A Knight Well Spent. Jackie Ivie

“Did I say pain? I’ve overstepped myself. It must be your ale. It’s hearty and brewed to a thick color; loosens my tongue when it shouldn’t. Remind me to apprise your aleman of my compliments.”

      Rhoenne cocked his head back, hearing Brent’s voice easily. He slid his chair back, preparatory to standing. “Brent!” he bellowed, the name stopping every other sound and movement in the room. Rhoenne wasn’t sparing his voice. The reverberation seemed to be the only sound for a moment. He stood.

      “Oh look. He’s returned.” Brent called it out jovially, his entrance filling the arched doorway with the sound of chainmail and boots.

      “Aye. To an empty hall and an unguarded treasury! You have but the time it takes to reach you to speak your reason. Don’t waste it.”

      Rhoenne put a hand to the surface and bolted over it. His movement had serfs, freemen, and knights watching with open-mouthed expressions. His reward was the agonized jar of barely knit flesh in his leg. He didn’t give it thought. He didn’t dare. They created a path for him. Brent had reached a good height but was still a hand-width below Rhoenne. The difference was made up with muscled weight, equaling his older brother in time. He was also still clad in his mail, with his sword strapped to his side, and gauntlets encasing his hands and arms to the elbow.

      Rhoenne saw Brent’s attire and ignored it. There wasn’t a weapon to stop him. He watched Brent back a step, then another, at his approach. It didn’t give him any satisfaction. Nor did Brent’s knight’s movements as they packed themselves together, forming a triangle, that shoved Brent forward to the tip. Rhoenne’s scowl deepened. If his own knights tried such a self-serving move, he’d see them stripped of their titles and lands, and then he’d have them replaced.

      “You left Tyneburn Hall with her throat bare and her belly exposed! Your reason?”

      Brent opened his mouth then shut it. Then he shrugged a nonchalant gesture. Rhoenne’s eyes narrowed.

      “I gave you position in my household. I appointed you High Sheriff. You have the right of collecting my taxes and administering my laws. Were you away tallying, as I’ve asked you to do? Perhaps you were seeking justice for the blacksmith’s death? Tell me that’s what you were about. Or perhaps you forayed beyond the mense, hoping to secure the borders further?”

      Brent didn’t answer. He was looking toward the floor. Rhoenne’s voice went soft, steely soft. “Or is it you’ve taken another maid? Will I have another angered father and his clan, thirsting for my blood, and the blood of all who call me lord? Don’t you understand the consequence of such acts?”

      There wasn’t anything to be heard except that of the words dying when he’d finished. The room behind him might as well be empty, rather than full of revelers. Rhoenne narrowed his eyes and waited.

      “I took no maid,” Brent finally replied.

      “What was it you were about, then?” He barked out the question almost before Brent had finished.

      “We were just out looking for enjoyment. You are ever ceaseless with your listing of duties and tasks, chores and requirements. It was—”

      Rhoenne interrupted him before the words became a full-out whine. “As my heir, you replace me! You protect and you defend. As my High Sheriff, you govern. That is no time for play. There is a fiefdom to secure for King David’s purposes, and his alone. I can’t raise an army for my sovereign from my own people! I can scarce move about without treachery at my side—and it’s you at the heart of it!” He was shaking with the intensity of his own rash tongue and afraid it was being seen, too. That was what made his voice louder and harsher. Rhoenne had never spoken like he was speaking now. Sir Montvale was right. Even when it was watered-down, his aleman did brew a good stout mead.

      “All you do is work, though.”

      His brother was whining. Rhoenne hadn’t stopped any of it. He inhaled a breath and cursed the fire of it inside his own chest. “’Tis a bit of work securing a fief, brother. That’s why it was entrusted to me. To me! The king could have lorded any other man, but nay. He lorded me. You know this! I will ask again, and only once more. Your reason?”

      He waited, hoping Brent would say a challenge, so they could do this honorably and meet on the list. It wasn’t Brent’s fault his mother had been a serf, consoling their father when his own wife took sick with the child she carried. Nor was it Brent’s fault that he wore the mark of bas-tardy. The younger man had always coveted what Rhoenne had. He didn’t know the king, however. David could make a vassal of any man, including bastards—and he would have without remorse—if Brent had just earned it.

      There was no way to teach such a thing! Rhoenne regarded him silently, wishing he’d heeded Montvale’s counsel and waited, or at the very least, done this in his private chamber. That way his entire hall wouldn’t be watching brother against brother, and the myriad of serfs, housecarls, and freemen wouldn’t be able to carry further tales to their crofts. That was the reason he could scarce ride about without a guard at his back and at all sides.

      It was too late to lament any of it, so he did the only thing he could; he pulled himself to his full height, put his hands on his hips, glared down at his brother, and awaited the challenge. Brent had fought well the one time he’d tried it. Rhoenne would accept eagerly. It might be what his brother needed. They’d each gained a decade worth of muscle and strength since they last met. It wouldn’t be an easy battle, either way. Nothing happened except silence.

      Cursed silence.

      “You have no answer?” Rhoenne asked, softer than before, but it was still too loud.

      Brent shook his head.

      “Well and good. I’ll answer it for you. A leader does not seek play and leave his keep exposed. You’ll learn this. You’re to take your men and see to it all are prepared for a journey. I have decided your punishment.”

      “I was only gone a night and day, Rhoenne,” Brent said, with a pleading tone to his voice.

      “Tyneburn needs a strong leader at its front, loyal to the crown. You need to find leadership. I’ve failed at teaching it. King David enjoins another construction. He sends his heir, Henry. A Ramhurst will serve on erecting this Jedburgh Priory. Prepare yourself.”

      “You want me to labor? To build? Surely that is too much, brother—”

      “Brother? Brothers do not betray. Brothers do not shirk responsibility. God curse the day your mother birthed you into my life. Begone! And take your sniveling cowards with you.”

      Rhoenne swiveled before he’d finished. Then Brent did the unforgivable. Rhoenne didn’t need to hear the gasps. He saw the flash that was his brother’s gauntlet as he went for his sword. Rhoenne spun and sent a fist against his brother’s jaw with enough force that he was launched backward into the knights who were supposed to be guarding his life with their own. Rhoenne’s scowl deepened as he watched the tightly packed group of men split, letting their leader fall. All seventeen stones’ weight of Brent Ramhurst quivered for a moment and stilled. Rhoenne didn’t even look down. He pierced each and every one of Brent’s cowardly retinue with what had been described once as his wintry-day’s glare. He watched them shuffle.

      “Get him to his room! Hie yourselves to your own. Prepare for your journey. Don’t let me catch sight of any of you and ruin my mood further. If he wakes and argues, tell him I’ll meet him on the list. He picks the weapons. He picks the time. We’ll decide it that way.”

      He swiveled again and walked back to his chair, ignoring the look that was probably on Sir Harold’s face, as much as he was ignoring the new ache that had begun in his knuckles to spread throughout his hand, and was now throbbing to his wrist. He also ignored the speculative glances he was receiving as well as the rustle of sound coming from the removal of Brent and his men from the great hall. He walked around the table, carefully blanking every bit of how it felt to continue putting weight on his leg from his features. He regained his seat beside Sir Harold and picked up his tankard again, using his left hand.

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