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C olin tested the ground beneath his feet for sturdiness, scanned the surrounding terrain for things that might hamper his morning’s enjoyment, then turned back to the task at hand—namely training the pitiful whelp who stood before him, quaking in his boots and looking as if he prepared to enter Hell itself to be tortured by the most inventive demons there.

Colin nodded to himself in satisfaction.

Now that the boy had the proper attitude, ’twas time to begin what promised to be a wonderful day of work.

Such was certainly preferable to anything else he might have been doing—especially if that anything included trying to have speech with his bride, who slipped into senselessness every time he came within ten paces of her.

And given that she’d only clapped eyes on him twice, he was beginning to wonder if she was pretending the malady merely to avoid him.

Ah, but never mind that now. He had Henri standing before him looking terrified, and time on his hands to use that terror to his advantage. Really, could any man wish for more?

“We will begin,” Colin announced, folding his arms over his chest, “with the manner in which you hold your blade.”

Henri looked as if he would rather have been grasping a fistful of asps.

Colin felt no impatience. He was determined to teach this lad swordplay, no matter the effort nor the time involved.

That such training might happily prevent him from taking his journey south any time soon was something he steadfastly refused to acknowledge, not being one to shrink from the unpleasant, of course.

The same apparently couldn’t be said for Henri, unfortunately.

Colin had been forced to hunt Henri down that morning, then remove him with encouraging words from his hiding place amongst Cook’s barrels of ale.

No doubt the lad feared to disappoint him in the lists.

Colin could understand Henri’s apprehension, given his own tremendously intimidating self, but how could the lad disappoint when he had absolutely no skills and there was nothing for him to do but improve?

And no time better to improve than as quickly as possible. He fixed Henri with a purposeful glance.

“Draw your blade,” he instructed, “and let us see how it sits in your hand.”

The boy was nervous, any fool could see that, but Colin did nothing to startle him. He merely watched as Henri struggled to pull forth his blade from its sheath. It was then that Colin realized that much of the lad’s problem came from the fact that the blade was too heavy for him.

That led him to wonder how Henri had come by it. Surely no lord would have been foolish enough to give a boy a man’s sword such as this. Then again, perhaps his lord had been poor and this the best he’d been able to offer.

Colin made his decision. There was no use in causing the boy shame over the gear he had.

There was also no use in trying to train him with what he possessed at present.

Besides, Colin could not only see the bruises on his face, but noted the way he flinched as he tried to do as Colin bid him.

’Twas a certainty that he still suffered after-effects from the thrashing Sir Etienne had given him.

Another day or two of rest would likely do him good before the true work of becoming a knight began.

But first the matter of the blade.

“How attached,” Colin asked abruptly, “are you to that?”

Henri’s sword point made abrupt contact with the ground. “I beg your pardon?”

“That sword. Has it especial meaning for you?” Colin asked. “Would it grieve you to lose it?”

The boy looked as if he simply couldn’t comprehend what Colin was saying.

That gave Colin pause. He couldn’t train the lad if he had so few wits that he couldn’t understand the simplest question.

Then again, perhaps terror had rendered him speechless.

Hoping that was the case, Colin pointed to the sword.

“Put it up,” he commanded, “and follow me.”

Henri managed to resheath his sword after several tries, then cast a gaze heavenward before he trailed after Colin obediently, muttering various prayers to sundry saints.

Not being opposed to prayers, and having heard more than his share over the course of his long career as a swordsman, Colin merely continued on his way and left the lad to follow along behind him.

Colin made straight for the smithy. Blackmour’s blacksmith was a skilled sword maker whom Colin had used often himself in the past to fashion implements of death. Colin had no doubt that the man could make something quite adequate for the boy behind him.

Colin stopped at the opening to the very well-stocked hut.

“Master Stephen?” he called.

“Aye, my lord,” said the man, looking up from his pounding.

Colin noted the arms bulging with strength and the sweat pouring down the man’s face. He beamed his approval on such displays of smithlike prowess, then gestured to Henri next to him—who was actually behind him and needed to be dragged forward.

“A blade for this one,” Colin announced. “How quickly can it be done?”

Master Stephen put away his work, then came across the floor to examine Henri more closely.

“Good day to you, sir knight,” he said, with a little bow. “If I might see what you have?”

Henri had the same difficulty drawing his sword this time as he’d had the last. Colin waited for Master Stephen’s verdict.

“Too heavy,” Master Stephen announced.

“Aye, my thought too. How quickly might a new one be fashioned?”

“A pair of days. But I’ll need the lad now and then to have him test the balance.”

Colin doubted Henri would know a goodly fashioned sword from a poor one, but there was no use in saying as much. He would obviously have to accompany him on these visits.

“He will be at your disposal,” Colin agreed. “Can you begin today?”

The smith considered. “This afternoonts, if that suits.”

“It suits.” Colin gestured for Henri to hand the sword to the smith. “Melt this down or keep it for some other goodly purpose. It doesn’t serve the lad here. I’ll see to the expense of a new blade.”

“Of course, my lord.”

That task seen to, Colin left the smithy and paused to reassess his day.

Sir Etienne was vanquished, so there was no further labor there.

No sense in inviting the man back into the lists before he was fully healed.

His morning of training had vanished like the morning fog.

He supposed he could have run through Blackmour’s garrison to distract himself, but that would have felt too much like he was avoiding his fate.

He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair.

Perhaps Fate itself was speaking to him, telling him to get on with getting himself wed.

There was aught to be said for that. The sooner the sorry business was begun, the sooner he could concentrate all his energies on planning Henri’s training.

And then he could be about the happy task of grinding the lad into dust and rebuilding him.

But first the details of their journey. Colin supposed the first thing he would need to do was get the lady Sybil out from behind the door where he actually might wed her. He sighed deeply and started across the inner bailey.

“Come, Henri, and let us have speech together about your mistress.”

“My lord?” came the squeak from behind him.

“By the saints, man,” Colin said, stopping to turn and scowl at the boy, “you squeak too much.”

“Um ...”

“And you sound barely past your tenth summer. You’ve certainly no beard to show for your years, however many those might be.

” He looked closely at the lad and wondered just how it was he avoided hair on his face.

“You may as well give me your tale as well whilst we’re working on our ale,” he said with a grumble.

“I’m just certain ’twill be as difficult to believe as whatever you can tell me about your mistress. ”

The lad looked quite pale all of a sudden.

Colin assumed it was over the prospect of having to discuss Sybil of Maignelay for the afternoon.

He clapped a hand on Henri’s shoulder, waited until he’d righted himself again, then led the way to the great hall.

Surely there would be something to eat laid out somewhere.

If not, Colin knew the way to the kitchens and had come to an agreement with Cook in which Cook gave him what he wanted, and in return he didn’t slit Cook’s throat.

“Sometimes, my lad,” Colin said, “you just have to know how to inspire others.”

Henri emitted another squeak.

Colin frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps he would spend some time that afternoon teaching the boy how to curse like a man.

’Twas no wonder Sir Etienne had used him so ill—though Colin couldn’t countenance that kind of beating of a boy.

Still, those squeals of terror were annoying.

Aye, teaching the boy proper manly expressions of anger, frustration, and, the saints pity him, terror, would be first on the afternoon’s list of tasks.

The hall was empty and there was absolutely nothing on any table that resembled food. Colin looked at Henri.

“No food,” he announced. “We say ‘bloody hell’ at this point.”

Henri looked at him as if he’d lost all his wits.

“Bloody hell!” Colin shouted.

Henri, predictably, ducked.

Colin rolled his eyes, then grasped the boy by the shoulders. Damned bony shoulders, if anyone had been interested, and bony enough that Colin began to wonder if the lad were starved. That or much younger than he claimed.

Had he lied about his spurs?

Colin put that thought in the back of his head where he could examine it later at length. He shook Henri.

“I’m not shouting at you. I’m showing you how to express your displeasure. You squeal like a girl.”

“Oh,” the boy whispered.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

The lad blinked. “Hungry?”

By the saints, was he going to have to explain every nuance of every bit of life that came the boy’s way?