Christian’s eyes had been drawn to the knight from the start— the one in the silver armor, wearing a crimson surcoat with a black lion on the front. Even with his visor down he was arresting. His body was large and broad, strong and confident in the saddle. He’d ridden sure and easy, and he handled the lance with restrained power. Christian had found himself more and more riveted as the bout went on. The knight had beaten his opponents soundly, and then he removed his helmet to accept his accolades. Christian’s breath and heart and the thoughts in his head had all frozen, like a gear stuck and held, if only for a moment.
Sir William Corbet was magnificent. He had light brown hair, worn straight to just below the shoulders, serious and kind blue eyes, a square face, full lips, and a closely shaved beard. He looked the epitome of a knight— noble, powerful, and true. Christian had never seen his equal. Desire had spiked in Christian then, that dreaded, hot, heady, unwelcome feeling that betrayed and stung him, like an adder in his breast.
God’s blood he hated it, hated it all. If he were his father’s daughter, he might have had a prayer of claiming, wedding, a knight like Sir William. As it was, his response to the man was not only hopeless but deeply shameful. And yet, despite knowing this, despite being fully aware of the risks, Christian had been unable to stop himself from looking at Sir William as he rode past him on the way to the archery. Christian had only meant to glance, maybe nod politely in an offer of friendship. But once his eyes had locked with William’s, he could not tear himself away.
Christian cursed under his breath. He had probably made a spectacle of himself. But at least a gaze was only a gaze, and he was sure none of his brothers had seen it. He had done nothing truly damaging— not yet. Dear God, not yet.
If he could only inure himself to the idea that what his eyes could feast upon, and his heart desire in secret, harmed no man. Then he might at least look forward to seeing Sir William at the banquet tonight and be able to—
A whisper of a sound broke through Christian’s thoughts. In a moment, his dagger was in his hand, even as he was spun and pressed hard against the wall.
Malcolm’s face, contorted with hatred, glared down at him. His beefy arm pressed across Christian’s throat. A chainmail sleeve dug into the delicate skin there, bearing down on his windpipe. As the arm pressed deeper, threatening to crush what could not be repaired, Christian let his dagger’s sharp tongue slip under his brother’s hauberk to prickle and sting his thigh. Malcolm’s eyes narrowed on a gasp of pain and the pressure on Christian’s throat eased.
His brother’s breath stank of ale and of the waft of carrion that always accompanied Malcolm these days, as if there were something rotting deep inside him. The smell seemed to go hand and hand with his increasingly erratic behavior, though none except for Christian seemed willing to acknowledge it.
Malcolm hissed words into Christian’s face. “You think you walk on water, do you not,
your highness
?”
“No.”
“Are you full up with victory, my brother? Does your own pretty glory make you hard?”
Malcolm ground a cruel thigh into Christian’s groin, and Christian gasped in shock. Malcolm had always been sadistic but never before in a sexual way. Christian thanked his stars that Malcolm’s attack had turned his body cold after those warm thoughts of Sir William.
“I will sink this blade if you don’t get off me,
brother
,” Christian threatened, his voice soft and deadly. The point dug in, piercing the padded leggings and the skin. Christian took great care with his blades. It was as pointed as a needle and sharp enough to sink in to the hilt, as if flesh was as easily spread as a whore’s thighs.
Malcolm sneered but backed off. “Be warned. Ne’er dare go against me in the joust little Crow, or I will impale you in front of the crowd and lick your blood from my fingers.”
“’Tis not my event, as you well know,” said Christian coolly, but his dagger remained pointed at the ready in his hand.
As if to show he had no fear of it, Malcolm reached out and gave Christian’s jaw a caress bitter with disdain. “Remember, you quivering bitch. I am watching.”
Christian jerked his chin away and Malcolm slunk off. Christian wondered briefly if Malcolm even realized the insult he’d made to himself— calling Christian a female dog, as if it were the lowest creature, when Malcolm bore the name ‘hound’ thanks to his exceptional skills at tracking.
By the saints, it was pointless to try to understand Malcolm. He was disordered in his mind, truly, and grew more so year by year. Heart pounding, Christian forced himself to calmly walk to his room. But once inside he bolted the door and leaned against it, trembling.
Malcolm hated him, had always hated him. But what had provoked Malcolm this time? The fact that Christian had won acclaim? A nod from his father? But Christian always won at archery; that was nothing new.
Christian remembered the warm look from Lady Gwendolyn, the way her lips had lingered on his cheek. At the last banquet, he’d seen Malcolm watching her, his eyes greedy and half-lidded with want.
God’s teeth.
I don’t want her!
Christian wanted to open the door and shout it down the hall. But then, he reminded himself, Malcolm already knew that.
****
When Christian was eight he became a page in his father’s household. Most boys were sent to a neighboring castle for such duty, but he was the seventh son. Rules and attention to such structured matters were much relaxed by the time Christian came along. His father was stingy with servants and his older brothers were demanding. Christian did his service at home.
His brothers trained hard and long in the training yard near the castle’s stables. When he wasn’t dong menial labor, Christian was pressed to join them. He’d looked forward to his training at first, eyes aglow over the blunt wooden swords and the spinning quintain. But once in the arena, he was pushed and bullied and beaten, expected to keep up with his older brothers at once and with no relenting. Training came to mean pain and humiliation, and there was no escaping it.
Thus darkness ate up the rest of his childhood years, like a black dragon grinding up infants in its razor-sharp teeth. His only comfort had been his sister, Ayleth, who bandaged his wounds, came to him in the night, and held him. She stifled his cries and sometimes she cried with him.
Malcolm, six years Christian’s senior, had come close to killing Christian at least twice in the training arena. His hand was stayed only because of the watchful eye of Sir Andrew, the knight in charge of their practice. No one else knew it; or at least no one else would admit it. But Christian knew; so did Malcolm. Christian’s other brothers all gave him plenty of bruises and half-hearted abuse. But none loathed him as Malcolm did. None had cracked his ribs, crushed his fingers, or kneed him so hard in the groin he’d pissed blood for a week.
There was something deeply wrong with Malcolm; Christian knew this. It got worse the older Malcolm got. He knew his father and other brothers were worried, but they did not see the worst of it because Malcolm saved his most violent tendencies for Christian alone. And if Christian complained, he only looked weak and childish. At times Thomas or Stephen or one of the others would snap at Malcolm to leave off, to let Christian be. But it was not enough to save Christian truly, never enough. And his father? The great lord dismissed all of their infighting as an annoyance.
Christian had had no choice. He was forced to toughen or die. He’d toughened— until he’d become as brutal and wild in the arena as any of them. His gentle mouth was taught to bare its teeth in hatred. His sharp wits were bent to outmaneuvering and treachery.
Once, when he was fifteen, and Malcolm had “accidentally” pushed him off the top of a hayrick whilst they were building it up, Christian had cornered him against a wagon and asked him one thing.
Why?
“Because I see you, brother,” Malcolm had said, low and terrible. “I know what you are inside, what you try to hide. And I will kill you before I let you disgrace this family.”
“I won’t,” Christian had said, shocked and ashamed.
“I know, brother,” Malcolm replied with an evil smile. “I will make sure of it.”
Thus Christian kept his doors and windows locked at night, always. Thus he carried several sharpened blades, even inside the castle. He’d escaped for a number of years, as a squire, and they had been the best years of his life. But he’d been sucked back in as irresistibly as a man sinking in quicksand. His father’s orders; once Christian had earned his spurs he was a knight, and as a knight he owed his fealty to his father’s castle.
Between those who wanted to bed him, those who wanted to wed him, and those who wanted him dead, the castle was a place more dangerous than any battlefield.
****
CHAPTER 3
William had requested a private audience with Lord Brandon. He did not get it until his sixth night sleeping in the castlebailey. He was impatient, humming with anxiety for Elaine. But he forced himself to wait. Lord Brandon was his best hope.
To pass the time, he helped train the castle’s youth in the training arena. He loaded and unloaded wagons, making himself useful. He took long rides in the surrounding countryside on Tristan. He courted his own patience.
He had conversations with two of the lord’s sons, Sir Thomas and Sir Stephen, talking about battles and distant lords and their armaments. He curried their favor as much as pride and honor would allow.
He saw Sir Christian several times, at a distance. The mere sight of the young knight triggered memories of the gaze they’d shared on the tournament field. And that, in turn, caused William to feel unsettled and angry. He found himself staring at the man despite himself. But when Sir Christian turned to look at him, William looked away. And once, when Sir Christian was clearly walking towards him to speak to him, William pretended he hadn’t noticed, mounted his horse, and rode off.
He knew it was cowardly and rude. But he told himself he and Sir Christian could have nothing in common. It was better to avoid any awkwardness.
On the sixth night, most of the tournament’s guests had left and Lord Brandon dined alone with his family. William was invited to feast with them and have his audience.
In the great hall, Lord Brandon sat in the place of honor at a table loaded with his sons. His eldest, Edward, sat on his left. The second eldest, Stephen, on his right, and on down the table on either side. Wives and children sat at another table, and Lord Brandon’s highest-ranking knights and a few guests were at a third. It was as private as a castle was likely to get, and William knew it. It was now or never.
They were on the second course, which consisted of platters of various fowl, when Lord Brandon spoke loudly.
“Sir William Corbet. Come forth and name your purpose.”
William wiped his fingers carefully on his napkin and stood. He walked to the front of the lord’s table. With his legs slightly spread, he thrust his right hand across his breast and inclined his head in a sign of deference.
“Lord Brandon. I’m grateful for your generous hospitality in sharing the bounty of your castle. I thank you.”
Lord Brandon nodded.
“You may know that my beloved sister, Lady Elaine, was wed to Lord Robert Somerfield when she was sixteen. ’Twas seven years ago now.”
Lord Brandon narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“We’ve received only a few letters from her in that time, letters that were deliberately vague. Then last month we had a visitor who came from Lord Somerfield’s castle. He—” William’s voice wavered and he swallowed. “He spoke of horrors visited upon my sister— beatings, imprisonment for perceived infractions, being denied food and water. I’m on my way to Cumbria to defend her honor.”
Lord Brandon sucked on a leg of pigeon, looking thoughtful.
“Have you an army?” Lord Brandon asked.
Regret firmed William’s mouth. “No, my lord. I know you have a long-standing dispute with Lord Somerfield. I can offer my arm and my shield if you press the matter now. I’ve led men in battle for five years. I can—”
Lord Brandon held up a hand, stilling William’s tongue. William felt his face heat and he strove to look detached. His request sounded much less reasonable here in the dining hall than it had in his head.
“Your father, Lord Corbet— he is not with you on the matter?”
William spoke coldly. “He had a large debt forgiven by Somerfield when he gave Elaine in marriage. He is not interested in repaying it.”
Lord Brandon smiled bitterly. “The law regards your sister as your husband’s property. Your own father does not support your cause. Yet you expect me to?” His voice was more curious than anything, but it sent a ripple of shame down William’s back.
“Somerfield is our common enemy. I can help you defeat him.”
Lord Brandon put down the leg and took up his knife, picking at his teeth with dull eyes.
“What I may do about Somerfield, I will do in my own time and for my own reasons.”
It was clearly the end of the discussion. William was bitterly disappointed, but he tried to salvage what he could. “I understand, my lord. Thank you for considering my request. Would you permit me to buy supplies from the castle? And hire a few of your men? I’ve never been in Somerfield’s territories. I need a guide.”