Page 12 of Kingdom of Chains

She appeared impressed by that. ‘Jofroi’s translation has been highly praised.’

Hodge snorted. ‘Pagan philosophy.’

Isabel looked down again.

Blackmane leaned back in his chair. ‘I thought someone in your position would find the parts about the ethical dilemmas facing rulers useful.’

Tatum cleared his throat, which translated to ‘Shut up.’

‘My ethics are guided only by God,’ Hodge replied.

It was official. Blackmane did not like him.

‘Don’t read too much into anything that comes out of Blackmane’s mouth, my lord,’ Alveye said. ‘He’s this way with everyone.’

Tatum nodded in agreement. ‘The best fighters usually come with some quirks.’

Isabel pushed her plate away and looked at Blackmane. ‘Best? That is high praise from your commander. Do you agree with that assessment?’

He just wanted to finish his food and leave. ‘Every defender has their strengths.’

‘But no weaknesses,’ Everard said. ‘Those are trained out of them.’

Isabel’s eyes creased at the corners.

‘Blackmane frequently loses sparring matches, but he has exceptional instincts,’ Tatum said, clapping the defender on the back—hard.

Lord Hodge regarded him across the table. ‘Is that right? Well, I look forward to witnessing these exceptional instincts first-hand in the coming days.’

Blackmane did not reply.

A lute player wandered in, taking a seat on the stool at the far end of the room.

‘Perhaps you will do me the honour of a dance after we finish eating,’ Hodge said to Isabel when the music started.

Blackmane could have sworn she rolled her eyes.

‘Normally I would love to. However, I am afraid I am rather tired this evening.’

‘Do defenders dance?’ Lady Gwenore asked no one in particular.

Hadewaye paused eating to reply. ‘On the rare occasion we get the opportunity—but not Blackmane.’

And once again, he was being dragged back into the conversation.

That seemed to pique Isabel’s curiosity. ‘Why do you not dance, defender?’

‘We think he’s allergic to fun,’ Alveye said.

Blackmane laid down his knife and fork. ‘Like I said, we all have our strengths. Dancing isn’t one of mine.’ He did not hate dancing so much as the memories of home that surfaced every time he witnessed other people partaking. Memories of his parents laughing and spinning in circles to familiar tunes. Memories of his sister dancing with the man she was supposed to marry in the summer. Memories of their pox-covered corpses mere weeks after celebrating the news.

Smallpox was not always a death sentence, but it was in Ireland back when the whole country had been emaciated. They had been halfway to dead before the disease hit their shores.

‘Take Tolly and go,’ his mother had pleaded, eyes red and lips pale. ‘While you still can.’ Her final words before her chest sank and the light left her eyes.

He had not had it in him to tell her on her deathbed that her youngest son had boarded a ship to Carmarthenshire two weeks earlier—a ship that had been set alight before any passenger could disembark due to an outbreak on board.

‘Take care of your brother.’ His father’s last words.