~ 2 ~

“Well, at least it should be easy to convince the winner to take the money instead of the holding.” Roland sat on the edge of their father’s desk, idly swinging his foot. “Sweet Cheelum. How did we end up with such a champion? A garrison knight. Not a drop of noble blood in him. Supposedly knighted from the ranks of the men-at-arms. The second man standing would have been a better choice. Perhaps we can defer to him when the first is out of the way. Unless you’re done proving that you control the situation and will accept the obvious choice of Sir Kenteth.” This last was a statement addressed to Anlin where she sat by the solar’s window.

Anlin stared stonily at her brother. Could he tell from her expression that she thought him a fool? “I’ve told you repeatedly that in my mind, Kenteth will always be my brother-in-law, Sybil’s husband. Her death makes no difference. Neither he nor I have any desire to change this relationship. I was the one to press for this tournament—and I’m the one who will live with the results.”

She’d held on to Sir Kenteth’s image through the first months of her ordeal in Rennic, tried to wrap her mind in his former kindness to cushion the brutality around her. But over time, she’d made a shocking discovery. Sir Kenteth was not the man she needed. He was kind. He was considerate. And he was soft.

She now knew she needed someone who was ruthless, someone who would do what was expedient to get what he wanted. That had been the entire purpose of this tournament. The winner should have been the hardest, meanest fighter who was present. She hoped she’d gotten him. She personally didn’t care if he’d ever been knighted. His only disqualifying feature would be an affinity for magic. But this was something the two of them would discuss privately.

“Well, the ‘results,’ as you name him, is certainly taking his own sweet time about coming to claim you,” Roland said.

Her father reached over and put a hand on her brother’s knee. “Enough, Roland. We’re already well acquainted with your opinion. I promised Anlin that we’d abide by the rules she set down. As for Sir Faulk’s tardiness—he sent a referee’s assistant asking me to give him time to arrange ransom for those he’d captured, and I agreed.”

“I noticed he captured only those who could pay well to get their mounts and equipage back,” Roland continued in the same vein. “I doubt that was happenstance. Sir Faulk is a man looking to increase his income, not marry and swear fealty to you. I’m sure he’ll take the money and you’ll not have to give your daughter, as well as one of your best fiefs, to some unknown man-at-arms.”

The two men continued the discussion, dismissing Anlin as though she’d left the room. She didn’t mind. Regardless of what was said, she was the only one who could reject this man, this Sir Faulk.

What did she know about him? Her brother had been bludgeoning her with his humble origins, “raised in a monastery, obviously someone’s bastard, supposedly knighted and pledged to a lord in the north who got himself killed fighting the king.” Yes, she’d heard all the damning evidence. But she’d also seen him fight.

And fighting was something that Sir Faulk did very well.

A knock came from the door, the sound stopping Anlin’s reverie and ending her brother and father’s conversation. “Come,” her father called.

As the door opened, both men rose to their feet as if expecting trouble rather than an anticipated visitor. With difficulty, Anlin remained seated in the window alcove. She schooled her features to reflect none of the tumult she felt.

The man who entered was subtly different from the one that she’d seen on the field. He was taller than she expected, nearly of a height with her father and brother, but he walked with the same powerful, self-contained movement she remembered. He was a man comfortable in his own skin and confident that he could control most situations. He wore a tunic of the same moss green as his surcoat. His dark hair, poorly cut and showing a tendency to curl at his neck, glinted a deep, dark red in the light from the setting sun that slanted through the solar window.

“Sir Faulk of Jarburgh?” her father said, more a statement than a question.

“Lord Giffard, Sir Roland.” Faulk acknowledged the standing men. Then no one seemed to know how to proceed.

Anlin stood from her position by the window and inserted herself into the awkward silence. “I am Lady Anlin Giffard,” she said moving toward them. Three pair of eyes swiveled toward her.

Faulk was the first to acknowledge her. “My lady.” He bowed with graceful courtesy, something she hadn’t expected from the man she thought he was.

Her brother wasn’t about to be similarly courteous. “Go back and sit down,” Roland said. “I reluctantly agreed to father’s decision to let you remain, but this is a discussion for men. You should stay out of it.”

“I’m the one most involved,” she said, giving her brother a cold stare. Anger simmered—anger that she’d carefully suppressed all these months. Anger at abandonment. Anger at men, any men, determining her future with no regard to her own feelings. She sometimes felt there was little difference in her position here from that of a slave in Rennic.

“She is the one most involved,” her father said, slanting Roland a quelling look. “Any decisions made are hers, not yours, not mine, and ultimately, not even Sir Faulk’s. Normally the men work out the property distribution, and the lady is presented with the decisions after the fact. This situation is hardly normal, however, so I think it would make most sense if we all sat down, had some wine, and came to our conclusions jointly.” He gestured to the table and benches that sat before a cold fireplace. “Sir Faulk, if you’d please be seated.”

Faulk walked to one of the benches, the rest of them filling in the open spaces. Anlin and her father ended up on one side of the table. After her brother had poured the wine, all the while frowning at Anlin because she’d not done so, Roland rather hesitantly took the place beside Faulk. Anlin noted the fragile Tremellian glasses had been placed on the table. She doubted Faulk understood the honor that was being accorded him.

“We understand that you’re not sworn elsewhere. Is our information correct, Sir Faulk?” Lord Giffard asked.

“Yes, sir.” Faulk looked down at his hands gently holding the stem of the expensive glass. “I was sworn to Lord Philip Lealand, was part of his household for the past eighteen years, but was released with his death over a year ago.”

“And in that time, you’ve sworn fealty to no one else?” Roland asked.

“No, Sir Roland. Due to the nature of Lord Lealand’s death, and to the knowledge that I’d been his man for so long, I’ve received no offers that I would consider.” Faulk gave Roland a look that Anlin couldn’t quite interpret. She tried to remember what she’d heard about the death of Lord Lealand. She’d never met him, but knew that his estate lay in the North, knew he’d rebelled against the king in some way. As with much of what had transpired in Fallucia during her captivity, however, she really didn’t care what had happened.

“If you were with Lealand for eighteen years, you must have come there when you were a boy,” Lord Giffard said.

“Yes, sir. I was eleven. Previously I’d been at the monastery at Jarburgh, but by eleven it had become apparent that Cheelum had other plans for my life.” Faulk gave a deprecating smile. The smile changed his face and made his remarkable eyes glow. “That’s a nice way of saying that I didn’t fit at Jarburgh, that it had become obvious that I’d never make a monk, and that I was more trouble than I was worth. Lord Lealand was the brother of one of the monks there, and after one of his visits, Lord Lealand took me to live at his castle.

“I started out working in the stables. I’ve always liked horses. But, like all the young boys in residence, I was given arms instruction and was good at it. I eventually became a man-at-arms. Four years ago, I was knighted for valor in the field. I believe you know the rest.”

“All those years and your previous lord never felt you were competent enough to have your own holding?” Roland asked. Anlin didn’t need to notice the way Faulk’s fist tightened on the glass’s stem to realize her brother’s question contained an insult.

“Lord Lealand had limited land,” Faulk said with studied evenness. “There was a disputed holding that he thought to give into my care, but the dispute was settled against him.” He stared hard at her brother. Roland flushed and looked away.

“You understand you’ll have to swear to me if you take up the tenancy of the holding I offered the winner of the tournament,” Lord Giffard said. “I’m indisputably the king’s man. Can you, in good conscious, do so?”

Faulk looked directly at her father. “I thought about this carefully before entering the lists, my lord. I’ve heard only good things about you and feel you’d not misuse my loyalty. If you believed a cause was just, either in the king’s behalf or simply in your own, I feel I could honorably follow you. I would give you the full extent of my loyalty and fighting skill.”

Anlin could see only sincerity in Sir Faulk’s face, but she felt he’d somehow skirted the issue. He’d indicated his loyalty would be to her father, which was right, but he’d also seemed to suggest that this loyalty didn’t extend to the king. Sir Faulk appeared to indicate he’d be willing to fight for Giffard either for or against the chief magnate in the land.

Her father leaned back, however, as if satisfied with the answer. Her brother started to speak, but Lord Giffard held up his hand for silence. “Then I think there’d be no impediment to your taking the holding. It’s named White Ford. At some future time, you might want to style yourself Faulk of White Ford, unless you have a strong continuing connection to Jarburgh.”

“I would gladly accept the honor you offer me,” Faulk said. “But I was led to believe the Lady Anlin had the final say in the matter. We two should discuss her concerns.”

He looked at her with such concentration that Anlin realized Faulk had been acutely conscious of her presence throughout. To the others she’d disappeared, noticed but not noted, like a tapestry on the wall. Faulk, however, had had part of his mind constantly attuned to her.

He was correct, though. The decision was ultimately hers. He was not a bad looking man. His face would have been just average had it not been for the striking green eyes. Remarkable for one who had fought for so many years, she saw no scars on his face except for a recently won bruise darkening along his lower jaw.

His shoulders were wide. The fabric of his tunic stretched tight across them. The same rather poorly-designed, fat-looking falcon that had been displayed on his surcoat now decorated the upper left shoulder of his tunic. For all its slightly misshapen appearance, a talented hand had carefully embroidered the bird. The work of a mother, or sister, or lover?

If it was the latter, it made no difference. Anlin hadn’t planned to demand any sort of fidelity. Faulk’s faithfulness and loyalty could be reserved for her father. If the man would accomplish her goal, that would be enough. To get what she wanted, she would pay with her body, she’d done so often enough before, but she hoped he would find that sort of activity elsewhere. She suspected what he really wanted was the land, and if he would follow her instruction in just one thing, it would be his for as long as he lived.

“Yes,” she said, “I believe it would be best if Sir Faulk and I came to an agreement before we proceeded.” When neither her brother nor father made a move to leave she added, “Alone.”

Her brother’s face darkened, and he looked as if he’d disagree. What? Did he think he needed to stay here to protect her? She had nothing left that needed protecting. As if her father understood better than her sibling, he abruptly stood, bringing the other two men to their feet.

“Yes, I think it is time for Anlin and Sir Faulk to see if they can find common cause. Roland, it’s best we leave.”

Although her brother frowned, he followed their father out the door, the sound of its closing making her think of a lid being placed on a coffin. Not a happy thought to begin a discussion of lifelong commitments.

Despite the misgivings she suddenly felt, she forced a smile onto her face. It was time to cast the dice and see if the game were winnable.