Beyond the Crimson (The Crimson Cycle) (12 page)

He tried to stop his sm
ile, but his eyes gave it away. “It is nothing,” he lied.

Kay hit him on the arm. “D
o not lie to a lady.”

Gawain
stood straight and hit him back. “Do not feign etiquette that you know nothing about in front of lady.” 

Kay redde
ned again, before turning to me. “It is only because Bran does not usually bring his…” His blue eyes widened. “I mean does not bring ladies…” His face became even redder as he struggled to articulate his thoughts. “It is just that uh… he does not court…he—” He looked at Gawain for help, but Gawain only held his hands up in surrender. “He keeps to himself, I suppose you could say,” he finally finished, looking as though he were going to pass out.

“Oh,” I said, understanding that it wasn’t common for him to bring a girl around
, but I thought of his dress comment, and their quick promiscuous facial exchanges with each other implied that he clearly wasn’t some celibate saint either. I felt my face flush that they probably thought I was just some girl he had bedded and now was stuck with. The thought lit a fire in the pit of my stomach that continued to gnaw its way through my insides and the heat of the kitchen only made it worse. “It’s not like that…” I stammered feeling extremely embarrassed and not sure of how to phrase we were only friends, if you would even call it that. But they just grinned like foolish children. 

“Oh
of course, I did not mean it so,” Kay said, face still red regardless of the grin. “He just does not usually make new
friends
that is all.”

“Aye, he is quite the pain,” Gawain agreed, laughing so deeply his whole body shook.

I shifted on my feet as my face burned, and it wasn’t from the kitchen. Gawain wiped a tear from the corner of his right eye. “Come,” he boomed, seeming out of breath, “let us find Bedivere. You will like him.”

If he was as vulgar as Gawain
, I wasn’t sure I would, but I welcomed the break in this awkward situation. Kay gave me a sympathetic smile before quickly limping back to the large pot that hung from a long pole over a blazing fire, but before I could say farewell, Gawain had his burly arm around me, leading me out of the kitchen quarters.

The young boy curled into a ball, hiding under the small five-step staircase that led down to the dark wooden cellar. Rapidly, heartbeats thudded into his chest, uncontrollabl
e and unstable. Fear seized him; stomach muscles clenched tight, obstructing the bile that came threateningly close to his throat, but he stayed put.

He could hear the pounding footsteps in the distance.

Terror quivered through his body. He was no stranger to the whip or the back of a hand; bruises were present on his body more often than not, so often, in fact, numbness overcame the pain of the abuse, but this time would be different. This time his actions had cost the life of valuable horses; horses that merited more than he ever could.

The footsteps creaked closer.

His stomach turned. His body always seemed to move before his mind, and he hated himself for it, but now it was too late.

Thump. Thump. The footsteps were dangerously close. 

He gripped a chunk of hair with one hand, chewing the thumbnail of the other to stop his teeth from chattering; a nervous fidget, one that helped him focus, but also one that resulted in numerous chastisements—usually physical ones—but it was the least of his worries at the moment because this new punishment would be far worse. This was bad. Really bad.  

The footsteps stopped above him.

He held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut; fervently hoping he would not be discovered. If he could hide long enough, he would be able to make his escape. Aye, he would run and never return, taking his slim chances with the wilderness because he certainly would not survive this.

Hot tears of dread rolled down his cheeks, anticipating his impending doom. He could feel the presence above him, causing hairs to stand on end.
His stomach muscles failed him as the bile rose higher and higher, ready to make its exit.

But then… the footsteps slowly retreated.

He let out a deep sigh. His heartbeat slowed down.

He had done it. He had not been found.

Now, he just had to run.

He struggled to stand
, but at that same instant something leapt off the stairs in front him. He jumped back, bumping into the wooden wall, but breathed easy as he realized it was just his mother’s gray cat. It let out a loud hiss then scattered, as a dark shadow slowly lurked over the small amount of light that shone into the cellar. His skin crawled as he turned, heart stopping as he looked up into the familiar heartless, icy gray eyes, and crooked sinister grin. 

The calloused hands reached down in one swift motion and picked him up by his dirty linen shirt, elevating his body off the floor. No longer subdued, the bile projected from his mouth as he screamed, and in the same instant he was being catapulted across the cellar.

He felt his head crack against the wooden wall, feeling pain tremor through his skull as warm gooey liquid slid down the side of his face.

The footsteps came to him again, faster this time.

He squeezed his eyes shut, curling into a ball because he knew this was just the beginning...

Gawain strutted out of the castle, leading me out to the beautiful green fields. I took a deep breath of fresh oncoming evening air, a relief from the smoky kitchen and damp castle. It was different here; the air seemed lighter and cleaner and I found it refreshing. We walked down the small sloping grass patches towards the horses’ stables which were a few yards away, surrounded by a large fenced in area for them to roam. Standing off to the side was a slim but still tall man with longer dark brown hair that was pulled back at the nape of his neck. I assumed him to be Bedivere. He spotted us and lithely moved forward to greet us with an amiable smile on his face.

             
“Bedivere!” Gawain called out.

             
“Hallo Gawain,” he said then turned to me, smiling. “Dothian informed me of Bran’s special guest.” He paused. “You must be Lady Katarina.”

             
“Yes.” I smiled back. Gawain was right; for some reason I liked him already. 

             
Standing apart from Brendelon and Arthur, Bedivere was very handsome, but I was sure his looks were constantly overshadowed by the god-like appearances of his comrades. Bedivere’s warm brown eyes glanced over my shoulder, and he broke out into a grin. “Well, speak of the devil, and he shall appear.”

I turne
d and saw Brendelon approaching; he had changed out of his armor, now dressed like the other knights, wearing the standard gray tunic with crimson embroidery of the same fearsome dragons on the front over a black long-sleeved linen shirt, dark pants and black boots. I felt my breath catch in my throat at the sight of him; his looks really were unbelievable. 

Gawain watched then quickly grabbed my hand, kissing my knuckles, eyes peeking up to me seductively, waiting for him to be within earshot. “Lady
Katarina today was absolutely magnificent! I will cherish it for as long as I can remember.” He put on a thick, fake gentleman-like voice.

Brendelon’s face twitched with his evil smirk
, but he was careful to cover it, and instead looked at me with mock sincerity. “Aye, my lady,” he said, matching Gawain’s tone, “unfortunately, that will only be until about sunset.” He pointed to the already low sun.

Gawain growled under his breath
, crossing his arms as he stood up straight. Bedivere chuckled and Gawain turned his glare onto him. He raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. Brendelon kept his eyes on Gawain with the same look on his face then tilted his head towards me, loudly whispering, “There is not much between the ears.” He widened his eyes and sucked in his breath, feigning and oops-I’m-sorry look. I stifled a giggle, liking him playful and finding them entertaining. “It is not entirely his fault though,” Brendelon continued teasingly. “He had fallen straight on his head from the heights of a tree two years back…”

“Aye
,
fallen
,” Gawain grumbled angrily. “You are quite the jester, pretty boy.”

I saw his eyes darken, but the smile remained
, and he kept up the charade. He put a hand on Gawain’s shoulder. “Ah, it is but a curse…” He shook his head sadly. “I tell you, it would be a blessing to be as unsightly as you, my friend.”

The more Gawain’s face contorted into anger, the more Brendelon’s twisted in amusement. Bedivere covered his smile with his hand, clearly not wanting to be in the middle of it. “Many women dote for my attentions,” he huffed, throwing Brendelon’s hand from his shoulder.

Brendelon nodded his head, ignoring the shove as he continued to pat Gawain’s shoulder. “Aye, they have been taught to be kind to ogres, lest they rip their arms out of their sockets.” And even though I believed that plenty of women probably did dote on him, I couldn’t help but laugh.

Gawain growled low in his throat again, gla
ring at Brendelon’s wicked face. “I will rip
your
arms out of your sockets,” he grumbled under his breath, shoving Brendelon’s hand away from him again. His face looked furious as he flipped back the dark cloak he wore over his tunic. He quickly pulled out four small shiny knives from the side of his belt. I sucked in my breath not sure how far Brendelon really had pushed him. I threw a look at Brendelon, but he didn’t seem to be worried, although from what I was learning, he was a fan of near death experiences, so I turned to Bedivere for a better indication of the danger that was about to arise, but like Brendelon, he didn’t seem too concerned either.

“Watch this
, Katarina,” Gawain boomed, as he shoved Brendelon backwards a few feet and then backed up himself until they were about twenty feet away from each other. Brendelon stayed still, the right side of his mouth curled upward, while Gawain looked like an angry bull seeing red. He then grabbed one of the throwing knives with his right hand and in the blink of an eye threw it so fast I could barely follow it with my eye. I gasped as it came whizzing towards Brendelon’s face. At the last moment he tilted his head to the left barely dodging the knife that grazed awfully close to his right cheek, and before he could regain his stance, Gawain had already thrown the second. He shifted his right shoulder back, turning to the side as the small dagger barely missed then leaned forward, sucking in his stomach as the third knife skimmed past his middle. He faced forward for a split second then dropped to his knees, tilting his head to the right side as his weight went back slightly, missing the fourth and final knife that came only an inch over his left shoulder and only half an inch from his throat. I finally remembered to breath, not liking the game at all.

Gawain boomed with laughter, as he closed the dis
tance between him and Brendelon. “I thought to mark you with that last one.”

Brendelon grinned and shook his head as he stood to his feet.

“What if you had hit him?” I questioned in an extremely high-pitched voice, still feeling panicked. “You could have killed him!”

They all laughed making me blush. Bedivere put a kind ha
nd on my shoulder. “Worst that could have happened would be a gash. A mere scratch compared to the wounds from war.” He smiled politely at me.

But it didn’t comfort me because it could have hit him in th
e throat, the heart, or the eye. It might have scarred his beautiful face; it could have been way worse than a mere scratch.

“There is nothing to be worried about. He is good at dodging blows
, Katarina. He has been doing it his whole life!” Gawain laughed again, not noticing the uncomfortable look that crossed Bedivere’s features or the darkness that took over the playful green emeralds.

“Besides
, he has terrible aim,” Brendelon retorted snidely.

Gawain scowled.

“Well, if you two are finished, the horses in the stables still need to be fed,” Bedivere cut in quickly. Gawain sighed dramatically like a child who was forced to do chores, then shoved Brendelon playfully forward, following him to the stables. I felt a twinge of longing as I watched Brendelon walk off with Gawain. It was lonely being left with strangers and even though I didn’t know him that well either, at least he felt familiar to me.

Bedivere shook his head. “C
ome, I will show you the foals.” He smiled at me and led me to the fenced in area, where a few horses romped around. He pointed to a young horse. “I have been trying to get this little one to learn how to follow.” It was an adorable little creature, black as night with dark eyes, anxious about the world around it. “Kind of reminds me of someone we know.” His face twisted up into a smile, and I laughed.

“If that’s true, I’m not sure he will ever follow,” I joked back, thinking of his overly self-assured attitude.

He shook his head. “God love him.”

“What did Gawain mean by he’s been dodging blows his whole life?” I asked. I didn’t know why but I felt safer with Bedivere than I did with Gawain. He seemed more thoughtful, someone who wouldn’t hurt or embarrass me or make unwanted crude remarks for that matter.

He shifted, seeming slightly uncomfortable. “He has been through quite a bit…” he started, but he looked unhappy with the subject. “Did you know Bran is like a brother to me? We were both sent to King Ennion’s for fosterage.”

“A fosterage?”
I asked feeling confused.

Bedivere
chuckled. “Most boys are sent to a fosterage,” he informed me.

“Oh,” I said feeling ignorant for not knowing such things. “So only you and Brendelon went to Ennion’s?”

He turned his warm brown eyes to me. “Aye, but we would all spend much of the year with Kay and Arthur, especially during the summer months.” He shifted his gaze and stayed quiet in his thoughts. I watched him patiently, not wanting to be a bother, but willing him with my eyes to spill more information, but before he spoke again, we were suddenly interrupted with an ear-piercing howl. We whirled around in the direction of the noise.

Bedivere
groaned. “Sounds like a mutt got in the way of a horse. Come, let us go.” He held out his hand to lead me. I grabbed it to be polite but felt slightly uncomfortable and let it go as soon as I could.

Bedivere and I walked into the horses’ stables and su
re enough there was a small dog—still a puppy by the looks of it—with long, knotted brown hair, lying miserable next to a horse’s stall.

Brendelon was impassively standing with his arms crossed, chewing on his thumbnail, while Gawain was on his knees next to the dog, shaking his head. Bedivere
knelt down and examined the dog. “He is done for.” He looked up at Brendelon. “You will have to put him out of his misery.”

“Dumb mutt,” Brendelon finally muttered.

Gawain wiped his brow. “He was a terrible dog, will not be much of a loss.”

I peeked around them at the poor
helpless dog, bunched in a ball, body broken.              “What do you mean put him out of his misery?” I asked softly.

Gawain made a slicing motion with his finger across his neck.

“No!” I said too loudly, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment.

Gawain smirked at
Brendelon. “This is why women belong in the kitchen halls.”