he went for his sword. Rhoenne spun and sent a fist against his brother’s jaw with enough force that he was launched backward into the knights who were supposed to be guarding his life with their own. Rhoenne’s scowl deepened as he watched the tightly packed group of men split, letting their leader fall. All seventeen stones’ weight of Brent Ramhurst quivered for a moment and stilled. Rhoenne didn’t even look down. He pierced each and every one of Brent’s cowardly retinue with what had been described once as his wintry-day’s glare. He watched them shuffle.
“Get him to his room! Hie yourselves to your own. Prepare for your journey. Don’t let me catch sight of any of you and ruin my mood further. If he wakes and argues, tell him I’ll meet him on the list. He picks the weapons. He picks the time. We’ll decide it that way.”
He swiveled again and walked back to his chair, ignoring the look that was probably on Sir Harold’s face, as much as he was ignoring the new ache that had begun in his knuckles to spread throughout his hand, and was now throbbing to his wrist. He also ignored the speculative glances he was receiving as well as the rustle of sound coming from the removal of Brent and his men from the great hall. He walked around the table, carefully blanking every bit of how it felt to continue putting weight on his leg from his features. He regained his seat beside Sir Harold and picked up his tankard again, using his left hand.
The entire room started making sound again. It was a fuller and even more boisterous noise than it had been before.
“I’d have let them see him drawing his sword,” Sir Harold said slowly, directing his words to his own half-empty mug.
“Are you speaking for effect, or to hear yourself make noise?” Rhoenne asked.
“That way, none would think me guilty of attacking my own brother without provocation.”
“A liege can be many things,” Rhoenne replied.
“True. He can be brave. Strong. Decisive. He can spit in the face of agony as he does so.”
“What…agony?” Rhoenne asked through clenched teeth.
“Strong ale, as I already made mention. It loosens my tongue. Fiona is doing strange things to my pulse, My Liege. She’s lovely. She’s ready. She’s begging you. Look.”
“If she has need of a man, fill her need. As I already said, I’ve no use for her tonight.”
“I beg you to reconsider. The woman sours if she cannot have you. All women do. I have no notion of the why. Women. Who can decide the why of how they think?”
“So? Choose another.” Rhoenne shrugged, and pushed his hair off his forehead with his left hand, prior to refilling his tankard. Then he brought it to his lips. He put his mind to ignoring the throb of his arm, since the pain had moved to encompass his elbow, too.
“I’m trying to entice you,” Sir Harold said.
Rhoenne choked on his swallow. It turned into a cough that ravaged his chest. He added that to his other ills. He had it under control before he looked at his closest knight. “You’ve the wrong shape for such a notion, Sir Harold, although I thank you, just the same.”
The other man’s lips twitched. “I would still have let them see why I threw such a blow. He was going for his sword. He was attacking your back.”
“A liege can be many things, remember?” Rhoenne replied.
“He was attacking an unarmed man. You know it. I know it.”
“He can’t be a betrayer. None can think it, say it, or be allowed to see it. Had he unsheathed his sword, I would have had to banish him.”
“You would have had to kill him. You know it.”
“Only on a field of honor, Montvale. Don’t over-speak yourself.”
“So…you did the indulgent thing. You let his treachery go unseen.”
Rhoenne’s left hand tightened on his tankard handle. “It was my decision. I made it. I’ll live with it.”
“And had you done other, you would have had to find another heir. Or, God forbid, make the king find you a woman to wed with, accept your seed, and create one of your own. Pity.”
Sir Harold was paying very careful attention to his tankard as he said it. Rhoenne felt the knot of nerve in his cheek as he clenched his teeth. Harold was right about Fiona, too. She had thick, light brown hair, a round face with a bow-shaped mouth, ripe curves, and a body that was perfection. She was making certain all noted it, too, with her display every time she moved. Rhoenne frowned. She shouldn’t wear her neckline so loose or so low. It created problems with his men—none of whom would touch her, despite lusting for her.
“Take Fiona to your bed, Sir Harold, and spare me any more of your words. They’re really starting to pale.”
The knight looked him over. Despite his best intention, Rhoenne hunched his shoulders slightly at the unblinking attention.
“And allow you to wallow in drink-induced melancholy? I think not. Besides, she may not be enough. I have massive appetites…unlike you. Come, My Liege. Allow me to have her sent to your chamber. I’ll even have her unwrapped for you.” There was a long, distinct pause. “I wouldn’t want to put that hand to the torment of having to undress the wench.”
“What torment?” Rhoenne asked, icily.
Harold sighed heavily. “This ale is too much for my tongue. I will have to change to water, too. I think.”
Rhoenne put his tankard down. “Your eyes are sharp, as is your tongue. I have more to do this eve. Drink would deter me from my responsibilities. Such is the mantle of liege, I fear.”
“You are too noble,” Harold said, sarcastically.
“I didn’t say that. I have things to see to before I rest.”
“Ah….” Harold drew the word out. “You have another wench in mind.”
“I didn’t say that, either,” Rhoenne replied.
“You must appease my curiosity. What wench appeals to your taste tonight?”
“Brent’s,” Rhoenne remarked with a slight smile to the word.
Sir Harold’s eyes widened. “Brent has a wench? But, he said—”
“You don’t listen well. Nor did you watch when he was first brought in. He has a wench with him.”
“He has a wench?” Harold repeated.
“Aye. My guess is he stole her. He probably still has her bound.”
“He stole a lass…and yet you still sit without mounting a rescue? You?”
“She’s not a maid. You heard him. Perhaps she would have come willingly, once she knew the game. Perhaps not. That is what I go to find out.”
“Not a maid, eh? Perhaps your luck holds and she is comely, too?”
“Have you known Brent to take an ugly wench?”
