Beauteous book two age o.., p.6
BEAUTEOUS: Book Two: Age of Honor, page 6
The woman looked up from binding the injury. “Good ale will quench his thirst as well as wine, lad.”
It would, Sinjin acceded, having only assumed wine was offered. “I like ale better,” he said.
A smile convulsed the young man’s mouth, then he unstoppered the skin, raised Sinjin’s head, and put the spout to his lips.
It took control to drink slowly, then he was lowered and the cloth turned back to reveal bread and cheese. He did not eat as much as his grumbling belly bid, the need for sleep so great it felt as if consciousness dipped.
“I am thankful, lad,” he said.
“Only Ma call me that!” he snapped.
Sinjin had to lower his lids. “Then give me a name.”
“It be—”
“Let the man sleep,” the woman spoke over her son.
She protected them, and Sinjin did not begrudge her. As he was fairly certain they did not aid him for profit, it could go bad for them were they found out.
“Be not afeared of what I put in yer ale, Sir Knight,” she said. “It but numb the pain and give healing sleep.”
Of course she had drugged him, and he had been too thirsty and wits too strewn to consider she might.
“We leave ye now,” she said.
Hearing the gathering of items, wondering where she and her son were going and when they would return, he struggled to construct a question that would be answered without evasion. And struggled.
“We come again on the morrow?” the young man said.
“Methinks she will come then, lad.”
The one who claims this knight? Sinjin wondered.
“But I wanna come again, Ma.”
“Mayhap. All depends on her.”
Her. Sinjin turned over what was no name and yet, strangely, he liked for the possibility in those few letters.
“Beauty let him see her, ye think?” the young man asked ahead of a door opening.
Beauty? Sinjin mulled what sounded a name, but surely not.
“Ye are not to call her that,” the woman gently rebuked. “She does not like it.”
“But methinks her not so unsightly, and still others call her Beauty.”
“Enough, Stace,” the woman revealed her son’s name as the door closed.
Tangling thoughts trying to untangle what was meant by unsightly, more Sinjin was intrigued by the one first named her, next Beauty for which she had no liking, probably for it being a taunt, even if not from this boy.
Intrigued, indeed, but also disappointed the one of whom they had spoken could not be the lovely creature who called down an owl.
“She who is no beauty,” he murmured. “But she who?”
Chapter 6
Upon rousing this morn, once more Ondine had thanked the Lord no mice were delivered her, then rolled to her side to slowly awaken the rest of the way. However, something had bothered. Picking over the events of the day past, she had paused over recall of Sir Sinjin’s injury, which caused her to question the flown dagger’s fate.
It occurring should the king’s men retrace their pursuit of the knight, its discovery could point the way to him—and more so were it lost near the lodge—once more she had slipped out of Stern unescorted. Though she had planned to do so, what was not planned was a detour between Ermine’s home and the lodge.
After the woman had revealed the knight was conscious throughout most of her ministrations and had not threatened her nor Stace despite possessing the dagger left behind, Ondine had borrowed her horse again.
For an hour she had searched for the dagger that dealt his injury, and just as she began to accept it would take hours longer were it possible to locate, she caught a glint of silver amid the roots of a tree not far from the lodge.
There had been little doubt that were it a blade, it was the same with which the knight was stuck, and no doubt when she pulled it from dirt and leaves and saw dried blood on it—though no longer for having cleaned it.
Now, destination directly ahead, she pushed down memories seeking to draw back their curtains and assessed the lodge with an eye to safety.
It looked the same—closed up as when she had delivered Sir Sinjin there—but that did not mean it was without alteration. Were he still inside, whether yet incapacitated or suppressing the impulse to resume his escape, the king’s men could be there and hiding their presence to entrap whoever aided him.
Halting her mount, Ondine watched for movement and listened for sounds other than those of woodland creatures. Though she caught none, she determined it best to approach the lodge indirectly.
After securing the horse in a copse and putting a pack of supplies over an arm, she donned the mask of leather worn during her recovery at Stern years past.
Had not Sinjin Daschiel previously seen her veiled, she would have presented with a cloth over her face, but just as it was best Ermine and Stace conceal their identities, so too she who defied the king.
After fastening her mantle at her throat, she drew the hood over her hair. Though it had been covered the night he took meal with her family, the following day he had seen the straight black of it on one who commanded an owl. To ensure neither did his thoughts drift there, rather than a gown of gossamer cloth, she had donned one of wool that had belonged to Roslyn too soon gone to God.
Gripping the found dagger that bore little resemblance to the ones awarded those knighted at Wulfen, she started forward with frequent stops as much to draw calming breaths as to assess her surroundings. Nothing changed, but she would enter the lodge by way of the stable fit with an obscure door that accessed the kitchen pantry.
Approaching from the side, she noted one shutter she had opened on the day past remained turned back, though she would have expected Ermine to close both to preserve the heat of the warming fire Stace built. Doubtless, the woman had left one open to provide Sir Sinjin light once the fire extinguished and day dawned—that, else he or another opened it.
“Be my strength, Lord,” she whispered, then slipped into the stable and crossed to the door tucked in a back corner. Hoping its hinges had been oiled unlike the front door’s, she was grateful to Ermine when she entered the barren pantry with little sound.
After closing herself in, she listened for something beyond the occasional creak of a house adjusting to changes in temperature that caused its wooden bones to argue with the cold and heat. All remained silent, no evidence of the living, not even rodents.
She eased open the door, stepped into the darkened kitchen, and crossed it. In the hope of catching the sound of a man breathing through deep sleep, she pressed an ear to the door that gave unto the hall.
Silence thickened.
What if Sir Sinjin was—?
Nay, he was not dead. Ermine being experienced at healing, there was merit in her belief he would recover and, even were he left with a limp, it would be so slight as not to incapacitate.
If he stayed put. Upon awakening, had he fled? If so, it would be on foot and at risk of further injury that could leave him with worse than a limp. Was he so fool?
She did not believe it, but even wise men did what others deemed witless when they were in desperate circumstances. Had he departed of his own accord, then he chose the possibility of a lifelong affliction paired with freedom over a well-healed leg paired with imprisonment—or a hangman’s noose.
Ondine parted her mantle with the dagger and slowly opened the kitchen door whose hinges sighed long and low.
If not for the open shutter, the hall would have been as dark as the room behind. Though at this time of day the light was dimmer than when last she was here, she could see fairly well the furnishings across which it cast itself and the shapes of others mostly in shadow.
Holding to the threshold, she strained for sounds of life and sight of a figure before the hearth. Both were denied her, the latter because she could see only well enough to make out the mattress whose blankets appeared flatter than they should.
Did he watch from another place here? Might others watch with him?
A sound of distress climbing her throat, she held it behind her lips and expelled its breath through her nose.
Instinct—or was it fear?—urged her to depart, but her conscience questioned how she could bear the responsibility of another breathing his last here if Sir Sinjin was in need.
Be with me, Lord, she silently appealed, then lest He declined, gripped the dagger more firmly and stepped forward.
All she heard as she moved toward the fireplace gone cold were footsteps that would be little more than whispers were she wearing slippers. Even so, her boots were light enough they might not rouse one deeply asleep.
As she advanced with slight turns of the head to compensate for the mask impeding her side vision, she searched for what did not fit the day past. The only place she did not delve—blinking and flitting over it—was where her sickbed had sat and to which death had tauntingly returned each time it took another ahead of her.
Two strides distant from the bed she had made for Sir Sinjin at the hearth, she halted. Now near enough to confirm he was not beneath the covers, she must verify neither was he elsewhere by opening more shutters.
Were he entirely absent, what then? Had she made a mess of this? Should she have enlisted Hector’s aid? If the knight was out there alone and hindered by his injury, might he…? Had the king’s men found him, might they…?
Either way, he could be in worse straits, whether from further injury of his own doing or greater injury from those angered by his escape. He might even be dead.
Dragging her tongue off her palate, Ondine stepped to the window right of the hearth and opened a shutter. She glanced behind at what this light revealed and, assured it was naught over which to be concerned, set back the other shutter. Next she considered opening the windows at the front of the lodge, but since her eyes adjusted to the light entering both sides of the fireplace and it was best the lodge continue to appear abandoned, she turned to more closely consider the hall before venturing abovestairs where, hopefully, Sir Sinjin had gone.
Moving in the direction of the stairs beyond the kitchen, once more with turns of the head to compensate for the mask, Ondine swept her gaze over furnishings come out of the shadows.
Three strides in, she caught movement from the place her sickbed no longer sat, then words carried on a deep voice. “You must be her.”
Chapter 7
He had been surprised she had not seen him when she passed near where he sat in the chair between kitchen door and hearth. Though his mantle rendered him less visible, her oversight made him assume her eyes were slow to adjust, vision poor, or hood drawn low. However, when she turned after letting in more light and he glimpsed a mask that fit the word unsightly, he was certain that was the culprit.
Now, revelation of his presence causing her to halt and jump back, he regretted not alerting her to his presence. There was advantage in observing without being observed as when he stood alongside the window and watched her hooded figure approach the lodge in profile, but this was a poor show of gratitude for she who prevented his recapture, ensured his injury was tended, and possibly saved his life. And greater his regret when she lost her balance and landed on her rear.
Sinjin was out of the chair when the blade going before her clattered to the floor, and as she dropped to her back amid the light let in, something else flew from her—the mask.
It being difficult to move quickly without placing so much weight on his injured foot he buckled his leg and stressed bruised ribs, he advanced on the woman he hoped was immobile for the shock of her fall rather than lost consciousness.
When she drew a sharp breath, he halted, and before she gained her knees, he glimpsed enough of her unmasked face to know what appeared youthful was marred.
Whether she would have voluntarily shown her face as the lad had speculated could not be known, but it was revealed, though too briefly to agree it was not unsightly. However, for how desperate she was to retrieve the mask, leaving behind the dagger as well as a pack borne beneath her mantle, fear of him glimpsing more of her was greater than fear she might need to defend herself.
Ignoring pain shooting up his leg, Sinjin veered toward the blade. As he closed a manacled hand over it, sidelong he saw her sit back, press the mask to her face with one hand, and with the other tighten its cord at the back of her head against a braid of dark brown, perhaps black.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not intend observation to harm the one to whom I am indebted for keeping me out of my pursuers’ hands.”
She snapped her head around, providing a closer look at the mask that, though unsettling for its expressionless openings, was almost lovely for how smooth its leather surface and its simplicity which those who attended King Edward’s masked festivities would embellish with feathers, ribbons, pearls, and gems.
Breathing heavily, as told by the hollow sound of air drawn and expelled through the mask’s mouth, she rasped, “You should have—”
Did she catch back words for rethinking them, or because he stepped near to offer the dagger hilt first? “Proof I mean my savior no harm,” he said.
Eyes glinting, he could only imagine they shifted to the dagger. Then as if fearing he would spring at her, cautiously she rose to a height neither short nor tall. Perfectly in between, he thought as he noted the serviceable gown visible past her mantle.
“As that dagger is more yers than mine,” she said, “I will trade ye for the one I left after getting you into the lodge.”
He should not be surprised by speech as rustic as that of the woman and young man who had tended him, but he was. Though memories of what this woman had spoken on the day past were indistinct, and despite her hollow, muffled voice, it ought to be somewhat familiar. And what of when she rebuked him for not sooner revealing his presence? Had her speech been a match for this?
As he sought to recall those few words, she said, “The dagger yer holdin’ is the one you told was lost on the day past. This morn I went looking for it lest those searching for ye come this way and find it.”
Not as rustic as the speech of the other two, he amended, and wondered if it was because she served a noblewoman. If so, likely one of Stern.
“’Twas right bloody ere I cleaned it,” she added.
Now quite rustic, as if the more refined required conscious effort that had slipped away, Sinjin mused as he withdrew from his belt the dagger she had left him.
This morn, after awakening from a dream of a black-haired woman clothed in blue mist, a white owl lighting on her arm, he had opened a shutter to let in light and look near on a weapon not as notable as the one he now knew belonged to Sir Orton. However, it was of good quality.
Guessing it was provided for her protection when she left the castle, whether to visit family or undertake errands for her lady, he turned it hilt first the same as the other.
Guardedly, she stepped forward.
When their fingers brushed, he was struck by more than skin-deep awareness of this woman who, had she ever been comely, then no longer for the necessity of wearing a mask.
“I thank you for not leaving me defenseless,” he said as she retreated and lowered the dagger to her side. “However, I am curious as to why you who do not know this fugitive entrusted him with such.”
“More good instincts than foolishness I hoped,” she said, “and ’twas confirmed last eve when put ’round that Sir Sinjin, friend to the new Lady of Wulfen, escaped the king’s men who were to return him to London.” She shrugged. “I know not yer crime against King Edward, but as you are well regarded by Lady Séverine, surely ye have honor.”
Good reasoning, and yet there seemed a false note in that. “I believe I do. A pity it is poorly regarded by the king.” He slid the dagger responsible for his injury beneath his belt. “Your instincts are good. You have naught to fear from me.” He frowned. “I do not know your name.”
“As is best, protecting those who give aid lest ye be caught ere resuming yer journey. One who knows not a name cannot be made to speak it, eh?”
He nodded. “How would you have me call you?”
She retrieved her pack. “In these circumstances, I will not be offended do ye call me Woman.”
Had he not heard what was spoken after the young man named her Beauty, correcting the assumption it was a compliment—and now confirmed by the mask—he might have teasingly suggested that.
“Impersonal, but ’tis best as you say. Now I have questions, Woman.”
She hooked the pack over an arm and tapped the mask. “Pox.”
As he would have guessed ahead of other afflictions—and well ahead of the pestilence for how rare those survivors, and surely rarer for the common folk being afforded less care than the noble.
“What else can I answer, Sir Sinjin?”
Uncomfortably one-legged, the right aching more despite placing little weight on it, he jutted his chin at the table near the window he had opened. “Sit with me?”
When she nodded but remained unmoving, he led the way with a broken stride.
After seating herself opposite, likely as much to put distance between them as to claim the shadow not present on his side, she set the pack on the table and pushed it forward. “Food, drink, and other necessities.”
Though he hungered and thirsted, he left it there. “What do you know of my pursuers?” he asked.
“No more than they be king’s men tasked with returnin’ ye to London.”
“Then you are unaware whether they remain upon Wulfenshire?”
“That I am, though since they injured ye, likely they will not depart ’til assured there is no sign of you holin’ up to lick yer wounds.”
As concluded. “What of Baron Wulfrith? Since I am on good terms with his wife—of which my escort were made aware when I dined at Stern two nights past—do you believe he who surely knows every corner of Wulfen will assist the king’s men?”
She was silent so long, the mask concealing all expression which the faces of many allowed to be read like words on parchment, he longed to snatch it off.
