Chapter Eleven #3
Adgar’s eyebrows rose in outraged recognition. “The lady in the blue silk gown with the golden wimple that….”
“…that looks like a Unicorn’s horn?” Tate finished suspiciously.
Adgar’s brows abruptly furrowed as realization dawned. “Indeed! She is my lady, Farnum. Choose another.”
Morgan and Farl laughed uproariously, moving around Tate and Adgar as the two men squared off against each other like a pair of dominant cocks.
Heading toward the cavernous entrance to the festive gallery, they left the two suitors to do their battle as they focused on more promising diversions awaiting them.
Between the laughter and shouting and harsh arguments, no one seemed to notice that Artur continued to stand and observe the interaction between Bose and Summer.
Old and hard of hearing though he might be, the old man knew his nephew well enough to know that the man was far gone in love with the beautiful young maiden.
Not that he could fault the man his taste, of course; flawed speech or no, Summer du Bonne was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, Lora included, if Artur would allow himself to be so brutally frank.
So Bose had found a new wife. As wonderful as the event was, the fact remained that Margot was casting a long shadow upon the destiny of Bose’s future union.
Tearing his gaze away from the delighted pair of lovers, he turned toward the grand hall, alive with music and dancing and drunken bodies.
Now was not the appropriate time to bring up his concern over Margot’s menace, but he had little doubt that such a time would rapidly come to bear.
Passing one final glance at the couple locked in an amorous embrace, he followed the pair of Bose’s arguing knights into the warm, stenchy hall.
*
Breck had hardly taken a seat when a soft, bird-like hand touched him on the arm. Growling, he brushed the hand away and snatched a pitcher of wine from a passing serving wench, pouring himself a sloppy measure. Gulping the liquor, he sighed heavily as the fortifying warmth coursed down his throat.
“Does the wine lend bravery as well?”
The frail voice came from behind. Breck drew in another mouthful of alcohol, turning disinterestedly toward the source. A small woman, quite old, held his gaze a moment before he turned away, back to his drink. He had no idea who the woman was and did not care.
“He left a bruise upon your cheek, young lord,” the woman spoke again. “Punishment for touching his lady?”
Breck swallowed another gulp of wine, smacking his lips before deciding, strangely enough, to look to the old woman once again. His gaze raked her shriveled, tiny form.
“What do you want, woman, and be quick about it.”
The woman offered a thin smile. “I want what you want. To separate Sir Bose from his lady.”
Breck stared at her a moment. “Why? So you can have him all to yourself? I’d hardly consider you to be of marriageable age.”
The woman’s eyes glittered through the smoky haze of the hall. Even though she was tiny and feeble and harmless in appearance, Breck could sense a terrifying darkness from her. His gaze followed her as she seated herself daintily beside him.
“I do not want to marry him, my lord,” she said quietly, her expression steady. “He is already married.”
Breck continued to stare at her, cocking a slow eyebrow after a contemplative pause. “I understand his wife is dead.”
“In body, mayhap. But not in spirit.”
The red-haired knight pondered her odd answer a moment as his impatience returned. “What do you want?”
The lady’s weak smile transformed into a genuine gesture. “As I indicated, the same as you. You are interested in Sir Bose’s lady, are you not?”
Breck licked his lips thoughtfully. “And if I am?”
“Would you do anything to obtain her?”
“Within reason.”
The woman laughed softly. “I am not suggesting you fight Sir Bose for her, for certainly, you would lose. The man is unbeatable.”
“I know. I have battled him several times in tournaments and am well aware of his skill,” taking another swallow of wine, his small blue eyes took on a curious nuance. “Who are you?”
The woman’s smile faded. “Who do you think I am?”
“I most certainly do not know who you are.”
The aged lady stared at him, her smile relaxing until her thin lips were straight and true. “Tell me your name, sir knight.”
“Sir Breck Kerry, Lord of Crestwood.”
The old woman nodded faintly. “Sir Breck, if you desire Sir Bose’s lady, then I will most assuredly help you.”
Breck pushed his cup aside and sat forward. Leaning on the table, he studied the ancient, once-fine woman intently.
“Not until you tell me who you are.”
“The perfect weapon by which to accomplish your desires.”
“That tells me nothing. Are you involved in his household?”
“Involved, yes,” the woman folded her translucent-white hands primly. “I am very close to Sir Bose and in a grand position to aid you in your quest for the lady’s attention.”
Breck eyed her, settling back in his chair and eyeing the odd old woman. “And how is it you know of my interest in the lady?”
The woman smiled again. “I saw you drag her from the hall, of course. And I saw Bose follow in a rage. I was standing in the entry when you came stumbling through, returning to your seat in a battered heap, and can only assume that Bose punished you for your interest in his whore. Am I incorrect?”
“Nay.”
“Then accept my assistance. If you want her, I shall aid you.”
Breck refilled his goblet from the pitcher he had stolen from the serving wench. “And how will you do this, providing that I am interested in your proposal?”
The mysterious lady drew in a deep, thoughtful breath. “Being exceedingly young and wise, I would assume that you will think of a plan to obtain Sir Bose’s lady if you haven’t already done so. Tell me of your plan and I will tell you how I can help.”
Breck swirled the ruby-red liquid about his tongue, eyeing the woman pensively. Not knowing who she was, he wouldn’t say anything to her that could make its way back to de Moray.
“I have no such plans,” he lied. “Even if I did, I certainly do not require the assistance of a helpless old crone. Return to your cave, witch, and leave me be. If I want the lady, I’ll take her regardless of de Moray’s interest.”
The older woman snickered without humor. “A brave front, young knight, but a foolish declaration. You know as well as I that de Moray will kill you if you attempt any such bold action. You need my help if….”
Breck slammed the chalice to the table, spilling wine over the scrubbed wood. “Cease your foolery, woman,” he hissed. “Tell me who you are or I swear I’ll slit your throat and leave you for the dogs.”
“Slit my throat and you shall not obtain the lady.”
“To the Devil with the lady! My truer goal is to destroy de Moray as, I suspect, is yours as well. Certainly, you would not be here if it were otherwise.”
The woman produced a sinister smile. “How true, my young lord. Place your trust in me and our goals shall become reality.”
“Then tell me who you are!”
The lady reached for her own chalice of wine. She suddenly felt very much like celebrating.
“The answer to your prayers, Sir Breck,” she sighed contentedly. “As you are, apparently, to mine.”