Chapter Ten
“Do you see anything more?”
Brogan was standing beside the shuttered window, peering out into the yard beyond.
There were four cottages in a semi-circle around the grassy area: having seen Avalyn and a man he did not recognize go into the last cottage to his left, his eyes had never moved from it.
When Thel entered with food, he watched.
When the tall, fat man entered and left, then came back and entered and left again, he continued to watch.
St. Alban’s question had been repeated many times throughout the evening.
“Nothing more,” Brogan replied in a low, quiet voice. He turned away from the slats. “I would think everyone has gone to bed. It is late.”
The man glanced over at Thel, Aggie, and Noe; they were sitting on the only bed in the room, gazing up at Brogan with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
St. Alban, as was typical for him, sat by the roaring fire as black smoke belched into the room and settled up around the ceiling.
The little cottage was almost too warm, yet everyone but Brogan seemed comfortable. He was sweating rivers.
“Surely the lady has not yet gone to bed, Brogan,” Thel said. “She will wait for you.”
Brogan moved away from the window and crossed his massive arms in a thoughtful gesture.
He was ready to rush to the distant cottage without hesitation, but St. Alban had force him to bide his time while Aubrey within earshot.
As it was, Brogan was taking a tremendous risk, not to mention what would happen to Avalyn should he be discovered. After a moment, he shook his head.
“I should not have let you talk me into this,” he growled at the old man. “She told me to wait. I should have waited. To follow her to Merseyside only puts her in danger.”
St. Alban had danced this conversation with him many times over the course of the day.
He had always convinced Brogan this was the right thing to do if he ever wanted to see his lady again, but the old man had never said what he was really thinking until this moment.
“If you hadn’t truly wanted to come, you would not have,” he said flatly.
“But you are here; therefore, you must know deep down that this is the right thing to do. If you let the lady go to Merseyside without you, then you will lose her forever. You know this.”
Brogan looked around the room; in addition to the girls sitting on the bed, his mother sat in the corner with a tiny blond bundle sleeping in her arms. His stance softened and he shook his head.
“Look at what we have done,” he hissed at the old man. “Look at all of these people we have pulled into this. If I am discovered, it is not only my life and Avalyn’s that is in jeopardy, but others as well. My mother… the baby…”
St. Alban stood up and moved purposefully to Brogan, standing before the man. His expression was hard. “I am not sure where this self-doubt is coming from, but you must stop it. You worry over inconsequential things.”
“But Avalyn told me…”
St. Alban grabbed his arm with gnarled fingers.
“She told you to wait for her to send word. But she is overwhelmed with men and politics at the moment. She is a strong woman, but not strong enough. She needs help. And we are here to help her. You must have faith, Brogan. You have many people willing to risk themselves for your happiness. Instead of expressing such reluctance, you should be willing to do what is necessary. We are all here to help.”
Brogan knew that. The hesitation that had been plaguing him for most of the day was the result of confusion and grief.
The lady was gone, in another man’s company, and he was struggling to think clearly.
St. Alban’s plan to follow the lady to her new home and infiltrate the ranks of her betrothed was as far as they had gotten.
There was no resolution of that scheme. St. Alban was simply trying to keep Brogan near the lady until a solution became evident.
After a moment, Brogan sighed heavily. “You are right, of course,” he muttered, running his fingers through his dark blond curls. “I do not mean to sound cowardly. ’Tis simply that I do not want to put Avalyn in danger. She told me to wait until she sent word.”
“And you are waiting, in a sense. You are simply staying close by so that the lady will not have to look far for you when she sends word.”
Brogan looked at the old man. “Of course,” he said quietly, looking over at the girls on the bed. He fixed on Thel. “The lady told you to go to her before dawn?”
Thel stood up. “Aye,” she said. “She said that she would tell her betrothed that she would take us as her servants. For all he will know, we are simply local serving women.”
“Good,” Brogan nodded; at least that part of the plan was seeming to go well. He looked back at St. Alban. “What about the rest of us? What will we do on the morrow?”
St. Alban turned and moved back to his fire; his old bones were feeling their age tonight as a result of travel and Brogan’s emotional tumult. “I have been thinking of just that,” he said as he sat. “As far as I can deduce, Inglesbatch is the only knight who knows you on sight. Correct?”
“Correct.”
St. Alban leaned back in the fragile chair, ignoring the creaking of the wood.
His expression was reflective. “You already have a charger,” he said as if he was thinking aloud.
“What… what if we were to commission armor for you? A sword, a shield and weapons. What if you were to ride into Guerdley Cross posing as a bachelor knight and swear fealty to Aubrey? The man wouldn’t know who you truly are, and I doubt Inglesbatch would give you away.
” He suddenly sat forward, his old yellow eyes glittering.
“What if you were to become another knight in Aubrey’s arsenal?
You could stay close to the lady and her betrothed would be none the wiser. ”
Brogan should have scoffed at the ridiculous idea, but instead, he was actually intrigued. “It will take money to do what you have suggested.”
“I have money,” St. Alban said flatly.
“You do?”
“An inheritance from my father. He owned a small piece of land in Kent that was quite rich. The land came to me upon his death.”
“How come you never told me of this?”
“You never asked.”
Brogan simply shook his head, awed at the possibilities. “You would do this for me?”
“Would you do it for me?”
“You are my only friend. I would kill for you. I would also die for you.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled with warmth. “And I for you.”
“Brogan,” Mama Starke’s soft voice filled the air. “You do not need to have armor commissioned.”
Brogan and St. Alban looked over at the round lady in the corner, cuddling a sleeping child. “What do you mean, Mama?” Brogan asked.
Mama Starke shifted Lake and the child whimpered in her sleep. The woman waited a moment as the child settled down again. “You have your father’s armor,” she said softly. “It is back at the shop. I saved it for you all of these years. You are bigger than your father was, but it should fit you.”
Brogan’s expression moved from curiosity to recognition; he remembered, as a lad, packing his father’s armor away after the man died.
He further remembered taking it with them when they came to live in England, though he’d not given it another thought since that time.
Mostly because it brought sad memories of the bear of a man with long hair he kept in a long braid down his back.
Tygor d’Aurilliac had been much loved, and much missed, by his son.
Lost in thought, Brogan didn’t realize that St. Alban was staring at him, watching the emotions fluctuate across his face. The old man leaned in his direction.
“Brogan?” he said tentatively. “If this is true, then you must return and claim your father’s armor. In fact, you should assume your father’s identity. He was a knight, as you should have been. No man has ever lived that was more worthy to carry the title than you.”
Brogan scowled at him. “You are mad. I am to become my father?”
“Assume his name, his lineage. Surely you know it. Where did your father foster?”
“Schwalenberg Castle.”
“Who was his liege?”
“Volkwin, Count of Hesse.”
“Do you know the rest of your father’s history?”
“Of course I do. He was a great knight in Saxony.”
“Then his legacy shall become yours.”
Brogan wasn’t completely convinced, though he was increasingly intrigued. “If I call myself Tygor d’Aurilliac, they will recognize the name.”
“Gervaise,” Mama Starke piped up. “That was my name before I married Tygor. Brogan, you can call yourself Tygor Gervaise and no one will ever know the truth.”
Brogan looked back at his mother. There was a good deal of indecision in his eyes. “You believe this to be wise, Mama?”
Mama Starke nodded faintly. “You’ve had little happiness in your life, Brogan. It seems unfair to let this chance slip away without fighting for it. Schritte der herrlichkeit.”
A slow smile spread across Brogan’s lips; wiser words were never spoken.
He did not want to lose the glory and felt foolish that he had to be reminded of that.
Somewhere in the turmoil of the past day, he had forgotten the true meaning of what he was willing to live and die for.
All of his indecision, his hesitation, fled. He looked back at St. Alban.
“Though I am a warrior, there is much to learn about being a knight,” he said. “My father did not live long enough to school me. You must teach me what you know.”
The old man nodded firmly. “All that and more.”
Feeling confident and full of determination, Brogan suddenly moved to the door. St. Alban leapt up as quickly as his fat body was able.
“Where do you go?” he demanded.
Brogan’s hand was on the latch. “To Avalyn. She must know what is happening.”