Page 60 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

R oland couldn’t help but notice the wound on his friend’s arm as he prepared for bed.

It was the first time in his life Roland had shared a bedchamber, but to accommodate all the recruits, none had private chambers.

He cared little about having nothing but a pallet on which to sleep, but the lack of privacy was beginning to wear on him.

The cause, Roland reminded himself. It was bigger than his comfort, and something he believed in. And it seemed they were very close to achieving their goal of installing Empress Matilda on the throne.

“Have you cleansed the wound on your arm?”

Darien looked down to the gash, which should never have happened. If the blasted man hadn’t refused to wear any sort of protection in training—no mail, no padded gambeson—it would not even be a scratch. So much of Ellsworth was a mystery, including his training style.

“I have.”

Roland moved closer. Another of the knights did as well, a young man from Ravenshire. It was he who spoke Roland’s thoughts aloud. “It appears diseased.”

Darien frowned, touching his fingers to the red area surrounding the wound. “I’d considered seeing the healer but have not yet made time to ride to the village.”

“Rowena visits Blackwood on Woden’s Day, but I do not believe you should wait,” Roland said. He’d seen plenty of diseased wounds over the years, and this was one that needed treating. “Perhaps we should ride there this eve.”

Darien shrugged them off. “I will wait until the morrow. If it appears as such then?—”

“Amalia.” Roland had blurted out her name without thinking. For the past three days he’d seen her only at meals. She was polite, giving him little attention. In fact, she spoke more to Alden than him.

Neither am I interested in lying with a man who can never be mine to claim.

The words, spoken honestly and truly, had penetrated. Roland had not intended to defile her, but neither had he been thinking clearly when he’d kissed her. Now the memory of that kiss lingered in a way none before had done.

Never be mine to claim.

Roland had no intention of marrying any woman, nor would his father ever accept a lady’s maid—something he would do well to remember if he had any chance of inheriting the earldom.

“She is a healer.”

“She is?” Darien asked.

“Of sorts. She does not practice the healing arts but may know enough to help you. Don a shirt.”

It was well past the evening meal, and Amalia could be sleeping. And even he recognized as they made their way to her bedchamber that Darien’s arm was an excuse to see her.

“You seem to know your way well to the lady’s chamber.”

Roland scowled but said nothing.

“You like her.”

Denying it would be futile. “I do.”

“I understand the expectations you face as an earl’s eldest son.”

“Even if I wished to marry, which I do not, she would never be accepted.”

“I do not challenge your desire not to be married. But surely you realize ’tis a futile desire. I’ve escaped betrothal until now, but will not continue to do so forever. Neither, I am certain, will you.”

“I was betrothed,” Roland said. “A baron’s daughter whose land borders our own. But the man’s politics, among other things, persuaded me ’twas not a good match.”

“Your father agreed to break it?” he asked as they approached Amalia’s chamber.

“Nay. I did so without his permission.”

Darien winced. “Then perhaps you should pursue Mistress Amalia. Breaking a betrothal. Joining the Guardians without your father’s knowledge. Is there any chance you will not be disinherited?”

They stopped before her door. “I have three younger brothers, so aye, there is a chance I will be. A good one, I would say. But if Matilda becomes queen, and I am on the right side of history...” Roland shrugged. “Perhaps my actions might be forgiven.”

“Or perhaps you should pursue,” he nodded into the chamber. “A different sort of happiness. With that sword arm, any mercenary army would pay you handsomely.”

Roland chuckled. “A mercenary.” He knocked at her door. What a fall from grace that would be.

“Amalia,” he called, for the second time in a sennight.

“Perhaps she is sleeping,” Darien said.

The door opened. “Roland,” she began, but stopped, spying Darien. “My lord?”

“I am no lord here,” he said. “We break our fast together each day,” he continued, the man’s charm legendary and on display this eve. “Darien, please.”

Amalia, dressed in the same cotte she had worn the other evening, peered up at him. She appeared as if she’d been abed, and Roland had to shift his stance for the visions that assaulted him. Imagining her sprawled across the bed beneath him, those hazel eyes watching him as they made love...

“He was injured,” Roland responded to Amalia’s questioning gaze. “It appears to us the wound has festered.”

“Has Rowena seen it?” she asked, opening the door wider.

“Nay,” Darien admitted. “I’ve not had the opportunity to visit the village yet. Roland thinks perhaps you might look at it?”

She looked at Roland. His eyes dropped to her lips. Once more. Just once more he wished to feel them beneath his own.

“Of course,” she said, ushering them inside. “Though I do not have my herbs with me. We left Ashford Manor for Evelina’s nuptials so quickly, I took little along.”

It occurred to Roland then. “None of your belongings? Your gowns?”

“This,” she said, pointing to a trunk, “and the few I have were procured in Kindridge Moor, where Evelina and Sir Gareth were married.”

“Have you considered returning home?” Darien asked. They rarely spoke of Amalia’s predicament, the reason she remained for the time being at Castle Blackwood.

“Nay. ’Twould be a disappointment to my parents, who were so very happy when I procured the position as Lady Evelina’s maid.

Nor would I abandon my lady. I am certain she and Gareth will be able to return soon.

Sir Eamon has another meeting planned on the morrow with Lord Ashford, given all that is happening with the queen. Now, let me see the wound.”

“It is here,” Darien said, pointing to his arm. “I would remove my shirt for you to see it.”

“Please do so,” she said with no hint of embarrassment. “I aided my village’s healer and have seen more than any maid my age should have done.”

Roland’s brow furrowed. He disliked the thought of Amalia with any other man, ill or otherwise.

When he removed it, Amalia gasped. She glared at Darien, and then Roland, as if he were to blame. “The wound festers, indeed. I will need broadleaf, which I believe can be found in Blackwood’s garden. But you must see Rowena as well, as soon as you are able.”

“I will do so,” Darien promised.

“I will dress and meet you in the corridor. We will go to the garden now. I’ll also need hot water and clean clothes.”

“Allow me to fetch both and meet you in the hall.” Darien glanced at Roland. “You will escort Amalia to the garden?”

He nearly groaned aloud. Surely his will was being tested for past misdeeds. “Of course,” he said aloud as he and Darien stepped back outside. Amalia closed the door as the two men exchanged a glance.

“She likes you,” Darien whispered. “’Tis evident.” Roland frowned, but Darien was not finished. “As evident as the fact that you like her too.”

“What I do not like, however,” Roland grumbled, “is your interference.”

Darien chuckled. “If by interference you mean honesty, then I apologize not at all.”

“I’d not expect otherwise,” Roland shot back. But it was not Darien he was truly angry with. It was his role, his duty, that Roland disliked at the moment. Earl’s son. Inheritance. There were days he wished for nothing more than to have been born the youngest son.

“A mercenary?” he mused aloud.

“You’d make a fine one, indeed,” Darien said just as Amalia’s bedroom door opened once again.