A Knight Well Spent. Jackie Ivie

Aislynn caught the reaction of shivers and stanched them. She couldn’t have another recurrence of panic! Not now. Not when Brute was looking her over as he was.

      “You still have na’ told me what happened,” she reminded him.

      “Then you don’t listen. A fist. He took a blow. That’s all.”

      “With this much damage?” Aislynn shuffled the six mini-steps over to Brent again. “And it was just once? Truly?”

      “Aye. But once.”

      Aislynn’s eyebrows rose. “So,” she mused aloud, “he does have a brother he fears. And it looks to be with good reason.”

      One of the others nodded; his eyes wide and frightened. Aislynn looked at him. She was going to call that one Rabbit. The door opened again and then closed. She suspected they were slinking out, deserting their lord before they were put to his assist. She didn’t check to verify it. She expected Brent’s knights to be disloyal as well as undisciplined. What was interesting her was that Brent had a brother, and he was a force to be reckoned with. It was all she had.

      “You must all fear him.” She sneered as she said it.

      “And with good cause. The man must be the size of his donjon and carry the force of a battering-ram in his arm.”

      “You make light of what isn’t,” Brute answered, his voice gruff.

      “I make light of naught. I am deciding the where-all of your lord’s injuries. You say it was a blow? I merely state that if this was one blow from a bare fist, then a man powerful enough to do such a thing actually exists. Furthermore, I’m surprised your lord received such a blow when he had nine, brave, strong men like you…guarding him. And yet none of you have the slightest mark.”

      “It didn’t kill him,” Brute said.

      Aislynn could tell he didn’t like her words or the long, drawn-out way she’d said them. There was a flush rising from the unshaven portion of his cheeks to stop at the scar-line. She had to duck her head to hide the smile.

      “Well, it would have, without my help.”

      “That’s right, wench…or should I call you witch? You saved him. Soon he’ll be right as cake and wanting to finish with you. I hadn’t thought you desirous of it a-fore. You must hide a lusty nature, although faith; there’s not much hidden about you.”

      The one who spoke now had the aggressive, swaggering behavior that she’d noted during their ride firmly in place. Aislynn lowered her head and favored him with an upward cast, narrowed glance. She was going to name him Rooster. Unlike Brute, Rooster had always been pleasant to look upon. It was obvious he’d never taken any type of weapon to his face. There wasn’t a mark on it. He was handsome and cocksure, from his dark hair and eyes to the muscular frame his tabard-draped mail wasn’t hiding. Rooster was an apt title for him: all show; no substance.

      Aislynn smiled widely, surprising them. She couldn’t help her attire. She couldn’t help the wild look of her. She couldn’t help that she’d just been called a witch. She could use it, though. “Too bad the worst is hidden, Sir Knight. Why, the man who beds me, withers a-fore he’s finished and then he stays the same. ’Tis a curse I bear from birth. I carry a mark. Is that what you wish?”

      “Is that proof you’re a maid…and the smithy lied?” Rooster asked.

      Aislynn swallowed back on her own stupidity. It tasted slightly metallic at the back of her throat. She lifted the bent shoulder, trying to make it a seductive gesture. “As maidenly as any other lass. I’ll be the last you bed, though. Dinna’ you mark my words? Now, untie me. I have to see to your lord.”

      “Oh, I don’t think so. I rather fancy you this way. I think my lord may have the same opinion, if he were awake and looking at what I am.”

      “Do as she says.”

      Aislynn gasped. She knew that voice. Every man within Aislynn’s sight did, too. She watched the change. It was immediate and total. Her own eyes were probably just as wide and frightened. It was the troubadour from her glade, yet it wasn’t. His voice was the same velvet-smooth timbre, although the strength and depth of it were awe-inspiring in the small room.

      Rooster stepped forward, reaching for the dagger at his side as he moved. He slipped it under the binding at her elbows, then the one at her knees. Aislynn moved her arms forward, more to have something to clasp onto. Rooster had lost all his bravado. He wasn’t looking at her any longer. He wasn’t looking at anything except the floor.

      “Now leave us.”

      It wasn’t said twice. Aislynn watched them file from the room, all of them looking to the floor. The door’s opening silhouetted him, then it shut. He was more immense than she’d suspected, from how he’d lain between her legs in the glade. She couldn’t see more. The torchlight wasn’t illuminating the area beyond Brent’s bed and she wasn’t capable of facing him, yet.

      “Is any of that true?” he asked.

      He was coming closer if the voice was any indication. Aislynn backed a mini-step, then another. Her action didn’t please him. She could tell as he halted just shy of the light and breathed out a loud sigh.

      “You dare fear me? Now?”

      “I fear nae man,” she replied.

      “Then why do you back from me?”

      She took a deep breath. “Because you dinna’ tell me the truth. You’re nae troubadour,” she said to the floor.

      “’Tis but one title I claim. I am anything. Ask me.”

      “Liege lord? Sassenach liege?” She tried not to give it any inflection but knew she failed.

      He gave another loud sigh. “Aye. Liege. Lord Rhoenne Guy de Ramhurst. First Earl of Tynebury. Lorded to it by Scotland’s King David. Norman by birth.”

      “The Lion?” she asked, in the silence that followed his voice.

      “Some refer to me as such. I cannot stop it.”

      Her heart was hammering to her throat. She moved a hand there. “La Bete Grande?” she whispered.

      He chuckled. “Great beast? If you’ve heard it, then it’s still said. Such a title was earned from my prowess at Brittany. I demanded a high price for surrender. They didn’t pay it…at first. It may also be due to my size. Or mayhap it’s my temperament. I cannot say. Besides, at times such a title is apt.” Torchlight fluttered down from the top of him, highlighting a sinister-looking nose and deepening the cleft in his chin.

      “I may also have earned such a name from my tourneys. There are none I lose to. If there are, I have yet to be challenged by him. Some even refer to me as Avenger. It’s said I fight as one. I am called all these things…witch.”

      Aislynn curled her tongue into the back of her throat to stop another word.

      “Since we have this between us, what of it? I have titles I bear. You have named some. There are more. A title does what it needs. It convinces and sways others. What of yours…my Lady of the Brook? Are you this witch they accuse? ’Tis not a far stretch. Healers are ugly crones or men of great years. I’ve never known one to possess great beauty and skill. Nor a healer who appears without warning and disappears with the same…just like this witch you’re called.”

      He was accompanying his words with two more steps toward her, losing the light’s illumination, save as a means to outline him. He wasn’t wearing chainmail or padding about his form. His arms were still held slightly outward away from his form, almost as if the size of them prevented their closure. With such shadowing, he not only looked the size of a great beast, he resembled one. Aislynn gulped.

      “Alas…my lovely; I am also a troubadour, just as I told you.”

      He was bowing as if they were at a king’s court. Aislynn glanced that way, then back down. Her face