Always There Read online

  Chastaine realized suddenly that the two had never met, always where the other was not in the chaos between leaving Castle Brae and settling back into Castle Triad. Before either he or Lyon could speak, however, Brice did, one pale brow lifting as he took in the gawking Kodey. "What are you staring at, whelp?"

  Although his face remained scarlet, Kodey's expression immediately turned into a scowl. He drew himself up and hotly declared, "I am not a whelp. I am Sir Chastaine's squire."

  Brice smirked. "You look like a whelp to me."

  Kodey all but vibrated with anger. "Well—at least I do not look like a girl!"

  Silence descended and Chastaine struggled not to laugh, knowing Lyon was rolling his eyes. He was not certain who was more astonished by Kodey's words.

  "A girl?" Brice bellowed, recovering his ability to speak. "I do not look like a girl, you odious little whelp. Apologize at once!"

  Kodey bared his teeth. "Nay, my lady, I will not."

  Brice roared with fury and lunged for him. Kodey screamed in surprise and panic, just missing Brice's grasp, before turning and sprinting from the pavilion, and racing along the moat. Chastaine shook his head as he watched them, bellowing with laughter when Brice lunged again, causing them both to stumble and plummet over the edge into the moat. He did not need to look to know that Lyon was pinching the bridge of his nose.

  "Remind me to fetch their carcasses from the moat ere they foul it," Lyon groused, but even as he spoke, he was motioning for men to go retrieve Brice and Kodey.

  Chastaine turned to Lyon, laugher slowly fading away as he met those dark gold eyes. They were suddenly as intent as he knew his own to be. He thought vaguely to ask on those matters they had not yet addressed or to make some jest about life being dull after so much excitement, but it all stuck in his throat. Here, at last, they were home again, all matters settled, the rhythm of their lives reestablished. Life was once more as it had always been the past several years. Except …

  Chastaine's hand worked where his voice did not, reaching up to slide into Lyon's hair. He was startled at the softness of it, but the thought faded away beneath the feel of a hand in his own hair, warm and sure, and the space between them was suddenly gone. It did not surprise him that their mouths fit so perfectly together. They were the same height, Lyon slightly more slender, himself slightly more broad. Always they had matched and balanced each other. That Lyon's mouth fit so splendidly to his, that he kissed as surely and thoroughly as Chastaine liked, was so unsurprising that it almost seemed he had known it all along.

  The softest of moans was fed into his mouth, and the heat and possessiveness which swept through him startled Chastaine—but only for a moment, because he knew Lyon would not have surrendered such a fine sound if he did not feel the same.

  With an effort, Chastaine broke the kiss and gasped for a badly needed breath, unable to look away from the eyes so intently watching him as he licked traces of Lyon from his lips. The silence struck him a moment before Lady Winifred's familiar laughter rang out—and then the air was filled with laughter and cheering, friendly taunts and a few bawdy suggestions for which he fully intended to make the speakers suffer—in the morning.

  He tugged Lyon close again, taking another deep kiss as the ruckus around them reached dizzying levels. Lyon broke it this time, shaking his head at the antics of the spectators and motioning futilely for them to be silent. He glared at Lady Winifred, who was making dismissive motions at them.

  Chastaine smiled faintly. "I think perhaps they will survive one night without their Seneschals present."

  "Aye," Lyon replied. "They will get too drunk to do little more than fall over."

  Laughing, Chastaine held fast to the hand in his own, and walked with Lyon over the drawbridge and into the keep.

  Tournament

  Kodey bit into his apple and wished miserably that he were a maiden. His plans were not coming to fruition at all the way he had decided they should. In fact, they were coming to naught but a great big mess. In a month's time, he would turn eighteen summers, and according to his carefully made plans, Brice should be madly in love with him and ready to proclaim thus loudly. Gingerly, he touched fingers to his cheek, wincing as they met with the bruise forming there. Perhaps it was a tiresome line the bards sung, about those with red hair possessing fierce tempers, but tiresome and untrue were not the same thing by half.

  He took another bite of his apple and again pondered how much simpler life would be if he were a lass. If such were his lot, likely he would have been betrothed to Brice since childhood. Even now he would be preparing for his wedding day, listening to the gossip and advice of his sisters and aunts … Never mind that he had no such thing; he could not even remember his mother's face, except that it had been thin and sickly and strained before she succumbed to illness.

  Sadly, he was not a lass and that meant Brice continued to elude him in addition to confounding him. He wished his plan to simply stop loving Brice had come to pass, but alas, that plan had gone much the way of all of them—horribly wrong.

  'Twas not fair. Sir Chastaine and Sir Lyon were in love and made it look so easy. They did not say foolish things to one another and throw punches when their tempers consumed them, pitching one another into the moat every few days …

  His plan had been to win Brice's affections afore his eighteenth year. It was a plan he had been contriving since his twelfth summer, and he had constantly improved upon and diligently followed it … except for the month or two when he had rewritten his plans to firmly stop loving Brice, who was a fool of the highest order. But not loving Brice had proven to be too painful, and so he'd returned to the original plan.

  Except all had gone awry and Brice could barely stand him, never mind love him, and Kodey no longer knew what to do. He supposed he could follow Sir Chastaine's advice and confess his feelings to Brice … but that plan was full of errors. Namely, what if Brice simply laughed at him? Brice was always laughing at him. There was also the possibility that Brice would declare he did not feel the same, which was proving to be the most likely outcome. That meant Kodey would have to concede defeat and he was not ready to do that. Nay, that was a defeat he refused ever to face.

  How, then, was he to win Brice's affections in a month's time?

  Taking another bite of his apple, Kodey weighed his options. They were depressingly few: he could go the way Sir Chastaine suggested, a route he had already rejected, or he could do away with everyone that stood in his path. Far too many people clustered about for Brice's attention. He could not fault them, of course, for Brice was most beautiful indeed. Tall and elegant and noble, he ever looked both at home and wholly strange when he was covered in the leavings that came from spending his days in the kitchen. Better still was Brice in a field, practicing his archery or assisting the hunters. He was not unlike the bow which he used with such mastery.

  Unfortunately, Kodey all too often managed to make of himself an unhappy target.

  Finishing his apple, he tossed the core to the ground and looked out over the fields. The castle was to the west, nearly an hour away by foot. Enough distance that he was left in peace to contrive a new plan to make of himself a more pleasing manner of target for Brice. He shifted his gaze to the west—and then he dropped from the tree in which he sat and mounted his horse in one fluid movement. How had he missed it before? Stupid; if he was going to neglect the work to be done at the keep, the very least he could do was keep an eye upon the lands. A caravan was under attack. From a distance, he could not well see the banners which would proclaim the persons traveling, but it was hardly necessary. What was clear was that they had been set upon by no small number of brigands, for the lesser brigands were easily distinguishable from the grander knights. As he drew closer, the sounds of battle reached his ears, awful and more familiar than he liked, and Kodey fought the fear that coiled in his gut from the last time he had been involved in true battle.

  When he arrived, the stench of blood was thick upon the air
. Kodey wasted no time in racing toward the nearest of the brigands. Steel flashed in the sunlight high overhead as he cut the brigand down and he immediately shifted his attention to the next, fighting his way through the melee to where the main carriages were still under assault.

  Too many.

  A terrified cry cut through the mayhem and Kodey immediately sought the source. His eyes landed upon a boy not more than eight summers, clutching at a wound to his arm. Swearing loudly, Kodey dismounted and hauled him up, tossing the boy upon the saddle and lashing him swiftly in place. "Striker, home." Smacking the horse's rump, he left the beast to return to the castle as he had been trained.

  Dodging away from a charging rider, he bolted for the carriages which were now smoking rather fiercely. As he approached, he was met with steel and barely lifted his own sword in time to block the assault. "Peace!" he bellowed, seeing the man was no brigand, but a man of breeding, to judge by his blood-smeared finery.

  "Peace," the man replied, and slid his sword away to attack a bandit upon approach.

  From the third carriage came a roaring battle cry, and a man of gray hair and long beard cut down another of the brigands … of which there seemed an innumerable amount, and there had been no reports of such in the area. At the very first hint, Chastaine and Lyon disposed of them with ruthless efficiency. The Seneschals of Castle Triad tolerated no black mark upon their lands. Kodey let out a cry of his own as he met the attack of a man who abruptly charged him, gutting him and grimacing as he shoved the man back off his sword. A cry of alarm came from behind him and Kodey turned, lifting his sword even as he knew it was too late—Then just as suddenly the men dropped. An arrow with gray fletching was lodged in the center of each of their foreheads. Heart beating rapidly, Kodey cut down two more brigands as arrows flew around him with a deadly accuracy that was nearly a thing of beauty. When the chaos at last seemed conquered, Kodey turned.

  Brice truly was beautiful, far stronger than his whipcord build belied, red hair blazing in the sunlight. He sat in the saddle as though born to it, longbow gripped with a casual mien as deceptive as his appearance and build. Brice was pleasing to look upon, pleasing to hear speak … pleasing in all things, to Kodey's mind. But it never did well to forget his bow had a draw weight of a hundred and fifty pounds—and never had he missed.

  He rushed over as Brice dismounted. "You arrived quickly."

  "Yes." Brice looked around the ravaged caravan. "I was returning from the village when I saw your horse."

  Kodey turned at the sound of movement and saw it was the man from the carriage who had nearly cut him down. "How fare you, good sir?"

  Beside him, Brice snorted—and then startled Kodey by dropping to one knee and bowing his head. "Your Grace, I beg pardon that you were so crudely treated upon the lands of Castle Triad."

  "Um … " Kodey blinked, then awkwardly mimicked Brice's manner, feeling stupid that he had not realized the carriage under attack belonged to someone of such high importance. He should have recognized the blazon and colors. He had always reluctantly conceded that perhaps his lack of Brice's expanse of knowledge was one reason Brice did not yet love him. Always he worked to repair that flaw, but ever did he seem to be three paces behind.

  "No apologies are necessary, noble rescuers," the man replied. "The brigands were not of your lands, but have sought me the entirety of my journey. Rise, please. You have saved my life and others this day; I would not have you kneel before me."

  Brice stood slowly and Kodey followed suit, risking a glance at the man they had rescued. Now that he had the time to look, he realized the man must be about Brice's age, surely not much more than that. He had dark blonde hair and light brown eyes, with sharp, handsome features.

  Before anyone could resume speaking, they were joined by the man with the beard.

  "Your Grace," the man said. "I fear we two and the boy are the only survivors. The brigands knew their business well, alas"

  "Yes," the younger man agreed, mouth twisting. "If not for our rescuers here, I fear they would have taken my head as they desired."

  Brice shook his head. "The battle was turned to your favor by Kodey; I came in only at the last. Reserve your thanks for him, Your Grace, and save them for later, for I see you are wounded—it requires dressing. Come, let us—" He broke off at the sound of horses and the group turned as one to see roughly thirty men or so appear over the rise. At their head were the Seneschals of Castle Triad.

  Kodey grinned and waved his arm, then bolted for the riders as they drew close, stopping just short of Chastaine as he dismounted. "You have made it."

  "Too late, it would seem," Chastaine said grimly.

  "Aye," Lyon agreed, frowning. "These men wear clothes from the northern province." He shifted his gaze to the two unknown men, and Kodey fought a laugh to see that men who had bravely faced so brutal and unfair a battle shifted nervously before Lyon's famous glare. "You are Sir Yvain Thierry, the Duke of Lons."

  The duke sketched a bow, smiling briefly. "Aye, I am he."

  Chastaine's brows went up. "How come you to be so far from home, Your Grace?"

  "Questions can wait," Lyon cut in.

  "Aye," Chastaine conceded and immediately returned to his horse. Mounting, he signaled out half of the men, who promptly followed him off into the woods. Even as he did that, Lyon took the remaining half and began to work on the ruined caravan, sorting out the dead and salvaging what he could from the mess.

  Watching them hurt, because in all things Lyon and Chastaine never needed to talk to one another. They simply acted and trusted the other to act … and Lady Winifred and Lord Shad often acted much the same. If that was evidence of love, then Kodey was probably never going to gain Brice's affections, for he never could guess the nature of Brice's thoughts and Brice always misunderstood him. Inevitably, one or the other wound up in the moat.

  He turned away from the unhappy thoughts, refusing to consider the possibility that he would not someday have Brice to call his own, and focused on assisting with the cleanup.

  "You are quite skilled," the duke said, coming to stand beside Kodey as Chastaine finished moving a trunk which had somehow survived the brutal attack. "So young and yet you fight like a knight well-blooded."

  Kodey flushed at the compliment and the earnestness of the duke's expression. "My skills are paltry alongside those of a true knight, Your Grace."

  "I would be most honored to know your name," the duke replied. "You are very much the reason I am alive and it is a great failing that I lack a name to put to my rescuer."

  Such pretty speech; only Lady Winifred ever insisted upon speaking so with regularity—and never did anyone speak so to him. "Ah—" Kodey licked his lips, feeling suddenly anxious, but confounded as to why. "I am Kodey Delacroix of Castle Triad, squire to Sir Chastaine Delacroix."

  "I thought he looked like a Delacroix," the duke said thoughtfully. "That other is a de Sauveterre or my mother is a milkmaid."

  "A—aye, Your Grace. He is Sir Lyon de Sauveterre and commands Castle Triad with Sir Chastaine as joint Seneschals by the will of the Lady Winifred."

  The duke laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Aye, the good queen speaks often of the Lady Winifred." He sobered abruptly. "Would that I had passed through here without such unhappy tidings, for I would have enjoyed meeting the infamous lady under brighter auspices." He lightly touched the arm which had only just been bandaged by one of the soldiers.

  "We are honored regardless of the circumstances, Your Grace," Lyon said as he drew close. "It is shameful indeed that such as this struck you upon Triad lands."

  "Nay," the duke replied. "As I said before, 'twas I who brought the misfortune with me. I thought I had left them well behind, but it would seem I erred most tragically with that belief." He looked sadly over the carnage Lyon's men had nearly finished clearing away.

  Kodey wished he could think of something to say, but he had always failed abhorrently in matters of etiquette. He reached out to rest his
hand awkwardly on the duke's shoulder. "Come to the castle and rest, and we will see your men are buried with full honor."

  The duke smiled and covered Kodey's hand with his own. "You are not even eighteen summers, I would wager, yet you have the eyes of one much older. I am fortunate in many ways to have met you, I think."

  "Come," Lyon said, before Kodey could puzzle out the appropriate reply to the duke's words. "Lady Winifred by now will have prepared food enough for three armies and her poor husband will be suffering the brunt of her anxious temper."

  Kodey grimaced in agreement.

  Beside him, the duke laughed—then abruptly slung an arm across Kodey's shoulders, walking him toward where their horses had been brought by a soldier and stood waiting. He started to speak when Chastaine and his men returned, crashing through the trees and brush. Pure habit drove Kodey to seek out Brice and he started to call out when an all too familiar icy anger overtook Brice's face.

  "Brice—"Brice turned away, guiding his horse toward Lyon, speaking in low tones with him and Lord Chastaine, obviously discussing the remaining brigands. Kodey swallowed around the lump in his throat. What had he done wrong now? How could he have done something wrong? He had helped save the caravan, then Brice had saved him … ah, that was very likely it. Now that the fight was well and truly over, no doubt Brice was angered by the fact Kodey that had required saving.

  Kodey enviously watched the way Lyon and Chastaine spoke, the brief way they touched hands before breaking apart to lead the men back home. They made it look so easy and he wanted so badly for Brice to look upon him the way Lyon looked upon Chastaine … Yet he sensed, perhaps, that in a month's time he would have nothing but his ruined plans to keep him company, if Brice still found him so lacking. He had done his best in the fight, but 'twould seem his best was not enough.