Читать книгу A Knight Well Spent - Jackie Ivie - Страница 10

Anger has a way of changing everything, Rhoenne decided, sometime into his second tankard of watered-down ale. It enhanced the scene before him until it was crystal clear and colored strangely about the edges with a reddish-gray haze. He’d ordered a boar quartered before it was put into the fire pit, to speed its preparation. He’d ordered the rushes changed and the linens aired out while it cooked. He’d even had to order water warmed for the knights’ baths and his own. If he had a wife, it would have been her duty to see to such a homecoming. Or his brother’s—if Brent had a bone devoted to responsibility and duty.

He scowled and diluted his tankard again, using the pitcher of water he’d pulled up and brought for himself. He wasn’t quenching his thirst with ale. He wasn’t partaking of the feast he’d ordered prepared. He wasn’t listening to the tales of valor about their latest skirmish against his own warlike, heathen subjects. He was barely aware of the revelry taking place in his great hall. He had even forsaken replacing the numbing lichen, as the Lady of the Brook had instructed him to. His payment was the vicious throbbing of his lower leg. He knew why. He wanted the hunger. He wanted the sober awareness. He wanted the pain. He needed it.

His scowl grew. His brother hadn’t tasted punishment in many seasons. The unkempt condition of his hall, the parade of angry fathers demanding payment for their daughters, the bastard Brent had produced along with the resultant death of the mother…. The constant harassing by Rhoenne’s own people were the consequences. Rhoenne didn’t need Sir Harold’s words about it. He knew exactly what he had to do. And he knew he wasn’t going to enjoy it.

He swigged another gulp, wondering why it wasn’t taking the edge off the evening, yet knowing at the same time he didn’t want it to. He rarely did anything without reason. Brent was going to be brought to him the moment he returned and Rhoenne was preparing for it.

The stir of doors opening caught his attention. He put his tankard down with a deliberate motion, lowered his head, and regarded the assemblage. What had begun as boisterous voices giving greeting was subdued quickly, he noticed, as his orders were given and heard.

“It appears the prodigal approaches. I’d give him no quarter, if it were it me.”

Rhoenne slid his glance over to Sir Harold’s chair. The knight winked back at him.

“Save your ire for your brother. He’s earned it, not me.”

“You brave much with such words.”

Harold sighed heavily. “I’ve been at your side for a score, My Liege. I only seek to temper the anger. It’s righteous, true, but Brent is your only blood kin, as I recollect?”

“You forget the lad, Richard,” Rhoenne replied, scanning the grouping for his youngest sibling. He should have known Richard would be absent. Revelry and drunkenness offended the boy. As did every other manly pursuit, he reminded himself.

“Him? He is a mistake of nature, not a Ramhurst.”

Harold’s reference was not inaccurate, but it was distasteful. Richard had been orphaned from birth as had all the Ramhurst males. He’d been left in the company of women and ruined. Rhoenne had tried to change him, but it had been too late. Richard still ran at the sight of bloodshed.

“Richard has much of his mother in him. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s a Ramhurst. Same as I am.”

Harold snorted. “You’re amusing. Richard is half the man you are.” He shrugged. “Mayhap…less.”

Rhoenne blinked balefully. Then he returned to looking for Brent.

“Careful,” Harold remarked, “your humor is showing.”

Rhoenne sighed. “You’ve kept me company too long, Harold. Isn’t there a wench or three available to satisfy your needs tonight?”

“None near as tempting as Fiona. You know she saves herself for you. If you have need, she’s yours. More’s the pity.”

“Take her.”

“There aren’t many like her. Your requirements are too high.”

Rhoenne moved his head again. He had a throbbing behind his eyes now.

His scowl probably showed it. It was blending in with all the other aches and pains he was encouraging. “Your meaning?” he asked.

“Fair of face, lush of limb, nails sheathed…barren of belly. Not many women in this cursed mist-land fulfill that. And lust. You require all that. Fiona has it. She’s alone in it, I’m a-feared. Not that I quibble. I simply wouldn’t enjoy my play at the cost of your own comfort. That is most against my knightly vows, I feel. ’Tis what a loyal vassal is known for, you know; knightly vows.”

Harold’s lips were quirked again. Rhoenne ground his teeth and added the twinge of ache in his jaw to the others. “Fiona is still available to you,” he finally said, from between his teeth. “I’ll not need her tonight.”

“You’re inhuman. Send the wench to your chambers. Play. Sleep. Deal with your difficulties on the morrow.”

“Difficulties?”

“These Celts are difficult to subdue and even harder to rule. You have taken on more than the cultivating and civilization of land with this earldom King David bestowed upon you. You have taken on the devil himself.”

Rhoenne smiled slightly. “Scotsmen are like any other, just hardier. Sanctions mean little to them, punishments the same. I must learn another way to reach them.”

“It’s said their lances are sharper, too.”

Rhoenne stiffened. “Your meaning?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know, of course…for I’ve yet to harbor one within my flesh. I must make a note to ask it of someone…more experienced in such things. If I chance upon one, that is.”

Rhoenne sucked in on one cheek. “You’re starting to bore me, Montvale. Always the same—speaking words and saying little.”

“Little? I’ve untold breaths of words to speak on it. This earldom of yours is a curse and the subjects therein? Hate-filled and dangerous. As for women? Ugh. They’re steeped in ugliness and deceit and filth. And bulk. I find them difficult to enjoy without the lights dimmed enough.”

“Yet…Fiona is one of them.”

“Ah, aye. The lovely Fiona. I can forget all with that one, My Liege. Should she grace my chamber, I sleep little. You should try it, too. Perhaps then no lance could stray into your leg, leaving this delightful vale in the hands of your brother.”

“What lance?” Rhoenne said, in a carefully modulated tone.

“Perhaps we’d best see to your brother.” Harold turned away and gestured toward the doorway.

Rhoenne’s eyes followed the gesture. “I will see to Brent. Save your breath. And my ears. All saw the condition of my keep. All share the whispers of my weakness…even my own men.”

“Send him to serve the king. I hear he’s building again—a priory he’s naming Jedburgh. That makes it three of the planned four of them. He probably needs stout noblemen with masses of brawn and a dearth of wits. That sounds like your brother. Send him. Such a thing will gain you gratitude.”

“If I send Brent, I’ll gain His Majesty’s anger. Brent is a slackard and a lay-about. Should I send him to join in the building of King David’s legacy, I’d reap naught but the king’s ire. And if Brent were to do such a task, anything constructed will surely crumble.”

Harold snorted again. “That much is true. We also have to consider King David’s son, Henry, who is overseeing the thing. He probably doesn’t stock enough wenches to service your brother.”

“Speaking of—Fiona is still available to you,” Rhoenne replied.

“Aye, but I’m needed more here, I feel.”

“You waste your time. I’m not much company tonight.”

Harold snorted. “You’re never much company,” he replied.

That comment got a smirk from Rhoenne. He lifted the tankard to his lips and took another draught. Then he pulled it away. They were giving him the signal. Brent was inside the keep.

“I know your game, you know,” Harold said from his side.

“Game?” Rhoenne replied carefully.

“A bit of ale to fan the flame, a bit of pain to deepen it, and it will be Brent turn to rue the day’s sport.”

Rhoenne put the tankard down and swiveled his head. “What…pain?” he asked, putting a slight edge to the last word.

Harold raised his brows. “Did I say pain? I’ve overstepped myself. It must be your ale. It’s hearty and brewed to a thick color; loosens my tongue when it shouldn’t. Remind me to apprise your aleman of my compliments.”

Rhoenne cocked his head back, hearing Brent’s voice easily. He slid his chair back, preparatory to standing. “Brent!” he bellowed, the name stopping every other sound and movement in the room. Rhoenne wasn’t sparing his voice. The reverberation seemed to be the only sound for a moment. He stood.

“Oh look. He’s returned.” Brent called it out jovially, his entrance filling the arched doorway with the sound of chainmail and boots.

“Aye. To an empty hall and an unguarded treasury! You have but the time it takes to reach you to speak your reason. Don’t waste it.”

Rhoenne put a hand to the surface and bolted over it. His movement had serfs, freemen, and knights watching with open-mouthed expressions. His reward was the agonized jar of barely knit flesh in his leg. He didn’t give it thought. He didn’t dare. They created a path for him. Brent had reached a good height but was still a hand-width below Rhoenne. The difference was made up with muscled weight, equaling his older brother in time. He was also still clad in his mail, with his sword strapped to his side, and gauntlets encasing his hands and arms to the elbow.

Rhoenne saw Brent’s attire and ignored it. There wasn’t a weapon to stop him. He watched Brent back a step, then another, at his approach. It didn’t give him any satisfaction. Nor did Brent’s knight’s movements as they packed themselves together, forming a triangle, that shoved Brent forward to the tip. Rhoenne’s scowl deepened. If his own knights tried such a self-serving move, he’d see them stripped of their titles and lands, and then he’d have them replaced.

“You left Tyneburn Hall with her throat bare and her belly exposed! Your reason?”

Brent opened his mouth then shut it. Then he shrugged a nonchalant gesture. Rhoenne’s eyes narrowed.

“I gave you position in my household. I appointed you High Sheriff. You have the right of collecting my taxes and administering my laws. Were you away tallying, as I’ve asked you to do? Perhaps you were seeking justice for the blacksmith’s death? Tell me that’s what you were about. Or perhaps you forayed beyond the mense, hoping to secure the borders further?”

Brent didn’t answer. He was looking toward the floor. Rhoenne’s voice went soft, steely soft. “Or is it you’ve taken another maid? Will I have another angered father and his clan, thirsting for my blood, and the blood of all who call me lord? Don’t you understand the consequence of such acts?”

There wasn’t anything to be heard except that of the words dying when he’d finished. The room behind him might as well be empty, rather than full of revelers. Rhoenne narrowed his eyes and waited.

“I took no maid,” Brent finally replied.

“What was it you were about, then?” He barked out the question almost before Brent had finished.

“We were just out looking for enjoyment. You are ever ceaseless with your listing of duties and tasks, chores and requirements. It was—”

Rhoenne interrupted him before the words became a full-out whine. “As my heir, you replace me! You protect and you defend. As my High Sheriff, you govern. That is no time for play. There is a fiefdom to secure for King David’s purposes, and his alone. I can’t raise an army for my sovereign from my own people! I can scarce move about without treachery at my side—and it’s you at the heart of it!” He was shaking with the intensity of his own rash tongue and afraid it was being seen, too. That was what made his voice louder and harsher. Rhoenne had never spoken like he was speaking now. Sir Montvale was right. Even when it was watered-down, his aleman did brew a good stout mead.

“All you do is work, though.”

His brother was whining. Rhoenne hadn’t stopped any of it. He inhaled a breath and cursed the fire of it inside his own chest. “’Tis a bit of work securing a fief, brother. That’s why it was entrusted to me. To me! The king could have lorded any other man, but nay. He lorded me. You know this! I will ask again, and only once more. Your reason?”

He waited, hoping Brent would say a challenge, so they could do this honorably and meet on the list. It wasn’t Brent’s fault his mother had been a serf, consoling their father when his own wife took sick with the child she carried. Nor was it Brent’s fault that he wore the mark of bas-tardy. The younger man had always coveted what Rhoenne had. He didn’t know the king, however. David could make a vassal of any man, including bastards—and he would have without remorse—if Brent had just earned it.

There was no way to teach such a thing! Rhoenne regarded him silently, wishing he’d heeded Montvale’s counsel and waited, or at the very least, done this in his private chamber. That way his entire hall wouldn’t be watching brother against brother, and the myriad of serfs, housecarls, and freemen wouldn’t be able to carry further tales to their crofts. That was the reason he could scarce ride about without a guard at his back and at all sides.

It was too late to lament any of it, so he did the only thing he could; he pulled himself to his full height, put his hands on his hips, glared down at his brother, and awaited the challenge. Brent had fought well the one time he’d tried it. Rhoenne would accept eagerly. It might be what his brother needed. They’d each gained a decade worth of muscle and strength since they last met. It wouldn’t be an easy battle, either way. Nothing happened except silence.

Cursed silence.

“You have no answer?” Rhoenne asked, softer than before, but it was still too loud.

Brent shook his head.

“Well and good. I’ll answer it for you. A leader does not seek play and leave his keep exposed. You’ll learn this. You’re to take your men and see to it all are prepared for a journey. I have decided your punishment.”

“I was only gone a night and day, Rhoenne,” Brent said, with a pleading tone to his voice.

“Tyneburn needs a strong leader at its front, loyal to the crown. You need to find leadership. I’ve failed at teaching it. King David enjoins another construction. He sends his heir, Henry. A Ramhurst will serve on erecting this Jedburgh Priory. Prepare yourself.”

“You want me to labor? To build? Surely that is too much, brother—”

“Brother? Brothers do not betray. Brothers do not shirk responsibility. God curse the day your mother birthed you into my life. Begone! And take your sniveling cowards with you.”

Rhoenne swiveled before he’d finished. Then Brent did the unforgivable. Rhoenne didn’t need to hear the gasps. He saw the flash that was his brother’s gauntlet as he went for his sword. Rhoenne spun and sent a fist against his brother’s jaw with enough force that he was launched backward into the knights who were supposed to be guarding his life with their own. Rhoenne’s scowl deepened as he watched the tightly packed group of men split, letting their leader fall. All seventeen stones’ weight of Brent Ramhurst quivered for a moment and stilled. Rhoenne didn’t even look down. He pierced each and every one of Brent’s cowardly retinue with what had been described once as his wintry-day’s glare. He watched them shuffle.

“Get him to his room! Hie yourselves to your own. Prepare for your journey. Don’t let me catch sight of any of you and ruin my mood further. If he wakes and argues, tell him I’ll meet him on the list. He picks the weapons. He picks the time. We’ll decide it that way.”

He swiveled again and walked back to his chair, ignoring the look that was probably on Sir Harold’s face, as much as he was ignoring the new ache that had begun in his knuckles to spread throughout his hand, and was now throbbing to his wrist. He also ignored the speculative glances he was receiving as well as the rustle of sound coming from the removal of Brent and his men from the great hall. He walked around the table, carefully blanking every bit of how it felt to continue putting weight on his leg from his features. He regained his seat beside Sir Harold and picked up his tankard again, using his left hand.

The entire room started making sound again. It was a fuller and even more boisterous noise than it had been before.

“I’d have let them see him drawing his sword,” Sir Harold said slowly, directing his words to his own half-empty mug.

“Are you speaking for effect, or to hear yourself make noise?” Rhoenne asked.

“That way, none would think me guilty of attacking my own brother without provocation.”

“A liege can be many things,” Rhoenne replied.

“True. He can be brave. Strong. Decisive. He can spit in the face of agony as he does so.”

“What…agony?” Rhoenne asked through clenched teeth.

“Strong ale, as I already made mention. It loosens my tongue. Fiona is doing strange things to my pulse, My Liege. She’s lovely. She’s ready. She’s begging you. Look.”

“If she has need of a man, fill her need. As I already said, I’ve no use for her tonight.”

“I beg you to reconsider. The woman sours if she cannot have you. All women do. I have no notion of the why. Women. Who can decide the why of how they think?”

“So? Choose another.” Rhoenne shrugged, and pushed his hair off his forehead with his left hand, prior to refilling his tankard. Then he brought it to his lips. He put his mind to ignoring the throb of his arm, since the pain had moved to encompass his elbow, too.

“I’m trying to entice you,” Sir Harold said.

Rhoenne choked on his swallow. It turned into a cough that ravaged his chest. He added that to his other ills. He had it under control before he looked at his closest knight. “You’ve the wrong shape for such a notion, Sir Harold, although I thank you, just the same.”

The other man’s lips twitched. “I would still have let them see why I threw such a blow. He was going for his sword. He was attacking your back.”

“A liege can be many things, remember?” Rhoenne replied.

“He was attacking an unarmed man. You know it. I know it.”

“He can’t be a betrayer. None can think it, say it, or be allowed to see it. Had he unsheathed his sword, I would have had to banish him.”

“You would have had to kill him. You know it.”

“Only on a field of honor, Montvale. Don’t over-speak yourself.”

“So…you did the indulgent thing. You let his treachery go unseen.”

Rhoenne’s left hand tightened on his tankard handle. “It was my decision. I made it. I’ll live with it.”

“And had you done other, you would have had to find another heir. Or, God forbid, make the king find you a woman to wed with, accept your seed, and create one of your own. Pity.”

Sir Harold was paying very careful attention to his tankard as he said it. Rhoenne felt the knot of nerve in his cheek as he clenched his teeth. Harold was right about Fiona, too. She had thick, light brown hair, a round face with a bow-shaped mouth, ripe curves, and a body that was perfection. She was making certain all noted it, too, with her display every time she moved. Rhoenne frowned. She shouldn’t wear her neckline so loose or so low. It created problems with his men—none of whom would touch her, despite lusting for her.

“Take Fiona to your bed, Sir Harold, and spare me any more of your words. They’re really starting to pale.”

The knight looked him over. Despite his best intention, Rhoenne hunched his shoulders slightly at the unblinking attention.

“And allow you to wallow in drink-induced melancholy? I think not. Besides, she may not be enough. I have massive appetites…unlike you. Come, My Liege. Allow me to have her sent to your chamber. I’ll even have her unwrapped for you.” There was a long, distinct pause. “I wouldn’t want to put that hand to the torment of having to undress the wench.”

“What torment?” Rhoenne asked, icily.

Harold sighed heavily. “This ale is too much for my tongue. I will have to change to water, too. I think.”

Rhoenne put his tankard down. “Your eyes are sharp, as is your tongue. I have more to do this eve. Drink would deter me from my responsibilities. Such is the mantle of liege, I fear.”

“You are too noble,” Harold said, sarcastically.

“I didn’t say that. I have things to see to before I rest.”

“Ah….” Harold drew the word out. “You have another wench in mind.”

“I didn’t say that, either,” Rhoenne replied.

“You must appease my curiosity. What wench appeals to your taste tonight?”

“Brent’s,” Rhoenne remarked with a slight smile to the word.

Sir Harold’s eyes widened. “Brent has a wench? But, he said—”

“You don’t listen well. Nor did you watch when he was first brought in. He has a wench with him.”

“He has a wench?” Harold repeated.

“Aye. My guess is he stole her. He probably still has her bound.”

“He stole a lass…and yet you still sit without mounting a rescue? You?”

“She’s not a maid. You heard him. Perhaps she would have come willingly, once she knew the game. Perhaps not. That is what I go to find out.”

“Not a maid, eh? Perhaps your luck holds and she is comely, too?”

“Have you known Brent to take an ugly wench?”

Sir Harold chuckled. The sound made Rhoenne’s eyes widen a fraction.

“This is what I would have ordered for you, had I thought it. Go. Rescue this damsel. Leave me to the fair Fiona, who, although she is no maid either, has vast charms of compensation. She also has friends. Comely friends.”

“Harold, you are rapidly losing my interest.”

“Very well. Fiona is a fair flower of innocence and should she have friends, they are undoubtedly ugly and stick-thin.”

“That is not my meaning, either. I speak more of Brent’s wench.”

“Ah. The lovely, captured flower. There’s no need of haste there, My Liege. She won’t need a rescue anytime soon. Her would-be lover is without his senses at present. That is your fault. You must take his place. You need to rescue her from sure boredom. Take her to your bed, instead.”

Rhoenne sighed heavily. “I didn’t say she was a would-be lover. I only said Brent had a wench. I would see to her. I don’t wish her, or any other woman, in my bed. I’ve other uses for a bed tonight…like sleep.”

“You’re inhuman,” Sir Harold replied.

“And you’ve drunk too much of this fine mead. Take Fiona to your chambers before you forget the why and how of it. Go, my friend. I’ll see you on the morrow.”

Rhoenne stood, tested his leg with his weight before striding purposely from the room, making certain none noted a limp, or how he held his hand close to his side to prevent movement. It was bad enough Sir Harold had seen through it. He didn’t want anyone else knowing. He wasn’t noble. He wasn’t inhuman. He was tired.