A Knight Well Spent. Jackie Ivie

for himself. He wasn’t quenching his thirst with ale. He wasn’t partaking of the feast he’d ordered prepared. He wasn’t listening to the tales of valor about their latest skirmish against his own warlike, heathen subjects. He was barely aware of the revelry taking place in his great hall. He had even forsaken replacing the numbing lichen, as the Lady of the Brook had instructed him to. His payment was the vicious throbbing of his lower leg. He knew why. He wanted the hunger. He wanted the sober awareness. He wanted the pain. He needed it.

      His scowl grew. His brother hadn’t tasted punishment in many seasons. The unkempt condition of his hall, the parade of angry fathers demanding payment for their daughters, the bastard Brent had produced along with the resultant death of the mother…. The constant harassing by Rhoenne’s own people were the consequences. Rhoenne didn’t need Sir Harold’s words about it. He knew exactly what he had to do. And he knew he wasn’t going to enjoy it.

      He swigged another gulp, wondering why it wasn’t taking the edge off the evening, yet knowing at the same time he didn’t want it to. He rarely did anything without reason. Brent was going to be brought to him the moment he returned and Rhoenne was preparing for it.

      The stir of doors opening caught his attention. He put his tankard down with a deliberate motion, lowered his head, and regarded the assemblage. What had begun as boisterous voices giving greeting was subdued quickly, he noticed, as his orders were given and heard.

      “It appears the prodigal approaches. I’d give him no quarter, if it were it me.”

      Rhoenne slid his glance over to Sir Harold’s chair. The knight winked back at him.

      “Save your ire for your brother. He’s earned it, not me.”

      “You brave much with such words.”

      Harold sighed heavily. “I’ve been at your side for a score, My Liege. I only seek to temper the anger. It’s righteous, true, but Brent is your only blood kin, as I recollect?”

      “You forget the lad, Richard,” Rhoenne replied, scanning the grouping for his youngest sibling. He should have known Richard would be absent. Revelry and drunkenness offended the boy. As did every other manly pursuit, he reminded himself.

      “Him? He is a mistake of nature, not a Ramhurst.”

      Harold’s reference was not inaccurate, but it was distasteful. Richard had been orphaned from birth as had all the Ramhurst males. He’d been left in the company of women and ruined. Rhoenne had tried to change him, but it had been too late. Richard still ran at the sight of bloodshed.

      “Richard has much of his mother in him. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s a Ramhurst. Same as I am.”

      Harold snorted. “You’re amusing. Richard is half the man you are.” He shrugged. “Mayhap…less.”

      Rhoenne blinked balefully. Then he returned to looking for Brent.

      “Careful,” Harold remarked, “your humor is showing.”

      Rhoenne sighed. “You’ve kept me company too long, Harold. Isn’t there a wench or three available to satisfy your needs tonight?”

      “None near as tempting as Fiona. You know she saves herself for you. If you have need, she’s yours. More’s the pity.”

      “Take her.”

      “There aren’t many like her. Your requirements are too high.”

      Rhoenne moved his head again. He had a throbbing behind his eyes now.

      His scowl probably showed it. It was blending in with all the other aches and pains he was encouraging. “Your meaning?” he asked.

      “Fair of face, lush of limb, nails sheathed…barren of belly. Not many women in this cursed mist-land fulfill that. And lust. You require all that. Fiona has it. She’s alone in it, I’m a-feared. Not that I quibble. I simply wouldn’t enjoy my play at the cost of your own comfort. That is most against my knightly vows, I feel. ’Tis what a loyal vassal is known for, you know; knightly vows.”

      Harold’s lips were quirked again. Rhoenne ground his teeth and added the twinge of ache in his jaw to the others. “Fiona is still available to you,” he finally said, from between his teeth. “I’ll not need her tonight.”

      “You’re inhuman. Send the wench to your chambers. Play. Sleep. Deal with your difficulties on the morrow.”

      “Difficulties?”

      “These Celts are difficult to subdue and even harder to rule. You have taken on more than the cultivating and civilization of land with this earldom King David bestowed upon you. You have taken on the devil himself.”

      Rhoenne smiled slightly. “Scotsmen are like any other, just hardier. Sanctions mean little to them, punishments the same. I must learn another way to reach them.”

      “It’s said their lances are sharper, too.”

      Rhoenne stiffened. “Your meaning?” he asked.

      “I wouldn’t know, of course…for I’ve yet to harbor one within my flesh. I must make a note to ask it of someone…more experienced in such things. If I chance upon one, that is.”

      Rhoenne sucked in on one cheek. “You’re starting to bore me, Montvale. Always the same—speaking words and saying little.”

      “Little? I’ve untold breaths of words to speak on it. This earldom of yours is a curse and the subjects therein? Hate-filled and dangerous. As for women? Ugh. They’re steeped in ugliness and deceit and filth. And bulk. I find them difficult to enjoy without the lights dimmed enough.”

      “Yet…Fiona is one of them.”

      “Ah, aye. The lovely Fiona. I can forget all with that one, My Liege. Should she grace my chamber, I sleep little. You should try it, too. Perhaps then no lance could stray into your leg, leaving this delightful vale in the hands of your brother.”

      “What lance?” Rhoenne said, in a carefully modulated tone.

      “Perhaps we’d best see to your brother.” Harold turned away and gestured toward the doorway.

      Rhoenne’s eyes followed the gesture. “I will see to Brent. Save your breath. And my ears. All saw the condition of my keep. All share the whispers of my weakness…even my own men.”

      “Send him to serve the king. I hear he’s building again—a priory he’s naming Jedburgh. That makes it three of the planned four of them. He probably needs stout noblemen with masses of brawn and a dearth of wits. That sounds like your brother. Send him. Such a thing will gain you gratitude.”

      “If I send Brent, I’ll gain His Majesty’s anger. Brent is a slackard and a lay-about. Should I send him to join in the building of King David’s legacy, I’d reap naught but the king’s ire. And if Brent were to do such a task, anything constructed will surely crumble.”

      Harold snorted again. “That much is true. We also have to consider King David’s son, Henry, who is overseeing the thing. He probably doesn’t stock enough wenches to service your brother.”

      “Speaking of—Fiona is still available to you,” Rhoenne replied.

      “Aye, but I’m needed more here, I feel.”

      “You waste your time. I’m not much company tonight.”

      Harold snorted. “You’re never much company,” he replied.

      That comment got a smirk from Rhoenne. He lifted the tankard to his lips and took another draught. Then he pulled it away. They were giving him the signal. Brent was inside the keep.

      “I know your game, you know,” Harold said from his side.

      “Game?” Rhoenne replied carefully.

      “A bit of ale to fan the flame, a bit of pain to deepen it, and it will be Brent turn to rue the day’s sport.”

      Rhoenne