So Laon had done what his new lord no doubt considered underhanded, devious, and far from honorable…but it had worked. And now there would be consequences for using such tactics. Just what those were, however, Laon was having difficulty discerning.
Ranulf de Gunnar was far from young and had long mastered the ability to appear disconnected from all that was around him. It was not surprising. If one survived the wounds caused by a fire, the experience did more than just damage the skin, it changed a person inside. The pain of recovery either broke their spirit or made them stronger. That the new lord was made of the latter was obvious, but whether he had become wiser or bitter was impossible to distinguish from afar.
The wind caught the collar of Ranulf’s tunic and flipped it up, slapping him on the side of his face. He pivoted and flicked it aside. His expression remained what it had been since the inception of the voyage. No anger, no remorse, no self-pity…no warmth. Emotions were not something the man displayed. His nickname “Deadeye” led one to believe hatred and wrath marked his life’s path, but Laon suspected there was much more to the one-eyed knight than the outward shell revealed. Long-distance observation would divulge nothing more than what Laon already knew, leaving only one way to determine the makeup of Cumbria’s future.
He must talk to him.
Ranulf ignored the old knight who had single-handedly ripped his simple, but livable life away and replaced it with one only a fool would want. His previous life may not have been pleasant, but as a prized commander to the duke of Normandy, who in a few days would be crowned the king of England, it had been very lucrative and—most important—isolated from the general populace.
The old man advanced another step and shifted his stance to counter the movement of the ship. He was standing on Ranulf’s left just outside of his limited range of vision, but that didn’t mean Ranulf could not hear where the aged knight was and just what he was doing. Ranulf had learned to perpetuate the myth of full sight with an acute sense of hearing, which let him know exactly where the old man stood. Close, but far enough away to step out of reach if Ranulf decided to physically assault him, and yet, just near enough for conversation. Something the old man obviously hoped Ranulf would initiate.
If the scheming knight had been anyone else, Ranulf might have been inclined to talk, if only just to order him away. But he was no longer naïve to the lengths the old man would go to achieve his desires. Few men had the audacity—let alone foresight—to seek out the duke and duchess of Normandy and convince them of their cause. And yet, Sir Laon le Breton had displayed a surprising amount of audacity by doing just that. Of course, fortuitous timing had helped. Henry had just learned of King Stephen’s untimely death and his rightful succession to the throne, making the stability of England—especially in the remote areas of the country—of high importance. Having loyal noblemen overseeing distant regions would be critical to securing Henry’s reign. So Ranulf had been ordered north to his new home, his new title, and his new responsibilities…his own feelings on the matter noted, but ignored.
“Mind if I join you?” The deep and even voice boomed across the short distance, cutting through the wind.
Ranulf fought the urge to look at the man and continued staring at the rolling sea. The knight’s commanding tone had been unexpected and had almost caused Ranulf to react instinctively in a deferential manner. Almost. Instead, it served as a reminder that the old man was far more than he appeared. “Better than staring at me.”
“So you did see me.”
“Studying your hard-earned prize from afar? Yes, I knew. I make it a point to know where my enemies are,” Ranulf replied, keeping his focus on the afternoon horizon. Detachment, not animosity, laced his tone.
Quiet followed and Ranulf wondered how long the battle-wearied knight was going to blatantly continue to assess him, when Laon deliberately walked around so that he stood on Ranulf’s right, and in his line of vision. Damn man was far too observant.
Ranulf shifted his jaw but remained silent, hoping Laon would take the hint. Unfortunately he did not.
“Now you can study me,” Laon offered coolly, “although I believe you have already been doing so for some time. And though you call me your enemy, you do not really consider me to be so. Otherwise, I would be dead.”
Ranulf fell to temptation and stole a side glance at the bold, candid man, who had just surprised him…again. Shoulder-length brownish-gray hair was thicker than it appeared at a distance and blew straight behind him as he faced the wind. Unusual slate blue eyes were enhanced by his pale complexion, which possessed the pasty look of someone who did not enjoy traveling by ship. But aside from the knight’s pallid skin tone, the man projected a commanding presence. They were of similar height and body build, except Laon was naturally leaner. Ranulf suspected the sinewy muscular form belied the old knight’s true strength.
Sir Laon le Breton might no longer have been practiced at wielding a weapon, but Ranulf was on his guard nonetheless. The man dominated his surroundings by controlling both conversations and situations. No wonder the duke had taken a liking to him. Another time and circumstance, so would have Ranulf, but the knight needed to understand that today he was manipulating no one. “You may not be an enemy, but you are certainly someone I don’t trust,” Ranulf clarified.
Laon shrugged his chin and nodded his head. The man was brutally candid, but Laon had a message of his own. “Unfortunate for you then that I am also your one and only noteworthy vassal, my lord.”
Ranulf closed his eyes and took a deep breath before exhaling. He was still not used to hearing the title in reference to him. Learning of Lord Anscombe’s death—a distant cousin he had never met—and discovering that his father and elder brother were no longer among the living had been too recent to fully digest. In that one moment, his life, his future had changed. And Sir Laon le Breton had ensured it was a future Ranulf was forced to embrace. In doing so, the old knight had uprooted Ranulf’s comfortable life—and he wasn’t ready to forget that just yet.
“Keep your fealty. I have my men.”
“From what I have learned, the majority of your men won’t arrive until spring. Until then you have the support of what? A couple dozen soldiers? While they are no doubt able men, I question if any of them will be very helpful in running Hunswick Castle. Have they—have you—ever had to deal with questions about candle making? Or determined what to do when the dovecote is raided by five-year-old mischievous little boys?” The old man smiled as if he knew Ranulf’s weakness. “Perhaps the fealty of an old, interfering knight somewhat knowledgeable about such things would not be so useless.”
Now that Laon had moved to his right side, Ranulf could see him patiently waiting for a response. Ranulf was unwilling to give him one. Instead, he clinched his jaw, refusing to agree or disagree. Giving up, Laon shrugged unperturbed and turned to face the sea. “You are far too young to be so severe and serious.”
“I’m a serious man,” Ranulf replied, forcing his voice to remain level and devoid of any prideful anger at the man who dared to criticize him.
“Maybe, but wearing a perpetually solemn expression does not necessarily make a man wise. Nor does it qualify him as a leader.” The tone was light, conversational, but the subject matter hinted at the gravity to which the old knight felt.
Ranulf turned to blatantly reassess his newly acquired, yet unwanted mentor. This time it was Laon who looked out to the sea and ignored him. Ranulf could feel his pride churning, twisting inside him in a way he had not experienced in years when he realized that was exactly the old menace’s aim. The man was intentionally trying to provoke him, not to arouse anger, but to gain something else—he wanted to understand just whom he was going to serve. “Have you decided upon