Justus looked at the child with disinterest. “Tell him to go away,” he said grumpily, then quickly reconsidered. “Who is it, lad?”
“I do not know, my lord,” the child replied. “Should I ask his name?”
Justus nodded, defeat and frustration in his manner. Then, he shook his head and stood up, lumbering over to the doorway. He opened his mouth to say something to Mathias and Sebastian but thought better of it. They wouldn’t listen to him, anyway. He put his hand on Stewart’s stiff red hair and turned the child around as they headed out of the room.
“You would not disobey me, would you?” he asked the boy.
The child was deadly seriously. “Nay, my lord.”
Justus grunted, throwing one last thought out before he left the room completely. “At least someone listens to me,” he said, trying to make his sons feel guilty. “Let it be the servant boy, then.”
With that, he was gone. Mathias was in the process of affixing a standard to the second of the three poles as Sebastian continued to work with the third pole, the crow’s foot. Sebastian glanced at his brother as he worked, their father’s mood and words hanging heavy in the air between them.
“Tate’s entry is a surprise,” he said. “It is going to make this event a bit trickier.”
Mathias was focused on his work. “I have not seen him since January last year.”
“He knows we are here, in Brampton.”
“Of course he does. He has been charged by Edward to keep watch over us to make sure we do not do anything foolish. We stay in Brampton so he can keep a watchful eye on three dishonored knights.”
Sebastian looked at him. “If that is true, do you think you should reconsider competing today?” he asked. “If de Lara is not fooled by your disguise, Father’s predictions might come true– he may have us all arrested.”
Mathias shook his head. “I cannot imagine the man would arrest us all,” he said. “In fact, I do believe he will appreciate the level of competition if I am his opponent.”
Sebastian sighed, setting down the pole. “We did not discuss the mêlée,” he said quietly. “If you compete in that, then you will indeed be taking up arms again.”
Mathias looked at his brother. “I will be taking up arms in the spirit of sport, not for battle,” he said patiently. “There is a difference.”
Sebastian wasn’t so sure but he didn’t argue with him. Mathias was always the level-headed one, the brother with the most common sense and good judgment. Sebastian would have to assume he was right even if he disagreed with him. As he went back to work on Mathias’ host of tournament instruments, Justus reappeared in the room.
“Mathias,” the old man gasped, his face taut with panic. “De Lara is here. He has asked for you.”
Mathias didn’t react for a moment. He simply stared at his father as if not quite comprehending the words. But quickly enough, he realized what the man said and immediately began unstrapping the plate armor around his shoulders.
“Sebastian,” he hissed. “Help me get this off. Quickly, now.”
Fortunately, Justus had enough sense to close the door of the chamber, the one that opened into a storeroom, and then beyond the storeroom was the larger common room with a straw-strewn and uneven floor where the Earl of Carlisle awaited. Justus rushed to help Sebastian remove Mathias’ armor and in little time, the armor was off and the mail was in a big pile on the ground.
Mathias was clad in leather breeches and a stained, worn linen tunic, which was common enough for him on a daily basis. Without another word, he pushed past his brother and father and out into the storeroom where they kept various implements related to their business. As Mathias passed through, he grabbed a leather apron, almost too well worn to be of any true use, and secured it around his waist. By the time he hit the big common room that smelled of horses and hay, he was fully dressed as a smithy. He spied de Lara immediately.
“My lord,” he greeted calmly.
Tate de Lara, Earl of Carlisle and Lord Protector of Northern England, had been inspecting a half-finished sword tucked into a protective cage near the bellows. Upon hearing Mathias’ voice, he swung around to face him.
Tate was a very big man, muscular and tall, and had a face of classic male beauty with a granite jaw and full lips. His hair was dark like a raven’s wing, shorn up the back yet long enough in the front so that it swept across eyes the color of stormclouds. When he spied Mathias, those stormy eyes lightened considerably.
“Mat,” he said, moving towards him with a hand outstretched. “You have not changed since the last I saw you. You are as big and ugly as ever.”
Mathias cracked a grin. He was slightly taller than Tate, with broader shoulders, but the two of them could have easily been brothers with their dark hair and masculine features. Seeing Tate for the first time since he had been stripped of his knighthood was something of a shock, Mathias soon realized. He hadn’t thought about how much he had missed the man until this moment. He missed him greatly.
“If I insult you in return, it might mean trouble for me,” he said, his eyes glimmering. “But I will say that I am very happy to see you, my lord. It has been a long time.”
Tate just stood there, holding his hand and smiling at him as he reacquainted himself with the man’s face, when a knight of enormous proportions entered the stall. Mathias looked over to see Kenneth St. Héver enter the chamber.
Very blond, with ice-blue eyes and a square, determined jaw, he may have been slightly shorter than Tate or Mathias but he was purely hard, bulky muscle with enormous hands. No man survived long in a fight against St. Héver simply because he was so bloody strong. He was a knight’s knight, a warrior all men aspire to be but seldom are. He also happened to be one of Mathias’ closest friends. Kenneth took one look at Mathias and headed straight for him.
Even Tate was surprised by the amount of emotion from the usually emotionless St. Héver as the man threw his arms around Mathias and nearly squeezed him to death. Mathias actually grunted as he squeezed Kenneth in return, but as quickly as the two came together, they also separated. St. Héver was embarrassed by his emotional display.
