“Nay,” St. Alban shook his head slowly. “There was still a part of me that did not trust the man. He is, after all, de Neville’s knight.”
Brogan’s guard slipped just a little more. He sighed heavily and dropped his head, raking his fingers through his dark gold curls. After several painful moments, his head came up again. The dark blue eyes were dull with pain, sorrow.
“What do I do?” he murmured. “Tell me what to do.”
St. Alban felt the pangs of grief from the man. Brogan had known so much heartache that the latest turn of events were as unexpected as they were unfair. He hated being so blunt with him, but it was necessary.
“Stay out of sight,” he advised him in a low voice. “Let me return to the Tower and see if I can find out what has happened. But you must stay well hidden. If de Neville’s men catch you, your life is forfeit. Do you understand me?”
Brogan nodded, dully. The deep blue eyes were dim with sorrow. “Why…wenn alle gut ist…”
“In a language I can understand, please.”
“I said, why, when all is well…,” Brogan shook his head, staring at the floor. “Why is God so determined to see memiserable? What have I ever done to deserve such special punishment?”
St. Alban put a meaty hand on the man’s shoulder. “You aim too high,” he hissed. “She is not meant for mortal man. You may as well have wished for the moon and stars as to set your sights on Avalyn du Brant.”
“But she loves me, too. She wants to marry me. What we feel, we feel together.”
St. Alban pursed his lips, knowing it was futile to argue with the man. There was no dissuading such strong emotion. “Be that as it may, it has gotten both of you into trouble.” He stood up, unsteadily, feeling his fatigue. But he felt useful, something he’d not felt in years. He had a mission, as dangerous as any he had ever faced in his youth, and he was eager to accomplish the task. “As for me, I will return to the Tower and see what I can discover. Perhaps I can contact Inglesbatch and he will be able to tell me something.”
Brogan stood up beside him, his expression full of angst and trepidation. “You will send word when you know something?”
The old man nodded, moving for the door. “When I know, I will send word to you.” He suddenly paused with his hand on the iron latch. “Do not leave this shop, Brogan. I implore you. Be patient and I will send word.”
Brogan’s jaw flexed. Though he knew the old man was correct, still, his instinct was to go charging into the Beauchamp Tower in search of Avalyn. It was near impossible for him to remain inactive.
“I will wait for news,” he finally agreed.
With a lingering glance, St. Alban quit the bread shop and disappeared into the night. Brogan stood there, watching him fade into the darkness, feeling more desolation than he had ever imagined possible. Somewhere, a night bird sang and he glanced into the dark sky, wondering if it was a bad omen. The doorclosed softly and he locked it. There was nothing left to do now but wait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The fat orangecat meowed loudly as its weary master came lumbering into the cold chamber. It was barely dawn as St. Alban closed the door behind him and went to the kindling box for a few sticks of wood. Tossing off his cloak, he went to the old fireplace and pushed the iron pot and arm out of the way so that he could start a blaze. The flint in his cold fingers sparked once, twice, before finally catching hold. In little time, there was a small warm glow in the soot-covered hearth and the old man continued to kneel before the fire, warming his hands and plotting his next move. The entire walk back to the Tower from the bread shop, he’d though of nothing else. When the cat rubbed against him demandingly, he scratched the fuzzy ears with affection.
“Well, my fat little friend,” he said to the animal. “Now he’s gone and done it. It seems our friend has a dilemma on his hands.”
“What dilemma is that?”
The voice came from the dimness. Startled, St. Alban held himself in check admirably as he turned to the source. Old knight reflexes had him remain cool even in the face of a threat. Inglesbatch sat in the shadows, in the chair so often used by Brogan. His round blue eyes were shadowed and his cheeks were unkempt with stubble. The man looked like he’d seen an active night.
“My lord,” St. Alban said steadily. “I did not see you when I came in.”
“I know,” William replied. “I meant that you should not.”
The old man stood up and brushed the soot off his hands. With effort, he moved to the nearest chair and lowered his bulk. When he faced Inglesbatch, it was with an expression that suggested he expected the worst. He braced himself.
“To what do I own the honor of your visit, my lord?” he said with more hospitality than he felt.
William shifted in the chair. “I come bearing a message for d’Aurilliac. I assume that you have seen him.” St. Alban hesitated to answer and William put up a calming hand. “Have no fear; I’m not here to cause trouble. I simply come with a message from my lady. I would prefer to deliver it to d’Aurilliac in person.”
St. Alban wasn’t sure if he should trust him or not. “Is she well?”
“Well enough,” William replied. “Considering she spent half the night being interrogated by her uncle and her intended’s captain. It was not pleasant.”
St. Alban tensed. “They did not injure her, did they?”
William paused just long enough to make St. Alban think that he was not telling the entire truth. “Nay,” William said. “But she is understandably exhausted and frightened. Which is why she sent me with a message for d’Aurilliac.”
