pointed out. “You should take your proper place at the table.”
Mary’s throat closed tight. She could only stare at the chair, the chair that had previously been used by but one woman. A woman whose hard, black eyes she could see even now, staring at her in disapproval.
Lord Paul’s voice eased into the tension. “Erik, your mother has been the only person to use that chair for over twenty years,” he commented quietly. “Just as your own chair has been left empty since the day you departed, so has your mother’s chair remained vacant. Mary has only ever sat at her own place.” He nudged his head toward the low, simple chair.
Erik’s eyes went between the large, carven throne and the humbler spot, and there was a softening of the tension at his shoulders. He gave a quiet nod, then guided Mary to her own chair, taking the seat beside her. Paul sat at her other side, and in a moment the servants were moving around them, pouring out the wine, delivering the food.
Lord Paul kept up a running conversation throughout dinner, talking of the elusive nature of the wolf’s heads, how they had once again managed to escape the patrol, the status of the various villages in the area, and Mary was grateful for it. She could feel Erik’s presence at her side as a glowing fire, drawing her to him, but she could not bring herself to turn or speak. Everything had changed so quickly, and the danger of it, the potential to be burned, sounded strongly in her head.
The plates were cleared, mead was brought, and Lord Paul looked over toward the fireplace. “Maybe we should relocate?”
Mary gave a nod, standing. Lord Paul moved over to the chair he always took, a dark leather one with a low table alongside it. Mary eased down to sit at his feet, carefully tucking her injured leg beneath her. It was all so familiar. How many nights had she sat here like this, with Lady Cartwright on the low couch opposite, listening to Lord Paul share his tales as the wind whistled outside?
Erik stood to the side, his gaze on the empty stone above the fireplace, lost in thought.
Lord Paul looked between them for a moment before drawing his gaze up to Erik. “Tell us of your times in the Holy Land.”
Erik gave himself a shake, turning. “You yourself served in the Crusades when you were young. You warned me it would be brutish, nothing like the stories told in bards’ songs. I laughed at the time, but now I see the truth of it.”
Lord Paul nodded. “And yet, even in the darkest night, there is often a glimmer of light.”
Erik ran a hand through his hair. “Sometimes the black is absolute.”
Mary leant forward. “But surely, for example, when you rescued those three nuns from –”
Erik stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues, cutting her off. “How could you know about that?”
Mary flushed, but there was no way to un-say what had been blurted out. “Your commander wrote us,” she admitted.
Erik looked between them in baffled confusion. “What, Commander Bavent? He wrote you?”
She held his gaze. “Yes. Your mother had an arrangement with him. Every month she wrote him with a status of his daughter, who was lodged at the St. Francis convent a short distance to the north. And every month he wrote back, sharing details of your activities.”
Erik took a moment to absorb the news. “I knew of the letters,” he stated at last, “but I never had any idea that I was their subject, or that the incoming ones were from my mother.”
Mary gave a wry smile. “She did not want you to know of it,” she agreed. “But she lived for them.” She glanced at Lord Paul. “The moment one arrived, she would send for Lord Paul, and we would gather right here. He would read it to us, over and over again, until we had memorized every word. And then it became almost a prayer for us, one we could recall at will, for the long month before the next one arrived.”
Erik looked across to the empty table, to the throne that sat
Mary’s throat closed tight. She could only stare at the chair, the chair that had previously been used by but one woman. A woman whose hard, black eyes she could see even now, staring at her in disapproval.
Lord Paul’s voice eased into the tension. “Erik, your mother has been the only person to use that chair for over twenty years,” he commented quietly. “Just as your own chair has been left empty since the day you departed, so has your mother’s chair remained vacant. Mary has only ever sat at her own place.” He nudged his head toward the low, simple chair.
Erik’s eyes went between the large, carven throne and the humbler spot, and there was a softening of the tension at his shoulders. He gave a quiet nod, then guided Mary to her own chair, taking the seat beside her. Paul sat at her other side, and in a moment the servants were moving around them, pouring out the wine, delivering the food.
Lord Paul kept up a running conversation throughout dinner, talking of the elusive nature of the wolf’s heads, how they had once again managed to escape the patrol, the status of the various villages in the area, and Mary was grateful for it. She could feel Erik’s presence at her side as a glowing fire, drawing her to him, but she could not bring herself to turn or speak. Everything had changed so quickly, and the danger of it, the potential to be burned, sounded strongly in her head.
The plates were cleared, mead was brought, and Lord Paul looked over toward the fireplace. “Maybe we should relocate?”
Mary gave a nod, standing. Lord Paul moved over to the chair he always took, a dark leather one with a low table alongside it. Mary eased down to sit at his feet, carefully tucking her injured leg beneath her. It was all so familiar. How many nights had she sat here like this, with Lady Cartwright on the low couch opposite, listening to Lord Paul share his tales as the wind whistled outside?
Erik stood to the side, his gaze on the empty stone above the fireplace, lost in thought.
Lord Paul looked between them for a moment before drawing his gaze up to Erik. “Tell us of your times in the Holy Land.”
Erik gave himself a shake, turning. “You yourself served in the Crusades when you were young. You warned me it would be brutish, nothing like the stories told in bards’ songs. I laughed at the time, but now I see the truth of it.”
Lord Paul nodded. “And yet, even in the darkest night, there is often a glimmer of light.”
Erik ran a hand through his hair. “Sometimes the black is absolute.”
Mary leant forward. “But surely, for example, when you rescued those three nuns from –”
Erik stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues, cutting her off. “How could you know about that?”
Mary flushed, but there was no way to un-say what had been blurted out. “Your commander wrote us,” she admitted.
Erik looked between them in baffled confusion. “What, Commander Bavent? He wrote you?”
She held his gaze. “Yes. Your mother had an arrangement with him. Every month she wrote him with a status of his daughter, who was lodged at the St. Francis convent a short distance to the north. And every month he wrote back, sharing details of your activities.”
Erik took a moment to absorb the news. “I knew of the letters,” he stated at last, “but I never had any idea that I was their subject, or that the incoming ones were from my mother.”
Mary gave a wry smile. “She did not want you to know of it,” she agreed. “But she lived for them.” She glanced at Lord Paul. “The moment one arrived, she would send for Lord Paul, and we would gather right here. He would read it to us, over and over again, until we had memorized every word. And then it became almost a prayer for us, one we could recall at will, for the long month before the next one arrived.”
Erik looked across to the empty table, to the throne that sat
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