Page 4 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

H e left.

Anwen noticed everything, though she’d done her best to avoid looking at him.

‘Twas difficult. Rystan was bigger than most men. More handsome by far. His brothers were large, like their father, too. But Rystan’s relentless training, his desire to prove his worth as a second son, had chiseled the muscles beneath his tunic in a way that every maid who knew him found it impossible to ignore.

Because of his penchant to train shirtless, many, including Anwen, contrived reasons to visit Castle Vale, a fact she admitted to him once. One which Rystan found amusing.

His hair was longer than it had been, now touching his shoulders, curling slightly in places. His brows still furrowed. Rystan’s smile, hidden. There was a time he’d shown her that smile more than to any other.

Loyal and disciplined, he was an excellent choice for this post. The shock of learning about his presence had not worn off, however, by the time she walked into the hall. If anything, it had increased seeing him sitting so casually at that table.

For a moment, she’d considered walking up to him but decided against it, not trusting herself to speak. But as he walked out of the hall, Anwen’s feet seemed to move of their own accord. She reached him at the foot of the stairs to the East Tower.

“Rystan.”

At her voice, he froze. His back straightened. Rystan’s tunic-clad body seemed to stiffen. He was unhappy with her, for a good reason. It was Anwen’s mother who had ended their plans for being together. Yet she had a very good reason to be disappointed in him as well.

He turned.

It was as if someone had plunged a dagger into her chest. He didn’t look at her the way he once had. As a boy, his gaze held mischief, even admiration. Now it was unreadable. Cool and distant. It twisted something deep in her stomach.

And very different from the afternoon he confessed his love for her, and they began a successful campaign to push their families toward a betrothal.

“My lady,” he bowed, as Rystan would do to any noblewoman. Chivalrous, as always.

“I only just learned of your presence,” she said, by way of excusing her earlier lack of a greeting. “As we arrived at the keep.”

“And I yours just recently as well.”

She’d seen this Rystan. The warrior, a stalwart knight who presented himself as gallantly as they came, but who lacked the warmth she knew he possessed.

“Can we speak?” she asked, hoping she might reach the other Rystan, the man who was once a boy with whom she was raised.

He peered over her shoulder, toward the hall’s entrance.

“Are we not doing so now?”

Rystan was being deliberately obtuse. He would often do the same, in jest, when they were younger, teasing her relentlessly and later admitting he enjoyed seeing her riled as it usually led to laughter from them both.

Neither were jesting, or laughing, this eve.

“Rystan,” she whispered, in an attempt to break through to him.

Unrelenting, he waited for her to continue. Tears sprang to her eyes, though Anwen fought them. She would not cry beside a man who cared so little about her that he refused to even have a conversation.

“How can you be so. . .” she attempted to find the word. ‘Cruel’ was too harsh. Anwen tried again. “I understand why you are angry with me.”

His thick brows shot upward. “Do you?”

Her nose flared. That dagger in her chest twisted.

“There you are, Lady Anwen.”

Sir Eamon stopped short, seeing them both as he turned the corner.

“I will leave you to your conversation.”

“No need,” Rystan bowed stiffly, once again. “Good eve to you both,” he said, without waiting for a reply.

They watched as he climbed the stone stairs, two at a time.

“You must be weary from the journey,” he said. “I’ve asked for a bath to be prepared, as you are directly above the kitchens. Though we do not have enough staff to procure one each day.”

“Thank you,” she said, mostly for not addressing Rystan.

“If you’ll follow me,” he unfortunately began to climb the very same set of stairs Rystan had used a moment earlier.

“The East Tower is the only one completely finished.” Only light from the arrow slits lit their way.

“Forgive me if you are isolated on the top floor, but we thought it best to procure as much privacy for you as possible.”

“There is no need,” she said, accustomed to such a climb in her own home. “To have heated water brought up this far. I can?—”

“Nay,” he replied as they continued to climb. “There are few luxuries at Castle Blackwood, but a warm bath is one we can offer,” they stepped through the open passageway into a corridor lit by four wall sconces. “Another is the lady’s bedchamber, which has been prepared for you.”

Handing her an iron key, Anwen took it. “Your chamber is there. Be certain it works.”

It did, and Anwen was pleasantly surprised to find a furnished and entirely clean bedchamber. At its center, a partially filled tub with still-steaming water.

“It’s lovely,” she said, entering. “And wholly unexpected.”

“We’ve recruited a brilliant strategist, a woman, as a permanent instructor,” he said. “And therefore have planned this chamber for her use.”

Anwen, once Castle Blackwood was up and running, would be returning home. The temporary post gave her both an opportunity not only to serve the cause, but also for much-needed independence from her mother.

That Sir Eamon left out her name meant she was likely not an open supporter, a common enough occurrence as the war dragged on and the king suppressed more and more of Empress Matilda’s supporters.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” she said as Sir Eamon bid adieu and informed her the maid assigned to Anwen would be up shortly.

Indeed, she met both the maid and servants who carried the remainder of the water.

She thanked them profusely, knowing full well her success as temporary castellan would rely on the strength of Castle Blackwood’s servants.

Throughout the bath, and afterward as she prepared for bed and watched the water being carried away, Anwen thought back to her conversation, or lack of one, with Rystan.

It was only much later, as she sat with an unread book on her lap, the tub completely emptied and firewood in the hearth lit, that just as Anwen’s eyes began to close, there was a knock at her door.

She was no fool and would not answer it.

Eamon had said the recruits were strictly forbidden from the top floor of the East Tower, yet evidently one had disregarded his warning.

“Anwen.”

Fully awake, she leapt from the velvet cushioned chair.

It was a voice she knew well.

Not any recruit, but the only one who mattered.

Opening the door slightly, she peered up into a familiar set of eyes.

“I would have that talk, if you still wish for it.”

“Here?” she asked, more than a little surprised by his boldness. Though she should not be. Though always respectful, Rystan’s boldness in all areas of his life was well known.

“There are few opportunities for privacy in this castle.”

That voice she knew so well. It's hard edge softened, if just slightly. . .

She’d wanted answers for so long, there was but one reply.

Silently, Anwen opened the door.