Honor & Roses (15 page)

Cecily waited several minutes before she risked climbing down. The gardens were deserted by people now. Birds twittered in the branches as the last of the light left the sky.

She slipped to the ground and rearranged her skirts, finding one tear in the hem. She walked slowly back to the manor house, her mind full of the strange encounter. Who was the “he” Rafe and Laurence spoke of? Alric? What would Laurence wish Rafe to do in regards to a fellow knight? It had to be something less than savory, or Rafe would not have balked so. Then she thought of Octavian…was he the man whose returned mattered so much?

When Cecily reached the doors of the great hall, she saw Rafe standing by Pavia, talking with the lady as if he had no cares in the world. Was it possible for him to be so changeable? So deceiving?

Cecily couldn’t stand the idea of joining them and pretending all was well. She’d go to her chamber instead.

She turned, only to nearly collide with Laurence. “Oh!” she gasped.

“Beg pardon, my lady,” the clerk said. He eyed her up and down. “Is something amiss?”

“I…I don’t feel well,” she muttered. “Please excuse me.”

She slipped past him and hurried to the stairway leading to her upper chamber. When she glanced back, Laurence was still watching her, his beady eyes dark as stones in the flickering torchlight of the hall.

* * * *

Cecily was relieved when Sir Octavian returned to Cleobury the next day. At table that evening, Cecily deliberately asked him to sit near her, partly to keep a buffer between her and Rafe, and partly to keep an eye on him. Octavian kept her entertained by offering his impressions of the places he’d seen for the first time.

“You told me once you wanted to see the world,” Cecily said as the meal concluded. “Yet don’t you miss your own home?”

“Home is not always the place you’re born, my lady. It’s the place you make your own.”

Then he offered to walk her around the gardens, and Cecily agreed readily, since she recognized that going alone held its own dangers. He showed just as much interest in her gardens as everything else, asking question after question. Finally, they turned back to the manor, and reached the courtyard when Octavian stopped her.

“Hold a moment,” he said. “Who’s over there, in that doorway?”

Cecily looked and saw a dull flash of metal, followed by a woman’s low cry of warning.

“What’s going on?” Octavian didn’t wait for an answer, but strode forward. Another cry sounded.

Cecily seized a nearby torch from its ring on the wall and followed him.

The torch illuminated a strange scene. Laurence stood next to the maid Runild. She clutched a kitchen knife tight in her hand—that was what flashed in the light.

“What’s happening here?” Octavian asked.

“Nothing to trouble a guest,” Laurence said smoothly. “This girl has an overactive brain. Never a good trait in a servant. She thought me a thief, even though we’re here in the shadow of the manor house.” He chuckled. “She’s a fool, but no harm done. Isn’t that right, little Runild?”

The maid’s eyes darted from Laurence to Octavian to Cecily. Then she mumbled, “Aye, sir.”

“Put the knife away,” Laurence said. “Or you’ll end up hurting yourself.”

Cecily didn’t like Laurence’s tone. She stepped up to Runild. “I’ll make sure she finds her way back to her chambers. That will be all, Laurence.”

The clerk glared at her, but left without another word.

“Are you well?” Octavian asked the girl.

She  shook her head, keeping a grip on the knife, and looked appealingly at Cecily. “By your leave, my lady?”

“Were you scared, Runild?” Cecily asked. “Did Laurence startle you in the dark and you mistook him?”

“Didn’t mistake him,” Runild muttered. “I ought to go to my bed, my lady.”

“Then we’ll both walk you there,” Cecily said firmly. “You sleep near the kitchen, isn’t that right?”

Runild nodded, allowing Cecily to take her by the shoulder. Octavian walked on the other side a pace or two away, but remained quiet. He kept looking around the courtyard as they walked.

At the kitchen door, Runild gave a curtsey to Cecily and then darted inside, shutting the door firmly.

“How could a servant be so frightened within the walls?” Octavian asked then. “She wasn’t in danger from any thief.”

“No, but she was frightened of something,” Cecily said. “Or someone.”

Laurence. She was certain, though she didn’t know why the clerk could have scared Runild.

Octavian might have reached the same conclusion, but he only said, “Well, I insist on escorting you to your chambers now, my lady. Until we know more about what might be lurking in the shadows.” He smiled, but there was an undercurrent of concern in his voice.

“Thank you,” Cecily said, accepting his arm. She quite liked the young knight.

Octavian walked her to her room. At her door, he said, “A question, my lady. Has Laurence been here at Cleobury very long?”

“Ever since I came to this manor. He is clerk to Theobald and makes much of his position. He has been here for years. Why?”

“Curiosity, nothing more,” he said. Octavian bid Cecily good night and took his leave, but he clearly had something on his mind.

A few weeks went by
since Alric came to Hawksmere, and during that time he found a measure of satisfaction in learning how life was lived there. It was the longest visit he’d had there during his adult years. Cecily never faded from his mind, but he told himself that she was as safe as she could be at Cleobury, and that the best he could do for her was to keep training and be ready to serve her when needed.

Then a summons came from Theobald, so Alric returned to Cleobury. His lord said that he would be needed soon, but otherwise hinted at nothing. Alric wished he could forget the conversation with his steward about Cecily’s suitors. The idea of Theobald selecting husbands for Cecily still made Alric want to hit something.

Fortunately, when he returned to Cleobury, the opportunity to hit something arose the very first day.

On the practice ground, he was instructing Edmund on the finer points of caring for a soldier’s equipment on the day of a battle. “Remember, you’ll be in a strange place, and can’t rely on having all the usual things to hand. You may have to choose which items to protect, and risk losing the others. What is the most important thing a knight needs?”

“A sword,” Edmund said confidently. Then he frowned. “Or is it the horse? The horse carries both knight and sword.”

“True, but a knight is trained to fight on foot as well as on horseback. If there is only one thing to define a knight, this is it.” Alric held up his favored sword, the one his father passed on to him. “Horses can be borrowed or bought. Steel is precious, handed down for generations.”

Edmund nodded in comprehension.

Rafe’s cheerful voice broke in. “Still teaching that lad to squire?”

“He’s eager to learn,” said Alric. “What’s on your mind?”

“I thought we should spar,” Rafe said. “I haven’t practiced against another knight since we left the battlegrounds.”

“You never practice faithfully.” Alric, on the other hand, made a point of it.

Rafe smiled. “Then now’s the time to remedy that. Are you ready?”

“Against you? Always.”

They put on the light practice armor and moved to the center of the practice ground. Already, a small crowd of manor workers gathered for this impromptu tournament.

At the signal of another squire, they began. Rafe lost no time, moving to put Alric in a defensive stance. Rafe was an excellent warrior and he had a natural grace, moving so fluidly from step to step that it was difficult to see openings in his defense.

But Alric did practice more diligently, and so for the first several minutes, each man held his own. Thrusts met with parries, metal clanged against metal. Neither of them showed weakness or gave ground in any meaningful way.

The pure exertion of practice helped calm Alric’s mind. He needed this, the simple test of strength and skill against another knight. Offense and defense he understood implicitly. The greater sphere of politics and common life seemed far more puzzling, especially with the world in turmoil as it was now.

Rafe’s constant attacks left Alric little time to consider his other problems. Rafe might not be a dutiful student, but his inborn talents were formidable.

Rafe lunged forward. Alric saw the flash of the blade too close to his body, but he felt nothing until after he managed to force Rafe back a moment later.

“Hit,” Rafe noted, gesturing to Alric’s arm.

Alric looked down to see blood welling up in a line. Pain prickled along the surface of his skin. It would get worse.

Rafe stepped back and lowered his sword slightly. “End?”

“Of course not,” Alric said. “I’ve fought through far worse than this scratch.”

The other man smiled. “Good. After all, we must give the ladies a show.”

Alric glanced instinctively toward the crowd, searching for Cecily’s bright hair.

It was a trick, an old one he should have recognized. Rafe laughed even as he pressed his advantage in a new sequence.

“Distracted, brother? Your lady isn’t there.”

“I have no lady,” Alric snapped back, barely deflecting a thrust.

“Your loss,” Rafe said. Annoyingly, his breathing seemed scarcely heavier than usual. “But I meant the fair Cecily, of course. I did relish the time I spent with her while you were gone.”

“Oh?” Alric slashed at what seemed an opening, only to be parried easily.

“She’s rather good at chess now. Better than you.” Rafe stepped back, grinning. “But then, the daughter and niece of barons should have an intuitive grasp of strategy.”

Alric moved, recognizing another trick to expose his side to a thrust.

A cold light shone in Rafe’s eyes—something Alric had never seen there before, making Rafe look like a stranger. He might have been any opponent on a battlefield, unnamed and untroubled about the idea of striking Alric down.

But Rafe was his friend.

His friend took advantage of Alric’s momentary confusion to strike again. His arm was hit again, but higher up.

“Did that hurt?” Rafe asked, an odd expression on his face.

Alric looked down just for a second. “No,” he lied. “Keep on.”

Rafe was relentless. For a man who didn’t practice diligently, he knew every feint and parry, every thrust that would keep Alric off balance. Alric began to sweat, and it wasn’t due to the heat of the day. He had to work twice as hard as usual just to keep ahead of Rafe’s moves. Only luck kept him going.

Inevitably, his luck ran out.

A flash of Rafe’s blade was followed by a searing pain in his side. He didn’t even have a chance to deflect it.

“God’s wounds,” he growled.

“Your wounds, you should say.” Rafe’s breath heaved, as if he tired all at once. “I didn’t mean to strike your core.”

“Did you not?” Alric said. He spat onto the ground. The taste in his mouth was metallic and foul.

“We must end,” Rafe said, dropping his sword to take Alric’s shoulder. “I say we end.”

Alric was about to refuse, but then he caught a glimpse of blonde hair at the edge of the crowd of watchers. Had Cecily heard of the fight and come to watch? He didn’t want her to see the cut, and he certainly didn’t want her to try to attend his wounds.

“End,” he confirmed with a grimace. “You fight well. As always.”

Rafe nodded, though his eyes were still anxious. He called for Edmund, which was good, because Alric wasn’t sure his voice would carry so far.

Then Rafe turned to call for another squire to take his sword for cleaning and to help him off with the protective gear.

The men moved to the side of the practice ground, Alric stepping carefully and holding his side.

“Sir Alric!” Edmund called, running toward him. “Is it over?”

“For today. No sense in wearing out the body during a friendly sparring session.” He put a hand to his bleeding arm. “Fetch some rags to bind these, will you?” he asked quietly. “And don’t mention it to anyone. I’d not worry the ladies watching. They tend to swoon at the sight of blood.”

“I’ll leave you to rest,” Rafe said quietly.

Once Alric was seated on a bench, Rafe left him and didn’t look back. Alric recovered his breath. Several times during the fight, he thought Rafe meant to kill him. Yet Rafe walked him off the field with all the care he’d show a brother. Surely Alric was imagining any ill intent.

A few minutes later, Pavia came up to him. “If that was a practice, I fear to see an actual battle!” she said, laughing. Then her eyes rounded. “Oh! You’re bleeding.”

“All part of practice,” Alric said, though in fact it was usually not. “It’s nothing serious.”

“It looks serious,” she protested. “You need to have those cuts tended. I’ll ask Cecily…”

“No,” he said sharply.

Pavia blinked in surprise at his vehemence, then said, “She makes an ointment that helps mend such cuts. I could fetch some for you. Do you not want it?”

He sighed. “I could use it. But she must not bring it. I don’t want her to see any blood.”

“Oh,” Pavia said, her expression softening. “I understand. I’ll bring the ointment to your squire. But you ought to give her more credit, Alric. Cecily is stronger than you think.”