Chapter Two
At noon, you made your way to the empty courtyard, and down the winding pathway that led to Bruce’s small lodgings, at the edge of the grounds. The smoke billowed from the chimney of the cottage, into the now white sky above your head. Bruce was there.
Careful not to slip on the ice on the small paving stones, you knocked politely on his door. It was a few minutes before he opened it, wearing an apron and covered in flour.
“You’re busy. Shall I come back another time?” You said, looking concernedly into his flustered face.
“No, not at all. Come in.” He gestured for you to step inside, closing the door behind you. The cottage was narrow, and the beams low that framed the way to the parlour, but you were relatively short and able to fit through. Besides, you had been here a few times. You liked the quaintness of it better than the draughty castle.
Bruce drew up a chair and took your cloak and scarf, sighing pitifully at them and hanging them up. “Those aren’t enough to keep you warm, you know.”
“As you’ve said before.” You remarked, slightly amused. “What have you been doing?”
Bruce looked around suddenly at the mess of bowls and spoons and the large heap of dough on the cherry-wood table.
“I’m sorry. It’s so untidy.” He apologised, and you knew it wouldn’t be the first time. “I was making fruit-bread, and I hoped you might stay a little longer to see it done.”
You nodded. “Of course. It would probably bake faster in the oven, though.”
Bruce reddened. “Yes, you’re right.”
He placed the dough onto a small tray, and slid it into the small oven in the corner, over the flames where it would soon turn golden. You smiled and helped him make the tea, reassuring him as he profusely apologised for his poor manners. It didn’t seem to matter that you had been friends for years, because he would always be the same. Bumbling, nervous Bruce.
But now he was quiet and contemplative as he sat opposite you. You had told him about Scott’s plan to marry Hope, and how you had to be the one to dissuade him. “
I know you don’t like him, but…” you trailed off, the end of your sentence running away into the warm air of the kitchen.
He shook his head. “If she truly loved him, they shouldn’t have been separated.”
Your brow creased into a frown. “Then, do you think what I did was wrong?”
Bruce was quick to put your mind at rest. “No. No, you were trying to save him, and her, from your uncle. But I think they will find their way to each other, in the end.”
You could only hope, but Bruce always believed. He had a faithful temperament, even after what he had been through in the past. You talked for a long time, after that, of Lord Barton and his son, Sir Clint Barton. You had met Sir Barton once, a while ago, when he was introduced to Hope at a ball you had both attended. You barely ever went to them now.
It had been hosted by the frivolous Lord Stark, who lived in the city. He was a renowned dandy and looking back, you had no idea how your uncle had ever acquiesced for you to attend. Perhaps it was his wealth - but then, he had been a sworn bachelor, a rich merchant who dealt in silver and iron from the northern coasts of Spain and France.
You discussed the future - how long it would be before your uncle got fed up of you wasting space in his castle and married you off to a stuffy Earl or Duke, if you were lucky. Bruce seemed to pale at the thought.
“Don’t worry,” you reassured, “I’m not going anywhere.” But of that, you could not be so sure. As you knew that Hope could never marry who she truly loved, you knew that you would not live here forever. You would not spend the rest of eternity on long walks around the grounds, visiting Bruce, helping Pietro with the horses or gossiping with Wanda. It had been your childhood, but not for much longer.
It was dark outside, and evening was casting murky shades onto the windows panes. Long before had you eaten his fruit-bread, and said you would take your leave, and he agreed, saying that he would accompany you back to the castle.
But you had strayed onto another topic, just like a maiden strays from the path to pick a bunch of pretty flowers in a children’s tale, and lost track of time itself.
“I really must go.” You said.
Bruce shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. I'm sorry for keeping you so long. Your friends will be wondering where you are.”
There was concern in his voice, and you knew how much he feared Pym’s wrath if he learned that he had kept you. Having you dragged into it would just make him more uneasy.
“Don’t fret, it isn’t supper time yet.” You said, rising from where you sat. You had secretly wanted to stay in his cottage, with its cosy fire and small rooms, but nothing of the sort would ever be allowed. Before Bruce could open the door, however, there was a sudden noise.
A screeching of metal on stone. Heavy breathing.
Your heart began to pound, and you stared at Bruce in alarm. He drew his hand away from the door, shaking as he retrieved the nearest defence he could find - a poker, stone cold, that was meant for the fire. But it was long and sharp, and was better than nothing.
The breathing grew louder, almost wheezing, before there was a strangled yell and the thud of a body falling to the ground. You had only begun to start remembering to breathe again when the door was pulled open, and a figure silhouetted in the darkness.
You pulled back, frightened, and Bruce brandished the poker desperately at the black mass outside his door.
“Stay your hand.” A voice said, from the darkness.
“Who’s there?” Bruce said, attempting to harden his voice. You rushed to retrieve the candle from the side table, and held the light up so that the voice could have a face. You forgot how to breathe.
It was a young man, blond haired, wearing a cloak thicker and heavier than any wool you had seen in these parts.Beneath it you glimpsed glinting metal, a gilded sword, and a wide chest plate. An ugly blue bruise was blooming on his jaw. You gestured behind him, to the body on the floor.
Words seemed to have failed Bruce, and you took his place as the spokesperson.
“What is the meaning of all this?” You spoke sharply, drawing your chin up.
The man bowed his head. “I am sorry to disturb you at such a time.” He said.
Later than you thought, then.
“But you are not safe here. There are mercenaries about.”
Your frown was incredulous. “Mercenaries? In these grounds?”
The man nodded gravely. “Yes, but it is not safe to speak here. I have dispatched of one, at the service of Lord Pym.”
“He is away.” You said, confused.
“Yes. There is more to tell you, but I must escort you back to the castle.”
You turned to Bruce. “You had better come too. If he was meant for you, then you aren’t safe here anymore.” Bruce tried to decline, you saw it on his face, but your expression brooked no argument. He quickly extinguished the fire in the parlour and barred the door with a pole, hurrying out into the night with you. The snow had begun to ease off.
Now only small snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, and the path in front of you was lit by the moon, hung round and yellow above. All the while you wondered who this man was, who had suddenly appeared to rescue you. You knew that though Bruce had scraped together his courage, he would have been no match against a mercenary. A poker against a sword. It was a joke that would be played in a royal court.
The man’s gait was strong, his paces quick and agile. He was broad-shouldered, and one hand rested vigilantly on the hilt of his sword. What if he was really a mercenary? Playing along, only to kill you both violently on the steps of the castle, your own home?
The thought was preposterous, but it stayed with you, and you hung back when you reached the castle, forcing him to enter ahead of you. You had only crossed the threshold when Wanda appeared, relief on her face as she embraced you.
“Lady Y/N. I was worried.” Wanda cried, clinging to you. You were more than a little surprised.
“Well, don’t be. I’m unharmed. See to it that Bruce and…” you faltered, looking at the man.
“Sir Rogers.” Wanda prompted, and you didn’t miss the small smile she flashed his way.
“...yes, see to it that they are prepared beds for the night. I will need to find out where Pietro and Dr Rhodes are.”
Now named, Sir Rogers stepped forward, clearing his throat. “They are safe. They are in the servant’s quarters, where no harm will come to them.”
Well, that was another thing dealt with.
“Forgive me, Lady Y/N.” He apologised. “I did not know your identity, before.”
“And would you have treated me differently?” You challenged. Before he could reply, you walked straight past him. “Come. I believe you have much to tell me.”