The Brat

Chapter Sixteen

"Are you sure it was Murie?" Balan asked as they rode toward the row of empty buildings that made up the village. They'd waited at the bend where the road to the castle split off toward the village to be sure the wagon train made it to the drawbridge unmolested before continuing on to meet his wife. It had been a relatively short but hard journey, and he'd spent too much money for very little return to risk bandits, or even the armed guards he'd paid to accompany them, running off with either the servants he'd managed to hire or the items he'd purchased - even for the sake of meeting his wife.
"Aye. She had on that black and burgundy gown she favors," Osgoode answered, but he was frowning as he added, "I wonder why she is in the village? You do not think she believed we would be putting the servants up there, do you?"
Balan frowned at the suggestion. It had never occurred to him that she might make such an assumption. In fact, it had never occurred to him to put up the new servants in the village, but that was a perfectly fine idea. It was close enough that they could walk up in the mornings to attend their duties, as well as walk home at night when they were finished. But at the same time, they'd have their own homes, with their own bit of gardens to work come spring. That might prevent their being lured away by another lord.
It also would have the added benefit of preventing the village from falling into complete ruin.
Balan smiled to himself and shook his head. Wasn't his wife a clever puss to think of such a thing?
"Or mayhap she arranged a special welcome home for you after your journey," Osgoode suggested with a grin. "Mayhap she has a picnic set out by a cozy little fire for the two of you."
"Oh, aye." Balan chuckled. "Fish cakes and rotten ale, in a cottage filthy with neglect and us sweltering from a fire that is not needed on such a fine day."
"You are right, cousin," Osgoode agreed with a frown. "It is far too warm today to be bothered with a fire. Whatever can she be doing in there?"
Balan shook his head, beginning to frown as he pondered. Why would she have a fire going in the cottage?
"Perhaps she is burning something sweet smelling to remove a bad stench," Osgoode suggested. He was silent for a moment before offering with amusement, "Or perhaps it is another one of her superstitions."
Balan grimaced. His wife did seem to have far too many superstitions: It was something he would have to work on. He would not have Murie going around throwing herself to the ground every time a cuckoo called or worrying that something ill was going to happen every time a curlew sang.
"I hope she has got past the ridiculous idea that I am trying to kill you," Osgoode said suddenly, drawing Balan's attention. He peered at his cousin curiously. "Have you ever considered it?"
"What? Killing you?" Osgoode asked, looking shocked. Balan shrugged. "You would inherit everything." Osgoode burst out laughing. "Oh, aye. I would inherit a castle with fields full of rotting vegetation, no coins to repair it and too few servants to work it - and all the headaches involved in returning it to some semblance of its former glory. Delightful! Let me just find my dagger, Balan, and I shall gut you where you sit." Balan smiled faintly. " 'Tis not so bad. 'Twill be a year or two of hard work and expense, but then we should be fine."
"Aye, but you have Murie and her dower to help. Both equally valuable I think."
"Nay," Balan assured him. "The dower is useful and will help Gaynor recover more quickly, but Murie is definitely more valuable."
He was aware of the way Osgoode stared at him, but was still unprepared when the man said, "You love her!" Balan nodded solemnly, not willing to deny it.
Osgoode smiled and then began to laugh.
"What is so funny?" Balan asked.
"I was just recalling how you squawked at the very idea of marrying her when I first suggested it. What was it you said... ?" He tipped his head back and peered at the sky thoughtfully. "Oh, yes, I believe your response was, You are quite mad if you think I would even momentarily consider marrying the king's spoiled goddaughter.'" He grinned at Balan and taunted, "I must be quite mad indeed."
"Oh, all right, have your fun," Balan muttered. Then he grinned and added, "But I have Murie."
"Aye, you do," Osgoode said, sobering. "And you are most fortunate to have her. I hope I am so fortunate one day." Now it was Balan's turn to grin. Eyes sparking with deviltry he said, "Mayhap I can help you with that. Murie may know one or two ladies at court with a home and demesne of their own for you to rule."
Osgoode gave a quick laugh. "Oh, dear Lord, do not even say it!"
"Why not?" Balan asked with amusement. "Hmph. I would not marry one of those highbrow witches. Murie is the absolute only female at court who did not sneer at our garb. Well, aside from Lady Emilie, but she is already married to Reynard." Osgoode shook his head. "Nay, I am too young to settle down. Besides, you would miss me here."
"Aye, I would," Balan acknowledged. He and his cousin had been knocking about together since they were very young children. In truth, he could not recall a time when Osgoode hadn't been there, watching his back or getting him into trouble. He would miss him, but he knew the day was coming when his cousin would wish for a wife and home of his own. Balan would be sad to see him go, but happy for him as well when that day came. A smile on his lips, he said, "You could always marry Lauda. That way, you would have a wife and home of your own and still remain close by. We would be neighbors."
"And have Malculinus for a brother-in-law?" he asked with horror.
"If that is your only protest, we could always find an excuse to challenge the man and kill him," Balan said with a laugh. Osgoode started to shake his head and then paused, his gaze dead ahead. "That does not look like a hearth fire to me, Balan." Balan glanced at the buildings ahead, eyes widening with alarm when he saw smoke coming through the door of the largest cottage. It had been the blacksmith's home before the plague hit, but that man and his family were among the first claimed by the plague, and it had been empty ever since.
"That is not where you saw Murie?" he asked with dread.
"Aye," Osgoode muttered, concern marring his own brow. Balan cursed and put his spurs to his mount, crossing the remaining distance at full speed. "Murie!" he shouted as he drew the animal to a halt a safe distance from the cottage. "Murie?" As Osgoode drew up, Balan dismounted and headed for the door. Smoke was billowing out in a constant, dark, noxious stream, and he could not imagine what was burning.
"It smells like she is burning some of those twigs and herbs she likes to collect," Osgoode gasped, running to catch up.
"Aye. Cover your nose and mouth with your doublet," Balan suggested, and did so himself as he hurried inside.
The smoke billowing out the door was nothing compared to that caught inside the cottage: a dark, heavy cloud obscured his ability to see.
"Murie!" he shouted, stumbling into furniture.
"Murie!" Osgoode shouted right behind him, then cursed. "I cannot see a damned thing."
"Neither can I," Balan admitted. He bent at the waist, wracked by a violent cough. Despite the cloth over his face, smoke was getting through and choking him.
"She could not possibly be conscious in all this smoke, Balan," Osgoode said anxiously. He was coughing violently himself.
"I shall look for her; you go back outside," Balan ordered, dropping to his knees to feel around the floor. If she were not conscious, she would be on the ground.
"Where have you gone?" Osgoode's voice sounded alarmed, directly above him. The man was nearly standing on him. "I cannot even see you anymore."
"I am down here. 'Tis less smoky by the ground." Balan began to crawl toward the back of the cottage in an awkward three-limbed maneuver, trying to hold the cloth of his shirt to his face while moving.
The building was smaller when it was first built, but the blacksmith had grown prosperous from his work for Balan's father and added on, making the cottage two rooms. The second was where the smoke seemed to be originating. It was darkest in that area, and Balan feared where he found the fire would be where he found his wife.
Hearing Osgoode coughing violently again, Balan snapped,
"Get outside!"
"Nay!" his cousin snapped right back. "I am helping you."
"Then get on the floor at least," he said shortly. "You will be little help if I have to carry you out as well as my wife. Murie!" He paused to cough up some of the choking fumes he'd inhaled as he spoke, then felt something bump against his hip. His cousin had listened and joined him on the floor he realized with a grunt of satisfaction.
"I think she must be in the back room," Osgoode gasped, crawling up beside him.
"Aye," Balan agreed, not bothering to mention that he'd already thought of that, which was why he was headed that way. They worked their way the last couple of feet in silence, moving as quickly as they could until they reached the wall. It had been years since Balan was in the cottage, and the smoke made it difficult to judge the arrangement of everything, but he thought the door was to their left. He began to move that way on his knees, one hand holding the cloth over his face, the other feeling along the wall in hopes of finding the door. Balan knew he'd found it when he felt the heat under his hand. It was almost as hot as a poker.
Cursing deep in his throat, he moved around to the side and grabbed Osgoode's arm to drag him that way as well; then he reached up and pulled open the door.
Fire roared out like an animal, lashing above their heads in a stream of hot fury. Had they been in front of the door when it opened, it surely would have roasted them alive. As it was, Balan found himself gasping for breath and falling back, dragging Osgoode with him.
"She cannot be alive if she is in there," Osgoode said grimly as the flames died back. They could now see that the room beyond was fully aflame. It had been burning slowly before they opened the door, but the influx of oxygen had set it to a roar. Balan was silent, his body completely still for several heartbeats. His wife was certainly dead if she had been in there, but he was suddenly quite sure she was not. None of this made sense. There was no reason for her to be at the village when there was so much to be done at the castle. And why would she have waved from the door and then come inside a burning cottage. Nay, his wife was not here, and he was a fool.
"Get out!" he shouted, turning and pushing Osgoode before him. " 'Tis a trap! Get out!"
Even as he began to herd Osgoode back across the floor, he saw the white square of smoke that was the front door begin to narrow.
Roaring in fury, Balan lunged to his feet to make a run for the opening, but it slammed shut seconds before he crashed against it. Cursing and choking, he shoved at the door, threw his weight forward, but sagged weakly against it as his lungs seized up and he began another coughing fit. He felt Osgoode tugging at his arm and allowed his cousin to pull him back to the floor, where the air was a little less polluted.
"There was no smoke coming out of the windows," Osgoode gasped, realizing what they should have noted on their approach.
"They were boarded up," Balan said once he had breath back. He'd noted that on the periphery of his consciousness as they rode up, but had paid it little attention, his concern with his wife and why she was in the cottage.
"'Twas a trap," Osgoode repeated on the heels of another coughing fit. "And we walked right into it."
Ran, Balan corrected. They'd run right into it like fools. But he did not say so aloud; the more they talked, the more smoke they inhaled.
Leaning his back against the door, he peered around the room. He couldn't see anything in all this smoke, but he was trying to recall the cottage in his mind's eye, trying to place where the windows were, or what might be available to use to break down the door.
"I bumped into a table while still standing. It seemed heavy -
solid oak, I think. If we rammed the door with it, we might be able to break it down," Osgoode panted.
"Aye," Balan agreed, thinking it worth a try. The two men crawled silently away from the door,finding the table easily. It was indeed solid and heavy. They turned it on its side and each knelt by its legs; Osgoode at the back and Balan at the front, staying as close to the floor as possible until they had to rise and charge forward.
"I will count to three," Balan said. "At three, take a deep breath and then stand and charge the door."
Osgoode's answer was another coughing fit. Balan started to count, had to pause at two to cough, then gritted his teeth and shouted, "Three!"
He did not suck in a deep breath. Afraid he would fall into another coughing fit, he took as shallow a breath as he could, held it and rose up to charge. They had taken three steps and nearly reached the door when it was flung open and he heard Murie shout, "Husband!"
He tried to stop their forward momentum, but Osgoode had no idea what was before them and wasn't slowing. Balan shouted a warning to his wife, but it was too late. There was a cry of pain as they rammed into her, then the faint form he'd barely been able to see through the light gray smoke by the door disappeared under the table as they ran her over.
"You are not getting up."
Murie made a face at her scowling maid.
"I am fine, Cecily," she muttered, pushing the linens and furs away and slipping her feet off the bed.
"You are not fine," Cecily argued. "You got yourself run over by two men and a table."
"Two men with a table bumped into me and knocked me to the ground," she corrected with exasperation. "All I have is a little lump on the head."
"Gatty had to stitch you up," her maid reminded her, as if she might have forgotten that painful experience. It had been more painful than gaining the injury itself.
In truth, Murie only had a vague recollection of the actual event. She'd raced that horse down to the village, left him by Balan and Osgoode's mounts, and rushed to the door of the cottage. It had been jammed shut, a heavy piece of wood stuck firmly into the dirt and wedged against it so well that it had taken some effort for her to remove it. She'd heard shouting inside as she'd worked at the wood, and also coughing. The shouting had reassured her at first, but the coughing that followed was so violent and deep and wretched that it had erased her relief and left her frantic to free her husband and his cousin from what could have been their fiery tomb.
Finally freeing the wood, she'd thrown the door open and called out as she started inside .. . and the next thing she knew, a great misshapen mass hurtled out of the smoke at her. Murie hadn't had time to even raise her hands in front of her, let alone step out of the way. One moment she was running forward; the next, the entire front of her body was vibrating with pain, and she was hurtling toward the ground.
Murie had been told that Balan and Osgoode had tossed the table aside and rushed to her at once. Her husband had lifted her in his arms, mounted his horse and ridden for the castle as if the devil were on his heels - though it was actually only Osgoode. The two men had passed Anselm and his soldiers on their way down to the village without even slowing to explain, but there'd apparently been little to explain. The head wound she'd received had bled copiously, and her face was covered in gore. Anselm and the men had turned at once to follow their lord to the keep. According to Juliana, who'd told her that tale with wide anxious eyes, once in the bailey everyone thought Balan would ride his mount right up the keep stairs and into the great hall to get her inside. Gatty had apparently been so sure of this that she'd rushed up from the wagons to throw the keep doors open for him. But he'd brought his mount to a rearing halt at the foot of the steps and leapt off, shouting for Gatty to follow as he raced up the stairs and past her into the keep.
Gatty had been the one to sew Murie up. Juliana had informed her that she'd had to be cleaned up just to find the wound. According to the child, she had been awash in blood, her face almost unrecognizable.
That was where the narrative of events had ended, however. There was no need for her to tell more. The stinging pain of the needle in the thin skin of her forehead had roused Murie from unconsciousness and brought her back to screaming life. Balan had been holding her at the time, and had simply kept her still and murmured soothing words as Gatty finished the job. He hadn't really needed to hold her after the first few seconds, as she'd regained her wits and realized what was happening, but he'd done so anyway. While Murie had been feeling weak and trembly by the end of the ordeal, Balan had actually been gray-faced and sick-looking, and had muttered an excuse, then fled the room the moment it was done.
Murie had hardly noticed. Gatty had been busy helping her to remove her gown and setting her into the bed, and she'd been distracted as both her body and head protested any movement. While her head was the only bleeding wound, bruises were beginning to form down the front of her chest to her thighs where the table had struck her. She was going to be extremely sore soon if did she not keep moving. That was the only way she knew to ease pain - movement, so muscles didn't get the chance to stiffen and set. This was part of the reason she was now getting up despite Cecily's scowls and growls. The other part was that she'd had plans for her husband's return. She'd intended to greet him with the joyful news that she loved him. The incident at the village had rather ruined that, and she silently cursed her husband's attacker to hell for it.
"My lady, please," Cecily begged. "His lordship shall no doubt blame me for your being up, and then - "
"Guilt will not work either, Cecily," Murie said mildly, managing not to wince as she gained her feet and her body protested. The maid had been with her for ten years. It was Cecily who'd had the unenviable task of tending Murie when she was ill since her parents' death, and she'd tried many different ways to keep her abed through flus and colds and various other childhood ailments. None of them had ever worked, but the woman kept trying.
"Why do you not get back in bed and let me fetch you some of the ale his lordship brought back from Carlisle?" Cecily said. "It may ease your aching head."
"Bribery will not work either," Murie assured her, "Only time will cure the aching in my head."
She moved to the chest to find some clothes, determined not to show how weak she really felt by asking the maid to fetch them. While she'd not felt bad other than aches and pains in bed, now that she was up, her head was showing a distressing tendency to spin on her neck .. . either that, or the room was doing the spinning. But she felt sure Cecily would have mentioned the fact if it were, so she knew it must be her head.
"You are the most obstinate woman I know," Cecily announced with irritation. She rushed over to grab her mistress by the arm to steady her.
"Aye," Murie agreed easily. She supposed she must have been swaying, for the woman to think she needed support. Shrugging inwardly, she allowed Cecily to help her kneel by the chest, then sat back as the maid began to sift through the clothing inside.
"What do you wish to wear?" the woman asked, still sounding annoyed.
"It matters little," Murie said. "Whatever is clean and available."
"Hmph. The maid pulled out a pale cream gown and brown surcoat to go over it. "You cannot work in this gown without ruining it, so at least I know you will not be able to be that foolish."
Murie bit her lip, but did not ask her to choose something else. She really wasn't feeling up to working. She just did not wish to be trapped in the chamber all day like an invalid. Whether she was one or not.
Cecily alternated between muttering under her breath about Murie's obstinacy and lecturing that she wasn't to do anything more strenuous than sitting at the trestle tables below as she helped Murie dress. She then insisted on helping her out of the room and down the stairs, so that she wouldn't "go faint and tumble down the stairs and break her neck."
Murie felt so weak and unsteady that she didn't argue. Truly, she was beginning to think getting out of bed had been a poor idea by the time Cecily saw her settled at the trestle table. Of course, she was too proud to say so to the maid and simply promised to remain where she was so the woman could return above stairs and retrieve the gown she'd been wearing to see if she could wash out the blood.
Murie watched Cecily go with affection, knowing from experience that the maid would be muttering the entire time she walked upstairs, collected the gown, and no doubt would still be muttering even as she washed it.
Once the maid was out of sight, Murie peered around the empty great hall in search of something to distract herself. Unfortunately, there was no one and nothing there to keep her attention, and she soon found herself drumming her fingertips on the table and trying to think of something to do. There was plenty of mending she could turn her attention to. Balan's doublet and her gown and surcoat had taken a terrible beating the day she'd used them to make a litter and then dragged him back to the castle. His leggings were, unfortunately, beyond repair, but she might be able to mend the gown and doublet.
However, she hadn't thought to bring them down and had no intention of going up after them.
She peered around the hall again, then got carefully to her feet. When the room did not begin spinning as it had above stairs, she released a little sigh of relief and started toward the kitchens. Now that she had nothing to distract her, she was aware of a dry, bitter taste in her mouth, no doubt a result of both her head wound and the vile liquid Gatty had made her drink. A nice mug of some of that ale Cecily had mentioned sounded nice about now.
Moving at a sedate pace to keep the dizziness from returning, Murie had only crossed half the hall to the door when it opened. A woman she thought she'd seen on the wagon earlier in the day started to walk out, but paused abruptly at the sight of her and hurried back into the kitchens. A moment later, the door swung open once more and Clement was striding toward her, his expression the grimmest she'd yet seen. Thibault was hard on his heels, wringing his hands agitatedly as they hurried to her side. Clement did not even speak. His mouth merely tightened, and he caught her arm, turned Murie and walked her firmly back to the trestle tables.
"You should not be out of bed," he said once he had her seated.
"Perhaps not," Murie allowed. "But - "
"There are no buts," Clement informed her. "You took a terrible blow to the head. You scared us all silly, and if you had any sense at all, you would be tucked up in your bed allowing your body to recover."
Murie noticed Cecily hurrying down the stairs and into the kitchen, but most of her attention was on the man before her. No one had spoken to her in such a manner since her father's death. Not even the king, her godfather. There was both concern and fear on the man's face, and it made her feel cared for.
"He is right, my lady," Thibault agreed. "You lost a great deal of blood from the knock on your head and still look quite pale. I really think you should be back up in bed."
"Aye, but..." Murie hesitated as Clement arched an eyebrow. His expression seemed to suggest she had best have a good excuse, so she let her breath out on a sigh and admitted, "I was hoping to have some of the ale my husband brought back from Carlisle and perhaps something to eat."
Apparently it was the right thing to say; the cook relaxed at once, but chided, "You should have sent someone to fetch it for you. I sacrificed one of the chickens to make soup, and it has been simmering these last two hours since you were injured. It could use more simmering, but should do well enough for now.
'Twill help you rebuild your strength." He turned back to head into the kitchens announcing, "I shall bring some out at once and some ale as well. See she stays seated, Thibault." The steward watched him go, then settled on the bench beside Murie with a sigh.
"It will be delicious, my lady," he assured her sadly. "His lordship brought back some vegetables as well from Carlisle, and Clement makes the best soup in the county. The smell has been permeating the keep and driving me wild for the last hour at least, but he will not let any of us near. Not even to sample it for him. He insists it is for you and you alone." He smiled at her and added, "I think Clement likes you."
Murie raised her eyebrows in doubt. The man was rarely anything but short and surly with everyone, including herself. She found it hard to imagine he liked anyone. She asked, "What makes you say that? Because of the soup?"
"Nay. Because he said so," Thibault explained. "When his lordship learned that you had given suggestions on how better to set up the kitchens and had removed the parsley from his gardens without the man throwing a fit, he asked Clement why he would allow such with you when he'd had fits at the tiniest suggestions from his own father, and Clement said, "Because I like your wife, my lord.'
"He did not care much for Lord Balan's father," the man went on. "He didn't like the way he neglected our Juliana. He is really very soft at heart, is our Clement. He seems tough and gruff, but I have seen him feeding birds and squirrels out in the garden. He is softer than he likes us to think."
"He is not softer than he likes you to think," Clement snapped behind them, making them both jump and turn to face him guiltily. The cook glared at Thibault for a moment, then added, "I simply prefer squirrels and birds to people."
Murie bit her lip as Thibault's expression fell, then sat a little straighter when the cook turned to her.
"Your soup." He set the steaming bread bowl he carried on the table. " 'Tis not as flavorful as 'twill be later in the day, but I will have you eat every last drop. 'Tis good for you. Estrelda is bringing your ale and shall be here momentarily."
"Thank you." Murie inhaled the steam pouring off the thick soup. "It smells divine."
Nodding abruptly, Clement turned and made his way back to the kitchens.
Murie glanced at Thibault once the cook was gone and patted his hand reassuringly. "I am sure it is as you say and he is softer than he wants us to think."
"Aye." Thibault was cheered. "Did you see? I think he almost smiled when you said it smelled divine."
Murie chuckled.
"I should be about my business." Thibault got to his feet as Estrelda hurried out of the kitchens with her mug of ale. "Even with more servants, there is always something needing doing. Enjoy your soup."
Murie thanked him, and then thanked Estrelda, who set down her ale. She then turned her attention to her soup. Despite Clement's claim that it really needed to simmer longer to be fully flavored, it was the best soup she'd had in ages. It was rich and thick and full of chunks of meat and vegetables. It was more a stew than a soup, really, and Murie gobbled it up quickly and then even ate the juice-soaked, hollowed-out bread it had been served in. By the time she'd finished the last bit, she felt almost her old self again. And she was immediately ready to find something to do.
Her gaze slid around the great hall. Despite their feverish work over the past two and a half days, there was still much to be done, but much of it was likely to ruin her gown and was probably too strenuous for her at this point; but there was something she thought she could manage. Something that would make the great hall smell nice, as well as work as a protective charm.
Murie stood and waited a moment to be sure the dizziness and weakness did not return. When they didn't, she began to make her way toward the keep doors. She would just take a nice leisurely walk around the woods outside the castle and collect some birch and clover to be strewn among the rushes in the hall. Both were said to help avert bad luck. Elder too, she thought. That was supposed to protect against fire.
Her steps slowed as she reached the doors. Should anyone catch her leaving, they'd surely try to stop her and most likely rush off to tattle to Balan. She needed to be stealthy. Easing the door open, she peered about, surprised to see that the bailey was completely empty. It seemed everyone was busy elsewhere, and if she were quick, she might slip out of the keep and cross the bailey without drawing attention. The men on the wall were the only worry, but the surcoat she wore over her gown was almost the same brown as the gowns Gatty and her daughters wore. From the wall, they might mistake her for one of Gatty's daughters . .. she hoped.
Smiling to herself, she slipped outside.
"There you are," Balan said as Clement, Cecily, Estrelda and Thibault hurried to join everyone else waiting on the wall.
"We are sorry, my lord," Thibault gasped as the group came to a halt before him. "Lady Murie came below in search of something to eat, and - "
"She is out of bed?" he asked with dismay.
"Aye, but she is just sitting at the trestle table eating the soup Clement made for her," the man rushed to assure him. "But that is why we are late. Clement got the soup and Estrelda fetched her some ale, and then we came out through the kitchen door and had to walk around to the wall the long way." He hesitated, then asked, "We did wonder if you wished her here as well, but - "
"Nay," Balan said, cutting him off. "She is the reason I called you all here."
"She is?" Anselm asked with amazement.
It was Gatty who asked, "Surely you are not thinking that she had anything to do with this latest attempt on your life, my lord?"
"Of course not," Balan snapped. "Why would you think so?"
"Because the last time we had a meeting up here on the wall like this, the two people we left out were the two we thought possible suspects," the woman explained.
"We had a meeting up here before?" Osgoode asked with surprise. Then his eyebrows flew up as he realized he was one of the two who had been left out. "You all thought I was trying to kill Balan?"
"And I," Cecily murmured quietly.
When everyone looked uncomfortable and avoided making eye contact with either the maid or his cousin, Balan said, "It does not matter. And I did not call this meeting to talk about whoever is trying to kill me. This meeting is about my wife. I wanted to talk to you all at once so that I was sure absolutely everyone understood, including the men on the wall."
When they all nodded and peered at him attentively, he said, "I want my wife watched at all times. She is not to be alone for a moment. I want at least two men following her every moment of every day until my attacker is caught. But I also want the rest of you to keep an eye on her. Is that understood?"
There was a moment of silence, and then Anselm cleared his throat. "We understand, my lord, but the killer is after you, not your lady wife. She is perfectly safe."
"She is not perfectly safe," Balan countered. "She was - "
"My lord," Erol tried to interrupt.
"Not now, Erol." Balan scowled and then continued, "She was nearly killed today trying to rescue me. And she was forced to drag me back to the castle on her own and naked after the attempt before that. 'Tis obvious - "
"But my lord," Erol tried again.
"Not now!" Balan snapped. "Where was I? Oh yes, 'tis obvious that so long as I am in danger, my wife is in danger, and I will not have it! I want her watched at all times. I will have her safe. Are there any questions?"
"Aye," Erol said, sounding a bit snappish himself. "Is that not your wife slipping off into the woods alone, while we stand here talking about guarding her?"
Balan stiffened, then whirled to peer over the wall. He saw his wife disappear into the woods. Cursing, he spun away and ran for the stairs.