Flying past the guards and servants who gave them room, Louve hurried behind Bied, ready to block anyone who stopped her. The moment the linen door was open, all laughter was gone. Now he needed to protect her, knowing full well their time together was over. He shouldn’t even try to keep her. She needed to be as far away from the danger as possible.
Whatever game Ian wanted to play, he won. They know. They always know. Duped in this, but he could see no other angle when he negotiated to gain access to the private chambers.
How could there be any other interpretation? Her lip was cut, she pulled away from Ian’s touch and sent a message to Bied to rescue her.
Ah, but he hadn’t taken in the entirety of the situation. He hadn’t registered the giant of a warrior, Evrart, attempting to cheer her. He thought he was only making a fool of himself for Lord Warstone. Maybe if he had bothered to look at the warrior, he would have noticed a look of concern, but he kept his eyes on the enemy. Which, of course, Ian would have been aware of.
Down the stairs, Bied in front, her height all the more noticeable, the efficient way her hips swung at each step a beacon for his eyes. Even now.
Was he trying to get them killed with distractions? Was she, because she was a distraction? They weren’t done. Not nearly done enough and he burned for her. How was he to let her go? If he had his way, she would be a distraction for ever and they only had heartbeats of moments left.
He’d seen the Warstones emerge from the forests. Balthus was safe, but he felt as though time was not in their favour. That events had changed and he just didn’t know what they were. No more time to deliberate on whether he could trust Balthus or Reynold. For better or worse, he had to play the game before him.
When they hit the bottom of the stairwell, he grabbed Bied’s wrist to hurry their steps to the kitchen. There was a possibility he could hide her there until...the Hall was teeming with people, guards and Warstones.
Near the dais, Balthus and Ian were conversing, their heads close together. From this angle they appeared more like brothers than enemies. The shock of it stopped him, which yanked Bied against him and brought attention their way.
Ian’s eyes locked on him holding her wrist. His expression turned quickly to a victorious knowing while Balthus rolled his eyes. One brother discovering his weakness. The other disappointed he’d displayed it.
Why had he grabbed Bied’s wrist? Nothing for it now. Keeping his hold, he positioned himself in front of her.
Bied hadn’t meant to cry out and slam into Louve when he suddenly stopped, but the man had legs as long as countries and it took everything in her to keep up and gawk at the Hall which seethed something menacing. Most of the people she didn’t recognise; many of the guards had weaponry at their waists or in their hands.
‘Why is there no food on the tables?’
Bied swung her gaze towards the haughty voice. Lady Warstone strode across the Hall as if she owned it. Her green gown with enormous sleeves was so fine the weave shimmered as it flowed behind her.
‘I agree!’ Lord Warstone was as tall as his sons, his frame thicker, but no less formidable. ‘Are we to starve here?’
Ian must have given some sort of signal because three guards strode to the kitchens, their feet thudding against rushes roaring in her ears.
Louve didn’t make a sound, but his stance blocking her told enough, as did his protectively holding her wrist, his finger tapping gently at her pulse as if to let her know what he could not say.
He didn’t need to say anything, she knew they were trapped between predators. He said it would be different when they left the linen room, but she wasn’t prepared for it to happen so fast.
She thought there would be moments to prepare, but the Hall was flooding with people as if there was a gathering or announcement. Had Louve known such a sight would greet them and was he to be an usher or a mercenary? His back was to her, but the tension in his shoulders told her perhaps he didn’t know either.
If so, who did that make her when he continued to hold her wrist?
‘Oh, there’s Usher standing there,’ Lady Warstone drawled. ‘What are you doing with your household if he is so lazy? It appears he’s clasping a servant while your guards are fetching, how odd.’
‘There’s plenty of guards to spare, Mother, and they were closest to the doors.’ Ian’s voice perfectly mimicked his parent. ‘Usher and the cook are new, let them stay to celebrate our successful hunt and the return of a most faithful servant. Come, isn’t it happy news we could meet him on the road? There’s a feast to be had tonight!’
Lady Warstone waved her hand. ‘As if that much game will be prepared properly by tonight. Do you have any of that venison from yesterday? If so, get your cook to do something. I am terribly hungry.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, dear,’ her husband said, eyeing Bied and Louve. ‘This is our son. There’s more afoot here. See how protective this Usher is of his cook. Are they married? Is there a bond we’re about to break?’
Elder Warstone eyed them both as if they were a feast. Louve’s finger swept across her inner wrist once again and she took what comfort she could from it.
She was ready to run or fight and all they’d done was enter a Hall where people were talking. Talking! But it was the way they conversed, a flow between them that was tangible the more words were said. It was that feeling the words made that raised the hairs on the back of her neck, made her wish for a weapon so she could end them.
Whatever it was the Warstones created, she’d never experienced it before, not in all her travels. If she had to put a name to the feeling that permeated the Great Hall, she’d call it malice. But even that fell far short.
The doors behind them opened and many heads turned to watch servants including Tess, Galen and Henry carrying trays with multiple goblets. Too many.
Bied gasped. Louve clasped her wrist that bit tighter as he, too, realised the implication at the same time she did. The faithful servant whom Ian had met on the road had to be Steward.
More guards coming down the staircase behind them, but no Margery. In front more guards poured in from outside, including Evrart, whose eyes stayed a moment with Louve’s, then Bied’s. For some reason, that, too, brought her comfort as she recognised the person at his side. Steward, with a rigid smile slashing across his face, had returned.
He didn’t look at all well. His thin frame was gaunt, his pale skin sallow with drips of sweat beading under his nose. The sweat must have been profuse for her to see it a distance. He’d brought back the favoured goblets, but it seemed as though it had taken a toll on him. Or perhaps he didn’t like being in this Hall any more than she did.
‘Here are the refreshments, Mother,’ Ian said, his voice booming from wall to wall. ‘Wine for you all.’
Ian’s mother wasn’t looking at the servants carrying wine. Her pinched gaze was focused on the Steward and his wide, almost frantic, gaze was solely towards Lady Warstone. His father, however, appeared delighted and grabbed the first goblet, drinking it down and placing it on the next tray where he snatched another.
It was an odd way of serving refreshments. Customarily, the goblets would be empty and there would be someone carrying a pitcher of wine behind, or the wine would be on a table in the Hall to serve from. Perhaps it was another English way of serving she was unaware of, but it was little wonder Henry and Galen were there because the trays would be heavy.
As Bied tried to catch the gaze of any of her friends, she watched Ian stand by the dais with his family, while Balthus, conversing with one guard, shifted away. Evrart and the Steward remained side by side like matched sentinels, though Steward seemed on the edge of collapse.
Why she was noting everyone’s positions in the room she couldn’t say. Or, perhaps, the fact she couldn’t see Louve’s expression made her desperate to determine from others what was occurring.
As people drank, as servants with pitchers refilled those whose goblets were already empty, the smell of food began wafting from the kitchens. Her stomach growled even though she was hardly hungry, could at any moment be sick. Her lips were dry, however, and she eyed the goblets of liquid, but as tray after tray passed them, it became clear she and Louve were ignored...as was Steward.
With shaking knees, she stepped forward to see some of Louve’s profile to determine his thoughts on their being overlooked and was surprised to see the same bored expression on his face as the Warstones’ held. If he hadn’t continued to hold her wrist, she would have collapsed. Who...was this man? Who were any of them? How was it just moments before she’d told him she’d protect Evrart for Margery? Now, she absorbed Louve’s slight touch to remain standing.
Another slam of the kitchen door and Tess carried a tray with three goblets. She walked steadily towards them, her eyes conveying a meaning Bied was desperate to understand.
As Louve turned to her friend, his expression never changed. He released her wrist to grasp two of the goblets and Tess’s eyes widened as he lessened the burden she carried.
‘Refreshments for the servants, my boy,’ the elder Lord Warstone declared. ‘Something different, I presume?’
‘Ale!’ Ian said. ‘They might celebrate with us, but I won’t waste our wine on them.’
‘Rightly so, dear. Some servants can be such a disappointment.’ Ian’s mother held out her goblet for a server with a pitcher to refill it, but the lady’s arm was shaking and some of the wine hit the floor.
Louve handed a goblet to Bied. He, too, was trying to tell her something. But there was so much in that blue gaze of his, so much that had nothing to do with any of the malevolence surrounding them, and everything to do with something softer. True. What—
‘I love you,’ he mouthed before he turned away and his expression was once again void of emotion.
Overflowing with emotion, Bied’s heart thumped hard in her chest. Right on the back of the utter joy of seeing those words from Louve was the realisation that she didn’t silently say them back. That she couldn’t say them back because he’d purposefully turned away. And the realisation, too, of if she could, would it be true for her?
How could he say such words to her? If they got through this chilling celebration, she’d throw linen-wrapped goblets at him.
If, because they were served ale. She didn’t need to question whether it was from the poisoned cask. It had to be, though she couldn’t decipher the colour, and the scents of onion and roasting meat wafting from the kitchens masked anything unusual in the smell.
With an almost macabre fascination, she watched Tess traverse between the tables and men, to stand before Evrart and the Steward and raise the tray for one of them to take the remaining goblet.
‘No!’
‘Careful, Bied,’ Louve whispered.
No one looked their way—whatever she had said or done, only Louve noticed. But Margery’s Evrart was at risk. He might be taller than the sky and as wide as the earth, but poison could fell any man. She’d vowed, she’d promised she’d take care of him. Louve had made fun of her, but she meant it and—
Steward grasped the goblet with the weakest of holds.
‘Come, come, Steward,’ Ian said. ‘Take care of the ale and goblet. They were both made with the utmost care as you well know.’
Bied exhaled, noticing that Evrart had a goblet already, one with wine, and that Tess, with a glance her way, was returning to the kitchens along with Henry and Galen. She might be stuck in the perilous Hall, but her friends were safe.
Ian raised his goblet. ‘Now before we partake of a feast to end all feasts, I’d like us to give thanks for the Warstone bounty that never ceases.’ He turned to his parents. ‘To give thanks for generous parents whose journeys can never be restful, but still they come to visit their children.’
Ian surveyed the room, the eerie silence of the Hall sending a roar in Bied’s ears. ‘Are all goblets filled?’
Seemingly satisfied, he lifted his goblet up again. ‘And finally, I’d like to thank my brother for returning home, for the time we shared on the hunt. It meant far more than I could ever say.’
Balthus straightened; Bied felt Louve tense. She clenched her goblet, prepared to use it if she had to. Balthus raised his goblet, eyed the Hall as a whole, his gaze snagging on her and Louve before he returned to staring at his family.
‘To your good health, dear brother,’ Balthus cheered.
Ian’s smile was broad and wide, and with another resounding cry that was echoed by all he drank deep of his cup.
As did Evrart, as did Louve. And with a look behind her, filled with a tinge of remorse and relief that Margery wasn’t there, so did she.