heavily, wishing suddenly Lyon were here to glare everyone into submission. Only the King, perhaps, was immune to Lyon's fierce stares. Feeling weary and thoroughly disheartened, Chastaine motioned to his men and called for his horse.
He dredged up a smile for Kodey, who appeared leading his horse. "All right there, lad?"
"Aye, Sir Chastaine," Kodey said warily, eyes widening as his gaze fell upon Lady Winifred. "My lady!"
"La, what have we here?" Lady Winifred said, her familiar warm and rippling laughter spilling out, easing those around her more than she likely knew. "The tavern boy. What do you here?"
Kodey drew himself up, shooting an uncertain look toward Chastaine before finally lifting his chin. Chastaine hid a smile, and nodded for the boy to speak. "I am Sir Chastaine's squire, my lady."
"I see," Lady Winifred said, eyes twinkling with mirth as she glanced at Chastaine. "La, after my tale, I sense that one will make good hearing."
Chastaine did not reply, merely mounted his horse and pulled Kodey behind him, waiting as Lady Winifred and the brigands did the same. "Lead the way then," he said coolly to Lady Winifred and the man she claimed was her husband.
If he did not like what they had to say, he would quite cheerfully take the man's head.
Not least of all because now he must tell all of this to Lyon, who would not take the news well at all.
Lady Winifred contemplated her hands, wrapped around a wooden cup filled with mulled wine. A hard half day's ride had brought them to a nearby village, where they had emptied the tavern and claimed it for their own use.
"Speak," Chastaine said. "I am tired of the mystery."
"Yes," Lady Winifred said slowly, taking a delicate sip of her wine. Beside her, the brigand husband gently touched the back of her hand.
Chastaine narrowed his eyes, wishing vainly that he could take that hand right off. No one touched his lady without approval and it would be a very long time before he gave the bastard that.
"The men who kidnapped me…hailed from Rothland."
Well, that was no surprise. Rothland was, of the three countries the King had been battling, the most problematic. Lady Winifred had mentioned that her father would be summoning her home to marry…Rothland would of course be the most logical choice. That would bind the problematic country nice and tight. "You were set to marry the Rothland Prince, I should think."
"Nay," Lady Winifred said sadly. "My father originally promised me there, but negotiations went afoul and to put them in their place, he instead gave my hand to Koromor."
Koromor. The moorlands. Chieldor had no issue with them, neither good nor bad. Koromor was hardly worth Chieldor's time, except they were neighbors.
Except…it would be insulting in the highest were the King to marry off his daughter to a country of no value, snubbing a country as powerful as Rothland. Such blatant disrespect would, ideally, bring Rothland to heel.
Unless they decided to act upon their rage and take matters into their own hands by kidnapping the Princess and forcing the issue. Had Winifred been forced to marry the Rothland Prince, her father would have had no choice but to cave to Rothland's wishes or make of his daughter an enemy.
Chastaine wondered which decision the King might have made, but it was a useless one to ask. He focused instead on the question which mattered. "So you married this brigand who saved you, rather than risk your hand being lost to Rothland?"
"He is no brigand," Lady Winifred said quietly, taking the man's hand in her own, her other hand still curled tightly around her wine. "He is the bastard son of the King of Koromor, sent on royal command to retrieve me safely by whatever means necessary. I am safely wedded now, not to be undone. At the time, it was the only way." She smiled sadly. "Do not be too angry, Chastaine."
Of course he was angry. He had failed his lady entirely, leaving her to make these miserable choices – and safely wedded could only mean there was no chance of annulment. He was furious with himself. "Bastard son, brigand?"
"Aye," the man said quietly. His hair was black, eyes so dark a brown they may as well be black. He was worn and grizzled from the fighting, many days of hard travel. "She was originally intended to be married to my father, who neither acknowledges nor denies I am his blood. We were in a bind, and the matter was only going to get worse – this nullifies everything, though I know it is not what my lady wished for, nor what you her knights could desire for her." He sighed. "I attempted to intercept the Rothlanders sent to kidnap her, but simply could not catch them up. I ambushed them after they landed here. When you ambushed us in turn, I was taking my lady to the estate my sire gave to me in token apology."
The bitterness that tinged his voice was familiar. Chastaine had ever felt the sting of being not good enough for his own father, merely a spare should his grander brothers fall to some foul fate. It was a feeling Lady Winifred and Lyon shared, it had bound them from the start.
It was a mark he would begrudgingly put to the brigand's favor – but one favorable mark was a long way from approval. "What do you intend for my lady now, Brigand?"
"His name is Shad, not brigand."
"He is Brigand until he earns our approval," Chastaine retorted, for he knew just how hot Lyon's rage would burn over this. They had failed their lady utterly, and could do nothing now to repair the damage done ere there heads were removed.
"No," Lady Winifred protested, holding fast to Brigand's hand. "He is—"
"Lady," Chastaine cut in, "upon my return, there is naught can be done but to tell your father all. For our failure to protect you, our heads are forfeit. If my life is the price I must pay for this matter, then I will see what I get in return is worth that. This man is Brigand until our approval he does gain, and naught my lady might say will change our mind."
Lady Winifred frowned, but subsided at the gentle touch to her arm.
It was, unfortunately, another mark in Brigand's favor that he so gently regarded and guided Lady Winifred. She did not need a husband who resembled her father in temperament and manner.
"We are returning to Castle Triad," he said at last.
"Are you certain that is wise?" Brigand asked.
Chastaine subtracted a mark; this man had no right to question him. He had as much failed in his duties as Chastaine and Lyon, in that he had not prevented the kidnapping ere it occurred. "I am certain we have no choice," he replied curtly. "Lyon sent word that a royal messenger arrived at the palace, perhaps three or four weeks after I left to retrieve you, Lady Winifred. Lyon has secured him, but knows not long he has before another is sent to discover the reason for his extended absence."
"I see," Lady Winifred murmured, brow pinching. "That is news most dire indeed. We had best return then, and hope further disaster can be averted." She gave Brigand a tired smile. "Regretful, for I would have liked to have seen your home."
Brigand shrugged. "'Tis only a place to sleep, my lady fair. I travel too much to call naught but my men home."
"Then perhaps we can make Castle Triad home to you."
"Aye, my lady," Brigand said, lips quirking. He slid a glance at Chastaine. "Assuming I gain approval rather than a beheading of my own."
Chastaine reluctantly gave him back his lost mark, for possessing a sense of humor.
"So tell me how you come to have a squire, Chastaine," Lady Winifred said. "He is a handsome fellow, I thought so before."
Kodey flushed bright red and looked down at his thinned hot wine.
Ruffling the boy's hair, Chastaine quickly related the tale, taking Lady Winifred's stern looks with good grace, grimacing as she snickered at the conclusion of the tale. "La, Chastaine. Lyon will be highly amused at your expense."
"Regretfully, I am in full agreement with my lady," Chastaine said, rolling his eyes. "Now if you will pardon me, my lady, my men and I are most weary and I have no doubt you are the same. I say we take to our beds and leave at first light. Traveling with all due haste, we can hopefully make home in a month and a half."
Lady Winifred nodded. "Let us hope so," she said quietly. "There has been enough turmoil."
Chastaine nodded, then motioned for Kodey to follow him, striding from the room and up the stairs to the room allotted him. "Fetch my writing implements, Kodey, if you please. Then find Tomas and tell him to hunt out a good messenger for me."
"Aye, my lord," Kodey replied, quickly retrieving the required tools. When he returned carrying a fresh ale, Chastaine still lingered over his missive, not quite certain what to write. There seemed too much to say, more than he could set in his mind, far more than he could set to paper.
It would be easier if Lyon were here, for he would understand Chastaine's tumultuous thoughts; would, in fact, share them. Lady Winifred was a Princess, and knew well the ways of the world, but she was no knight. She clearly believed the worst of their problems solved, and likely that with her return to Castle Triad matters would conclude entirely.
Chastaine knew the problems had only begun. Her father would not take the news well, and there was no telling what he would do to secure his daughter for his own use – and he and Lyon would not live long enough to assist and protect their Princess in whatever she chose to do.
He reached up to touch his ear, feeling the cool of the amber set in it. Slowly he let his fingers fall away, and reached for his quill, sharpening the point before dipping it into the dark ink. Bending over the small strip of parchment, he finally began to write.
Part III
