To Kill a Sorcerer (14 page)

“Why did you do that to that boy?” she asked.

“He’s a vagrant, miss. We’ve had to explain the law to him before. Don’t you be upset now.” He smiled at her and licked his lips. “You should come with me and file a complaint.”

Marguerite shook her head. The knight stepped toward her, reaching for her arm. I moved to bar his way, but my father was faster.

“Thank you,” he said, blocking the man’s hand. “We do not wish to cause the young man any more trouble.”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s on our list.”

“Well then, you will take care of it. We would rather forget the matter.”

“That is your business, sir,” the red-haired man said, still ogling Marguerite, “but she should come with me to the gatehouse and make a report. It won’t take long.” He licked his lips again. “Only an hour or so, and then I will bring her back to you.”

Marguerite pressed next to Mother, and they linked arms.

“You’re quite efficient,” Father said. “May I know your name? I’m Joseph Montero.”

The knight blinked. “Guthbert, sir.”

“Perhaps you would let me buy you a drink, sir, to thank you for protecting my daughter.”

I realized Father was being polite because it was important to handle the knight with care. If we angered him, he could arrest us, even beat us as he had done the boy. I did not care. If he tried to grab my sister again, I would bat him in the face with his own weapon.

The filthy brute ignored my father and stared at Marguerite raptly, his gaze flowing over her tunic. He gave my mother a lingering leer as well. My throat and stomach burned. Vision tunneled to the knight’s thickly muscled neck. I would rip that part of him open first. And if anyone tried to stop me, God help him.

“Sebastian!” My father’s voice snapped me out of my trance. His cool gaze held mine for a moment. “Let’s treat Mr. Guthbert to a drink.”

I stifled my rage. “Yes, sir.”

“If your duties will permit it?” Father asked the knight politely.

Guthbert seemed to have trouble focusing on my father’s words. “I’m off duty until tonight.”

“Then it’s settled. Let’s get out of the sun and relax for a bit.”

“If you’re buying, I’m willing.”

“There’s a good man. Take the children home, Mother.”

She hesitated, but the knight motioned at her with a nod, a reluctant expression on his face.

I turned to go with them. Guthbert put a hand on my arm.

“The young man can drink with us. They have a special mulled wine in this pub he’ll like.”

“Of course,” my father said. “The boy loves mulled wine.”

I had no idea what my father was talking about. I had never drunk mulled wine in my life.

The knight grunted and led us to the alehouse.

“Why did you say I love mulled wine?” I whispered.

“Do what I say,” he murmured. “This could get nasty if we are not careful.” Now that the knight had his back to us, Father’s face creased with worry.

We turned before entering the pub. Marguerite, James, and my mother watched us, standing huddled together, seeming small and distant.

We waved, then followed Guthbert’s broad back into the pub.

The smell of roasting meat filled the air of the dark and cool interior. We walked slowly as our eyes adjusted to the dimness.

I had been in this alehouse half a dozen times. My mother would not set foot inside, so she would send me to collect Father when he lost track of time.

The barmaids teased me mercilessly. Tess, the eldest daughter of the pub owner, once bent over in front of me as she picked up my father’s glass, her swaying breasts visible below the neckline of her tunic. When my heated gaze rose from the mesmerizing view inside her shirt to her dark-eyed face, she gave me a slow, luxurious smile. That night, I lay on the straw in our farmhouse, the image of her breasts and face sending tremors through me as I recalled her knowing expression—and the unknown pleasures it promised.

Guthbert took us to a table near the back, gestured to one of the girls at the bar. She sauntered over.

“What do you want, Guth?”

“These gentlemen are buying me a drink,” he said.

Her blue eyes widened when she turned to us.

“Is that right, Joseph?”

“Yes, Agnes. Please bring us a pitcher of mulled wine,” my father said.

“And three mugs,” Guthbert added.

Agnes regarded us as if we were the strangest trio she had ever seen. I thought her eyes lingered on me for a moment.

Guthbert ogled Agnes’s retreating backside, turned to Father. “I have seen you and your family before.”

“That is possible,” my father replied politely. “We have been in town many times. Have you served the earl long?”

“Eight years now,” Guthbert said, chest swelling, “and a knight for three of those.”

Agnes returned with our mugs and a large pitcher, set them on the table, and poured. Her dark curls covered her cheek as she leaned forward.

Guthbert raised his cup to my father and me. “Health,” he said.

“Health.”

I had drunk wine diluted with water, but not this strong and dark mead, spicy and sweet.

Guthbert took two long drinks and finished with a smack of his lips, banging the mug on the table. “Drink up, lad,” he said, scratching his tangled beard. He reached into his wide leather belt, pulled out a long dagger, and set it on the table. “That way you can feel it proper.”

My father nodded. I drained the rest in one draft.

Guthbert refilled his cup and mine. “Health,” he said.

“Health.” We both drank until our goblets were empty.

A swimming lightness filled my head. I smiled at my father. He looked far too serious, in my opinion. I felt the strangest urge to clap him on the shoulder and tell him what a fine man I thought he was.

My father pulled some money from his pouch and signaled to Agnes. She brought another pitcher to our table.

“And bring another one,” Guthbert told her.

He poured, raised his goblet in salute. I silently returned his toast. We each drained our drinks.

Agnes returned, standing next to my chair. As she reached across me to retrieve the pitcher we had emptied, she pressed her breasts against the side of my head for a few moments before leaning back.

“Can you feel that, Sebastian?” she asked in a low voice.

“Y-yes.” I grabbed the mug Guthbert had filled and drained it in three enormous gulps.

“I didn’t know you could drink like that,” Agnes said.

Inspired by the spreading euphoria of the alcohol and the wondering tone in her voice, I winked. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” With a start, I realized I was thinking of telling her about my secret abilities.

“Is something wrong, Sebastian?”

“No, no, nothing.”

“It is a shame we don’t know each other very well.”

That sentence spun my senses as wine never could.

Guthbert stared at me, his eyes dull with hate. “The boy can’t drink with a man,” he said. He reached unsteadily for the pitcher.

“Allow me, sir.” I poured.

He raised his cup, spilling a few drops. “Drink up, lad.”

“Guth,” Agnes said, “you’ll get him drunk.”

“Never mind, luv. The boy’s nearly a man.”

“No need to fret, my dear,” my father said. “Mr. Guthbert is right, Sebastian’s old enough.”

Guthbert smiled, his teeth gray and uneven, a knightly gnome. Together we quaffed our drinks.

“Can you feel
that
, lad?” he slurred.

“Yes, sir.” Euphoria had escalated to giddy happiness. I looked around, beaming. I loved these people. All of them.

And Agnes. My God, she was beautiful. I wanted to tell her so. Her bare shoulders gleamed in the dim light. By God, I wanted to tell her I loved her. She gave a short laugh. I was sure she had read my mind.

Guthbert turned a glassy gaze on my father.

“Your daughter is a very lovely girl,” he said. He looked down at his dagger, reached out, and touched it absently. “She would make a beautiful wife,” he went on, barely audible.

I was aghast. Was this filthy pig suggesting Marguerite might marry him? I glanced at my father, a sneer forming on my face. He shook his head warningly.

“She is a child,” Father said. “Only thirteen.”

“That’s not so young,” Guthbert replied. “She is a woman in her body.”

“But not in her mind. She needs to be with her family.”

“What do you do, Montero?” He quaffed more of the spicy drink and set his cup down with a clatter.

“I work the fields to the west, past the Heppenstall place.”

“A farmer. I am a knight. I could give your daughter a much better life.”

“Perhaps in time.”

Father, Agnes, and I watched Guthbert as he picked up his dagger and tried to slide it back into his belt, seemingly unaware of our presence now. He missed three times, mumbling to himself, and finally had to use both hands to put it in place.

My heart suddenly filled with pity for this ugly man. He and I were not that different. Marguerite sparked in him the same desire Agnes inflamed in me. He longed for love as we all do. With painful clarity I saw his future—one that would never include a pretty girl like Agnes or my sister as his mate.

He looked up at us, his eyes red-rimmed and out of focus, then he leaned forward onto the table and laid his head on his forearms.

“’Sa shame t’keep a pretty flower on a farm.” His eyes closed and he began to snore.

My father drank the rest of his wine quickly and stood.

“How are you feeling, Sebastian?”

“Great, Papa.”

“Good. Let’s get back to your mother before I catch hell. Agnes, dear, please bring us a pitcher to take home.” When she returned with it, he handed her more pennies. “Thank you. Will it trouble you to leave him there?” he asked, gesturing at Guthbert.

“No. I’ll have Alfred and Tom toss him out back in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.”

Father and I started for the door.

“Sebastian?” Agnes said. “Can I talk to you?”

She strolled over, took my arm, glanced quickly at my father, and turned me away from him.

“Tell me something,” she said, and I could feel the puff of her breath on my face, “can you drink like that whenever you want?”

She was looking at me differently than she had when she first saw us sitting with Guthbert, as if I had changed in some subtle way only she could discern. She continued to hold my arm in both hands. The contact made it hard to concentrate on her words.

“I don’t know,” I said. “This was my first time.”

“Your first time? You must have a hollow leg. You know, me and the other girls could make a fair bit of money betting on you.”

“Really?” Her proximity fogged my brain. She smelled unlike anyone I had ever met, a bed of flowers on a warm spring day. The heat of her body rose into my nostrils as if from a scented sachet.

“Yes, really. Every alehouse has a weekly drinking contest.” She leaned closer. I watched her lips. “You don’t seem drunk at all. Are you?”

“I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

My father made an amused sound.

Agnes smiled. “Thank you, you’re sweet.”

It annoyed me how casually she accepted my compliment, but when she leaned closer, I bent to her.

“Still, you’re not besotted, and you drank our strongest wine,” she continued. “We have a contest here on Tuesdays. Nobody’s ever seen you drink, and you don’t look like you could get outside two pints of beer.”

“So if I entered the contest, everybody would bet against me.”

“Yes, they would, and me and the other girls could win a lot of pennies gambling on you.” Her blue eyes held a promise, I thought. It was in the way she took in my whole face, as if she planned to think about me later. “Can you come Tuesday and drink for us?”

I turned slightly, knowing my father was still listening.

“We’ll have to see,” he said. “As long as your chores are finished . . .” He started for the door.

“I’ll be here,” I said, staring at her lips, painfully excited at the prospect of returning.

She held on to my arm a moment longer, her soft scent making me wonder at the secret parts of her. Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek. “Come alone,” she breathed into my ear before she released me and strode to the bar.

As if on air, I wove my way through the tables toward the front of the alehouse. I had never felt so good in my life. Agnes’s lovely face floated before me, and I could still feel her body against mine. Thinking of the look in her eyes when she kissed my cheek caused my stomach to flutter. After I had bumped into two chairs and one table, I finally met my father at the door.

“We will need to have a talk about your career as a drinker, Sebastian,” he said.

“Yes, Papa.”

We pushed outside. The light of late afternoon was nearly blinding after the gloom of the alehouse. Blinking, we stepped into the street and turned toward the drawbridge. I was nearly clearheaded now, though my face still burned from Agnes’s lips.

My father was apparently feeling the effects of finishing his wine so quickly. He walked unsteadily, the jug swinging precariously in his hand. When he saw me watching him, he laughed. Moving over to me, he put his arm around my shoulders.

“I knew you could do it.”

“Do what?”

“Drink with that knight. I wanted him drunk enough to pass out so he wouldn’t follow us home. Let’s hope he forgets about your sister.”

“He’s seen her before,” I said, recalling the way Guthbert had ogled Marguerite. “I don’t think he’s going to forget about her.”

“No, I suppose you’re right.” He took his arm from around my shoulders. “As long as he let her go this time.”

We passed the castle walls. The sun was a couple of hours from setting, and many people still traveled the streets.

“How did you know I could drink like that?” I did not really want to ask. This was part of my uniqueness, and I avoided that topic zealously. But I was certain he would not let me return to the alehouse on Tuesday unless we discussed my “ability.” And I would have talked about my differences all day for the chance to see Agnes again.

We continued in silence for a few minutes. I waited anxiously, wondering what he was going to say.