Free Candle in the Window by Christina Dodd Page A

“I rise and dress with the help of my
pages.”
    “Surely your squire lays out your clothes?
But, no,” Charles recalled. “Sir Guilliame removed his
son from your care.”
    “Young Guilliame complained most sorely, for
we were fond of one another. He had been with me for six years. But
I urged his withdrawal. I could not complete the boy’s
training to knighthood without the eyes to direct his
progress.” Now William’s pain echoed for all to hear,
but he fought his voice to an even tenor. “I break my fast
with a sop in wine and go out to the stables.”
    “Do you not trip and fall?” Raymond
queried, real interest in his tone.
    William laughed again, long and heartily, and stuck
his leg out from beneath the table. “Beneath these hose,
chevaliers, are shins bright with black-and-blue bruises, tokens of
encounters with unforgiving wood and stone.” He shrugged.“My years as a squire handed me worse
punishment for less reward.”
    “What reward?” Charles shoved his cup
toward William. “More ale.”
    “I’m free to wander in the bailey. As
long as I count my steps and follow my landmarks, I’m never
lost.” William found the cup with his groping fingers and
poured it full. He shoved it back to Charles and refilled his own.
“I walk with cane in hand, practicing until the drag of the
tip on the ground resembles my own touch. With the help of our
cleric, I deal with the estate accounts. And I render judgment in
estate court.”
    “You’ve found useful occupation then,
William,” Raymond approved.
    “But not pleasant, eh?” Charles joked.
“I remember how you hated the dull days of listening to the
lies of one villein pitted against another, and deciding the
truth.”
    “’Tis a fitting duty for me,” he
answered.
    “And my thanks, son, for relieving me of
it,” Lord Peter said. His spurs clanged on the stone floor as
he strode in with the dog and two youths dancing at his heels.
    “You ride, too, Father,” Kimball
shouted.
    “Indeed I do,” William said warmly,
wrapping his arm around the boys who nestled against him.
“With the help of these pages and Lady Saura.”
    “You ride your destrier?” Raymond
asked, surprised.
    “Nay, I’m not fool enough to try to
ride that fighting steed. They’ve found me a colossal farm
horse, big enough to carry me and young enough to retain its
spirit.”
    “And they understand each other,”
Kimball bragged. “Father and the horse think as one, and we
hardly needed to touch the leading rein connected to his
bridle.”
    “A leading rein? Like a woman?” Arthur
murmured. “How you must complain about that!”
    “Not at all: ’tis necessary,”
William answered curtly.
    Lord Peter stepped forward. “Welcome to our
home. My Lord Raymond.” Cheeks brushed lightly as they
embraced. “Nicholas. Charles. Arthur. I do believe you four
have grown!”
    Kimball shouted with laughter. “That’s
what he says to me when he hasn’t seen me in a
while.”
    The men guffawed and agreed. “So he always
has, to all the lads he’s fostered.”
    “A man’s got a choice. If he
isn’t growing, he is shrinking. I hope you always grow in my
eyes, Kimball.”
    Calling softly for a stool, Saura relaxed in her
corner. Lord Peter would direct the conversation, and surely he
wasn’t such a fool as to speak endlessly of the clash of arms
that William longed for.
    Bartley approached and announced,

“Supper’s ready, m’lady, will ye not come
t’ dine?”
    “Nay, Bartley.” She smiled at the
anxious churl, and petted the head of Bula, who had discovered her
in his first circuit of the room and now leaned against her
shoulder. “These gentle knights would unintentionally inform
Lord William of my blindness. Let me direct the dispensing of the
meal from my corner.”
    “I’ll bring ye a saumon coffyn,”
Bartley said firmly, “an’ a goblet of wine. The
wine’ll warm ye an’ that fish pie’s tasty
today.”
    “Come, chevaliers,” Lord Peter