Bied’s back had stopped protesting hours before, but her feet continually reminded her she’d been on them for hours beyond hours. Halfway through the serving and her mind was wandering from the task. She was used to labour, but that very morning she’d drunk ale and was sick and her stomach still felt uneasy.
She felt uneasy. Tess was correct, she’d drunk such amounts before and had never been sick. She wondered if there was something wrong with the ale, but if there was, wouldn’t the guards or Lord Warstone have mentioned it?
Then there was her sister. So much nearer than before and still so far away. The serving of courses slowed the meal, giving her time to cook, to plate such quantities, but it allowed her no time to slip up the stairs and see Margery.
Dessert was next. She needed an excuse to present herself or at the very least to swap duties with a server. All the time she cooked the old cabbage and onions, her sister’s message burned in her mind worse than the turnips that had to be thrown away. And she was mere steps away! Bied cursed this absurd meal, the foolish Steward and the maddening Usher who forced her to toil at yet another task she hated. But mostly, she cursed those cursed goblets.
Louve was inspecting the oven preparation for the morrow when Jeanne approached him as a mouse would a cat. One of her cheeks was red as if she’d been slapped.
He saw red himself before he heard any of her rushed words—that Lord Warstone requested the appearance of his new Usher.
Louve wanted to bound up the stairs, draw his sword and exact some revenge on Jeanne’s behalf. If such injury came to a young woman, then it was likely other servants were also treated poorly.
When he strode through the doorway, he waited in the shadows to take measure of the Hall. And what he observed... The guards. They were cavalier at the gates, arrogant in their superiority, but their behaviour in the Hall went far beyond inconsideration.
Guards pushed, shoved, great platters of food were upended, unruly conversation thrived. Two warriors at a table played some game of strength while bets were being taken. In between the benches, servers were mauled and tugged on to laps. Some laughter from both parties, some shrieking with alarm.
In the far corner, a man’s back faced the room. His trews were undone and around his knees as he rutted a woman against another half-dressed man. Other men stood around them, cheering or waiting their turn.
No sword, no men at his side. Louve wanted to defeat them all, but instead he swung his gaze to the high table.
The Warstone resemblance was uncanny and unmistakable. Ian of Warstone lounged in his chair, one hand absently caressing the cheek of the woman sitting next him, the other wrapped around one of the last remaining goblets.
He was listening to a tale told to him from a giant brute of a warrior standing on the opposite side of their table. Ian appeared somewhat amused, his mistress...
Sitting unerringly still, her hands in her lap, she neither ate nor drank. She didn’t appear to be listening, though the warrior’s antics were comically exaggerated. Instead, she actively avoided gazing at the warrior at all.
She was like that rabbit who knew it’d been spotted by the fox; she was, as well, singularly stunning. Hair the colour of gold, large eyes framed with lush lashes. Lashes wholly unneeded, for even from this distance the colour of her eyes was a mesmerising violet, like lavender made into clear gems.
But her beauty could not hide the corner of her slightly swollen lip. The demeanour of a woman who had been damaged and knew she’d be hurt again.
There was a familiarity about her that irritated him because he could not remember meeting one such as she and not doing something about it. However, something about her features drew his curiosity, but that was it. Beauty that she was, she held no candle to—
‘What do we have here?’ Ian’s voice boomed out to the crowd.
The brute immediately stopped and turned; his stance was wide to protect his master. Scarred face, ruthless hand drawing his sword.
‘Come now, Evrart, no need for protection in my own house.’ Ian announced to everyone until his eyes locked on Louve’s and then there was a stillness in the room, in the middle of his chest. Thus, Ian’s next words were clear even above the roaring in Louve’s ears. ‘Is there need for protection in my home, Usher?’
Yes, Louve answered silently as he strode out from the doorway towards the dais. He hadn’t been asked to approach and he refused to wait for it as a servant would. He did, however, keep the role he chose. That of a hunched usher and one who was not trained with a sword.
Ian might, through his spies, know of him, but Louve could almost guarantee he hadn’t seen his appearance. Appearing weak, without being so, was an advantage he’d keep as long as possible.
Ian of Warstone kept the same empty expression so there was no telling if he was amused or angered. He did, however, lower his hand from his mistress’s cheek and place it on the table.
The woman breathed deeply as the large warrior strode to Ian’s other side. Louve had never seen a man that size before, not even his childhood friend who stood taller than most. If he had to face this man, Louve would be greatly taxed.
As for Ian, he wore all the arrogant and privileged markings of a Warstone: raven-black hair and the blank stare of a predator. But Ian’s eyes weren’t like his brothers’. Where theirs were differing shades of warm grey, Ian’s were much paler. Almost white and utterly malevolent.
‘You’re the one my Steward hired before he journeyed south,’ Ian said.
Ah, so this was how it was to be played before an audience, with them both pretending in their roles. Fair enough.
‘I had come looking for other work, my lord,’ Louve said, ‘but it appeared my services were needed in a much broader capacity. I hope you have found everything satisfactory.’
‘I can assure you I am most satisfied with your presence,’ Ian said. ‘Delighted, in fact. It has been far too long since I had an usher and can see the position holds much merit. After all, how amusing it was to be served dishes the way they do in England. To savour flavours one by one by one. I can think of few things that I relish as much as food. This, perhaps...’ Ian scraped his finger across his mistress’s shoulder ‘...or perhaps that thrust of a short dagger in an enemy’s heart come close.’
The woman wrapped a trembling hand around her goblet and took a drink. She set it down just as slowly, her mouth moving even after she swallowed as though she was tasting something she didn’t like.
There was much about this situation that Louve didn’t like, but if Ian thought he was as trapped or vulnerable as this woman, he was mistaken. He’d bide his time until—
A guttural groan from the back drew Ian’s pointed gaze and he flicked a finger to the corner. Without a word, there was the scraping of a bench, the thud of fists, the mad pattering of a woman’s bare feet against fresh rushes.
Louve refused to take his gaze away from the enemy.
‘Excuse my men for their lack of manners.’ Ian smiled at him. ‘It has been too long since they fought and released their...liveliness. You can understand what that can do to a man to be so pent up.’
He was there when Ian’s men last released their liveliness. His friend, Eude, a fellow mercenary, had been killed before he reached Reynold’s door in Paris.
‘In theory, yes,’ Louve replied formally, exacting. In these games, it was best to mimic the other player for it revealed less of himself. ‘But I do not have the penchant that warriors have, hence my duties to serve have fallen in other, but no less meaningful, ways.’
Ian’s eyes roamed over Louve, who kept his hunched demeanour. Not too much—he could never sustain the ruse—but enough to bely some weakness.
‘Hmm, yes,’ Ian said. ‘But I do not believe those duties pertain to the actual food that graced my table this eve.’
‘Was there something the matter with the fare?’
‘Oh, no, nothing wrong with it.’ Ian waved his hand. ‘The meat tasted of meat, the fava beans were shelled properly, but that comes to the issue. I am often gone, but when in residence, I like my privacy and to stay in my rooms.’
Ian expected him to comment, but Louve inclined his head instead. If there was a point to this banal talk of eating, it was best to get on with it.
Ian’s lips curved and he continued, ‘Over the years, my cook has prepared me particular dishes a particular way. Masking the true flavours of food with green twigs from the garden and salt from the pantry. Now I can see that was of no benefit. Thus, I can only surmise that it wasn’t Cook who prepared the meal?’
Louve didn’t trust or like the direction of the conversation. To tell a lie wouldn’t benefit his game, to tell the truth could reveal a weakness: Bied.
‘No, Cook felt poorly and thus your staff had taken over his duties,’ Louve said.
‘My staff? You mean the ones who served the food, the baker, who appeared to make the same pies? No, no. This fine fare must be your doing, and thus, you must have directed the person to feed me in particular this evening. After all, what usher wouldn’t want to impress a Warstone? Come, tell me who it was, or better yet, go fetch them so I can thank them personally.’
Never. Not in a thousand years. Ian didn’t wish to thank the person who prepared the food. Ian wished to know who had fed him, to mark them in case the fare was poisoned. To track them, spy on them in case the person was of some import to Louve or Reynold.
However, if he appeared to defend Biedeluue even in the most insignificant of ways, it would mark her death.
‘It is, and has been, one of your staff,’ Louve replied. ‘I’m surprised you have not dined on her food before. For I am new, but she is not and willingly volunteered for this evening. If you’ll allow my leave, I’ll bring her forth.’
Ian waved his hand. ‘No, no. You’ve worked too hard. I will have one of my men fetch her. Name?’
‘Biedeluue,’ Louve replied readily.
The mistress jerked and the smallest morsel of omelette, balanced on her knife, flew across the table.
They all watched it fall to the floor except the culprit who immediately dropped her gaze. ‘I’m so sorry, my lord.’
Ian’s smile and eyes were almost indulgent. ‘No worries, my Margery. Now let’s see this new cook.’ Ian tilted his chin at a guard who immediately strode to the back of the room.
He burned to warn Bied. She most likely would be surprised and terrified upon the guard’s approach, could possibly stall or deny. He was surrounded by men who could easily kill him and Louve prayed that Bied for once wasn’t the determined, stubborn, courageous, reckless person he knew her to be.