"My first in command."
"I thought Sir Blake was your first?"
"Sir Blake?" He grinned suddenly. "Nay, he is Lord Blake. My friend and partner."
"Partner?"
"Aye." He perked up slightly, pride entering his face. "We are warriors. We lead two hundred of the finest fighting men in England. We are much in demand. We can ask nearly any fee we wish. We . . ." His voice faded, a frown slowly sliding across his face as he realized he couldn't lay claim to that anymore. He was a duke now with a large estate and servants at his disposal. Unfortunately, it was all due, not to his own hard work, but to a marriage to the petite woman beside him. In truth she was the master here. He had been made witness to that on the morning of his attack. The servants followed her softly spoken directives with respect and alacrity, all eager to please her. He had yet to see if they would listen to him, and if they did, he feared it would be out of fear, not due to respect he had gained, for they knew him not.
It was an odd position for Amaury to find himself in. He had been well respected and followed for his skill in battle, his fairness, and his sharp tactics. As soon as he had finished his training and earned his knight's spurs, he had begun to hire himself out to those in need of a strong sword arm. It hadn't been very long before he had found himself being followed from job to job by several other men. Without a word being said, he had somehow ended up being their leader, arranging jobs, paying their fees, and storing away as much as possible of what was left over to one day purchase his own home. Over the years, the size of his men had grown so that when he had met up with Blake again some years back, the size of his band had reached well over a hundred and fifty.
At that time, Amaury had been considering letting some of the men go, and had been agonizing over the decision. Their size had grown to such an extent that while they were the first to be considered for large contracts, they were too large for many of the smaller but more plentiful jobs. That had resulted in their finding themselves with little to do but drink and wench on far too many occasions.
Blake had been the solution to his problem. With him for a partner, they could separate the men for smaller contracts, yet be available for larger ones when needed. The arrangement had been very successful.
"Why was he lorded?"
Amaury took his mind away from his thoughts and glanced at his wife with a small frown. "What say you?"
"Lord Blake. How did he gain the title of lord? Did he save someone important too?"
Amaury grinned slightly and shook his head. "Nay. He was born a lord. He is Lord Blake Sherwell."
When she simply stared at him blankly, Amaury said, "His father is Lord Rollo Sherwell, the Earl of Hampshire."
Emma gaped at that, her face flushing with embarrassment. It was bad enough that she had called him sir when he was a lord, but she could have been forgiven for that were he newly titled. Calling him sir when he was an earl's son was unforgivable. And it was all her husband's fault of course. He should have explained things to her.
Amaury burst out laughing at her expression, and Emma frowned at him.
" 'Tis not funny, husband. I might have insulted him somehow."
"Nay," Amaury said now, sobering at once. "You are my wife, you did nothing to insult him."
Emma sighed at that proclamation. It seemed her husband thought he simply had to order something to make it so. There was no sense arguing with him on that fact, so she turned her attention to her curiosity instead. "Why would the Earl of Hampshire's son become a mercenary?"
Amaury shrugged. "He was tired of sitting about waiting for his father to die, I s'pose."
Emma gaped at him. "He said that?"
"Nay. But why else would a man leave his very own home?" It seemed nonsensical to him. He had wished for a home of his own for so long, he simply could not fathom why another man would leave his. Of course, now that he had one, he was beginning to be uncomfortable at how he had gained it. It was one thing to work hard and earn it, or even to marry a mean old hag who would make his life miserable. Then he would feel he had earned it as well. But to have it gained by marriage through the sweet woman sitting beside him seemed just short of thievery to him somehow.
Emma caught the expression of displeasure on her husband's face, and decided discussing his friend was upsetting him. And that was the last thing he needed just now while recovering from his injuries, so she changed the topic yet again.
"Where is Little George from? I heard him speak this morn and he has an odd accent."
"He comes from the north."
"How did he become your first?"
Amaury shrugged. "I have known him near as long as Blake. We squired together. He is the fourth son of a baron with a small demesne just south of Scotland."
"What was the task he was accomplishing that delayed his arrival here?"
"He was getting wed."
"He was?" Her eyes widened at that. "I should like to meet his wife."
"You cannot. Not yet anyway. She stopped off to visit relatives on the way here. Little George said she shall follow in a week or two."
"Oh," Emma murmured with disappointment. She really would like to meet the woman. Her husband's first was such a large man, surely his wife must be an Amazon to accommodate him? Emma flushed at the indecency of her own thoughts and endeavored to turn her mind to other topics. "Tell me more about the assassins who tried to kill King Richard. How did--"
"This talking business is very wearing," Amaury said suddenly, lying back on the pillows. "Sleep."
Emma glared at his closed eyes, then sighed and lay back on the bed. She wasn't fooled by her husband's claim of weariness. It seemed he didn't wish to discuss his brave act. A frustrating attitude for him to take. And selfish too, she decided. Especially when her curiosity was so high. Ah, well, she decided, closing her eyes. She would find out eventually. She'd pester her cousin until he revealed the whole story. In the meantime, she would apologize to Lord Blake for her mistake in calling him sir, explain that it was all her husband's fault, and ask him his opinion on her husband's health. She had considered it carefully while they had spoken, and she thought mayhap Amaury's odd beliefs about women and their wickedness might simply be due to the injury to his head. As was his insistence that she rest when she was not tired. Surely it could not be otherwise? She simply refused to give credence to the idea that he believed the things he had said.
Amaury opened his eyes and peered at the empty bed beside him, then cursed and sat up. His wife had slipped away while he slept again. She was sadly lacking in obedience, it seemed.
Muttering under his breath, he stood up, relieved that for once the room did not spin. It seemed the rest had helped him some. He was struggling into his clothes, when Blake came into the room.
"Your wife will not be pleased when she hears you are up," he commented with amusement.
Amaury grunted and tugged his tunic over his head.
"She is quite worried about you, know you?" Blake commented now, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "She fears the injury to your head may have . . . er . . . tetched you somewhat, and wished me to speak to you and see if I do not notice anything . . . er . . . amiss."
Amaury stilled at that, his head coming up in surprised horror. "What?"
"There is no need to roar, Amaury. I am standing right here."
His eyes narrowed. "You are jesting," he accused grimly.
Blake shrugged. "Disbelieve if you will."
"Aye." Amaury nodded. "I disbelieve you," he muttered, turning his attention back to straightening his tunic. "Where is she?"
"Down in the kitchen, no doubt, talking to the cook. Or off in a corner sewing. Is that not how most women spend their time?"
"How the devil would I know?" Amaury muttered, peering about for his sword. "Where is my squire?"
"Most likely with your wife. Alden has rarely left her side since your injury. 'Tis building his confidence, I might add. He does not stutter, stumble, or trip about around her."
/>
Amaury merely shrugged at this news about his clumsy squire, and got quickly to his feet, cursing when the room wobbled around him.
"Steady on, friend." Blake caught his arm. "Mayhap you should stay abed. You've grown suddenly pale."
" 'Tis just that I stood too quickly." Amaury swallowed the bile at the back of his throat, then turned to move slowly and cautiously toward the door.
"Emma truly will not be pleased at this, Amaury. She will fret."
"She is my wife. 'Tis her duty to fret for me."
"Oh, aye." Blake didn't bother to hide his amusement as he hurried forward to open the door for him, then followed him down the hall to the stairs leading to the Great Hall.
Amaury managed the stairs on his own, though he was as pale as death with a fine sheen of sweat on his brow by the time he reached the last step.
"My lord husband!" Emma paused in the doorway of the castle, consternation on her face as she spotted him at the foot of the stairs. Handing Alden the basket of willow bark they had been out collecting, she left him standing at the door with Maude and hurried to Amaury's side. "You should not be up, my lord. 'Tis too soon."
"I told you she would fret," Blake muttered before she reached them. "Good day, my lady. You look positively blooming with the kiss of the sun on your cheeks."
Emma hardly heard the compliment, her attention focused on her husband, who was busy scowling at his friend. "Please sit down, my lord. You look frightfully pale."
Amaury stopped scowling at his friend to say accusingly, "You left the bed."
Emma sighed at his expression. "Aye, my lord. I could not sleep, so I thought to--"
" 'Tis not your place to think, wife," he snapped irritably. " 'Tis your place to do as you are told."
Emma went quite stiff at that announcement. Blake was rolling his eyes and wondering how to save the situation when the little serving woman, Maude, rushed forward to save the day.
" 'Ere, my lady, if you would take this a moment? I'll fetch his lordship a chair so he might rest." She thrust the basket into her mistress's hand, giving her little choice but to unclench her fists to take it, then ran to the corner of the room, returning a moment later with the heavy chair that generally sat before the fire. " 'Ere you are, my lordship. Rest 'ere a heartbeat or two."
Amaury looked about to argue, then gave in to the demands of his body and dropped onto the chair with a sigh.
"I told him he should not be about," Blake announced, trying to distract his friend's wife.
Not aware of what he was up to, Amaury glared at him for his tattling.
"But he would not listen," Blake added. "I fear he may be getting bedsores from his time abed."
Amaury's jaw dropped at the rude lie. Then he flushed slightly when his wife's gaze immediately went to his derriere, now resting in the chair. " 'Tis not true," he began, but paused, coloring furiously when Blake leaned closer to his wife to murmur.
"A delicate subject to a man, my lady. Makes them cranky too. Especially so when his head is no doubt paining him as well. Leave him in my care and I'll see him safely to the table. I am sure you had something you wished to do with the contents of that basket?"
"Oh, aye," Emma gasped, worrying about her husband anew. "The tea. I shall have some ready in just a moment, husband." She hurried off toward the kitchen, Alden and Maude rushing behind.
"Bedsores?"
Blake turned his attention away from watching Emma's voluptuous little behind sway across the hall to glance at his friend. "You may thank me later."
"Thank ye!" Amaury choked on his own anger, and Blake gave his back a sturdy slap before nodding.
"Aye. Since you seem to be sorely lacking in knowledge of this sort, my friend, allow me to inform you that you never tell a woman 'tis not her place to think."
"Well, 'tisn't. 'Tis my . . ." He paused as Blake rolled his eyes and began to shake his head.
"You know that, and I know that, but a smart man never lets his wife know that," Blake told him.
Amaury frowned. "Why?"
" 'Tis their feelings."
"Their feelings?"
"Aye, it hurts them. Women are tender creatures."
"Oh." Amaury scratched his head. " 'Tis the truth I don't understand her. When I ordered her to bed this morning, she asked me if I wished to 'talk'."
Blake shrugged. "Some women like to talk before--"
"Nay. My head was pounding too loud to bother with that. I wanted her to rest, but when she saw I was not asleep, she asked if I might wish to talk to her. I ask you, what would I talk to a woman about?"
Blake considered that briefly, then shrugged. "I usually give them compliments. That generally works."
"I did, but she was not much impressed," he confessed with disgruntlement.
"Perhaps they were not the right compliments. What did you say?"
"I told her she was pretty."
Blake waited a moment, but when Amaury simply peered at him, he sighed. "You cannot just tell a woman she is pretty."
"You cannot? Why?"
"Women like flowery words when you give them a compliment."
"Flowery words," Amaury muttered, scratching his head again.
"Aye. Say things like . . . your hair is the color of spun gold, your lips as sweet as a rose, your eyes like those of a deer's. But say them in your own words."
Amaury wrinkled his nose in distaste and grunted over that, then glanced away from his friend to see his wife crossing the room toward them.
"Here you are, husband. This should help your head."
Amaury stared at the mug she was pressing toward him, and nearly groaned aloud. By God's sweet knees! He swore that rot tasted like horse piss. It was bad enough to have to take it when his head did hurt, but he was blessedly free of pain just now and she was still pressing the rot on him. Thanks to Blake, he thought, throwing his friend a nasty look.
"I will see that he drinks it," Blake assured Emma suavely, taking the mug. "I am sure you have much more pressing matters?"
"Thank you, my Lord. I did wish to fetch some salve for his Lordship's . . . er . . . complaint." She whispered the last word, then hurried away.
Blake stared after her in befuddlement. "I wonder what she meant by--"
"My blasted non ex is tent bedsores," Amaury reminded him grimly.
"Oh, aye." Blake smiled slightly as he dumped the mug of tea into the fireplace. "I wonder what she'll think when she sees that there are none."
"What do you mean sees that there are none?"
"Well, I presume she means to apply the salve since she's gone to fetch it."
"Right here?" Amaury stared aghast at the thought, imagining her coming back and ordering him to disrobe right there in the middle of the busy Great Hall. He wouldn't put it past her. She had shown a distressing tendency to order him about now that she thought he was not well. He had thought he had taken care of that by enforcing his order for her to retire earlier, but the fact that she had snuck off as soon as he slept had corrected him on that issue. He would definitely have to put a stop to that tendency of hers.
"When she comes back with the salve, I will delay her until after dinner; then you can offer to help me apply it," he decided firmly.
"Me?"
"Aye, you," Amaury said dryly. "You would not wish her to know that you had lied, would you? It might hurt her tender feelings."
"Your hair is the color of gold, your lips as . . . er . . . red as a rose, and your eyes like a deer's." Amaury recited the words quickly as they sat at the table for dinner, then nodded his satisfaction as he awaited his wife's response.
Lady Emma stilled in the midst of raising her tankard to her mouth, gave her head a slight shake, then continued eating.
Amaury frowned. "Wife, I said your hair is the color of--"
"Gold. Aye, I know, husband. Lord Blake told me that earlier."
Slamming his ale back on the table, Amaury turned to his friend and glared.
"I told you to
use your own words," Blake said at once, having heard the exchange. "Those were just examples."
Muttering under his breath, Amaury turned back to his meal and began stabbing at food with his dirk.
"Is aught wrong, husband?" Emma asked, a hint of laughter marring her concern. "Is your head paining you? Shall I make more--"
"Nay!" Amaury reigned his temper in and sighed. "Thank you, but nay, I need no more tea." He shuddered just to think of it, then sighed and sat back slightly, having lost his appetite. He was also beginning to grow a bit tired after his short excursion. It probably had something to do with all the arguing and fretting he had done since coming below stairs. It had been quite a battle to get his little wife to leave off applying the salve until bedtime. She could be a stubborn little cuss when it came to his health. He wasn't sure whether he should be pleased by that or not. Perhaps he would be if Blake hadn't explained that she was probably worried so about him because she feared having to marry Bertrand if Amaury himself died on her. It wasn't much of a compliment to be preferred over Bertrand.
"I fear I grow weary from all this excitement. Mayhap I shall just retire to bed and have a sleep," he announced with an expectant glance at his friend.
Nodding, Blake continued to eat. It was Emma who stood up at once to offer her assistance. "Of course. I shall see you up and apply the salve."
Amaury glared at Blake at that, but when his friend merely continued to eat, he waved her back to the table. "Nay, wife. I can manage on my own."
"You cannot put the salve on on your own, husband," Emma argued sensibly.
"Blake will see to it," Amaury announced, elbowing him as he spoke.
"Oh, aye." Wiping his blade off, Blake stuck his own dirk back in its sheath and rose quickly, offering her a smile. "I shall look after him, my lady. You must eat to keep up your strength."
"But you have not finished your meal," she protested.
"Nay, but then I have stuffed myself well these past several days, while you have touched next to nothing as you fretted over your poor fallen husband," he pointed out.
Amaury frowned at his wife with displeasure on hearing this. "You have not been eating?"
Emma closed her mouth on the protest she had been about to give Lord Blake, and glared at him instead before turning to her husband. "Aye, my lord, I have." When he frowned even harder at the obvious lie, she added with a reluctant sigh, "Just not overly much. Worry upsets my appetite."