Chapter Twelve
“I am tired of waiting.”
Charles muttered the words as he watched St. John don his armor for the bout with Gervaise. Barton fumbled with a strap on his chest protection, glancing up into his liege’s fat face.
“Waiting for what, my lord?” he asked.
Charles sat heavily on the three-legged stool in the corner of Guerdley Cross’ armory.
Set in one of the fat, squatty towers, it was a round room with ample storage space.
Charles spent a good deal of time here, mostly because he was, in truth, a lonely man without many friends.
He had known Barton since they had both been young men. He considered Barton a friend.
“Marriage,” Charles finally said. “It is clear that the lady does not want to marry me, and I think I know why.”
Barton knew why, too, and he didn’t particularly want to delve into the subject. But he had no choice. “Why is that, my lord?”
Charles crossed his fat arms, watching Barton settle his shoulder armor where it was attached to the breast plate. “Because of Inglesbatch. I think she is in love with him.”
Barton cleared his throat softly. “I do not believe that to be the case, my lord, although I firmly believe the man is in love with her.”
Charles suddenly bolted from his stool, pacing with agitation. “I know that,” he snapped softly. “De Neville told me as much. If she’s not in love with him, then why does she spend so much time with him? Why are they always together?”
St. John watched his liege a moment; he had to be careful in his words. Though Aubrey was a sedate man, the event of Avalyn du Brant had him on edge. It was obvious he adored her, and her lack of attention not only frustrated him, it also hurt his feelings.
“They are always together, I believe, because she takes comfort with his familiar presence,” he replied evenly. “She is in a strange placed surrounded by strange people. He gives her comfort.”
Charles looked at him. “Do you believe that is all it is?”
No, he didn’t. The lady wasn’t interested in Aubrey in the least. But Barton did not say what he was thinking. “I do, my lord,” he replied after a brief hesitation. “I would not worry over Inglesbatch. He is a moral man and a good knight.”
“But he is interfering with my ability to come to know the lady. She is to be my wife, after all. I cannot even talk to her without Inglesbatch hovering over us.”
“Do you want me to send him away, my lord?”
Charles pursed his lips, kicking distractedly at the floor. “I do,” he said. “But I fear it would only upset the lady.”
Barton lifted his shoulders. “Then I suppose you must learn to deal with his presence, my lord.”
The statement only served to invite a streak of resentment. Charles’ head came up, his blue eyes flashing. “I will demand a wedding date and be done with this foolishness. He cannot interfere if she is my wife.”
“He will continue to be a nuisance unless you send him away or come to some sort of an agreement with him, my lord.”
“Then we will have to come to an agreement. And I intend to wed the lady before the week is out.”
“Then you should send for the priest immediately.”
“Perhaps I will. Perhaps I will do it today.”
Barton didn’t want to pursue the conversation any more; Charles was too weak-willed to actually push forward with his wants and Barton had a match to attend.
Moreover, he was tired of these frequent frustration-induced conversations.
He picked up his massive broadsword and scabbard from where it rested against the wall.
“I have a bout pending, my lord,” he said. “Perhaps you would enjoy a bit of sport this afternoon.”
Moping, Charles had the countenance of a spoiled child. But he nodded his head. “Perhaps you could fight Inglesbatch when you’re done with Gervaise. A lance in the wrong spot and William would be disabled for quite some time.”
Barton raised an eyebrow. “You wish for me to injure him?”
Charles gazed at him a moment, attempting to ascertain if St. John would really do such a thing.
He was such a straightforward man that Charles suspected that, even if ordered, Barton would balk.
He finally shook his head, not wanting to force such a confrontation with his knight.
Besides, he didn’t really want to do it, anyway.
“Nay,” he said. “It would only upset the lady.”
Barton watched his liege a moment before strapping on his weaponry.
He knew his liege well enough to know that Charles really hadn’t meant what he had said; beneath the weak-willed character and flab was a man who simply wanted to live a peaceful, easy life.
He wasn’t cut out for command of a powerful baronetcy or the powerful marriage brokered by the Kingmaker.
Had Aubrey been surrounded by less scrupulous people, he would have been easy to manipulate, as de Neville had so aptly done.
But Barton was not only scrupulous, he was also protective of his liege.
He thought that perhaps he might have a conversation with Inglesbatch himself to explain the way of things.
Like it or not, Lady Avalyn was due to marry Aubrey and Inglesbatch would have to back off his zealous protective instincts where the lady was concerned if he wanted to stay at his post.
The wind was blowing outside, slamming the door to the armory back on its hinges. The sharp sound startled both St. John and Aubrey from their correlating thoughts. Barton slapped his helm onto his blond head.
“Shall we go, my lord?” he asked. “I must go to the stables and retrieve my charger.”
Aubrey was up, moving slowly for the door. Then he suddenly perked. “The lady is there tending her horse. Perhaps we will see her.”
He sounded just like an eager child. Barton was suddenly coming to feel some animosity towards the lady that would treat his liege so callously. “Perhaps, my lord.”
Charles picked up the pace.
*
The wind was blowing with increasing intensity as the day progressed.
The Guerdley Cross pennants of red and yellow snapped at the top of the keep as the wind whipped them about.
As Avalyn and William crossed the bailey into the stable yards, Avalyn’s elaborate hairstyle was in danger of unraveling in the harsh breeze. Dust kicked up with the gusts.
The stables were fairly protected against the northeast wall of the outerwall, a well-kept and busy place considering that Charles had a collection of warmbloods for breeding.
Several mares, big animals that were well fed and happy, were in a corral.
Avalyn passed by the corral, reaching out to stroke a velvet nose that was close by.
The brown mare with the white spot on her forehead tried to nibble on her and she laughed.
William followed her into the cool, dark stalls.
Her big bay colt was at the very end, tethered to an iron ring because he had been so skittish as of late.
Avalyn approached the animal, calling his name and cooing softly.
The horse’s ears perked in her direction and he nickered softly.
She was able to enter the stall and affectionately stroke the horses’ head and neck, keeping the beast calm as William took a look at the right front foreleg.
He ran his hands over the limb, from top to bottom.
“Well?” Avalyn asked. “What do you think?”
He put the leg back down, running his fingers over the ankle. “I think the horse has strained his tendons and nothing more. I’ll wrap him with mashed Arrowroot tonight and we’ll see how he fares tomorrow.”
Avalyn kissed the horse on his nose, moving around the animal to get a better look at the leg. “Thank Goodness,” she sighed. “Charles seemed to think it was worse than that.”
“Not to contradict the baron, but I do not believe so,” he said. “We’ll know better after I tend it.”
Satisfied, Avalyn pat the horse one last time and turned to leave the stall. But a massive body was suddenly blocking her path and, startled, she looked up into deep blue eyes. It was an electric moment full of shock and euphoria as Brogan’s gaze glimmered at her.
“Is your horse well, my lady?” his voice was strangely tight.
Her hands flew to her mouth to prevent the soft cry that threatened. “Brogan,” she breathed before she could stop herself.
William was suddenly between them, shushing Avalyn strongly. “The horse will be fine,” he said loudly, in case ears were near. “I was just going to tend him. Do you know about horses, Gervaise?”
Brogan couldn’t take his eyes off of Avalyn. As he watched, tears filled the golden orbs and he tore his gaze away, so terribly wanting to take her in his arms but knowing, for both their sakes, that he could do nothing of the kind. At least not yet.
“I know something of them,” he said to William. “But my focus has been warfare more than horseflesh.”
William held up a quelling hand, his round blue eyes searching out their surroundings.
It appeared that they were alone but for three or four other horses.
With his hand still in the air, ordering silence, he made his way to the stable entry and looked to the yard beyond.
After a moment, he turned back to the two of them.
“Say what needs to be said quickly,” he ordered in a harsh whisper. “I shall be just outside the door.”
He disappeared. Brogan didn’t hesitate; he caught Avalyn against him fiercely, crushing her, listened to her soft sobs of joy as she felt the warmth of his touch for the first time in weeks. He kissed her furiously, tasting her tears.
“Mein Schatz,” he breathed against her lips. “You are more beautiful that I had remembered. Are you well?”
She nodded, barely able to speak. “I thought you had forgotten me,” she whispered, her hands on his face, reacquainting herself with his masculine beauty. “You stayed away so long.”
His lips were on her again, his massive arms holding her tightly. “I am sorry,” he murmured. “If I am to be a knight, then I must be convincing. St. Alban has been schooling me. I did not mean to stay away from you for so long, but it was necessary.”