answered with a single,
perplexing nod. Bertie glanced around quickly, once, at knights and
horsemen and peasants alike, and then lifted his chin. “I had not
thought Southern men so bold,” he declared over the blood rushing
in his ears, using his last bit of control. There was only one
meaning for this.
“You’d be surprised, my lord.” Godric gave
away nothing and yet everything, and Bertie could not help himself
any longer. He fell forward into the man’s arms. His Godric, who
caught him and held him there, letting Bertie absorb the sound of
his heartbeat.
He had to come back.
With that thought, Bertie reached up to yank
one twining stem from his hair, uncaring of how messy his hair must
look. There was no finer decoration.
He held up the single bloom of fired gold
and could have fainted at how Godric bent his head without
comment.
It was a momentous occasion, a scene from an
epic song, a crucial part of history, the last moments he might
ever have with Godric.
Thus, he knew that when he opened his mouth,
something stupid and a little mad would undoubtedly fall out.
“Sir Godric of the South, you will return to
me alive and well when this is over.” Bertie slid the flower behind
Godric’s ear as smoothly as he could with his hand trembling and
twined the stem among the thinning strands of silver. His voice was
raised too high, not that anyone would dare comment, but when he
realized that what had issued forth had been a firm and serious
order, he gasped.
It was perhaps his first direct order to
Godric.
Godric merely raised his head and gave
another simple nod. “Yes, my lord,” he agreed, with all the
particular heat and fervor that he had always put into the title.
Bertie swallowed dryly and then was shaking too much to bear it any
longer. He ducked his head to let his mouth rest at Godric’s
throat, against his much-debated stubble. Godric’s hand met him to
pull him closer.
The cat yowled in protest at being crushed
and the soldiers around them resumed their duties. The air stayed
icy as the sun rose but for one moment longer Bertie did not move
as he allowed himself to dream of what could be, what would be.
Neither, he noticed, did Godric.
Epilogue
“I had
not thought you find you in the kitchens, my lord.”
Bertie jumped at the first few warmly spoken
words and hit his head on the edge of a wooden shelf. Not hard, but
enough to make him wince and then sigh and think to himself that
even now he could never stop making a fool of himself around
Godric.
Mathilda, the Keep’s Mistress of the
Kitchens, only directed an unsurprised glance at him before looking
beyond him to where Godric was no doubt standing and watching
Bertie rub his head.
Bertie could have lifted his chin and
demanded to know what was so funny that she could not meet his eye,
but to do that would be to act like the sort of noble that Godric
despised, and in any case, Mathilda was impervious to any attempt
at intimidation unless it came from Aethir himself, who would never
have dared.
No one would. No one made honey cakes for
the Harvest celebrations the way Mathilda did and only a fool would
anger her and Aethir was not a fool.
Bertie was of course, but not for angering
her. He turned and straightened and lifted his chin anyway, in case
Godric was laughing at him.
Godric was standing in one doorway, leaning
to one side and looking perfectly at ease, which was a lie, because
he was not at ease, as his color hinted. But he was smiling,
a soft curve of his lips that made Bertie drop his chin and offer
another sigh as he hopped forward.
“Why wouldn’t I be in the kitchens?” He
stopped short of Godric with a move that was nearly a curtsey and
which left his skirts and borrowed apron swishing around his
ankles. Godric’s smile seemed to grow, though perhaps it was
Bertie’s imagination.
He did not mind, whichever was true. He
loved to dream about Godric’s smile and he loved Godric’s real
smile, so
perplexing nod. Bertie glanced around quickly, once, at knights and
horsemen and peasants alike, and then lifted his chin. “I had not
thought Southern men so bold,” he declared over the blood rushing
in his ears, using his last bit of control. There was only one
meaning for this.
“You’d be surprised, my lord.” Godric gave
away nothing and yet everything, and Bertie could not help himself
any longer. He fell forward into the man’s arms. His Godric, who
caught him and held him there, letting Bertie absorb the sound of
his heartbeat.
He had to come back.
With that thought, Bertie reached up to yank
one twining stem from his hair, uncaring of how messy his hair must
look. There was no finer decoration.
He held up the single bloom of fired gold
and could have fainted at how Godric bent his head without
comment.
It was a momentous occasion, a scene from an
epic song, a crucial part of history, the last moments he might
ever have with Godric.
Thus, he knew that when he opened his mouth,
something stupid and a little mad would undoubtedly fall out.
“Sir Godric of the South, you will return to
me alive and well when this is over.” Bertie slid the flower behind
Godric’s ear as smoothly as he could with his hand trembling and
twined the stem among the thinning strands of silver. His voice was
raised too high, not that anyone would dare comment, but when he
realized that what had issued forth had been a firm and serious
order, he gasped.
It was perhaps his first direct order to
Godric.
Godric merely raised his head and gave
another simple nod. “Yes, my lord,” he agreed, with all the
particular heat and fervor that he had always put into the title.
Bertie swallowed dryly and then was shaking too much to bear it any
longer. He ducked his head to let his mouth rest at Godric’s
throat, against his much-debated stubble. Godric’s hand met him to
pull him closer.
The cat yowled in protest at being crushed
and the soldiers around them resumed their duties. The air stayed
icy as the sun rose but for one moment longer Bertie did not move
as he allowed himself to dream of what could be, what would be.
Neither, he noticed, did Godric.
Epilogue
“I had
not thought you find you in the kitchens, my lord.”
Bertie jumped at the first few warmly spoken
words and hit his head on the edge of a wooden shelf. Not hard, but
enough to make him wince and then sigh and think to himself that
even now he could never stop making a fool of himself around
Godric.
Mathilda, the Keep’s Mistress of the
Kitchens, only directed an unsurprised glance at him before looking
beyond him to where Godric was no doubt standing and watching
Bertie rub his head.
Bertie could have lifted his chin and
demanded to know what was so funny that she could not meet his eye,
but to do that would be to act like the sort of noble that Godric
despised, and in any case, Mathilda was impervious to any attempt
at intimidation unless it came from Aethir himself, who would never
have dared.
No one would. No one made honey cakes for
the Harvest celebrations the way Mathilda did and only a fool would
anger her and Aethir was not a fool.
Bertie was of course, but not for angering
her. He turned and straightened and lifted his chin anyway, in case
Godric was laughing at him.
Godric was standing in one doorway, leaning
to one side and looking perfectly at ease, which was a lie, because
he was not at ease, as his color hinted. But he was smiling,
a soft curve of his lips that made Bertie drop his chin and offer
another sigh as he hopped forward.
“Why wouldn’t I be in the kitchens?” He
stopped short of Godric with a move that was nearly a curtsey and
which left his skirts and borrowed apron swishing around his
ankles. Godric’s smile seemed to grow, though perhaps it was
Bertie’s imagination.
He did not mind, whichever was true. He
loved to dream about Godric’s smile and he loved Godric’s real
smile, so
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