A Knight Well Spent. Jackie Ivie

mug.

      “Are you speaking for effect, or to hear yourself make noise?” Rhoenne asked.

      “That way, none would think me guilty of attacking my own brother without provocation.”

      “A liege can be many things,” Rhoenne replied.

      “True. He can be brave. Strong. Decisive. He can spit in the face of agony as he does so.”

      “What…agony?” Rhoenne asked through clenched teeth.

      “Strong ale, as I already made mention. It loosens my tongue. Fiona is doing strange things to my pulse, My Liege. She’s lovely. She’s ready. She’s begging you. Look.”

      “If she has need of a man, fill her need. As I already said, I’ve no use for her tonight.”

      “I beg you to reconsider. The woman sours if she cannot have you. All women do. I have no notion of the why. Women. Who can decide the why of how they think?”

      “So? Choose another.” Rhoenne shrugged, and pushed his hair off his forehead with his left hand, prior to refilling his tankard. Then he brought it to his lips. He put his mind to ignoring the throb of his arm, since the pain had moved to encompass his elbow, too.

      “I’m trying to entice you,” Sir Harold said.

      Rhoenne choked on his swallow. It turned into a cough that ravaged his chest. He added that to his other ills. He had it under control before he looked at his closest knight. “You’ve the wrong shape for such a notion, Sir Harold, although I thank you, just the same.”

      The other man’s lips twitched. “I would still have let them see why I threw such a blow. He was going for his sword. He was attacking your back.”

      “A liege can be many things, remember?” Rhoenne replied.

      “He was attacking an unarmed man. You know it. I know it.”

      “He can’t be a betrayer. None can think it, say it, or be allowed to see it. Had he unsheathed his sword, I would have had to banish him.”

      “You would have had to kill him. You know it.”

      “Only on a field of honor, Montvale. Don’t over-speak yourself.”

      “So…you did the indulgent thing. You let his treachery go unseen.”

      Rhoenne’s left hand tightened on his tankard handle. “It was my decision. I made it. I’ll live with it.”

      “And had you done other, you would have had to find another heir. Or, God forbid, make the king find you a woman to wed with, accept your seed, and create one of your own. Pity.”

      Sir Harold was paying very careful attention to his tankard as he said it. Rhoenne felt the knot of nerve in his cheek as he clenched his teeth. Harold was right about Fiona, too. She had thick, light brown hair, a round face with a bow-shaped mouth, ripe curves, and a body that was perfection. She was making certain all noted it, too, with her display every time she moved. Rhoenne frowned. She shouldn’t wear her neckline so loose or so low. It created problems with his men—none of whom would touch her, despite lusting for her.

      “Take Fiona to your bed, Sir Harold, and spare me any more of your words. They’re really starting to pale.”

      The knight looked him over. Despite his best intention, Rhoenne hunched his shoulders slightly at the unblinking attention.

      “And allow you to wallow in drink-induced melancholy? I think not. Besides, she may not be enough. I have massive appetites…unlike you. Come, My Liege. Allow me to have her sent to your chamber. I’ll even have her unwrapped for you.” There was a long, distinct pause. “I wouldn’t want to put that hand to the torment of having to undress the wench.”

      “What torment?” Rhoenne asked, icily.

      Harold sighed heavily. “This ale is too much for my tongue. I will have to change to water, too. I think.”

      Rhoenne put his tankard down. “Your eyes are sharp, as is your tongue. I have more to do this eve. Drink would deter me from my responsibilities. Such is the mantle of liege, I fear.”

      “You are too noble,” Harold said, sarcastically.

      “I didn’t say that. I have things to see to before I rest.”

      “Ah….” Harold drew the word out. “You have another wench in mind.”

      “I didn’t say that, either,” Rhoenne replied.

      “You must appease my curiosity. What wench appeals to your taste tonight?”

      “Brent’s,” Rhoenne remarked with a slight smile to the word.

      Sir Harold’s eyes widened. “Brent has a wench? But, he said—”

      “You don’t listen well. Nor did you watch when he was first brought in. He has a wench with him.”

      “He has a wench?” Harold repeated.

      “Aye. My guess is he stole her. He probably still has her bound.”

      “He stole a lass…and yet you still sit without mounting a rescue? You?”

      “She’s not a maid. You heard him. Perhaps she would have come willingly, once she knew the game. Perhaps not. That is what I go to find out.”

      “Not a maid, eh? Perhaps your luck holds and she is comely, too?”

      “Have you known Brent to take an ugly wench?”

      Sir Harold chuckled. The sound made Rhoenne’s eyes widen a fraction.

      “This is what I would have ordered for you, had I thought it. Go. Rescue this damsel. Leave me to the fair Fiona, who, although she is no maid either, has vast charms of compensation. She also has friends. Comely friends.”

      “Harold, you are rapidly losing my interest.”

      “Very well. Fiona is a fair flower of innocence and should she have friends, they are undoubtedly ugly and stick-thin.”

      “That is not my meaning, either. I speak more of Brent’s wench.”

      “Ah. The lovely, captured flower. There’s no need of haste there, My Liege. She won’t need a rescue anytime soon. Her would-be lover is without his senses at present. That is your fault. You must take his place. You need to rescue her from sure boredom. Take her to your bed, instead.”

      Rhoenne sighed heavily. “I didn’t say she was a would-be lover. I only said Brent had a wench. I would see to her. I don’t wish her, or any other woman, in my bed. I’ve other uses for a bed tonight…like sleep.”

      “You’re inhuman,” Sir Harold replied.

      “And you’ve drunk too much of this fine mead. Take Fiona to your chambers before you forget the why and how of it. Go, my friend. I’ll see you on the morrow.”

      Rhoenne stood, tested his leg with his weight before striding purposely from the room, making certain none noted a limp, or how he held his hand close to his side to prevent movement. It was bad enough Sir Harold had seen through it. He didn’t want anyone else knowing. He wasn’t noble. He wasn’t inhuman. He was tired.

      Chapter Five

      The man she feared was carried in. Aislynn stood in one corner of the filthy room they’d placed her in and watched. She didn’t dare move. She was afraid they’d spot her. She hadn’t been still. She’d wrenched an arm, trying to work it free, and had ended with it crooked at the elbow, making her look like an awkward one-winged bird. She was in the process of working it back before she ran out of time.

      She would have tried getting loose sooner, but she’d had to face her own panic and fears first. In the darkened, smelly room they’d put her in, dampening fear hadn’t been easily accomplished. She was afraid she looked it.

      The