Chapter Two #2
“I said that I would stay clear of her.”
St. Alban eyed his young friend. Brogan was not a liar, but deep down, he did not believe him.
He had seen the way the man had looked at the young lady.
It was something between attraction, and curiosity and desire.
He’d never before seen that expression before on his handsome face and it was cause for concern; the Brogan he knew had not been himself lately and this show of interest was not only unexpected, it was unhealthy.
He pulled up a chair and sat next to him.
“Brogan,” he began patiently; one had to be patient when dealing with him, sometimes, for he did not always understand things clearly. “Do you know who Warwick is?”
Brogan’s head snapped to him. “Of course I do. I may not be an educated man such as you, but I know who people are.”
As St. Alban feared, Brogan’s temper was sparked. He tended to fire up quickly and strike before he’d had a chance to think. St. Alban put a big, gnarled hand on his forearm to calm him.
“That’s not what I meant,” the old man said evenly. “I suppose what I meant to ask is how much you know about Warwick?”
Brogan’s deep blue eyes flashed again but he seemed to calm somewhat.
He looked back at the fire. “I know that the House is more wealthy than the Royal family,” he lifted his big shoulders.
“I know that Richard de Neville puts kings upon the throne as easily as some men trade horses. What more do I need to know?”
St. Alban wriggled his eyebrows. “That is a start, lad,” he said.
“Do you also know that Richard has been orchestrating the throne between the Lancastrians and the Yorkists for the past fifteen years? They do not call him ‘The Kingmaker’ without good reason. That entire family is full of powerful people and you would be well served to steer clear of them. They shall quash you like a bug in spite of your strength and skill. And I do not want to lose you.”
“I already told you that I would stay away from her.”
“Good.” St. Alban clapped him on the shoulder. The clap turned into support as the old man stood up. “Now, I intend to retire for the night. You should, too. It seems as if you have had an eventful night.”
Brogan merely nodded, still staring into the flames.
He could not seem to shake the vision of the beautiful woman with the chestnut-colored hair and golden eyes.
She had spoken kindly to him, not knowing who he was, not having the disadvantage of having heard of his reputation.
It had been such a long time since he had met someone who had treated him with kindness.
Over against the wall, St. Alban grunted as he settled himself in his straw-stuffed bed. The blankets were old and woolen, rubbing up against his weather-worn skin. When he finally finished tossing and turning, he sighed heavily.
“Brogan?
Brogan turned from the fire to the old man. “What is it?”
“What were you doing at the Thames tonight?”
Brogan felt as if he had been struck. He should have known that the question would eventually come, but he was unprepared when it finally did. He turned back to the fire.
“I was thinking,” he muttered.
St. Alban gazed at the back of Brogan’s brown head for a moment, not voicing what he was thinking.
He knew how depressed the man had been. The accidental death of his young son a few months prior had very nearly destroyed him, and he’d not been the same since.
St. Alban reminded himself to pay more attention to Brogan and not the let man wander alone anymore.
Not that he didn’t trust him not to do anything foolish, but grief could do strange things to a man’s thinking.
The next time, there might not be a lady there to distract him from self-damage.
He was beginning to wonder who really saved whom.
*
Avalyn was up early the next morning and prepared to go about her business.
It was a brilliant day, the sky pale blue with puffy clouds blustering across it.
A steady wind poured in from the Thames, stirring up leaves and dust upon it.
Clad in a soft blue linen shift and a heavier, darker blue brocade surcoat, Avalyn smoothed her chestnut curls as they were lifted by the breeze.
Crossing the courtyard from the Beauchamp Tower to the barracks, she hoped her aunt hadn’t put a spy on her tail.
Aunt Anne was not beyond checking up on those around her, especially after the conversation they’d had last night.
But Avalyn reasoned that even if her aunt had put someone up to following her, she had a very logical reason for doing what she was doing; she had to return the borrowed gown. There was nothing treacherous about it.
Aye, it sounded reasonable enough. Truth be told, she wanted to catch a glimpse of d’Aurilliac again. But that was her secret and no one else’s.
Reaching the long row of stark and unadorned barracks, she paused a moment, trying to remember which door she had come from the previous night.
The last thing she wanted to do was wander around in a building full of men.
As she stared at the structure, she thought that she might have come out from the door in the middle of the building, so she walked in that direction.
Coming upon the door, she lifted the heavy iron latch and went inside.
It was dark and smelt of must and body odor.
Wrinkling her nose, she thought she recognized the stairs off to the right.
Mounting the steps, she made her way cautiously to the second floor.
It was strangely empty. The corridor on the second level was dark and foreboding, and she frankly didn’t recognize anything at first. But a door at the far end looked oddly familiar in the way it was offset along the axis of the hallway.
It was crooked. Hesitantly, she moved towards it.
Avalyn paused at the door, studying it closely, attempting to discern if this was indeed the chamber she remembered from the night before.
She was slightly fearful to knock. Leaning forward, she put her ear near it; she could not hear anything inside.
With a deep breath for courage, she knocked softly.
There was no reply. She knocked again, more loudly this time. The door suddenly flew open and a great booming voice came from within.
“Why are you knocking, you blasted fool?” came the shout. “The door is op…”
The old man who had been so kind to her the evening before shut his mouth when he saw who it was. His old, yellowed eyes widened at the sight and he nearly stumbled back in surprise. But he caught himself.
“My lady,” he gasped. “Forgive me, I thought you were… well, it does not matter who I thought you were. Please, come in.”
Avalyn hadn’t been given the opportunity to say a word; her momentary fright at his shouting quickly faded. The old man was blustery, gruff, and kind all in the same moment. He ushered her into the room and she stood there a moment, awkwardly, clutching the borrowed dress she had sought to return.
“I am sorry for the intrusion, my lord,” she said. Then she held out the dress like a smashed offering. “But I wanted to return this and to thank you again for your kindness.”
The old man smiled and took the garment. “You are most welcome,” he, too, held the dress awkwardly, as if he didn’t know what to do with it. “I am afraid we did not have the chance to meet formally last eve, my lady. I am St. Alban de Sotheby, at your service.”
She nodded politely. “’Tis a pleasure, my lord.” Her eyes darted around the room, briefly. “Brogan is not here? I wished to thank him again also.”
St. Alban shook his head. “Not at the moment.” He didn’t want her lingering.
Brogan was sure to be back at any time and he did not want the man to run into her.
He was positive Brogan hadn’t slept all night and he suspected the reason was standing in front of him.
It was not healthy for a variety of reasons.
“I will tell him that you returned with the dress and your thanks.”
Somewhat disappointed, Avalyn nodded her thanks. “Where is the woman who loaned me the gown?”
St. Alban nodded. “Her name is Thel. I will tell her that you were most grateful for her generosity.”
“Is she your wife?”
“Nay, lady.”
“Is she Brogan’s wife?”
“Nay.”
Avalyn realized she felt some relief at that knowledge. “Then where is she that I might thank her myself?”
St. Alban lifted an eyebrow and cleared his throat. He seemed to grasp for words. “She is… well, that is to say, she lives here. At the barracks. I doubt a lady such as yourself would find her living situation appropriate and I would be honored to relay your thanks to her.”
For the first time since her arrival, the awkwardness faded and Avalyn seemed to relax.
Her gaze lingered on the old man; a sharp, wise gaze that made even a seasoned man like St. Alban uncomfortable.
For a moment, he thought she might be reading his thoughts, so piercing was her stare.
It was clear that she was studying him like one opponent studies another.
As if she was trying to figure everything out.
“She’s a whore for the knights,” she stated after a moment.
St. Alban nodded steadily. “Aye, my lady.”
Avalyn digested that. She looked at the gown in St. Alban’s hand and the old man was waiting for her to explode with the impropriety of loaning her a borrowed dress from a whore. But Avalyn, amazingly, did no such thing; she reached out and took the gown from his gnarled grip.
“Then perhaps if you would be kind enough to tell me where she does reside, I shall return this personally,” she said quietly.
St. Alban was surprised. What lady would not have expressed her distress at learning she had been wearing a whore’s garment?
Surprise turned to respect. Perhaps the lady was not as shallow as most finely bred women tended to be.
Already, he could tell she was shrewd. The forgiving part was unexpected.