Chapter Two #2
Tate grinned; he had served the mighty Bose de Moray for six years, becoming acquainted with a man of little emotion and even less sentiment.
He had found service with the dark knight during Bose’s years as Captain of the King’s Household Guard and had subsequently chosen to follow his superior officer when the man resigned his post shortly after the death of his beloved wife.
The Bose de Moray he had come to know before the passing of the Lady Lora had been a hard man to please, fair and intelligent and incredibly skilled.
And even though the man had a face of stone, revealing little of his thoughts and earning the reputation as a man who had not yet learned to smile, still, there was compassion behind the coal-black eyes.
But Tate, and others, believed that compassion had disappeared the very moment Bose’s wife had perished in childbirth.
Tate had seen the last of his liege’s compassion four years ago.
From that moment on, it was as if Lora’s death had stolen something away from him.
The resulting individual spared little time for rest or humor, seemingly possessed to keep on the constant move.
Tournaments, competitions, any sort of game that required skill and rewarded money, Bose would find himself a part of.
It was as if he had to keep moving, fearful that if he stopped the grief that was following him would catch up.
So he kept running. Tate ran with him, too, as did three other knights who had served Bose when he was Captain of the King’s Guard. Men who were more loyal to de Moray than to young King Henry considered it an honor to continue to serve a knight who seemed determined to forget about his past.
“Who is to say?” Tate finally replied. “I would wager to guess that she is no more than twenty years at the most. Far too young for you.”
Bose didn’t reply as they neared his tent.
Just as they closed in on the structure, a large knight with a bushy red mustache raised a massive standard of black, white and silver, announcing that the House of de Moray had arrived.
As Tate continued to eye Bose in anticipation of a reply to his taunting statement, his liege seemed intent to ignore him.
“Farl,” Bose boomed. “Make sure my charger’s shoes are checked. He was moving strangely, as if a shoe was loose.”
The burly knight nodded faintly. “Your squire has taken the beast to Artur, who is examining him as we speak,” he replied. “They are under the large gnarled oak near the small ravine to the west.”
Bose glanced over his shoulder in the indicated direction, noting the aged oak in the distance and several forms clustered beneath its heavy branches.
With a faint nod, he shifted his attention and moved away from Tate to inspect the lashings of his large tent.
But the auburn-haired knight followed on his heels; Bose could feel the man behind him, his smirking grin igniting a blaze of annoyance.
After testing one of the iron stakes himself, he turned to his smug subordinate.
“Do not you have tasks requiring your attention?” he growled.
Tate shrugged lazily. “A few that can be taken care of in a matter of minutes. I’d much rather talk about the Lady Summer.”
Jaw ticking, Bose turned away from his knight and focused on the tent once more. “If you value your life, you will vacate my presence.”
Snorting, Tate took a step back but did not depart as ordered. “Come now, Bose,” he clucked softly. “If you wish me to find out something about the woman, then all you need do is ask. There is no one better at discerning information than I.”
A ticking jaw was now joined by grinding teeth as Bose moved along the tent, inspecting the tarp as Tate lingered several feet away.
“There is nothing more I wish to know,” he said as steadily as he could manage. “Go and see to my charger. And send Artur to me when he is finished.”
Corners of his mouth still twitching, Tate did as he was told.
He knew that Bose’s patience was not limitless.
Any more lingering on the part of the young knight and he would surely find himself bruised.
But he knew, even as he moved away from the black and white tent, that he would seek Bose’s answers even if the man was too stubborn to ask his assistance.
Listening to Tate’s fading footfalls, Bose knew all too well that the young knight would seek answers to his questions.
He would have been a fool to believe otherwise, and a part of him was glad for the inquisitive nature of Tate Farnum.
But another part of him was embarrassed for wanting to know about Lady Summer at all.
With a grunt of frustration, Bose began to unpack several of the satchels lining the tent.
A small cherrywood table emerged from a large box, as did two collapsible chairs.
The more he worked, the clearer his mind became as thoughts of his lovely acquaintance faded from focus and soon he was joined by three male servants who had been procuring food for the nooning meal.
The smell of roast beef was enough to make him forget his troubles entirely as he delved into a trencher of the succulent meat.
As the servants unpacked the remainder of the boxes, Bose devoured a huge plate of beef and carrots.
He had barely finished mopping up the gravy with a thick slab of bread when the tent flap was abruptly ruffled by a familiar figure.
“I see you waited for me,” came the droll salutation. “Good Lord, man, you ate everything but the table.”
Bose nodded, his mouth full. “And that is in jeopardy as well.”
The knight chuckled softly as he entered the tent, depositing a satchel of personal items against the wall. As the man fumbled about in the leather sack, Bose wiped his mouth against a linen square and eyed his crouched companion.
“He’s in there, somewhere. I put him in there myself.”
The knight nodded, almost irritably. “Good Lord, that rat has nested in here. I will never get him out.”
Swallowing the last of his meal, Bose quaffed deeply from his wooden cup. “Antony is not a rat. He is a ferret and far more valuable to me than you are, my aged friend.”
The knight shook his head; although Bose had meant the words in jest, they were true.
Nothing meant more to the man than his dead wife’s spoiled little pet.
The small beast was the sole focus of his liege’s guarded affection, having kept the fuzzy creature close to his heart since the day of Lora’s passing.
Certainly, the warrior could hardly fault his lord the lone sentimental attachment.
“His droppings are all over my bag,” the knight moaned, his searching hand finally coming to rest on the article of his search. With a squeak, Antony revealed himself from the warm hovel of the older warrior’s bag and found himself deposited on his master’s lap.
In a rare flash of gentleness, Bose stroked the gray and white ferret.
“Greetings, my pooping friend.” As the little animal snaked its way up Bose’s torso, perching comfortably on his shoulder, Bose held out a small green apple for the beast’s approval.
“Your dinner, Antony. And eat neatly, if you would. I’ll not have apple peel all over my mail. ”
Having shaken out his satchel of animal waste, the older knight once again pushed the satchel against the shelter wall and made his way to the table.
As he drew himself the other collapsible chair, a servant entered the tarp with a full trencher of food.
Placing it before the knight, the servant moved to the opposite end of the large shelter and began setting out the furs and bedding.
“Give Antony a piece of bread, Morgan,” Bose said as he listened to the hearty crunch of apple in his ear. “I have none to give him.”
Morgan Skye cocked a graying eyebrow, dutifully handing over a thick crust. Nearing the ripe age of forty years, he had seen nearly twenty years of service within the crown’s ranks.
As athletic and spry as men half his years, he continued to compete in tournaments and games when other men his age were well removed from the physical strains of life.
When he should have been anticipating the winter of his life, Morgan served as an inspiration to others who considered retiring because of their advancing years.
“Good Lord,” he hissed as Bose stole a carrot off his plate. “Get that hairy rat his own trencher and leave mine alone.”