Angie Arms - Flames series 04 (23 page)

Roland sighed.  He needed to leave.  He would tell Richard tomorrow he had to go, return to England.  He couldn’t stay here.  Not with Emma.  He recognized the dangerous ground he was on.  He loved Lillian
, so he knew what it felt like to hold someone he loved in his arms.  He also knew how it felt to have them pulled from them, and he was not strong enough to survive such a thing again.  But he would take with him the feel of her.  He memorized the feel of her pressing alongside him.  He never put much thought into Lillian, when he held her like this, and now he couldn’t remember what she felt like when he held her, as he was holding Emma. 

Sometime, later in the night
, Roland jerked awake, the nightmare so real he felt sweat upon his brow.  They came for Emma.  He knew it was only another nightmare, because she was still cuddled against him, clinging to him.  This time the King took her, and left him behind.  He did not know where to find her, and he was frantic.  He would be letting her go soon.  For a brief moment, panic began to rise. 

He shifted, turning until he was kissing her
, and she awoke and welcomed his touch.  He reveled in the softness of her body, memorized the feel of her.  So he wouldn’t forget.

Chapter 13

Grace spun around, the vine she tied to her wrist danced behind her, twirling around her feet.  As she spun harder, she arched the vines, and they danced in the air in time with the music.  She loved the role of the enchanted forest maiden.  The dance she could just close her eyes and move to.  She spent hours with the musicians perfecting it, and it was always one of the audience’s favorites.  This time was no different, as they applauded her more difficult moves.  This was her favorite, her alone, every eye on her, she even had the eye of the King, and he applauded her.

Cat
ching the eye of Warner however, was devastating.  She knew the instant she laid eyes on him, he was dangerous.

When the King gave her what the troupe needed most for just one night with Warner, she could not pass up the offer.  It was terrifying, but necessary to provide a roof over their leader’s head.  The old man was growing frail
, and everyone feared he would die if they could not afford to find him a warm place to rest for an extended period.  So she faced her fear, and returned the next day to give the troupe her money, and bid them farewell. 

Grace discovered, while talking with Warner, the terror she felt facing a night with him, was nothing compared to what she was yet to face.  She had no intention of going with the man, until he mentioned Damien and Cyrille LeForte.  Grace grew up with the two boys when they fostered with
Lord DeMerle,
and she fell in love with Cyrille the first time she ever laid eyes on him.  It’s not that she would ever have a chance of the future knight loving her, the third daughter of the village blacksmith, she had nothing to offer, but in her naïve child mind she was unaware.  She apparently still had a great deal of that naivety in her, since she readily agreed to accompany Warner in the hopes he would take her back to Cyrille.  Plus, she felt she should do what she could to warn his brother what Warner intended. 

Warner was a gentleman so far, but she lived in terror that he would stop being so.  He asked the three musicians to accompany the two of them, and play for Grace.  The new troupe, comprising only of the musicians and Grace, was not nearly as big of a success as the larger troupe, but Warner did not seem to mind.  He told her often he liked to watch her dance, and he liked to watch other people watch her dance.  He only asked her to dance the once just for him, but he still frightened her.  He, however, made a steady trek toward the LeForte brothers, so she saw herself having no choice but to continue with him.  Until he left her here this morning, with the arrangement to perform the next two nights for the keep’s lord and lady, and he would return by the third night for her.  She learned they were a day’s ride from Kinsey, the Bastard’s keep near the village of Fenton.  But Scotts Manor was farther still.  She did not think Warner would have time to get to Damien and back within the three day period. 

Her eyes scanned the crowd, and she realized the plays no longer held the rapture for her as they did when she had the entire group.  None of the faces sent a thrill up her spine as they watched her, until she neared the shadows on the far end of the hall.  He stood alone, far back in the corner, the shadows so deep she had to make two more turns about the room before she got enough of a look at him. 

He was tall, his chest broad
, but it was the hood that peeked her interest.  What would be wrong with a man he had to hide behind a hood?  Cyrille?  Was Warner’s story true?

She tried to catch his eye, because only the one showed through the hole in the fabric.  But it was too dark for her to see if he watched her.  She couldn’t help the small smile that creased her lips as she twirled again
, and she saw the hood move slightly in her direction.  He watched.  Her heart nearly burst with two thoughts.  The first was if it was Cyrille he must be horribly scarred, and the pain it caused made her want to cry for him.  The other thought was, he was watching her, and she poured her heart into the dance.  After another turn about the hall she moved back toward the corner, and disappointment made her miss a step.  The man was gone.

“Sir?” Grace asked, to get the man’s attention who prepared his horse for travel.  She felt a keen disappointment when she was unable to find The-man-in-the-hood, or find anyone who knew anything about him after the play ended the night before.  Then she saw him at the performance in the village square, and she danced like she never danced before, putting her heart and soul into it in the hopes he would notice.  By the end he was gone, and she was left with her disappointment again.  But she ran to the stable as soon as the play ended, because she at least found his horse.

She watched the man’s back stiffen
, and he turned slowly.  He was much larger standing in the stable with her alone, than he appeared standing behind the crowds.  The feeling washed over her she was playing a very dangerous game.  A man such as he and Warner could kill her, leave her body behind, and no one would ever question the death of a lowly troubadour.  She felt a shiver race up her spine.  What were the chances this was Cyrille, if what Warner told her was even true?

“I saw you at both plays.  Which did you like best?”  Slowly he moved away from his horse.  A tall slick, black animal who appeared breed for travel and not fighting
, but she saw this man was a fighter, by the sword strapped to his side.  He was also a man of wealth, judging by the fine fabric of his clothes.  She detected a limp to his right leg.

He stood in the middle of the stable aisle, the scent of hay, manure and horse permeated the air
, but she found it comforting.  He stood straight, rigid even, his feet planted slightly apart, his hand, she noted, was close to his sword.  With the hood covering his face, concealing any of his thoughts, she was sure no man in all Christendom could be more intimidating.

“You could play an elf well,” he said
, in a raspy voice.

She cocked her head to the side and frowned
, as she studied him.  “You did not like the others?” she asked, taking two steps closer.

By his posture she could tell he did not like her questions, or perhaps it was just her.  She found a little anger forming inside herself that this man, with his hood and limp
, should lay judgment at her feet.  “They were fine.”  She studied him and by the tone of his voice, despite being hidden by the raspiness of it, she felt he was nervous.

“But I would make a better elf?” she asked
, moving closer still, so she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. 

He stared down at her
, but remained still.  He was so tall and big, it did not escape her notice he could probably crush her with one blow from his big fists.  Her eyes went to his hands.  His shirt sleeve was long, coming down over the back of his hands, but she saw scars.  He was hiding scars beneath his hood. 

“I have several other plays I
perform.  But the two you saw are the newest and most popular, at the moment.”

The man remained unmoving, looking down at her, seemingly impassive
, but it was not disinterest she detected.  Anything that kept him so straight and on guard, had nothing to do with her.

“What is your name?” she asked with a smile, as if he did not stand before her, unbending, unwelcoming.

“Why?” he asked.

Grace
shrugged.  “I just wish to know your name is all?  Is there something wrong with that?”

“Sir Cyrille LeForte.”

The stable spun wildly in her peripheral vision. 

For a moment Grace forgot she was not a child standing in front of Cyrille for the first time. 
Being a precocious child, Grace often found herself in places she was not supposed to be.  As she was the day the young pages found her, and began teasing her about her freckles.  She was close to crying when Cyrille came to her rescue, telling them to leave her alone, or next time he would teach them a lesson.  She couldn’t have been more than six, but she ran to the chapel, and kneeling before the altar, she vowed to God she would love him throughout all eternity, and no other.  Now he was standing in front of her again.

As youths, t
heir paths didn’t cross again for a long time, but Grace never forgot the dashing young page who stood up for her.  One day, she heard all the pages and squires were free of their duties for a day, and were having a joust in the field next to the village.  She watched Cyrille like a hawk throughout his mock battles.  When the day drew to an end, she rushed to his side with ale, so he would quench his thirst.  All the other boys began to tease him about it, and he turned down the offer, though the sweat dripped from him. But she understood, he was a warrior who could not go about being teased.  She was sure when they were all older, beyond the teasing age, he would come around.

More time passed
, and he went to war.  Grace cried and fell into a deep depression, worried their love would never come to fruition, and fearing more, he would be injured and have no one to help him.  Or he would die, and never know how much he was truly loved.  When the army returned, she rushed out, taking him a plate of food.  Surely the man would be famished after his travels. 

She
waited for the men to dismount among the throng of people who gathered.  When she finally went to him, she called his name and offered him the tray of food.  He spared a glance for her, but another female voice called his name and he turned away, embracing her, kissing her.  Grace became furious, because he shattered her dreams in that one action.  She yelled at him, flinging the food at his back, and ran away.  That was the last time she saw Cyrille.  Her father and mother did not get along, and the next morning her father sent them away, to live with her mother’s sister.  Far to the south, was all Grace knew of her aunt’s whereabouts.  She wished she knew more, because her mother died along the way.  Left alone in the world, Angus and his wife took her in and she travelled with them, watching their troupe grow, as she did, until it became an impressive performance.  Angus wanted to see the world, but he loved his homeland, and in the end settled for seeing it.  They were not made up of nobility, but the dregs of society, with a thief or two among them, along with a whore or two married to them.  It was an odd family, but they became her family.

“I remember you,” she finally said
, finding her tongue. 

Cyrille appeared to grow even more in height
, as he took a deep breath. 

“
My father was the blacksmith.”

She watched the hood as he inhaled s
harply.  “The ale girl?”

Grace scowle
d, that was not the way she hoped he remembered her after all these years.  In her mind, he pined for her, at least was remorseful he ignored her and her gift.

“What happened to you?”

“My father sent us away,” she stated, and suddenly she had the urge to be far away from this man, so he could not reject her again.

“Why?”

Grace shrugged.

“Grace.”  Her name came from his lips
, but not in the rasp he was speaking.  It was more a whisper, soft.  She felt her body respond as she lost the urge to flee.  How silly that remembering her name was enough to ease her mind.

She nodded her head. 

“I went to look for you the next day.”  Still his voice was a whisper, low and enchanting.  “I couldn’t find you.”

“You have now.”

“I wanted to apologize, but even then I did not realize how cruel my actions were when I returned.  You were always kind to me.  I always wondered why.  When you were gone, I couldn’t help but think how fleeting life was.  How quickly people could be gone, before we even knew them.”

Grace dropped her gaze to the floor
, so he did not see the tears she tried to fight.  Wasn’t that what she wanted, to have some kind of effect on him? 

“Do you remember when you were a page and you found the other boys teasing a little girl about her freckles?”  She looked up to see Cyrille’s nod.  “I was that little girl
, and you were my knight in shining armor.”

“You thought that you loved me?”  His voice sounded astonished
, and she felt ten times the fool.

“I made a vow before God.”  She wasn’t about to tell him she did not think, she knew she loved him to her very core at such a tender age.  Even now, that love she held locked inside her for so long
, was fighting to get out. 

“I guess you are glad now you do not love a man such as me.”

Grace stared at him.  Why would he think such a thing?  She shook her head and she felt a tear escape.  He stood there a moment, her looking up at him, before slowly he reached a hand out, and lightly brushed the tear from her cheek.

“I’m sorry I am not the man you thought I would be.”  He turned away to move back to his horse.

“Wait!” her voice was sharp.  He turned to face her again, and she felt uncertainty.  Many years had passed, she was no longer that same little girl who wanted to forever walk in God’s light.  How could she possibly think Cyrille would be that same chivalrous boy?

“I made a vow before God I would always love you and no othe
r,” she said in a rush.  She never told him that she loved him, and they went their separate ways.  Perhaps this was her opportunity to right that mistake.  “I have never loved another.”