Page 57 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

I f he broke his fast, it was before Amalia arrived in the hall.

Neither did she see him at the midday meal.

She sought out Sir Eamon but was told he’d been giving lessons.

So Amalia took the clothing she needed to launder, including Roland’s surcoat, and made her way to the well, where she procured two buckets of water.

Bringing both back to the garden, where she felt most comfortable, Amalia soaked the items in water and lye and waited for the stains to loosen.

With the gardener nowhere to be found, it was as peaceful as anywhere in the castle, a rare private respite. Amalia knew she should befriend some of the other maids here, but wished instead to continue to contemplate her predicament with Roland.

And it was quite the predicament.

At first, she thought him high-handed and arrogant, much like many of the noblemen she had known.

Evelina was especially good at recognizing such men and had dismissed out of hand every one of the recruits that had been brought to Ashford Manor to meet with their financier.

Amalia thought of her lady, and friend, wondering when, if ever, she would be able to return.

What would Evelina say about her attraction to Roland?

Would she believe Roland was not quite as he appeared on the surface?

That, aye, he was an earl’s son and acted as such in many ways, yet there was also a kindness there, a depth that had, frankly, surprised her.

Men like him did not share their fears, and yet he’d done so willingly.

But that did not negate that she should not have kissed him.

Amalia already had difficulty eradicating Roland from her mind, and that had certainly not helped.

When enough time had gone by, Amalia pulled each piece of clothing from the bucket and used a nearby stone to cleanse.

She then used the second wooden bucket to rinse each and laid the pieces on a nearby bench.

Then proceeding to plant the herbs she’d secured at the market, Amalia worked until all were planted.

As she stood there, wiping dirt on her apron, Roland’s surcoat caught her attention.

While some family emblems were elaborate, his was one simple image against a bright royal-blue background.

A wolf, fierce with his jaws open, pointed teeth ready to strike.

The eyes were equally as fierce, seeming to glare at her the longer she stared.

Amalia shuddered.

“There is a tale there,” a voice interrupted her thoughts. It was so unusual to hear a female voice here at Castle Blackwood. Even more unusual was that it was a lady, not a maid, one of only two permanent residents at this castle.

Amalia bowed. “Lady Elara,” she guessed.

“Indeed,” the woman said. Though she was not much older than Amalia or Evelina, there was a grace about the strategies instructor that nearly betrayed her years.

Tall, her chestnut hair unbound but held back by a gold circlet around her hair, the extraordinarily beautiful lady wore a royal-blue velvet gown that matched the color or Roland’s surcoat.

“And you must be Lady Evelina’s maid, Amalia?”

“I am,” she said. “You’ve spoken to Sir Eamon?”

“Just this morn. He told me of your predicament, and that of your lady. I am sorry you are so misplaced for a spell, but glad Castle Blackwood can offer some respite.”

“My hope is that Lady Evelina and Sir Gareth can return soon.”

“It is my hope as well.” She turned her attention to the surcoat. “Do you know it? The tale of the Wolf of de Vere?”

“I know some of it,” Amalia said.

“Legend has it that, centuries ago, the founder of House de Vere, Sir Cedric de Vere, was a valiant knight who had earned his title through unwavering loyalty to the crown.

In a time when wolves were both feared and revered, Sir Cedric encountered a mystical black wolf deep within the ancient forests that surrounded his ancestral estate.

According to the legend, lost in the dense woods, he found himself face to face with the black wolf. Instead of hostility, the wolf regarded him with intelligence and understanding. It guided him through the treacherous paths, leading him to a hidden glade where a sacred well awaited.”

Lady Elara moved closer to Roland’s drying surcoat. Amalia looked between her and the wolf as the lady continued her tale.

“Legend has it that the well held magical waters with the power to reveal one’s true destiny.

With the guidance of the black wolf, Sir Cedric drank from the well, and the mystical waters granted him a vision of his future.

He saw generations of his descendants, their fate intertwined with the spirit of the wolf.

“In gratitude for the wolf’s guidance, Cedric swore an oath of protection to the creatures of the forest. As a symbol of this pact, he adopted the fierce wolf as the emblem of his family.

The wolf became a representation of strength, loyalty, and the unwavering commitment of House de Vere. ” She glanced up. Smiled.

“Do you believe the legend?” Amalia asked.

“I believe, like most legends, there is some truth to the tale. Deciphering what is real, and what has been invented or elaborated upon, is not unlike shifting through the words and deeds of men.”

Amalia was as enthralled with the lady as she might have been with that mystical wolf. There was something very calming about her. “Something you teach the recruits to do in their strategies lessons?”

“Something I attempt to teach them. Men can be...difficult students. Especially those with superior abilities or titles to my own. So aye, ‘attempt’ would be, I believe, a better word.”

“Men like Lord de Vere,” she guessed.

Lady Elara smiled. “He would be a fine example of the type of student to whom I refer, aye. How do you come by his surcoat? You are no laundress, Mistress Amalia.”

“I offered,” she said, “as I had clothing of my own to attend to.”

Elara’s brows lifted. Amalia said no more and hoped the lady dropped the matter.

“I would not presume to advise you, as we do not know each other, unless you’d be open to a small suggestion?”

Amalia had a notion of what that suggestion might be, but agreed nonetheless.

“I would, of course.”

“Tread carefully with that one. I know the family well. His father and mine were close once, before the conflict.”

“He is still alive? Your father?” That he was not here at Castle Blackwood had led Amalia to believe otherwise.

“He is, though I cannot say much more. He works, as I do, to restore the rightful queen to the throne.”

Since Amalia did not want to pry on what was obviously a sensitive topic, she shifted back to Roland. “You mentioned to be careful?” she ventured, unsure what to ask.

“He has been betrothed to the daughter of a very powerful man, one whose property borders de Vere’s, for many years.

If the earl does not disavow Sir Roland for his role here, if he learns of it, certainly he would if he broke that betrothal.

And from your expression, I can ascertain he’s not told you of the match. ”

No, he had not.

“Roland mentioned no betrothal,” Amalia said, her chest tight in a way it should not be.

He was nothing to her. They’d but shared one kiss.

Or two, if the first counted as such. Even so, she’d known last eve naught could come of them.

So why did this information matter? Why did it feel like a betrayal?

Lady Elara appeared concerned, as if she truly was attempting to aid Amalia. “I know not how his surcoat came into your possession, nor do I need to. But knowing de Vere, and his reputation...I hope you take no offense to my interference.”

Amalia rushed to explain. “I was not with him in that way. He escorted me to the market yesterday, on Sir Eamon’s request, and...” She stopped.

“You need not explain to me.”

“I would do so anyway,” Amalia said, “as I’ve no others here...” Again, she paused. Lady Elara was not her equal, nor should she be gossiping with her in this way. “’Tis nothing,” she said. “Thank you for the warning.”

“Amalia, please do call me by my given name. And share anything you wish to. You’ve my vow I will not repeat your words. I’ve no female friends here, no maid. I would be glad for you to speak freely.”

The relief at her words, that Amalia had not overstepped.

..that she had a confidant here...“After the market,” she continued, “we sat together for a time, watching the stars, sharing stories. He laid his surcoat”—she pointed to the garment—“for me to sit upon. And I will admit, knowing it could lead nowhere, when he wagered a kiss?—”

“He wagered a kiss?”

“He did. And I lost. But his kiss was brief and barely discernible. I will admit to being disappointed, and when he learned this was not the first kiss I’ve had from a man, he kissed me again. The second time was much, much different from the first.”

“So just a kiss?”

Amalia nodded.

“I am glad to hear it. Roland has quite the reputation, and I would not care to see you hurt. Sir Eamon likes you very much. He said your loyalty to”—she lowered her voice—“his daughter has been unwavering.”

“He’s told you, then?”

“Aye. He is also an acquaintance of my father’s. It was Sir Eamon who brought me here, my father all too happy to see me safe in one place, for once.”

“We were so surprised to learn Sir Eamon was Evelina’s true father, but it did explain some of Lord Ashcroft’s poor treatment of her.”

“Treatment she did not deserve.”

“Nay,” Amalia agreed. “She did not.”

“Nor do you deserve a man who can never marry you. Unless, of course, marriage does not interest you. I do not mean to judge you in any way and hope I’ve not offended you.”

“’Tis true I have more freedom as a maid, but I’ve no desire to use that freedom to be with a man whose intentions are not pure. So nay, you do not insult me. I thank you for the warning, my lady.”

“Elara,” she reminded her.

“Elara,” Amalia repeated, grateful to have a friend here. “If you are returning to the keep, I will accompany you. These are dry enough that I can bring them into my bedchamber.”

“Let me assist you,” Elara said, picking up an item of Amalia’s clothing.

That she was of noble birth yet aided her told Amalia more of Elara’s character than anything. Evelina would like her very much.

“Thank you,” she said, the still damp items now folded in Amalia’s arms. The two women made their way from the garden toward the keep just as a group of recruits did the same, coming presumably from the training yard.

The women stopped. Elara whispered to Amalia as they strode by.

“The one in front with the blond hair. His father is the king’s royal messenger and has disavowed his son for being here and supporting Matilda.”

Amalia watched as the man joked with another next to him. Covered in dirt, it appeared as if he’d bathed in it, but still he appeared affable, laughing as he strode by.

“Sir Gareth’s friend,” Elara said, “Sir Darien. A new recruit, and with the king captured, perhaps one who will never see a mission. I’ve not seen him on the training field yet, but am told his skill with the bow and arrow is unrivaled. Except,” she added, “by her.”

The sole female recruit. Hood up, she walked alone.

“I’ve not met her yet.”

“Lyra is quiet. She says little during our instructions. Also a new recruit, and an archer. I know little about her and have tried to befriend her, but she speaks seldom. Never takes meals in the hall.”

They saw him at the same time.

Amalia’s heartbeat raced as Roland looked their way. At first, it appeared as if he would break apart from the others to come to them, but instead he simply nodded in acknowledgment.

“Oh dear,” Elara said. “I fear my warning to you may have come too late.”

And just like that, he was gone.

“Why do you say so?” Amalia asked.

“Because I know that look well. Roland has set his sights on you, and I cannot recall a woman who has ever resisted him.”

Amalia stuck her chin in the air. “You have now,” she said, determined.

Elara did not appear convinced. “Aye?”

“Aye,” she responded more confidently than she felt. Resisting Roland de Vere would not be an easy task, but it was one Amalia was resolved to. The alternative was unacceptable.