Lord of the Blade (3 page)

"Who are you? I don't recall seeing your
face around here and as servants are scarce at the moment, I'm sure
I know every one." He picked up a pitcher of ale and poured some
into a used wooden goblet. "Did Brother Ruford bring you here from
the village?"

It was all she could do to shake her
head.

His feet scraped across the table and he
slowly rested them on the floor, his eyes never leaving her. He
picked up the goblet and chugged down its contents in three gulps,
banging it to the table. "Why don't you answer me?"

Startled by his action, intimidated by his
tone, it was her own stubbornness that made her stay silent. So
this was the man who ruled with an iron fist. The man who had the
servants running in fear every time he neared. She stared at her
feet and bit her lip. She feared him too, but for a very different
reason. He got to his feet slowly and ran a finger over the back of
the raven's head before he made his way around the table and
directly in front of her.

"You're the girl from the monastery, aren't
you?"

She nodded slightly and silently.

"Ah, then that explains it." He paced back
and forth, his hand upon his chin in thought. "You, too observe the
vows of silence."

Corbett watched as a surprised look came
over the girl's face. He knew from the moment he walked into the
hall the girl had a voice. And a lovely one, at that. How could a
brash woman such as this remain silent? She obviously only did it
to challenge or anger him. If the other servants started acting
like this one, he'd soon have a problem on his hands. He'd have to
teach her a lesson. A lesson that was sure to make her speak and
stop her silly games of denying to carry out his orders. His hands
on the edge of the table, he lifted the board slightly causing the
trenchers and goblets to go rolling to the floor. Several hounds
darted in to lick up the remains among the rushes.

Her eyes grew wide and she dropped the knife
she was holding, but still she didn't speak. She wouldn't look at
him and this disturbed as well as intrigued him. Was she so bold as
to show disrespect to her lord? Who was she? Could she be the
emerald-eyed beauty from his dreams? The table was huge and usually
took half a dozen men to move it. It was straining his own muscles,
but he wouldn't show weakness in front of a woman. He lifted it a
bit higher, expecting her to tumble off, but her balance was
impeccable. No one could remain upright at such an odd angle, but
yet she challenged him by refusing to fall.

"God's eyes, you're a stubborn wench!" He
let the table slip from his hands, banging back down with force
upon the wooden frames that held it. The girl stumbled from the
sudden momentum and fell forward right towards him. He put his
hands up to block himself, but somehow ended up with her in his
arms.

She clung to his neck, and rather it be
purposely or just to stop her fall, he felt himself pleased by her
action. Her face brushed his accidentally, and he reveled in the
silken softness of her skin. Her long mahogany hair was unbound and
fell around his arms halfway to the floor. It was clean, shiny hair
that smelled of mint. So unlike the dirty lice-infected hair of
half his servants.

The warmth of her body caressed him right
through his surcoat and cloak. He felt an irresistible urge to
throw down his cloak upon the rushes and himself atop the girl.
Entranced by her beauty, he suddenly needed to know the color of
her eyes. He shifted her and felt her body tense. With one finger
he tilted her chin upward, but could only see her closed lids.

"Open your eyes, wench. You look like you're
longing to be kissed."

Her eyes shot open at his comment, and she
struggled to free herself of his hold. He released her out of
courtesy, not out of want and nodded his head.

"Green. I thought so."

The door leading to the kitchens burst open
and Heartha came rushing in.

"Milord, the servants just informed me you
were back. I'm sorry but I haven't prepared a proper meal."

"Is this your granddaughter?" he asked.

Devon clutched her arms around herself and
focused on Heartha's face instead of his.

"Aye, milord. I hope she's done nothing to
displease you."

"Displease me?" Corbett chuckled and held
out his arm. His raven flew to him. "Displease me, she asks."
Corbett looked to his raven. "Well, perhaps we ought to give the
girl another chance. Shall we go inquire of the baron's health, my
friend?"

Devon’s wide-eyed scrutiny of the situation
didn’t go unnoticed. He chuckled and looked directly at her. She
lowered her gaze.

"Have the girl bring some food above stairs
for me," he told Heartha, heading away.

"To the baron's room, milord?"

"Nay, as he's not to be disturbed. The
baroness believes he may have the plague."

"The plague?" Heartha’s gray brows raised in
surprise. "I thought we'd seen our share and sent the pestilence on
its way."

"We'll all take precautions until we know
otherwise," he instructed. "Have her bring the food to the baron's
son's chamber, as I'll be paying him a visit instead." Corbett
stopped in the doorway and turned to have another look at the girl,
but she was gone. And he hadn't dismissed her. He'd have to teach
her the ways of a servant, and he'd have to do it soon.

"Disregard the food, Heartha, as I seem to
have lost my appetite. Instead, have Green Eyes bring up a flagon
of red wine and two goblets, anon." As soon as she arrives, she’ll
start her training in how to treat and respect her lord.

Chapter 3

Devon tapped lightly upon the fortress of a
door, not at all sure this was even the right chamber until she
heard Corbett's bellow from within.

"Enter!"

She jolted at the sound of his command,
unused to his procedure. No one at the monastery would think of
bellowing, let alone speak above a whisper. She was pondering this
thought when the door burst open and Corbett stood before her with
his hands on his hips.

"A lord never opens a door for anyone except
for his superiors. Definitely not for a servant. Now try it
again."

Before she could respond, the door slammed
in her face. She grabbed hold of the handle and, balancing the tray
on her opposite hand pushed her way into the room.

Corbett spun around, a scowl on his face.
"You're to knock first and wait until I've acknowledged you before
you enter."

Devon didn't hear much of what he was
saying, as she was too busy taking in the splendor of the room. It
was so unlike the simple rooms of the monastery in which she was
raised as a child. Having taken the vow of poverty, the monks'
chambers were small, cold rooms, with nothing more than a simple
bed, a cupboard, and a large crucifix on the wall. And though Devon
had not taken the vow of poverty she felt it was given to her
anyway living in the hut of wattle and daub, sharing the one small
room with Heartha for the last eight and ten years. The monks had
always treated her like royalty, but her abode was that of a
serf.

Never even in her dreams could Devon imagine
the luxury of one person's chamber as what her eyes now beheld.
This room was encompassed by a warm glow. Many colorful tapestries
hung on the walls for added warmth, displaying hunting scenes,
battles, and weddings of the rich. A large iron fixture clung to
the ceiling, holding several dozen beeswax candles blazing brightly
to lighten the entire area.

She stood motionless as her eyes fell upon a
huge four poster piece of furniture which dominated the center of
the room with its bold oaken limbs.
Surely, this could not
possibly be
one person's bed!
The heavy curtains that
hung from the iron rods above the mattress were so luxurious, so
velvety, so - no words could compare to anything she had ever
known. So much space! She imagined one closing the curtains around
the massive bed. That alone seemed to her more privacy than she had
ever had. Would that she could sleep in her own bed rather than
sharing the soiled rushes of the great hall with the rest of the
servants, sleeping close to the fire to avoid any rats.

Corbett cleared his throat, still scowling
at her. "Your destiny awaits m'lady." He semi-bowed, cloak thrown
back over one shoulder, his arm outstretched, motioning for her to
enter.

She hesitated.

"If you would rather . . ." in two long
strides he was next to her, "mayhap Lord Malcomn and I could join
you in this drafty corridor.

It was then she realized there was someone
else in the chamber. The man's back was toward her as he warmed his
hands above the fire. Lord Malcomn. The baron’s son.

"Your arm," Corbett half ordered, half
asked.

The tray tilted on her palm and she steadied
it with the other. Devon's heartbeat raced. He was asking for her
arm to escort her into the room. He was going to treat her like the
lady she'd always dreamed of being. Taking a calming breath, she
held her hand out to him in anticipation. With a warm plop, his
cloak came down upon her arm as if she were nothing more than a
cloak rack. Her mouth opened wide as he headed across the room.
Devon followed, her lips firmly set with disgust remembering she
was now nothing but his servant.

"Where've you been hiding this wench?" came
a voice from over by the fire. "She tops the others. I should like
to sample her as well."

Devon's eyes shot over to the opposite side
of the room. Lord Malcomn, a man no bigger than herself stood
warming himself at the hearth.

"This one's not for sampling," came
Corbett's low voice from over by the window. "She's new here - and
untouched. I'd like to keep it that way for now."

"For now." Malcomn answered and walked
toward her. "But this one is comely and so clean. I would have her
warm my bed."

Devon laid Corbett's cloak on the bed just
as Lord Malcomn finished his sentence. Thoughts of terror flashed
through her mind. She'd fantasized of sleeping in the bed - but
alone. And certainly not with Malcomn.

She moved away from the bed quickly, setting
the tray down on the bedside table, almost dropping it when she
heard Corbett's reply.

"The only bed this wench will warm is my
own, foster brother. You've already had all the rest of my
servants, I'll not let you spoil this one too."

The idea of anyone sampling her set her
blood to boil. A woman's virtue should be safe no matter if she
were only a serving wench or the daughter of the king himself.

The bright, rich colors of Lord Malcomn's
parti-colored garments were almost blinding as he approached and
perused her. For some reason, Devon felt bolder around this man
than around Lord Corbett and matched his stare.

Lord Malcomn’s eyes narrowed and his mouth
turned down in a frown. "A bold damsel, isn't she?"

She stood so close, she could see every
detail from his blazing red hair to his pointed shoes. His tunic
was of a questioning nature, as a vertical line separated the green
right side from the yellow on the left. Even his hose were
outrageous, each leg being a color of its own.

Her eyes settled upon the fine embroidery of
his soft shoes. Devon almost laughed aloud, spying the immensely
elongated pointed toes that had to be tied up to the ankle with
cord in order not to be tripped upon. She had seen others in the
great hall wearing this latest fashion, but personally thought it
no better than the silly clothes of the jester.

She daringly surveyed the man's face. Small
squinty green eyes were accompanied by a strong, straight nose.
High cheekbones gave way to firm thin lips, and Devon realized that
this young man was no older than herself. And then she noticed
something that almost had her gasping in surprise. Freckles! She
laughed inwardly. She could never fear a man with freckles.

"So how is the baron’s health?" Corbett's
question thankfully broke Lord Malcomn's gaze upon her body.

"'Tis no better." Lord Malcomn stepped away
from Devon and walked back toward the fire. "Mother seems to think
he's infected with the plague. She’s banned anyone from entering
his chamber, save herself."

“Really. And she's not afraid of catching
the plague herself?” The tone of Corbett’s voice led Devon to
wonder if something were amiss.

"Mother is healing him with her herbs. Since
you’ve lost many servants, she insists on caring for him
herself.”

"'Tis so thoughtful of Gilda to put her own
life at stake for my benefit. And so unlike her as well, I must
admit."

"Are you questioning her motives?" Malcomn's
voice hardened.

Corbett took a moment to answer. Pulling
himself away from the window he half smiled.

"No one questions the baroness, Malcomn.
I've learned that at a very early age. And as the foster son of
Gilda and Kenric, I mean no disrespect to either of them. I'm just
eager to visit once again with the baron."

Sadness laced his voice, and Devon couldn’t
help but wonder about his fostered childhood and his relationship
with the baron. Would that she had had a father in her life.

"Green Eyes! Bring us that wine."

Devon took a moment to react to Corbett’s
pet name for her, not knowing at first he referred to her. She
removed the lid from the flagon, and poured wine into the
goblets.

"Green Eyes?" Malcomn chuckled. "Doesn't the
wench have a name?"

"If she ever talks, I'll let you know,"
answered Corbett as he joined Malcomn by the fire. "Of course, if
she doesn't tell us her name, mayhap we'll have to give her one
ourselves."

The men laughed at her expense and came up
with a few names only suitable for whores. Devon fumed. The fire of
her rage was now hotter than that which warmed her new master's
backside. Name her, indeed! Was she nothing more than a piece of
property or a pet? No one was going to name her.