Indeed, I am not without the scars to prove it.” He glanced up the stairs. “I wager she has allowed you to think the worst of her.”
"Allowed?"
The man opened his mouth, but snapped it closed as a crash of metal against wood sounded from above.
Everard peered up the stairs, listened for more of the lady’s temper to find its ease, and once again reflected that, for this, women were not welcome within these walls. He returned his gaze to Sir Elias. “‘Twould seem the lady is displeased with the audience granted her.”
The man frowned. “You are certain that was of Lady Susanna’s doing?”
“There are no others abovestairs,” Everard clipped, then picked up the thread the man had let unravel, just as he had done in telling that the lady had allowed the worst to be thought of her. “What makes you think it could not be her?”
The knight glanced toward the hearth where Judas de Balliol stood back from the others who boisterously encouraged Sir Rowan to regale them with another tale. “Are the Wulfriths as honorable as I have heard told?” he asked, then gave a sudden laugh. “Well, by those who do not count themselves your enemies.”
Everard knew he should not pursue this conversation, that his time was better spent calling an end to this day that would begin the candle burning toward the next when the boys and young men resumed their training in the dark before dawn. Still, he said, “’Tis as we strive to be.”
“As do I, though…” Sir Elias pressed a hand to his nose again, eyed the bit of blood he came away with. “…I seem prone to failure.”
Everard, who rarely lacked evidence of being well supplied with patience, wondered if, at last, he was coming to the bottom of it.
“Since giving myself in service to Alan de Balliol three years past,” Sir Elias continued, “I have become acquainted with Lady Susanna, and never have I known her to throw or break things no matter how difficult her circumstances.”
Though Everard was tempted to question how difficult those circumstances could have been—hers a privileged life as the pampered daughter of a baron and the fondly regarded sister of the brother who had inherited their father’s title—he did not. Despite how adept she was at churning an anger so rarely churned he had almost forgotten he possessed such depth of emotion, he was not blind or insensitive. Whatever the root of her circumstances, they were well enough written on her thin, unsmiling face and in eyes that no longer danced with light and mischief.
“Most stoic, she is,” murmured the one who, whatever his purpose, seemed inclined to defend the lady he believed he knew well.
“How well do you know her, Sir Elias?” Everard pointedly put to the knight who had returned his regard to the boy he was charged with watching over.
Sir Elias looked sidelong at him. “You speak of our kiss.” It was of good benefit to him that he did not smile or leer. “It was not our first, though methinks you would have it be our last.”
Everard’s knuckles prickled again. “I care not what goes between you and the lady providing it does not go within my walls.”
The knight shrugged a shoulder. “Then ’tis good we depart on the morrow. We do, do we not?”
As told by the platter flung against the door abovestairs. Though inclined to confirm what had already been determined, Everard’s own question had not been answered. “You said she allowed me to think the worst of her.”
Sir Elias put his back to the wall, swiped at his nose, and crossed his arms over his chest. “She will not like that I speak of such things, but if it gains whatever she seeks and which, I wager, you are unwilling to give, it is as much in my best interest as hers.”
Everard nearly asked what the man’s best interest was, but… One question at a time.
“Such is the way of Lady Susanna,” Sir Elias continued. “Even when ’tis clear she is not in the wrong, she is loath to defend herself.
"Allowed?"
The man opened his mouth, but snapped it closed as a crash of metal against wood sounded from above.
Everard peered up the stairs, listened for more of the lady’s temper to find its ease, and once again reflected that, for this, women were not welcome within these walls. He returned his gaze to Sir Elias. “‘Twould seem the lady is displeased with the audience granted her.”
The man frowned. “You are certain that was of Lady Susanna’s doing?”
“There are no others abovestairs,” Everard clipped, then picked up the thread the man had let unravel, just as he had done in telling that the lady had allowed the worst to be thought of her. “What makes you think it could not be her?”
The knight glanced toward the hearth where Judas de Balliol stood back from the others who boisterously encouraged Sir Rowan to regale them with another tale. “Are the Wulfriths as honorable as I have heard told?” he asked, then gave a sudden laugh. “Well, by those who do not count themselves your enemies.”
Everard knew he should not pursue this conversation, that his time was better spent calling an end to this day that would begin the candle burning toward the next when the boys and young men resumed their training in the dark before dawn. Still, he said, “’Tis as we strive to be.”
“As do I, though…” Sir Elias pressed a hand to his nose again, eyed the bit of blood he came away with. “…I seem prone to failure.”
Everard, who rarely lacked evidence of being well supplied with patience, wondered if, at last, he was coming to the bottom of it.
“Since giving myself in service to Alan de Balliol three years past,” Sir Elias continued, “I have become acquainted with Lady Susanna, and never have I known her to throw or break things no matter how difficult her circumstances.”
Though Everard was tempted to question how difficult those circumstances could have been—hers a privileged life as the pampered daughter of a baron and the fondly regarded sister of the brother who had inherited their father’s title—he did not. Despite how adept she was at churning an anger so rarely churned he had almost forgotten he possessed such depth of emotion, he was not blind or insensitive. Whatever the root of her circumstances, they were well enough written on her thin, unsmiling face and in eyes that no longer danced with light and mischief.
“Most stoic, she is,” murmured the one who, whatever his purpose, seemed inclined to defend the lady he believed he knew well.
“How well do you know her, Sir Elias?” Everard pointedly put to the knight who had returned his regard to the boy he was charged with watching over.
Sir Elias looked sidelong at him. “You speak of our kiss.” It was of good benefit to him that he did not smile or leer. “It was not our first, though methinks you would have it be our last.”
Everard’s knuckles prickled again. “I care not what goes between you and the lady providing it does not go within my walls.”
The knight shrugged a shoulder. “Then ’tis good we depart on the morrow. We do, do we not?”
As told by the platter flung against the door abovestairs. Though inclined to confirm what had already been determined, Everard’s own question had not been answered. “You said she allowed me to think the worst of her.”
Sir Elias put his back to the wall, swiped at his nose, and crossed his arms over his chest. “She will not like that I speak of such things, but if it gains whatever she seeks and which, I wager, you are unwilling to give, it is as much in my best interest as hers.”
Everard nearly asked what the man’s best interest was, but… One question at a time.
“Such is the way of Lady Susanna,” Sir Elias continued. “Even when ’tis clear she is not in the wrong, she is loath to defend herself.
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