Tales of knights bound by duty, honor...and each other...

Two knights sworn to protect a princess. A young man who hopes to finally win the man he's always loved. Men separated by grief and tragedy.

Always There | Enough | Vow Unto Me

 

Always There

"You can tell Chastaine that we are slaughtering two cattle for tonight, not three, and if he thinks that insufficient then he and the hunters should learn how to aim."

A familiar laugh came from behind him, and Lyon whipped around to direct his scowl upon the proper target.

"Lyon."

"Chastaine." To judge by his appearance, the hunt had gone well. He always came back looking relatively clean when it went poorly, and right now his pale blonde hair was matted with sweat, spattered with dirt and a stray leaf. Though it was only mid-morning, he looked tired - but satisfied, yes that was definitely satisfaction filling Chastaine's dark blue eyes. "Did you fail so miserably in your hunt then, that you are still demanding we slaughter three cattle?"

"Nay," Chastaine replied lightly. "I did quite well, as you will see. It is only that I think you are underestimating the number of people we shall have this year."

Lyon shook his head and began rapidly to list off the numbers he had calculated and gone over a hundred times or more, until Chastaine at last held up his hands in defeat. "Satisfied?"

"Certainly I have given up arguing the matter. Very well, Lyon, slaughter your two. I have set half my men to assisting in the kitchens, and go now with the other half to bring up the ale and wine. If you ask me nicely, I might see to it a cask of brandy is fetched as well."

Rolling his eyes, Lyon turned away to resume supervising the cleaning and setting up on the grounds just outside the castle wall. Only last year they had finished laying the stones which had turned the space into a proper pavilion, even managing the pattern of three interlocked circles at the very center.

It was a thing to be proud of, and only one reason this year's autumn festival would be especially joyous.

"I will ask nicely the very day you do the same."

Chuckling, Chastaine turned away to stride back over the drawbridge, across the courtyard, to vanish into the keep.

"Ho, there," Lyon bellowed as he turned back around, startling all the men into stillness. He cast his glare at the two offenders. "This is not the hour of revelry. Finish setting that table proper, then fetch out the dunking barrels. If I catch anymore laziness, you'll be celebrating on night shift at the far pastures."

"Yes, Sir Lyon," the two men quickly replied, then bent to their tasks with renewed diligence.

The work continued apace, steady and sure, and in due course the pits were readied for the main fires, posts set up for the torches when dark fell. He kept glaring, ensuring the pace was kept.

He was interrupted reprimanding another pair by laughter. It was soft and rippling, full of amusement rather than designed to acerbate. "La, Lyon. I hope you intend to put that scowl away when the festivities begin."

"As my Lady commands," Lyon said, sighing. "What are you doing out here? You should be within the walls, Lady Winifred."

Winifred grimaced. "I needed a breath of fresh air. You are here; I am safe enough for the moment. Do not shove me back inside quite yet, else I shall command you to dance with every maiden in attendance this night."

With an effort, Lyon repressed a shudder. "I beg of thee, my lady, to spare me that grim fate."

Laughing again, Lady Winifred motioned to the workers, their nearly finished work. "As every year these past six, all is perfect. Did you and Chastaine settle the matter of how many beasts to slaughter?"

"I said two, therefore we are going to slaughter two. Now if my lady will pardon me, I must go ensure the kitchens are not eating the food they are preparing."

"Go, then. I will shout at this lot in your place, if you like."

Lyon frowned. "I do not like." He grasped her wrist before she could dart away and dragged her back across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. He did not let her go until she sighed in exasperation, the closest she ever got to conceding defeat. "You will stay here within the walls, where my lady is safe."

"I will go where I please," Lady Winifred replied, delicate brows furrowing in annoyance, pale pink lips turned down in a deep frown. Though short of stature and as full-figured as it was preferred genteel ladies be, there was very little genteel about her. She was tough, far tougher than most gave her credit for - unfortunately it meant she was all too willing to do as she pleased, rather than obeying as he and Chastaine wished she would.

"You will do as you are told," Chastaine said as he came up behind her.

Lady Winifred glowered at them. "I realize the danger to my life, dear knights, but after-"

"But after so long the threat has not waned, which means it only grows stronger," Chastaine cut in. "Had your sire his way, my lady, you would be locked away in a convent tower with him holding the only key. Do not think that after so many years the danger has abated. Such recklessness means that tragedy is guaranteed to befall us, and should your father's enemies not take our lives, your father will for our failure to protect you."

"Aye," Lyon agreed.

Reluctantly, Lady Winifred nodded. "I understand your words, my knights…I apologize. I fear I grow restless and discontent with the changing of the seasons. Thank you, at least, for indulging me in the festival."

"It is our honor and privilege, my lady," Lyon said, Chastaine nodding beside him.

Anyway, she knew very well they would never turn away the festival - it was the highlight of their year as much as hers.

"Tell me, knights, how go the preparations? Chastaine, fare you well on the hunt?"

Chastaine nodded. "Aye, my lady, most well indeed. There should be boar and venison aplenty to make up for the steer Lyon refuses to slaughter, as well as several sheep. It will be a fine feast."

Lyon refused to rise to the bait Chastaine offered. "Did you bring up the spirits?"

"Should be coming along now," Chastaine replied, and even as he spoke men came spilling from the side of the keep, laboriously pushing massive barrels of ale, smaller ones filled with wine, and carrying several casks of brandy and whiskey.

Chastaine spoke just as Lyon did, telling the men to set it all to the left as Lyon ordered them to the right. They broke off to glare at one another.

Lady Winifred laughed. "I say put it to the south end, that any would be attackers shall be forced to destroy good food and drink should they think to cause us harm. That should make them think."

The two knights rolled their eyes.

"Put the ale to the right," Lyon commanded to the men who stood exchanging amused glances as the joint Seneschals of Castle Triad clashed yet again. "See you line them up proper. Put the rest to the left, that it is readily available to my Lady's fancy."

"You just want me drunk so I will do as I am told."

Lyon did not reply.

Chastaine snorted softly and followed the men from the courtyard, through the portcullis and back across the drawbridge and to the pavilion, closely supervising as the spirits were set out according to Lyon's orders.

"What is left to do, then?" Lady Winifred asked.

"Only the food, my lady."

Lady Winifred nodded, staring through the gate at the pavilion, watching as the women trickled out to begin decorating all that the men had set out, a pensive frown on her face.

It was coming on late morning now, the late autumn air surprisingly warm, brisk enough for his heavy tunic but not so sharp he required his cloak. He likely would need it later, but for now was pleased to leave it in his wardrobe.

"Do you think my father will ever recall me to his presence?"

Lyon frowned, brushing back a strand of his thick black hair to stall his reply. He hated the answer he must give, but he hated lying more. "Aye, my lady. You are of marriageable age, and I have no doubt there is someone in need of a bride whom your father would like to please. 'Tis the way of things, though that way is not pleasing."

"Naught but a tool of negotiation, aye," Lady Winifred said sadly. "I much prefer being a Lady than a Princess."

Lyon did not reply.

Eight years Chastaine and he had served as guardians to her royal Highness Princess Winifred Bethany de Chiel, only daughter of his Majesty King Gwenfrew of the Kingdom of Chieldor.

Six of those years had been spent here, at a neglected castle of which no one had been able to recall the name, barely even the location. Upon arrival, they had learned the natives called it simply the Abandoned Keep. That first year had been hard, none among the three of them pleased at the results of victory their battle to keep Winifred - and her guardians - from a prolonged stay in a convent at the ends of the earth had won them.

They had not let it defeat them however, but had made of it a worthy castle, while miles upon miles away the King continued to wage his bitter, bloody wars against enemies whose language did not seem to contain the word defeat.

He should resent it, being banished to a forgotten corner of the country to play Seneschal for a castle and lands which had done well enough, if not grandly, without their presence. Chastaine should resent it more; his family, some said, was older than even the King's. Though he was the youngest son of several, Chastaine could - should - be doing far more than guarding the King's third child, albeit only daughter, and sharing the responsibility for a keep that would fit inside his family's chapel.

They were all of them younger children; it was perhaps what had bound them together those earliest days. Each had felt the sting of being not quite as worthy of their parents' affections, unfit for the splendor and attention lavished upon their elder siblings. It was only because of their guardian status Chastaine and he had been knighted at all.

In the course of six years, the derelict keep had become Castle Triad, their home.

He did not want Winifred summoned home and forced to marry some foreign prince or odious lord.

"None may say what the future holds," he said heavily, heart not really in it. "The greatest of misfortunes oft prove to be the grandest of blessings."

Lady Winifred smiled fondly. "Stop being nice, Sir Lyon, and resume scowling before our people mistakenly think the revelries have begun."

"Aye, my lady," Lyon replied with a brief smile. "Go select what robe you shall wear this eve - after you finish reviewing the accounting I placed upon your desk."

"Yes, my lord," Winifred said with another roll of her eyes, then with a laugh spun away to return to the keep, dark violet robes and waist-length chestnut hair flowing out behind her as the wind snatched at them.

He waited until she was safely inside, then turned and strode to join Chastaine on the pavilion. They bent to the task of the final preparations, working seamlessly together, calling orders and encouragements, supervising the food as it was set out, the readying of the torches, the fire pits and spits, and even their occasional argument fit into the rhythm of it.

"For you, my noble knights, my Seneschals of Castle Triad. Gifts to show esteem, gratitude, and my eternal affection."

Lyon accepted the small box held out to him by a servant, sweeping Lady Winifred a deep bow and murmuring words of gratitude.

He shared a quiet look with Chastaine, seeing the same concern in his dark blue eyes.

How had Winifred obtained gifts without their knowing? Mercy of the Lord, he hoped she had not snuck into the village on her own. Someone would have told them, surely…

Well, they would puzzle it out and yell at her for it on the morrow. Chastaine gave him an imperceptible nod, agreeing with him.

The box was one meant to contain jewelry, made from dark walnut and polished to a fine gleam. In the growing dark, the light of the torches slowly being lit, it almost looked black. Opening it, Lyon was immediately torn between genuine pleasure and furious rage - that she had commissioned these meant she was doing things behind their back, which meant she was putting herself in danger by keeping them out of the circle. He could tell from Chastaine's stiff movements that his fellow guardian felt the same.

Oh, yes, come the morning she was going to be locked in her bedchambers - the door required two keys. He carried one, Chastaine the other.

Inside the box, nestled on black velvet, was a cloak pin. It was designed after the symbol Winifred had created for her castle, their castle, roughly a year after their arrival. The crest was simple, nothing like the ornate, extravagant things back home. It was nothing more than three interlocking circles in a triangle formation, each circle a different color, and in this case made from different precious stones - one of amber, his own color. Another of sapphire, to represent Chastaine, with emeralds for Winifred.

She had taken the colors from their eyes, subtle, simple, and effective. They had protested her including them in her personal crest, but it had been one of the few occasions when she had proven that right down to her stubbornness and temper, she was very inch the product of her sire.

He reached in to lift out the pin, and only then noticed the two tiny objects set just above it.

Two small, square-cut amber studs. Earrings. Nothing but status symbols, back home…except Lady Winifred - Princess Winifred - was telling them that no matter what happened, she considered them the equal of anyone, as fine as their elder brothers who held real title and land and wealth.

The gesture, the thought, was bittersweet. She had given them simple but visible displays of their worth to her, a royal gift that could not be taken away, as well as memories of the home they had created here in the form of the cloak pins.

But in doing so, she was also saying that she feared their time here was ending.

Letting a servant hold the box, he removed the silver pin which currently held his cloak closed, then replaced it with the new one. The earrings he tucked safely away until his ears could be properly pierced.

"Enough solemnity," Chastaine cried as he fastened his own cloak pin in place. "At that, enough sobriety. Tap that ale, my merry men, and let us see if we still brew the best in the valley!"

The people all cheered, falling quickly into full revelry. Soon the weather would turn bitterly cold, wet and snowy, driving them indoors for all but the most necessary chores. For now, autumn still held fast, and they would take advantage of it nearly until the sun rose again.

The music started up as the ale and wine were poured. Lyon hastily retreated from the section of pavilion set aside for dancing, stopping at one of the laden tables, selecting a chunk of lamb pie before moving to the main banquet table and taking his seat at Lady Winifred's right side.

"You are in trouble," he said idly, nodding absent thanks to the lad who brought him a tankard of ale. There was a sharp bitterness to it that only enhanced the natural sweetness, a trick Chastaine and his fellow brewers refused to share. He bit into his lamb pie as Lady Winifred grinned.

She sipped her wine, as deep a red as the fabric of her garment, the flowers tucked into her plaited hair. Against all the deep red, her emerald eyes were bright and shining, to be defeated only by the dark swiftly encroaching.

"So will you at least dance with this maiden later, my noble knight?"

Lyon grinned and took another swallow of ale, another bite of food. Someone had been a trifle too enthusiastic with the spices, but overall it was not bad. "I do as my lady commands, always."

"Then you shall dance with me," Lady Winifred commanded loftily, taking another swallow of wine.

Rolling his eyes, Lyon set aside his pie and reached for a platter of cheese and puffy pastries stuffed with sweetbreads. He looked out over the crowded pavilion, making note of everything, seeing Chastaine do the same.

All seemed well, and he was happy for it.

"Truly I thank you for the gifts," he said as Lady Winifred was left in peace for a moment. "They are beautiful."

"I'm glad you like them," Winifred said softly. "I told Chastaine earlier…my father sent word not too long ago…that he believes the tides well turned, and that with my assistance an alliance could perhaps be forged. He will be sending a messenger when he can say with more certainty what he intends. I do not expect the messenger before the spring thaw, but one never knows."

Lyon set down the sweetmeat he had selected, suddenly feeling no longer hungry. He leaned forward to reach his goblet, and frowned at a sudden wash of dizziness.

A resounding crash broke into his thoughts before he could form them, and Lyon jerked his head up - more dizziness - to see that someone had collapsed before one of the banquet tables. "Pardon me," he murmured, ignoring the continued dizziness as he moved around the main table and toward the collapsed figure.

Kneeling, he immediately took in the man's clammy skin, the pallor of it. The sour scent of vomit filled the space around them as the man lost his dinner. "Ho, fellow, have you overindulged yourself so quickly, then? Up with you."

The man struggled to stand, but immediately collapsed again, this time passing out entirely.

Another crash jerked his head around, and a sinking feeling began to settle in his stomach as he watched Chastaine bolt for the fallen woman.

Leaving the collapsed figure to a servant, Lyon stood up - and nearly fell over again as the dizziness hit worse than ever.

Comprehension dawned as the nausea roiled in his stomach, up his throat and the world began to spin. "Chastaine - the food - get the Princess-"

The world went black as he heard the ominous sound of swords being drawn.

*~*~*~*

Chastaine looked up as Lyon sat up, relief spilling through him at the clarity in the eyes which immediately found him. "You are finally awake."

"How long have I have been asleep?" Lyon asked, true to form wasting no time with niceties or useless words. "What happened? The food was poisoned."

"Aye, so it was," Chastaine said grimly. "Twenty people died from ingesting too much, another twelve slain when the brigands attacked us. They bore no marks or insignia by which to be identified, but their accents when they spoke unguarded was from the moorlands."

Lyon narrowed his eyes and slowly stood up, grimacing as he swayed a bit. "They took her."

Chastaine nodded. "Aye. Nearly all were crippled by the poison, and I was unable to best so many brigands. My leg was injured, though 'tis sufficiently healed now. The majority of the castle is by now nearly well. You ingested much poison. Six days you have been unconscious."

"Why are you still here?" Lyon demanded. "You should be retrieving Lady Winifred."

"I could not leave so many sick to die, nor could I move anyway until my leg healed. This past day only have I been able to walk more than a pace without it giving out."

"Then you should be packing to head out," Lyon snapped.

"I was," Chastaine said, "but you woke briefly, earlier, and I had a hope of leaving you with a full report ere I vanished. I was about to give up on you when lo - here you are."

Lyon nodded, holding fast to the table to steady himself. "Then tell me all I must know, and be off."

"As I said, most are fully healed now." Chastaine stood and joined him at the table. "Snow fell heavy two nights ago, and while the castle is of course well prepared, it will make recovery of her Highness more difficult. I do no know how long I will be gone. I've appointed various persons to attend certain of my duties in my absence, but you will have to take up the bulk of it."

Lyon grunted in acknowledgement.

He knew Lyon would prefer to go with the rescue party, but the hard truth was that one must stay behind to watch the keep - and keep his Majesty from learning of this. Not because else their lives would be forfeit, that was irrelevant for they had failed and must be punished, but because Lady Winifred had said her father had been negotiating peace. Nothing must be done to upset those negotiations until they knew for a fact who was responsible.

Far more importantly, if her father raised a battle cry her life was in greater danger.

Being still sick and weak, Lyon was the obvious one to stay behind.

"I have taken five thousand gold for the journey, as well as five men. My keys are with yours."

Lyon nodded. "Bring her back. No matter the cost."

"Aye," Chastaine replied.

"Return before spring," Lyon said, scowling in that fierce way that only he could.

Chastaine nodded and pulled out the small scrap of velvet he had tucked into his sword belt. He had intended only to leave them, but with Lyon awake he could more formally make the promise.

They had both of them failed in their sworn duty to protect the princess. No longer did they have the right to the titles bestowed upon them by the King.

Lyon picked it up with a frown, unwinding the velvet - comprehension dawned as he realized what he held. He looked up, eyes going to the jewels which sparkled in Chastaine's ears.

Moving to the candle set upon the small table beside the chair in which Chastaine had been sitting, he thrust the post of the earring he held into the flame, holding it there for a long moment. When it was sufficiently hot, he reached up and shoved the heated metal through his right ear. A brief grimace was his only acknowledgement of the pain, and he swiftly repeated the process with his left ear. The light of the nearby fire gave the sapphires a hard shine.

"Ere the spring thaws," Chastaine said, "I will return with our lady."

"I will maintain the keep, and await your return."

"Should I fail, retrieve her body and bury her properly."

"Yes," Lyon said. "I will see her body is restored here."

Because if they failed to save her, neither one would live. They would not permit it. Their bodies could rot neglected and forgotten, shamed knights unworthy of the most minor courtesy.

"Farewell."

"Ride swiftly."

With a final nod, Chastaine turned and strode from the room, calling to the men waiting patiently in the great hall. Then strode out into the main courtyard, shuddering at the biting wind, the cold, tramping through the snow to mount their horses.

"Raise the gate and lower the bridge," Chastaine roared.

He reached up to briefly touch the amber studs in his ears, then held fast to the reins and led the way through the portcullis, across the drawbridge, and into the valley beyond.

Behind them the bridge once more was drawn up, the portcullises slamming down, sealing the castle up tight. Snow was falling lightly, blanketing the world in unbroken white, the wind rattling the branches of the bare trees.

He waited until the castle was out of sight to speak, and then only to give orders to the five who rode with him - good soldiers all, and along with ten others the only outside of Chastaine and Lyon who it was they truly guarded. "Two each to the neighboring villages," he said. "Report back to me at Milton in five days time. Six days ahead of us, these brigands are, and we know not what direction they headed."

Dividing the men up, keeping one with him to travel to Milton, he watched as the other pairs raced off in their respective directions, mouth tight.

"Think you, Sir Chastaine, that we will find them ere real harm is caused to her Highness?"

"We have no choice but to do so," Chastaine said firmly. "Come, Milton is three days away in this weather. I would prefer to make it in two."

"Aye, my lord," the solider replied, and obediently kept up with the hard pace Chastaine set.

Shenan was larger than the surrounding villages, a fact that lent unwarranted arrogance to its inhabitants. That they thought they could be so rude to one who wore spurs provoked Chastaine's temper, a difficult feat to manage, and only the fact Lady Winifred was in danger every second kept it tamped down.

Two weeks they had searched for any clue as to the whereabouts of their Princess, and only by a twist of luck had they managed to discern that the brigands made for the port town of Shenan.

Upon arrival, however, the trail once more grew cold. Though they searched diligently, no clue as to which ship the brigands took could be found. He had no clue to go on but that there had been about ten of them, at least two bearing the accent of the moorlands.

Strange, to say the least. The Kingdom had not quarreled with that portion of the world for many generations, yet given how nomadic many of them could be - they could merely be part of the band, and not the origin of the protagonists.

Problems and more problems, but he was nothing if not determined.

He called again for more ale.

The lad running tables ignored him in favor of two mincing merchants acting as though they were something greater. They were overdressed, gaudy and distasteful, flashing their gold as though no one else could possibly have as much.

Chastaine sneered, thinking of the coffers of Castle Triad, and should he choose to use it the power of his name. He was only a youngest son, but the name was still rightfully his to use. Unfortunately, he could not unless there was no other recourse - if word spread he was traveling, Lyon would be hard pressed to suppress the reason.

When the lad ignored him again, Chastaine's temper finally snapped. He snagged the boy hard by his shirt and threw him to the ground, planting his boot on the boy's back. "What see you before your eyes, my lad? Unless you are blind to naught but gold."

"S-sir?" the lad said, voice strained, threaded now with fear.

Lyon might be quicker to show his temper, but the slow burn made Chastaine's the more dangerous. "I said, boy, what do you see?"

"Uh-n-nothing, sir. Naught but your boot."

Chastaine pressed harder, twisting his other foot before the boys face, making the steel spurs, decorated with sapphire and gold, flash in the firelight. "Upon my boot, then. I can see you are thick and stupid."

"Spurs, Sir Knight," the boy said thinly.

"Aye, now you begin to get it. Explain to me, then, why you have been rude to this knight all evening, but show manners aplenty to mere merchants?"

The boy was slow to answer, the fear now tangled with what sounded like an effort not to cry. "I am thick and stupid, Sir Knight."

Grunting, Chastaine removed his boot and bent to haul the lad to his feet. "Fetch my ale, boy, and tell your master that for the rudeness of his workers he will pay for my ale this night."

"Y-yes, Sir Knight," the boy, surely not more than nine or ten, said miserably before bolting.

Nearby, the merchants roared with laughter.

"Be silent," Chastaine said, "ere you will learn why my steel weighs more than all the gold you possess."

The merchants wisely shut up.

Chastaine dismissed them from his thoughts, turning his full attention back to his men. "Have we had no luck this day?"

"Nay," replied Simon, his second, glumly. "Too many rumors to sort it all out. Wise brigands, as these clearly are, would find some way of disguising our lady."

"Aye," said Tomas, a short man nearly better with his fists than his sword, with a nose broken often proving it. "We seek for something no one saw, because they would have been certain no one saw what really was."

Chastaine grimaced. "As you say. What, then, shall we look for? Moorlands?"

"Tried that," said another man, touches of gray to his hair, a solemn cast to his face even in times of revelry. "Too many of them pass through for anyone to make particular note. All we have to go by is the mark made that one among them bears a scar across his face, and seeking him has not so far turned up any clue."

Before Chastaine could respond, a brimming tankard was set down in front of him. He turned to thank the lad, and saw instead a large, wide man.

"I apologize, Sir Knight, for the rude behavior of my serving boy. The ale is, of course, on the house. Is there anything else you require?"

"Nay," Chastaine replied. "I thank you."

"My pleasure," the man replied, then shuffled off to tend other tables.

Chastaine turned back to his men, but another hour's worth of discussion gained them nothing. Disgusted with himself, with their failure, Chastaine sent them off to bed and ventured outside for a walk to clear his head.

As he passed by an alleyway, a small, thin figure crashed into him, sending him stumbling. Catching hold of the offender, righting both their balance, Chastaine shook the youth's shoulder when he would not look up.

Slowly the boy did, and Chastaine's breath hissed out to see it was the boy from the tavern - but in the light of the full moon, and the braziers scattered about the street to keep back footpads, the livid cut and growing bruise on the boy's cheek were plain as day.

Chastaine vaguely recalled a heavy iron ring on the tavern owner's hand, dismay crashing over him as comprehension dawned.

"S-s-sorry, s-s-Sir k-Knight," the boy stuttered, furiously wiping away tears from the one eye not half-closed from bruising. "I didn't m-mean-"

Wincing, thoroughly and rightfully chastised for his own behavior, Chastaine gently cupped the boys chin between finger and thumb. "Ach, lad. My intent was to scare some manners into you, not cause you genuine pain. Did your master do this?"

The boy nodded.

"Where are you running at this hour? Tis dangerous for such a youth to be out alone."

The boy shrugged, and attempted to look away, but Chastaine's grip was firm.

"Tell me," Chastaine commanded gently.

"I don't know," the boy confessed, tears streaming anew, all the harder when they stung the still-seeping cut on his cheek, making everything increasingly worse. "He said he wouldn't keep s-s-someone too s-s-stupid to be courteous to a knight, and that I was to g-get o-o-out."

Shame filled Chastaine. He had been perfectly within his rights to be harsh with the lad, and to demand his ale be free - but he had not intended to cause the lad real pain, or cost him his place. That was going too far.

He knelt and pulled off his gloves, gently wiping away the tears, using the sleeve of his tunic to clean away what he could of the blood. Beneath the grime and tears, and with some meat on his bones, the lad would grow into a fine figure. Brown hair and matching eyes, a frame he bet would someday not lack for muscle. "Ach, lad. 'Twas not my intent for such hard things to fall upon you."

The boy only nodded.

"Have you no family waiting for you?" Chastaine asked.

"N-no, Sir Knight," the boy replied, voice low and thin. "Mama passed away winter last."

Chastaine nodded, realizing what he should do, surprised that he did not mind. He wondered how hard Lady Winifred would laugh, and if Lyon would roll his eyes or simply scowl before he found a woman to stuff the boy with the food. "What is your name, lad?"

The boy looked at him with genuine fear, and Chastaine wondered suddenly if the boy had reasons unspoken for so pointedly ignoring Knights. As always, he should know not to let his temper get the better of him.

He missed home. Two weeks gone, the homesickness should have eased. He had not been so upset to leave behind the royal palace or his family's rich lands…but he missed simple, humble Castle Triad. His temper almost never flared there, and he had Lyon to temper it, Lady Winifred to cool it.

"Kodey," he said at last.

"I am Chastaine Delacroix, a knight of Castle Triad. You may address me as Chastaine, and are never to use my surname, understood?"

"Y-yes, s-Sir Chastaine," the boy said, sniffling as he continued to regard Chastaine warily.

"I am sorry you were hurt, lad, and that my temper cost you your place." Though if the tavern owner was so harsh as to throw a boy out on the street simply for being a boy, Kodey was better off away from him.

He took Kodey's hand and stood up. "Come, tonight we will tend that cut and find you a bed. Tomorrow you will be properly cleaned and fitted. I suppose somewhere in all this we shall have to find time to properly train you, as well."

"Sir?" Kodey asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

Chastaine tugged him along when his steps faltered, until they reached the inn where he had taken rooms. "You are my squire now, boy, though I warn you now there likely will never be a knighthood for you."

Kodey's eyes widened, joy flashing briefly before it was subjugated by doubt and fear. "I am naught but a peasant, Sir Knight."

"You are my squire," Chastaine repeated. "That makes you more than a peasant." He pointed to a chair in the corner of his room, next to a scuffed but serviceable table. "Sit there."

He went to the pack set at the foot of his bed and rifled through it a moment, coming up at last with the supplies he needed. Striding back across the room, he quickly tended to the cut on Kodey's face, daubing it with the salve Lady Winifred and the women of the keep excelled at making.

Kodey sat in tense and miserable silence.

"What is wrong, lad?" Chastaine smiled faintly. "Besides the fact this night has proven to be most wretched for you."

"I think I will be a terrible squire, Sir Chastaine," Kodey said, looking very close to tears again. "I was an awful serving boy, and being a squire is much, much harder."

Chastaine gripped his shoulder. "I was overly harsh with you, before. The real source of my temper was not you, and you should not have been the brunt of it."

Kodey nodded. "Knights frightened mama," he confessed with a whisper.

"I see," Chastaine said. "I suppose I only encouraged that notion, but I assure you I seldom am the scary one." He smiled. "When at last I am able to return home, you will see my comrade Sir Lyon is the one more inclined toward growling - though that is about all he does." He winked. "Lady Winifred, the woman who was stolen from us and for whom I seek, keeps us both from getting out of hand."

"I saw a Lady once," Kodey said with a wistful smile. "She gave me a bit of the food I brought her. She was pretty and nice, and smelled like flowers even though she was dirty from travel."

Chastaine chuckled, glad to see the boy focus on something else. "Did she have long golden hair and crystal blue eyes?" he teased.

"Brown hair, like mama," Kodey said, face intent as he recalled. "Green eyes, like the jewels in her ears."

"What?" Chastaine whipped back around, supplies tumbling to the floor. "When did you see this woman?"

Kodey's eye widened. "Um…not too long ago. She was locked up in her room. Men made her cut her hair and she got mad. One hit her and I saw him with a black eye later…"

Relief and joy flooded Chastaine. "Kodey, tell me, do you know where they went when they left here?"

"Across the channel," Kodey said, frowning in confusion. "She yelled about it."

Laughing in sheer delight, Chastaine swept Kodey up and hugged him tight. "Oh, my lad, you are truly the fortune I have been seeking. Strip out of those clothes and climb into bed."

Kodey's eyes got as wide as saucers. "Your bed, Sir Chastaine? I could not."

"I will not be using it," Chastaine said with a smile. "Sleep. Rest. For you will be coming with me across the channel and will need your strength. Can you be awake at dawn?"

"Aye, Sir Chastaine!" Kodey exclaimed.

"Then get to bed, and be at the stables before the sun is up. I will have fresh clothes waiting for you. Make certain my things are packed neatly and secured for travel. Understood?"

"Aye, my lord," Kodey said, eagerly nodding his head, though shadows still lingered in his eyes.

Chastaine smiled and motioned for him to climb into bed, then snuffed the lantern once he was settled. Ensuring he had what he needed, he went off to rouse his men and finally pen a note home that Lyon might know how things progressed.

*~*~*~*

It was the noise that bothered him, Lyon realized in annoyance.

Rather, the lack of noise.

Outside he could hear the bustle and clanking as the servants woke to start breakfast and the morning chores. A colorful curse as someone tripped in the dark.

These sounds, however, were only what he heard well after he had woken.

Since Chastaine's departure three weeks ago Lyon had woken every morning confused and annoyed. It was only a couple days ago that he had put the foul mood to Chastaine's absence. That perturbed enough, because it made no sense.

Well. Perhaps it did. They had been working together for eight years now. It was, he conceded, only natural that things feel strange when so long established a pattern was broken.

Still, Chastaine's confounded racket every morn drove him mad. To miss that made no sense.

Yet miss it he did, and Lyon chafed beneath the realization. But scowl all he like, the truth was plain as day.

There was no creak as Chastaine climbed from bed, the rustling as he dressed, the scuff of his boots on stone, the clatter of dishes as he ate the cold breakfast he always set out the night before.

Early morning and the opening of the castle had long been Chastaine's duty, and Lyon had ever managed the evening and closing of the castle.

Missing was the grating of wood as he opened his door, the sound of his boots louder as he passed Lyon's door on his way to the main hall.

A hesitant rap at his door dragged Lyon from his thoughts. "Enter."

The page boy who stumbled in looked scared half to death. "Come, come, boy," Lyon said, trying to sound as though he were in a good mood rather than foul. He failed in the effort, to judge by the way the boy barely gave him the small scroll before bolting again from the room, calling a "Message for you, Sir Lyon. Messenger to take your reply."

Rolling his eyes, honestly he was not that frightening so early in the morning, Lyon turned his attention to the scroll.

It was the seal which caught his eye.

The castle seal, set into the blue wax Chastaine always used.

He had not expected a missive at all, though he had hoped to hear some word.

Lyon,

We are at Shenan awaiting a ship to take us across the channel. The soonest even generous amounts of gold could manage was dawn. The journey goes as well as such a journey can be expected to go. We hope to locate her nearly as soon as we are landed.

The weather has been poor, but the sailors say it will not impede us upon the waters. I am rather inclined to believe them, so by the time this message finds you we will in fact be well on our away across.

Hopefully this message also finds the castle still standing, not felled by your temper.

Chastaine.

P.S. Do not permit them to brew the summer ales according to that foul recipe you favor.

Grunting, Lyon stood and finished dressing, combing impatiently through his short, thick black hair. Snatching up his cloak, for the castle was always miserable in the winter, he strode from his room and through to the main hall.

"Bring me writing implements," he told one of the servants darting about., then caught a kitchen maid. "Breakfast, please."

"Aye, Sir Lyon."

Lyon turned his attention to those approaching him, dispensing orders and making decisions as necessary, wishing he could go back to his routine of the past several years.

But Lady Winifred and Chastaine were gone, and until their return all fell to him, and being in charge of what had once been divided among three left one no time to bemoan the situation.

When the writing implements were brought - the lad nearly crashing into the girl bringing his breakfast - he had already decided what he would pen in reply. Hopefully, the letter would cross the channel without too much trouble.

The main hall upon their arrival had been a dreary thing, drafty and more than a few holes in the walls and ceiling. Those had been among the first things repaired, followed by improvements to the massive hearth. Two long tables, each set with benches, ran the length of the hall. On special occasions, a third, shorter table was brought out and set at their head for Lady Winifred and her Knights to sit. For now, there was no need for it.

Taking a seat at the first table, at the end nearest the fire, Lyon quickly penned his letter. He stalled sending it, on the chance he had more to add, then called the staff heads to hear their reports.

If there was anything about which to be grateful in this situation, it was that disaster had struck with the advent of winter. The duties to attend now were not nearly what they would be had he to do this alone in the spring and summer months.

"I see no reason to send the hunters out today," he told the Head Huntsman. Normally this was entirely Chastaine's realm, Lyon content to deal with the meat once it reached the kitchens. "The weather is mild enough today to permit travel, so take them instead to the village and ensure all is well there. Send word if you will be delayed beyond returning midday tomorrow."

"Yes, Sir Lyon," the Head Huntsman declared, bowing and stepping back that Lyon might address the next matter.

It was far too early for such thinking, Lyon thought with a mental sigh, but ruthlessly squashed the thought and focused and continued listening to the reports and problems, settling each as best he could, feeling inadequate when he could not make as knowing a decision as Chastaine would have.

"What of the Winter Feast?" the housekeeper asked, hands fisted in her apron, and Lyon marveled she could look so tidy and gathered at so wretched an hour. Three weeks he had managed to wake himself at Chastaine's hours, always going to bed now well past that to which he was accustomed. He knew he looked not half so gathered together as she.

He smothered a yawn. "What about it? Is there something missing in the supplies laid aside for it? Did the village boys steal the geese again? I will string them up from the turrets by their feet."

Those gathered smiled briefly at his words, but the housekeeper swiftly returned them to her concerns. "Nay, Sir Lyon - only, it seems…wrong, somehow, to celebrate when…"

"Ridiculous," Lyon said, shoving aside the writing implements and dragging his breakfast close. Thick, warm bread and a hunk of cheese. He took a bite and washed it down with a swallow of warmed ale. "Lady Winifred would be most distraught to know we lived so listlessly in her absence. That is not what she would want, and Chastaine will have all your heads if you do not enjoy the winter ales he and the brewers labored over for the occasion."

They all nodded, but did not look convinced.

"What would you rather have us do?" he demanded, glaring at all of them. "Sit here in solemn silence, acting as though my lady and Chastaine are already dead? Or would you rather celebrate as usual, because shortly they will return and things will carry on as usual?" He took another swallow of ale and thought longingly of his bed. "What say you?"

Silence reigned for a moment, and then the housekeeper spoke again. "If those dratted boys do not run off with our geese, we shall have a fine feast indeed, my lord." She smiled. "Shall I tell the cook to begin preparing the pudding then?"

"I should hope so," Lyon said, resuming eating. "If I do not have a pudding to enjoy this season, my displeasure will reach all new levels."

Laughing, the housekeeper bobbed him a curtsy and vanished to attend her duties, no doubt eager to reach the kitchens and begin the preparations he could see now many feared they would not be making.

Absurd. Lady Winifred was gone. Chastaine was gone. It would accomplish nothing but even more misery to acknowledge their absence with misery. Better to keep the rhythm as best they could, and hope that Chastaine did not take too long in retrieving Lady Winfred and returning home.

From his tunic he pulled out Chastaine's missive, reading over it once more.

Shenan, was it? And crossing the channel. Reaching the opposite shore would put them at fully a month away from the castle. Assuming he found Lady Winifred within days of landing, it would be just over a month before their return - on yet another assumption that the weather permitted safe and speedy travel.

The King's messenger could arrive any time, though quite likely his Majesty would not bother to send one before the snow began to melt, meaning that at best Chastaine had three months and one week remaining to return home. Yet he was traveling farther and farther away.

Lyon reached up to touch the jewel in one ear, the sapphires already familiar, normal.

Scowling, he quickly finished his breakfast, draining the last of his ale. Shoving the dishes back for one of the kitchen boys to fetch for cleaning, he pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and went to go check with the guards.

"Hail and good morning, Sir Lyon," they greeted as he climbed the stairs to the battlements.

Absently he returned the greetings, gazing out over the land. Beyond the castle wall was a world of white fields, black trees, and a heavy gray sky. Far in the distance smoke curled from the village chimneys, adding darker threads of gray to the sky. Nothing seemed amiss, and the guards swiftly reported that all was indeed clear.

"Rider, ho!" the east-facing guards suddenly bellowed, and Lyon whipped around, swiftly walking the wall to join them.

He frowned deeply as he spied the familiar bright blue tunic as the rider's dark cloak fluttered open while he rode along a path laboriously cleared by the hunters and several guards over the course of a week - and every time it snowed, the work must be renewed, else there would be no way of anyone getting to or from the castle.

Blazing blue, no doubt trimmed in white, with the golden unicorn crest of Chieldor upon his breast.

Damn. What was a royal messenger doing here already? Lyon waited with the guards in a tense and miserable silence.

"I do not suppose we can tell him we are all sick and dying and no one is permitted for fear of spreading the disease?" a guard asked, longingly stroking the crossbow he held.

Lyon was sorely tempted to tell him to fire, but repressed the impulse. Killing royal messengers only caused problems if there was a war in the vicinity, and all the wars he knew of were months away.

He snorted at the guard's suggestion. "It would not be too far from the truth, at that," he replied, thinking with a grimace of the few who still were not fully recovered from the poison which had laced at least half the foods at the banquet. Still he had yet to determine how the deed had been done - and too many of those who had prepared the food had fallen sick for him to believe any in the kitchens had betrayed them. "Such rumor, however, would only cause more problems than it would solve. The fewer lies we tell, the fewer problems we will create for ourselves."

At least the brigands had wanted only to slow them rather than slaughter. Whatever poison had been used, Lyon knew it could have been much worse. That meant the brigands had not intended harm first and foremost…interesting, when they had so boldly kidnapped Lady Winifred.

Interesting, but not a riddle he could solve. That too would have to be trusted to Chastaine.

His only concern at the moment was what to do with an unwanted royal messenger. Grimfaced, he returned to the towers flanking the gate, motioning for the bridge to stay up.

"Ho, there," he called down.

"Hail and good tidings," the messenger greeted, far more cheerful than Lyon was used to hearing from the lot of them. "I come with a private message from his Majesty for the Lady Winifred."

Lyon snorted. If they wanted the man to maintain her secret, they should have told him not to wear a royal blazon. No royal messenger would have business with a remote and humble lady at a time of year when travel was nigh on impossible. The notion was absurd. "I find that hard to believe, good sir," he shouted back. "One in such fine colors could have no business here."

"Do you dare challenge a man of the King?" the messenger demanded, outraged. He threw back his hood, and Lyon almost groaned aloud.

The man was naught but a boy, no more than eighteen summers, likely less. His hair was a fiery red, falling just past his shoulders in the current fashion, fanned messily out after being shoved so long beneath the deep hood. Lyon doubted he could even use the longbow or sword fastened to his saddle with any true skill.

Around him the men rolled their eyes and jostled one another, until a look from Lyon stilled them. He vaulted onto the embrasure, bracing one hand on the tower beside him. In the light of the newly risen sun his ornate spurs, decorated with gold and jewels, were impossible to miss. He might wear the simple clothes that worked best for the hard work required of a Seneschal, but he was by royal decree a knight of the realm. "Aye, messenger, I challenge a man who claims to be a man of the King."

"I am Brice Beauclerc, a personal messenger of his Majesty the King," the messenger stated, voice ringing out sharply. "Who are you, who dares to wear the spurs of a Knight but dresses like an uppity peasant?"

Well, that name he knew, though he had never known that line to possess such vibrant hair. Beauclerc was indeed the family which had long served as those who ran messages exclusively for the King.

Either the message was of little importance, or of such importance they dare not make it obvious by sending one more experienced. The way his luck had been running of late, Lyon had a sinking suspicion it was the latter case which would prove to be true.

"I am Lyon de Sauveterre," he bellowed. "Appointed by the King alongside Chastaine Delacroix to guard my Lady Winifred."

"You look like no Knight I have ever seen," Brice replied.

"No doubt because you seldom see Knights working at more than swordplay and courtly machinations. Here in the country, we must toil for our bread."

Beauclerc rolled his eyes. "Enough, Sir Sauveterre. I demand entrance to your keep, that I might convey the King's words to her ladyship. Lower the bridge, in the name of the King!"

"Aye, aye," Lyon replied. "Let him in!" he called to the guards.

He turned to make his way down the steps and into the courtyard, motioning for someone to take the messenger's horse.

"Master Beauclerc," he said congenially, extending his arm.

"Sir Sauveterre," Beauclerc replied, grasping the extended arm, shoving back his hood with his free hand.

Up close, the hair was more fiery still, his eyes dark gray, so startlingly solemn a color for an obviously impetuous youth.

"Come inside," he said, leading the way inside the keep, pleased when servants came rushing in with tankards of hot ale, a platter of food for their guest. Taking his usual place, a seat close to the fire, he motioned for Beauclerc to sit close to him. "You must have traveled through the nights to reach here at so early an hour, and in such foul weather."

"The weather is not so foul as all that," Beauclerc replied, but belied his words by drinking half his tankard in one deep swallow. "Is Lady Winifred available? I am to deliver my message with all haste."

Lyon repressed a sigh. "I am afraid, good sir, that I am the only one currently available to take your message."

"No," Beauclerc replied. "My orders are to deliver it solely to Lady Winifred. No other."

"I was afraid of that," Lyon said.

Beauclerc frowned. "Why?" he demanded, temper sparking, youth showing. "What have you done with her, brigand?"

"I am no brigand," Lyon replied, gratified his glare worked as well on this courtly youth as it did all others. "Her Ladyship is indisposed for the time being. I am afraid you will have to wait here until she can hear your message."

"No, I must see her at once."

"Impossible," Lyon said.

Beauclerc jerked to his feet, glaring fiercely. "Sir Sauveterre, cease with this foolishness at once. I demand to see her ladyship."

"As I have already stated," Lyon replied. "That is impossible."

"What is going on here?" Beauclerc asked, hand going to the sword at his waist.

Lyon sighed and stood. "Nothing, except that I am afraid you will not be permitted to leave until her ladyship says you might."

Beauclerc snarled and launched himself at Lyon. "Brigand! What-"

He hit the floor with a grunt, hand going to his jaw. In a few minutes there would be rather a nice bruise.

"Take him away," he told two of the guards who had followed him inside. "See that he is locked up somewhere he cannot cause trouble. Hopefully no one will notice his absence before all is set to rights."

Beauclerc attempted to speak, but his words were garbled as the guards dragged him away.

Lyon sighed, finished his own ale, then went to speak with the brewers about what was to be done for the summer ales, thinking of all the other things he must tend to after that, wishing that he was not so wretchedly alone.

And as he had suspected, he had more to add to his letter to Chastaine.

*~*~*~*

Chastaine,

The weather so far has been harsh but not brutal. If you do not tarry, it may hold long enough not to impede your return. As of this writing, all holds steady. The Winter Feast nears, hopefully it will raise the depressed spirits about the place.

You are a fine one to speak of tempers.

My time is too constrained to waste any of it on such pointless mischief as tampering with your ale. If you have time to pen such trivial things, you are not working hard enough.

Lyon

P.S. Not an hour after this penning, a royal messenger arrived with a private message for her ladyship. I have locked him in the south corner room. He reminds me why I do not miss the royal palace. Speed home, I know not how long I can contain this new dilemma.

Chastaine grunted and tucked the missive away. "You can take a reply?" he asked the lad standing before him.

"Aye, my lord," the boy said, though he looked blue with cold and ready to fall over from exhaustion.

Smiling faintly, Chastaine motioned to Kodey. "Get him fed, find him a bedroll. He can take my reply in the morning."

"Yes, Sir Chastaine," Kodey replied, immediately taking the older boy across camp to the fire and the food cooking there.

Chastaine sighed, unable even to take pleasure in the fact that in the past two weeks Kodey was showing remarkable progress. The boy was coming to life; he would make a fine addition to the castle. It was not, however, enough to improve Chastaine's mood.

A royal messenger. That made things considerably more difficult.

He smiled briefly at the idea of Lyon locking the man up. He wondered what the messenger had done to so quickly spark Lyon's ire - normally Lyon was courteous to such officials, even if he did not like them.

"Sir Chastaine! River and Salal have returned."

Chastaine stood at the news, brightening when the men who rode into camp looked as though they could barely contain themselves. They all but threw themselves from their mounts, falling to one knee as Chastaine approached. "Sir Chastaine," the one named River said, "we have come upon great news." He looked up, foregoing a measure of formality, to grin brightly. "Evidence of a camp, perhaps half a day's ride from here. We spoke with trappers who knew of it, and followed a trail far enough to be certain such a camp might truly be without giving away our own presence."

"Well done indeed, my merry men," Chastaine said with a grin, satisfaction warming him. "Rise. Get some food." He turned away to begin work on a real plan. "Simon!" he called, motioning to his second. "Bring the guide."

He strode to the fire to join the others there, smiling briefly when Kodey immediately brought him a drink. Ruffling the lad's hair, he finally turned to the matter at hand. "Simon, convey all that River and Salal know to our guide. We need to know where to go to cut off the brigands. If we attempt to catch up to them, we will only alert them to our presence."

"Aye, my lord," Simon replied, and rapidly fell into speaking with the other soldiers, rapidly translating.

Chastaine felt his inadequacy. He hated that he did not know the foreign tongues, but language had never been his forte. When such matters came up, he left them to Lyon. At least he had thought to take Simon, knowing such a problem might crop up.

Still, if he could speak the language himself, matters would run more smoothly.

"Sir Chastaine, he says that if we ride hard in three days time we could make the canyon just beyond the Tantalle Bridge - all journeying deeper into the country must go by way of that bridge, or journey well out of their way to reach other crossings. The brigands are likely headed that way, else they would already be turning away to take those other routes. We must get ahead of them, and await them beyond the bridge."

Chastaine nodded. "Then pack up camp, and let us be on our way. We stop only when the horses require it."

"Aye!" the man all cried, even Kodey, then raced to obey.

"Kodey, fetch my writing implements, then pack up my things and ready my horse. When that is done, rouse the messenger. I hate he must go without proper rest, but I must get a missive out now. There likely will be no chance later."

"Aye, my lord," Kodey said, and darted off.

Chastaine pondered what he would write while the tools were fetched, finding it difficult to focus. They were so very close to success…

But the journey home would be long in its own right, and there was no telling in what condition he would find Lady Winifred. He tore his mind from such black thoughts, remembering fondly what Kodey had said about her giving one of the brigands a black eye. Their lady tolerated nonsense from no one - except perhaps Lyon and he.

Lyon. He wondered how he was holding up, running the castle by himself. He was more than up to the task, certainly. Such a small keep did not truly require two Seneschals - it was only that they each preferred different things.

He smirked briefly to think of Lyon forced to rise early every day, as he must to tend to those chores which could not wait until the sun was up. He hoped none of those normally under his command were slouching; they all were good people but with the cold and the trouble and a lack of proper supervision…

Well, if they were they would quickly feel the fury of Lyon's fist. He might be from a lesser house, but he had always held his own amongst the greater families. What would Lyon do in a situation such as this?

Trap the enemy between them, of course. If Lyon were here, he could trust that such a tactic would work. As it was, he dare not split his few men. The brigands were at least double their numbers and it would be too easy for them to somehow slip out of the trap.

Chastaine repressed a sigh as Kodey appeared with his writing implements. "Thank you, lad."

Smiling shyly, bobbing his head, Kodey bolted off again to finish tending his duties.

La, Lyon and Lady Winifred were going to harass him terribly for Kodey. Well, he would take it gracefully if only they were all home that he might be harassed.

Soon, he swore. They were so close now.

Nodding, decided, he bent to his letter and swiftly wrote. A few minutes later he sent the messenger off with good coin, then rose to join his men. "Are we ready?" he asked, mounting his horse.

"Aye, Sir Chastaine."

He reached down and pulled Kodey up to ride behind him. The lad needed a proper horse, but there was no time for lessons. "Then Simon, you and our guide will take lead. Tomas, the rear. We go."

"My lord…"

Chastaine nodded, and motioned Simon to silence.

Dusk was falling, shadows long and dark. Even now he could see the brigands approaching.

He wished that Lyon were here, to attack from behind, secure them well and truly. Yet Lyon would be the first to say it was useless to dwell on things which could not be helped, and so Chastaine shunted the thought aside.

Lady Winifred was unmistakable, though her hair had been cropped and she was dressed like a man. Oh, the tale that would make later. He smiled briefly.

They drew closer and he gave the signals - get to Lady Winifred. He wanted the men alive, if at all possible, but she was the priority.

He looked questioningly at Simon, who gave him a nod - the guide and Kodey were well away from danger.

Chastaine drew his sword and took a deep breath, waiting, waiting - and gave signal to his bowmen.

Three brigands fell, the horses startling, and with a roar Chastaine threw himself from his hiding space in the canyon wall, knocking the nearest man from his horse, regaining his footing swiftly, knocking away the man's sword before spinning to meet the attack of another.

"Stop!"

The command cut through his battle focus, Lady Winifred to be obeyed above and beyond all else. He halted in the process of shoving the man he held against the canyon wall, snarling as he turned to regard his lady.

"Chastaine, release him please, I beg of you."

"What?" Chastaine demanded, tightening his grip on the foul brigand - but the tears in Lady Winifred's eyes drew him up short. With a grunt, he threw the man to the ground and sheathed his sword. "My lady, what is this madness? Here we are come to rescue you, and you bid me spare the brigands who took you? Has this debacle taken your mind?"

Lady Winifred shook her head, short hair whipping against her cheeks with the fierceness of the movement. "Nay, Chastaine. These men are not those who stole me away from the castle.

Chastaine frowned. "My lady?"

Instead of replying, Lady Winifred moved toward them and bent to help the fallen man up. Chastaine's frown deepened at the gentle way she touched him, hand straying to the hilt of his sword.

"I would like an explanation, my lady," he said tersely. "That brigand will also unhand you, ere I remove his hands myself."

Lady Winifred smiled faintly. "Alas, my Knight, your sword must remain sheathed. My husband has every right to touch me."

Chastaine stilled at the words, eyes widening. "What?" he asked coldly.

"La, my knight," Lady Winifred said tiredly. "The story is long and complicated, and I fear my father has earned my eternal ire. Let us make camp, and I will tell you the whole of it."

"Aye, my lady," Chastaine said heavily, wishing suddenly Lyon were here to glare everyone into submission. Only the King, perhaps, was immune to Lyon's fierce stares. Feeling weary and thoroughly disheartened, Chastaine motioned to his men and called for his horse.

He dredged up a smile for Kodey, who appeared leading his horse. "All right there, lad?"

"Aye, Sir Chastaine," Kodey said warily, eyes widening as his gaze fell upon Lady Winifred. "My lady!"

"La, what have we here?" Lady Winifred said, her familiar warm and rippling laughter spilling out, easing those around her more than she likely knew. "The tavern boy. What do you here?"

Kodey drew himself up, shooting an uncertain look toward Chastaine before finally lifting his chin. Chastaine hid a smile, and nodded for the boy to speak. "I am Sir Chastaine's squire, my lady."

"I see," Lady Winifred said, eyes twinkling with mirth as she glanced at Chastaine. "La, after my tale, I sense that one will make good hearing."

Chastaine did not reply, merely mounted his horse and pulled Kodey behind him, waiting as Lady Winifred and the brigands did the same. "Lead the way then," he said coolly to Lady Winifred and the man she claimed was her husband.

If he did not like what they had to say, he would quite cheerfully take the man's head.

Not least of all because now he must tell all of this to Lyon, who would not take the news well at all.

Lady Winifred contemplated her hands, wrapped around a wooden cup filled with mulled wine. A hard half day's ride had brought them to a nearby village, where they had emptied the tavern and claimed it for their own use.

"Speak," Chastaine said. "I am tired of the mystery."

"Yes," Lady Winifred said slowly, taking a delicate sip of her wine. Beside her, the brigand husband gently touched the back of her hand.

Chastaine narrowed his eyes, wishing vainly that he could take that hand right off. No one touched his lady without approval and it would be a very long time before he gave the bastard that.

"The men who kidnapped me…hailed from Rothland."

Well, that was no surprise. Rothland was, of the three countries the King had been battling, the most problematic. Lady Winifred had mentioned that her father would be summoning her home to marry…Rothland would of course be the most logical choice. That would bind the problematic country nice and tight. "You were set to marry the Rothland Prince, I should think."

"Nay," Lady Winifred said sadly. "My father originally promised me there, but negotiations went afoul and to put them in their place, he instead gave my hand to Koromor."

Koromor. The moorlands. Chieldor had no issue with them, neither good nor bad. Koromor was hardly worth Chieldor's time, except they were neighbors.

Except…it would be insulting in the highest were the King to marry off his daughter to a country of no value, snubbing a country as powerful as Rothland. Such blatant disrespect would, ideally, bring Rothland to heel.

Unless they decided to act upon their rage and take matters into their own hands by kidnapping the Princess and forcing the issue. Had Winifred been forced to marry the Rothland Prince, her father would have had no choice but to cave to Rothland's wishes or make of his daughter an enemy.

Chastaine wondered which decision the King might have made, but it was a useless one to ask. He focused instead on the question which mattered. "So you married this brigand who saved you, rather than risk your hand being lost to Rothland?"

"He is no brigand," Lady Winifred said quietly, taking the man's hand in her own, her other hand still curled tightly around her wine. "He is the bastard son of the King of Koromor, sent on royal command to retrieve me safely by whatever means necessary. I am safely wedded now, not to be undone. At the time, it was the only way." She smiled sadly. "Do not be too angry, Chastaine."

Of course he was angry. He had failed his lady entirely, leaving her to make these miserable choices - and safely wedded could only mean there was no chance of annulment. He was furious with himself. "Bastard son, brigand?"

"Aye," the man said quietly. His hair was black, eyes so dark a brown they may as well be black. He was worn and grizzled from the fighting, many days of hard travel. "She was originally intended to be married to my father, who neither acknowledges nor denies I am his blood. We were in a bind, and the matter was only going to get worse - this nullifies everything, though I know it is not what my lady wished for, nor what you her knights could desire for her." He sighed. "I attempted to intercept the Rothlanders sent to kidnap her, but simply could not catch them up. I ambushed them after they landed here. When you ambushed us in turn, I was taking my lady to the estate my sire gave to me in token apology."

The bitterness that tinged his voice was familiar. Chastaine had ever felt the sting of being not good enough for his own father, merely a spare should his grander brothers fall to some foul fate. It was a feeling Lady Winifred and Lyon shared, it had bound them from the start.

It was a mark he would begrudgingly put to the brigand's favor - but one favorable mark was a long way from approval. "What do you intend for my lady now, Brigand?"

"His name is Shad, not brigand."

"He is Brigand until he earns our approval," Chastaine retorted, for he knew just how hot Lyon's rage would burn over this. They had failed their lady utterly, and could do nothing now to repair the damage done ere there heads were removed.

"No," Lady Winifred protested, holding fast to Brigand's hand. "He is-"

"Lady," Chastaine cut in, "upon my return, there is naught can be done but to tell your father all. For our failure to protect you, our heads are forfeit. If my life is the price I must pay for this matter, then I will see what I get in return is worth that. This man is Brigand until our approval he does gain, and naught my lady might say will change our mind."

Lady Winifred frowned, but subsided at the gentle touch to her arm.

It was, unfortunately, another mark in Brigand's favor that he so gently regarded and guided Lady Winifred. She did not need a husband who resembled her father in temperament and manner.

"We are returning to Castle Triad," he said at last.

"Are you certain that is wise?" Brigand asked.

Chastaine subtracted a mark; this man had no right to question him. He had as much failed in his duties as Chastaine and Lyon, in that he had not prevented the kidnapping ere it occurred. "I am certain we have no choice," he replied curtly. "Lyon sent word that a royal messenger arrived at the palace, perhaps three or four weeks after I left to retrieve you, Lady Winifred. Lyon has secured him, but knows not long he has before another is sent to discover the reason for his extended absence."

"I see," Lady Winifred murmured, brow pinching. "That is news most dire indeed. We had best return then, and hope further disaster can be averted." She gave Brigand a tired smile. "Regretful, for I would have liked to have seen your home."

Brigand shrugged. "'Tis only a place to sleep, my lady fair. I travel too much to call naught but my men home."

"Then perhaps we can make Castle Triad home to you."

"Aye, my lady," Brigand said, lips quirking. He slid a glance at Chastaine. "Assuming I gain approval rather than a beheading of my own."

Chastaine reluctantly gave him back his lost mark, for possessing a sense of humor.

"So tell me how you come to have a squire, Chastaine," Lady Winifred said. "He is a handsome fellow, I thought so before."

Kodey flushed bright red and looked down at his thinned hot wine.

Ruffling the boy's hair, Chastaine quickly related the tale, taking Lady Winifred's stern looks with good grace, grimacing as she snickered at the conclusion of the tale. "La, Chastaine. Lyon will be highly amused at your expense."

"Regretfully, I am in full agreement with my lady," Chastaine said, rolling his eyes. "Now if you will pardon me, my lady, my men and I are most weary and I have no doubt you are the same. I say we take to our beds and leave at first light. Traveling with all due haste, we can hopefully make home in a month and a half."

Lady Winifred nodded. "Let us hope so," she said quietly. "There has been enough turmoil."

Chastaine nodded, then motioned for Kodey to follow him, striding from the room and up the stairs to the room allotted him. "Fetch my writing implements, Kodey, if you please. Then find Tomas and tell him to hunt out a good messenger for me."

"Aye, my lord," Kodey replied, quickly retrieving the required tools. When he returned carrying a fresh ale, Chastaine still lingered over his missive, not quite certain what to write. There seemed too much to say, more than he could set in his mind, far more than he could set to paper.

It would be easier if Lyon were here, for he would understand Chastaine's tumultuous thoughts; would, in fact, share them. Lady Winifred was a Princess, and knew well the ways of the world, but she was no knight. She clearly believed the worst of their problems solved, and likely that with her return to Castle Triad matters would conclude entirely.

Chastaine knew the problems had only begun. Her father would not take the news well, and there was no telling what he would do to secure his daughter for his own use - and he and Lyon would not live long enough to assist and protect their Princess in whatever she chose to do.

He reached up to touch his ear, feeling the cool of the amber set in it. Slowly he let his fingers fall away, and reached for his quill, sharpening the point before dipping it into the dark ink. Bending over the small strip of parchment, he finally began to write.

*~*~*~*

Lyon lifted his eyes to the ceiling as another resounding crash came from the kitchen, followed by the now-familiar bellowing of Brice as the lad once more started a war with the cook.

He pinched the bridge of his nose at the sound of something heavy and metal hitting the wall. "That lad is a menace. I think they sent him not to deliver a message, but to rid the palace of him."

The housekeeper chuckled. "He has a temper to match that hair, for a certainty."

Not a day after they had locked him away in the south room, Brice had given up his rage over being imprisoned and had switched to complaining about everything he could possibly think up.

He had been ignored - until he had maligned the food. At that point, Lyon had been outside with the guards. He had not become aware of the feud which had sprung up between his prisoner and his cook until he heard the crash which had become the first of many.

Keeping Brice locked up had failed abysmally. At his wits end, Lyon had finally tossed him into the kitchen, thinking actually having to do work would silence him and at last end the matter.

Instead, and he should have expected it really, Brice showed startling skill - and opinions completely opposite those of the head cook. He had tried more than once to silence them, to keep them separated, but he may as well give up breathing.

Perversely, the two of them seemed to enjoy the battling. Lyon rather thought the cold had affected both their heads, but so long as it kept Brice from demanding to see Lady Winifred or be set free, he would endure it.

Or kill them.

The shouting reached a deafening crescendo and Lyon snapped. "Bring that rapscallion to me at once," he roared, startling the hall into silence, until the housekeeper bobbed a hasty curtsy and bolted off to retrieve Brice from the kitchens.

Brice appeared a moment later, looking much like he had lost a war, though to tell from the excited flush to his cheeks he was not suffering overmuch from the loss. He was covered head to foot in the work of the kitchens - evidence of slaughtering chickens, flour from baking, hair tied back with a strip of leather, a streak of something on one cheek.

Did he not know better, he would never believe this boy to be among those who knelt before the King to memorize his most secret and important messages.

"Boy," he bellowed. "There is work to be done, and if you insist upon contributing I will thank you to stop destroying my kitchens. Your family is clearly not what it once used to be, if such behavior is what they teach their whelps."

"Do not malign my family, you vagrant knight," Brice said, all but shouting the words. "You hold me hostage here, refuse to inform me where her ladyship might be found - I see not why you think you have any right to call my behavior into question."

Lyon sighed, wondering what had become of his homelands that children were raised to behave so abominably. He reached out and yanked Brice close. "Because this is my keep and a lack of manners annoys me, boy, and should you continue to provoke my ire you will find yourself sleeping not in the south corner room but in our disused dungeon. They are old enough we've naught but one key, it and the locks so old that I cannot promise they will properly operate. It could very well be that once you are locked in, we will be unable to unlock the door. Do you take my meaning, boy?"

Brice glared at him, but it quickly withered beneath Lyon's. "Yes, my lord, your meaning is taken well." He made no protest as Lyon roughly let him go, merely resettled his messy clothes as best he could. Lyon wondered where he had obtained them, but dismissed the thought as irrelevant. When Brice finally looked up again, there was a faintly hurt look upon his face. "My name isn't 'boy' you know."

"When you cease to act like one," Lyon snapped, "I shall address you as a man. If you want to prove yourself worthy of such respect, you could try not to engage in battle every hour. There are more dignified ways to disagree with someone." Even at their worst, when they were unused to one another, he and Chastaine had never bellowed and thrown things.

"I am a messenger, my lord," Brice said stiffly, "fit for very little else."

Lyon rolled his eyes. "I am a knight, yet I manage quite well in the role of Seneschal. It seems to me you do well enough in the kitchens when you are not attempting to drive my cook from the keep. Behave, ere you find yourself locked away rather than given freedom to move about the keep."

"Yes, my lord," Brice replied, looking miserable but resigned.

Restraining an urge to smack him, for at least the boy was trying, Lyon shoved him back toward the kitchen. Perhaps there would be peace for a time.

Problem managed for the moment anyway, Lyon returned to rereading the missive he'd received three days ago.

Lyon,

Good news at last. Her ladyship is a half day's ride ahead of us, and we have already formed a plan to take her back. If all goes accordingly, we shall be on our way home in not more than a week's time, and it should be much sooner than that.

I gather the messenger incurred your wrath straight away, to be locked up so swiftly in that drafty room. If it is one of those Beauclerc he sent, then I think the south corner room far too generous. We have a dungeon, make use of it.

I regret we will miss the Winter Banquet. Do not eat all the pudding or we shall have to be at odds immediately upon reuniting, and I think her ladyship would prefer we hold the bickering for at least an hour.

Direct your scowls at the sky, that the weather holds until we are safely returned.

Chastaine.

Lyon realized he was smiling as he tucked the note away, and immediately scowled.

"Sir Lyon."

He looked up, stirred from his thoughts, and stared at the housekeeper. "Yes, madam."

"The head cook says that if you are displeased with her services, then you have only to say and she will take herself elsewhere."

Lyon's lips twitched. "It is not the cook who dissatisfies, it is the boy. If anyone can beat that idiocy out of him, it is she."

"I will tell her you said so, Sir Lyon, but I think she will not believe you." The housekeeper chuckled and held out a plate. "She and Master Brice managed to contrive something new between the battling, using the currants and a bit of brandy. She wanted to know if it might be fit for the banquet."

Accepting the plate, Lyon slowly ate the bit of thick, rich cake. He was surprised at where his thoughts immediately turned. "It is most suitable, and she might consider making it again for the homecoming. Chastaine would adore it."

"Yes, my lord," the housekeeper said with a smile, taking the dishes away. She faltered to a stop as a resounding crash came from the kitchen, followed by a great deal of shouting. Heaving a sigh, rolling her eyes, she braced her shoulders as though going to battle and stalked into the kitchen.

Lyon pinched the bridge of his nose, then turned and walked from the main hall, out into the courtyard.

"Rider, ho!" he heard the guards call. One turned, catching sight of him. "Looks like a messenger, my lord," he said. "Thankfully, not royal."

Keeping his thoughts to himself, Lyon pulled his cloak more tightly around him and waited. Sure enough, several minutes later a messenger came clattering through the portcullis and slid nimbly from his horse.

He spotted Lyon and strode toward him, boots crunching in the light fall of fresh snow. Dropping to one knee, he lowered his head and spoke. "I seek Sir Lyon, knight of Castle Triad."

"I am he," Lyon replied, accepting the missive as it was held out. "To the kitchens with you, and if you like be most welcome to join us at our banquet this night. Would you be willing to take a reply at first light?"

"Aye, my lord," the messenger replied with a quick grin before remembering his head should remain lowered.

"My thanks. Be off to the kitchens, then." Lyon watched him go, then saw the horse was tended to before venturing back inside.

Still he could hear squabbling from the kitchen. He hoped the cook beat the boy senseless. He dropped his hand to the heavy ring of keys at his waist, quickly finding and thoughtfully stroking the large iron key which belonged to the dungeons.

Ignoring the chaotic kitchen, he made his way to his bedchamber and dropped down in his seat beside the cold fireplace, lighting a taper before finally breaking the wax seal on the missive.

Lyon,

It would seem my words of good tidings were written with haste.

Fortune seems not to favor us, for instead of finding our Lady Winifred and disposing of the brigands, I have recovered her wedded beyond all annulment, to a man claiming to be the bastard son of the King of Kosomor. My tale only grows more grim.

His Majesty, it seems, attempted to use his daughter as a pawn in getting Rothland to obey his commands. When he sold his daughter to Kosomor rather than Rothland, the Roths retaliated by poisoning our keep and stealing our lady.

Ere she could become the wife of a Roth, she was stolen again by the moorlands, and married to the bastard son.

Against my wishes, the bastard still lives. Against her ladyship's wishes, he is Brigand until we grant him permission to stay both alive and married to our lady.

I will tell you the tale in full upon arrival, this message journeys to you the eve of our journey home.

If you can, attempt to coerce that royal messenger to cooperate. The King, regretfully, needs to know what Rothland attempted to do.

Perhaps in the fervor sure to be stirred up, they will forget to remove our heads. I should think our duties quite tricksome to perform without them.

Chastaine

Lyon held the note tightly in one fist, crumpling the parchment, shaking with the force of it.

Damnation.

This was a fine mess to be dropped upon them.

Lady Winifred married, no doubt in a ceremony wholly unworthy of a Princess, without the blessing of her father or the royal priest, not even her mother or sister to comfort and guide… it was no way for a maiden to go into her marriage, and he hated for her that she had been treated so callously.

Chastaine was correct, this Brigand would be nothing more until he proved himself worthy of keeping both his head and their lady.

Lyon smoothed the parchment out and read it all again, then carefully tucked it away with the other beneath his tunic.

What to do, what to do. As Chastaine said, the King would now have to be informed. They knew the enemy, what had been done.

Even if it meant he would shortly be headless. Sighing, Lyon stood and crossed the room, stepping outside and bellowing for assistance as he reached the main hall.

"Aye, Sir Lyon?" a young maid asked.

"Send that fool messenger to me in my chambers - and see that he cleans himself up first. Also see my midday meal is brought."

The maid bobbed a curtsy. "Aye, my lord."

He waited until she had gone, then went back to his room. A couple of minutes later and his food appeared. Lyon could not help smiling - rather than the usual repast of stew and bread, they had sent him samples of some of the foods to be eaten that night. It would seem that despite the chaos, his kitchens were accomplishing something.

Drinking the mulled wine sent with it, Lyon dove cheerfully into the hearty repast, and was enjoying the last of his custard tart and wine when a sharp knock came at his door. "Enter," he called, just to annoy the boy.

Annoyed Brice was, but smart enough for the moment not to complain. Lyon was not certain if he was better or worse off for being stuck with a youth for this task.

"Sit," he said, setting aside his wine as Brice obediently sat across from him. "I have never seen my cook so easily riled in all the years I have known her."

"That woman is terrifying," Brice said fervently.

Lyon's mouth quirked briefly in a smile. "Aye, but the food she prepares makes amends. You seem to be at least as skilled, an odd trait for a King's messenger."

Brice grimaced and shrugged, but did not otherwise reply.

Lyon picked up his wine and drained the last of it. "You have been wondering where my lady has gone."

"Yes," Brice said slowly, looking at him warily, but sitting up straighter in his seat.

"She will be returning shortly," Lyon said grimly, "but I need your help, for there is something her father must know…"

Brice nodded eagerly, eyes wide. "I will help, gladly, only tell me - please."

Lyon lifted one brow at the odd compliance. "First, I must have from you the message to be delivered to her royal highness."

"I cannot-"

"The time for your games is over, boy," Lyon said firmly. "I cannot trust you if you will not trust me."

Brice's shoulders sagged. "Aye," he said sadly. "My message for her Highness was thus: Matters are at last concluded, and all arrangements made. You are to be wed ere the spring flowers are in bloom. Make ready to journey with all haste the moment winter is sufficiently thawed. Send word by way of this messenger the very moment you begin your journey."

Lyon nodded. "Did he not say to whom she was to be wed?"

"Nay, Sir Lyon," Brice said, slumping back in his seat. "The rumors about the palace, however, say she is to marry the cur moorland King."

Groaning, Lyon wished longingly for something stronger than mulled wine. He was a knight however, and knights did not indulge in the stronger spirits even if they were in most sore need of them.

Thinking of spirits turned his thoughts to Chastaine, and how many times after cold days like these he had drawn brandy for both of them, leaving Lyon's in his room that he might enjoy it before bed. It had been one of the few comradely gestures exchanged between them. In his turn, Lyon had ever repaired Chastaine's tunic along with his own. Knights tended to all their own belongings, but Chastaine was hopeless with needle and thread. Neither of them would trouble the already busy castle servants with such trivial work, so Lyon managed it while he sipped his brandy before bed.

Never had they drunk together, Lyon realized, something he supposed would be common enough practice between knights who spent so much time together. It simply was not possible, however, an unspoken arrangement between them that Chastaine rose early and so could go to bed earlier, while Lyon rose late and so found his bed later. Ever the arrangement had worked.

He had not touched the brandy in all the time he had run the castle alone, and he realized now he had no desire to touch it. Twas not the same, and as much as the thought confounded and irked, it was the simple truth.

"You must listen to me closely, boy," he said at last, shunting away the trivial thoughts. "There is no time for the foolishness which spurred me to toss you to the kitchens. I need to know I can trust you, for one mistake may cost my lady, her Highness, much. Understand you, this?"

"Aye, my lord," Brice said.

Lyon nodded, still reluctant but having no choice in the matter, and swiftly related all that he knew of the matter.

When he finished, Brice spent several minutes staring. Finally he shook himself. "Ach, my lord, that is quite a different tale than the one I had been imagining."

"Pray tell, what tale were you imagining?" Lyon asked, dreading the answer.

Brice smiled sheepishly, scrubbing a hand through his red hair. "With both her Highness and Sir Delacroix missing, it seemed to me they had eloped."

Lyon blinked - then burst out laughing. "Chastaine? Elope with the Princess? I shall have to tell them that, if only to see the looks upon their faces!"

"It did not seem that amusing to me," Brice muttered, slinking down in his seat.

"That is only because you do not know them," Lyon said, finally getting control of his laughter. "She is our lady, and I believe she regards us as particularly aggravating older brothers." He reached up to touch his cloak pin, clenching his hand into a fist before it could stray higher to the sapphires in his ears. "Guarding her has proven difficult enough. Neither I nor Chastaine seek the role of her husband. I think such a damsel is not to his taste, and she is certainly not to mine."

Brice rolled his eyes. "A Princess is not to your taste? What strange men, to find such a woman inadequate. I can think of hundreds who would find her exactly to their taste. A Delacroix especially, I should think, would find a Princess adequate. What then, pray tell, would either of you find to taste, if a Princess lacks?"

Lyon started to reply, annoyed as ever by Brice's impudence, but the question drew him up short. He did not know. As knights sworn to guardianship they had no time for dalliances or marriages. Yet every man had needs, and he realized suddenly he did not know where Chastaine slaked his lust. Not that it was his business, and certainly he did not care…

But at any given moment he could predict where Chastaine was, and when he would appear, and he knew Chastaine could do the same with him. They jointly controlled the castle, it only made sense they were familiar with one another's patterns. Yet going over all that they did in the course of the day…as knights they were fully within their rights to take their pleasure where they pleased. However, neither of them preferred the tawdry dalliances in which so many knights indulged, and such behavior would distract them from the duty of guardianship.

Did Chastaine dally with one of his hunters when they were a field? Nay, he would not fraternize with his men so, which cut out the soldiers as well.

Realizing the black recesses to which his mind had strayed, horrified, Lyon furiously brought his mind back around to where it should be dwelling. "You will take word to his Majesty then?"

"Aye, my lord," Brice said.

"You are oddly cooperative," Lyon said slowly. "What happened to calling me Brigand and threatening to have my spurs taken away? Was the fight beat out of you in the kitchens?"

Brice looked at his hands. "I want only to be useful, my lord. I am not properly a Beauclerc, not as they have always been. My father gave up his lands and title to marry my mother, who was naught but a peasant, a cook in my father's keep before he surrendered it to marry her and live in peace. Twas from her I learned kitchens. When illness took them, my uncle took me in on the provision I fit properly into the family…" He shrugged. "This was my first mission, and I have failed to perform it according to his dictate. If taking this message back will repair that shame, gladly will I do it."

Lyon grunted. "If it is the kitchens you prefer, then in the kitchens you should stay. A man true to himself is worth a thousand who spend their life living a lie. Pack your things, Brice, and be off with all haste."

Jerking his head up, Brice blinked, then smiled hesitantly. "Aye, my lord…though, if I may…"

"What is it?" Lyon asked, not really wanting to know what ridiculous boon was about to be asked of him.

Brice ducked his head again. "Might I stop by the kitchens, to see that all my efforts came to success?"

Lyon stared at him, then chuckled softly and shook his head. "Aye, Brice. Perhaps next year you might come and enjoy the banquet properly, and under happier circumstances."

"Aye, my lord. Thank you."

Nodding, Lyon motioned him out, staring broodingly into the fireplace.

Finally he forced himself to rise, leaving his room to return to the main hall in time to bid Brice a final farewell. Flagging down a servant, he gave orders for the dishes to be fetched from his room, and writing implements brought. Ideally they were well on their way home, naught but a few more weeks away - but he should keep Chastaine as informed as he possibly could, as there was no telling what could go awry when.

Taking a seat at one of the long tables, he murmured a thank you when a maid brought him a fresh tankard of mulled wine, and by the time his writing implements were brought he had decided upon what to write.

*~*~*~*

Chastaine glowered at all and sundry as they trudged through the streets of Shenan. Two weeks, he reminded himself. Two weeks and he would be back home, in his own bed, and hopefully back to his routine.

He missed the hunting, the brewing, eating a quick lunch before the work resumed, be it planting or harvesting, or the hundreds of other tasks that would come with the thaw. The boisterous meals on those days they could afford to sit and eat for an extended period of time, the quiet camaraderie on those days they could not.

More than anything, though, he missed someone at his back. Knowing that while he tended the south and east fields, Lyon watched the north and west. That every problem he did not anticipate, Lyon would. So many little things had nagged him on this journey, a dozen little mistakes because he was too used to someone else covering what he could not. Too used to being a half.

Scrubbing at his face, he sent Kodey ahead to commandeer an inn, pressing coin into his hand. He wondered if the lad was nervous or unhappy, to be back here where they had so poorly met. But if he was, the lad gave no sign of it, darting off knowingly through the streets, eager to please, so very different in such a short time from the uncertain waif he had been before.

"It is good to be back on familiar shores," Lady Winifred said with a sigh, "though I shall not be truly content until I am home and can rest in my own bed."

Chastaine glowered at the mention of her bed, for she would no longer be sleeping in it alone, and by the day he was finding it harder to contrive reasons to take Brigand's head. Infuriating, to say the least, and ere he lost his own head for this mess he would find one of his own to take.

He turned away as Lady Winifred chatted idly with her husband, the men, letting her work her magic upon them while he waited for Kodey to return.

The lad returned sooner than he had expected, grinning brightly and barely holding still long enough to tell him that all had been arranged at the inn - it was the very one Chastaine had used before, close to the tavern where he had encountered Kodey. "There was also a message for you, Sir Chastaine!" Kodey said eagerly, handing over the tightly rolled scroll.

Chastaine took it, wondering that this time he did not have to force his smile. The vellum was sealed with the Triad symbol, stamped into Lyon's deep yellow wax. He broke the seal and unrolled the missive, hoping for some form of good news to raise his spirits.

Chastaine,

Promptly after your last missive, I sent the Beauclerc home with the full tale, as well I knew it, of the troubles surrounding her ladyship. The two week journey to the palace, and at least a two week journey back for whomever he sends to take our heads, will hopefully give you enough time to return that we might defend our keep proper.

Brigand, I trust, you have been putting through his paces. I have prepared both the south corner room so recently vacated by the Beauclerc and a choice cell in the dungeons.

Should you find no other missive awaiting you, trust that for now all is well at home. We await the return of our Lady most eagerly, and I will most gladly return to you those tasks you have been sorely neglecting on this tiresome quest. Being headless is no excuse for continuing to neglect them, I trust you are aware of this.

The worst of the weather should be long past, you have only mud and water to fear and those should be as naught beside the chore of dealing with a Princess and her Brigand husband.

Speed home.

Lyon

Lady Winifred's soft laughter broke into his thoughts. "La, even apart you two are together. What has Lyon to say, Chastaine?"

"That your father has been informed, all for now is well at the castle - unless that has only quite recently changed - and your people eagerly await your return."

"I eagerly await our return," Lady Winifred replied. "I fear it shall be a brief return, but to see it one last time…" She sighed and smiled sadly. "Come, let us find our beds that we might be home that much sooner."

Chastaine nodded and tucked the missive away, turning to lead them toward the inn. "Aye, my lady."

They reached the inn rapidly, swiftly settling into their respective rooms. Chastaine cast Brigand a glare, but it was a useless effort - his own were not half so fierce as Lyon's, and Brigand unfortunately had every right to do as he pleased to his wife.

Heaving a sigh, Chastaine closed the door to his own room - and felt a smile tug at his mouth to see how diligently Kodey was working to set his things away, fussing over the food brought up before their arrival, poking at the fire to make certain it stayed properly ablaze. "Sit a spell, lad. You are at least as tired as the rest."

"Nay, my lord," Kodey said, shaking his head vigorously. "I can scarcely hold still."

"Oh?" Chastaine asked, removing his cloak before taking a seat. He held out a hunk of bread and cheese, chuckling at the way Kodey wolfed it down as he fluttered back to poke at the fire. "Why ever is that?"

Kodey looked up at him, then dropped his eyes and turned back to the fire. "I am eager to see your castle, my lord. I…I do not want to be sent off again…"

"You will not be," Chastaine said firmly. He reached into his coin purse and pulled out a smallpence. "Catch, lad," he called, and flicked the coin as Kodey turned. "Run along and see what sweetmeats you might find. Be well back before dark falls."

"Aye, my lord!" Kodey cried, eyes bright. He snatched up his cloak and called a hasty farewell as he bolted from the room.

Chuckling, Chastaine picked up his tankard and drank deeply of the warmed ale. Sweeter than he liked, Lyon would like it more, though he would agree that it was too thin. Soon he would be home, perhaps able to enjoy his own ale a bit before the King sent someone to remove his head.

He wondered if they would at least grant the boon he and Lyon be buried at Castle Triad. Thinking of being placed amongst the bones of his ancestors in the dank depths of the family chapel somehow left him depressed. He would much rather be buried on Triad lands, perhaps in the field not far from the castle itself where the crops never seemed to take. The trees there were fine, the view splendid…it would not be a bad place at all to rest eternally.

Lyon, he knew, would agree.

Shaking his head at the strange direction of his thoughts, putting them to exhaustion, Chastaine set aside his ale to begin eating when the door abruptly slammed open. "What-Kodey, what is wrong?"

"My lord! My lord - men - one looks like you."

"Calm down, Kodey," Chastaine said firmly, but the words Kodey had managed to get out chilled his blood. "Speak slowly, take your time."

Kodey shook his head furiously back and forth, hair flying about. "There is no time, my lord. Men come dressed in the King's colors. One looks like you. That is troublesome, is it not?"

"Quite troublesome," Chastaine said quietly, standing up and drawing his cloak back on.

He had hoped to be at Castle Triad before the end arrived. Somehow, it had never occurred to him he might die alone.

Not entirely alone, he supposed. Lady Winifred was here…yet it was not the same thing.

As her guardian, there was always the chance he would fall protecting, or die for failing to do so. At any moment the end could come, as it nearly did for Lyon when the festival banquet was poisoned.

Every scenario had been pondered between them, plans made for every one they could imagine. In all of them, it was accepted that they would fight together, die together. Like so many things between them, it was not necessary to speak on it. Always it had been understood.

That he would shortly die without his fellow guardian beside him seemed wrong. It seemed unfair. Always it had been the two of them. He guarded Lyon's back, Lyon watched his, and together they kept their eyes on the troublesome Princess.

How cruel it seemed that at the last they were miles apart.

He wondered what it meant that rather than worry over what would become of the Princess when he and Lyon were no longer there to guard her, he thought only of Lyon.

Before he could follow the thought to its conclusion, there came a sharp pounding at the door. Kodey jumped, crying out, and bolted for Chastaine, clinging to him, half-hiding beneath his cloak.

A moment later the door flew open.

The man filling the doorway was Chastaine's height, though in the full armor and bright blue tunic, emblazoned with a unicorn, he seemed much larger. His hair was the same wavy gold, eyes the same blue. Save for the beard and the lines of age carved into his face, he could have been Chastaine's twin.

"Brother," Chastaine said calmly. "I did not think his Majesty would be so cruel as to make you take my head."

"Oh, I shall not be the one removing it," the Captain of the Royal Knights replied. "My orders are to take you to Castle Brae, for his Majesty to mete out your punishment at his leisure."

Chastaine barely kept his shoulders from sagging in relief. Perhaps he would not die alone after all.

"Who is the boy?" the Captain demanded.

"My squire," Chastaine said calmly. "When my head tumbles from my shoulders, at least grant me the boon of seeing he is returned to Castle Triad. He has committed no wrong in this, merely shown poor judgment in choosing to cast his lot with mine."

The Captain grunted. "Such boons are not mine to grant. Gather your things. I would keep this affair as peaceful as it might be."

Chastaine relaxed a bit, knowing his brother would see Kodey cared for as he wished. They had never been close, he and Tobin, but Tobin had children of his own, one of them about Kodey's age.

"Sir Chastaine?" Kodey asked, eyes filling his face as he looked up.

"All will be well," Chastaine said, ruffling his hair. "Gather our things, lad. We want not to keep my brother waiting."

Kodey bobbed a small nod. "A-aye, my lord."

Leaving Kodey to it, Chastaine joined his brother and left the inn. Outside, Princess Winifred stood proud and regal - and infuriated. "Captain, I demand-"

"Your father's demands, with all due respect, Princess, supersede your own. By his orders, you are to be taken to Castle Brae, there your fate to be decided by his Majesty." His eyes strayed to the man beside her, narrowing. "As will yours."

Before Brigand could speak, Chastaine drew his brother's attention. "How fairs the family, Tobin? It has been years since I have seen or heard from my kin."

"They are much the same," Tobin replied, motioning to his knights to take them all away. From the houses and shops all around them faces peeked, and Chastaine wondered how quickly the tale would spread, of the brigands taken into custody by the King's Captain. "Father is displeased you have failed the family so."

"He has failed no one," Princess Winifred said sharply, voice ringing out, drawing all around her up short. "Chastaine and Lyon have ever been my protectors, and they have succeeded in regaining me where you would have very likely failed, good Captain."

Tobin sneered and mounted his horse as it was brought. "I would not have seen you lost in the first place lady."

"Aye, you would have," Princess Winifred replied, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "All know the Captain enjoys fine food. The poison slipped into our banquet would have struck you at least as hard as it struck those of my keep. Even my sire is not immune to such devious Roth tricks."

"We go," Tobin said curtly, spurring his horse and leading them from the city.

Chastaine reached down and caught up Kodey as the boy came running out, this time settling the lad in front of him, rather than behind. Kodey trembled in his arms, and Chastaine wished he could better soothe him. The poor boy seemed cursed with a tumultuous life. "All will be well, lad."

"Will they really take your head, Sir Chastaine?" Kodey asked tearfully.

"I know not," Chastaine answered honestly. The way the journey had faired one misstep after another, more surprises than he cared for, he realized there was little use in predicting anything.

Princess Winifred looked at him. "I wonder if they have taken the keep, then." She smiled weakly. "At least we will see Lyon again."

Chastaine nodded, wondering how that simple thought eased him in a way naught else did.

"What of my keep?" Princess Winifred demanded. "Has my father ordered it razed? Have my people been slain or driven from their home because my father bungled my marriage and spurred the Rothlanders to this contemptible behavior?"

Tobin drew his horse to a halt and turned it around, moving closer to Princess Winifred. "You will watch your tongue, Princess. His Majesty is a finer ruler than most, and made the best decisions he could. The fault for this debacle lies not with him, but with those who failed in their sworn duty to protect you. Do not blame your sire for the mistakes of others."

"Who gives you leave to speak so to her?" Brigand demanded before anyone else could speak. "She is your Princess, your superior, and commands your respect. Treat her accordingly."

Sneering, Tobin shifted his attention to Brigand. "Who are you to reprimand me, vagrant? I have the King's permission to speak as I please to all, and I will not tolerate words spoken against his Majesty, not even from his daughter. Especially not from his daughter, who should be grateful for the care her sire has given her all these years."

"You will respect my lady wife or answer to steel for the transgression," Brigand replied, hand going to the hilt of his sword, touching it lightly in warning.

"Enough, Shad," Chastaine interrupted. "Brother, it would serve you well to recall that in all of this, it is her Highness who has suffered most. She has the right to speak as she pleases. How would you feel if twas your lady wife who had been so crassly treated? If such outrages were ever inflicted upon your daughter?"

Grunting, Tobin turned his mount back around and motioned for the party to continue moving.

Chastaine breathed a sigh of relief, then moved forward to ride alongside Shad.

"So I am no longer Brigand?" Shad asked. "I was becoming rather fond, really. Shad sounds not half so notorious."

"You have yet to gain Lyon's approval," Chastaine reminded, but grinned. "Any man who tells off my brother has my approval. He should not have spoken so to her Highness." He winked. "Should you have to reprimand him again, and the matter comes to swords drawn, Tobin always lowers his guard ere he lunges or feints. He is fond of feinting to the right midway through a fight. He never understood why all his brothers bested him."

Shad laughed. "My thanks, Sir Chastaine."

"How many brothers do you have, my lord?" Kodey asked, turning his head to peer up at Chastaine, brown eyes bright with curiosity.

Chastaine smiled. "Oh, how many do I have? A very good question; we are so scattered to the winds, it is hard to remember us all. Tobin there is the eldest, the star in our father's eye. Kyler and Branson journeyed across the sea, guarding the King's third-eldest son; they are twins, and drove my mother mad with their antics, or so the family tales do say. So that is three. Then there are my sisters, first Tea, then Constance. Four and five. After that 'tis only me."

Kodey nodded, turning back around and settling against him. Chastaine knew he would commit it all to memory, and likely ask countless questions as he continued to grow more comfortable.

If there were reasons not to despise this entire mess, Kodey was among them. Chastaine was not sorry a bit to have been over harsh that night, if it gained him this squire.

"I want one," Princess Winifred said, smiling fondly at Kodey, flushing faintly as her own words struck her.

Shad, riding between her and Chastaine, said nothing, but Chastaine did not miss the brief, happy smile which flitted across his face, nor the way he reached out to gently clasp Princess Winifred's hand.

If the man had not already won his approval, Chastaine would have given it then.

He still rather hoped Shad jumped or otherwise reacted amusingly to Lyon's glares.

Especially as it meant that Lyon would still be around to brandish them, and Chastaine would be around to witness.

"Who did his Majesty send to the castle to fetch Lyon?" he asked.

Tobin did not bother to turn around as he replied. "I do not know. My orders were to locate her Highness and you, and escort you to Castle Brae."

His brother was lying. Tobin was Captain of the Guard, he would be kept abreast of all that pertained to this affair, if his Majesty had seen fit to involve his Captain in it. Why, then, would Tobin lie about knowing who was going to fetch Lyon?

Obtaining answers would be fruitless. He would merely have to bide his time and wait and see…and hope that what he saw was Lyon.

*~*~*~*

When the day passed with no missive, Lyon began to brood. It was of course entirely possible the messenger had been waylaid. Mishaps occurred…but after those they had already exchanged, one coming from the villages but a few days' ride away…

Perhaps he was merely anxious for the matter to finally come to a finish.

No. Chastaine would have sent word a few days ahead of their arrival, that Lyon might have time to properly prepare for Lady Winifred's return.

To judge by the last missive he had received, with the weather clear and spring driving winter swiftly away…Chastaine should have already sent word.

Scowling, Lyon strode from the keep and across the courtyard, not quite stomping up the stairs to the battlements only with effort.

"All clear, Sir Lyon," a guard said before he could speak.

Lyon nodded and glared out at the landscape, silently ordering it to surrender Lady Winifred and his comrade. They were not due back for some days yet, but he should have heard from Chastaine by now.

The landscape proved itself immune to his efforts, and Lyon's ire only increased.

"Riders, ho!" The east guards bellowed.

Lyon whipped around and all but bolted for the eastern side of the keep, walking briskly along the battlement, narrowing his eyes as he took in glinting metal and brilliant blue. Royal soldiers; six of them.

Why would his Majesty send a mere handful of soldiers? Not even a single knight amongst them. Suspicious, to say the least. "Go and order everyone into the keep," he commanded the nearest guard. "No one leaves it until I say." He turned to the next guard. "Double the guard along the battlements. Keep weapons lowered, make no motion against them. Should things go awry, though I cannot imagine how they would with merely six of them against the entire keep, bar the doors and let no one in until you hear from myself, Chastaine, or Lady Winifred."

"Aye, Sir Lyon."

Nodding, Lyon returned to the gatehouse, passing through the right guard tower to stand over the gatehouse itself, bracing his hands on the central embrasure as the riders sped toward them.

Looking up, he motioned to the guards atop the towers, who would convey his unspoken orders to the other six.

He glowered at the riders as they drew up short at the moat. Never had he appreciated the defense more; it was one of the few things he had approved of upon their arrival. The length of two men across, and to their best estimates at least three men deep, fed by water diverted from the nearby river.

"Ho, there," he called down.

"We come at the bidding of his Majesty the King," roared the foremost of the six riders. "We seek Sir Lyon Sauveterre."

Lyon leapt atop the short embrasure running the length of the gatehouse between the two guard towers, that they might seem him more clearly. "I am Lyon Sauveterre. What business have you with me?"

"You know the business we have," the soldier roared. "Open the gates at once, Sauveterre."

Rage sparked through him, and Lyon glared nastily down at them, his own roar making the soldier's seem feeble. "You will address me properly or feel