Page 34 of The Protector’s Promise

Preparations for the meal were already underway. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Almain expected him to lead an attack he was not prepared to conduct. He strode to a table where a handful of Almain’s men sat. Court had to be careful, but he recognized one of them and could hopefully get information from him.

“Sir Roger, son of Lord Wellingstone?”

Lord Wellingstone was an honorable man, one who fought on the side of peace at the border. He assumed the son was no less.

The man looked up at him as conversation ceased around him.

“The same,” the heavily bearded man replied.

“You serve Almain now?”

“Until my knight service ends, aye.”

Almain’s men would never betray him. To do so would risk the wrath of a man who could wreak havoc on their lives. That meant Court could not be direct in his line of questioning, but he didn’t need to be direct to discern if his suspicions were correct.

“And will you take Moordon with us?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the man’s face.

The look that passed over Sir Roger’s face—and the visages of his companions—told Court that none of them were particularly pleased about this particular mission.

“We will,” he said only.

Court had his answer.

“Enjoy the meal and the hospitality of Camburg.” He inclined his head to the others. “Good day, sirs.”

With that, his course of action firm, Court waited for his guest to arrive. Ignoring the activity around him, he sat. And drank. Waiting for his future to be decided.

Unfortunately, a certain redheaded vixen distracted him from the task at hand. Instead, he saw her waking up beside him, felt her soft flesh beneath his hands.

“I want that claim.”

“Then it is yours.”

No matter what happened between them, or to him, Court did this for her.

And for the borderlands.

He had one hope. Robert Burnell, the king’s chancellor and co-regent of England, was the only man who could challenge Almain and the only person to whom Court could appeal if he hoped to refuse Almain’s request but keep his head.

When Almain finally reappeared and was escorted to the high table, Court did not wait for him to be seated. He’d finish this now.

“Before you sit, Your Grace,” he said, not quieting his voice or caring who heard them. “I would know one thing.”

The man’s mask of confidence slipped. “Which is?”

“Does this attack have Burnell’s full support?”

It was a guess. A wild guess at that. But with the cloud of his own ambitions lifted, Court could see so much more clearly.

And one glance at Almain told him his suspicions were once again right.

“What is this?” Almain’s voice was tinged with anger, and perhaps a bit of fear as well.

“I asked if this attack on Moordon has the support of Robert Burnell.”

“Listen to me well,” Almain spat, “I am regent to Edward I, King of England, and you are nothing. Certainly no one to be questioning me. You will take Moordon Castle or see yourself locked in the Tower.”

He’d expected the threat.