WINDKEEPER (7 page)

The Master-at-Arms raised his eyes to the flashing heavens. He put his big hands on his hips and turned to his second in command. "Lower the drawbridge, Jon. We dare not deny him entrance to his own keep. Prince Galen will have to alter his plans this night."

"He won’t like it," the man muttered.

"I don’t like it either!" the Master-at-Arms growled, "but what choices do we have?" He looked out over the battlement at the prancing horses in front of the drawbridge and groaned. Not one rider, but two. He could expect another ten lashes for the extra visitor. "Lower the gods-be-damned drawbridge! Now!" he thundered and spun on his heel to go below to greet this most unwelcome caller.

"He ain’t got his guard with him," one of the archers hinted to the Master-at-Arms.

"You harm Conar McGregor and you’ll feel the entire wrath of Serenia on your ass!" the Master-at-Arms warned.

Sounding like the dying moans of some giant entity, the wooden drawbridge slowly began to lower over the moat. The portcullis shrieked upwards, its toothy grin yawning into the lantern-lit interior of the outer bailey. Something snapped and jumped in the green waters of the surrounding moat and then hit hard as it returned to the sinister depths of the brackish waters.

"Alligators," Conar murmured.

Each time he traveled over the drawbridge and took a whiff of the waters surrounding this keep, Conar always wondered how anything could survive in the moat.

Waiting behind the portcullis, the Master-at-Arms stood nervously, shifting from one foot to another. He was not a coward, nor was he a man accustomed to fear of any kind; but he was as nervous as a green youth this rainy night, had been since the sun began to lower. As his Overlord’s horse clip-clopped over the rotting wood, the burly man hoped against hope that horse and rider did not fall through the decomposing planks of the ill-kept drawbridge. That would be the last of the Prince Regent, but it would also be the last of this particular Master-at-Arms!

"This place is worse than ever," Conar said under his breath.

Norus Keep had few visitors and even fewer repairs. It was Prince Galen’s wish that the outside of the keep be kept as disreputable as possible to discourage the occasional traveler. He valued his privacy. Those who did not heed the keep’s crumbling condition, and nevertheless asked for lodging on such a night as this, were usually given entrance, and little else. Supper would not be provided; a room, out of the question; and servants would not go out of their way to do the visitors’ bidding.

Norus Keep had gained a reputation as being a most inhospitable place and few travelers stopped at its gates. But on this night, of all nights, the Prince had given explicit instructions that he was not to be disturbed by anyone.

Conar’s stallion pranced over the drawbridge, his hooves causing the rotting planks to groan in agony. Liza’s mare stepped over the wood with care, her hooves making little sound on the apparatus.

"You kept me waiting long enough!" Conar snapped as the Master-at-Arms hurried forward to greet him.

The Master-at-Arms went to one knee in the running waters of the outer bailey as he made fealty to his Prince. His eyes were lowered, his right fist clasped tightly over his heart. "Your Grace! We were not expecting you. If you would have sent word, we could have been awaiting your arrival."

"I wasn’t aware I had to clear my itinerary with you. If my visit is not to your liking, I would remind you that this is more my keep than it is my brother’s. If I have inconvenienced him, that’s too gods-be-damned bad!"

Still not daring to look up, the Master-at-Arms ground his teeth. He had to steel himself not to bring up his hand and wipe at the trickle of rain running off his nose. "I certainly meant no disrespect, Your Grace! It is just that you usually travel with outriders, with your Elite. We were only protecting Prince Galen." As soon as he said it, the man knew he had blundered and he dug his nails into his fist.

"From me?" Conar inquired. "And pray tell why you should feel the need to protect Galen from me? That certainly makes me wonder just what he’s done now to merit protection."

Without thinking, without realizing he was doing so, knowing only that he had badly insulted the Prince Regent with his unwisely chosen words, the man lifted his face. It wasn’t Conar’s eyes he met, though, but Liza’s, and a groan came from his mouth as it dropped open.

Conar pursed his lips and glared at the man’s averted face. Miffed that he was now being ignored as the beefy man stared up at his companion, Conar cleared his throat and smiled a wicked grimace of spite as the man’s attention shifted slowly back to him.

"Well?" Conar snarled. "I asked you a question. Or has the lady’s beauty so ensnared you that you forgot to whom you were speaking?"

"Your pardon, Your Grace," the man stammered as he swallowed. "Please forgive me. I meant you no…"

Conar held up a black-gloved hand. "I know. I know. You meant no disrespect. Obviously, though, you intend for me to catch my death of cold as I am forced to sit in this freezing rain."

It was as though the Master-at-Arms had suddenly become aware of the pouring rain. His gaze went to Liza once more and he saw her jump as a streak of lightning flared overhead. Another groan came from his white lips and he was about to leap to his feet, but he remembered, just in time, that his Prince still had not given him leave to do so. He turned his strained and apologetic face to his Overlord.

Conar was keenly aware of the man’s predicament. Some devilish imp inside him reared its ugly little head and he simply sat with his hands crossed over the pommel of his saddle and stared at the man with one golden brow raised in challenge.

Liza was shivering with the cold and knew precisely what Conar was about. She wasn’t amused, and as she gazed at the poor man kneeling before them in a puddle of mud, she was not pleased with Conar’s unconcern for the fellow. "Milord. I am getting soaked!"

Shrugging, Conar inclined his head. "See to the lady." Throwing a leg over his horse’s neck, he slid to the ground. His boot heels squelched in mud and he looked down, frowning. The instep of the brown leather was beneath the mud. Looking up, he saw the Master-at-Arms regarding him.

"You have ruined your boots, Your Grace." The man smiled as he put his hands up to Liza’s waist and lifted her down.

Conar’s eyes narrowed in speculation as the two gazed deeply at one another, grinning, before the burly man lifted her to the plank walkway that led into the inner bailey. "But you won’t mind seeing to them, personally…will you?" Conar smirked.

Cocking has head in obedience, the Master-at-Arms turned a solemn face to his Overlord. "It would be my pleasure to clean your boots, Your Grace."

Conar grinned. This man was sharp. He liked him. He might be one of Galen’s toadies, but the chap had a wry sense of humor that matched his own. "Have I interrupted something?"

"No, Your Grace!" The Master-at-Arms jerked, his head snapping around to face his Overlord. "You have interrupted nothing." Guilt flared across the scarred face.

"That’s good," Conar said and saw the man visibly relax. His thoughts went to Galen and he wondered just what the stupid fool was up to this time.

"If it pleases you, Your Grace," the man spoke, "I will show you to your rooms."

"What is your name again?" Conar asked the Master-at-Arms as they were led to the curving stairway that led to the sleeping chambers.

"I am Belvoir, Your Grace." The man’s deep green eyes strayed to Liza and he answered her gentle smile with a reluctant one of his own.

"And I am Liza, Sir Belvoir," she told the man and held her hand out to him.

"
Mam’selle
Liza," Conar corrected, not liking Liza’s easy familiarity with the knight. He followed Belvoir’s lips to the slender hand within the knight’s own.

"Mam’selle Liza," Belvoir said in a soft, throaty voice as he released the girl’s hand. "It is my pleasure to serve you."

"And is it your pleasure to serve me?" Conar snapped.

Belvoir turned to face his Overlord. "It is my destiny to serve you, Your Grace." There was a direct and honest look on the man’s face. "As was written long ago, Sire."

"It is your destiny, but not your pleasure."

Belvoir’s chin rose a fraction in the air. "I didn’t say that, Your Grace."

"You didn’t have to!" Conar snarled and gripped Liza’s hand. "I know where the chambers are. You don’t have to put yourself out because of me." He started off with a startled Liza in tow.

"That was abominably rude!" she hissed as they climbed the stairs. "He meant you no insult, Milord."

Conar’s snort was hateful. "Oh, Galen’s people never insult me directly to my face. They know better. But I always wind up madder than hell every time I step foot in this gods-be-damned ugly keep!"

"Perhaps if you were more courteous?"

"Let it drop!" he spat and dragged her behind as he stomped up the stone staircase, his boot heels tattooing a hard rhythm on the steps.

Liza turned her head and looked down the stairs to where the Master-at-Arms stood. His gaze was on her and she felt a prickle of unease run down her spine. Every inch of the man spoke of consummate villainy, but she didn’t fear him. If anything, his presence in this place put her fears to rest and she looked him over closely as Conar stopped to bark orders to a passing servant.

Belvoir was a tall man. His height certainly rivaled that of the Elite Guard Captain, Rayle Loure. His face was set in a grimace of humiliation, for he was no doubt upset with himself for being a problem for the one he was sworn to protect; his eyes on Liza were full of apology. A livid, red scar split his face from his right cheekbone, across a nose that had obviously been broken many times, down the left cheek, and ended in a thicker scar on the edge of his jawbone. It was the kind of wound a man would receive in a fierce battle. His hair was thick and as black as Liza’s and was worn long in coarse waves to below his broad shoulders. One thin braid hung on each side of his face and each braid was adorned with silver wrappings of ribbon threaded through the hair.

He appeared to walk with the rolling gait of a sailor, his legs wide apart as though braced against a stormy sea. His stance was full of authority, his spine straight, his shoulders squared. He seemed to favor his left leg and Liza couldn’t help but wonder if some old battle wound did not bother him in weather such as this.

Her gaze swept down to his boots and then snapped back to his face. She saw him slightly shake his head and she blinked, wondering at the man’s carelessness. Her lips parted and she broke eye contact with him as she nervously turned her head to look at Conar. When she looked back down the stairs, Belvoir was gone. She craned her neck, but still she couldn’t catch sight of him. Conar’s angry retort brought her attention back to him.

"Now!" he shouted at a hapless servant who was scurrying away to do his bidding.

Liza frowned. "Why must you be so uncivil? And loud? You give me a headache with all your blustering, Milord."

Conar’s left brow crooked. He was appalled the girl would dare speak so to him. Her sweet face, locked in a grimace, did nothing to alter his vicious mood.

"It has always been my experience with Galen’s servants that, what I tell them, they pretend not to hear. What they do hear goes in one ear and out the other if they bother to listen at all. You have to shout to get their attention. What little they have!"

"Perhaps if you tried kindness instead of churlishness—"

"I am not churlish!" he bellowed. He lowered his voice to a grating whisper. "I am not churlish, Mam’selle."

Liza ignored his outburst. "They might hear you better. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps your brother’s retainers are always treated the way you treat them? Men and women so abused have little to gain by being accommodating. You can catch a fly’s attention better with honey than vinegar, Milord." She tipped her pert nose up in the air and walked away, her spine taut under his furious gaze.

"I am not churlish," he snarled as he followed. "Firm, but certainly not churlish."

"Churlish and rude," Liza admonished, not bothering to look back as she climbed.

Under the canopy of the overhanging balcony, the Master-at-Arms slipped into a rare smile.

"Like mother, like daughter," he said and chuckled. He shook his head, looked down at the black crystal dagger tucked into the top of his boot and frowned. He drew out the dagger, hid it inside his tunic, then went about his duties, his mind on the coming punishment he expected.

Once they gained the semi-circular antechamber from where the sleeping quarters were positioned, Conar and Liza could see servants racing frantically about, carrying linens and water for the visitors. None of the busy servants glanced at either of them as they sped to ready chambers for the travelers. Their heads were bent, their eyes on the carpeted runners at their feet. Doors opened, doors closed, and the stomp of feet was the only sound the servants made.

There was no idle chitchat, no hushed, excited whispers commonplace in most keeps when royalty came visiting. There were no furtive glances at the Prince Regent, no curious side looks at the lady with him. It seemed as though the rushing servants were more concerned with getting the work done and getting away from the two people who had intruded upon them.

Conar felt his unwelcome more keenly than ever in his brother’s home. He could sense the charged atmosphere his sudden appearance had caused. There was a tight, malicious, and somewhat hurt grin on his handsome face as he watched the servants ignoring him.

"They don’t like my coming to call," he said, but even though the words were spoken with a lilting laugh, there was a current of pain in them.

"I can’t imagine why," Liza sniffed, still smarting from his cavalier attitude on the stairs.

"I’ve put them out." There wasn’t the slightest iota of contrition in his twinkling eyes as he turned to Liza. "I should be sorry."

"But you aren’t."

He grinned. "No, I’m not."

"Then don’t expect them to be happy when you disrupt their lives."