no ill?”
“If ‘tis true he killed my brother in defense of Lady Annyn, then I can have no quarrel with him.”
“The tale is true,” Abel bit and leaned near Christian. “But methinks if he knew whose blood you share, he might kill you, for I do not believe there is anything that would convince him Geoffrey Lavonne’s death was not warranted.”
Christian stared into Abel’s eyes. From the look there and the sweep of his breath, he knew the knight had imbibed beyond good sense—so much that he was of a mind to wield a sword. And Christian was tempted. For that, he withheld his hand from his own hilt.
“If Sir Rowan wishes to meet at swords and test my training,” he said, “I shall meet him. But as for the Wulfriths, regardless of whether or not my brother’s death was warranted, providing your family delivers as promised, they need no longer fear the Lavonnes.”
Sir Abel’s face flushed, and a movement told that his hand was more tempted to the sword than Christian’s.
“Share the joke,” a voice came between them at the same moment a hand fell to each of their shoulders.
Sir Abel broke gaze first and looked up at the man who stood at their backs.
Christian followed his gaze to Sir Everard who considered them with warning in his eyes. It seemed little slunk past Everard, the ever-observant.
“I fear you would be as disappointed as I,” Sir Abel said, “for ‘twas not as comic as our guest led me to believe.” He returned his gaze to Christian. “Unless there is more to it?”
Christian stared back. “No more need be told, Sir Abel. Should you meditate on it when your mind is clear of so much wine, methinks what is lacking will come to you.”
The knight turned a hand around his hilt, but his brother also saw it and tightened his grip on their shoulders.
“Mayhap another time, then,” Sir Everard said with a glance around the hall at the young men who were failing to appear uninterested in what transpired at the high table. “And now we should all seek our beds.” He bent near his brother. “Including you, Abel.”
The silence between Christian and Abel tensed further, but then the latter smiled. “I can think of naught I would like better than to part present company.” He lifted his goblet and drained the last of his wine.
Sir Everard released their shoulders. “Good eve, then.”
His brother thrust up from the bench and was less than two strides distant when he came around. “Be assured”—he met Christian’s gaze—“I shall meditate upon your good humor, full up in my cups or otherwise.” He stalked away amid the murmurings in the hall.
With a sweep of the hand, Sir Everard signaled the end of the meal, in response to which goblets thumped to tables, benches scraped the stone floor, voices pitched higher, and laughter sprang up in the absence of the formality of the supper meal.
Christian stood and stepped away from the bench.
“Normally, my brother is of a more jovial disposition,” Sir Everard said with what might have been apology. “I had hoped that, given time, the two of you would cease antagonizing one another.”
Christian looked to the man whose shaved pate reflected the light of torches. “Your brother does not like me. As I cannot say I like him any better, conflict is inevitable.”
“You know he is opposed to our sister’s marriage?”
“I would be blind and deaf if I did not—just as I know you also struggle with the alliance.”
Sir Everard inclined his head. “Though ‘tis true I was displeased by the king’s decree, this past month you have proved worthy and honorable.”
Though Christian told himself he neither sought nor required the knight’s approval, he was pleased to hear it.
“Thus, I no longer concern myself over your intentions toward my sister. All that remains is a struggle borne of her own reluctance. Unfortunately”—he looked to the young men who had turned their energies to transforming the hall into sleeping
“If ‘tis true he killed my brother in defense of Lady Annyn, then I can have no quarrel with him.”
“The tale is true,” Abel bit and leaned near Christian. “But methinks if he knew whose blood you share, he might kill you, for I do not believe there is anything that would convince him Geoffrey Lavonne’s death was not warranted.”
Christian stared into Abel’s eyes. From the look there and the sweep of his breath, he knew the knight had imbibed beyond good sense—so much that he was of a mind to wield a sword. And Christian was tempted. For that, he withheld his hand from his own hilt.
“If Sir Rowan wishes to meet at swords and test my training,” he said, “I shall meet him. But as for the Wulfriths, regardless of whether or not my brother’s death was warranted, providing your family delivers as promised, they need no longer fear the Lavonnes.”
Sir Abel’s face flushed, and a movement told that his hand was more tempted to the sword than Christian’s.
“Share the joke,” a voice came between them at the same moment a hand fell to each of their shoulders.
Sir Abel broke gaze first and looked up at the man who stood at their backs.
Christian followed his gaze to Sir Everard who considered them with warning in his eyes. It seemed little slunk past Everard, the ever-observant.
“I fear you would be as disappointed as I,” Sir Abel said, “for ‘twas not as comic as our guest led me to believe.” He returned his gaze to Christian. “Unless there is more to it?”
Christian stared back. “No more need be told, Sir Abel. Should you meditate on it when your mind is clear of so much wine, methinks what is lacking will come to you.”
The knight turned a hand around his hilt, but his brother also saw it and tightened his grip on their shoulders.
“Mayhap another time, then,” Sir Everard said with a glance around the hall at the young men who were failing to appear uninterested in what transpired at the high table. “And now we should all seek our beds.” He bent near his brother. “Including you, Abel.”
The silence between Christian and Abel tensed further, but then the latter smiled. “I can think of naught I would like better than to part present company.” He lifted his goblet and drained the last of his wine.
Sir Everard released their shoulders. “Good eve, then.”
His brother thrust up from the bench and was less than two strides distant when he came around. “Be assured”—he met Christian’s gaze—“I shall meditate upon your good humor, full up in my cups or otherwise.” He stalked away amid the murmurings in the hall.
With a sweep of the hand, Sir Everard signaled the end of the meal, in response to which goblets thumped to tables, benches scraped the stone floor, voices pitched higher, and laughter sprang up in the absence of the formality of the supper meal.
Christian stood and stepped away from the bench.
“Normally, my brother is of a more jovial disposition,” Sir Everard said with what might have been apology. “I had hoped that, given time, the two of you would cease antagonizing one another.”
Christian looked to the man whose shaved pate reflected the light of torches. “Your brother does not like me. As I cannot say I like him any better, conflict is inevitable.”
“You know he is opposed to our sister’s marriage?”
“I would be blind and deaf if I did not—just as I know you also struggle with the alliance.”
Sir Everard inclined his head. “Though ‘tis true I was displeased by the king’s decree, this past month you have proved worthy and honorable.”
Though Christian told himself he neither sought nor required the knight’s approval, he was pleased to hear it.
“Thus, I no longer concern myself over your intentions toward my sister. All that remains is a struggle borne of her own reluctance. Unfortunately”—he looked to the young men who had turned their energies to transforming the hall into sleeping
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