Knight from the Ashes by Shari L. Tapscott
Henrik
Preparingfor a supply run into the mountains is like herding flockchicks. I stand in the courtyard, list in hand, surveying the madness. The morning is brisk but quickly warming, and soon I’ll have to shed my cloak.
Men and maids go every which way, in absolutely no semblance of order, carrying crates, baskets, and bulging leather bags. They load eight large wagons with dry goods, caged fowl, and various supplies, all of which we’ll bring to the guard post.
A nearby donkey brays, loudly protesting the load that’s secured to his back, and the goats decide to join in his racket.
Just as a headache begins to form at the base of my skull, Bartholomew steps up beside me, looking bright-eyed and far too eager.
“What fun,” he exclaims, and the fool boy sounds like he heartily means it.
I give him a sideways look and frown before returning my attention to the supply list.
“I’ve never been to the north,” he says. “Do you think it will be cold?”
“Yes.”
“Mother is worried sick.” He laughs good-naturedly. “I assured her that I am too old to be thought of as a mere boy, but I suppose mothers are prone to worry, aren’t they?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Hoping to put an abrupt halt to the conversation, I add, “My mother is dead.”
The moment it’s out of my mouth, I trap in a vexed sigh.
Bartholomew’s expression falls as he murmurs, “As is my father.”
I shouldn’t have said it—and I wouldn’t have if I’d thought about it a moment more. Though the boy is burdensome, I don’t wish to hurt him purposely.
Wincing to myself, I wonder if I’m more like my father than I would like.
For a moment, I study my new squire from the corner of my eye. He has a mop of unkempt brown hair, a smattering of light, boyish freckles, and less muscle than any of the maids who carry goods to the wagons. When I was his age, I’d already risen from a drudge in the Infantry Class to a swordsman in the Soldier Class, but I’ve never even seen Bartholomew lift a sword.
Though the duke is seventeen years old, he seems younger—naïve, far too optimistic, and easily crushed. I, however, won’t be the one to destroy him—no matter how I wish I weren’t tasked with his keeping.
I turn to the boy, prepared to apologize, but he beats me to it.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Henrik,” he says solemnly.
“And I am sorry for yours,” I answer, my tone unintentionally gruff. “My words were hastily spoken.”
The smile returns to his face, and he looks back at the madness. “How may I be of assistance?”
As he says it, a woman appears at my side. She stands quietly, waiting to be acknowledged.
I turn toward the somber handmaid, startled Camellia would send for me so openly.
Clearing my throat, wishing Bartholomew wasn’t standing with me, I say, “Do you have a message for me?”
I would address her by name, but she’s never given one—not to me and not to anyone else. Behind her back, people call her Hellebore, after the cold winter flower. But the High Vale elf is too aged to be one of Camellia’s ladies, nor is she connected to wealth and stature. For a High Vale woman to serve a human, even if that human is a princess, she must have found disgrace at some time in her life.
Without a word, she offers me the folded parchment. I’m not sure she approves of our meetings, but she is mute and unable to object. Whenever she must exchange words, she writes them upon a small slate she carries in the pocket of her gown.
Though Camellia’s boldness makes me uncomfortable, I accept the note. With a bow of her head, the woman leaves the way she came. People part for her, wary of the solemn elven woman who always dresses in black.
“She gives me chills,” Bartholomew says quietly when she’s gone. “I don’t know how my cousin can spend so much time with her.”
“The woman practically raised Camellia.” I subtly shift away, making sure he won’t be able to read the note when I open it.
“Yes,” Bartholomew says. “I suppose that must be it.”
I scan the message, and then I shove the supply list into Bartholomew’s hands. “We’re nearly finished. Begin making rounds and see if anything is missing.”
Eagerly, Bartholomew accepts the list. “Really?”
Nodding, I turn to leave. Even he can handle that simple task.
* * *
Camellia waitsfor me in a private corner of the garden, a quiet place surrounded by thick, dusky evergreens and overgrown hedges that have gone from deep green to fire-red in the last week.
Already fallen amber leaves from several nearby grespit trees litter the cobblestones, and they muffle my footsteps as I walk.
“You came,” Camellia says, smiling brightly when she spots me.
I bow my head. “I am always at your command, Your Highness.”
She laughs and places her hand on my arm. “So formal, Henrik.”
I look up, meeting her cornflower gaze, silently reminding her that our relationship is purely professional.
Camellia rolls her eyes and turns her back to me, crossing her arms. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like me nearly as well as I like you.”
“I like you as much I am permitted—”
Cutting me off with a laugh, she turns back, giving me a triumphant, radiant smile. “Then stop playing with my heart and kiss me. You’re leaving soon.”
I hold in an annoyed sigh. It’s not the first time Camellia has initiated the conversation, and I’m confident it won’t be the last. We’re not together, but she very much wishes we were.
“You should not say such things,” I remind her. “I am too far below you. Perhaps once I—”
“Secure your seal,” Camellia says with a huff, and her eyes flash with irritation. “I know.”
The princess is angry with me, but that’s not a recent development. Though I have given her no encouragement, Camellia has proven difficult to sway. She’s headstrong and too used to using her beauty to get her way, but I’m sure she will mature in time.
“And if you miss your chance?” Camellia asks with a pout. “There are plenty of other handsome men, Henrik. Ones who show me the attention I deserve.”
Perhaps Camellia hopes to make me jealous, but I’m well aware I’m not the only man she seeks affection from.
“My only hope is that you will choose a man who is worthy of you.”
The princess lets out a long-suffering sigh, and then she throws herself at me, leaving me no choice but to catch her so she won’t fall. “For being common-born, you are certainly valiant, Henrik. You put the rest of us to shame.”
Camellia wraps her arms around my waist, clinging to me tightly. Before I can extract her, we’re interrupted by a muttered curse.
“Where is she?” a female someone says—and from nearby. “And what is she doing in this part of the garden?”
Camellia and I look over sharply, startled by the interruption. No one comes this way, and the soft, newly fallen leaves made it too easy for the intruder to approach without us realizing she was coming.
“Princess Camellia, are you back here?” the young woman calls, her voice carrying into our sanctuary. “Hellebo—I mean, your handmaid informed me you’d be here.”
Before I have wits enough to push Camellia away, Clover suddenly appears beside a large pine. She comes to a startled stop, and the lady’s mouth slowly falls open as she gapes at the scene in front of her. Immediately, I step back, dropping the princess like she scorched me.
What is Clover doing here? And why do we suddenly keep running into each other when our paths have barely crossed before?
“What do you want?” Camellia asks Clover sharply.
“I…” Even though it was the princess who addressed her, Clover’s eyes drift to me. She gives me a strange look—not as if she’s embarrassed she interrupted a tender moment…but rather like she’s questioning the princess’s sanity.
I bristle, remembering her words from the hallway all too clearly. Like locking lips with a fish indeed.
After a moment, a mischievous smile flutters over the lady’s face, and she barely conceals her mirth long enough to say, “Minda asked me to inform you that your gown will be ready for a final fitting tomorrow.”
Camellia huffs out a breath. “You tracked me down to tell me that?”
Clover shrugs, and her eyes dart to me once more. “Would you like me to go in your place again?”
“Do you even have to ask? You know how I feel about that awful woman.”
And though Clover is likely supposed to respond, she’s paying little attention to Camellia. No—her curious gaze is on me.
What she’s curious about, I don’t know. But I find my neck heating with embarrassment. Thankfully, she turns back to Camellia before I must look away.
“Is there anything you need while I’m here, Your Highness?”
“No,” Camellia answers curtly, obviously keen to be rid of her.
“Then I’ll be going.” Clover shoots me another strange look, and this time I know she’s secretly laughing at me. “Please…carry on.”
With one last glance over her shoulder, she disappears the way she came.
“Oh, I hate her,” Camellia breathes when Clover is gone.
My surprise must show on my face because Camellia looks back at me, and her eyes narrow with anger. As if she believes she must defend herself, she says, “You don’t know how awful she is, Henrik. You don’t know what I’ve had to put up with all these years.”
“You needn’t convince me,” I say. “But do not fret. Soon, I’m sure Lady Clover will marry, and you will be rid of her.”
Camellia’s smile warms. “You’re so sweet. But I cannot imagine there is a man in his right mind who would wish to marry Clover. She’s not even pretty.”
Before I can stop myself, I give her a skeptical look—one Camellia thankfully doesn’t notice.
She laughs wickedly. “And she has her heart set upon my brother, poor thing. As if Lawrence would give a girl named Clover a crown.”
Suddenly, the memory of the lady and Lawrence leaps into my mind. They were standing close, smiling at each other.
“But I don’t wish to speak of her anymore,” Camellia says, pressing herself flush against me once more and locking her arms around my waist. “You’re leaving. At least tell me you love me before you go.”
The move effectively brings my thoughts to the present. Gently, I set my hands on the princess’s shoulders, holding her in place as I step back. “Those are words that may only be confessed by a man who has a right to speak them.”
“Fine.” She steps away, finally tired of the fruitless banter. “Enjoy your holiday.”
I frown. “I’m not sure I’d call it a holiday.”
Camellia makes to leave, but then she shoots me a flirtatious smile. “Just remember, while you’re gone, I’ll be here—pining for you. Don’t forget it.”
She then leaves, following the same path as Clover.
Once she’s gone, I smile to myself, replaying the meeting in my head. I’m almost back to relieve Bartholomew of his task when I stop short.
It isn’t Camellia’s face in my mind.
“You look positively horrified,” Bartholomew says brightly. “Something troubling you?”
I shake my head, dismissing my rogue thoughts. “No, nothing. How is it going here?”
“Well,” Bartholomew says dramatically, making me wish I hadn’t asked. “One of Lord Kelvin’s hounds got loose a few minutes ago, and he chased a cow clear across the courtyard. She ended up stampeding right into a farmer’s stand—you see it there? The one that’s standing askew, with all that splintered wood surrounding it? It was quite a sight. Turnips everywhere.”
I stare at him for a moment. “I was asking about the supplies.”
“Oh.” Bartholomew looks down at the list in his hand, and then he looks up with a grin. “I’m not sure. To be honest, with all the excitement, I forgot why I was here.”
I extend my hand, silently asking him to give me the list. Chagrined, he hands it over.
“Go…” I can’t think of a reason to send him away.
“Do something?” he supplies helpfully.
“Yes.”
He stands straighter. “As you command, it will be done.”
“Good, fine.” I scan the list. “Leave now.”
Bartholomew hasn’t been gone for even a minute when a horrific scent accosts my nostrils. I turn sharply, wondering what in the world could be emitting such a putrid stench.
“Hello, Henrik,” a woman says. She’s clean and tidy, with carefully pinned gray hair and a friendly smile. But the smell seems to be coming from her.
I bow my head, trying not to let my revulsion show.
The odor is putrid, like the scent of a rotting carcass combined with the smell of the guards’ barracks when they’re not adequately aired out on a hot day.
“How may I be of assistance?” I manage.
“I understand you’re leading the supply trip up to the north?”
I swallow hard, trying not to breathe through my nose. “That’s right.”
“Good, that’s good.”
I wait, hoping she’ll hurry to her point. When it seems she’s going to need some prodding, I ask, “Is there something I can help you with?”
“As a matter of fact, young man, there certainly is.” She practically beams, thankfully not noticing the tears pooling in my eyes.
“You see, my husband is up north right now at Fortress Lintanry. Lord Forlentia? I’m sure you’ve heard of him?”
Never in my life.
“All right,” I say.
“He can’t come home until spring, you see.”
What is that smell?
“And he so loves this cheese I make…” As she says the words, she removes the tea towel from the basket at her side, releasing a fragrance that is so potent, it could be considered a political act of war.
And there it is, the source of the stink. A mottled wheel of cheese, green with fuzzy mold, lies nestled in the basket—smelling and looking like an elgernauth rolled over it.
“Would you be so kind as to take it to him, dear? It would mean the world to me.”
I stare at the cheese with dread, imagining smelling that unique aroma the entire trip up to the north.
“I…” Accidentally breathing through my nose, I falter. “I don’t think…”
Her face falls.
“I don’t think it will be a problem,” I end up finishing, earning an approving smile. “But you’ll have to put it in something. Something closed tightly—to keep it safe.”
“Oh no.” She shakes her head adamantly. “It must be allowed to breathe, dear. Simply keep my tea towel over it, just like this, and it will be safe as can be.”
“Breathe?” I manage.
She wrinkles her nose. “Otherwise, it gets a bit soggy, you understand. And no one wants that.”
“No one wants that at all,” I mutter.
Like a fool, I accept the basket.
“You are so kind, Henrik,” she says. “Just as everyone says. Good luck with your seal.”
“Thank you.” I bow my head once more. “I will send your husband your warm regards.”
She pats my arm before she leaves. “Yes, yes. Such a nice young man.”
The moment she’s gone, I shove the basket at the closest unsuspecting guard. “Take this to the wagons.”
“What is it?” Aghast, he lifts the tea towel.
I knock his hand away. “Don’t open it. Just…put it somewhere.”
Grimacing, he says, “Yes, Henrik.”
He then hurries to the wagons, holding the putrid cheese as far away as possible. People turn as he passes them, muttering surprised exclamations.
With a sigh, I begin the task of checking off the supplies, making sure everything is accounted for.
“Are we almost ready, Henrik?” one of the wagon drivers asks a few hours later.
“Just about.”
A strange look suddenly crosses his face. He pauses, sticking his nose into the air and sniffing like a dog. “What is that?”
Ignoring him, I go back to counting sausages. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight…
A dog howls, and I turn and find Lord Kelvin’s hound is loose again. I shake my head as a page chases him through the courtyard, looking back to my task only to realize I’ve lost count.
I grimace as I start over.
It’s going to be a long trip.