Chapter 5

“Bend those knees!” Roland shouted, the rain plastering his hair to his head. Audri’s arms and thighs screamed for relief from the added weight of the three-foot-long, nine-inch-thick log placed across the back of her neck and shoulders. But she pressed on, not wanting to be a quitter. With Roland seeking out different activities that didn’t involve the company of any Guildon knights other than Sir Heath, they were often forced out into the rain. The deluge had chilled her at first, turning her plaited hair into a heavy mop hanging down her back, but, after a time, her exertion overpowered the cold, which soon felt good to her heated body.

“Down!”

She squatted down and then up again, the fire in her leg muscles maximizing.

“Down!”

She bent her aching knees again.

True to his word, Roland had participated in every activity with her the past few weeks, giving himself the same workout and showing her that she was a long way from his level. Though she respected his involvement, she wasn’t sure if it was more encouraging or discouraging to compare her obvious lack to his honed skills, but it made her try harder to prove herself.

She glanced over at Heath as she did another painful squat. The large knight also squatted with a hefty log over his broad shoulders. The addition of Heath to their drills frequently resulted in spontaneous competitions between him and Roland, such as the current contest to see who could do more knee bends under their heavy weight. They were presently tied at fifty-three, though she was only at twenty-five. She wondered at Heath’s frequent attendance—how did he managed to get out of his regular duties to join them so often? She didn’t think Sir Doyle would let any knight get away with shirking his duties to pursue other ventures. However Heath managed it, Audri had to admit that she enjoyed his presence. He was actually quite droll, and he added a ray of sunshine to the rainy days.

“My . . . poor . . . legs,” Heath said through gritted teeth between distinct grunts, followed by, “Can’t . . . do . . . any . . . more.” At this, he twisted his frame, allowing the log to tip off to the side and lay in the mud. The timber was followed by his body falling in much the same way, landing face up on the squishy earth. “I’m done for,” he said with a grin on his face. “You’ve won this round, Sir Haunches,” he directed at Roland.

Audri would have laughed had she the strength to do so. She continued to squat with her cylindrical weight.

She managed a glance at Gail, who was standing under a nearby tree, the thick leaves keeping her relatively dry. Audri noted Gail’s interested eyes and upturned mouth weren’t directed at her but at Sir Heath instead. Audri smiled to herself, knowing Gail had come to welcome his company as well, though Gail felt that she had to act as if she didn’t for propriety’s sake. Heath treated her with tender words and respect, and he never mentioned her obvious scar. He was the opposite of what Gail had experienced at the hands of her deceased husband.

“Down, squire!” Roland’s voice cut into her wayward thoughts. “You must do more than that to earn your title.”

She tried glaring at Roland’s face as she bent her knees, but the weight of the log pushing down on her neck and shoulders caused her head to droop. She couldn’t muster the strength to lift her eyes past the level of his boots. Fine. She’d glare at his boots.

Roland’s soles, like her own, had sunk several inches into the mud under the added weight. The long timber lying atop his muscular back and shoulders was much larger than hers, but he still wasn’t straining as she was, curse the man.

Audri took a deep breath and squatted again, her legs shaking with fatigue. She didn’t think she could do this much longer. The first time he’d set a log on her she had only done eleven bends before losing the contents of her stomach all over the ground. She had been grateful for the rain that day as it helped wash away the mess. She had also been mortified throwing up in front of Roland and had hoped to be excused for the rest of the day, but Roland had her continue despite the incident and Gail’s protests. At least this time, even after twenty-nine, she didn’t throw up. That meant something, right?

“Good,” he praised when she pressed out her final of thirty squats. He dropped his own log to the ground, having finished sixty, and then helped lift hers off her back. She could feel the resulting welts and bruises. “You’re doing better, looking stronger. And you didn’t vomit this time. That’s encouraging. Next time we’ll use a bigger log.”

Just thinking of a heavier weight made her queasy.

Her muscles were relentlessly brought to their limit. The sword fighting, archery, and lance techniques were all harder than the seasoned knights made them appear. Her sore body didn’t fully recuperate before the training increased in difficulty. As soon as she became semi-proficient at something, Roland amplified the exercise, putting her muscles to the test once again.

“A quick break and then on to the next,” Roland said after seeing she was no worse for wear.

On to the next was a phrase she was coming to dread from his fine lips. She’d never experienced anything like Roland’s special brand of training in her entire life. Some days she honestly felt she’d never fully recover from this onslaught of torture.

She hadn’t expected to feel such pride in being an apprentice knight, but she got a sense of jubilation in being Roland’s squire. She even found herself eager to learn more each day. It was like she finally had a purpose, like she was accomplishing something other than rebelling against Festus. And it felt good. Well, mentally.

They performed every task imaginable that gained them both exercise and service at the same time. They hauled more water in buckets, moved more stones, built more walls, shoveled manure, pulled hand carts, hiked up and down hills, climbed up and down trees to rescue domestic cats, and pulled weeds for aged villagers. And that was in addition to the weapon training he set before her. The sword drills were enough of a toll on her body, but Roland added swimming in cold water (exceptionally difficult in water-logged clothing), archery, axe throwing, and conditioning with numerous armaments.

A few days before, after jogging around multiple haystacks, she’d placed her hands at her hips to catch her breath. Something felt different. Her hands squeezed the jiggly rolls at her middle, but she wasn’t able to grip as much skin as usual between her fingers. Her waist was shrinking, and she could feel the beginnings of hardened muscle beneath it. Despite the grueling drills and the physical pain they caused her, Audri smiled inside, feeling proud of her accomplishments.

Then she sobered.

Her initial desire to rebel against Roland didn’t feel as strong anymore, and this, more than anything else, confused her. When he’d say, “All right, squire, on to the next,” as they moved from one task to another, she used to roll her eyes and huff before complaining over the difficulty of the chores and her fatigue from the previous drills. But as she got accustomed to his regimen and felt her body strengthen under its toils, she was tempted to say, “Do your worst, Sir Knight. I can take it.” She never said this aloud of course, not wanting him to actually do his worst.

Her shifted sentiments certainly put a thorn in her plans to be obstinate. Though she admitted the man’s allure was obvious—his handsome face accented by dark-red stubble being hard for any woman to ignore—she also acknowledged a tentative respect for Sir Roland.

But did she feel this way because her attraction to him muddled her usually logical mind? Or was she drawn to his honorable actions in taking her training seriously? Roland was straightforward and demanding, but he didn’t call her names or degrade her like Festus. Perhaps her feelings had more to do with motivation in earning back her village trips, which had been denied her thus far. Yes, that was it. It must be, or she was in trouble. She needed to remain impervious to Roland’s charms. He was simply a means to an end, nothing more. She bit her bottom lip, ignoring the voice in the back of her mind that whispered she wasn’t being completely honest.

 

A week later, they sat in the knights’ tent with the other squires before the evening meal. The young boys were spread around the covered area, cleaning and polishing the weapons and armor. Audrina had just finished cleaning a practice sword and placed it on the rack. Sir Heath had other duties and wasn’t with them, but Roland was relieved to see Gail still held her tongue. It seemed Heath’s influence had met its goal, but Roland would still welcome his friend if he chose to drill with them from time to time.

“I’m giving you the singular task of washing these shields before going to cena,” Roland said to Audrina as he stood up.

“You mean all of these?” Audrina gaped at the nearly forty dirty shields stacked against the long rack.

“Yes, all of them. These squires,” he indicated the lads with a sweep of his hand, “are working to finish their own knights’ armaments. Being that you had my help finishing ours, you can help them by washing all the shields.”

“But that will take hours!” his squire protested.

“Then you should get started.” Roland walked toward the exit, then stopped and turned. “Tell you what. Lady Pritchard may help this time if that will get it done faster.” He smiled shrewdly, knowing Gail would probably take offense to the menial task and refuse.

Both Gail and Audrina gawked at him, but his squire eventually grabbed her bucket of water and linen cloth. She stomped over to the first of the forty and set to work washing the mud from it. Audrina’s silent compliance pleased him, but what really surprised him was that Gail followed suit, taking him up on the suggestion to help. No doubt she intended to prove she was willing to aid her lady in whatever circumstance necessary, even if it meant doing lowly squire chores.

Roland lifted an eyebrow at them, feeling quite satisfied, before leaving.

Making his way down the lower corridor, the smell of roast chicken wafted from the great hall, tantalizing his senses. At the opposite end of the passageway, he spotted Father Bromel as he rounded the corner and came toward him. The thought struck Roland that Father Bromel had probably been in Guildon many years and knew just about everyone in the castle and village. He wondered if the man knew the Griffiths or remembered things as far back as his parents’ time.

“Father Bromel,” Roland hailed as he approached the spiritual leader.

“Ah, Sir Roland, the subject of everyone’s chatter of late.” Father Bromel smiled warmly.

Roland couldn’t help but grin. “Yes, well, you can be sure I didn’t go seeking the attention.”

“I supposed not,” Father Bromel nodded, his thoughtful eyes displaying sympathy. “What might I do for you, my son?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you knew some villagers by the name of Griffith.”

Father Bromel’s calm demeanor suddenly shifted to a stiff posture. He looked sideways at Roland as if searching out his motives for wanting to know. He opened his mouth to speak but looked as if he wasn’t sure what to say and closed it again. Roland thought it an odd reaction. Either the man knew of the Griffiths or he did not. A simple enough question to answer.

As if reading his thoughts, Father Bromel produced a smile. “You must forgive my slow memory. I have known many people in my lifetime and many Griffiths. My aged mind takes a moment to recollect. Maybe if you enlightened me on the reason you seek them, it would jog my remembrance, allowing me to send you in the right direction.”

Roland trusted the man but didn’t want to announce his personal mission to everyone. The less who knew of it, the more likely he could casually convince people to disclose details about the Griffiths and his birth parents.

Roland cleared his throat, thinking of a vague reply that would still gain him answers. “I heard they might have knowledge of something that I’m interested in.”

Father Bromel lifted an eyebrow, apparently waiting for more of an explanation, but Roland gave none.

“I see,” the holy man said, nodding slowly. “Well, I know a good many people in Guildon, but, alas, there are plenty I do not have an acquaintance with. I knew of some Griffiths who moved away years ago.”

“Do you know what region they went to?”

“Alas, I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

Roland’s shoulders slumped a little, but he kept his voice casual to mask his interest. “Are there other Griffiths residing in Guildon at this time?”

“There may be, but if there are, I do not know them. I fear I cannot help you. I’m sorry.” Father Bromel’s eyes shifted, making the man appear a bit nervous, but perhaps he was late for his next appointment. As if interpreting his thoughts again, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, my son, I must continue my rounds.”

“Of course, Father. Thank you for your time.” Roland stepped aside for the man to pass. Father Bromel dipped his head at Roland and headed down the corridor at a swifter pace than before.

Roland’s brows furrowed. He was disappointed at the lack of information, but if the man didn’t know any Griffiths currently residing in Guildon, then there was nothing for it. Another hopeful idea turned into a dead end. Roland continued to his chamber and washed up for cena.

He didn’t see Audrina or her maid again until they trudged into the great hall toward the end of the meal, looking exhausted and irritated. The moment she and Gail sat down at the squires’ table, several of the boys raced to sit next to them. Audrina’s demeanor perked up immediately, and she chatted with her tablemates as if she wasn’t twice their age. Roland suspected her quick wit and humor played a part in endearing her to them. The squires didn’t seem to have any qualms over including her in their conversations and jokes. They clearly considered her one of their own.

Roland stood up from where he was eating and made his way to the squires’ table. “Finished with the shields already?”

Audrina turned on her bench, a leg of roast chicken in her hand. She nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, I’ll have to inspect your work after I’ve finished eating.”

“Go right ahead, Sir Roland. I think you’ll be satisfied with our fine efforts.”

Roland nodded. “We’ll see if you pass my high standards. You and Gail will be excused to retire after you’re done here.”

Audrina nodded and turned back to her plate. As Roland returned to his own seat, a pair of knights, twin brothers known in Guildon for being troublemakers, brushed him on their way out the door. One of them bumped his shoulder as he passed by. Roland instinctively apologized, but the other knight only sneered at him, not missing a step. Roland shook his head, choosing to ignore the slight. Simply another example of Guildon knight jealousy and their deficient behavior toward him since stepping into his trainer position.

After the ladies left for their chamber, Roland entered the empty training tent with a lantern to inspect the shields. To his utter shock, they were all plastered with mud and scattered about the ground in reckless abandon. He felt the heat rise in his face. He was furious that she had not only lied to him about cleaning the shields, but that she had dirtied them worse than before. And here he’d thought she was on her way to losing her defiant ways. His jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists so tight that his nails dug into his palms.

He strode straight up to her chamber door and didn’t even knock before barging in.

“When I give an order,” he yelled at Audrina who was sitting at her little table dressed in clean kirtle and reading a book, “I expect you to follow it. You not only didn’t do what I told you to, but you lied about it as well!” His nostrils flared.

His intrusion had caused Gail to stand fast and place herself between the attacking knight and her lady. Audrina laid her book upside down on the table to keep her page and stood up. She stepped around Gail, coming to stand before Roland with a brave stance. “What are you talking about?” she yelled back.

“As if you don’t know, you little snit. Those shields are scattered and filthy! I know your rebellious ways. It’s the whole reason I’ve been assigned to you, but I will not tolerate them.”

“What?” Audrina looked taken aback.

“What did you do? Take the shields and chuck them into the mud and then literally throw them back into the tent without a care? Because that’s what it looked like to me!”

She stared at him with angry brows and an open mouth during his accusations. “No, I washed every last one of them. My palms claim painful sores to prove it.” She held her red and blistered hands up to his face, but he pushed them down with his own.

“You will learn to follow orders or face the consequences!”

“But I did follow orders. Gail was with me the entire time.”

Gail moved to Audrina’s side. “We cleaned every last one of those accursed shields.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Roland spat, not convinced. “Gail, who is loyal to you and none other, would have no qualms about lying to protect her dear lady. Oh no, you’ll have to come up with a better alibi than that, squire.”

Audrina stepped closer to him and thrust her more than irritated face into his angry one. “And how do I know it wasn’t you who soiled the shields just to bully your female squire? Have you no honor, sir?”

“How dare you challenge my honor,” he shot back. “It’s yours that’s in question here. Or don’t you possess an ounce of it?”

“Why, you . . .” Audrina brought her hand up to slap his cheek, but anticipating the rash movement, his fast reflexes stopped it. Her wrist, trapped inside his strong grip, was surprisingly soft. Not wanting to feel the distraction, he thrust her hand down at her side as his hardened expression dared her to try it again. She didn’t, but she looked as if she wanted to scream. She glared at him, her lips almost white as she pressed them together.

Pointing a finger in her face, he lowered the timbre in his voice to an intimidating one. “You will learn obedience if I have to wring it from you.”

“Is that a threat of physical hostility?” she solicited, her forced sneer not quite hiding the fear in her eyes.

At this point, Roland realized how brutal he sounded, how much he must seem like Festus, and he was angrier at himself for losing his temper. But what she did to the shields was immature and despicable. He lowered his finger from her face and took a deep breath. Though he was moving into calmer waters, he knew he still couldn’t let her get away with what she’d done. He let his breath out and took care to soften his voice, though only a bit. “You may have no fear of my laying a fierce hand upon you, for physical violence has never been my nature. However, you will experience the consequences of your ill actions in the form of stricter training.”

“My ill actions? But I didn’t—”

“Be ready on the morrow,” he spoke over her protests, “to experience the most difficult drills yet.” He turned on his heel and marched to the door. Before exiting, he turned and faced her again. “And that will be in addition to your cleaning and polishing the shields.”

She opened her mouth to object, but he held his hand up. “Not another word from you, squire. Go to bed. You’ll need the rest.” He left her chamber and slammed the door after him, Audrina’s strain of angry words turning to muffles behind it. He shook his head and rubbed at the headache pounding against his temples. He wasn’t cut out for this drama. If it wasn’t for the pay, the better accommodations, and the hope of some insight about his parents, he’d quit right then.

 

His anger calmed after an hour, allowing him to think more clearly. A little guilt gnawed at him that Audrina might have been telling the truth about cleaning the shields. Had he been too hasty in believing she acted in rebellion? There were plenty of knights who didn’t like the idea of a female trainee and might have taken the opportunity to disparage her.

Some investigating was in order.

He entered the knights’ tent with lantern in hand to find a boy sitting at the table washing and waxing the shields by the light of his own lantern. He had finished ten of them. No one else was present.

He walked up to the boy and squatted down on his heels. “Shouldn’t you be abed at this time, lad?”

Startled, the boy looked up from his work and vigorously shook his head, his lip quivering under tear-rimmed eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“B-Bryant, sir,” he said timidly.

“You look to be about ten years old, am I right?

This brought a little sneer to Bryant’s face as he shook his head. “That’s what everyone guesses, but I’m actually fourteen. My ma always called me ‘the wee one’ because I was born tiny and remain small for my age.”

Roland nodded. “I see. And did you wash and wax these yourself?” Roland lifted a finished shield and inspected the thorough work.

“Yes, sir,” he nodded but didn’t seem happy about his accomplishment.

“You do fine work.”

“Thank you, but I do it to help Lady Gibbons.”

Roland’s brows turned down in curiosity. “How so?” Roland stood up, replaced the shield, and then sat astride a log.

Bryant looked around the tent before facing Roland. “I . . . I was here earlier when she was washing these shields. She did as fine a job as any squire, but,” he paused, eyeing the entry with uncertainty.

Roland looked toward the doorway and, seeing no one, encouraged Bryant to continue. “Go on.”

“Well, the twin knights, Sir Hammond and Sir Harold, came in and taunted her, saying that she should be in the sewing room doing women’s work instead of posing as a boy who’d never amount to the status of a knight no matter how hard she worked.”

Heat rose in Roland’s face. The cowards had waited until he wasn’t around to disrespect his squire. “What happened then?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain calm, though his stomach churned with guilt that he hadn’t been there to protect her.

“Lady Gibbons and her handmaid stood up to them. Lady Gibbons accused them of ‘also posing as boys’ and attaining a title they didn’t live up to. She said that insulting a woman was as tasteless as spitting upon the chapel doors and that they reeked of a cowardice and filth that subleveled a pig.”

Roland’s eyes grew round at hearing this account, knowing Audrina and her audacious retorts well enough to believe every word the lad spoke. Feeling pride in his squire’s quick-witted tongue, he placed a hand over his mouth to keep a smile from forming. “But what did such a squelch cause the knights to do?” he asked, hoping they hadn’t laid a hand on her. Surely, he would have heard about it if they had.

“At first they said nothing. Too shocked, I think, but then they threatened her. You could see they wanted to do more, even stepped up to her, but with her maid and other squires present, I think they thought better of it.”

Roland’s back straightened. “What did they threaten?”

“That she’d regret her insults toward them.”

That she’d regret her insults? Roland sneered to himself. As if they were innocent of starting the entire confrontation by throwing insults at her first. The curs! Then it dawned on him. “The shields,” he stated more to himself than the boy, realizing now that the knights had already planned their deed even as they’d passed Roland in the great hall. His teeth ground together.

Bryant nodded. “Yes, sir. I had stayed in here after Lady Gibbons finished the shields, after everyone left, so I could,” he looked down at the ground as if embarrassed, “practice with a real sword,” he mumbled.

Roland knew the young boys weren’t allowed to train with the metal swords, only the wooden ones. “Go on, lad,” Roland prodded. He held no ire over the forbidden act.

Bryant’s head lifted, and he continued. “I heard voices outside the tent and hunkered down behind the sword rack. Then I saw the twins enter with buckets of mud. They smeared the shields with it and then tossed them to the ground. I’m nothing to anyone, sir,” Bryant said, tears forming in his eyes. “I knew no one would believe me if I tattled on knights, but nor did I want Lady Gibbons to get in trouble for not finishing her task. So, I stayed to do it myself.” He turned his head and stared at the shield in his lap, his hand absently rubbing it.

Roland’s heart was touched at the noble deeds of this boy, for his sweet support of Audrina. She had surely won the hearts of the children and was benefiting from it.

Roland placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You are an honorable and brave lad, Bryant, and your actions deserve a reward.”

The boy looked up from the shield, his inquisitive eyes watching Roland’s hand dig into a small pouch at his waist. Bryant’s eyes lit up as Roland pulled out a silver coin. “Not only will I give you this for your honesty and trouble, I will help you finish these shields.” It was also the least he could do for accusing Audrina of malice.

With a bright smile, Bryant took the coin that was handed to him. “Thank you, sir.” He tucked the coin into a small pouch at his waist.

Roland smiled back and fondly tousled the boy’s hair. “Remember this, lad. You may be small in stature, but you’re certainly not lacking in honor, the trait that truly matters.”

Bryant looked up at him and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Now then, hand me one of those shields, and we’ll try to be out of here before the cock crows.”

“Yes, sir,” Bryant repeated, placing the one in his lap onto the table and jumping up with renewed enthusiasm to get another.

Roland took the shield Bryant hefted over to him and set to work cleaning it. His thoughts turned to the problem of how to deal with the knight twins. The knights were well-known and well-liked by most, but calling them out on their treatment of his squire, which was probably acceptable to the other knights, would cause more trouble for him and Audrina. He didn’t know what to do. He needed someone of influence to back him.

He’d talk it over with Heath and get his opinion on the matter.

 

Roland had been standing outside of Audrina’s chamber door for over fifteen minutes mustering up the courage—no, the humility . . . no, the courage—to set aside his pride and give in to humility in order to apologize to her for his outburst and erroneous assumptions yesterday evening.

He felt angry at himself for even needing to say sorry. If he hadn’t jumped to conclusions in the first place, if he had simply handled the situation with a clear head from the beginning, he would have discovered the truth and wouldn’t be in front of her door. Would he never learn? His quick temper had haunted his steps far too long, and it would continue to get him into trouble until he learned to control it and think rationally.

He reached his hand out to knock on the door but brought it up to rub the nape of his neck . . . again. His brows drew together, frustrated with himself over his hesitation and fear. But fear of what? Fear of admitting he was wrong? Fear that she had seen a flaw in him? Not that he claimed to be perfect, but no one liked others to see their imperfections. Was it fear that she had lost faith in him, if she had any to begin with? Fear that he had set their relationship as knight and squire back to the beginning? Or perhaps he feared seeing the disappointment in her eyes, those piercing brown eyes that affected him more than he cared to admit.

Roland shook his head and, before he could hesitate again, rapped loudly on the wooden portal.

It took a minute for someone to come to the door, and he had the urge to walk away before it opened. He remained rooted, however, and when it opened, both ladies stood staring at him, Audrina with an uncertain expression and Gail with a glare.

In his mind, he’d known what he needed to say, but standing before them, the difficult words wouldn’t form on his lips.

Roland swallowed and cleared his throat, but when he said nothing, his squire’s brows creased in confusion. Gail tipped her head to one side, staring at him with annoyance.

His heart thumped faster than normal. He cleared his throat again and looked past the ladies to the wall behind them. He found this cleared his mind somewhat. Come on, Roland, he said to himself. Just say it!

“I must . . . apologize . . . for my behavior yesterday.” There, I said it. That wasn’t so bad. But the shocked expressions on the ladies’ faces, along with their subsequent silence, forced him to continue with the difficult confession. “I reacted too swiftly to a situation I thought I understood, when in truth I had no idea of the reality. I didn’t believe your words and thought you had lied. It’s hard to know what’s in your mind when all I have to go on is your insubordinate history.” His eyes begged her to understand his reasons but didn’t require her to condone his ill actions.

Now it was Audrina who tipped her head to the side, her face showing less shock and more contentment. This urged him on.

“I have since discovered, through a reliable source, that a negative interlude between you and two certain knights that we’ll call twins, led them to retaliate by scuffing up all the shields you had worked so tirelessly to clean.”

Gail gasped. “The swine!” Roland wasn’t sure if Gail referred to the twins for their deed or to Roland for blaming Audrina for it. Probably all of them.

Audrina’s mouth dropped open, and she shook her head in disbelief over the account. “And what of the shields?” she asked. “They’ll need to be cleaned again.”

Roland shook his head. “Don’t worry, they’ve been taken care of.” He didn’t elucidate, thinking his apology was all he could muster in the way of humility this morning. He didn’t feel the need to admit he had washed the shields himself with the help of a brave little lad. “You can be assured, however, that I will deal with Sirs Hammond and Harold over the incident.” As to what action he’d actually take, he still wasn’t certain. “You certainly know how to insult and rile a man,” he said through a half-smile. “I reiterate, though, my regret for losing my temper and jumping to conclusions, Lady Gibbons.”

The light clinking of a serving tray being brought down the hall drew his attention. He looked over at the breakfast he’d ordered for the ladies. He stepped aside to allow a servant into the chamber carrying the platter laden with dried fruits, eggs, and ham. The women moved aside as well, watching the servant carry the salver to the table and set it down.

“A small act of penitence on my part,” he said, indicating the meal. “After you eat, you will be relieved of your duties as squire for the day, and you may go into the village.”

Audrina turned again to Roland, her mouth twitching up at the corners. “I don’t know what to say, Sir Roland, except . . . thank you.” The servant exited the chamber, and Roland bowed to his squire before quietly leaving. After shutting the door, he heard shrieks of excitement from the other side. He chuckled, feeling a warmth pour though his body at the knowledge that he had not only made it through a successful apology, but he’d made Audrina happy, too.

He took off down the corridor on his way to the great hall. He would remain in the castle today and look through some old ledgers and records. It had been three weeks since he’d had a moment to himself.

Entering the great hall, he sat down opposite Sir Heath at the end of the long table. The other knight had just separated some cooked onions from his plate piled high with ham and eggs. He took the squishy mass in hand and passed them under the table to a mangy dog eagerly awaiting handouts.

“What’d you do that for? I would have eaten them for you,” Roland said as he served himself a large portion of the food. He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, savoring the acidic tang. “No stomach for them this morn?”

Heath’s nostrils scrunched up in distaste. “Never have had a stomach for them. Most distasteful plant ever grown.”

“And what, pray tell, has the humble onion done to earn your everlasting aversion?”

Heath shook his head. “To be honest, I have no idea. Some things you just don’t care for, and there’s no explanation for it. All I can say is that I haven’t liked them from childhood, and growing into adulthood hasn’t changed anything. And by heaven, not even the king’s command will make me eat them.”

Roland laughed and shook his head, taking another bite of onions and eggs. “Well, next time you need to be rid of said onions, pass them my way instead of wasting them on the mutts. Just gives them flatulence.”

Heath guffawed and reached into the center serving tray, grabbing a large chunk of cheese. “Now this,” he said, “is food from heaven. I would be only too happy to indulge in this the rest of my days. Oh, glorious cheese,” he spoke to the milk product, “how I love your smooth texture, your splendid color, your perfect form. May you never abandon my life.” As Heath popped the chunk into his mouth, chewing it with an expression of pure pleasure, Roland hooted and slapped his own knee in mirth.

“Is that why you’re not in possession of a wife, Sir Heath, because you’ve already pledged your heart to cheese?” Roland said with a wide grin.

Heath laughed heartily and grabbed another chunk from the tray, waggling his eyebrows at it and sending Roland’s laughter rolling again. Several knights at their table glanced over at them in mild curiosity before returning to their own meals.

Roland and Heath eventually settled down from their mirth and were on their second plates of food when Roland leaned in close to his friend, speaking in a low voice. “There’s been an incident with my squire, and I wondered if you might have some advice about it.”

“Oh?” Heath stopped chewing and looked over at Roland. “What kind of trouble? Lady Pritchard again?” Heath smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. There was no doubt he fancied the pretty handmaiden.

“Alas, not this time, my friend.”

Heath’s shoulders slumped, his lips pursed in disappointment.

“No, this has to do with the unpopularity of my squire and some of the knights pulling pranks on her . . . threatening her.”

Heath raised his eyebrows.

Roland admitted to Heath his hasty accusation of Audrina and then revealed the subsequent truth of the situation by way of the young lad, Bryant.

After divulging the names of the bothersome knights, Roland shook his head. “It’s just that knights don’t generally do those things to other knights’ squires,” Roland said over a mouthful of eggs. “There’s an unspoken respect in that regard, but as she’s female, I suppose they feel we’re not deserving of the same esteem. And it’s not as if I asked for this position. It was thrust upon me by the lord of the castle. You’d think that alone would garner some consideration from the knights.” Roland shook his head again. “Do I disregard the incident, writing it off as a jest that won’t be repeated, or will ignoring the matter only invite worse incidents in the future? Their threat to make her sorry certainly didn’t come across as a petty joke. I’m telling you, Heath, I’ll be fit to quit if it increases in gravity!” Taking his frustration out on his food, he stiffly scooped more eggs into his spoon and shoveled them through his taut lips. His thoughts not focused on his breakfast, he chewed the eggs so thoroughly they were masticated to nearly nothing before he swallowed the remainder.

Heath, who hadn’t said a word during Roland’s entire story, pushed his empty plate away from him and folded his fingers together, placing his hands on the tabletop. “I’ve been here a long time, and though I don’t boast to have ultimate influence over the knights, my status grants me some authority. I know the young boy of whom you speak, and his integrity can be trusted. I also know that Harold and Hammond are young and tenacious knights. The pair is always looking for trouble, and Lady Gibbons is an easy target right now. Best knights who ever lived.”

Surprised by the statement, Roland looked up from his plate, but Heath was shaking his head with a sneer on his lips, a clear indication that his last words were delivered with heavy sarcasm.

“Don’t worry over them. I’ll take care of the matter. They won’t interfere with you or your squire again.” Heath didn’t elucidate on how he’d take care of it, but, to be honest, Roland didn’t care as long as it was accomplished. Being that few knights thought to aid Roland in anything, he was grateful for Heath’s support.

“How long have you been in Guildon?” Roland asked.

Heath thought a moment. “Over twenty years, I’d say. I was born in the southern region of Cumberland and started out as any boy going from page to squire.” He grabbed more cheese from the platter and popped it into his mouth. “I was trained as an apprentice knight under the tutelage of my father, Sir Curtis Parkett. When he received better employment in Guildon, I came with him. My father’s new position provided him little time to train me, so I was passed to Sir Doyle, who finished my training and had me knighted at age seventeen.”

Roland focused his gaze on Heath. “Seventeen? That’s rare to be knighted so young.”

“Not in Guildon. Many knights under Sir Doyle’s tutelage have been knighted before the age of twenty-one.”

Roland squinted. “Why?”

“Because of our exceptional skill, of course. Why else?” Heath said, folding his muscular arms across his puffed-out chest.

Why else, indeed? Roland asked himself. Not that he questioned Heath’s abilities, but perhaps early knighthood had more to do with strategy on Sir Doyle’s part. By knighting the men before the typical age, it undoubtedly invoked in them greater pride and assured a stronger loyalty to Doyle.

“However,” Heath said, continuing with his story, “soon after that, I did something my father didn’t approve of. Me being a hot-headed youth, we argued and had a falling out. Sir Doyle took me under his wing and treated me like his own son after that.”

So he was here at the time my parents were, Roland thought. And he was trained in part by Sir Doyle. Was Heath more prone to take on the qualities of his father, Sir Curtis, or those of Sir Doyle? He glanced at Heath and wondered if that was an inner battle he fought each day. He also wondered if Heath could recall specific people’s deaths from so long ago? Considering he’d been a new young knight to Guildon at the time, probably not, but the fact that he finished his training under Doyle, of all people, might mean he’d seen or heard something that stood out in his mind.

“And you, Roland, what brought you to Guildon?” Heath queried in return. “You never speak of your family.”

Roland usually avoided answering these questions, not wanting to bring suspicion upon himself, but did he trust Heath with the truth? Yesterday he might have, but now, having found out Doyle’s part in training Heath, disquiet entered Roland’s mind over the relationship between the two men.

Roland gave his practiced answer. “Oh, you know the story. It’s similar to your own. Boy becomes knight. Knight has falling out with family and searches for work elsewhere. I heard of good prospects in Guildon, where the threat of a Scottish invasion is ever present. This assured a position, good pay, and battle training to keep my skills honed.”

Heath looked over at Roland, his eyes narrowed. “That’s quite vague, Roland. I wonder at the undertones of your story.”

Roland yearned to tell him more, but he wouldn’t chance divulging more details to a man close to Doyle. “You’re correct, my perceptive friend, but that’s a tale for my heart alone to bear.”

Heath nodded, but then his eyes widened as if he’d just remembered something urgent. “By heaven, I need to be at the tent.” He stood, wiping his mouth on a cloth and tossing it back onto the table. “I’ve been assigned to instruct the young squires in weaponry this morn.” His blue eyes radiated boyish anticipation. “But your talk of onions and insubordinate knights caused me to linger overlong.”

Roland had seen Heath in training, and few could match his skillful moves and stern approach, but when it came to children, another side of him escaped which betrayed a soft spot for the most innocent of humanity.

“Then don’t keep them waiting, Sir Onionless,” Roland joked, receiving a wide grin from Heath before he departed the hall. Roland stood up as well, grabbing a handful of raisins from the serving tray and exiting the hall in the direction of the library.

 

In the corner of Guildon’s medium-sized library, which shared its purpose as an artifact storage room as well as a place for books and records, Roland sat with elbows resting on a small wooden table, his fists supporting the sides of his bowed head. Even though the custodian had organized most of the tomes, Roland still spent several frustrating hours looking through the dusty scrolls, parchments, and ledgers, many of them written in Latin. He was grateful to his mother for teaching him to read and write both Latin and English, but it seemed to do him little good, as the records only contained information about crops, village shops, weapons, persons employed at the castle and in the village, weather, and various other statistics.

He moved to another section on the shelves, stepping over parchments littered about the floor. The old man was sure taking his time organizing these. He was also presently absent from the library, so he couldn’t ask him for help.

Footsteps turned his head to a middle-aged servant joining him by the shelves. He looked surprised to see Roland, but gave him a timid nod. The man wasted no time in squatting down and rummaging through the parchment scrolls on the floor. He carefully placed a few on the shelves then returned for more.

“Where’s the other bookkeeper?” Roland asked.

The man didn’t look at Roland as he continued sorting, but his voice betrayed both sorrow and fear. “Sir Doyle had my father thrown into the dungeon for not fixing this mess fast enough.” He didn’t pause in searching through the papers.

Roland swallowed, feeling utter horror for the fate of the old gaffer and knowing that his son feared the same outcome should he not work faster. Roland nodded his understanding and sympathy though the man’s occupied eyes didn’t see the gesture. Even with the new bookkeeper’s nimbler fingers, Roland could see it would take a while more to organize the remaining records. Roland turned to a shelf that was semi-ordered.

The ledgers in that section had dates on the spines, but some dates were missing, rubbed off over the years. He looked at the mess of books and parchments scattered about the floor. The ones he sought were probably still buried. He snatched one up from the shelf and flicked through the contents. This was it! A ledger recording births and deaths.

He glanced at the spine of the book he held, but in addition to not knowing the names of his birth parents, he obviously didn’t know when they were born, if they were born in Guildon at all. The date didn’t reflect Roland’s year of birth. He replaced it and scanned the sparse ledgers on the shelf, hoping the one he needed wasn’t still on the floor. Then he saw it: 1291.

He snatched it up and spent over twenty minutes searching out all the Rolands born that year. There were many boys listed, any of which could be him. Even as a child, he’d known that Emmy hadn’t been sure about his true birth month, so she just picked the month he came under her care, July, and celebrated his birthday then. He narrowed the Rolands down to parents with only one child, hoping he assumed correctly that he was an only child, and read the names of ten different parents. Next to each of them was the year and month they were born, if known, but over half of those dates were left blank. The year and month they died was also recorded along with the manner of death. Doing the math in his head, he narrowed the list down to those parents who had died the year Emmy said he was taken from Guildon—1296. This left only one couple with a son born to them on the twelfth day of May, 1291, but who had died in a fire on the first of July, 1296. If the boy had only lived to the age of five, how could it possibly be him? Roland narrowed his eyes. Did the fact that he’d been spirited out of Guildon at the same age give rise to the belief that he’d died? Perhaps it was him and the records were wrong. He continued reading with the supposition it was still him. This boy belonged to a man and woman named Olin and Sharee Fletcher, birth years unknown, but who had died on the thirty-first of October, 1296, in Guildon by public execution—hanging and burning.

Hanging people and burning the corpses was a death reserved for only the most deplorable criminals. If these were his parents, were they criminals? Traitors, perhaps? The last name of Fletcher was common in the Highlands. Were they Scottish? His mind raced, thinking of all that implied. If that was true, no wonder he’d been whisked out of Guildon. Family members of traitors were often also killed, even children. His eyes found his own name again. Something odd about the dates stuck out in his mind. If this Roland Fletcher was him, the record stated that he’d died in a fire just over three months before the death of his parents. Something about that perturbed him.

He lifted his head from the ledger, his jaw tight. His research had only sparked further unanswered questions, these more disturbing than the first. He rubbed his tired eyes and glanced at the oil lamp burning brightly on the wall. There were no windows in this cave of a room, so there was no way to tell how long he’d been there. His stomach told him he’d missed the noon meal completely and that it was probably now close to cena. Closing the ledger and thoughtfully fingering the dusty cover, he returned it to the shelf.

He needed more details about this Olin and Sharee. He needed to find Emmy’s sister, Liliana Griffith, but even if he managed to find a record containing the Griffith name, these birth/death ledgers didn’t state where families lived in Guildon. He’d exhausted all the ordered archives on the shelf. Everything left was still a disaster on the floor.

There was nothing more to be learned here. He needed to talk to people who would have known these Fletchers, but it was nearly impossible in this tight-lipped community of paranoid dwellers. He eyed the man shuffling through the parchments and was tempted to ask him if he knew anything about previous villagers. But when the new bookkeeper glanced over at Roland and then quickly averted his eyes, Roland knew he wouldn’t get anything out of the frightened man. His progress seemed so slow, and it would be another week—maybe more—before Audrina would earn another shopping trip, gaining him some more alone time.

He left the library with a troubled mind.

He wondered for the first time whether he really wanted to uncover the truth about his parents or just leave well enough alone. He could give his regards to Lord Craven and simply return to Fairhaven, living in the comfort of his adoptive parents’ honorable home, surrounded by their unconditional love.

But he knew he’d never do that. Once he started something, he saw it to the end. His deepest desire was the truth, even if it turned out to be devastating. Yes, he had to know. So his time here would endure, as would Audrina’s training.

Almost to the open door of the great hall, a commotion down the corridor to Roland’s right caught his attention. Two guards held a struggling young man by his arms as they dragged him through the hallway.

“I didn’t do it, believe me!” he yelled to his captors. The detainee’s eyes connected briefly with Roland’s. “Please, Sir Knight, help me! I’m innocent.”

The panic in the prisoner’s blue eyes tugged at Roland’s sympathies. He swallowed, pitying the poor man, but feeling helpless to do anything about his situation. After all, who was he to vouch for a stranger’s innocence? Maybe the man was truly guilty of something and needed to pay for his crime.

The guards turned toward the stairwell leading to the dungeon.

“Not down there! Not down there!” the man shrieked, digging his booted heels into the wooden floor.

The guards halted.

“Shut your lip, thief,” one of them shouted. The sentry let go of the captive with one hand and delivered a punch to his stomach with the other.

Roland cringed, almost feeling the young man’s pain.

The captive’s blond hair fell over his eyes as his head bent forward. With less fight in him, the guards continued their passage down the stairs.

“No, please . . . no.” The man’s weak, strangled cries faded as the trio descended.

Roland slowly turned toward the great hall, stepping into the entry.

The evening meal was in full force, but the loud voices emitting from the massive room didn’t cover the horrifying scream that traveled up from the dungeon, echoing off the stone walls. Roland stood in the doorway closing his eyes, knowing it originated from the same young man he’d just seen. What were they doing to him down there? Whether the man was innocent or not, Roland’s gut wrenched in agony for the pain he was feeling.

He looked around to see others’ reactions to the cry. Some servants cringed and looked at fellow servants with dismal expressions. A few knights stopped their conversation to listen before taking up their chatter again. Overall, the mass ignored it as if it was commonplace enough. He was beginning to think it was.

The yelling stopped. He stood in the entry a few minutes more but heard nothing else. He wondered if the man was dead or forced into unconsciousness from sheer pain. Roland stepped into the great hall and progressively made his way along the wall toward his usual spot but didn’t sit down. Sir Doyle arrived soon afterward at the head table with blood on his hands. He made a show of dipping them in a bowl of water brought over by a young serving girl and wiping them on a cloth before he sat down to his belated meal. It was as if Doyle chose to do this in front of everyone to ensure continued fear among the staff . . . And it seemed to be working.

Roland’s appetite significantly decreased. The thought of someone being tortured beneath the castle while he ate at leisure didn’t bode well with him. Knowing Audrina wouldn’t be present, it being her day off, he suddenly had no desire to eat in the great hall, even knowing Heath, who hadn’t noticed Roland’s entrance, was there. He actually missed Lady Gibbons, and Roland was shocked at the emptiness he felt.

Turning around and heading for the exit, he signaled an eight-year-old servant boy and ordered some food for his room.

“Yes, Sir Roland,” the boy nodded.

Before Roland could leave the great hall, Malcolm the Herald burst through its doors and ran up to the head table.

The room grew silent.

“Milord.” He bowed to Lord Craven who had paused in his eating. “The Scots! They have begun a siege of Stirling Castle, bent on taking it back. They have made a pact with Stirling’s governor, Sir Philip Mowbray, that if no relief is sent by midsummer, then Mowbray will surrender it to the Scots.”

Shouts of outrage filled the massive room. It would be an embarrassment to England to lose Stirling, a strategically significant stronghold situated in Scottish territory, after holding it for ten years. But even now, England’s rapport was unsteady. King Edward’s barons had exiled Edward’s close friend, Piers Gaveston, from England for having too much control over the royal patronage. When Piers returned to England unlawfully two years ago, the barons had him run through and beheaded with a sword, leaving his body lying out in the elements. For this, Edward was on the verge of civil war with his barons.

With this deadly conflict between king and barons, would they resolve their disputes long enough to band together for the sake of Stirling?

With a dark cloud looming over Roland due to the day’s discoveries, he turned up the stairway and sluggishly headed to his chamber. What would happen if it came to war? Would England finally call upon Guildon to join the ranks, or would Guildon be left alone as usual? He’d heard that Sir Doyle had somehow convinced the king that Guildon knights were needed here in order to keep it from the Scots. Would they be allowed to continue that stance with the siege of Stirling now at hand?

Roland approached his chamber and, out of curiosity, put an ear to Audrina’s door. He heard muffled voices on the other side, and his unforeseen relief at her safe return gave him pause. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about those going to and from the village, traveling into town generally being uneventful. But things were known to happen on occasion: a dog bite, cutpurses stealing money or wares, drunkards making advances. With Audrina being his squire, he inherently felt a duty to look after and protect her.

He turned and opened his door, leaving it ajar for the delivery of his meal. Before long there was a knock on the door frame.

“Enter,” Roland bade as he took his sword off and laid it on the bed.

A ten-year-old lass, the one from the hallway when he’d first heard screams in the castle nearly a month ago, entered, followed by a younger boy. They approached the table. The girl placed a large tray filled with meat, cheese, fruit, bread, and two small plates of shortbread on it. The boy set an empty mug down before pouring Roland’s drink from a pitcher. He left the pitcher on the table. Roland retrieved two coins from his wardrobe and gave one to each of the children. Their surprised expressions soon turned to elation at receiving a rare compensation for their duties. This lifted Roland’s heart, melting away some of the gloom he’d felt earlier.

As Roland sat down to his meal, the young boy left the room as the girl grabbed one of the plates of shortbread and walked to the door after him. Though Roland didn’t mind having just one plate of it, his curiosity piqued as to why she thought she was entitled to take the second plate of sweet biscuits when Roland had already given her a coin.

Sensitive to a child’s feelings, Roland approached the matter with humor to set the girl at ease in explaining her actions. “That’s a good pile of biscuits for just you. Might there be a sweetheart waiting to share them?”

The girl stopped and turned around. Her hand coming up to cover her mouth as she giggled made Roland think he’d hit the mark. He couldn’t help grinning.

“Oh, no, Sir Roland,” the lass denied with a frantic shake of her head, risking a glance at his face. “These are for a girl, a lady actually, not a boy.”

Roland continued smiling as he ripped off a piece of bread from the small loaf and popped it into his mouth.

“They’re for Lady Gibbons,” she continued.

Roland stopped chewing, plastering the grin on his face. “Oh? And who, pray tell, has sent the lady such a tasty treat?”

“Herself, sir,” the girl said. “She asked them to be brought up an hour ago, but they had to be made and baked first.”

Roland added a lifted brow to his forced smile. “I see.”

So it wasn’t enough that Roland allowed Audrina to have her shopping trip. She took even more compensation, having the gall to go against his orders and sneak sweets behind his back. Didn’t she know he made her abstain from them for her own good, for her growth and learning? He wasn’t unreasonable in the portions of food he allowed her, but the sweets were to be a reward, earned through her hard work. He did this to help with her restraint and self-control—and her weight—things vital to a knight.

She clearly believed him to be eating in the great hall at this hour, or she never would have chanced having them delivered to her room with him just across the way. After such a troubling day as he’d had, the initial reaction to his squire’s audacity was outright anger. He wanted to storm out of the room and pound on her door, demanding justification for her insolence. But with the girl standing there with the plate of biscuits, her young face sweet and blameless, he tempered his response, allowing his mind to think of a better approach to the situation.

“You know, lass, your busy duties probably call you back to the kitchens right away,” Roland suggested as he stood and approached her.

The girl nodded and dropped her eyes to the floor. “Yes, sir.”

“Since Lady Gibbons is my squire, I will deliver these to her, allowing you to return to your obligations downstairs.”

“Oh, very kind, sir, thank you.” She lifted her eyes to Roland again and promptly handed him the plate.

“Good lass,” he praised, grabbing a large piece of shortbread from the platter and handing it to her. “For your trouble.” Roland gave a friendly wink. “You’ve earned it.”

The girl grinned and took the sweet treat, curtsying before running from the room, the biscuit making its way into her mouth as she turned the corner.

Roland smiled, walked to his door, and shut it. He’d deal with his disobedient squire after he finished his food.

 

An hour after the evening meal was brought up to Audri’s chamber, a light knock sounded at her door. Gail looked up from her embroidery and moved to set aside her stitching, but Audri stood fast, all but jumping up from the table, and moved to the door with a knowing smirk on her face. Gail lifted an inquisitive brow but remained seated, her narrowed eyes following the peculiar behavior of her mistress.

Though Roland allowed Audri plenty of food to satisfy the ravenous appetite brought on by the training, he still denied her sweet treats. This was perhaps one of the hardest trials she’d ever faced, leading her to take a calculated risk tonight in ordering up some precious shortbread. She felt that her poor battered body deserved a sugary reward for everything it had endured the past month, and tonight presented her with the perfect opportunity. She simply couldn’t resist. With Roland presently eating in the great hall, she was away from his watchful eye. Audri placed her hand on the door latch, her mouth watering at the thought of sweet biscuits on the other side.

She yanked the door open and gasped at the sight of Sir Roland standing in the corridor holding a plate of shortbread . . . her shortbread, no doubt. Her mouth hung open. She’d been caught. How he’d found out, she didn’t know, but he had most likely come to reprimand her. She lifted her eyes to his, expecting to see ire in them, or at the very least, irritation, but she didn’t. He simply stood there with a nonchalant expression, as if he was the servant sent to deliver her treat and didn’t care if she ate every last one of them. She didn’t know why, but this worried her more than if he’d lost his temper with her.

She fought down her uncertainty and hid it behind a brave face. Squaring her shoulders, she chose to remain silent. Nothing she could say would justify the treats in his mind. So she waited, holding her breath for his verdict.

His mouth formed a honeyed grin that set her on edge even more. He calmly picked a piece of shortbread from the plate. “I just wanted to thank you for the tasty biscuits, milady.” He eyed the treat a second before popping it into his upturned mouth, methodically chewing it before swallowing. “Since you’ve chosen to go against my explicit directions, I’ve found it necessary to test you in a way all knights know from their training days. The point of this trial will be to teach you self-discipline and control, especially in the way of your appetite.”

“And what trial might that be?” Audri said, finding her voice.

“Well, we are presently going through Lent, a time of repentance and fasting, a time of self-examination and reflection. So you will go on a two-day fast.”

“Two days!” Audri’s outburst immediately brought Gail to her feet and to Audri’s side. She recalled her experience trying to starve herself, remembering the hunger pains, aches, chills, and dizzy spells. Her heart raced and her palms began to sweat at the prospect of enduring that again, especially when it wasn’t of her own choosing. “I’ll die of hunger!”

“You will not die, my dear squire. That would defeat the purpose of self-improvement. It would also end my employment as your trainer . . . and I need the money.”

Audri’s eyes narrowed.

“The first twenty-four hours you will abstain from food of any kind, including drink.

Audri and Gail spoke at the same time.

“But—”

“No—”

“During the twenty-four hours after that,” he raised his voice to be heard above their protests, “you will be allowed only water and other limited liquids.”

“You can’t do that!” Gail objected.

“I most certainly can, and need I remind you of your position where Audri and I are concerned?” He was surprised by his own calm voice.

Gail shut her mouth with obvious reluctance but sent Roland a nasty scowl. He ignored it.

“Knights are actually required to face this trial for a much lengthier time, but for you, I have decided on slightly less. This situation,” he indicated the shortbread with a glance, “has invited the perfect opportunity to introduce it.” He leaned in until his face was a foot away from Audri’s. “Be grateful I’m not making it longer than two days.” And, in all honesty, she was grateful for that. He leaned back, the cologne of cloves mixed with shortbread lingering in the air. “And so begins your test of discipline.”

The frustration of being caught and punished rose up inside her, but it was his hypocrisy that really made her angry. “You speak of my discipline,” Audri all but spat, “but what of yours? I’ve seen your temper on many occasions. I bet you can’t go that same amount of time without yelling at something or someone.”

“This trial is not about me,” he said, his jaw visibly tightening.

“But you said you’d rarely require me to go through anything you aren’t willing to go through yourself.”

“True, but I’ve already been through this test of hunger and surpassed it. I’ve no need to do it again.”

“That’s not what I mean. You know I’m referring your short temper.”

She was sure by the rising color in his face that even now he was beginning to lose control of it. But he held on, probably just to show her she wasn’t right about his losing it too often. “Are you challenging my ethics?” he said through clenched teeth.

“No, merely your irritability. It seems to me that this poses the perfect opportunity to meet me head on in a worthy competition, something holding great rewards for the victor.”

Roland’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Greater than shortbread?” he asked, holding up the plate to emphasize it.

“Yes, greater than shortbread,” Audri confirmed.

Roland lowered the plate. “Intriguing. And what do you have in mind as recompense for winning?”

That stopped her short. She hadn’t a clue what kind of incentive to propose. She’d just thrown the thought out as it came to her, but she lacked the specifics.

“Let’s say that I accept this challenge,” Roland said, not waiting for her answer. “Starting tomorrow, you will attempt to go without food for two days, and I will keep my temper for the same amount of time. The first one to fall short will . . .” he thought moment. “Have the privilege of telling the other what to do for an entire day.”

“That’s no reward. You already have that privilege!” Audri complained.

“Yes, well, we can’t get too outlandish can we? If I win, you’ll obey me without complaint, without one huff, and without rolling your eyes even once for an entire day.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes right then.

“And if I lose, you’ll be in charge of me for an entire day. It’ll be your chance to give back everything I’ve given you, the good and the bad. Isn’t that worth it?”

Audri tipped her head to the left. “That prospect does sound favorable.”

“Then we have an accord?”

Audri hesitated, mulling over the possibilities. I could make him do two hundred knee bends under heavy weight. Or I could have him clean all the weapons in the training tent. And I could order him to haul buckets of water all over the castle. Or, perhaps, oh yes—she grinned to herself—I could even introduce him to women’s duties.

Looking into Roland’s eyes, Audri nodded her agreement.

“It’s done then. And, to make sure you don’t cheat—”

“Or you,” she added.

“We’ll spend every day, all day, together, never leaving each other’s sight . . . except for the privy of course.”

“And sleeping,” Gail piped in.

Roland glanced at the maid, giving her an annoyed expression at her obvious statement. “But I might place a guard outside your door to make sure neither of you sneak out for food or have anyone deliver it.”

“You really don’t trust me,” Audri stated, her pride hurt.

Roland lifted his eyebrows along with the plate of shortbread again as if to say do you blame me?

“Very well,” she relented, knowing she had no one but herself to blame for his loss of trust.

Roland nodded. “Until tomorrow, Lady Squire.” He produced a knowing smirk and then turned on his heel, returning to his chamber and taking her plate of shortbread with him. Her eyes bore into his retreating back, ideas formulating in her mind about how she might test his temper during the next two days. She smirked, looking forward to this challenge. She felt like a little girl thinking of ways to tease a childhood crush just to get attention. The thought brought her up short, and she shook her head. He may not be as bad as the rest of Festus’s knights, but he was still the one Festus had ordered to tame her, and that made him an obstacle, not a friend, especially in this challenge.

But, oh, what a handsome obstacle he was. If she was to endure his presence, she’d enjoy every moment she had to test the resolve of this auburn-haired knight.