Chapter 23 #2
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Never let it be said that I do not keep my word.’
She gave him a teasing smile. Clearly if he wanted his prize, he was going to have to take it himself.
He took a step closer, wrapped an arm around Agnes’s middle and pulled her into a firm yet tight-lipped kiss. Her mouth twitched into a smile against his. He wondered what it would be like to open his mouth a little more, to play, to give her a real kiss …
But she was Agnes, and Ash’s wife, and she was Agnes. He stepped back. She looked flushed, but not unhappy.
‘Satisfied?’ she asked, eyebrows raised.
‘Very. Another match?’
She barked out a laugh. ‘On the same terms?’
‘We can make another wager. Or none at all: now you know I am a true contender, perhaps you will try harder.’
Agnes spluttered at him. ‘Oh, is it to be like that? Very well; sit, let me show you a real game.’
As the afternoon drew slowly into evening, the rain beating against the castle walls grew heavier.
A rumble in the distance announced the arrival of a storm, and through the slit window Olly watched great bolts from the heavens lighting the clouds above the fields.
The storm stalked closer, filling the sky with blackness and fire and thunder.
It seemed to approach from all sides: two great clouds colliding over the castle.
Distantly, a church bell began to chime. Oliver shuddered.
‘Are you all right?’ Agnes said, watching him closely.
Oliver fiddled restlessly with the piece he had been about to move. ‘I am—’ A resounding clap of thunder silenced him, the noise rumbling over the keep. When the noise abated, he spoke again. ‘I cannot say I care for storms.’
He had no desire to admit to the way his heart was thundering in his chest, or the prickling of the hair on the back of his neck. He did not want her to see his true feelings. But, he suspected, she could tell regardless.
‘Perhaps it will pass soon,’ she said.
He gave her a sardonic look. ‘Perhaps.’
The noise of the storm battered at him. Agnes beat him soundly and quickly – a defeat that he should have foreseen and defended against. But she did not gloat with her victory.
‘It is late,’ Olly said, desperately wishing to be somewhere safe. ‘I should … I should retire. I feel unusually tired this evening. My apologies.’
A neat line appeared between Agnes’s brows. ‘There is no need to apologise. Are you—’
He did not give her a chance to finish before he was on his feet and out of the room, the door shutting behind him with all the resounding noise of the thunder above. Even the staircase that led to Ash’s chambers seemed to be imbued with it, the steps beneath Olly’s feet shaking with every clap.
He prayed it would pass soon.
Ash’s bedchamber felt wrong without Ash there. But Olly tried not to think of the aching space where the other half of him should have been as he pulled off his boots and tunic and scrambled beneath the woollen blanket.
Another clap of thunder shook the walls as Olly huddled deeper beneath the covers.
He knew it would pass, that it was simply a storm, yet still that tight pit of fear nestled low in his gut.
He wished Ash would return soon – although the thought of Ash riding home in the dangerous weather made him shake, too.
He had always hated storms, that fear hardened by his time as a prisoner in a ramshackle building as storm-shaken as the castle was this evening.
It was the noise. As a boy, the crash of thunder had made him run for cover.
As a grown man, it made his head and stomach lurch with the sickening memory of the blow to his temple.
There was a thud from somewhere beyond the room.
He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, or if something had been knocked loose from the walls.
When he thought of the latter scenario, it made his decision to burrow beneath the covers feel even more sensible.
He chose to ignore the noise, whatever it was.
‘Hello? Oliver? I knocked, but …’
Olly froze. That was Agnes’s voice. He emerged slowly to see her approaching him from across the room, a jug and a pair of mugs in her hands. She must have let herself in.
As he emerged, a resonant crack sounded from the heavens and lightning flashed through the shutters of the window across the room. He jumped, clawing the blankets closer.
No. This was stupid. He could already hear his brothers laughing at him, and his father chastising his cowardice. He attempted to sit a little straighter.
‘Are you all right?’ He addressed Agnes quickly, trying to hide his fear. ‘Is everything all right?’
Agnes took the liberty of sitting beside him.
‘All is well,’ she said, as if his question wasn’t absurd from his position hiding in the bed.
‘Truly. Aside from the courtyard threatening to flood.’ She shot him a smile which he returned, weakly.
‘I went to the kennels to check on the dogs, and I thought …’
Oliver sat up as she gave a sharp whistle. Qwippe and Litillwitte padded over. Qwippe sat obediently beside the bed, but Litillwitte, as soon as he spotted Oliver in his master’s place, leapt up onto the mattress and settled himself down by Oliver’s feet.
‘Oh.’ Oliver stared at Litillwitte then up to her. ‘Thank you.’
‘Is all well with you?’ Agnes asked. ‘I felt rather guilty leaving you.’
Oliver gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘As well as can be while God Himself is attempting to tear this castle down around my ears.’
Agnes winced as the storm raged. ‘Would you care for some company? The more this continues … I admit, the less keen I am to lie awake alone listening to it, wondering what it may do. And it is not like I will be able to sleep regardless, not with this noise.’
She had come to check on him. Olly doubted that she was anxious at all – she certainly did not seem it. Which meant she had sought him out for the simple purpose of soothing his fears. To look after him. Olly wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve such treatment.
‘I would be happy for you to join me,’ he said, sitting up properly and leaning against the wall. ‘Here—’
He patted the empty side of the bed beside him. Agnes raised her eyebrows.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Or do you intend to perch there like a nun all night?’
‘We could sit by the fire? On chairs?’
Olly pulled the blanket tighter. ‘And leave the warmth of this bed? I can see no benefit in that.’
Agnes stared at him, keeping his gaze. He smiled. Agnes heaved a huge sigh, placed the jug beside the bed, tugged off her boots, and slid into the space next to him. Qwippe curled up on the sheepskin beside the bed as Litillwitte lifted his head to regard her.
‘Much better.’ Olly grinned. ‘You sitting there made me feel as if I’m some sort of invalid.’
Agnes shuffled beneath the blankets, keeping a careful distance between them. ‘Have you always been afraid of storms?’
‘As long as I can remember,’ Olly admitted.
‘There was a huge one, when I was a boy, and this great bolt struck a building in the village … It was awful. My brothers …’ His smile faltered.
‘My brothers used to tease me about it. They used to tell me stories about these monsters in the sky who would come and tear me to pieces. Even after I learned they were lying, the fear stuck.’
‘Siblings can be … difficult.’
Olly did not meet her gaze. ‘That they can be. Ash used to sit up with me or distract me until the storms passed.’
‘Then I shall have to see what I can do in his stead. What did he do?’
‘He usually just kept me entertained with filthy jokes, or mindless talk about … well, about whatever we had been up to that day,’ Olly said. ‘And when we were older …’ He looked away, cheeks ruddying. ‘Let us just say that I do not believe that that is the sort of distraction you had in mind.’
Agnes’s eyes flashed. ‘You are not about to ask me to kiss you again, are you?’ she teased.
‘Only if you lose another wager.’
‘No more wagers!’
‘How dull.’ Olly pouted at her. ‘Pass me a drink. What is it?’
‘Wine,’ Agnes answered, pouring them both a generous helping. ‘I thought it would be best to find whichever was strongest, given the circumstances …’
‘A wise choice indeed,’ Olly said, taking the cup from her. ‘I can see why you are such a good prize as a wife.’
She laughed, although she rolled her eyes at him as well.
The wine she had found was good, and strong; even if it didn’t ease the fear still coursing through him, it muffled it.
It was good to do something with his hands, and the comforting warmth of a body beside him quietened his anxiety.
He realised that he was glad she was there.
It was a moment before Agnes spoke again. ‘I really do need to thank you, Oliver.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘For being so understanding when you found me at the feast. It has not been easy.’
‘What is easy?’ Olly chuckled. ‘But you are welcome. I do not like seeing you so distressed.’
‘And thank you for that, too. By all rights you should hate me.’
Olly supposed she was right: she was married to the man he loved. But the feeling should be mutual, if his estimations of her feelings were correct: he was bedding the man she loved.
‘And you should hate me for fucking your husband. I enjoy our truce.’
Agnes laughed. ‘As do I.’
Olly shuffled a little closer. She did not move away.
They were alike, Olly realised; if only in their shared feelings for a man who drove them both into fits of anxiety.
He reached over her for the jug of wine.
As he did, the knot of scars in his arm twinged, the stiffness exacerbated by the storm raging above.
He flexed it out with a wince after refilling his mug.
‘Another war wound?’ Agnes asked.