Lord Brandon opened his mouth to speak. His answer was not going to be favorable; William could see it on his face. But before anything came out, a voice rang out loud and clear from the end of the table.
“I’ve been in Somerfield’s territories. I’ve seen his army do battle and can advise. I’ll go.”
William knew to whom the voice must belong, even though he had never heard it. He felt a cold wash of fear and anger in his belly as he turned his head to look at Sir Christian. Surely the man jested? He was mocking William. But… perhaps not. Christian was standing on his feet, facing his father with stoic determination, his arms clasped behind his back.
“Out of the question,” Lord Brandon said dismissively.
“When I squired for Sir Allendale, our force attacked Somerfield. We were in his territory for weeks.”
Lord Brandon took up his wine glass, drinking with a frown.
“I know that land better than any of your men,” Christian insisted.
“You were a mere squire then. You fought not.”
“I was a squire with eyes and a strong sense of direction. And now I’m a knight with keener vision. It’s time we took another look at Somerfield’s holdings. I’ll bring you maps, lists of his forces, and—”
Lord Brandon slammed his mug down and glowered at his youngest son. “I cannot be seen to support this. Sending
my
own
son
—”
“I’ll use another name,” said Christian quickly. “And I’ll not get near the castle. If I’m caught— and I won’t be, you know how slippery I can be— I’ll tell no one who I am. You tell me I need experience. Let me earn it.”
Lord Brandon considered it. He actually… by the Virgin’s knees, he was
considering it
. Suddenly William realized it might actually occur. He might be stuck with Sir Christian Brandon. He spoke before thinking it through.
“With all respect, my lord, I would not want the responsibility of safeguarding your son.”
It was the
wrong
thing to say. The silence that fell in the hall was deafening. William could hear the thudding gallop of his own heart. Lord Brandon’s face was as stormy as a summer thundercloud. He rose slowly to his feet. And almost as one, all of the sons on both sides of him rose also.
For pity’s sake, William was never going to get the chance to let Somerfield disembowel him. It was going to happen right here.
“My son,” Lord Brandon said stonily, “is the best archer in three territories. He may not be the pick of my loins, but, by my sword, he’s a knight and a Brandon!”
William did not dare look at Sir Christian, realizing belatedly the insult he’d cast on him, and, apparently, on the entire bloodline, perhaps back a multitude of generations. He kept his gaze steady on the father, his face passive.
“Forgive my rash words. I did not speak true. What I meant to say was that I only expected to hire a few of your men. Allowing your own flesh and blood to accompany me would be… exceptionally generous of you, my lord. It would be a great honor.”
For a long moment Lord Brandon did not speak. Then one of his sons did. It was Sir Malcolm, a man William’s age but with eyes as black as pitch, a lumpy face, and cruel lips. “Let the Crow go, Father. He needs more dirt on those spurs. And if he can gather intelligence on Somerfield, he’ll have done something useful for once in his life.”
“I am master here. Not one word more on the subject. Sit!” Lord Brandon barked. His sons all sat, except Sir Christian, who, William could tell from the corner of his eye, remained stubbornly standing.
“How do you intend to defend your sister’s honor without an army?” Lord Brandon asked William coldly.
William tilted up his chin. Truly, he
had
hoped for Brandon’s army. “Lord Somerfield will grant me an audience. I will ask him to release Lady Elaine. If he refuses, I’ll challenge him to single combat.”
Lord Brandon managed not to laugh, but the calculation that came into his eyes was ominous. William didn’t like the odds that he saw there and he steeled his jaw stubbornly. But either Brandon was not adverse to games of chance or he had motives of his own. He sat down and took up his knife. When he spoke, it was with finality.
“My son, Sir Christian, will accompany you. I will give you supplies for the journey, but no other men. Christian will lead you to within sight of Somerfield’s castle and do reconnaissance for me. Christian, you will, under no circumstances, enter the castle bailey. And if you are caught, you can expect no acknowledgment of blood and no rescue. Is that understood?”
William finally looked at Sir Christian then. He still stood, arms clasped behind his back, looking at his father. His color was high— that red flush that crawled across his cheekbones like a battle flag unfurling on the field. His eyes were alight with excitement. Cursed fool.
“I understand, Father. It will not come to that.”
“And upon your return, you will wed,” Lord Brandon continued. “Lady Margaret White is besotted with you. Her father has offered me an exceptional dowry. And if not her, you will choose another at once.”
His tone brooked no argument. Sir Christopher froze for a moment and then took a deep breath. “Yes, Father.”
Lord Brandon waved his knife at William. He was dismissed.
****
CHAPTER 4
Two days later, William found himself riding out of Lord Brandon’s bailey with Sir Christian Brandon at his heels. It was just the two of them off to face the dragon. William had not brought along a squire. His last one had just achieved his spurs, and William hadn’t yet replaced him when the news of Elaine arrived. He’d been in such haste to leave that any delay had been out of the question. He’d assumed he could hire a lad to help him with his armor once he was closer to Somerfield’s castle. Besides, the idea of taking a new squire on such a dangerous quest disturbed his sense of honor. Men who knew what they were getting into, and who were still willing to fight by his side, were one thing; an inexperienced youth was another.
Disturbingly, he had no clear idea which of these Sir Christian was, spurs or no.
William considered hiring additional men along the way, mercenaries who would trade loyalty, or the appearance of it, for his few sovereigns. But he didn’t have enough to raise an army, and his battle sense told him he either needed to attack Somerfield with a full force or go in alone. A dozen men would only prick Somerfield’s wariness and make him itch to defeat them.
On Christian’s part, he was apparently so newly minted a knight that he had no squire, and he hadn’t deigned to choose one of the local lads to go along. So they’d be building their own fires, brushing their own horses and hauling their own water—
their own
being the operative word. If Christian expected to be waited upon, he would be sorely disappointed.
William was musing upon this as they left the woods and entered onto a broad track. Christian pulled his horse alongside William’s mount. The mere sight of the man annoyed William and made his sour mood sink lower and lower until his stomach churned with it.
Christian was not wearing the blue-and-eagled livery now. He was in a simple brown quilted gambeson. His armor, along with William’s, was stowed on the packhorse William had bought. And still, his straight and easy bearing on the horse, the refined line of his silhouetted face in the light of the rising sun, the gracefulness of his hand as it held the reins loosely on his thigh, the depth in his eyes when he glanced toward William— all of these spoke of an elegance that was, well,
personally offensive
.
God’s teeth! William did not want to be taking Sir Christian Brandon into danger. And he did not want to have to be close to the man. For
weeks
. It was the worst possible outcome of his detour to the Brandon castle. He’d wasted ten full days, gained no army, and been saddled with a knight too young and far too comely to be of any use as a warrior.
He spoke gruffly. “It will be hard going. I intend a punishing pace. I won’t stop at alehouses— ’tis a waste of money. It’ll be bedrolls on the ground. Dried meat. It’s not too late to change your mind.”
Christian looked at him wryly. “Do you imagine I’ve never travelled before? Never spent nights on the ground?”
Yes, that’s what I imagine. You look like you should be lying on a queen’s bed with the queen herself feeding you grapes, damn it all to hell.
William huffed grumpily.
Christian sighed. After a moment he said, “Do you know, those are the first words you’ve ever spoken to me, Sir William.”
William frowned. He opened his mouth to protest and then thought better of it. He’d talked plenty the day before, as they’d prepared for the journey, but most of it
had
been to other people— the cook, the steward, the blacksmith, the stableman.
Perhaps all of it, actually. Suddenly his vexation seemed childish and inexcusable. He felt ashamed of himself.
“I…” he began, only to falter. “What I said to your father, about safeguarding you. I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
Christian laughed aloud. “Oh, but it was one, a dagger straight to the heart. Nevertheless, it was quite entertaining to see my father and brothers leap to my defense. I think I heard the gates of Hell yawn open over that one. So I suppose I shall have to forgive you.”
William cleared his throat, feeling no less confounded. “It was kind of you to offer to show me the way. Truly, I’m grateful.”
Christian shrugged. “I know the way. You needed a guide. I wanted to get out of my father’s castle. If it was a kindness, ’twas not an especially noble one.”
William could have asked questions.
Why did you want to get out of your father’s castle? Why should your brothers’ defense of you be surprising?
But that would only lead to talking and silence seemed wiser.
“William,” Christian said quietly.
William looked at him, forcing himself to meet those brown eyes. They were hard and cold, and they struck an icy chill down the center of his body.
“Do not underestimate me.”
William nodded, once, and set his eyes back on the road.
****
By the morning of the fourth day, William had to admit to himself that he
had
underestimated Sir Christian Brandon. Christian took to travelling as effortlessly as he seemed to do everything else. His horse, Livermore, was an excellent mount, and Christian treated him well. He rode long days without a single complaint. Indeed, he often rode slightly ahead, as if impatient to see the scenery. He kept his face subdued, but his eyes revealed a child’s delight in the woods and hills.
It was quite inconsiderate of him to disprove William’s biases so completely.
They fell into a routine of the evenings. William would brush, feed, and water the horses while Christian gathered firewood and built the fire. William would never admit it, but he preferred the duty with the horses because he was tired and it was less moving around. Though he knew Christian must be exhausted as well, he never said so. By the time the horses were settled, Christian would have their bedrolls laid out on opposite sides of the fire, a pot of water boiling, and dinner cooking.
On the second evening, Christian had taken one glance at their stores of dried meat and arched an eyebrow. “I think we can do better than that,” he said. He slipped on his bow and quiver and vanished into the forest.
Fifteen minutes later, without a single sound from the woods that William had heard, Christian returned carrying an enormous hare with an arrow through its neck. He cleaned and dressed it without asking for help. It was delicious.
Though they were equals in rank, Christian deferred to William’s advanced years— he was twenty-five— and took on the more menial tasks. William said nothing, but he was slowly adapting his view of the younger knight, like a man whose eyes were slowly adjusting to a brighter light..
Even William’s perception of Christian’s appearance was changing. Before, he’d seen a youth so unusually beautiful as to invoke disdain. He’d assumed vanity and callowness. He’d assumed a sense of entitlement. Christian was none of that. But he was comfortable in his own skin— quick, able, and surprisingly strong.
On the fourth day they came to a stream near some rapids. William rode up to the edge of it, scanning the water.
“It’s not deep,” he told Christian, nodding his head at the opposite bank. “We can cross.”
But when they tried to get Tristan, Livermore, and the packhorse, whom they’d dubbed Sir Swiftfoot, to enter the water, they shied away. Tristain shook his head angrily.
“It’s the rapids,” Christian said, pointing to the misting white water just slightly downstream. “They don’t like the look of it.”
William cursed. The bank further west looked soft and unstable and the trees were thick. They’d have to backtrack to get around it, and William was not in the mood to lose time.
“Let’s lead them,” he said, swinging himself down.
Christian did the same and they tried to pull the reluctant horses into the stream. But Tristan gave a panicked neigh and kicked his front hooves into the air. Livermore and Sir Swiftfoot just dug in like mules, refusing to be tugged.