Page 36 of Paladin's Faith

“Scarlet it is.” He winked at her and strolled away. Marguerite watched him go and sighed. He cut a very handsome figure and she quite liked him. It was a damn shame that he was working for the enemy.

FIFTEEN

Being a bodyguard at the Court of Smoke, Shane realized, involved a lot of leaning against the wall.

Marguerite had explained it all on the long journey to the court, of course. If everyone kept their personal guard with them, the rooms would be far too crowded for anyone to walk. Nobles would try to show their importance by commanding larger and larger armed retinues, and it would have all become quite unwieldy. Every merchant with a formal invitation to the court was therefore allowed one attendant, and every noble was allowed two.

As a result, there were fewer bodyguards than he expected. Shane picked out a half-dozen, all with their weapons peacebonded, all of whom looked as if the peacebond would trouble them for less than four seconds if push came to shove. Some of them probably doubled as duelists, if their employers were prone to picking fights or to having fights picked for them. Formal dueling was allowed at the Court, brawling was most certainly not. They varied wildly in age, appearance, and attire, but they all wore the same look. Shane expected that he wore it himself.

While there weren’t many bodyguards, there were certainly a great many chaperones. His post on the wall was flanked by chairs full of old women, all of whom were watching their charges with much the same expression as the bodyguards.

You watched your charge as she moved through the crowd, until she stopped. Every few seconds, your eyes flicked away and you did a sweep of the area, looking for threats. Then you found your charge again, determined that she was still alive and not on the move, assessed her expression for distress, then did another sweep.

It was the same job that he had done for Bishop Beartongue, and it was usually exceptionally tedious. Shane generally amused himself by watching the small dramas playing out all around him, but in a room this large, he was afraid to take his eyes off Marguerite for too long.

Fortunately, watching Marguerite was anything but tedious. Unfortunately, watching Marguerite made him feel things that he had no right to feel.

When she laughed with the too-handsome man that she had pointed out earlier, he felt a stab of…something. Not jealousy, certainly. I have no right to be jealous. I am her bodyguard, nothing more. Call it envy, then, that Davith could make her laugh and he could not. An envy that only deepened when she slid her arm through his, and they moved together like old friends or old lovers.

Shane entertained a brief fantasy of wandering over and looming over Davith. He wasn’t any taller than the other man, but he was definitely a good deal broader. Plus he had a very large sword on his back, which tended to make looming more effective. Davith was wearing velvet and hose, not armor. You could cut through that with a butter knife. Well, the hose, anyway. Loose cloth was excellent at tangling up a blade, although there wasn’t anything loose about the man’s attire. His clothes looked as if he were sewn into them. Women and no small number of men threw appreciative looks after him as he passed.

It had to be said that Shane did not lack for appreciative looks of his own. At least four chaperones introduced themselves, and he had to run through the rituals of polite conversation while keeping at least one eye on Marguerite. (To their credit, the chaperones were all doing much the same thing with their own charges, so no one went away offended.) At least two young wallflowers noticed him, turned scarlet, and fled to more distant seats. He felt a bit guilty about that, but trying to put them at ease would only make it worse.

After an hour or so, two elderly chaperones began gossiping within earshot. Shane listened in, for lack of anything better to do.

“Now that’s a handsome fellow. Somebody’s man-at-arms, do you think?”

“Doubt he’s a wallflower.” They cackled. Shane kept his gaze fixed on Marguerite, who was deep in conversation with a group of women wearing the layered brocade of merchants from Baiir.

“Is that Waily’s youngest over there?”

“It never was! She was short and had spots, the poor thing.”

“No, Harriet, I tell you, it is. She’s grown at least six inches, look at her.”

“Shows you can never tell how the child will grow up. I saw Lady Octavia at her naming, and that child had ears like jug handles. And now she’s a court beauty. They say the Crown Prince of Charlock offered for her.”

“Offered for her, aye, but she didn’t take him. I hear she’s head over heels in love with Doverfrith.”

“Doverfrith? He’s sixty if he’s a day, and she can’t be more than twenty.”

“That’s what they say. P’raps she’s merely putting on a good front, though, and hoping he’ll die right after the wedding.”

“Worse fates than being a widow with a great deal of money.”

Shane glanced at the pair out of the corner of his eye. The one named Harriet was fanning herself delicately with a fan of painted vellum. The other one, as yet unnamed, leaned forward. “Who’s that talking to your girl?”

“What? Oh, with the oiled hair? Lord Bardulf. Not that he’s a lord of anything, as far as I know. A court position, that’s all. Master of the Prince’s Robes, I think.”

“Yes, but which prince?”

“Does it really matter?” The two of them cackled together. “My brother-in-law probably called in a favor to have him speak to the girl for a few minutes and make her appear interesting.” Harriet tapped her fan. “I fear it will take more than Bardulf. She’s a sweet child, but she hasn’t the conversation of a footstool.”

“Did any of us at that age?”

“True enough.”

“At least yours is sweet. My little Minerva is damp.”