Chapter 13
The se’nnight passed in a blur of preparation.
Gareth drove his men hard—drilling formations, inspecting weapons, reinforcing the weak points in Greywatch’s defenses.
Alaric would come with only five men, as agreed, but that meant nothing.
The real threat would not arrive on horseback.
It would slither in through cracks they had not anticipated, strike where they were not watching.
Miles took to the preparations with grim enthusiasm. The red-bearded warrior had been with Gareth since before the betrayal, had survived the ambush only because he had been recovering from a fever. He had earned his spurs in Gareth’s service and carried his own scars from treachery.
“The men are ready, my lord,” he reported on the fifth day, standing at attention in the training yard. “We’ve doubled the watch, secured the sally port, inventoried the armory. If Alaric tries anything within these walls, he’ll find us prepared.”
Gareth nodded his acknowledgment. And if he tries something outside the walls?
Miles’s jaw tightened. “Then we hunt him down and end this. One way or another.”
It was not quite a threat of murder. Not quite. But the implication hung in the air between them, heavy with three years of waiting.
Not yet, Gareth signed. We must be patient. Let him make the first move.
“With respect, my lord—patience has not served us well. The man tried to kill you. He’ll try again, given the chance.”
When he does, we will be ready. Gareth met his captain’s eyes. But it must be him who breaks the peace. If we strike first, we become the aggressors. No matter Richard is on crusade, the Crown would not look kindly on that.
Miles snarled something under his breath, but he did not argue further. He was a good man—loyal, fierce, dependable. But he thought like a soldier, not a lord. He did not understand the careful dance of politics, the way power had to be wielded with restraint as well as force.
Gareth understood. He had learned it the hard way.
“There’s another matter,” Miles said, his tone shifting.
“The lady. The men have noticed... that is, they’ve seen.
..” He cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“She’s teaching signs to anyone who’ll learn.
Half the household can hold a conversation in their hands now.
The cook, the stable boys, even Father Aldric. ” A pause. “It’s changed things.”
Changed things, how?
“They look at you differently now.” Miles met his gaze squarely.
“Before, they feared you. They served you out of duty, or loyalty, or because they had nowhere else to go. But now...” He struggled for words.
“They see you speak to them. Through her, through the signs. They see you answer questions, give orders, even make jests sometimes. They’re starting to understand that you’re still—” He stopped himself.
Still what?
“Still in there, my lord. Still the man you were before.” Miles’s voice had gone rough.
“We’d almost forgotten. Three years of silence, and we’d almost forgotten that you used to laugh.
Used to talk with us around the fire. Used to be.
..” He shook his head. “The lady’s given that back.
Or some of it, anyway.” Miles barked out a laugh. “Mayhap she is a faerie.”
Gareth did not know how to respond. He had not realized—had not let himself realize—how completely he had withdrawn from his own household. How his silence had become a wall that kept out friend as well as foe.
She has given many things, he signed finally. More than she knows.
Miles nodded slowly, something shifting in his expression. “The men would fight for her now, my lord. Not just for you—for her as well. She’s become one of ours.”
One of ours. The words settled into Gareth’s chest and took root there.
Good, he signed. Then she will be well protected.
“Aye.” Miles clasped his fist to his chest in salute. “That she will.”
He strode off to continue the preparations, leaving Gareth alone in the training yard with thoughts he could not quite wrangle into order.
One of ours. The preposterous woman from the unimaginable future, with her endless chatter and her fierce loyalty and her maddening habit of making him feel things he had sworn never to feel again.
Would she leave him? Return to her own time?
The question haunted him. He had seen her face on the battlements when she spoke of her world—the longing there, the grief.
She missed her home. Missed her friend Jennifer, the one who had taught her the signs that had become Gareth’s voice.
Missed the marvels and wonders of a time he could not imagine.
If a door opened—if the magic that had brought her here offered her a way back—would she take it?
He knew the answer. Of course she would. Why would anyone choose this harsh, brutal, uncertain life over a world where metal birds flew through the sky and tiny boxes held all the knowledge of mankind?
And yet.
I’m glad I fell through time, she had said on the battlements. I’m glad I landed here. With you.
She had meant it. He had seen the truth of it in her eyes, had felt it in the way she touched his arm, had heard it in the steadiness of her voice. In that moment, at least, she had been glad.
But moments passed. Feelings changed. And whilst he had gold, he had nothing else to offer her but cold stone and old wounds and a voice that would not work.
Gareth drew his sword and began the familiar patterns again, driving himself through the movements until his muscles burned and his mind went quiet. There was always a battle to be fought. An enemy to vanquish. This enemy, the one that lived in his own heart, might be the most dangerous of all.
On the sixth night, Elodie found him in the solar, bent over maps of the northern borderlands.
“You’re still at it.” She stood in the doorway, a candle in one hand, her hair loose around her shoulders. She had clearly been abed—her feet were bare, she had a shawl thrown over her sleeping shift. The window shutters stood open to let in the warm night air. “Don’t you ever rest?”
Sleep is difficult, he signed without looking up. I find work easier.
“That’s...” She moved into the room, setting her candle on the table beside his. “That’s quite sad, actually. Also deeply relatable. I used to grade papers until three in the morning because lying in the dark with my thoughts was unbearable.” She peered at the maps. “What are you looking for?”
Weaknesses. Approaches. Places Alaric might use to strike if the meeting goes badly.
“And if it goes well?”
He glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised.
“Right. Yes. Stupid question.” She pulled out a chair and sat beside him, tucking her bare feet up beneath her. “He’s not coming for reconciliation. He’s coming for reconnaissance. To see your defenses, take your measure, find the cracks.”
Yes.
“So what do we do? Show him we have no cracks? Pretend everything’s perfect and impenetrable?”
No. Gareth turned to face her fully. We show him the cracks we want him to see. We let him think he has found weakness, and then we use that against him.
Her eyes widened. “That’s... actually rather brilliant. Very Sun Tzu.” At his blank look, she waved her hand. “Ancient Chinese military strategist. ‘Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.’ You’d like him. Very pragmatic. Very stabby.”
He found his lips twitching again. This seemed to happen frequently in her presence.
What weakness would you show him?
“Me.” She said it simply, without hesitation. “He already thinks I’m a weakness. Your strange faerie woman from the forest. Let him believe he can use me against you. Let him think I’m leverage.” Her chin lifted. “And when he tries to grab me, we’ll be ready.”
No. The sign was sharp. I will not use you as bait.
“It’s not using me if I volunteer.” She leaned forward, her eyes intent. “Gareth, think about it. He’s going to target me anyway—you said so yourself. The question is whether we control that or let him control it. I’d rather be the hunter than the hunted.”
She was not wrong. He hated that she was not wrong.
It is too dangerous.
“So is doing nothing. So is letting him set the terms.” She reached out and touched his hand where it rested on the map.
“I’m not helpless. I know I’m not a warrior, that I can barely walk across a room without tripping over something, but I’m clever.
And I notice things. Really, I refuse to sit in a corner and wait for someone to rescue me. ”
He stared at their hands—her small fingers resting against his scarred knuckles—and something cracked open inside his chest.
You are the most infuriating woman I have ever known, he signed.
She grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
It was not meant as one.
“And yet.” She squeezed his hand briefly before pulling away.
“So. We have a plan. Sort of. We let Alaric think he’s clever, we watch where his eyes go, and we prepare for whatever treachery he’s planning.
” She paused. “What do you think he actually wants? Beyond Greywatch, I mean. Beyond revenge. What’s the endgame? ”
Gareth considered the question. He had asked it of himself a thousand times over three years, turning the problem over in his mind like a stone that would not smooth.
Power, he signed finally. Alaric wants power. Greywatch is strategic—it controls the northern passes, the trade routes to Scotland. Whoever holds Greywatch holds the key to the north.
“And you hold that key.”
I hold it. But I cannot speak to defend it.
Cannot negotiate, cannot treat with neighboring lords, cannot represent myself at court.
His hands moved faster, frustration bleeding through.
Alaric knows this. He has been telling anyone who will listen that Greywatch needs a proper lord.
One who can speak for it. One who can serve the crown as a lord should.
“That’s...” She trailed off, her expression shifting as she understood. “That’s actually quite clever. He’s not trying to take Greywatch by force. He’s trying to have you removed. To make the crown think you’re unfit to hold it.”
Aye.
“But you’ve held it for three years. You’ve defended it, managed it, kept the peace—”
In silence. The sign was bitter. A silent lord is a weak lord, in the eyes of many. I cannot rally men with speeches. Cannot charm visiting nobles. Cannot do any of the things that lords are expected to do.
“You can do them,” she said fiercely. “Just differently. Through signs, through writing, through—through me, if you’ll let me.”
Why? he signed. Why do you care so much about this? About me? You could return to your own time, if the magic allows. You could leave all of this behind.
She was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was soft.
“Do you know what I was, in my time? Before I fell?” She didn’t wait for his response.
“I was an afterthought. A joke. ‘The fairy girl’ who asked uncomfortable questions and got dismissed for it. I was brilliant and lonely and so desperate to be seen that I talked until my throat hurt, and it still wasn’t enough.
” She met his gaze. “Then I fell through time, and I landed here. And you... you saw me. From the very first moment. You looked at me as if I mattered.”
You do matter.
“I know.” A small smile crossed her face.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. For the first time in my life, I feel like I actually matter to someone.
And I’m not giving that up. Not for aeroplanes or mobile phones or indoor plumbing.
” Her smile widened. “Well. Maybe for indoor plumbing. The chamber pots are genuinely horrific and the garderobe is cold and drafty.”
He should not laugh, could not laugh—his voice would not allow it. But something escaped him anyway, a rough exhale that was almost, almost a sound of amusement.
You are extraordinary, he signed.
“I’m really not.”
You are. He held her gaze, letting her see the truth of it. You are extraordinary, Elodie Hart. And I am... grateful. That you fell into my forest.
Her eyes had gone suspiciously bright. “Well,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady. “That’s... that’s quite possibly the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. In any century.”
They sat in silence for a moment—comfortable silence, the kind that had become familiar between them. The candles flickered. The maps lay forgotten on the table. Outside, the warm night air carried the scent of things growing in the garden and the distant bleating of sheep settling for the night.
Tomorrow, Gareth signed finally. Alaric comes tomorrow.
“Tomorrow.” She straightened in her chair, her expression shifting from soft to determined. “Right. We should probably get some sleep, then. Big day. Snakes to face. Treachery to thwart.” She stood and hesitated. “Gareth?”
He looked up at her.
“Whatever happens tomorrow—whatever he says, whatever he tries—I meant what I said on the steps. You’re a good man. Don’t let him make you forget that.”
Before he could respond, she reached out and covered his hand with hers. Her fingers were warm against his scarred knuckles.
“We’ll be ready,” she said. “Both of us. Together.”
Then she was gone, her footsteps fading down the corridor, leaving him alone with his maps and his candles and a heart that felt too large for his chest.
Tomorrow, Alaric would arrive, and their carefully laid plans would be put to the test. On the morrow, Gareth would face the man who had tried to murder him, and he would do so with Elodie at his side.
It was a good day to die, the old warriors used to say before battle.
But for the first time in three years, Gareth found he wanted to live.