Dragonblade Trilogy - 03 - The Savage Curtain (30 page)

Kenneth licked the wine from his
lips. “You know it is for the best. I told you earlier; my discussions with
your Scots prisoner were not particularly fruitful.” He had no idea that he had
missed Joselyn’s visit to Kynan by minutes, resulting in a very defensive and
agitated prisoner. “Nonetheless, I do not like the gist of the small
conversation we did have.  I think it would be best if you sent your wife away
from here, someplace safe.  You must get her out of Berwick for I fear the lack
of Scot activity these past several days are leading to a bigger, more
organized build-up.”

Stephen looked frustrated. “She
is safer here than she would be traveling on the open road. Anywhere I would
send her is days away and I cannot go with her. I do not want her exposed if I
cannot be there to protect her.”

Kenneth grunted. “Now you are
being ridiculous; send her with a contingent of soldiers and a couple of
knights.  Send her to de Lara’s holding.”

“Forestburn Castle?” Stephen shot
back, bordering on shouting.

“Aye, Forestburn,” Kenneth lifted
his white eyebrows at him. “It is the safest place for her. Toby will take good
care of her until this madness is over.”

Stephen pursed his lips at him
and looked away. Kenneth watched him a moment before finally draining his
wine.  He set the cup down and leaned forward on his elbows.

“Why did you bring me here,
Stephen?” he asked.

Stephen would not look at him.
“That is a stupid question.”

“Nay, ‘tis not. Tell me.”

Stephen was fidgeting angrily.
“To assist me.”

“I am trying to do that yet you
resist. I see this situation more clearly than you do, my friend.  Why do you
refuse?” Even though Kenneth already knew the answer, he still wanted to hear
it from Stephen’s lips. But Stephen refused to answer him, so Kenneth supplied
the words. “I know you do not want to be separated from her. But would not you
rather have her far away and safe than have to worry about her in an overrun
fortress?”

Stephen looked at him, then, the
cornflower blue eyes dull with both anguish and reluctance.  He looked as if he
were preparing to retort but suddenly shut his mouth and looked away again.

“Must we speak of this now?” he
mumbled.

“There is no more time, Stephen.
You must send your wife to Forestburn and do it now.”

Stephen was silent a moment,
contemplating. He finally sighed heavily, as if he had just given up a mighty
battle.   He raked a hand through his dark hair, fidgeting, apparently settling
the situation in his own mind.

“Very well,” he murmured,
bringing his gaze up to meet Kenneth’s. “I must trust that you are seeing the
situation more clearly than I am. If you say that I must send my wife away,
then I will trust you. But I will ask a favor of you.”

Kenneth was relieved that Stephen
was finally coming to his senses. “You do not have to ask,” he said. “Just tell
me what you would have me do.”

“Escort Jo-Jo to Forestburn. If I
cannot be with her, then I would trust her life only to you.”

Kenneth nodded slowly. “If that
is your wish, then I shall do it.”

Stephen looked rather defeated,
returning his attention to his chalice. “She is the most important thing in the
world to me, Ken. More than castles and kings, Joselyn matters above all.”

“I understand.”

Stephen didn’t say anything more
but it was obvious that his depression was growing. Joselyn emerged back into
the hall at that moment, carrying a tray covered with a white cloth.  She was
smiling as she approached the table and set the tray down between the two
men.   Standing so close to Stephen that she was butted up against him, she
faced Kenneth.

“Our stores have been replenished
in the past few days and we were fortunate enough to have a small supply of
sweet salt,” she told him. “I was able to make cakes from it. I do hope you
enjoy them.”

She pulled the cloth off the tray
and both Stephen and Kenneth peered at the contents with interest; they were
small, round cakes with a white substance smeared on the top of them. Stephen,
never one to be shy when it came to his wife’s cooking, ran his finger across
the white, creamy substance and tasted it. Deciding it was well worth eating,
he picked up the little cake and bit into it. Custard oozed out from the other
side and he had to move fast to slurp it all up.  Kenneth, seeing that Stephen
was well into a feast of sweet custard, popped a whole cake into his mouth and
chewed with relish.

“These are marvelous,” Stephen
licked his fingers. “What is in them?’

Joselyn beamed. “I made the cakes
from white flour and sweet salt,” she told him. “Then I made custard from eggs,
milk and sweet salt. When the cakes were done, I cut them in half and put the
custard in the middle. The white cream on the top is made from sweet salt and
milk.”

“Dear God,” Kenneth popped
another in his mouth. “These are the most amazing cakes I have ever had. What
is this sweet salt you speak of?”

Stephen had another whole one in
his mouth. “I first had it in the Levant,” he told him. “It looks like salt but
is extremely sweet, hence the name sweet salt. There is a supplier in London
that I get it from and he ships his supplies from the Far East. It is not cheap
nor is it plentiful, but I have been spoiled by it, more so now with my wife’s
skillful cooking.”

Kenneth grabbed two before
Stephen could get to them, shoving them both into his mouth. “I believe I have
had it before,” he said, mouth full. “It is sweeter than honey.”

Stephen nodded, taking the last
cake before Kenneth could snatch it. “It is an utter indulgence,” he sucked the
custard off his fingers, pulling his wife against him with his left arm.  He
kissed her on the cheek. “Remarkable as always, Lady Pembury. Kenneth will now
return to the Marches with tales of your legendary culinary skills and make me
the envy of every man on the border.”

Joselyn grinned shyly, accepting
a hug from her husband and a wink from Kenneth.  Stephen then burped loudly as
Kenneth fought down the urge to vomit, both of them so full they could barely
move.  As Joselyn grinned and wiped the sweat from her brow, Stephen suddenly
noticed how rosy her cheeks were and put a hand to her forehead.

“Christ,” he hissed, immediately
standing. “Your fever is flaring.”

Joselyn’s smile vanished as she
put her hand to her forehead as if to reaffirm his diagnosis. “I do not believe
so,” she insisted, fearful that he was going to take her to bed and tie her
down. “I just came from the kitchens and they were quite warm. I feel fine,
truly.”

He would not even respond; he put
his arm around her shoulders and turned her for the door.  But they hadn’t
taken three steps when the entry door suddenly squeaked back on its hinges. 
Into the warm and fragrant hall emerged the battle hardened figure of Tate de
Lara.

In full armor minus his helm, the
man looked weary and stubbled as he pulled off his massive leather gloves.  His
gaze fixed on Stephen and Joselyn.

“Lady Pembury, you are looking
well,” he greeted Joselyn before looking to Stephen. “Can I safely assume that
the only reason you are leaving the great hall is because there is nothing more
to eat? I have ridden twenty miles since early this morning and was hoping to
make sup before you inhaled everything not nailed to the table.”

Stephen grinned. “There is still
plenty of food left, although Kenneth and I have managed to eat all of the
sweets. You should have arrived earlier.”

Tate heard Kenneth’s name, suddenly
noticing the man as he rose from the table several feet away.  A weary grin
creased Tate’s mouth as he and Kenneth came together in a powerful handshake,
reaffirming bonds that had been present since they were youths. Although Tate
had no brothers, Kenneth was like one and it was a satisfying moment as he
gazed into the familiar features. Even perpetually stone-faced Kenneth’s
expression warmed at the sight of his friend and liege.

“Ken,”
Tate greeted. “Good to see you, man. You are looking fat and old.
      Kenneth lifted a blond eyebrow as Stephen piped in. “That is exactly what
he said to me,” he said. “We must find better insults, or at least more
original ones. We are getting too predictable in our old age.”

Tate laughed softly, letting go
of Kenneth’s hand as he studied his friend. He was very glad to see him. “Are
the marches treating you well?”

Kenneth nodded. “Well but
boring,” he replied. “I was infinitely thankful for your summons to join
Stephen. It feels strange not to see both of you every day, fighting side by
side as we did for all of those years.”

Tate slapped the man on the
shoulder. “It goes against the natural order of things for the three of us to
not serve together,” he said, eyeing Stephen as he did so.  “And speaking of
serving, may I have a word with you, Stephen?”

“Of course,” Stephen took
Joselyn’s hand and passed her off to Kenneth. “Can you please see Lady Pembury
back to our chamber?”

Kenneth took her hand in his big
warm palm. “It will be my pleasure.”

“Take her directly to the
chamber, Ken. No walking around and absolutely no returning to the kitchens no
matter how much she begs.”

Kenneth lifted an eyebrow at
Stephen as he tucked Joselyn’s hand into the crook of his elbow. He began to
lead her away. “Is he always so overbearing?” he asked her.

Stephen pursed his lips at the
question as Joselyn cast him an impish glance over her shoulder. “Most always,”
she turned back to Kenneth. “But he means well.”

“Do not be so tolerant, Lady
Pembury. You do not really want to return to bed, do you?”

Joselyn fought off a grin,
speaking loudly enough so that Stephen could hear her. “Perhaps there is
something extremely devilish and strenuous that I should be doing instead.”

Kenneth nodded as if he knew
exactly what she meant. “We’ll find something.”

Stephen grunted to catch their
attention, reminding them that he was indeed hearing every word as they meant
he should. “If she is not in the bed when I return to our chamber in five
minutes, I will hold you personally responsible, St. Hèver. And I promise you
will not like my reaction.”

Kenneth cast him a disinterested
glance before looking back to Joselyn. “What shall we do?”

Joselyn lifted her shoulders. “He
is rather big. Perhaps we should listen to him.”

“I am not afraid of him. Well,
not much.”

“Should we do as he says?”

They were at the door by that
point. As they passed through the threshold and out into the mild night air,
Kenneth cast a pointed look at Stephen.

“Let him wonder if we have.”

They were gone through the door. 
Stephen’s expression was still molded into a disapproving frown as he returned
his attention to Tate, who was grinning quite openly at him.  He shook his head
at the sight of Stephen’s face.

“Since when are you without
humor?” he wanted to know. “Kenneth is usually the serious one and you are
usually the one I cannot keep straight. What has happened to you?”

Stephen grinned reluctantly. “My
humor is intact but not when it comes to my wife’s health.”

“Health?” he repeated. “What is
wrong with her? She looks well enough.”

Stephen shook his head. “She has
been running a slight fever since she was wounded. I cannot seem to rid her of
it.”

Tate nodded in understanding.
“Whatever is causing it, I am sure you will cure her,” he said, eyeing him as
he moved on to a more important subject. “Perhaps seeing her son might improve
her health.”

Stephen’s dark eyebrows rose with
realization, surprise. “So you have the boy?”

Tate nodded. “Cade Alexander is
in the gatehouse warming himself by the fire,” he said. “He is a well behaved,
thoughtful boy and Buccleuch was reluctant to let him go. But after I explained
the circumstances, of which he was unaware, he released him.”

“Have you spoken to the lad at
all?”

“A little.  Enough to know that
he likes dogs, enjoys war playing, and has your wife’s blue eyes. He is a
handsome boy.”

“Did you tell him why he is
coming to Berwick?”

Tate shook his head. “I am going
to leave that up to you.”

Stephen nodded, digesting the
information. In truth, now that the boy had arrived, he was not quite sure how
he was going to feel towards the child given the fact that he was a product of
an extremely harrowing act against the woman he loved. On the other hand, the
boy was a part of Joselyn. For that fact alone, he would treat him as a son.
But there were a few things unsaid between him and de Lara; he cleared his
throat softly, crossing his enormous arms and looking rather uncomfortable.

“Just so you are aware,” he said
quietly, “because of Jo-Jo’s injury and subsequent illness, I never told her
that you went to retrieve the boy.”

It was Tate’s turn to raise his
eyebrows. “She does not
know
?”