(ooc: A starter reserved for Arc Angel- I hope it's what you had in mind!)

The days are getting shorter once more by the time the returning army limps home. Many are wounded, and some lead horses which are going lame or which are on the verge of exhaustion. They are greeted by children grown taller, by weeping women, by old friends and anxious parents, but despite the throng it could hardly be called a festival atmosphere. Usually after a victory the streets are full of celebration, minstrels' music and children playing, excited and alarmed to see men go armed in the streets.
These returning riders have been victorious, but their ranks have suffered cruel losses. All too few have come home.

This is a small kingdom, which has been largely immune to the greater political griefs of its continent. However, things are shifting, new loyalties forming, and those chieftains who falter find their kingdoms ousted from valuable allegiances. Those left out in the cold are vulnerable to attack from barbarian invaders from without and ambitious barons from within.
It is a mark of the gravity of the situation that the King has remained in residence, choosing not to lead his men to battle but to stay and help retain order. Many suspect that he fears the ways of the emerging powers, that he is hiding from those who would do him harm. In the marketplace they talk openly of assassination, and in every tavern someone knows someone who, confidentially, has come upon menacing foreign characters who flout the rules and go armed in the streets of the capital. Suspicion reigns.

It is into this climate that the returning army rides, their numbers much diminished, their wounds untended. Their horses follow their feet up steep cobbled streets to the castle, which sits on a hill overlooking the city and extends a great wall to embrace its dense centre.
While those with families here peel away, solemn and unspeaking, the younger men and outsiders who are barracked in the castle enter its courtyard, handing over their weary horses to waiting groomsmen. One of the cavalrymen dismounting from his charger is Johan Wolfe, a taciturn young lieutenant who finds himself a favourite of the King.

In the vast doorway, the King is waiting to greet his men, flanked by his pretty daughter and his imperious French wife. A grave older man, once powerfully-built but beginning to run to fat, he nonetheless cuts an imposing figure. He has heard news of their losses, but is dismayed to find them so diminished. It shows on his face. He was once a warrior of great repute, but threats to his family and political engagements have kept him from riding out this time. Far from resenting his absence, the more experienced soldiers feel sympathy; they know what it is to be kept from the battle, to ache to join the fray, to feel powerless.

It is with especial bitterness that Wolfe, kneeling before the King as is the custom, thinks on such privation. After all, entrusted with communicating news from the front, he already knows what awaits him. When the others ride East once more, he will be staying here in the city. He is to find employment as a Guardsman. While his appointment at such a comparatively young age should come as a honour, a sign of trust in his considerable military strength, he is a cavalryman at heart, and does not welcome it.

If this is what he is thinking as he kneels before his King, it does not show on his face. After all, if their King is God's representative on Earth, then his decree is the will of the divine. In this place, at this time, to rebel would be unthinkable. As the only survivor of his rank, he leads the men as they kneel, and lays his sword, as custom dictates, at the King's feet.

[{ OOC :: It was wonderful, hope the reply is up to par. Love the title for the thread. }]

The days were long and many in number, the warm days of summer seeming to drone on as the once gentle sun shone unforgivably from above the fair kingdom. Beneath, the clouds drifted listlessly, thinned out and lacking the purity of white that might've been found upon a normal day. The soft green hills in the distance seemed to be but only a dream from within the walls of the small castle, the sudden lack of beautiful weather surrounding the region as if to reflect the turmoil within. A pair of aquamarine eyes drew over the scene carefully, soft eyebrows above furrowing together into a rather resigned expression.

The once bustling peasants and artisans surrounding the castle were nowhere to be found, no children out to play, not a stray woman to be seen here or there tending to errands. Instead the only stirring among the streets was that of a small group of pigeons as they swept down through the rooftops, making no noise to be heard. All was still, and unpleasantly so, a burning feeling of unrest settling in the young woman's chest.

This was when a lone shadow appeared along the hillside, beyond the kingdom's gates. It held the woman's gaze, she in turn squinting as if to try making it out. Soon, more shadows, though few in number, trailed after it. They seemed to dance along the horizon, but she knew that it was not the joyous homecoming they had all been wishing for. Still, the young woman stood abruptly, leaving the chair she'd set by her chamber's window in order to run down the corridor. Her skits trailed along behind her, for she'd not bothered to pick them up with the sudden sense of urgency and obligation she felt. Evelyn, the lone child of the King, was the one to alert her father that their soldiers were home at long last.

The family of three royals appeared before the castle just as the gates of the kingdom opened, long before the soldiers would be reaching their position. Upon sight of how few had survived, there was an obvious tension, a sadness, a certain frustration of all present. Yet, the King and Queen kept a solemn composure upon their steady arrival, their daughter's face mimicking that of the same manner. Resignation drew into her eyes as the last of them had entered the gates, a brightness she'd once shown as a younger girl long gone as she now looked on over the mere number of men. A somber expression drew a thin, grave line along her lips as the only survivor of the upper ranks stepped forth.

She quickly recognized the man as Wolfe, one of her father's dearest among their ranks. As she looked down upon him, however, she was not as welcoming as she may have been prior. While she still held a deep respect for each and every one of the men present, and a dear love for her kingdom, she knew what was to come int he near future. The assassination attempts would be turned to top priority, her father and mother made to continue in their desperate attempts of keeping the region held together as Evelyn herself was to be held in the castle.

Within the past months, she had been restricted from leaving the castle's gates, which had seemed terrible in itself. Now, she was kept under the constant eye of a footman, which had been even worse for whatever sense of freedom she'd once had. To come was yet a more desperate means of protection, a man now to be deemed as a full-time guardian for her. Evelyn despised this, but would undergo whatever her father so wished of her.

(ooc: I'm glad- I liked it myself, but resorting to Latin doesn't always make you popular!)

There has been no official war declared, no emissaries sent from foreign kingdoms to explain their ends, no treaty devised. Rather, old allegiances have begun to fail. Smaller kingdoms like this one were once protected by political relationships with the larger military powers, offering favourable trade terms at their thriving ports and lush, green farmlands in return for armed protection. However, they no longer have the luxury of such friends, and as the King strives to form new agreements, they are attacked at home and abroad. The land which lies unclaimed between kingdoms has become ungovernable, and banditry is rife. Many of the deserting soldiers have taken up arms with the rebels, turning the scarcely populated rolling green valleys of the outer provinces into a wasteland.

The other officers are- were- of noble birth, trained as the King was in swordplay as part of their schooling- many grew up with him and around the royal courts. Their command of Latin and Franckish languages is unparallelled, their swordsmanship elegant, their military etiquette unrivalled. Wolfe began his career as a mercenary, where he caught the King's eye as a powerful warrior and surprisingly developed strategist. The only language he commands is the language of the commons, the language of the men who now follow him. He is uncomfortable at court, receives his honours awkwardly and often without speaking a word, but among the men he trains and leads he is popular. There is more call for that now than ever. The other officers have all been killed, or were so badly wounded that they were left to lie in anonymous fields. By the time the valley was secured and a party sent to pick them up, many had died, or were beyond the reach of current medicine. It is a heavy loss, and the returning men know it. The officers who remain at court, and the King himself, will be gravely disappointed; after all, the men lost were particular friends. Their absence lends a sombre air to the occasion.

Wolfe knows he has to say something. The men are flagging and weary, and the disappointment on their leaders' faces does them shame. He stands abruptly, gestures for his men to do the same, and sheathes his sword, raising his voice in the Western tongue for the benefit of the gathered royals:
“We were overwhelmed on the Northern flank three days from here, my liege.” he explains bleakly. He steps back to join the ranks of his men. He is a head taller than most of them, powerfully built and imposing despite the weariness on his face. He claps each man on the shoulder as he moves down the rank, nodding to them. “Be proud that we brought so many home. We fought bitterly and drove them back. I'll see that Parker, of the fourth, is commended, my liege, who was the first to volunteer to take up the dead.”
When he reaches the aforementioned Parker the two embrace briefly and stiffly in their armour. “And Archer and Jones of the ninth, who lost their lives covering our retreat.”

It's no kind of victory and he knows it, but he knows too that despondence is no good for anyone. His face is hard- his manner with the men, in fact, is always hard- but he smiles, nodding to those assembled. The respect of this streetfighter-turned-royal-soldier matters to them. They swell with pride when he speaks proudly of them. It is a victory, after all, and it has been hard won. They deserve to go to their wives and families, to go to their beds heroes.

After all, they'll ship out again in a matter of weeks. And he... he will be here. Doing the job of a glorified bailiff. The evening is beginning to darken. He risks a glance at the King and his family, his pitiless grey eyes picking out Evelyn standing grave-eyed beside her father. He knows he should feel honoured that he has been chosen for this role- after all, she is the kingdom's succession, and thus in these troubled times of utmost importance. Wolfe has never spoken to her apart from to address her formally in the manner of his kind. Now he is to take the chamber beside hers, to shadow her when she rides, when she dines, even when she sees her women.
It seems to him an inglorious job.

He steps forward to be received by the King, moving a little stiffly, weary and aching in his heavy armour, bringing with him the scent of damp leather, of horses, of campfire smoke and camphor . Wolfe is taller even than his King, although he stoops a little in an effort not to show it. His battered armour covered with a heavy leather cloak, with a new scar on his throat and one wrist bound heavily, he is beginning to look his age as surely as the King does.
They embrace. It is the way of a warrior King, as this one is, or once was, to keep familiar communion with his favourites. Close enough for only the family assembled in the doorway to hear, Wolfe touches the King's shoulder, and says “Deal easily with them, my liege. It may not be clean, but it's incredible that we drove 'em back at all. They're good men and they did you credit.”

He moves down the line as is customary, addressing the Queen by dropping to one knee. If it pains him to rest thus he doesn't show it, only squares his shoulders to bow his head to her. “At your service, your majesty,” he says, and he opens one palm to her- a brief version of the gesture he performed earlier with the sword. He straightens and then stoops to do the same before Evelyn, steadying himself with one hand in the dust. His eyes are impassive when he turns his face to hers. After all, he doesn't know how much she already knows.
“I am at your service, my lady."

[{ OOC: Ah, well, the Latin impresses me, haha. I meant to reply this morning, but it was taking longer than I originally thought. I should be free to post this evening, however.}]

Upon seeing the wariness of their kingdom's soldiers- stiff-limbed from both their armor, the fighting, and the journey to and from home, immensely fatigued, and a vast sum injured- it were as if the young princess' mentality took on the stress their bodies had been through. She felt wary herself, her thoughts muddling unnecessarily as she struggled to keep some sense of calm. Relaxation had eluded her for at least a week or so, where the dark times of their kingdom had been at their worst. Sleep among other things had been stripped of her, her food supply kept minimal for fear of poison, her horseback riding halted due to fret of injury, and the absence of their honorable soldiers from the land had muddled much of her thoughts.

She fancied herself to have been well looked after quite before the turmoil had begun, but as of late the King's grip on her seemed to have tightened to a nearly unbearable point. If pushed further, she feared she would break completely-- lose any part of her prior mindset, and become set on isolation. Being constricted within the castle's walls was poor enough by her standards, but the mere thought of have a near stranger looking after her every move was a bit suffocating. Her thoughts had danced around the idea for weeks, wanting to accept it, wishing she could find some tangible reason for one of the better warriors within the kingdom to be kept busy with her. This all was for not, for she came to no avail in finding reason aside from her father's love and her right to succeed him. In her opinion, she would far rather her father be kept safe than herself.

Looking unto the soldiers as Sir Wolfe, she believed, reported to the King, she felt a stir of sympathy and a sudden glimpse of what kind of manner she was putting forth. Her family was somber, gaze grave, the lines of their lips pressed into a firm lines of despair. Their soldiers were all honorable men, at least those that hadn't already deserted, and here they were standing before the King whom had nothing to say.

While it was not her place to do so, Evelyn cast a testing, sideways glance at her father, as if awaiting a warm welcoming to their weary bodies and hearts, but none such came. His face remained gruff, thoughts obviously bleak as his gaze looked on into an unforeseeable distance. Raising a slow arm, Evelyn would rest her hand upon her father's forearm lightly. Then, stepping up to stand beside him, she would look up at him expectantly, as if cuing him to commence with some sort of reply. Her father's eyes, too, met hers and he nodded curtly as if to understand. He respected his men, and of course would wish to honor all that had fallen.

Mostly, he realized what a warrior's homecoming was like, as he had been one himself. They were weary, longed for the comfort of their families, and required a hearty meal to help recover. Thus, grinning, he welcomed them home in open arms. He spoke well of their abilities, bestowing many honors upon them each in a brief amount of time, and bidding they go home to rest. He would invite them into his home for a feast that night, as was customary of the soldier's homecoming, and them wish them god speed as he finished. Evelyn stopped back a bit to let her father do so, approving of his words as her composure once more held a certain air of hope. If she did not hold it-- who else in the household would even attempt it?

Her gaze followed as Sir Wolfe greeted her father, a grin lining her soft lips as they spoke quietly to one another. She'd no idea as of yet that he was to be the one to guard her, to follow after her every step, and aid her in avoiding harm. However, as he did approach and greet her formally, she caught on nearly instantaneously. Her gaze drew to his face, mouth parting slightly in surprise as she took a moment to conjure up a decent response. She was alarmed to be notified that perhaps the best of their warriors was now to look after her as a nanny might, ten if it were for protection. Casting a surprise glance up at her father, hesitant, she then relaxed once more. She had already agreed to allow her father to do as he deemed necessary, even if it meant he was to be the one to look after her. "You are well met, Sir Wolfe," she would reply, her gaze cast upon him as she looked at him almost studiously. Her facial expression was kept blank, though perhaps a flicker of curiosity was now kept in her eyes.

As the soldiers all seemed to begin breaking away to return home before the feast, the King would invite Wolfe to join in medical treatment at the castle so that they may speak in private about the kingdom's affairs. The King inviting those of his rank to do so was not uncommon, so as the invitation was extended, Evelyn would retreat back into the castle with her mother to clean up.

(ooc: Can't wait. I apologise for the giant, cumbersome post of doom! Feel free to run a little timeskip- or give us a glimpse of Evelyn's conversation with her mother- as you see fit.)


While the vast difference in their beginnings imposes its own distance, going to war together has its own etiquette, and the two men have a shrewd understanding of each other. Wolfe knows this King is one of the good ones, that he is a noble warrior, faithful to his family, loyal to his people. Indeed, he owes a singular debt; King Jude took him up as an unmannered boy, recognising in a child's play the makings of a great swordsman. He even flouted the rules of the day- as one only can in such a mannerly backwater kingdom- and took on a serf's son, first as a mercenary and then, unthinkably, an officer. In another life he'd have married a local girl, working the fields until he died as befits his birth. And yet the most recent campaigns have seen Wolfe ride as the King's second, his preferred guardian on the field of battle. The other officers spit on the ground when they speak of it- or used to- calling him “some peasant's son”, but he was never moved by their disdain. They bore for him the only respect he has any use for; they feared him in battle. The King's respect, perhaps, was more profound; he knows Wolfe to be a sober and powerful commander, a chaste man distinguished by his compassionate treatment of those who have nothing to offer him.
Their understanding, while stilted by blood, runs deep.

It is with surprise, therefore, that he sees his pleas for their monarch to lift the men's spirits fall on deaf ears. The King's grave expression is disheartening, and Wolfe knows that if he feels it thus, his men- much wearied and grieving for lost comrades- will take this a heart's blow. He struggles not to allow himself to speak up, and almost loses the battle. While he keeps his face composed, one who knew him better would see him square his shoulders, agitation tautening the lines of his body. However, he is moments from protesting when Evelyn saves him from himself, stepping in herself. Wolfe is the only one close enough to see the exchange that passes, all but wordless, between them. He watches the princess shrewdly as her father steps past her to do his duty. It is a relief to know that it no longer falls to him to raise their spirits. They are good men. Above all, Wolfe stands to see justice done.

He'd sooner lose his tongue than speak of it, but it is with grudging respect that he surveys the young princess now. He has never really looked at her before, thinking of the King as his contemporary and the girl child, therefore, as just that- a child. He catches sight of her in a new light when he sees her behave so shrewdly, and with such compassion. She is older than her years, perhaps- children always are, in times of war. She has become a young woman in the time since he looked at her properly.

The men depart with hope and a sense of accomplishment that Wolfe- never a man of many words- was unable to conjure for them. They are a sorry sight- lean and hungry now, bruised and heavily bandaged- but they take up arms with bright eyes and he is thankful for that.

It is not until he kneels before the girl that he realises she hadn't known what was to come- perhaps she'd known she was to have a guardian, but he is certain that he sees a flicker of alarm in her eyes. It must be the realisation of who he is and what he is to become to her. It is perhaps a mark of exactly how thick-skinned he has become in his years of being unmarried and surrogate father to his men that he is not hurt by the stricken look she struggles to hide. Her lips part, and for a moment she casts a look of alarm at her father, whose face is impassive. No doubt, Wolfe supposes, he looks to be every bit the brute, seeming roughly mannered to a girl so delicate. He feels no sting, only pain for her.
This close, she looks as weary as he feels. She's still just a girl, and she will become a woman in a deadly world, all politics and intrigue and daggers in the dark. Girl or not, however, she conjures a civil and distinguished response. She calls him 'Sir', which in its own way strikes a chord- that would be too far, even for their progressive and reasoned leader, to knight a serf's son. Lieutenant is sufficient scandal for any company. But he is charmed to hear her say it and not unmannerly enough to correct her- she is hardly mistaken, technically. It is unheard of for an officer not to be of noble blood. She may not even know.

Wolfe, while in his own way an exception to his birth, is no rebel; he believes what so many believe, that nobility of person is divinely given, that class is as concrete a condition as age, sex or height. It pleases him that she speaks in a manner that befits a royal, despite her shock. 'How quickly they learn', he thinks, and bows his head solemnly to accept her greeting as the men begin to disperse. Later, there will be much great cheer and carousing; they'll eat well and take home food to their families. Now, they are wearied and so is he- but there is no question of his returning to his own bachelor's home. He can't remember the last time he was there; now, as ever, the King has need of him. After all, of the officers who went away, he is the only one who has returned.

Beckoned over, he stands and makes haste to his King, sheathing his sword. “My liege,” he says, gruffly, as the great doors are opened for them to enter. As custom dictates, the ladies enter first, followed by the two men. Wolfe's footsteps ring clearly in the vast hallway, whose flagstones are worn- a fact he notes with some satisfaction. His mind, while half attending to King's urgent monologue, is on the task at hand- security. The carpets have been taken up; any entrant's footsteps will ring out through the vast stone hallways. So much the better.

“It is a great pleasure,” the King is intoning as Wolfe reminds himself to attend- “to see you returned. The last messenger spoke so gravely-”
The younger man nods shortly. “It was hard fought, my liege. It was not until their commander was unhorsed-” he falters, remembering the presence of Evelyn and the Queen scarce steps ahead of them, and clears his throat. It is considered indelicate in the extreme to speak frankly of war in front of women. “Saving your presence, your majesty, my lady-” he adds, and changes direction awkwardly; “And yet here we are, thank the Lord.”

The King closes his eyes in observance of this, as is appropriate. They have come to the great arching staircase at the West end of the ballroom, which the ladies will ascend to dress for dinner. However, before they can move to retire, King Jude clears his throat. “Evelyn. It is to Lieutenant Wolfe that I have entrusted your safety. He's no stranger to you. The kingdom cannot afford to lose its princess, and I cannot bear to lose mine.”
Wolfe looks uncomfortable to be witnessing this, and looks away, to find the queen hiding a smile- it is so unusual to see her grave husband so sentimental. “God willing, he can protect you better than any man in these difficult times- inside our walls and outside. I see no need to curtail your freedoms as long as you undertake to keep him in sight.” he smiles fondly at his daughter, eyebrows raised. “It does my heart good to see you ride. There's precious little beauty to be had in times of war.”
At this, discomfited though he looks, Wolfe nods. There is nothing on Earth he understands more profoundly than he understands this.

[{ OOC: No apologies necessary, I enjoyed it. Decided upon a bit of conversation instead. }]

Arm in arm, the Queen guided her daughter in through the halls. Their footsteps soft, as if careful along the worn flagstone of the corridor's floor, their steps sounding nearly in sync with the other's as they kept some short distance between themselves and the following men. Evelyn held herself well, her gaze drawn forwards as her mother and her spoke little within the time allotted on their walk.

"Now, mon ange (my angel), have faith in thy father. The young sir shall be taking his role tout de suite (at once)," the Queen's accent was still present at this time, her home language even scattered about through her speech as she spoke to her daughter in soft tones. It was no secret that the young lady was distressed with this decision, but it was not so that she was in doubt of her father-- above all, she would not doubt him. "Verily, I do not believe-" the younger of the two began, her tone matching that of her mother's in its softness before it was cut short.

Both ladies stopped speaking to hear that of which the officer had spoken, no reply from either as the topic was then quickly begged a pardon of. Instead, the Queen glanced towards Evelyn, raising an eyebrow towards her slightly as if to gouge her response to talk of war. It may have been considered rude to speak of such things in front of ladies, but it was more so the fact that war tended to be a touchy subject in the household that her mother was curious to see what her daughter would do.

Evelyn herself kept her composure, though the sides of her lips took a slight downward fall, again resting in a grim line for a few moments. It was not due to feeling insulted in any way, as her mother had expected, it was instead because of such topics. She, herself, would have preferred not to hear about it after seeing their loss of soldiers. Nevertheless, it was due to his apology that her lips again changed form, instead forming a grin of understanding. His obvious sense of manners gained him some respect on her part, and his way of catching himself actually caused her a bit of amusement. The Queen smiled coyly upon sight of her grin, her gaze turning to then look ahead of them as they continued their walk quietly.

The two were to ascend the stairs when the King cleared his throat, drawing their attention. They turned to the men, Evelyn's gaze locking on her father's as he spoke. However, it then swerved once to Wolfe at his mention. "If e'er I was to trust an opinion, it would be that of yours, father," she would speak slowly, deliberate and honest as her gaze then returned to rest on her father. "Many thanks," she then added, nodding to the King. Her freedom had been cut quite short recently, and while she had faith in the Lieutenant's capabilities it was a happy surprise to her. Finally, a warm smile lit her face, as her mother spoke up, "By your leave, good husband." Both women would then turn to leave abruptly, Evelyn's eyes lingering on Wolfe for but a moment before she followed along after her mother.

As ever, his clumsy apology only draws more attention to the error, and he is left wondering why he can't mind his tongue. Another man wouldn't care, but Wolfe- who has a lot, after all, to prove- is constantly on guard. He gives the impression of a man who very rarely allows himself to slip up. However, if this is a slip up, it is not unkindly taken- while the King frowns, the ladies seem unmoved. There is the ghost of a smile on the Queen's face as she looks back, and- he could swear- on Evelyn's, too.

Wolfe's attempts to be mannerly, he knows, only distinguish him further from men of more elevated birth- a true gentleman would never falter, and certainly never apologise. More than the occasionally faux pas, it is his awareness of his manners, the care behind his stiff formality, which sets him apart as the consummate outsider. A jumped-up serf to the gentlemen and an aspirant traitor to his own, he prefers his own, uncomplicated company.

While he may show himself up in matters of fine etiquette, in politics and strategy Wolfe's cultivated blankness masks considerable astuteness. He may be uncomplicated, but the King knows that he is far from simple. While he has no idea of the finer arts of diplomacy, dismissing the rebels as traitors and the Frankish as snakes, he has a soldier's way of turning every problem into a practical issue. His knowledge of military strategy and tactical defence is second to none, and he has grown into an intelligent warrior, using guile where muscle will not suffice.

However, it is not of war that the men talk as they turn towards the hall, at whose great window they are accustomed to standing and looking out over the city. Wolfe knows comparatively little of the latest threats to the kingdom, or the person of the king. He is heartened to see that the news of his guardianship is perhaps not horrific to the girl; she even smiled at her father's diplomatic explanation. Which begs the question...

“Is the princess bound to the castle?”
The King sighs. “Lately, I fear so. Our guards have turned away more than one who would do us harm since I last sent a message. Evelyn is protected by a footman, but...”
He doesn't need to finish the sentence. Wolfe nods briskly.
“You were wise, my liege,” he says, lowering his voice. The legendarily tireless lieutenant is beginning to flag, and is grateful when his King takes a seat so that he may do the same. “Those who would harm her know their craft. It only takes a moment's inattention.”
The King looks grave, and then forces himself to smile.
“She rides well. It's a joy to see. I doubt my footman could have given chase...” he laughs, offering a flagon of mead across the table. Wolfe waves it away.
“Rest assured, my liege, that I can.” he responds. This is said without humour, without boast or pretension.

It is precisely this humourless intent that sets Wolfe apart as an unparallelled guardian, the King feels, for something so precious. He sits back and studies his old brother-in-arms, shaking his head slowly.
“I pray you can.”

Upon reaching the stair landing, the Queen departed to the shared chambers between herself and the King whilst Evelyn went to her own, in a separate wing of the castle. With her ladies not allowed to tend to her for the time being, she sat alone at a carved oak vanity to comb out her long, golden hair, letting it fall over her shoulders as she worked at it slowly, much on her mind. Given the circumstances, she was still in a decent mood, given her freedom would be re-instilled. The fact remained that Wolfe would have to escort her, but that was the least of her problems- and, through her mixed feelings on the issue, a part of her knew that she should be relieved.

Her gaze rested on her form in the mirror for a moment as she examined herself, the pale ivory of her skin light against the shadows of her room behind her. The wariness in her blue-green eyes, the waved hair hanging down the sides of her face. Wrinkling her nose a bit, she stood, then moving to wash, dress, and generally clean up. It was expected of her to attend every feast, and as a lady she wanted to look presentable, even if this night was to be no true celebration.

Some while later, she again glanced at herself in the mirror, tucking a piece of stray hair into the swept-up styling she'd put the rest of it into. She now wore a gown- a simpler one of those that she had- of nearly the same color as her eyes. Then nodding to herself slightly, she sighed softly, and exited her chambers to walk herself down along the corridor. Evelyn took her time, having been quite a while since she'd been truly alone, if only in a hallway. It was a breath of fresh air, something that had seemed to help her relax as she readied herself for the night. Her fatigue was gone in part, a bit of healthy, non-artificial coloring on her cheeks and a liveliness in her eyes.

As she descended the stair, she caught up with her mother, who'd also cleaned up a bit. Casting a long look at her girl, the woman then smiled bitter-sweetly, "My daughter has turned into quite a fair maiden!" Evelyn's face flushed a tad, one of her hands rising to rub the back of her neck shyly. She was used to such exclamations from her parents- as were most young ladies of theirs. After brief conversation about nothing in particular with her mother, the two walked together to enter the dining hall, where the feast would be held.

Musicians were getting arranged, plating being set, kegs added to each side of the room for the soldiers to have their fill of, banners hung, flowers in vases, and a scent to the air that was both pleasant and greatly appetizing. Evelyn smiled at the sight, the normal set-up for all small feasts hosted at the castle, and one that she had seen quite often since childhood. She walked right on in, the inviting atmosphere only driving her forth as the Queen went off to speak with those in the kitchen about the meal.

Walking around the room leisurely, she would admire all that was put into decorating the hall. More now than ever, a cheerfulness danced in her gaze, a smile lighting her lips as servants scurried about here and there to make sure everything was in place. Then curious to see where her father had whisked their guest- or rather, their new addition- off to. Her gaze moved about the room first, passing off a shrug if she did not see them, but sending over a small smile if they were present.

The two men share a glass of mead, seated on a long leather chaise looking out over the city. It heartens Wolfe to see his home again, although he has spent the vast majority of his life on the road, and uses his sparse but substantial bachelor's rooms only to rest between campaigns. He has never really learned to live that life, never become accustomed to its rules, its timetable, or its simple pleasures. While it is a hard life, with few comforts and the promise of pain down the line- no soldier truly escapes- a soldier's life has its compensations and it is the life he knows.

However, right now, with the sun setting over the city which despite its wariness looks peaceful, the pebbled streets and low terracotta roofs giving way to rolling hills all the way to the horizon, he has to admit that a rest is... appealing. They have ridden hard, and it has been many days since he slept properly. Perhaps a short stay at the castle, hospitable as it is, wil be no great hardship. He does not fear assault or that he might carry out his role poorly; he is as able as any man to protect the girl, and he knows it. But he has been a soldier all his life, has never married, and cares little for the traditional vices of soldiers away from home... in short, he is a man who has passed very little time with women. Being alone with Evelyn is a daunting prospect. Perhaps unfairly, he cannot imagine what he might say to her, or she to him, that would bridge the gap. But then, he talks to her father easily, practised in exactly where the boundaries lie between them; a little jesting, even a little disagreement, passes muster when they are alone. Perhaps he will find a voice for addressing the girl.

When the servants come to sweep up and begin setting the table for the banquet, the two men retire. He knows many of the girls, city girls from his way who are pleased and proud to work in the castle, and constantly surprised by how far their childhood playmate has come. He bows to them as though they were fine ladies, which never fails to make them laugh. But they are saddened, too, to see him weary and wounded, as they were saddened to see friends and sisters widowed, to lose brothers and beaus.
Wolfe stops in his accustomed chambers- not the ones he'll take after tonight when he is tasked to watch the princess- in the East wing, out of habit, and asks one of the girls to find him a clean tunic. Finally, he bathes in a great copper tub by the fire as he watches the sun set. It is a luxury of a sort, although he's reminded by the wound he has been carefully concealing when he struggles to straighten in the cramped and slippery space. He took a short, blunt-nosed dagger above his shoulderblade in the fray, and the wound has not yet closed. It seemed minor at the time, but the ache is persistent, and when he stands he sees that the short, deep cut has coloured the water red. The girl has seen to soldiers before, and brings back a tunic in the accustomed colours- black, brown, deep green nothing light enough to show blood. He thanks her warmly. It is a matter of inelegant and bleak principle; never let 'em see you bleed.

Dressing after drying in front of the fire, he dons the fine cotton tunic, which is only daywear but as close to formal as he can countenance. None of his men have fine clothes, and they will come in uniform- to him formal robes look like a ladies' gown, and he bluntly states that he would look ridiculous. Besides, he doesn't like to be divided so bluntly from the men that follow him. He dons clean fawn britches and hose, cleans and oils his trusty leather boots, and after a moment's though, decides against wearing a mail shirt. The sword, however, he cannot bring himself to leave behind. He feels half-dressed without it, so after a moment's thought he straps on his sword-belt just as if he were off to war, wearing it across his hip rather than over his shoulders, as is the custom. As his hair dries, he shaves carefully in front of the window, and is startled- as he always is- by the sight of his beardless face. Under the mud and worse he looks younger, closer to Evelyn's age than her father's, although he won't see thirty again. Apart from a bruise on his cheek and his scarred, swordsman's hands, he could pass for a gentleman- albeit an unusually powerfully-built one... at least until he opened his mouth.


The men will be permitted to go armed, as is the law, and they will choose not to, as is the custom. But Wolfe has carried a blade since he was tall enough to strap one to his back without the sheath dragging in the dirt; without it he can't relax.

He descends the stairs slowly, wearied, trying to find the appropriate mindset for a celebration when he is tired and feels disappointed, bitterly guilty that they lost so many. The men need him jovial- a sight they see so rarely- and jovial he is, greeting each man with a handshake as they enter and waving them over to the great barrels of mead mounted at the end of each trestle table. He, like most of the older men, drinks from a flagon of ale. The room is scented with fine meats and great sprays of flowers, and despite himself he is cheered by its flickering firelight. He keeps an eye on the men, absently, unused to not being responsible for them. And over their heads, he bows his head to the King, and becomes aware of Evelyn's eyes on him. She disguises her mournful mood less well, but he can't deny that she looks fine. Her fair skin is flawless in the low light, her face a little less drawn, perhaps, a little more joyful. He is not sure what the etiquette is, so he bows his head to her, as he would her father.

He joins the men as the food is brought out, and takes his accustomed place opposite the king, where he can keep an eye on the younger soldiers. Some of them are unaccustomed to such luxury, and in another setting they would eat indelicately with both hands, while others would guzzle mead and become bawdy and loud, scuffling in the dust. However, they are cowed by their surroundings, and instead observe quietly and speak excessively formally to one another as they wait for the King to address them.

Upon first glance, Evelyn nearly didn't recognize the freshly-shaved face of Lieutenant Wolfe among the small, gathering crowd of soldiers. With the facial hair and grime from battlefields gone, he'd also lost many years. He now also wore a tunic, a distinct difference from the uniform she'd seen him in previously. As she glanced over him for that moment, a curiosity still held in her gaze towards the man, she figured him almost- fine, in a gentlemanly manner.

His gesture of nodding towards her made a small smile slip onto her face, recognizing that that was also how he greeted her father. Being put on the same pedestal was a bit flattering, though she did recognize that she was still royalty. So, nodding slightly in return she would turn to continue her walk about the room. Her father sat at one of the table's ends as customary, her mother already seated at his right, leading her to move to sit in her place at his left. On her other side soon sat one of the soldiers, an older one who had been in her family's service for many years.

This was the normal for her, so she did not hesitate to begin polite conversation with the man. He spoke of his family, his wife- who happened to have been one of her tutors for some time- and his daughter, who was about the same in years as her. Evelyn received the information warmly, and the two then spoke in more informal terms, her father smiling at this but not daring to interrupt quite yet. Others flooded into the room, members of what was left of the small royal court, minstrels gathering to entertain, and a select few others from in town- blacksmiths who supplied weapons and those who worked similarly.

It was when all were seated around the grand oak table that the King would stand to welcome his guests, keeping his words short for knowledge that most were probably hungry. The, ordering in the serving staff, the dinner began. Roasted pigs, deer, and hams were brought out on platters, vegetables and other assortments on accompanying trays, the smell that had been mingling in the air earlier now fully filling the room. The King would seat himself once all food was placed on the table, as was tradition, and the feast would begin.

Evelyn would wait for the soldiers around her to be served, as she found they would be more in need of sustenance than she, before taking a helping of regional fish. Then, placing her napkin on her lap delicately as she had been taught, she began to eat. Wine, ale, and a few other assortments would be served spontaneously be the serving staff now, coming about the table to fill the goblets of those present. Evelyn took a small goblet of wine, enjoying pleasant conversation with those surrounding her as the evening wore on. Music from the minstrels played softly, a form of entertainment through the conversation.

Hours later, after a full, hearty meal had been given, the guests were bid a good night's sleep and given the privilege of the kegs on either side of the room. The King would move to retire, first placing a firm kiss upon his daughter's head as he passed, then nodding towards Wolfe as he passed the man along the way as well. The Queen would follow soon after, speaking into Evelyn's ear quietly as she, in turn, smiling up at her mother. She too then stood, but instead of moving to retire, she bid the pardon of the older man she'd been speaking with and slipped through a doorway at the side of the room.

Down through the narrow corridor and up a flight of stairs she would wander, leading to arguably the quaintest room in the house by her standards. A few rows of leather-bound books lie ahead, and beyond that, a large window with a view to the east, far beyond the reaches of the kingdom. Sighing softly, she let her thoughts dance off on their own, both of her palms placed along the window sill. She grew wary, and thoughts of retiring rolled on through her head, but first she would allow the castle's guests to thread out a bit, knowing it shouldn't be far too long before the voices within the dining hall died down again.

In his own stilted way, Wolfe loves a lot of the men. Those he doesn't like, he loves as well as he is able; to many of them he's the only father they've ever known. The war has been long, many of those remaining are only boys. Of course, the fathers of the age are distant, forbidding men, who exercise their patriarchal rights as brusquely as they do their marital ones. Wolfe is no different; he is the first to knock an insolent man to the ground in pursuit of an important lesson. He does endeavour to be compassionate, but this is not the same as kind; he has run them hard, and that is why so many have survived. They have known little respite in training, and in battle there is no respite to be had.
In another life, as older men, they will be grateful for his firm hand.

As it is, there is the expected level of resentment and young men's impotent anger stewing in the ranks. They have developed the unsavoury habit of referring to the city's whores as “the widows and orphans fund”, in reference to the poor fate of those girls and wives whose fathers and husbands no longer live to provide for them. It goes hard with those caught speaking in such a way, and harder with those who carry out their scheme.
While it is readily accepted as a soldier's right to patronise a house of ill repute, Wolfe has solemnly forbidden them from doing such an ugly and ill-advised thing. Such women are drawn to the soldiers' camps at night. However raddled, intoxicated and ungentle the poor women are, the Lieutenant greets the whores with kindness, calling the younger ones “sister” and the elder ones “Goodwife”, as is the custom.

He enjoys the feast, although weariness and his desire to keep up the men's spirits without allowing them to lose control like wild children means that, true to form, he does not quite relax.
He is charmed to see them at ease and eating well, as he is charmed to see Evelyn speak kindly and in confidence to an old soldier now retired at the court, whose name he cannot recall. The same man regards Wolfe as an upstart, but he is, for all this, a good man and a once-noble soldier, for which he has earned his junior's grudging respect.

Wolfe drinks little, and what ale he does enjoy makes his head heavy. The food is good, the ale plentiful and the conversation with his men- while raucous- is pleasurable, and yet he is secretly pleased when the moon begins to shine and they begin to take their leave. He is weary, his shoulder aches so that he can scarcely reach across the table, and their familiar faces are no reprieve. He keeps an eye on the younger men, escorting one gently but firmly to the door when he begins to fall asleep, and sees them off into the cool, clear night. When he returns, having taken the time to rest and talk awhile with the drunk man, the hall is beginning to empty; the King and Queen have taken their leave.
So too, he notes with a little stirring of alarm, has Evelyn. Her previous guardsman has been dismissed, and in all the commotion he knows that the castle doors hang open. Although it is not yet officially his role, he asks after her in the kitchens and sets off.

The cool night air and the walk have revived him somewhat, although he cannot disguise a certain stiffness in the way he carries himself as he ascends the steep stone stairs- he chooses the servants' staircase, almost absently, which is narrow and cool, and when he emerges into the corridor before the little library the doorway is so narrow that he has to bend almost double.

Not meaning to intrude but hearing no stirrings within, he passes the library briskly, taking care that his footsteps be heard on the flagstones outside- he doesn't wish to alarm her, after all- and then knocks at the door.

Evelyn's gaze drifted off to a distant place, trailing the eastern hills with a fondness, and a sense of longing. Once, the kingdom had had extensive eastern trading networks reaching very nearly to the coastline. As a little girl, she had traveled them all with her father when they were first established, then annually until she had had every trail memorized. Smiling a bit wistfully, one of her hands rose to feel the cool glass, feeling sentimental.

Distant memories flashed before her eyes as one of her fingers moved to trail the path their horses had once take out the eastern gate, past the fields, around the egg-shaped hill on the right, where they would see a stream-- She mentally mapped them quietly, opening her eyes only once she had mapped her way well off to the first trading post they would meet on their way out. Of course, no longer did their eastern neighbors have any interest in trading with them, a small, unstable kingdom at best.

At one point, when negotiation was still up in the air, there had bee talk of a treaty to settle the growing tension. They had talked of payment, of sharing a joint militia, even of marrying to join the kingdoms-- her father would have none of that, even though it was all speculated thoroughly, especially the latter. His adviser had recommended the marriage, particularly between Evelyn and their prince. She had been a sport about it, impartial until she was warned of the fourteen-year age gap. Her father wouldn't have had any of it in any case, even if she'd been willing to help out.

Now there was nothing for her to do, their relations restricted, and their kingdom at war with the west. Her eyes opened as she decided to dismiss her thoughts, having had quite enough of them on that topic. She had her hopes that one day, with her father still on the throne, they would be able to re-establish civil relations. Even if their kingdom received the shorter end of the bargain, she knew it must be done for the safety of them all. Eventually, though not at the present time-- for as things were, it was impossible.

This was when she moved to close the drafty window, a soft shiver rolling down her spine as an effect of the chilly nice air. A door on the end opposite to that of which she entered suddenly swung open with much force, her small form slipping easily from the window sill to back up cautiously. A man from the court, presumably drunk from the evening, stumbled on in. He stared at her intensely as she studied him momentarily, "Lord Liatto?" She questioned, now able to make out the man's face from within the darkness of the room. "Evelyn," he spoke informally, even for a court member, his words as sloppy as his steps as he continued to approach. A flash of silver was visible from behind his person, the hilt of a sword in his hands as her eyes now widened, her footsteps hurriedly moving backwards as he muttered, "N'er better time, Wolfe to start in th' morrow..."

Her heart noticeably fluttered in her chest, remaining silent as she had finally backed away enough to reach the first shelf of books. It was then that she turned, bolting away from him towards the door from which she'd entered. Before she had fully reached it, only but a few steps away, the drunkard caught a hold of one of her wrists. She jerked her wrist in vain, her other hand flying behind her for something, anything- found one of the leather-bound books from the shelf behind her and beat him across the face with it as he bet over to approach her form. Letting out a cry of pain and annoyance, he let go of her wrist and she scrambled up and to the door, where a firm knock was now heard. Without a second's hesitation, she flung open the door, not noticing quite who was behind it before she had shoved them, palms flat against their chest, backwards into the wall of the hall behind him in order to both get out of the room and remove them from harm's way.

Then, looking up, she saw the face of Wolfe as he had hit the wall (if he had moved when shoved), Evelyn's own face flustered from surprise, fear, and now a bit of embarrassment. "Sir Wolfe!" she exclaimed, eyes widening a bit. She quickly removed her hands from his chest, stepping away and to the side to reveal the drunkard from the court, sword in hand as he now stared dumbly at Wolfe from a couple of steps within the library.

Wolfe feels weary, his head aching from the bright hall and his whole body aching from the ride. The men have been home, and while he hopes they'll have refreshed themselves and slept, he imagines most will have enjoyed a long-awaited and hasty hour with their wives before riding out once more to the feast. He hopes they sleep well now, and even as he makes his way swiftly to the library he curses himself for not taking their example and closing his eyes. They rode hard for three days, Wolfe at their head, eager to make an example, and the truth of it is that he's fit to fall asleep where he stands. It has been so long since he slept in a bed, enjoyed a hot bath, or slept more than a few scarce hours. He hasn't undressed to sleep, or even unfastened his sheath and sword, in weeks. For a moment he almost decides to go, to allow Evelyn a last evening of freedom.

Why doesn't he? Firstly, he's halfway there now, and he fears he won't sleep in any case unless he's certain she's safe. Secondly, something is troubling him; he knows that anyone could have slipped by him in all the commotion of the soldiers coming and going, many of them gauntleted, armed, young, and- crucially- unknown to the King or his footmen. Were an assailant to enter tonight, they'd stand a good chance of wandering unnoticed around the castle. It is for this reason that he squares his shoulders, shakes off weariness, and goes to track down Evelyn. Besides, there are things he'd like to tell her; that he's honoured to take the post, that he'll do everything in his power to make her safe, that she must not worry for his intrusion into her life or- crucially- her honour. He is thinking of how to phrase this, balancing his privileged position with his essential humility of birth compared to her status, when he breasts the final stair and ducks into the broad corridor.

He hears stirring only as he passes for the second time. Later he'll wonder why the drunk man- not known to be a bad man, in himself, nor a bad soldier- didn't hear him pass. There is silence the moment before he knocks, but then an unmistakable scuffle from inside. He hears a man cry out, and backs up against the wall, beginning to unsheathe his sword.

Before he can enter, however, she responds to his knock by coming flying out of the room and colliding forcefully with him, her hands on his chest. The impact wouldn't move him, but his sheer surprise does. He fears he's disturbed her, and backs up hastily, alarmed by her violence of feeling, beginning to mouth an apology.

There is a crystallising moment where he sees Liatto, reeling and unstable as he struggles to stand, and slowly puts together in his mind an image of what is happening. Liatto is older, not an attractive man, and known to be married to a wealthy baroness... but that doesn't stop Wolfe jumping to a conclusion. He turns hard eyes on Evelyn for a moment, his suspicion written on his face. “Lieutenant, my lady”, he corrects her icily. Foolishly, he turns his back on Liatto to face her as she stumbles and stops.

And that might have been an end to it. After all, he shunned his mail shirt, and even a drunk and unstable swordsman could do for him. But it is here that an ancient warrior's instinct saves him. Something in him has been bred, soul deep, to resound to the silky steel whisper of a blade being unsheathed. The sound stirs the hairs on the back of his neck as surely as a baby's cry wakes a sleeping mother, and he spins, drawing his own blade in one sure movement. Evelyn is still inside. Propriety flung aside, he pulls her towards him, one hand firm on her waist, and steps neatly between the drunk would-be assailant and the princess's person.
“Lower your arm, sir, or lose it.”

His voice is calm, certain, unwavering. There will be time later for contempt. The tip of his blade follows Liatto's heart, although he turns his face to Evelyn, his face a question.

She watches Wolfe uncertainly at first, finding the moment awkward where she knew she should be explaining the situation. Instead, she found the Lieutenant trying to apologize to her, whereupon she would shake her head in refusal of such thing. She was grateful to have run into him, it was a blessing, truly. If not for having seen him beyond the doors, she was sure the drunkard could have easily continued the assault down the corridor and back into the hall.

In this manner, even more could have been put into danger. Servants could have been caught in the fray, other soldiers who were not on guard, royalty from the court-- or worse, in her opinion, either of her parents. There was also the thought of having others know, of causing her mother to worry, her father to increase security again. This time, she may have no freedom whatsoever. She would have to try making it so that only her father was made aware, but that he certainly knew that the assailant had been dealt with swiftly. Perhaps, then, her freedom would remain. If nothing else, much praise would be given to Wolfe, and she fancied the idea in return for the service he agreed to for her.

However, all praise and relief left her facial expression quickly. The voice with which Wolfe corrected her with was mildly insulting, but it was the suspicion drew out on his face that bore her the greatest injury. As a maiden, any would have shown anger in reply. As such, her eyes narrowed up at him a bit, her lips forming a bitter, begrudging line. It was a moment after that she notices his back is to Liatto, a potentially mortal positioning. "Lieu-!" she exclaimed, placing a hand firmly on his chest as if to try turning him. However, he too seemed to have understood the current standings in a split-second.

Her resentment melted as she was drawn behind him, the slightest of blushes gathering to her cheeks as she felt an arm on her waist. Nevertheless, her gaze then grew with obvious awe, towards his other arm. His blade had been drawn so swiftly, his footing sure, and words admirable in many senses. As the man of the court, not so foolish even whilst intoxicated, dropped his sword, Evelyn's lips turned up in a slight grin. As Wolfe then turned to look at her, her gaze would read her gratitude easily, and she would reply in short by raising a hand in a manner to gesture for him to wait. Tilting her head to the side, she would call out down towards the servant's chambers, where she knew a few foot-guards would patrol, "Guards!"

Anxiety would pass over Liatto's face as he held his hands up defensively, "Tis not what it looks like, young Lieutenant!" He argued in vain, though none were valid nor believable, especially given the slur in his voice and failure to come up with an excuse for holding a blade to the two of them. Evelyn stared straight into the man's eyes coldly, seemingly unphased though she was frightened a few mere seconds ago. Guards would arrive in a timely fashion, surprised by the scene but awaiting orders nonetheless. "Seize this man, have him held in the lower chambers until the morn. Do not breathe a word of this-- aside from to my father." She spoke boldly, sure of herself, then calculating something for but a split-second in her thoughts. "Though, do not tell him until after breakfast," she added as an afterthought then, grinning. They did so, one for holding each arm, another at his back with a sword.

After watching them take the resigned man away, his head hung low, Evelyn let out a short sigh. Then turning her head to look at Wolfe, she would smile warmly, "Many thanks, Lieutenant." She would nod her head slightly to him, a sign of her respect as she then scratched one of her cheeks- partially for being shy for not have spent much time for men her age, and the other due to lack of what to say. Though she did find her words after a moment, her composure having made a full turn-around. "If thou hast any suspicion left, do confront it now," she spoke in a somewhat witty manner, amusement dry though she was not entirely joking around.

"If not," she stretched her arms out at her sides, a small yawn parting her soft pink lips, "I do believe it is time to bid thee a good morrow. You are wary, and need your rest, do you not?" She did not recall him having much of a time to rest, what with her father inviting him into the castle right away. She also didn't recall him being shown to his quarters, so was wondering if she should take up that responsibility. "Were you shown to your chambers earlier?" she questioned curiously, recalling that he was to sleep in the room just next to hers.

Liatto is not an inconsiderable threat, even as inebriated as he is. He may be dwarfed by the scowling shadow of Wolfe, who is younger, stronger, and currently extremely displeased, but he is armed, and much taller than Evelyn. Sober he is a skilled swordsman, and not inconsequential at the joust. Wolfe would leave him snivelling on the floor if he was no threat. As it is, he does not have that option.

Liatto's half-pickled brain eventually sparks into life, and when he hears the low note in Wolfe's voice his sword clangs on the floor. In a minute other guards will stir, alarmed by the shouting. For now, Wolfe's world contracts to the fear in Evelyn's eyes and the drunken's Lord's imperious sneer. “You should be ashamed.” he says curtly, his voice hard as flint. Like many men who are easily mistaken for the same, he despises a bully. He would never admit it, but he can scarcely bring himself to put up his sword, even when Liatto's hits the floor. His whimpering attempt to excuse himself, and his sudden willingness to recognise Wolfe's rank, makes the younger man's lip curl in contempt. He steps on the blade as it hits the floor, pulling it away, and lowers his face to Liatto's, his voice hard, “Give thanks that I arrived when I did... if you'd laid a hand on her, be assured I'd have cut you down.”

Wolfe turns away, attends to the princess, and is impressed when she composes herself sufficiently to organise the response of the guards. Together they watch Liatto as he is dragged away somewhat unceremoniously. The King will no doubt deal hard with him when he finds out what has occurred... if he's not officially punished, he'll be ruined at court and with his wife... maybe even have his status curtailed. Some would call it hard justice for a drunken evening's mistake. The look on Wolfe's face suggests that he has his own idea of justice for a man who'd draw on an unarmed girl in an attempt to press his suit. Without laying a hand on her he could have ruined her reputation forever.
The guards, excited to be allowed to lay hands on a Baron, excuse themselves to Evelyn, and again, uncertainly, to Wolfe; they speak informally to him under other circumstances, have been known to ask him in to card games played on the palace steps... but the expression on his face looks like a lightning rod for some seriously bad times. They salute carefully and walk away.

Wolfe has something on his mind. He gathers up the abandoned sword, sighting absently along its blade as he tests its weight and quality. It's a good sword, fine and rigid, of high quality steel without blush or bloom... much more valuable than his own. But it has no weight to it, designed more for fencing than for fighting. He fastens it into the buckler behind the spot where his own sword is now sheathed. Part of him would love to see Liatto come and beg for it back.

Soon it is only himself and Evelyn remaining in the dark corridor. He looks her over. She seems unharmed, but his ungentle assumption has obviously stung her; her thanks is laced with a sharp reminder of how unkindly he spoke to her. Wolfe turns his face away from her, colouring, and for a moment it's clear he has no idea what to say. When he recalls the tone he took- and to a maiden, at that- he winces.
“My lady, I must apologise. I was wrong to speak ungently to you-” he starts, his voice low and uncertain. He can't bring himself to tell her the impropriety he suspected. He is aware from her comment that she unfortunately knows exactly what he thought... how to tell her that it is not a judgment on her character, merely on her walking off alone, her apparent alarm to see him, and the presence of Liatto behind her as she emerged, flushed and breathless...? Clearly, he can say no such thing. Instead he bows his head, colouring, and avoids her eyes studiously. Someone who know Wolfe- or know something about men like him- can read in the lines of his body what he refuses to voice; the tension in the way he holds his body, the way he curls his fingers around the hilt of his sword and rocks it absently in its sheath, the way he can't quite meet her eyes- all speak volumes while he is silent.

The next question, and the lightness of her tone, are a surprise. It shows on his face. For a moment Wolfe watches her face, assessing the situation with care, and then shakes his head mutely. He is weary, but his pride wants to protest; weary he may be, but not too weary to do his duty. He has to remind himself that this is not what she intends to imply, and despite himself he stands up a little straighter.
“No, my lady. It's always been my custom to stay in the East wing. Don't let me keep you from your bed,” he adds, stiffly. There is always something in Wolfe's formality which is stiff and ill-judged, something which betrays the fact that this is, to him, more an assumed mode than a voice. Whether it is weariness or the fact that he's shamed by his conduct, reprimanding himself privately for being so quick and so crass, tonight he is even more taciturn than usual, his resolute grey eyes avoiding Evelyn's even as he addresses her.

[{ OOC: Feel free to time-skip here, it'd be a pain to write about sleep for several paragraphs, unless you'd truly like to. }]

Oddly comforted by the words Wolfe spoke to the Lieutenant, she would visibly relax once more. Her shoulders squared, hands that had once wrung themselves now resting casually at her sides, the fear once shown in her eyes dissipating, and the flustered coloring of her cheeks now paled to its normal coloring. Albeit she was still a bit uncomfortable after such an encounter, not having expected anything as of such from a member of the court. They, aside from the soldiers, were once believed to be the most loyal to the kingdom. Unfortunately that judgement was just proved entirely wrong, and she would have to tell her father so, however much it may pain him.

While the apology on the account of Wolfe was not entirely unexpected- in fact, she was sure she would receive something of the sort once the situation was explained- she was surprised with it. Not on account of his formality in speech, but rather the tone in which he spoke, and the sense of uncertainty she was easily able to read from it. She had never heard him speak in such a manner, and in a way it was humbling but she didn't find herself fond of it. She sighed softly, lips curving up in the smallest of grins as she thought back to how he'd come upon the situation.

She wandered off alone into the library after dinner, a tendency of hers, but not something that he would know of off-hand. All who had spent time speaking with her on informal terms, however, or living in the castle would have known that this was a trait both herself and her mother had- their uncanny need to wander about to think properly. It just so happened that tonight she had wished to enjoy a bit of freedom, if only from inside another room of the house than their guests.

Disregarding information that the Lieutenant would not know of her, she recalled that he would knock on the door to her, probably appearing rather flustered as she tried shoving him. While in her mind, this was an attempt to get an uninvolved person away from that of Liatto's sword, it could have appeared as if she hadn't wanted him to see inside the room, or mayhap she felt so violently about an intrusion as to try harming them. She mentally cringed, her face pained, as if feeling her honor stripped out from under her with just that image. However, with the knowledge she held that she had done nothing wrong, she regained her composure and gave her reply.

One of her hands raised to the back of her neck, rubbing it gently, as if that would help her sense of embarrassment as she realized how it had appeared. "I realize how it appeared, there is no need for such," she began, speaking some sort of confidence once more, though her weds were slow and carefully chosen. It could be assumed by this that she too was unsure of how to speak around him, or simply had a lack of words to say at the time-- both reasons were the case, incidentally. "Though, I do expect you will grow to know I have no habits of,.. that sort. I withhold my honor, as you may learn to realize." She spoke as she suspected her mother may to an officer who had made some sort of mistake, although her words were gentle, her face kind unto him. In any case, she was more grateful than resentful, and could hold no blame to him since she could honestly say they knew very little of each other.

That being said, she was a bit surprised with his next reply to her, unaware that that wing was where he had taken up quarters. Being that the castle was large enough that she wouldn't have noticed unless she'd purposely kept an eye on where he stayed, but her maids had cleared the room next to her. Had it been done because they were not returning? She knew not, but the thought of her bed was all too appealing for her mind to fret over the subject.

Evelyn couldn't help but notice his failure to make eye contact with her now, and while her thoughts danced around why, she didn't question it. She was weary, and she still assumed that he was so, so she went through with a formal goodnight to the man. Bowing her head towards him slightly, she would curtsy in a slight manner, then lift her chin to speak shortly to him, "Then I bid thee a good night, and you for your service." She would then turn, descending the stair to walk on out into the dining hall. Whereupon checking to see that no quests were remaining, she nodded a bit to herself before walking over to the west wing and ascending the stairs to the corridor that held her chambers.

(ooc: Good call. I'll round out that final exchange and then time-skip away.)



Formidable or not, if he has a failing as a soldier, it is a failing he carries into every area of his life. He has an iron-clad idea of right and wrong, and can be unbending, even ruthless in his pursuit of what he considers good. While he can be a compassionate commander, this flaw makes him an unsympathetic ally, one who is hard to satisfy and given to introspection. Among his men are several he would consider allies, and here in the city there are other men, sons of his father's friends who grew up in and out of his humble family home, he would call friends. Even they are often exasperated by his unwillingness to compromise. They feel that he sacrifices joy, humour, even the satisfaction of a woman to warm his bed for ideals as chilly and precise as a crossbow bolt.

He struggles to judge how to speak to Evelyn; his words are formal, but the expression he wears as he apologises is less so, somehow confiding; he's ashamed and his face doesn't hide it. If he wasn't already chastising himself for thinking so ill of her, the look on her face as she thinks of what just occurred cements it. It should alleviate his guilt to see that she can understand why he believed such a thing, but it doesn't. He looks as though he might speak, but- as so often happens when he tries to comfort women or speak in confidence with them, he simply cannot find the right words.

It has been a long time- longer than he cares to consider- since he so much as stood alone with a woman. He has never married, and unlike many soldiers takes care not to associate with the working girls who follow the campaigns.
His bitterest secret is that every so often, his resolve falters. The pleasure of the dalliance never exceeds the ugliness of the nature of their trade, nor the guilt he feels afterwards. He takes care to show himself to be chaste, not susceptible to base temptation, but he also takes care not to find himself in situations where he might be proven a liar. Among his own he has achieved some degree of status, both for his military prowess and his unprecedented entry to a higher echelon of society- there are certainly women more than willing to test his vision of himself, particularly with so many husbands not returned from the war.

Evelyn's explanation is formal, albeit compassionate, and Wolfe makes himself hold her gaze as she speaks, although he can't believe she feels the need to assure him that she has no habits of that sort. His fingers twitch as she speaks, but he makes no reply, apart from to respond, “Of course not. I meant no-” again, the words dry up on his tongue. He merely listens as she imparts the information- information he takes as a warning- and nods to her formal adieu. “Rest well, my lady,” he says, and watches her leave.

He doesn't go to follow; it is in fact true that he'll be taking the chamber beside hers, but there's armour and a few other personal items to be moved from his accustomed room. Besides which- and more truthfully- he needs time to think about what just happened. His new role might just be more trying than he thought; defending the girl's person, certainly. Defending her honour had not even occurred to him. He is surprised to find that he feels quite strongly about the latter.

It is almost an hour later when he completes a cursory round of the corridors and retires. There is much to be done; the morning, if Evelyn has no need of him, will be dedicated to assessing the castle's East Wing to see how, and where, an intruder might enter. Dumping his pack and mail in front of the fireplace, he checks that Evelyn's door is barred, and falls into bed clothed. All good intentions abandoned, and despite the pain radiating from his shoulder- for which he knows there is no remedy but time- he is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

Unusually for such a punctual and hard-driven man, he sleeps soundly until the sun is high in the sky, and only awakens when he hears the castle stir into life around him.

[{ OOC: Hehe, thanks. I figured it had to be done soon, in any case. I found the

He is surprised to find that he feels quite strongly about the latter.

part somewhat subtle but endearing. }]

Upon entering her chambers, Evelyn didn't take a moment's hesitation to lock the door behind her. She was now suddenly quite wary about trying to take better care, even moving to close and secure her windows, but not after taking in a breath of fresh air. The cool night air was refreshing, but once the pane had been closed there was no draft to continue that pleasant feeling. Thus, with a soft sigh, she moved to change into a night gown and slip into bed.

It took an hour or so for her to force herself into sleep, which was normal as of late, what with the unrest and obvious tension within the household. Once asleep, however; she slept as soundly as a babe. It was still in the early hours of the morning when she awoke, her room alive with light from the sunshine streaming into her windows. For a moment she lay there still, eyes adjusting slowly to the brightness before she sat up stiffly. Then stretching from under her covers, and yawning, she slipped herself from her bed and went to her bathing chambers. The warm water soother her stiff muscles, relaxing her as she tried to keep all thoughts from her mind-- instead she focused on the fact that with her renewed freedom, she would be allowed to ride again. This thought sprung a childlike joy into her eyes, a look many of her ladies hadn't seen in quite a while.

The one tending to her, an elderly woman, smiled warmly at the sight but didn't need to ask. Instead, she withdrew Evelyn's riding clothes from the wardrobe and allowed her to bathe in peace. When finished, and she would admit she truly took her time to enjoy the bath, she found her riding clothes neatly folded upon her bed. A bright smile lit her face as she picked up the white cotton dress, studying it for a moment as if it were an old friend, then dressed herself for the day. She dawned its accompanying leather belt and boots before even bothering with her hair, which was still hanging damply from her head.

She once again sat at her vanity, fashioning it in little time, brushing it thoroughly before sweeping two strands up into small braids and leaving the rest be. It was then that she left her chambers, her composure lit with a happy, playful air that all servants and guards whom she passed by would note. She made way to the dining hall, extravagant decor gone, but still holding the year-round elegance that she admired so. Her parents were already seated and eating breakfast when she joined them, a fine roasted ham afore them with fresh bread that made her insides melt at the sight of- it was by far her favorite.

Her father regarded her with curiosity, her mother a knowing smile, as they made little conversation. "Dear, you are riding so earlier in the morn?" finally questioned her mother, who had known her riding dress all too well. "Surely so! I shall see to it that the stable hands ready your horse," encouraged her father, a joy in himself as well that had been absent as of late. After smiling, Evelyn would shake her head slowly to refute the both of them, "I've a French lesson with Lady Thello, though I do intend to ride this noon." Her father nodded approvingly, taking a hearty helping of meat, his second helping since she'd sat down. If she hadn't been able to tell of his joyous mood by his outward appearance, his excitement would be obvious to her by his willingness to eat so well in the morn.

It was when her mother and father finished their meal, however, that she was sure his mood would be thrown to the depths. A foot guard entered the hall, politely requesting the King join him in the lower chambers-- where the political prisoners were held by custom, and where she had ordered Liatto to be sent last night. The King immediately faltered in mood, his eyes glancing over at Evelyn knowingly before accepting the request and following after the cautious man. Her mother would look over at her questioningly, but she would shake her head once, a signal that she wouldn't speak of it. Then sighing softly, the older of the two stood, grinning down half-heartedly at her daughter, and take her leave.

This left Evelyn to breakfast, the most leisurely of the meals a the castle by far, though an attendant was always there very suddenly as people approached the table in order to wait upon them. It was after her parents left that she took a helping of meat and fresh bread, savoring it and feeling content with herself even through what would come of her father's worry. After finishing, she wiped her mouth, left her napkin upon the table, and thanked the attendant for the meal graciously. She then reminded them of Wolfe's stay, just in case they were not already made aware, and left the room with a content grin and a slight hop in her step.

Sleeping the sleep of the blameless, Wolfe doesn't wake until the breakfast table is deserted and long-cleared. The beds in the palace are softer and higher than the light straw-padded pallet to which Wolfe is accustomed. Many of the officers are better provisioned, in all respects, but it is an aspect of his nature that he chooses to be accomodated as his men are. It is not intended as any kind of political statement, rather as a way to ensure that he is able to gauge his men's weariness by living as they live, eating as they eat, sleeping as they sleep. His own admittedly formidable stamina serves as a yardstick by which to measure the readiness of the troops.
It doesn't trouble him to find the table empty. He is at any rate not accustomed to eating in the Great Hall every day, although in an abstract way he understands that the likelihood is that he'd be welcomed. He dines instead by dropping in to the kitchens, which are run by a ferocious middle-aged goodwife from his village who turns a blind eye to his scavenging and gives him a sizeable helping of smoked ham and a chunk of bread. He enjoys a certain rapport with a lot of the girls and women who serve in the castle, coming as he does only a stone's throw from their homes, and is not above exploiting it for a bite to eat, or indeed in order to hear the latest whispers. It is on the servants' staircase that one learns the true nature of any palace, and this one is no exception.

He takes a seat outside on the stairway down into the formal gardens and enjoys his repast, feeling rested, satisfied and kindly disposed to the world. The ache in his back is beginning to lessen, he is no longer exhausted, and finds he can think clearly. He will take a while to get used to being part of the daily running of the castle, and is still uncertain about his role here; ought he to fall in with the others who serve the royal family, or hold himself apart and dine with them as an equal? He knows that the latter is expected, but in his heart the former appeals to him more. Still, he cannot deny a certain joy in Evelyn, who was just a child when he last thought of her, and has become a gracious and thoughtful young woman.

Reminded of her by his musings, he heads inside to be sure he knows where she is. Finding her studying French sedately in the library with an aged schoolmistress, he does not intrude, but stops at the gates to find out from the guards what happened to Liatto. The King's judgment, it seems, has not yet been made. He is tempted to visit the prisoner himself and tender his account, but turns instead to the armoury, where he locks away Liatto's fancy gentleman's fencing blade with some satisfaction.

He has an inkling that Evelyn will want to ride after her lesson, so heads to the stables where his suspicion is confirmed. The grooms, both boys he knows by face although not by name, are jovial if unschooled and he consents to stop awhile and teach them the sword, using rakes and shovel-handles as rudimentary blades. He readies his own horse himself when they are called away to their duties, grooming and feeding the faithful chestnut stallion in the weak sunlight of the palace courtyard. As an afterthought, he provisions the handsome young horse and loads his saddlebags, and then settles down to another raucous impromptu lesson with the grooms as he waits for Evelyn to emerge.
It is not how he would spend his days if he were returning to the war. But on a day like today, he can appreciate the luxury of a little idleness. If this is to be the pattern of his days, he can hardly call the duties taxing.

Evelyn's French lessons were of the norm, and she found her thoughts drifting off as she sat perched upon a stool before her tutor. She recited French with the etiquette that was expected of her, but found the subject wasn't enough to occupy her thoughts. Only half of her mind was dedicated to her oral recitations and short periods of writing as the other lingered on the horse she had awaiting her in the stables.

However, upon those thoughts of writing mingled yet another-- the Lieutenant Wolfe. Suddenly she was exceedingly curious in what he would be doing right now, and after vaguely recalling him taking Liatto's blade, she wondered what he'd do with it. Her curiosity of the man nagged at her, and while many were content with knowing that he was a fellow warrior of the King's, she wished to know more.

When her lesson ended, she thanked her tutor warmly, then headed off at a jog to the stables. When she approached she was a full-out, carefree run, a smile playing warmly across her lips as she stopped just short of the stable gates to catch her breath. Then, standing up straight again, she would approach. When but a few yards away, she heard a bit of a ruckus inside, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion as she cautiously peeked around the door to see what was going on inside.

Her eyes widened upon sight of Wolfe giving sword lessons to the stable boys, a surprise that made her let out the smallest of laughs. One of her hands rose to cover her mouth, not wishing to interrupt as she slipped on into the stables quietly. From her position it would not be hard to get by unnoticed as she tried to, but if she were, she would receive them warmly. If not, she wouldn't bother to interrupt them, instead saving it for a later time.

Still, she made a bit of a hurry to a stall at the end of the rows, a well-groomed, female Dapple Grey awaiting her there. Among the valiant brown war horses, whose muscles were built with a grandeur, their triumphs of speed and agility incomparable- it would seem an odd choice for a young lady. Yet, upon approaching, the young horse let out a soft neigh, and Evelyn smiled cheerfully and received it with a nod, "Sweet Lady, you are, my apologies for not tending to you as of late." She entered the horses's stall, the saddle already mounted for her as she looked over the grooming job they'd done.

Pleased, she spent a few moments simply looking over her horse with a fond admiration before withdrawing a carrot from the side of her boot to feed the horse. The elderly stable master would never approve of such, but she did so often anyways. Then taking the horse's reigns in her hands, she lead her leisurely out to where the young stable boys and Wolfe had been, if they were still there. If they hadn't been received by her earlier, she would do so now, bidding each a good morning with the brightest of smiles upon her face. Her horse waited patiently next to her, one of her hands holding its reigns as she other rubbed gently against its side.

Dressed in a rough slate-grey tunic and breeches, if it weren't for his sword ever-present at his hip the young lieutenant could pass for another groomsman, any of his men, or even a father playing in the sun with his boys.

Vigilant as ever, Wolfe catches sight of Evelyn out of the corner of his eye, but the two adolescents don't. He chooses not to call out to her, fearing he'd be speaking out of turn, and while he's taking the decision the two boys take advantage of his pause to get the jump on him, obliging him to pretend to die at the end of a spade and a rake respectively. It is comical enough to send them into fits of laughter as he does so, dramatically dropping to his knees in the straw, entertaining them with surprising grace for a man known for his unbending will and ruthlessness.
It isn't that he doesn't have a sense of humour, of course- his men know this by instinct. He simply has to work harder than the average high-born officer to be sure that he is taken seriously, and does so by affecting a certain stiff formality that makes him seem older than his years.

Their little mock war in the sunshine over, Wolfe lets the boys get on their way; they've heard Evelyn's horse whinny in greeting and should by rights get back into the stables and back to work. He leaves his charger standing obediently in the courtyard, neither bound not shackled but waiting patiently like a beast that recognises where its next meal will come from. Seeing Evelyn and her horse approaching, he hails her with a nod. Rested and well fed, flushed from the exertion of fending off rake-wielding adolescents, he runs a hand through his hair and smiles, aware that she has caught him at play and uncertain how he should respond. “I grew up with their fathers,” is how he explains the game, half a shrug suggesting that this is of no importance. He admires her horse, which is a lean, strong specimen which he knows to have good form, and wonders whether he'll have to fight to keep up on his doughty stallion.

“Your father warns me that you're quite the horsewoman,” he tells her, gentling the mare's flank absently.

Evelyn smiles, her head at a slight, curious tilt as she addresses him. If she knew no better, she would fancy him to look as any other man in the kingdom, and it was a humbling thought. She herself was far dressed down, the white cotton of her dress something her ladies would wear typically, though perhaps it was a higher quality than those of the ladies in the city.

As she had approached, she couldn't have helped but see a part of his faked death, bringing another soft laugh from her lips that she stifled out of again not wishing to interrupt the play. It was a sweet scene to see him playing with the young boys, one that struck a pleasant chord in her mind. A warm smile lit her face up, a brightness in her eyes that was not oft seen in these hard times as she was addressed. His excuse made a small, somewhat musical laugh escape her lips, this one unstapled since she was not shy to share her amusement. "No excuse necessary, I am only sorry to interrupt." she replied with earnest, having found pleasure in watching the stable boys, and the usually quite formal, Wolfe play around as such.

She then trailed his gaze to her horse, whereupon she turned her gaze to her as well, stroking its mane with an adoring fondness. Her fingers were gentle, the feel of her hair against her fingers almost soothing to her. His words were a bit surprising, but she smiled through them nonetheless, a slight shrug rolling off of her shoulders. "My father only underestimates her," she explained, her gaze then moving to look over at him, "She dwarfs than many of his in size, but her speed is more than comparable."

This was when her gaze trailed off to look over the chestnut-colored stallion standing loyally in the courtyard, admiring its build, and its seeming faithfulness. "He is yours, I presume?" she asks, curiosity plain in her eyes as she turns to gesture towards the beautiful horse.

Perhaps Wolfe would be saddened to know how people view him, to know just how effective his mask of formality and discipline is. He never had a plan in mind, exactly, never decided to take on the role he has; it simply became necessary. He has had to earn respect in this life, and his way is to become unbending, ruthless... and, if truth by told, given to humourlessness and rigidity. In another life he'd have married and had boys, he fancies, and ridden the plains with them, loved their mother faithfully, and brought home his money from the campaigns to buy fowl and strong wine. In that life, perhaps he'd have been able to indulge himself a little more frequently, let the mask slip, lark around with his boys in the sunshine without feeling shamed and self-conscious to be spotted.

Still a little breathless, more from his outrageously over-acted death than the original thrust and parry, he falls in beside Evelyn as she leaves the stables. Something about his larking around with the stable hands has amused her, and he is at once charmed and embarrassed to be caught off-duty.

“I shall make it my mission to keep up,” he tells her. Like much of what he says, it's a little ambiguous; it is formally spoken, and it would be just like Wolfe to take the thing serious and call it a duty... then again, made reckless by the sunshine and his rough-housing with the boys, it's also possible that he's chancing to be just a little ironic, perhaps even tender a challenge. He can't help but be proud to see Duke, standing tall and proud, and nods quickly to Evelyn's question. “Indeed he is. Duke was a gift- spoils of the Frankish campaigns six summers ago.”

The stallion raises his head as he hears Wolfe approaching, turning his liquid brown eyes on the pair of humans with a certain unnerving intelligence. Wolfe gentles the horse's muscular neck, allowing it to press its bony forehead to his chest with not inconsiderable force. The two stand together a moment, Wolfe digging his heels in in order not to be bowled over. They have a certain bond, as a man must with a horse upon whose fleetness of foot his life depends. After a moment, irrepressibly drawn to show off a little like a lovelorn adolescent, he gives a sharp whistle.
Ridiculously, the hulking great horse shuffles to attention, lifting one hoof for inspection. The sight is laughable. Wolfe fishes a knot of cabbage greens from a saddlebag and lets the horse's rubbery lips forage it from his gloved hand. “You must ride as you would unaccompanied,” he tells the princess, absently. “I shall endeavour to curtail your freedoms as little as possible.”

Standing aside her horse, the fingers of one of her hands threaded gently through the mare's main as she acknowledged Wolfe with a curious gleam of light in here eyes, as per usual. His playful interaction with the boys had been heart-warming, his excuse given in reaction to her response showing embarrassment, and his words just now taking up what she could have found to be formal. However, in light of prior circumstances, her instinct drove her to believe otherwise.

She rose a curious eyebrow lightly towards him, the curve of her lips forming a grin as she received his words as a challenge of sorts. It was uncommon for anyone to have spoken to her so, even if the tone was ambiguous enough to be dismissed. Then again, she had never had a designated guardian before, and did not often speak informally in the presence of men, especially those of close age to hers. Much of the time between the soldiers return and Wolfe's first greeting to her, she had spent questioning just how to act. Ladylike, in her mother's image- that was the expected- though there was a part of her that was brought out by the officer, an age nearer her own than any other she spent time with, that drew a friendlier young woman out.

Her gaze then went to rest upon her horse, Thea, now nuzzling the girl with her nuzzle gently as if to gain her attentions. Smiling warmly at this, she would reach her arms to gently stroke the horse as she still gave her full attentions to Wolfe. The mare in return whinnied softly, willing for her affections after such a long wait between the last time she'd rode her. By all means, the horse may have been deemed too stubborn or time consuming than many, but Evelyn held a deep affection for her that drew aside the traits that would possibly be undesirable. The two had a chemistry, even whilst simply standing together.

She took a moment or so to reply to his words, considering what would be proper response. If he were a family member, she could be far more informal, and while they were unaccompanied-- dare she? She spoke in a formal manner, but her tone was easily laced with a spring of playfulness. "I am assuming you will be able to do so?" she questioned, the smile accompanying her words leading the playful tone with a light note. She obviously meant him no harm by saying so, for she was sure that Duke was a very well trained horse, built well, and accustomed to the hardships war would bring. She couldn't say the same for the Dapple Grey standing at her side impatiently, but Evelyn knew her horse to have great heart.

It was as Wolfe whistled to his horse that Evelyn's gaze fully returned to rest upon him. The responding action of his horse surprises her, the smallest of laugh escaping her lips, though her fingers trailed after them to press gently to her lips. While the actions was foolish in a sense, the horse's obedience was telling of character, and could be considered useful in some cases.

It was Wolfe's words afterwards, however, that drew her the greater surprise. While freedom was something much longed for on her account, especially while political turmoil shook the very foundations of her family's name, she had never once though of him restricting it. Rather, she knew that she wouldn't be granted even a visit to Thea in the stables with the mere footman guarding her, even if the castle was just a few minutes away. It was silly, in her mind, to think that his presence would hold her back.

Then applying his words to riding, she understood their meaning easy enough, but was still intrigued by exactly what he had meant. She would ride as if no one were watching, that she had already set in her mind, but to be unrestricted by another riding alongside was a pleasant thought- not that it hadn't happened before- but it wasn't often that she found another willing to ride with her that matched her speed without growing frustrated.

Evelyn's gaze held still upon him for a moment as she processed her thoughts, a grin making its appearance as she then replied in deliberately slow and sure tone. "Words cannot express my gratitude, Sir-" she paused then, laughing softly to herself before shaking her head a bit, "I beg your pardon, I do not mean to address you so." A slender hand rose to scratch one of her cheeks shyly, the slightest of blushes flushing them with a light coloring. "I suppose I view you as such, though I should know otherwise."

The pair stand awhile beside their horses, the slender, fair girl and fine dapple grey mare dwarfed by the young soldier and his muscular chestnut charger. Wolfe is a little emboldened that she seems not to heed the arch note in his voice. The warm breeze carries the scent of spring with it.

Having shrugged off the shadow of riding away to the war once more Wolfe is surprised to find that he does not feel cut adrift, as he had expected, but a little lighter of heart. He tries not to think of his men, reminding himself that they have learned well. The wars have been hard on all of them; his scarred hands and the new crease between his brows are his only mementoes he carries, but he is one of the stronger ones. Many have lost their lives, more still have returned half-alive or half a man. Like all of those strong, fast or lucky enough to have survived unscathed, Wolfe has learned to shoulder the load of impotent rage and guilt. He has watched young men die, men the age of the boys with whom he tussled a moment ago, men as dear to him as sons. Still he hungers to go back, if only in the name of those who never came home. But he understands, as all old soldiers do, that there must come a time after war. Perhaps that time is to be this season.

He is pulled back to earth by Evelyn's voice, and raises an eyebrow in response to her playful, barbed question. He turns his face away for a moment, as though considering her question, and then nods slowly. “I mean to make a habit of it,” he responds. There is a certain dry humour to his wit, a human side to which few have access. In another life he might have made quite the gentleman; courtly, charming, confident- as it is, low born and constantly conscious of it, he makes up the default with muscle and bristly formality.
At least, he does when anyone is watching.

She laughs when he has the great brute of a horse stand to attention, and her response to his adolescent impulse to impress her is curiously gratifying. The little move, drummed into good battlefield chargers, is ridiculous and he knows it, but her stifled laugh alone makes it worth the training. He gentles the horse's neck, and Duke, aware that he has made a good showing, preens.

Her final comment is kind, and problematic. It would, of course, be irredeemably offensive were a man of his rank to suggest to a woman of hers that there is anything arbitrary or farcicial about the natural hierarchy of things. It is simply not the age for such an idea; rank is divinely defined, and as such beyond reproach. Then again, she intends her words kindly and he would be crass not to take them as such. He settles with bowing his head to her, accepting the compliment without confirming it. “Your father has dealt very kindly with me,” he tells her with humility, bringing the conversation back to safe ground.

The correct thing to do here would be to offer Evelyn his hand to mount. He has a feeling that this will not be necessary, and instead swings up onto his own horse. The lightness of the movement, free for once of armour, mail and a bulky shield, is marvellous. He pats Duke's shoulder, adjusts the sword at his hip, and waits for Evelyn to mount.