At the bottom of the steps, Brogan took the lead. St. Alban, being the gentle knight that he was, took the lady’s hand into his elbow and properly escorted her down the dim hall. Halfway down, Brogan turned around to make sure she was behind him and saw that St. Alban had her well in hand. A bolt of jealously shot through him, such a surprise that he almost grunted withthe force of it. Then he cursed himself for being so stupid. Had he been a knight with fine manners, he would have thought of taking the lady’s hand himself. But he had not. Still, that did not stop him from retracing his steps and visibly challenging St. Alban’s for the lady’s companionship.
“I will take her.”
His massive hand was extended. St. Alban looked at it, understood the meaning, and backed off graciously. The expression on Brogan’s face turned astonishingly gentle as he tucked they lady’s hand into the crook of his elbow, covered by the grimy tunic. St. Alban could only shake his head, following behind the pair as the filthy, dirty soldier escorted the very elegant lady down the corridor. He would not have believed it had he not seen it. But now that he was seeing it, he could do no more at the moment.
Remember your manners, lad, he thought. Remember what I’ve taught you.
Brogan, in fact, hardly remembered a thing at the moment. Having the small, lovely lady on his arm filled his head with fog; a delirious, lovely fog. It was kind of like walking on air, as if his whole being was being lifted and floating free. He hardly even remembered where he was going, only that he was walking with her on his arm; he could have kept walking like that forever.
“You look as if you’ve been very busy this morning,” Avalyn’s soft voice wafted up to him.
He gazed down at her, drinking in that lovely face. “We have two hundred new recruits,” he told her. “It is my job to train them to be soldiers.”
“That must be difficult.”
He shrugged. “I do not think so. I have been doing it for many years.”
“Did you do it in Germania?”
“Nay.” That is almost where he ended the conversation but realized he should probably explain. As always, dialogue did not come particularly easy to him. “I grew up as a child in Germania and came to England after my father died. I was ten years old at the time.”
“When did you become a soldier for the crown?”
“Almost as soon as I arrived. My mother married an English merchant who decided I should become English, too. He said that the only true way to do that was to fight for my new country. So he pledged me to the barracks of the Tower as a runner.”
It explained a little bit about him, she thought. The runners were the small boys who worked with the soldiers, literally ‘running’ from post to post, carrying messages or weapons or food. “But you eventually became more than a runner. You did not become a servant. You learned a skill.”
He nodded. “My father had been a great knight in Germania. I was raised on stories of valor. But he died before he could complete my training as a knight. When I became a runner, I already had some education in warfare thanks to my father.”
“Then why did you not become a knight?”
He looked at her again, a half-smile on his lips. “You know as well as I do that knighthood in England is only reserved for the English nobles. I am not one of them.”
She knew that, but her mind worked in a more detailed manner. Surely there had to be a way, a loophole, for him to gain his knighthood, even if his father was a foreign nobleman. Avalyn did not like dead-ends; if there was a solution, she would wrack her brain to try and find it. She was curious why Brogan might have given up so easily.
“Did you never try to find a sponsor who would support you for the knighthood?”
He shook his head, his eyes fixing straight ahead. “I believe that the king’s knights want me right where I am. They have putme in a position of trust and power training recruits, and when the king’s troops are pulled into battle, I lead the infantry. I am big and I am loud, and the men follow me.”
Avalyn gazed up at him, imagining how the knights might be intimidated by him. Why would they want to compete against someone like him? Naturally they would rather keep him in a position of submission. That was how the upper nobility tended to think; better to control him than to have him as a potential adversary. Jealously was a nasty thing.
With that thought, she was coming to think that perhaps this man might have been greatly mistreated by his adopted country. There was a bitterness to him she had sensed from the start. Perhaps this was part of it.
“I think you would make a fine knight,” she said simply, not knowing what else to say.
They had apparently reached their destination, for he came to a halt in front of a nondescript door. He faced her in the dim torch light.
“I am contented to be where I am,” he replied without emotion.
“Aye, but are you happy?”
His brow rippled with confusion. “I exist. Happiness is not a part of that existence.”
His reply shocked, even concerned, her. She opened her mouth to respond when the door they stood in front of suddenly flew open. Three women, one of whom she recognized as the lady she sought, were clustered in a writhing group in the doorway. A short, red-haired woman spoke in a shrill voice.
“Brogan,” she gasped happily. “I thought I heard your voice. We rarely see you, and suddenly we have the pleasure of seeing you two times in two days.”
Avalyn looked at Brogan, her mouth unconsciously gaping as thoughts of him visiting the whores suddenly crossed hermind. Brogan, however, was focused only on the three women in front of him. His expression, so relaxed moments before, was frighteningly hard.
