Chapter 7

Seven

Alas my LOVE you DO me WRONG

To cast ME… OFFF… discourteeeeously;

For I… have… loved YOU… soooo LONG

Wilhelm of Warkworth sang as he stumbled, punctuating his ludicrous verses with hiccoughs and burps, his voice echoing down empty streets.

As crowded as the tavern had been, the streets were deserted. Even the least pious must be home, warming themselves by a fire, eating pie and waiting for the Magi.

That Stephen would call anyone to London at such an hour was prickling to say the least, but at least Giles knew the king's paranoia wasn't particularly discerning. Even Arundel had been in the City this morn, despite the rumors of his wife's confinement. And, after all, the lady of Arundel must be content with her match, judging by the brood she was providing d'Aubigny—even while she was still passing messages to her step-daughter, though he supposed even lovely little spies had dreams of hearth fires.

His thoughts turned to Seren Pendragon.

He had no desire to align himself with Morwen's progeny, no matter how lovely the girl might be. She was naught but a lovely spy, and unlike Matilda, there was no noble cause to champion on her behalf.

Listening to his brother sing, he suffered a touch of bitterness, because, unlike Wilhelm or Roger, he'd never been the man to dream of hearth fires, but at the moment, it didn't sound so bad—a pretty wife, a warm bed…

Perhaps Wilhelm's were naught but broken dreams, but his eldest brother had been deprived of his first Yuletide with his unborn babe, and his wife. Isabel, God rest her soul, was still asleep in their bed, her belly four months thick with their firstborn when she died. Meanwhile, Roger was discovered in the garderobe. Evidently, having risen during the night, he'd fallen asleep nursing an irritable bowel. The flames must have swept through that old palisade with a terrible fury, and the irony didn't escape Giles. His brother had trained all his life to die in battle—God willing, many years after their sire—and, instead, he'd died shitting on a pot.

It was unfair, he thought, and yet, as he had discovered throughout his time in the Guard, fairness wasn't precisely the purvey of God. Otherwise, Richard de Vere would have grown fat and happy, surrounded by grandchildren, his halls ringing with peals of laughter. He sure did give it a good try. Alas, his father would never steal another sweet into a slipper. There would be no more Magi gifts for his children or his bride.

His sisters would never again titter over imagined beaus, nor would they blush over compliments, or long for springtime, when they could peek out from their windows as their father's wards brandished shining silver swords.

For all intents and purposes, Warkworth would be restored, but nothing could bring back its spirit, and Giles wasn't sure he had it in him to give his people the joie de vivre his father inspirited, even in a bastard son—and that, for all it bespoke, gave Giles the greatest prick of envy, because, in truth, how many bastard sons mourned their fathers so bitterly?

Wilhelm did.

For all his brother's enduring snorts and grunts and growls, he was naught but a softy, with a gentle heart, and in that instant, he resolved to be more patient with Wilhelm.

For the first time in all his living days, he felt a kinship with his half-brother—a man who'd served his father loyally, and who'd vowed to serve Warkworth's heir, even despite his endless debates.

They passed a young boy alone on the street and Giles noted his gaunt face and rags. As best he could whilst supporting his brother's uncomfortable weight, he reached for his purse found a penny, and tossed it to the boy. After all, it was the Twelfth Night, and when should a man offer charity if not on the eve of the Magi? The lad smiled as he hurried to catch the shining copper, saying, "Bless you, good sir! Bless you!"

"Bless me!" exclaimed Wilhelm. "Bless… every… one!"

"Aye," said Giles. "Indeed." After all, they had each other, and they still had Warkworth. And, if they were lucky, someday his love-starved brother would find himself another love and Warkworth's halls might still ring with children's laughter. Pleased, after all, that he and Wilhelm had found some accord, he felt better… for a time… until they returned to the stables and found that one of the coursers was missing. What was more, it was the sable belonging to Giles. And what more, all the stable hands had clearly abandoned their duties to go home and eat pie.

"I tole ye," said Wilhelm, brandishing a finger. "Tole ye… but ye ne'er lis—ten." He hiccoughed.

Bloody hell.Giles hated being wrong—particularly when it concerned Wilhelm. But it wasn't just that he knew Wilhelm would not let him live this down. He'd paid good money for those bloody coursers and he'd spent hours upon hours training the sable. Still, though he was furious, he reminded himself that it was the Twelfth Night and he had only himself to blame. He should have known better than to leave good horses hobbled outside the stables, no matter the season.

God's teeth, at least they had the one remaining, and they were lucky it was still hobbled where he'd left it.

As God was his witness, if he was fortunate enough to catch the thief who'd stolen his sable on the eve of the Magi, he was going to rip out the man's heart, because he clearly wasn't using it anyway.

With some effort, he mounted Wilhelm's courser, then, hoisted his brother's dead weight onto the back of the horse.

"I tole ye," Wilhelm sang again, poking a finger into the back of Giles's head, and then, immediately after ascending, he tumbled forward, his chin plummeting into Giles's back with the force of ten stone. And then before Giles could take offense—or curse his father for raising up a bastard so the man had so little fear of his betters—Wilhelm drunkenly wrapped his arms about Giles, hugging tightly as he had when Giles was six.

God's breath, would he never outgrow his brother's ribbing? He was a grown man already—lord of Warkworth, heir to his father's seat—but his elder, half-brother clearly had no fear of him. Perhaps, Giles should have provided more cause for it—after all, he wasn't the man his brother supposed. If his fellow guardsmen ever witnessed such a thing, they would piss their pants laughing. They would marvel over his patience, and then, in truth, endeavor to call him St. Giles. But it would be the last words they uttered, and well they knew it, and only the fool at his back would ever dare.

For all Wilhelm's height and breadth, Giles could easily flatten him on his back. The fact that he would not do so was because… well, he loved the sot.

Reassuring himself that it was all for the best, he settled his ire. There was no way his brother could have maintained his saddle in the condition he was in. Even now, he was clutching Giles about the middle—like some oversized maid—grinding his whiskered jaw into his shoulder.

Cursing softly, ready to be shed of London's buggery and filth, he wasted no time returning to the King's Road, hoping the bastard who'd stolen his horse would treat the lady with the respect she deserved.

They'd ridden only about an hour before Wilhelm awoke long enough to grouse. "He musta sold her… thinking… ‘Why should I take ha'penny when I can fill my purse?'" He burped, the smell foul, then dropped his chin back down, catching Giles again between the shoulders. "Ye shoulda let me choke him… off," he complained.

"Save your fury for Morwen, Will."

"Alas, brother… an' ye would not let me choke her… off… either," his brother complained.

Giles laughed, though ruefully. "Not yet," he promised. "All in due time."

"Ye're too bloody soft," Wilhelm lamented, "Ye shoulda told the pillock to… piss off."

Giles sighed but held his tongue. After a moment, his brother's snores rattled his eardrums, but at least he was no longer singing and there were no more words coming out of Wilhelm's face—jibes or otherwise.

The night was cold, but not so cold he appreciated the mantle of flesh on his back, and thanks to Wilhelm's added weight, they were traveling at such a snail's pace the mare could have slept erstwhile she walked.

His brother certainly did.

God's bones, at this rate, they'd never catch their thief, but he was going to try. And still, he sighed, because Wilhelm was not his enemy; he was only a jealous fathead. And, in the long run, he wanted exactly what his brother wanted—even regarding the Lady Seren.

He no more intended to be saddled with a mole in their midst than he enjoyed riding two-to-a-saddle with the ox at his back. If only to counter Wilhelm's snores—not because he relished the season, nor because he longed for a burning Yule log, or because he was bloody glad for the company of his brother—he adopted the ear worm his brother left him.

Alas my love you do me wrong

To cast me off discourteously;

For I have loved you, oh, so long

Delighting in your company.

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves my heart of gold,

Greensleeves was my heart of joy

And who but my Lady Greensleeves.