Chapter Text
Through the slit of his upturned helm, John watched as smoke drifted against a background of dark pine trees and an angry overcast sky. The haze churned in a hypnotizing pattern, coalescing and dividing into indistinct wispy forms. Flat on his back, he could see little else. The sounds of battle were gradually fading, clangs of swords and muffled shouts still carrying distantly across the field. The French were fleeing.
It had happened so quickly - one moment John was turning his courser to mount a new charge with a line of other knights, and the next crashing painfully onto the ground.
His armor was growing stifling, and a great pressure cleaved through his left shoulder. John fumbled uselessly at his visor with his gauntleted right hand, but his armored fingers were too clumsy to unlatch the clasps. He tried to reach over and pull off the glove, but his left arm was completely unresponsive.
Gradually, John could hear someone in heavy sabatons plodding slowly towards him. He blindly grasped around in the mud for his sword, but it was not within reach. Settling for the short dagger at his belt, John clutched it tightly and listened with heightened focus. He was far more valuable as a captive for ransom, but certain bloodthirsty knights were known to expend their battle-hysteria on the indefensible wounded enemy.
The footfalls stopped, and a solid weight hit the ground nearby. There were several metallic rattling noises, and then John felt his helm pulled away and off his head.
John blinked several times in the stark daylight, feeling a rush of cooling air in his sweat-soaked hair. The figure above drew into focus.
Sir William Murray, shed of his most constricting pieces of armor, peered down at him.
"Are you alive, then?"
"It would appear so," John replied, coughing wetly.
"Pity," lamented Sir William. "It seems I owe Sir Gregory three silver pieces."
Freed from his helm, John finally lifted his head to survey the ravaged battlefield. Abandoned spears and halberds rose from the ground, stained heraldic insignias torn and flapping lamely in the breeze. Dozens of dead and wounded men-at-arms littered the muddy field. A bloodied rider-less destrier wandered near the tree line, reigns hanging loosely as it stamped in the muck. John's green surcoat and plate armor was spattered with grime, likely from the violent fall off his horse.
The source of the tight pain in his shoulder was a thick crossbow bolt. It had impaled straight through his chainmail and muscle, pinning him to the black earth underneath. Sir William carefully examined it.
"Bad luck, Sir John. It caught you in the gap between the pauldron and breastplate. An admirable shot by the marksman."
"I'll inform the shooter of your compliments next we meet, Sir William," John answered. "Perhaps he'll amaze me with an equally astounding quarrel through your person."
Sir William laughed, then gripped John's speared shoulder and lifted it sharply upward. John grunted with the movement, but was thankfully released from the earth's clutches and finally able to sit upright. He tentatively tried clenching his mailed left hand into a fist, but succeeded only in sending a shooting pain through the length of his arm.
"I'll fetch the lads and the surgeon to help you to camp," Sir William offered.
"No, I will walk," John argued. He struggled to gain a footing underneath himself. "Let's locate my sword. If you're fortunate, I'll bleed to death during the effort and you can still collect your winnings."
---
Lord Sherlock Holmes, heir to his brother the Earl, had been only sixteen when forcefully removed from his brother's estate by order of their liege lord.
Sherlock's first several years as hostage at Northrop were marked by intense bouts of rage. The chamberlain had often locked the doors of his rooms and warned away any and all servants lest they be inadvertently be targeted by the angry young man. The episodes often lasted for days on end, gripping him with remarkable depressive moods that could be lifted by nothing and no one.
The attempts at escape commenced soon after, each plan growing more elaborate than the last. Disguises, accomplices, secret stores of supplies, hidden messages - a wide gamut of strategies had been tested in one way or another. The amount of guards and security measures put in place by the Duke increased exponentially. The final time, the knights giving chase caught him only two miles from home.
Sherlock disliked thinking about those days. Acceptance of his captivity arrived slowly and painfully, but eventually it grew over his ire like a numbing scar. Diminished, but ever-present and unquenchable.
Nearly eight years since he came to Northrop, he had settled into a worn and passive pattern of life at the castle. He greatly disliked everyone residing in the Duke's court, and often found menial excuses to avoid gatherings of the pompous lords and ladies. They, in turn, felt ill favor toward Sherlock's brusque manner and often rude comments.
That was why, upon receiving his summons to the chambers of Duke Moriarty, Sherlock neither rebelled nor sulked. The Duke was fair - as fair as one could be to a prisoner all but in name - but often showed little interest in the younger Holmes, except where he could be used to threaten Mycroft away from unwise actions.
As usual, the Duke's only son Lord James was present at the meeting. The Duke took great care in educating his heir in the ways of administering the family's massive holdings, and James, two years Sherlock's junior, could often be seen lurking in his father's shadow at every engagement.
The Duke was seated on a luxurious carved wooden chair and expensively embroidered cloth-of-gold cushion, wine goblet at hand and estate account books piled high on a nearby table. Lord James lingered like a shadow against the stone wall, hearth casting an ominous glow upon his person. Sherlock bowed, per protocol, and let a blank expression settle on his features.
"I've called you here because I have received correspondence from your brother," Duke Moriarty explained from his seat. "There is great and momentous news to be shared."
Sherlock had only seen Mycroft intermittently in the last eight years, when allowed by the Duke or when Mycroft had business to attend to at Northrop. Their meetings were often short, tense, and monitored by a steward. Sherlock had attended his brother's wedding last spring with a full complement of the Duke's most trusted knights as escorts.
"Your brother writes that his wife is with child," said the Duke, peering into his goblet. "The child is expected to arrive in the spring."
"If the child is male, will I be granted leave from Northrop?" Sherlock asked bluntly.
A frown played at the corners of the Duke's mouth. "Are you so eager to leave, Sherlock? Have you not been contented here in my household?"
"Your lordship is most hospitable, but, as always, I would prefer to return to my ancestral home."
"I suppose if the Earl begot a son, your presence would prove less beneficial. Your reduced position in the line of succession would leave you far less valuable." The Duke waved a hand and a servant emerged from the corner of the room to pour more wine. "But, your brother has repeatedly expressed his wish for you to be returned, and I cannot ignore the sentiment he attaches to you. James, my son, what is your opinion on the matter?"
James's face displayed a serpentine mischief, dark eyes shining in the firelight. "I know of many who would grieve the loss of our dear friend, including myself. On the court's behalf, I must selfishly request that he remain until my lord finds no possible use of him."
Sherlock allowed a hint of a glare to pass to Lord James. His rivalry with James was common knowledge at Northrop, but the Duke often seemed oblivious to the extent of the ill will held in their relationship. Sherlock dearly hoped that Mycroft's child was male so that he never be forced to become Earl and pay homage to Duke James.
"An honest opinion, my son," the Duke replied somberly. "Your concern moves me. The season grows late, and my father always instructed that the time before winter is a poor occasion to make rash decisions. I will judge your release again in the spring, when we know the sex of the child."
"If I might be allowed to return home for the winter, Duke," Sherlock requested with subdued bitterness. "I would be most grateful."
"With deepest regrets, the Earl must make do without you for another turn of the seasons. All will be decided in the spring, Lord Holmes."
---
Northrop Castle, seat of Duke Moriarty, was situated on a low rocky hill overlooking the walled town of Northrop. Abundant green farmland and large expanses of the Duke's private wood surrounded the picturesque stronghold. Several small streams flowed along the fields, converging in the nearby Northrop river, a tributary that eventually emptied into the Thames.
Sir Gregory Lestrade and his companions arrived at Northrop in the waning autumn days of 1374. It was one of the largest castles Gregory had ever seen; far larger than his father's holdings in Normandy. The town was lively and rustic, and many of the young peasant women waved excitedly and blushed demurely as the knights rode past.
Upon arriving at the gatehouse that separated the castle from the town, Gregory named himself and his companions as knights seeking employment within the Duke's garrison. The gatekeeper sent a page to fetch the marshal, and they were allowed to pass through into the castle bailey.
The contents of the castle's high walls were even more impressive from the inside. Enormous stonework structures rose on the western side, buttressing the fortified walls. Even from this vantage point, Gregory estimated the great hall to be at least twice the size of his father's. The keep, taller than the rest, flew Moriarty's standard, golden serpent snapping in the afternoon wind. Numerous stout towers dotted strategic points along the walls, all heavily manned and dutifully kept. Several smaller wattle-and-daub buildings encompassed the main yard.
The marshal, Master Donovan, met them outside the stables. Gregory and Sir John spoke to the marshal while the others attended the horses.
"Thank you for receiving us, marshal," Gregory said after making introductions. "We have been travelling a long and weary distance to return home to England. Our company has been engaged in campaigns against the French these past three years."
"You do us honor by calling, friend," the marshal replied. "My page tells me you seek to join the Duke's noble household. How many are you?"
"Five knights and one squire," Sir John told him. "We who stand before you, as well as Sir William Murray, Sir Tobias Gregson, Sir Sebastian Moran, and Sir Gregory's squire, who is called Anderson the Younger."
Marshal Donovan considered this a while, hand stroking his voluminous beard. "Lean times have befallen his Lordship's lands these past twenty-five years. The effects of the Black Death still haunts our Duke, and only recently has the population risen enough to work all the land he possesses. Although I cannot doubt your knightly valor, we are careful in the speed at which we take on new soldiers."
"We have met similar responses in our months since returning to England," Gregory answered. "It is difficult for freelance knights to find stable employment. It is unfortunate we were forced to depart the Black Prince's company in France. We have come to beg succor of your lord, for my compatriot John's sister resides within the Duke's court as a companion of the Duchess."
"Is this true, sir?" Marshal Donovan asked, surprised.
"Yes, my sister is the Lady Harriet. Duke Moriarty is liege lord to our father, and my sister earned the Duchess' favor several years ago upon her arrival at court."
"By God, I cannot refuse such familial service. The Duke holds loyalty among lineages in high regard, and will be pleased to learn of this. You may make yourselves welcome here. Castle Northrop is blessed in its graces and exuberant in its pleasures. None shall convince me that the finest diversions cannot be found, especially for vigorous young men such as yourselves. You shall be honored friends at my lord's table this evening."
Gregory and Sir John bowed in thanks. "We look forward to all that Northrop has to offer," Gregory replied.
---
Sherlock despised knights. They were crude and callous, and very often exhibited the feeblest of all possible intelligence. As dull-witted shields against enemy forces they were passable, but that was the limit of their redeeming qualities. So, when the five new knights approached their lord's high table in the great hall that evening, Sherlock cared little for the proceedings. Lady Molly, seated beside him, excitedly raised herself up to achieve a superior view.
"They're all so handsome!" she whispered to Sherlock. He twirled his knife in his hands, trying to ignore her prattling comments. Lady Molly had long shown fascination with every new man-at-arms that entered the Duke's service.
The great hall was crowded end-to-end with long heavy tables. Men-at-arms and others in service of the Duke filled every seat, as was common when the court was in residence at Northrop. High above in the vaulted wooden ceiling, great heraldic banners hung among hazy hearth smoke. The Duke enjoyed collecting trophies from his noble vassals bent under his will through battle. The Holmes's dark blue gyrfalcon was draped somewhere in the rafters. Sherlock had long ceased compulsively seeking it upon entering the hall.
The five knights in front of the high table wore their colorful surcoats over leather tunics. They knelt together before the Duke.
"Lady Clara has already discovered their names! She informed me this afternoon," Lady Molly said giddily. "Their leader, the one with the red fox, is Sir Gregory Lestrade. The rumors say his father owns large holdings in Normandy, and that one day Sir Gregory will become a great lord and quite wealthy."
Although only in his late twenties, Sir Gregory's hair was already brushed with silver. No doubt the women would find him all the more distinguished. Molly certainly reflected that sentiment. His clean and well-kept manner suggested a highly privileged upbringing. Like all nobility from the continent, Sir Gregory probably possessed an overdeveloped sense of ego. Sherlock looked forward to deflating it.
"Let's see if I can remember the rest. The tallest one is Sir Sebastian Moran, with the crossed black arrows."
Sir Sebastian wore a permanent grimace, and Sherlock perceived a subtle suggestion of restrained violence in every movement. He made a mental note to steer clear of that one; Sir Sebastian would undoubtedly find no qualms in inflicting bodily harm for any perceived insults, regardless whether it was delivered by noble or commoner.
"Then there's Sir Tobias Gregson wearing the grey hunting horn on yellow, and Sir William Murray with the white hart on brown."
Sir Tobias and Sir William appeared very much in the image of classic knighthood Sherlock had grown accustomed to seeing around the castle. They both wore arrogant grins and decadently eyed the high ladies seated along the Duke's table.
"And of course, Sir John Watson with the pale hound on green. He's Lady Harriet's brother."
Sherlock detected the family resemblance - the same blonde hair and open expression. Sir John looked every bit as knightly as his comrades, but something in the way he held himself suggested a reserved yet vigilant nature. It was an uncommon trait in a household knight, but Sherlock assumed Sir John would soon fall to the uncontrolled debauchery rampant among the Duke's garrison.
Sir John carefully studied the nobles seated along the table from his kneeling position. His eyes swept over Sherlock, and Sir John fractionally reacted to meeting a returned stare. The other nobles would hardly dare make eye contact with new knights, but Sherlock had never cared much for their aristocratic inclinations.
As one the knights swore their oaths of fealty, that they would faithfully obey the Duke until he turned them from his service. Duke Moriarty stood and announced his acceptance of their oaths. After a conspicuous show of bowing and scraping, the knights took their seats at one of the banquet tables with the rest of the household garrison. Excepting, of course, Sir Gregory - as leader of the company, he had been granted a guest seat at the Duke's high table.
Sir Gregory ascended the raised platform and took his place two seats to the left of Sherlock, between Lord James and Lady Molly. Lord James welcomed him politely but coldly. Molly blushed.
"Thank you for graciously welcoming us to your hearth and home," Sir Gregory told Lord James, who lent a brittle smile. "I have not seen a finer hall in all of England or France."
He greeted Lady Molly with a chivalrous bow and kiss of her hand. "I am Sir Gregory, my lady. May I also say, the ladies of the court have dazzled my entire party, but your radiance stands above the rest."
"I would not deliver such words in the Duchess' hearing, my lord," Lady Molly replied, cheeks growing pinker.
Sir Gregory tilted his head in greeting to Sherlock as well, but received no returned salutation. Sherlock was hardly interested in the mindless courtesies of nobility. Instead, as Sir Gregory took his seat, he decided to challenge the knight.
"I find it curious, sir, that you swear an oath to serve a vassal of King Edward and that you fought for the prince in Aquitaine, when your own father's liege lord is the King of France." Sherlock flipped his knife and pinned the blade to the polished wooden table.
Sir Gregory controlled his features remarkably well, betraying his distaste with only a twitch of his hand. "It is true that my father serves France. Our family has a long history in both England and Normandy. My mother's extended kith and kin reside near London. I doubt my father would respond favorably in knowing my actions, but until I inherit his title I intend to do as I please."
"And you find it simple to switch loyalties in such a manner?" Sherlock prodded, leveling a critical glance at the knight.
"I'm certain Sir Gregory receives no pleasure from that prospect," Lady Molly scoffed defensively.
"No, my lady, I do not," Sir Gregory answered slowly, eyes narrowing at Sherlock's impertinence. "If you must inquire, my lord, I find loyalty a virtue best served in the company of my brother-in-arms. We travel, fight, and practice together. I do not doubt their bravery, and would gladly give my life for each and every one of them. Whom we represent on the field makes no difference in my consideration."
Molly's countenance betrayed pure adoration for the knight.
"Be careful, Sir Gregory, that you do not find yourself caught between opposite duties. I would much delight in seeing your response to such a circumstance," observed Sherlock.
Sir Gregory frowned, and for the rest of the evening steadfastly avoided talking to Sherlock.
---
The next evening, Sir Gregory and his company were invited to attend an audience with the Duke so that he might acquaint himself with his new knights. The Duke wholly prized personally knowing each man in his household, believing it inspired greater loyalty and bolder service.
"Were there not five?" the Duke asked as Sir Gregory led his comrades into the grand chamber.
"Our fifth, Sir John, is reuniting with his sister, the Lady Harriet, after his long absence," explained Sir William. "He sends his regrets that he was not able to meet your lordship this evening."
The Duke, as it turned out, possessed an insatiable love for war stories. Gregory and the other knights indulged him for some time, telling of their exploits under the command of the Black Prince. Duke Moriarty laughed uproariously when Sir Gregory described capturing several prominent French nobles by surprising them at the latrines in the middle of the night, and shook his head sorrowfully when Sir Tobias told of the great fields of carnage where many noble young knights had died.
Talk came around to discussion of the Duke's massive court and prominent retinue of knights in residence. Many banal compliments were passed, and Gregory began to grow weary and long for his bunk in the garrison.
"I had a chance encounter with your hostage Lord Holmes," commented Sir Tobias suddenly. "He strikes a remarkable contrast within your household."
"Indeed, Sir Tobias," the Duke agreed. "I fear he is a hostile guest at present. You would do well to avoid him, as many in my court have learned from harsh experience."
"My encounter proved warning enough, my lord," Sir Tobias replied. "He took one look at my person and accused me of breaking into the larder early this morning! What inspired him to invent such lies, I do not know."
Gregory found it exceptionally believable that Sir Tobias had engaged in such an endeavor, but hardly with the sole aim of accessing their lord's expensive meats. He wondered which unfortunate kitchen maid had been seduced by the knight.
"Lord Sherlock possesses no honor of which to speak," the Duke observed. "In his first year here he attempted to flee on no less than seven separate occasions, and was recaptured only due to my knights' superior horsemanship. He cares for nothing and no one, save his studies. I have often contemplated whether offering to return him home would serve as a greater deterrent to his brother than retaining him as a guest! Alas, the Earl has shown a significant desire to receive him home."
"An incorrigible problem, to be sure," commented Sir William.
"Incorrigible, yes, but by God not the only one which vexes me," the Duke replied. "The younger Holmes insists on being allowed regular excursions into the surrounding countryside. His time away from Northrop is most cherished by its residents, but I dare not permit him leave the premises without escort."
"A suitable risk to benefit all, my lord," noted Gregory.
"That would be true if Lord Sherlock had not earned the malice of nearly every knight in my household. He spits insults at every turn and their ire brings them close to blows. Many an armed man in my service would enjoy seeing him fettered in irons for a month." The Duke took a draught from his wine goblet. His eyes widened dramatically as if a grand revelation had suddenly struck him. "Pray tell, would this not be a suitable test for my newest loyal knights? Is there one among you who would brave such a task?"
Gregory glanced at his companions. He remembered vividly his own disagreeable encounter with the lord, and would not wish a similar experience on any of those under his command. The knights' faces grew strained, turning to look at their leader. Each was silently pleading with their eyes that Gregory not offer their services for so vile an errand. Sir John was the only of his retinue not present, and so Gregory regretfully realized that the misfortune must fall on him.
"I believe, your lordship, you will find our comrade Sir John the most agreeable and chivalrous of knights," Gregory answered with exaggerated conviction. "Did you know he was knighted by the Black Prince himself? This very evening over supper he regaled us with how earnestly he wishes to serve your lordship, and I know he would never balk at such a challenge."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the Duke. "More wine!"
---
John led his bay courser from the stable, pulling snug his leather riding gloves as he walked. Stopping in the yard, he checked the cinches on his saddle. His sword and dagger hung as familiar presences from his belt.
Sir Gregory and the others had located him outside the chapel the evening prior, just after visiting with his sister. The knights had laughed uncontrollably for a solid ten minutes upon spotting him, then attempted to console him with vague platitudes. John eventually had grown tired of their mysterious taunting, and departed for the garrison house.
It was only this morning over breakfast that Sir Gregory informed him of the Duke's request. John had stared at Sir Gregory in disbelief, receiving only a mournful expression in return. There was hardly a knight at Northrop who lacked a grudge against the errant Lord Holmes. Certain stories regarding his offences were almost too extravagant to believe.
John, however, regarded his knightly covenants with grave solemnity. And so here he waited at mid-day for what all declared would be the most appalling experience of his time at Northrop.
Shortly, a man on a grey palfrey appeared around the corner of the stable building. He possessed the pale skin of a high-born lord and was dressed in a well-tailored dark doublet and riding cloak.
"Sir John Watson?" the man asked in a weary tone, drawing his horse closer.
"Lord Holmes, I presume?" John replied, grasping his horse's reins in one hand to steady the animal.
"Lord Holmes is my brother," he said dismissively. Lord Sherlock began riding a slow circle around both John and his courser, critically examining both. "You're one of the new knights."
"Yes, my comrades-in-arms and I arrived not three days ago." John eyed him evenly from his lower position, resolving to ignore Lord Sherlock's intimidation attempts. He flexed his free hand.
"Already claiming the prime assignments, are we?" A dark edge tinged Sherlock's voice, belaying his humored expression. The circling continued.
"My commander elected to volunteer my services," John replied guardedly.
"A reward, then?"
"I suppose that remains to be seen, my lord."
Sherlock's face grew contemptuous. "Have you fought in any real wars, sir?"
John clenched his teeth, trying to maintain a neutral expression. "As real as any, my lord. I had the honor of previously serving in France, fighting in the name of the king."
"That, in my appraisal, is a false war. Petty high lords squabbling over who has the superior claim to the throne of France. It lacks both point and purpose, ultimately."
"I've witnessed many a brave man killed in front of me, my lord. It proved real enough in their demise," John answered forcefully, steeling his eyes.
"Perhaps. Many a knight in residence here only plays at war, fighting useless skirmishes over land and property."
"So complains the man born to a wealthy family founded on such activities."
Sherlock stopped his palfrey directly in front of John, tilting his head slightly. After a moment's contemplation, he leaned forward and smirked.
"Come along, then, Sir John. The day waits for no one." He flicked his reins and started toward the main gate at a full trot.
John quickly mounted his bay and followed. His pursuit lasted through the main roads of Northrop.
Once outside the city walls, Lord Sherlock briefly glanced back at John several yards behind. He turned back, and suddenly broke into a gallop.
John grabbed his reins and spurred his horse to match the speed. Sherlock led him on a merry chase, weaving past carts and travelling peasants on the road. He veered off into a wide field, making toward the Duke's private wood. John's courser was far faster and more powerful than the palfrey, however, and they hadn't yet reached the tree line when the horses pulled even. He bent low in his saddle and urged the well-trained animal faster, rounding off Sherlock's route of escape and blocking his path.
Sherlock reined short, all elegance and style.
"You shouldn't handle a palfrey so," John told him, taking a few deep breaths. "A charger might prove more your speed."
"Indeed it would, but Duke Moriarty dislikes that I should have such an animal. I was forced to train this horse to my standards."
As if to prove the palfrey remained serviceable, Sherlock urged it into a steady amble as he entered the wood. The main path was well-worn and wide, so John trotted his courser to Sherlock's side.
The forest was shaded and rather chilly, but the scenery was pleasant enough. The wood was rarely used except for hunting by the lords at court, and so the path was quite deserted.
"What affliction befell your shoulder?" Sherlock asked abruptly, eyes on the trail ahead.
"Why do you suggest it's injured?" replied John, his aggravation waning.
"Your left shoulder is stiff and there exists a nearly imperceptible favoring of your right arm in two-handed tasks."
"And you can perceive it, can you?"
"You know the truth of it, Sir John. Am I correct?"
"Yes. It's how my company and I came to be here," answered John. "I was shot by a crossbowman in France and emerged unfit to fight. I can no longer block effectively with a shield, and my range of motion with a two-handed weapon is diminished." He glanced bitterly into the trees. "I suppose it was inevitable that I eventually suffer injury, at my age."
"Pray tell, how old is that?"
"Twenty-eight. Sir Gregory is a year my senior and quite fit, but even he cannot compete with the younger knights."
"But your comrades are uninjured," Lord Sherlock said bluntly, clearly confused. "Why did they not remain in France?"
"My friends did not wish to part ways, so they accompanied me in returning to England."
Lord Sherlock appeared to not understand, furrowing his brow faintly as he looked at John.
"Loyalty amongst my knightly brethren is a highly regarded virtue," he clarified. "They requested and were granted permission to escort me home."
"Ah," Lord Sherlock replied distantly.
Another question did not seem forthcoming, so John continued. "These last several years, I have traded correspondence with my old friend Master Michael of Stamford, the Duke Moriarty's court physician. He suggested the Duke might employ us."
"You've known him long?"
"Since my childhood. He supplied tutelage for a time at my father's home. Originally I sought to become a physician, like him. That changed upon first training with a sword."
They travelled along the trail in silence for some distance. The woods were littered with browned piles of rotting leaves, and John could hear the rushing of a river concealed beyond the trees. The ancient pines overhead rustled ominously in the wind and contrasted darkly against the pale grey sky.
"How long have you resided at Northrop?" John asked cautiously, after his curiosity grew unmanageable.
Sherlock's expression darkened. "Surely your friends in the garrison have explained all about myself."
"I've heard tales."
"Any of them flattering?"
"None so far," John said with a diplomatic glance.
"I would hardly declare their accounts definitive."
"And yet you do nothing to contradict their veracity, my lord," John observed.
Sherlock set his jaw resolutely, a somber cast overtaking his features.
They reached a split in the trail, and Sherlock confidently guided his horse down the right-hand path. After a few yards he forced his palfrey off the path into the underbrush. John stopped his courser at the edge of the trail.
"What route is this?"
"Come and discover for yourself," Sherlock answered from afar.
Sighing, John urged his bay after the lord. His horse picked the path far more slowly than the palfrey, who evidently had travelled this way before. Either that, or Sherlock had memorized an invisible trail of markers. The ground sloped gradually downward and became more slippery with rot and mud. If Sherlock caused John's horse to break a leg, he would be profoundly displeased.
Eventually, the courser successfully navigated the terrain and emerged from behind a bushy copse. Sherlock was standing beside his horse on a flattened grassy clearing. Nearby, the river John had detected earlier was flowing rapidly amidst a rocky channel, fed by a ten-foot waterfall that launched a misty spray into the air. Large flat stones lined the riverbed, overgrown with mossy protrusions.
John dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree.
"It's beautiful," he said, admiring in the sight.
"Yes, and quite secluded," Sherlock agreed. "I discovered it years ago after I escaped from Northrop. They spent five days attempting to locate me."
"Do you often run away?" John asked cautiously.
"Formerly, yes. I've learned that fleeing the castle directly raises the alarm with excessive acceleration. It is far easier to outwit a single guard."
John stared at him. He reflexively placed a hand on his sword pommel. "Speak your intentions, then."
Sherlock evaluated John evenly. "It is simple enough. I am a hostage of the Duke. You, of course, are present to prevent my escape."
"Do you intend to attempt escape, my lord?"
Sherlock's eyes flicked up and down John's person. "I've determined twenty-seven methods of exploiting your injured shoulder and incapacitating you. Only four exhibit any likelihood of succeeding."
John raised an eyebrow. He released his hand from his sword. "You must visit the practice yard, then. I'm sure you could disprove your flimsiest theories and discover anew twice as many."
"Take care, sir, or you may provide the very fuel for my escape upon our next excursion."
The words took John by surprise. "Have I passed your test, then? Many of the knights insist a second invitation is rare indeed."
Sherlock acquired a bored expression. "I have encountered many a foul riding partner, but you are marginally less offensive than the rest."
"A high compliment, to be sure."
"I wish to retain my riding privileges, and the Duke has made it clear that I must endure an escort." Sherlock glanced at the rushing river, then back. "I would keep you engaged in that regard, unless you find me as objectionable as my previous guards."
"And miss my quota of piercing observational insights and barbed wit? I think not."
"You mock me, sir," Sherlock replied caustically.
"I believe you mocked me first, my lord," John rejoined with an affable smile.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment, then broke into a laugh. He was soon joined by John.