Page 10 of The Knight's Pledge
Lucan felt his eyes widen. So that’s where he recognized Gorman’s gaze. “Rolf is your father? Why didn’t he tell me?”
Gorman turned back to look at Lucan, a nonplussed expression on his face, but it was Effie Annesley who replied.
“Poor, naïve Sir Lucan,” she sneered. “Believe me, that’s the very least of what you don’t know.”
Chapter 3
They indeed set out within the hour, the morning sun turning to steam the icy crust that had encased the light blanket of snow overnight. The bright yellow rays burst through the tree trunks like silent weapons, causing squinting eyes, shielding forearms, ducking faces. Breath rose over the small party like a cloud of heavenly witnesses, but they, too, were silent as horses and riders, and, at the very rear, the narrow corpse wagon with the dignified Agrios tethered to the board, rolled and rocked up the hill toward the more defined road at least a mile away from the Warren.
Lucan Montague had already been fast asleep when Effie returned to the chamber to help bring him out of the Warren and load him into the cart. He’d been dazed and startled upon his awakening, disoriented to the point that he’d forgotten to scowl and snap at her, and Effie had noticed the fatigue around his eyes. Eyes that had aged a great deal since either she or Lucan had been the noble children of Northumberland. Lines had crept from the corners of both their eyes, like roots crawling across the surface of rocky ground seeking vain purchase, creases bracketed their mouths as if the years of smiles, frowns—tears, perhaps—were nothing more than asides to the lives they’d led. He was older and ill, and confused as to why the party of strangers was moving him so quickly through a dank cave and into the bed of a rough cart in the shatteringlight of dawn.
She glanced over her shoulder yet again at the cart as they crested the top of a hill. He was weak now, and she wasthe strong one.
Effie shook herself and faced forward as they began the descent down the other side of the peak, putting him from her mind and warning herself not to let Lucan Montague’s enfeebled state soften herdisgust of him.
“Alright?” Gorman asked at her side.
Effie nodded. She wasn’t alright, and Gorman knew it. But she was going on. They all were, because they must. Wasn’t that what each one of the band hadlearned to do?
Only a small party of the family were making the long journey to London. Effie and Gorman; Rolf, to give his lordship someone familiar to journey with; Winnie, to care for the invalid. Also Gilboe, whose friar’s robes almost always proved useful on a prolonged expedition. And—
A racket from the rear caused Effie and Gorman to slow their mounts and look behind them again. The procession was stopped, and a lanky figure was tethering another horse to the board of the corpse wagon and then climbing inside the bed with the unawares knight.
Chumley.
Effie huffed a quiet laugh before starting forward again. He had been much put out with them for rousing him so soon after dawn, having drank himself to sleep in the smallest of hours, as usual. The day was too new for Chumley to sit a horse, and so noble Sir Lucan would have a companion to keep him warm on this first part of the journey and not even know it. At least he’d tried. Chumley knew better than most that they’d be unlikely to encounter any brigands on the road at this hour and wouldn’t need him until his prime of early evening. Just as well that he rest now.
Seven misfits, on their way to London. Any one of them liable never to return. Andall for George.
Hang on, my babe, Effie sent up in silent prayer.Your family iscoming for you.
* * * *
Lucan smelled strong wine before he even opened his eyes. Strong, sour wine, but only in short, warm bursts interspersed with cold, fresh air. And there was brightness beyond his eyelids that seemed unwarranted.
The chambermaid must have pulled back the drapes of his bed. Hag. But right away he noticed the absence of the sick throbbing of his foot, and he felt the muscles of his face relax for an instant.
Good lord, whatwasthat rancid wine smell?
He opened his eyes to the bright blue sky above him, the wispy white clouds rocking with the motion of his bed.
The corpse wagon. The Warren.Effie Annesley.
At the sound of a drawn-out grunt, Lucan turned his head to the left and gavea startled cry.
A gaunt, bewhiskered face lay on Lucan’s shoulder, his cheek hollowed with each breath from his gaping mouth, emitting the foul grape smell that had stirred Lucan from his rest. The man—whoever he was—was asleep, and snuggled up to Lucan’s side like a lamb.
A drunk lamb that had been pickled in a wine tun to the point that he’d grown a beard before he’d starved to death.
Lucan squirmed away with a shrug, allowing the man’s skull to slide to the floor of the wagon with a thud. His bed companion did not stir as a shadow fell over his face. Lucan looked up.
“How fare thee, lord?” Rolf inquired solicitously.
“Who thehell is that?”
“Chumley, lord.”
“Why is he in thecart with me?”
