Word and Deed (2 page)

“Where is your sword?”

He grasped out of habit for the hilt and
found air. “I was warned of your skill with the blade and reasoned
it was best to not bring it with me.”

“Someone’s tongue appears loosely hinged. Who
are you? Why do you come here?”

“As you said yesterday, I was sent by
Silvaticus to meet you and give him a report.”

“I mean, why return? Surely you evaluated
enough yesterday.”

“My task is not finished.”

Aware of my exposed feet growing numb, I
crossed the flagstone path to retrieve my cast off slippers. “What
more would Lord Silvaticus seek to learn? Whether or not I am
pox-scarred or deformed? I assure you I stand whole and have all my
limbs and digits.” I spread my fingers for emphasis. “They are
straight and serve me well.”

Bryn Wolfe’s mouth twitched. “Nay, Silvaticus
is concerned he should find a blade between his ribs on his wedding
night.”

I laughed. “He fears a woman?”

“He is a cautious man, not prone to
impulse.”

“Yet he purchases a wife knowing nothing of
the maid he must bed.”

“He has good reason and bedding you shall be
no trial, maid.”

My face afire, I turned my back to him as I
pulled on my shoes. “Tell me, Bryn Wolfe…”

“… Just Bryn,” he interrupted.

“Very well, Bryn, pray tell me what manner of
master is Lord Silvaticus?”

An awkward silence answered. I rose from
tying the last laces to find Bryn Wolfe looking profoundly
uncomfortable.

“Speak, man. No reason restrains me from
learning of him also, true?”

“None,” he admitted. “Yet …”

“You know him well, yes?”

“Yes, I am an intimate of his from many years
past, yet I have not needed to describe him before.”

“Surely someone has asked your opinion
before.”

I watched his features in earnest. Honesty
lined his face along with age and sun. I wondered how old he was.
Despite gray hair and scars, his eye and expression seemed
paradoxically younger, perhaps only a decade my senior.

“Fellow soldiers have asked, perhaps?” I
suggested.

“Nay.”

“Is he a fair master? Kind? Even
tempered?”

“All of those.”

“Yet fierce enough on the battlefield to
evoke fear of insanity among his equals.”

“A warrior undefeated,” he agreed.

“An enigma,” I surmised. Not as I wished. It
was easier to hate him if he was simply evil. But how could one
hate a man who was kind to his servants, even tempered, and
fair?

“You seemed unhappy to discover he is not a
monster?”

“It would be easy to hate a monster,” I
explained. “Deciding how to respond to a complex man is more
difficult.”

“Perhaps you could love him. I heard that is
the best response to marriage.” The amusement in his voice pulled
my attention to his features again. His single eye, a vibrant blue
like a cloudless summer sky, returned my intent scrutiny.

“Are you married, Bryn?”

“Sadly nay.”

“Do you wish to be?”

“Aye, a winsome lass to join me in bed each
night, share burdens and joys, and bear children we might raise
together, of course I wish it. Don’t you desire a marriage and
children?”

The words sounded less menacing spoken calmly
in a rich male voice. Within my thoughts, they had taken on the
attributes of a death knell. Perhaps because I thought of all these
things as solely my husband’s, but Bryn was right. Silvaticus’ bed
would be mine as well, his children also mine. We would share the
consequences of calamity and good harvest whether joined by love or
hate.

I grimaced. I didn’t want to see beyond the
hate, but the soldier’s words forced me to admit there was an
alternative.

“I wish the choice of husband,” I told
him.

He was watching the sky. A sudden rustle of
wind among barren branches brought the scent of rain.

“Seek shelter, my maid,” he entreated
wearily. “Rain comes. If you become ill, more than my conscience
will berate me.”

Three drops of cold water fell on my face. I
shivered, suddenly chilled. Turning to ask Bryn whether he would
return to ask more questions, I found him gone.

I climbed the slick stone steps in
confusion.

Ealdine greeted me at the door. “Ah, Verity,
love, you are sopping.” As she removed my wet gown and kirtle, she
clicked her tongue. “Come stand closer to the fire child. We must
dry your hair. Where did I put your brush?”

Submitting to her tugs and rambles, I only
half listened to her words. Instead I drank in the warmth of the
flames.

“Lord Silvanticus arrived today. You missed
quite a pageant, Verity.” She paused to gesture with the brush over
my shoulder. “Banners, heralds, and an honor guard that put your
brother’s to shame. So many men, young strong men, you will be well
defended at Ardenstain when you are his lady.”

“And what of my betrothed?” I attempted to
keep my tone casual.

“He is a strapping man. He stood at least
half a head above your brother.” The brush caught a knot. She bent
to work at it with a comb. “It was strange though. Lord Silvanticus
refused to remove his helm. Even after he dismounted, he didn’t
remove it. He conversed with our lord in the hall as though he
didn’t wear a helmet at all.”

“That is strange.”

“It is. But you should hear what they are
saying in the kitchens.” She then spilled all the bits of news she
gathered while claiming my tray of food.

Tension welled in my middle as I listened.
Despite the apparent jubilation of the new arrivals, the
gossipmongers whispered that the presentation of his armed men
resembled an invasion force more than a peaceful wedding party.
Also circling was the suspicion that his helmet hid a grotesque
countenance awful enough to bring even me to vapors.

Finally as I sat warmly wrapped in a blanket
with a large trencher of stew, she recalled the letter.

“From Lord Silvaticus.” She offered it like a
missive from God, with fear and anticipation. “I cannot stay. My
hour is past.” As though the guard listened at keyhole, a rap on
the door underlined the truth of her words. With a final glance to
the parchment packet, she shuffled past the looming guard and was
gone until morning.

Left to silence, I glanced at the window.
Night lay in dark curtains against the lattice, still despite the
steady patter of rain against the stone. A single candle held the
darkness back within my small room. Reluctantly, I focused on the
letter.

The handwriting, perhaps his scribe, appeared
to lash the page, heavy yet clear and adequately formed. Not the
writing of a hand accustomed to the sword.

Maid Verity Favian,

I presented myself and found you below in
the garden. I beg leave to visit at noon on the morrow.

Lord Silvaticus

Gravy congealed in my stomach. I swallowed
cautiously and set aside my stew. Appetite absent in light of the
future, I curled up in my blanket.

-----

Morning brought the faded light of a cloudy
sky. I stood at the lattice watching the wind blow the clouds
across the expanse. Ealdine, coming early to prepare me, fluttered
about brushing my hair a seventh time, fixing the fall of my
clothing, or chiding me to behave properly toward my husband to be.
All of her ministrations faded like distant noise. Numb with
exhaustion from a sleepless night, my head resembled the gray skies
above.

Lord Silvaticus arrived promptly. Wearing his
mail beneath his scarlet tunic and the figure of a gray wolf’s head
blazoned across his chest, he filled my small chamber with the
masculine scents of fresh air and leather.

“We have no need of you,” he informed
Ealdine.

His voice, deep and modulated for the open
air of the practice yard, assaulted my ears and drove me back a
step. I attempted to hide the movement by turning toward the window
again, but he tensed nonetheless.

Ealdine retreated with fluttering hands and a
wobbly curtsey, leaving us very alone.

He cleared his throat. “Might I have the
benefit of seeing your face?” Tone and volume more acclimated for
the small confines of the room; he made an obvious effort to speak
courteously.

I complied, stepping back from the window to
allow the light to fall on my face.

“You are comely.”

I didn’t blush at the words.

“Thank you, my lord.” I lifted my gaze to his
face, but encountered only eyes. Chain mail obscured all else. “Why
do you hide your features, my lord?”

His regard intensified. “You are the first to
ask.”

“A test in bravery then? Only the bravest
ask?”

“Nay, but it is telling just the same. You
may consider it an affectation with a purpose.”

“You wish to hide in plain view. Maintain
respect and fear with mystery.”

“Ah, you have discovered my purpose. And you?
Why do you retreat behind these stone walls? Do you conceal some
defect? I discern nothing wrong with your face beyond lack of
sleep.”

My cheeks warmed, but it was not fueled by
modesty. Anger kindled with my belly.

“My lord, I am not here of my own choice. I
angered my brother with my words and he wished to silence me. I
disturb his delusions.”

“What delusion do you threaten?”

I laughed. “Many, my lord, but primarily his
misapprehensions of innocence, power, and good opinion. I remind
him that he cannot tame me and the people don’t respect him, though
they fear to speak or show it.”

He tensed as I spoke. “And innocence?”

“That he fears most of all. He tells himself
none will listen to my accusations, but to be certain none will, he
locks me behind wood and stone where no one can hear my words. Try
as he might, he cannot expunge the truth from my knowledge. He
killed our father.”

Silvaticus sucked air sharply through his
teeth. “That truly is a weighty accusation. Have you proof?”

“My own witness, which is so valueless I
still live.”

“Tell me what you witnessed.”

I frowned at him. “Why do you wish to
know?”

“I seek justice for your father. Rumor of a
foul hand came with the news of his death. I knew him and grieved
his untimely death. I swore to find the culprit and bring him
forward to meet justice.”

I studied the area of his face I could
observe. Crows’ feet bracketed his eyes. The creases created by
laughter or worry, I couldn’t discern which. Regardless, his eyes
didn’t reveal his age or honesty.

“How did you know my father?”

“Familial association, my sire and he
fostered together under Sir Ligonier. When the time came, I
fostered under your father.”

Memories of lanky boys sent from lesser lords
to learn from my father flooded my mind.

“I do not recall you,” I pointed out.

“I wouldn’t expect you to. You still toddled
in your step-mother’s shadow when I left. I was recalled to my home
upon my father’s death.”

He gave me nothing beyond what common
knowledge or a conversation with a servant would have provided.

“You are going to have to trust me,
Verity.”

“Aye, it seems I must.” I turned to look out
the window. The telling of my father’s death always brought tears.
I didn’t wish him to see.

“Seven months past, Father had just returned
from a journey to visit the king. He retired before the evening
meal asking for only a mulled wine brought to him in an hour’s
time. I visited the kitchen, resolved to be the one to bring him
the cup. Verdon had already claimed the right. I left the kitchen
intent on going to the stables. I practically fell over my brother
crouched over the cup on the ground just outside the kitchens. As
he rose to chastise me for not watching my steps, he tucked a small
packet away in his pocket. I thought it strange, but my thoughts
were on my task.”

I took an unsteady breath.

“If only I had stopped him, called for
Father’s steward, or done something.” Lead weights seemed to pull
at my chest with the memory of that crucial moment. “Within the
hour Father was casting up the contents of his stomach. His agony
brought him to screaming. By midnight, he was gone. The silence
almost a relief, I clung to the fact he was no longer in pain. But
I ache every time Verdon wears father’s sword.”

Emotion knotted at the back of my throat.

“It was not meant for him.”

Silence followed my final words. After a few
measured breaths, I regarded my audience. He now stood just behind
me, his solid shoulder a hand’s breadth from my head. His closeness
was a relief and a discomfort. He had listened. More than many
others would do.

Finally he spoke. “Few are worthy of such a
prize as that sword, forged by Trisan the sword master. Rease was
proud of it.”

In the following pause, I marveled he called
Father by his first name. Few did.

I considered mentioning that Father promised
the sword to me, a petty claim considering the graver issues at
hand.

“Did you accuse your brother?”

“Aye, privately.” Out the window, a watchman
paced above the gate. “He laughed in my face.” Venison-flecked
spittle had coated my skin, making my whole being feel greasy. My
stomach roiled.

“Did you speak to anyone else about your
suspicions?”

I shook my head. “Not until publicly accusing
him a week past.”

“Hmm…” He stepped away.

I released a forgotten breath. My hands
shook. I pressed them to my abdomen to hide their trembling.
Familiar sensations of weakness and helplessness bit at my fear,
riling it. In the face of my inability to bring justice to my
father’s killer and peace to my father’s memory, anger grew out of
fear. I needed to quench this fire in my being. Only resolution
would extinguish my ire.