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The Quest. Lyn Stone
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She winced a bit when he handed over two of the silver links. One should have been enough.
“We require one night’s lodging, enough food to carry us through three days travel, milk for the child and stabling of our mounts. Also, bring us three buckets of hot water as quickly as you can warm it.” He had not lowered his hand after turning over the silver. “I will have three marks in change.”
Two of the men at the bench stopped drinking to watch the dealings when the publican laughed at Sir Henri. “You jest!”
“No jest,” Henri declared softly. The look in his eyes held a warning and his smile had ceased to be. “Three marks, no less. Else we shall take our room elsewhere.”
The innkeeper turned away, hawked and spat. With a shrug, he reached into a purse at his waist and withdrew the coins, dropping them into the knight’s hand. “Aye, well, times is hard.”
Henri waited a moment longer, raised a dark brow in challenge to the men who were watching, then followed the publican up the stairs.
Iana almost grasped the tail of his doublet in her worry over being left behind. This was a frightening place, she thought, and the men looked hard-edged despite their previous mellow mood. She now understood her brother’s abhorrence of abiding in public inns.
Everand joined them before they had settled in. “The stables are more than adequate, sir,” he reported. “I saw to the feed. The man there says his master will beat him if he does not curry every animal, so I let him do it.”
“You will judge whether he has made a proper job of it before you sleep,” Henri instructed. “For now, you remain here with Lady Iana and Thomasina while I see to our other needs. Bar the door and do not open it unless you hear my voice direct you to do so. I shall return before they send someone with our food and water for washing.”
“As you wish,” Everand replied, then added, “Father.”
Henri smiled at him, a singular expression that spoke of his affection for the lad. He said nothing, only placed a large hand on Ev’s shoulder and gave it a fond shake. Then he left.
Everand quickly dropped the heavy bar across the door into its fittings and turned to her, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the portal. “You need not fear, lady. I shall guard you with my life. And your babe, of course.”
She might have laughed at him for pretension, had she not seen what he could do with a knife. “We are glad to have your protection. Tam and I thank you for it.”
He pushed away from the door and came to sit upon the bed where Tam lay sleeping. With one finger, he awkwardly pushed an inky wisp of hair off the child’s cheek. “She does not have the look of you.”
“Nay, she does not,” Iana admitted.
“I had a small sister,” he said softly, in the voice of the young lad he was instead of the deliberately deepened tone he used most of the time. After a long hesitation, his gaze still resting upon Tam, he added, “She died with my mother.”
Iana felt her heart twist just watching his remembered grief. “I regret your loss, Everand. And then your father died, also?”
He nodded, still not meeting her eyes. When he answered, he seemed almost lost in his thoughts. “He wasted away with grief, I believe. He wanted death. My brothers were all gone, my mother and sister, as well. There was only me. When Lord Henri came one day to select cloth for his new court garb, my father pleaded with him to offer me employment.”
He glanced up, the corners of his mouth tipped in a sad smile. “You should have heard the plaudits my sire heaped upon my head whilst asking that boon, lady. I feared never to live up to his praise of me. Wishful lies, most of it, yet Lord Henri accepted it as truth. I refused to leave home until my father breathed his last. Then my new master came for me and made me his squire.”
“And now his son,” she added, sitting down at his side, pressing her hand on top of his. “I’ll wager both your old father and your new feel great pride in you, the one in heaven and the other who directs your life here.”
He shrugged with modesty. “I pray it is true, though I have unworthy thoughts betimes.” He glanced up at her from beneath his long lashes. “And, like your poor Thomasina, I do not seem to grow properly.”
The urge to comfort the motherless boy overwhelmed her. Iana put her arms around Everand and held him to her, brushing a kiss upon his brow. “Take heart, Everand. My own brother remained much smaller than his years should have made him until he was near sixteen. Then he quickly grew near as tall as Sir Henri.”
“You cannot mean it!” Ev exclaimed, pulling back from her, his large eyes rounded with hope. “Shall I, do you think?”
“Wait and see,” she advised, pinching his cheek lightly and giving it a pat. “And even should you not attain such great height, it matters not at all. Deeds make the man, Everand. Always remember that. Your deeds will speak for you, not your size, nor your wealth, nor your way with words. Deeds are all that matter in life.”
He inclined his head thoughtfully. “So says Sir Henri, or something to that effect. I suppose I must believe it.”
There came a scratch upon the door then and he leapt up from the bed, his hand on his knife hilt, doubtless hoping for a chance to perform the heroics of which they had spoken.
“Who goes?” he demanded in his deepest voice.
“I bring your supper,” a man declared. The iron handle of the door moved downward, but the bolt held fast.
“That is not the publican,” Iana whispered.
“Come back later,” Everand ordered loudly. Then, very quietly, he said to her, “It must be one of those ruffians thinking to steal from us.”
After a few moments of silence, something heavy banged against the door. The bolt shook in its fittings. “Mercy, he means to break it down,” she gasped.
“Take the chamber pot and stand to one side of the door,” Everand told her. “Aim for his head if he breaks through. I’ll finish him off with my blade.”
The man rammed against the door again. Iana grabbed up the heavy clay pot and ran to her station. Everand gripped his eating knife and assumed a fighting stance.
With the third blow, the entire portal came off its rusty hinges and collapsed into the room. Iana struck swiftly, threw her full weight behind the swing of the pot and connected with a solid thunk.
Stunned, the brute just stood there, his weapon drawn back to strike.
Everand flung his knife and lifted a stool, tossing that as well. The blade struck true, to the left of the rogue’s breastbone. His beefy hand grabbed it just as the stool hit his head. With little more than a groan of dismay, the man toppled like a felled tree, landing flat upon the door itself. The wicked short sword bounced out of his hand with a clang and landed in the corner.
For a moment she and Everand just stood there, frozen with the shock of their success. Then the lad’s lips kicked up in a semblance of a smile and he shrugged. “We did it!”
“Do you think he is dead?” Iana asked. Everand walked over to the man and nudged him with his boot. He did not stir.
Together they knelt and rolled the brigand off the fallen door so that he lay on his back. Everand retrieved his trusty knife, grimaced at the bloody blade, then wiped it clean upon the wretch’s filthy jerkin.
Iana felt the man’s neck vein for a heartbeat and found none. Blood welled out of the vacant wound in his chest and stained a dark crimson circle upon his yellowed sark. If they did not move him soon, they would have a puddle upon the floor.
“We’ve killed him, I think. What should we do now?” she asked.
Everand bounced to his feet, went to the doorway and leaned out into the corridor.
Apparently,