Once Upon a Knight. Jackie Ivie

lad was horrified. It sounded in his voice.

      “Verra well, then. Did you bring me a leg of that mutton?”

      “Oh. Aye.”

      “Good. Toss it here.”

      “What?”

      “I said, toss it.”

      “It’s been in the rushes, Sir! It’s na’ worth eating.”

      Vincent’s mouth quirked before he could help it. The wolf didn’t react. “’Tis na’ for me, but a bribe.”

      “Bribe?”

      This time Vincent did look to the roof of their tower hall. Then returned his gaze to the yellow one at eye level to him, since he was still on his backside and the wolf hadn’t moved. “For the animal. Do you see anyone else about?”

      “Lady Sybil’s pet does na’ ken bribes, sir.”

      “Have you ever tried one?”

      There was silence except for what was probably his tankard as it found step after step in its descent. Vincent slid his glance to where the serf stood, pondering his words as if they merited such. The entire keep was full of fools, he was rapidly deciding.

      “Well?” Vincent continued.

      “She has na’ used her pet on me afore. I would have nae need.”

      “Then toss me a joint!”

      Waif turned, and they both watched as the servant gingerly picked up a leg and flung it. A splat of sound accompanied its deflection off the opposing wall before it rolled to a stop near Waif’s back leg. The wolf didn’t move. Vincent didn’t move. Nothing seemed to be moving except the tankard as it resounded from the bottom of the stairwell.

      “It does na’ work,” the serf said.

      “My thanks, good man. Could you bring me more sup, then?” Vincent asked it with the same modulated tone he’d been using. Waif blinked and turned back to watch Vincent.

      “If he does na’ take a bribe now, why would he take it later, sir?”

      Vincent blew a huge sigh. He could have sworn the wolf did the same, but that was just fanciful, and Vincent had never been one for fancy. Thieving, lying, cheating, womanizing, self-appreciation, and contentment, yes. Fancy—never.

      “A new sup for me. Since you have ruined mine.”

      “Oh.” The serf started backing away, the scrape of leather shoe sole loud between Waif’s breaths.

      “Wait!”

      Vincent was as amazed at his daring as the serf was, although Waif didn’t move. Vincent swallowed the fear down and continued. “If you check the stables at the end stall, you’ll find a horse. Wearing blue and black colors. With a bridle of silver. Can you search out this horse for me?”

      “Is it yours?”

      Nae. ’Tis the wolf’s. Vincent almost said the instant retort. He swallowed around the words right on his tongue. He had to. If this lad was the only thing he had for an accomplice, it wouldn’t do to alienate him. Yet.

      “Aye. All of it, even the sword and shield. There will be a saddle near it. With bags. Two of them. With my initials sewn into the sides. V.E.D. In stained hemp.”

      Vincent stopped for a moment in fond remembrance of the lass who’d done the stitching and the payment she’d received. If he wasn’t mistaken, it looked like Waif appreciated it, too. Vincent cleared his throat and glanced again at the serf. “Can you find these?”

      “I am na’ a squire, sir. I dinna ken if I’ll be allowed near the stable or na.”

      “You have to be a squire to attend the stables? What manner of castle is this?”

      “’Tis the Lady Sybil’s order, sir.”

      “I suppose I should have kenned that already.” It was obvious the Lady Sybil was in charge of everything—and holding her reins with fear. For the first time, Vincent felt himself warm a bit at this assignment. The lass needed a comeuppance. He was the one to give it to her. That was certain.

      “What?” the servant replied.

      “You look stout enough. I think you can do it.”

      “Do what, Sir?”

      “Hie over to the stables, find the horse I have described, and fetch me one of the bags. His name is Gleason. He answers to that.”

      “I hardly think so, sir!”

      “Why na?” Vincent asked, still in the same patient, modulated tone.

      “If I snuck out to the stables to do what you ask, that’s one thing. Getting a bag back in and up here to you? I’d be noticed. I’d be caught.”

      “Why? Am I na’ allowed my own bag?”

      The serf made an impatient grunt. “Nae. I am na’ allowed in the stables. I would be caught. I would be sent to other labors. I’ve barely made it above status of the latrine, Sir. I’m na’ willing to risk it.”

      Vincent caught the smile. That lad was self-serving, too. That bode well. He understood selfishness best of all. Vincent eased a hand down to his lower leg, fishing for a moment in his sock for a bit of silver and sliding it up his flesh until he could palm it without the wolf noting. It didn’t work. It was as if the animal was watching and seeing everything in order to report later to his mistress. Vincent mentally shook off that fancy as well.

      “I dinna need the entire bag, my good man. I only need my fipple. Can you fetch that for me? It will be in one bag. The smaller one.”

      “A what?”

      “My reed. ’Tis a long tube that I’ve notched holes in. For making music. Can you find it and bring it? Perhaps with my next sup?”

      “I na’ certain….”

      The lad’s voice trailed off as he saw the coin held between Vincent’s two fingers as he moved them slightly so the silver caught what light there was.

      “My fipple. And the bag it’s in?” Vincent said.

      “Done.”

      The lad was moving for the stairs, although he was backing at first, before turning to run. His steps betrayed either his fear of the animal or his lust for the silver. Either way, he was a man after Vincent’s own heart, and that helped right the powers in his world again.

      Then Waif moved away, nosed the meat joint, and started eating, delicately tearing pieces with teeth that could take out a man’s throat. Vincent watched him for a bit and then eased his feet beneath him. The animal ignored him for the most part. Vincent lifted into a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet for a moment before attempting to rise. The moment he rose above a certain size, the animal was looking, and with grease shining on its teeth looked more devilish than ever. Vincent eased back onto his haunches, and the wolf went back to eating.

      He tried again, slower this time. The moment his height exceeded a certain point on the wall, the wolf was looking. Not threatening, just looking until Vincent went back to a crouch. Again he rose, at the same speed, and to the same point. And got the exact same reaction from the wolf.

      Vincent slid a fraction higher, and the wolf reacted, turning so quickly and violently that Vincent’s collapse onto his backside wasn’t graceful or anything other than exactly what it was: his legs going weak and giving out on him. Vincent had to consciously control the quivering of limbs that he’d worked into a surfeit of muscle and brawn—and adding to that was the queasy reaction in the pit of his belly. He was appalled at his cowardice and lack of luck. Being held prisoner by a wolf? Nobody outside this keep would believe it. And he was beginning to think that no amount of pay was worth this.

      It took some time to get his breathing