Page 3 of The Knight's Pledge
“Nay, lord.” Rolf dropped to his knees to assist with fitting the trousers over Lucan’s bandaged foot and then fit his left boot—regrettably split up the shank to accommodate his swollen, crippled appendage.
BlastedEffie Annesley…
Lucan rose, drawing up his breeches and lacing them while Rolf assisted with the boots. The chamber seemed wont to tilt and wobble for a moment while the pounding in his head increased, but it passed almost as soon asit had begun.
Then Lucan took his belt and wrapped it around his waist, pulling the buckle tight against his flank. He glanced up as Rolf held forthLucan’s sword.
“Whereare we going?”
“I don’t wish to tell you, lord.”
“You don’t wish to—?” Lucan took the sword and slid it into his sheath. “You’re not the sort to play coy, Rolf, and your loyalty is stalwart, so I have no doubt of the sincerity of your plight. But I would know what we are about at this late hour, when you have come taking such pains tobe unobserved.”
Rolf’s throat convulsed as if he forced himself to swallow, and his eyes were dark, wild. And yet he remained composed. “There is no time to waste. I will tell you to where we hie once there is no chance that we might be overheard.” He paused. “Please.”
A secret? A desperate secret. Lucan’s eyes narrowed for in instant, but then he shrugged. “Very well.”
It’s not as if he’d anything else better to do besides disparage himself, his foot, and blastedEffie Annesley.
It took only moments to be through the compact hold of Steadport Hall and into the stables to retrieve Agrios, who stood saddled and at the ready. Rolf’s mount, too, was waiting at the wide opening, loosely tethered with his muzzle in a bucket of oats, munching loudly in the darkness. It was clear even in the gloom that Darlyrede’s steward’s horse had been hurriedly wiped down after a hard ride, and the stable floor was dark with water near the trough while a sleepy stable boy dozed with his head in his hands ona nearby stool.
“I’ve got it,” Lucan muttered with gruff embarrassment when Rolf made motions of assisting him in mounting. The steward stepped away without argument to coax his reluctant mount from its treat. It took Lucan three awkward starts, but he at last sat astride as Rolf led his horse through the stable doorway and held the door while Lucan ducked beneath the lintel, his head pounding so that starbursts seemed to be exploding on the peripheryof his vision.
Effie Annesley had turned him into a cripple, at the mercy of others’ aid, just as surely as if Lucan were an old widow woman.
Effie Annesley, risenfrom the dead.
A moment’s superstitious hesitation overcame Lucan as he followed the steward into the cold, black Northumberland night, Agrios’s hooves crunching into the snow. “Rolf,” he called out. “Tell me true: do we returnto Darlyrede?”
Any other would perhaps have missed the man’s hesitation in answering, but Lucan had known Rolf Littlebrook since Lucan himself had been a boy, and so he saw the blink of a pause, heard the awkward guile in his lie. “Nay, lord.”
“Rolf…”
“I swear it, lord,” Rolf insisted. “We will pass by the place and, aye, ‘tis true that tonight’s misfortune is tied to Darlyrede House, but it is not our destination. Someone needs help, and by my word, you will know what can be done.”
Lucan blinked. “Who needs help?”
“Effie Annesley, lord.”
Lucan pulled up hard on Agrios’s reins, causing the destrier to balk at the uncharacteristically rough treatment. He turned the horse back toward the stable.
“No,” Lucan said.
“Lord—”
“No,” he called loudly into the frigid air, the refusal manifesting like a crystal cloud in the January night. He heard the steward’s approach but did not turn toward him.
“Please, lord,” Rolf pleaded as they entered the barn again. The weary stable boy was just turning about once more, disappointment clear on his face. “You’re theonly one who—”
“The only one who’s been crippled by Effie Annesley?”
Rolf looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I’m not certain that’s true.”
Lucan snorted. “I’d wager it’s not.” He only just managed to keep from crying out as he swung his leg over the saddle. “Wait,” he barked at the sleepy stable boy, who would have pulled Agrios away. A wave of dizziness washed over Lucan so that he was forced to grip the saddle with both hands and rest his forehead against the fragrant leather. Beads of sweat burst out along his hairline and raced down the sides of his face; nausea swirledin his stomach.
He heard Rolf bring his mount to a halt beside him, but Lucan could not raise his head to glance at the man derisively as he wished to.
“Leave us,” Rolf said, presumably to the attending boy. A moment later, he said in a low voice, “Lord, you’re not well.”
