“I am Sir Murthas and the gent with the handsome face beside me here is Sir Gilbert. Over there, that dashing fellow holding the pleasant conversation with the twig is none other than Sir Elgar. We are the three finest knights of the realm, as you will soon discover. We wanted to welcome you to the palace, deliver you a fond tiding, and wish you luck on the field—as luck is all you’ll have.”
Nimbus snorted. “They’re here because they heard a bath was ordered, and wanted to see your scars. Knowing nothing about you, they came to see if you have any fresh bruises or recent wounds they might take advantage of on the field. Also, they are trying to intimidate you, as a man in a tub is at a disadvantage. Intimidation can frequently win a contest before it starts.”
Sir Elgar grabbed hold of Nimbus, pulling him up by his tunic. “Talkative little bastard, aren’t you?” He raised a fist just as a sopping towel slammed into his face.
“Sorry. Elgar, is it?” Hadrian asked. “Just got done drying my ass and noticed a smudge on your face.”
Elgar threw off the towel and drew his sword. In just two steps, the knight cut the distance to Hadrian, who stood naked and unflinching even as Elgar raised the blade’s tip toward his throat.
“Brave bugger, I’ll give you that much,” Elgar said. “But that just means you’ll be an easier target along the fence. You might want to save that water. You’ll need it after I put you in the mud.” Sheathing his sword, he led his friends from the room, nearly colliding with Renwick, who stood outside the door holding a goblet of wine.
“You all right?” Hadrian asked, grabbing a fresh towel.
“Yes, of course,” Nimbus replied in an unsteady voice. He smoothed the material of his tunic.
“Your wine, sir,” Renwick said to Hadrian.
Without pause, Nimbus took the cup and drained it. “As I was saying, the reality can be quite different.”
CHAPTER 9
WINDS ABBEY
Royce stood before the window of the bedroom, watching Gwen sleep and thinking about their future. He pushed the thought away and suppressed the urge to smile. Just imagining it would bring disaster. The gods—if they existed—detested happiness. Instead, he turned and looked out over the cloistered courtyard.
The previous night’s storm had left everything covered in a new dress of unblemished white. The only exception was a single line of footprints that led from the dormitory to a stone bench, where a familiar figure sat wrapped in a monk’s habit. He was alone, yet the movement of his hands and the bob of his head revealed he was speaking with great earnest. Across from the monk was a small tree. Planting it was one of the first things Myron had done when he had returned to the abbey after the fire. It now stood a proud eight feet tall but was so slender it drooped under the snow’s weight. Royce knew there was great resiliency in a tree accustomed to bending in the wind, but he wondered if the strain could be endured. There was a breaking point for everything, after all. As if reading his thoughts, Myron rose and gave the tree a light shake. He had to stand close to do so, and much of the snow fell on his head. The tree sprang back, and without the burden of snow, it appeared more like its former self. Myron returned to his seat and his conversation. Royce knew he was not speaking to the tree but to his boyhood friend who was buried there.
“You’re up early,” Gwen said from where she lay with her head on a clutched pillow. He could make out the elegant slope of her waist and rise of her hip beneath the covers. “After last night, I would have thought you’d be sleeping late.”
“We went to bed early.”
“But we didn’t sleep,” she teased.
“It was better than sleep. Besides, around here, waking after first light is sleeping in. Myron is already outside.”
“He does that so he can talk privately.” She smiled and drew back the covers invitingly. “Isn’t it cold next to that window?”
“You’re a bad influence,” he said, lying down and wrapping his arms around her. He marveled at the softness of her skin. She drew the quilt over both of them and laid her head on his chest.
Their room was one of the bigger guest chambers, which was three times larger than any of the monks’ cells. Gwen, who had left Medford a week before Breckton’s invasion, had arranged to bring everything with her, even her canopied bed, carpets, and wall hangings. Looking around the room, Royce could easily imagine he was back on Wayward Street. He felt at home, but not because of the decorations. All he needed was Gwen.
“Am I corrupting you?” she asked playfully.
“Yes.”
His fingers caressed her bare shoulder and ran along the swirled tattoo. “This last trip Hadrian and I went on, we went to Calis… into the jungles. We stayed in a Tenkin village, where I met an unusual woman.”
“Did you? Was she beautiful?”
“Yes, very.”
“Tenkin women can be exceptionally attractive.”
“Yes, they can. And this one had a tattoo that—”
“Did Hadrian find the heir?”