A pair of light, percussive taps sounded at her cheekbone, the sudden reverberations against her skin so startling that Beryl gasped aloud and stumbled away from the door, her heart threatening to explode in her chest.
Then footsteps, carelessly loud, receded into the silence of the night.
It was a very long time before she slept.
Chapter 4
Padraig’s chamber was invaded just after dawn, Lucan Montague preceding Rolf and a pair of maids carrying trays of food and the items required for a thorough toilette. Padraig washed while Montague ate, his pride unwilling to allow him to sit at the small table in his current state. Even in his plain garb, Lucan Montague seemed a wild gentleman, a snowy linen cloth tossed over his left shoulder, his manner relaxed and yet elegant as he partook heartily of the fragrant nourishment provided. The eating knife seemed a fine instrument in the man’s hand, choosing this and that in turn, never hesitating, even as his attention was fixed on Padraig while he gave his initial advice for the morning’s affair.
But being clean of body did little to bolster Padraig’s confidence when he had no choice but to redon his worn clothes, and it seemed that they had grown more threadbare and filthy since his arrival. He sat down at the table stiffly as Lucan continued.
“He’ll not be pleased,” Lucan said, pausing to chew and then turn his head slightly to wipe his mouth with the cloth over his shoulder. “But there is little protest he can put forth, lest he wishes to incur the king’s displeasure.”
Padraig picked up the heavy chalice of watered wine—at least he knew how to drink. “He’ll only choose those loyal to him. Nae sane man would lend his enemy his best weapon.” He brought the cup to his mouth.
“It’s not only up to him.” Lucan seemed to pause pointedly while Padraig drained the chalice. Padraig set down the metal cup with a solid thunk and then released a belch before he thought better of it. The knight stared at him.
“What?” Padraig demanded, but his ears burned.
“Nothing. Any matter, I have leave to choose the majority of your camp from Darlyrede’s staff. I believe there are few here with any real love for Hargrave, but most hold such fear of him that there are equally few who will be willing to lend you their support at once.” Lucan reached out to flick the tip of his knife over his trencher; it came away with a hunk of tender-looking meat that he promptly plucked from the blade and then placed in his mouth.
“Do I have nae say?” Padraig asked, eyeing the halved roasted birds lying on the platter alongside a pile of dried figs and a round of bread. He was hungry. He picked up the knife alongside his trencher.
“If you like,” Lucan said with a touch of surprise, and Padraig could feel the man’s eyes on him as he speared the half carcass with his blade.
Padraig caught the other side of the bird with his left hand. It smelled delicious. He would do his best not to embarrass himself, but it was only Montague, after all. “Rolf.” He held the fowl suspended between his hand and knife and brought it to his mouth, ripping off a large bite.
Lucan blinked. “Not possible. The steward must remain neutral. Master Boyd, is your blade not sharp?”
Padraig spoke around his food. “I reckon it is. Why?”
“Perhaps you might use it. Rolf is in service to Darlyrede House. His sole responsibility is keeping the hold in order.”
“He’ll have a faggin’ hard time o’ that, is my wager.” Padraig wiped his mouth with his sleeve reflexively, regretting it almost before the wool touched his face.
Lucan reached across the table and lifted a square of cloth—another snowy piece of linen—and handed it to Padraig. “Indeed. Any matter.” He dabbed at his mouth with his own napkin again, as if as an example, and then whipped it from his shoulder as he stood. “Forgive me for cutting short your…meal, but they will be gathering in the hall. It’s best we arrive before Hargrave has a chance to turn too many ears to his cause through trickery or outright lies.”
Padraig nodded and stood, still chewing. His napkin fell to the floor. He peered into the pitcher, but it was already empty. He gestured to Lucan’s cup. “You through?”
“What?” the knight asked, and then his eyes went to the chalice Padraig had indicated. “Oh. Yes, I’ve fini—”
But Padraig had already lifted the cup to his mouth, draining the contents. He sighed in satisfaction, although it would have been more heartening had the wine not been watered.
“I’m ready,” Padraig said. Lucan was looking at him queerly again, and so Padraig held up his palms. “Well? Are we to get on or nae?”
Padraig followed Lucan Montague from the chamber and through the maze of corridors, running his hands through his still-damp hair as the knight walked confidently before him. He felt as though the stone passageways were closing in around him, narrowing the farther he walked, until he fancied he could feel them brushing against his shoulders like specters.
His home on Caedmaray was not much wider in breadth than the corridor, true, but with only a trio of steps he could be out the door, under the endless dome of the sky, perched on the top of a world made entirely of the wide sea, the wind tearing through his hair, filling his senses. Padraig felt already as though he hadn’t seen the sky in days. His chest tightened, his breathing grew ragged, and he thought he might now understand the panic and distress of the young rams when they needed to be confined.
But at last the corridor opened up into a high-ceilinged chamber—the largest Padraig had ever seen. The great hall, then. Its timbered lofts seemed impossibly tall, its hearth wide enough to
