On one knee beside her, Wolfe uncurls her hand to bare her palm, cleaning the shallow wound as seriously as though it were life-threatening. He would be charmed to be trusted if he had noticed, but he is in his lieutenant's guise and had not expected otherwise. When the cut is clean he dabs it dry with the linen she had been using, the flow of her blood slowing as her skin dries.
He presses the flat of the blade against her hand, still chill from the river, and holds it there firmly until the cold begins to dissipate. It's a less than scientific method, but like most soldiers of his time he has learned to staunch the flow of blood and soothe pain quickly on the go. They may not know exactly why it works, but he knows that wounds bleed more in water or when dressed with absorbent cloths, and that pressure can close a cut quickly and with minimal scarring or swelling. He holds her hand flat in his, to make sure she cannot curl her palm around the blade and hurt herself, and endeavours to ignore the awkward intensity of kneeling so close to her.

When the blade has cooled, he lifts it carefully from her palm, turning it over in his hand to check that the bleeding has stopped. “There, now,” he says absently, and then he realises he's still cupping her slight, fair hand and allows it to fall.
How seriously he attends to her; it is this same painful sincerity, more usually displayed towards her father, that earns him a reputation for humourlessness.

She flushes as she speaks, and Wolfe cannot decipher it and lifts his eyes a little too long. “I know,” he responds, his nod short but not perfunctory. There's more he could say, but the moment passes while he's still carefully guarding his tongue. All defensiveness forgotten, he takes a seat across from her, sitting in the awkward, straight-backed way of men too muscular to cross their legs like a maiden or curl them beneath themselves. He winces as he straightens his arms behind himself to sit up, the slightest flicker of protest registering there, which only one watching his face might note.

Evelyn watches his hands work on her one with mild interest, resting there in a seemingly casual manner though at first a tad flustered to be in such close approximation to the man. Her legs were stretched casually to her side, the length of her skirt following, one of her ankles tucked over the other in a ladylike manner. As was to be expected of a princess even when she were not thinking if it. Her posture is relaxed however, her facial expression to match as the coloring of her cheeks evened out after a couple of minutes.

A he dropped her hand, she was a bit taken back, but moved to rest it on one of her legs. His sincere work on it had helped to numb whatever trickle of pain she had felt, and for a moment she would look down at her open palm in a bit of admiration. Treating a wound as such was something only a soldier of skilled physician would know how to do. She fancied her father may have done the same for her.

Evelyn's gaze lifts to his face to thank him, but her words are cut off before theven begin to register. An unmistakeable flicker of pain crosses his face, and after having seen his discomfort with it a few times she felt quite odd not addressing it. Yet, dare she? She sighed softly to herself and turned her head towards the to small plates of meat and fruit that her ladies had packed for lunch. She would offer one over to him, a small smile back on her face, "Many thanks. Would you like some lunch?" Then realizing that it could be somewhat early for such, she explained, "My ladies prepared it, I believe they would be insulted if we did not eat it..." Evelyn then fidgeted slightly, her good hand rising to run its fingers through her hair gently.

If he is aware that she flushes if he sits too close, her expression one of alarm, he is choosing not to show it. What would he say? Besides, having something practical to do suits him perfectly; in motion, there is nothing stilted, restless or excessively formal about him, as there is when he is at rest. When he rides a horse, does his work, takes up arms, there is something spare and efficient in his motion which casts a shadow over the slight awkwardness of his powerful physique. Like all big men, he touches her with excessive care, trying hard to hold her hand firmly but not firmly enough to hurt, and clearly paying attention in order to be sure.

At moments like this a girl who knew him better might be reminded of the clumsy boy he was a lifetime ago. Always taller and broader than his playmates, when the first of his younger siblings was born he remembers being taken out into the yard to hold first a hen's egg and later a tiny, feather-light chick in his hands. His mother warned him that he had to hold the new baby with just such care, and- characteristically serious, even then- he'd stood in the yard, the tip of his tongue showing over his lip, in ferocious concentration until the sun went down and she remembered that she hadn't called him in. Such was his way. It is not entirely one he has ever left behind. A summons to the palace was good news for him for all sorts of reasons, not least because at heart he is a man to follow orders loyally, and the King's are the best he could hope for, with tavern leeches and bandits and street thugs being a much poorer prospect.

Taking up his position beside her a little stiffly when he sees that her slight wound has begun to close, Wolfe casts his eyes over the provisions, and is not surprised to find himself hungry again. Her invitation, then, is most welcome, and he smiles as he accepts the plate carefully from her hand.

He wants to tell her that he doesn't think she'd be amiss to choose to avoid Liatto's hearing, but somehow that seems like plunging back into dangerous territory.

Whatever sort of tension Evelyn had felt prior to her offering of lunch was now cast aside as he accepted his plate. There was something oddly refreshing in his smile, something that warmed her facial expression and calmed her nerves. She drew a warm smile in his direction in return, then taking her plate into her lap in a casual means of eating and produced two small silverware sets from the basket for the two as well.

Her thoughts did plague her for some moments after she began to eat the still-warm, salted meat but soon she forced them to the back of her mind. Being able to do so had allowed her little pleasure when the soldiers were away, and now with the court's impending decision of punishment for Liatto, it too was helpful. A her thoughts lightened up, she fancied the idea of simply spending the whole day out and about the orchards. Wofle was good company, Thea would appreciate the time spent out of the stables if Evelyn watched for her fatigue, her father would know she was safe-- then diplomacy struck her. It was of the utmost importance that she remembered her position in the scheme of things around the kingdom.

If she were not present for court, her parents would surely understand, though the others may not be so generous with their thoughts. In her thoughts, Evelyn mused she may be deemed a coward, a liar, and those siding with the baroness may hold enough suspicion to view her as a whore. She cringed away from those thoughts at once, her eye closing momentarily before she looked down at her plate of lunch.

She began to eat quietly, stealing a glance over at Wolfe to see if he had already done so, and if so, if it seemed that he took pleasure in it. They always appreciated her feedback, and a part of her kew that any sort of compliment from an officer would bring them great pride. Their words of him had been nothing but kind, and when she had inquired of him- for she had, once she found that he would become her guardian- they had had plenty to say as it seemed. Evelyn though that that must only be natural, being that many were from the town themselves, they would know him better than her court or herself. Again her gaze would trail over to him curiously at such thoughts, regret probing her as she figured with them is where he truly should be. Whatever he had gained he had through hard work, and she was a believer in this with the respect she held for him, yet could a man such as he not be married to a bride by now? And yet, could her ladies not be married to strapping young men either?

Sighing softly, she let her gaze rest back upon her food, now realizing how quiet she had allowed herself to become. It was rude of her in a sense to allow herself to think of their private lives as so. She supposed she would not quite like another thinking of her in such a manner. Yet, there were times when she had heard so. Why was she not set up with a duke or such of the court? Why had her father not proposed to make an ally with her? The answer was simple in her mind, and many who had remained a part of the kingdom for a long enough period of time would know the answer if they truly looked hard enough.

Her father was not one to propose her marriage for her, and if one of her parents were to do so, it would seem far more proper for the queen to. The queen had been in the bloodline for the throne, and as was common for some of the smaller kingdoms in their region she could have ruled alone, yet she did wed before taking control of the kingdom. Then of course, she had her husband to oversee most of the shared duties. This did not have to be the case. Evelyn could very well take up the throne on her own, the question that many countered with however, was if such a frail young woman could do so.

Scratching the back of her head absentmindedly, she paused mid-meal to turn herself to face Wolfe. "Plans for the evening? You may always visit town if you so like... There are an abundance of footmen about," she offered, her expression curious in a manner yet warm as she made the allowance for his freedom yet again. She did not wish to be left unattended by him, a point she hoped to get across through her warmth, but rather did not wish to withhold him from living his life as he pleased in some ways.

( OOC : Scratch the bit about the queen being heir-- forgot that the woman is French, haha. I'll have to edit tomorrow, have to go for the night. )

Wolfe doesn't take his plate into his lap; he is seated a little awkwardly, unused to trying to eat daintily while sitting on the ground, and it shows. He leans back a little, trying to avoid putting weight on the shoulder which is troubling him, and lays down his plate beside him. Before he eats he fishes a square of tallow soap wrapped in muslin from his pouch, and shaves a fine white powder into his hands to wash them in the stream. It is more a habit than anything else; like all soldiers, he is at the front line of what will one day become public health, and while there is no scientific basis for the theory it is well known, at least among the poor, that cleanliness is at the centre of good health. The crude soap smells of nothing but tallow and lime, but it is a sharp, fresh scent which he has come to associate with home comforts.

The meat is good; rich and salty and much more tender than he is used to, and despite trying to gauge his pace based on Evelyn's he eats fast and with enthusiasm. He has never quite shaken his boyhood alarm at going without, a fear only exacerbated by long, hungry nights on the battlefield or under siege. All soldiers eat ravenously- they are well known for it- and although he makes an effort, Wolfe is not exception. He lays down his plate scarce minutes later, offering Evelyn a sheepish smile by way of apology. “You must tell your women that they spoil me,” he adds, a little tickled by the idea that a princess might find herself go-between for a soldier and some girls from the village- Molly Chambers, whose brother is an old friend, he knows serves Evelyn, and Selena Wainwright, whose father is a blacksmith. Wolfe celebrated her appointment with the family, as did half the row.
How odd life is.

Therein lies the secret, if secret it is, of why he never married. He is a handsome man, powerful, steadfast, and known to be chaste, if a little sanctimonious and hardly a carouser. At a time when many men drink their wages, and may openly beat salacious or disobedient wives, he'd be a better bet than most. But it would not do for them to pursue him, and he has never taken a young lady. He sees himself as not having a choice; he believes firmly that a husband should not outrank his wife. He is neither fish nor fowl, suspended between lowly beginnings and noble surroundings, and he could no more take a wife at court than he could at a tavern in town... it simply would not do. Who would know whether he feels lonely? In another life, he would have liked a wife, perhaps a son.

That said, he is only human, and occasionally when away from home and in a darker mood his resolve slips and he indulges, as soldiers are wont to do, generally with some friendly tavern girl or camp follower. Afterwards he punishes himself stringently, as is only right.

He is not expecting her question, and lifts his eyes to hers, trying to disguise the turn his thoughts have taken. “You're very kind,” he tells her absently, aware that she is giving him leeway rather than dismissing him; her social time will be spent in the castle with her ladies, at which point he will withdraw. He believes this can be done without placing too great a strain on her affairs. “I try to leave the men to make the taverns their own. Let them celebrate their freedom for a while. They don't want to drink with their lieutenant... and all too soon they'll be gone.”

For a moment a shadow passes over his face. It isn't that he is unhappy here, it isn't even that he thirsts for battle, as some do... but he doesn't want to send them out without him. He cannot help but feel that it will be hard to watch them ride away, some of them just boys, just village lads with cheap, shiny swords and girls in the family way.

As he finished at a remarkably notable fast time than she, she could not help but smile to herself. This was an unmistakeable trademark of a soldier as she knew all too well. Such was the manner in high her father ate, and many of the older courtiers that had once served the kingdom as officers in the small army. In a sense she is delighted to see him do similarly as well due to the simple fact that she could liken his image to these men. Her thoughts however, gravitated around the idea that manners such as these lead her to think of him in a boyish manner, a refreshing outlook on a stiffly-formal soldier. Evelyn fastened this appearance to the humorous side of him and as he looked up at her with a sheepish smile, she returned it warmly, laughing softly and shaking her head. "You needn't be concerned, my father eats as you do," she explained in an almost fond manner, then returning to her own plate.

While he speaks a reply, her gaze shifts to him, a slow, small smile overcoming her lips. To hear that he would be celebrating with his men was not ape twirly unexpected, though somehow her thoughts had lead her to believe he may attend to other things as well. Apparently not, for she had for a moment forgotten with whom she was speaking. Of course this had already happened a few times during their excursion.

The shadow cast upon his face was not something that went unnoticed. She inwardly cringed, but did not relay so outwardly,binstead letting her gaze settle back down upon the blanket. "I am sure the men will appreciate your presence," she spoke slowly, careful of bringing up another poor subject for discussion. It was in this quiet manner that she finished her food, brooding over some darker thoughts of the time spent in war to come, though her facial expresdsion would retain a balanced neutrality. Such was necessary of political figures during such struggle. Once she finished, she would take his plate for him, wrapping it neatly back into the cloth that held the two plates in the basket securely. Hers followed, and then she closed the basket. Then pausing her movements, she would turn to look at him suddenly with such earnestly her speech could be consider second hand in her words' conviction. Yet, leaning towards him with one hand placed upon his good shoulder now, her words came out with good dictation and clear feeling upon the subject.

"My father once told me that the soldiers were heart of the nation, not the nobles nor any sort of plain royalty. It is the soldiers who ride to battle and fight for their kingdoms with such valiant conviction that secure the threads that hold together any kingdom, especially any small one such as ours," she paused there, her eyes set determined upon his even if he were not upon her. The close proximity of him now with here sudden turn caught her off guard here, but did not effect her continuation. "I have faith in your men as I have faith in you. If you fear for them, you will deal them great insult, Lieutenant."

Wolfe sits back as she talks. If he is aware of her hand on his shoulder or her eyes on his, he is being careful not to show it. But he squares his shoulders when she starts to talk about the soldiery, something in his expression suggesting that he is cautious about what she is about to say. He has his own strong feelings about what it means to be a warrior, which is after all the only thing he has ever really been. It is the only thing at which he has ever excelled. It is still hard for him to say whether he is a serf's son who has had a lot of good fortune or a noble in all but name; each designation separates him from the other.

But a soldier, now, that at least he can claim. Evelyn has a good idea of what it means to fight a war in legend, in folk songs, even in politics, and her view is astute and in its own way no more flawed than any other. What Wolfe knows is what it is to fight a war, day in, day out, what it is to be bloody and bruised and stand in the rain with nothing but a sword. He has had horses die underneath him, and performed field surgery on men he has loved, some of whom lived, some of whom died. As a mercenary he has known the treachery of the officer class, been abandoned with the other foot-soldiers in a retreat which is never announced. As a lieutenant he has slit the throats of men he knew would not survive, and in taking away their pain borne a stain on his soul he knows cannot be cleansed by any libation.

The way he turns away a little suggests that he feels a certain trepidation about having her tell him what it means to fight a war. They are not evenly enough matched, he knows, for him to respond with the openness Evelyn employs.

“I don't know about the nation's heart, I'm sure. But great Kings, politicians, nobles chaste and unchaste... the men who cause wars are remembered, my lady.” he tells her slowly, his face a study in blankness. “Their sons write history books. Men who fight wars die in the wilderness and are seldom buried. Your father is a good man. He understands that only rich men have the luxury of fighting until they are tired and then dining at the King's table. They will come home to court, hunt, feast, and grow old. But the men they lead will never grow old.”

He swallows, curling his hands closed, and shakes his head carefully. “Your kindness, your faith does you credit. But give me leave to fear for them. So many of them will die before this is through, and they are so young yet. It is my place to fight beside them... I would defend them if I could, and die beside them if I could not. Your faith is a noble thing, but it will not win wars, my lady.”

He lifts his eyes to hers, brow drawn into a frown, keeping his voice level although he stirs under her hand, muscles shifting there as he moderates his posture. Perhaps he takes it hard because only yesterday they rode home from a scarce victory, one which had a heavy death-toll. He mourns, as they all do, quietly and without ceremony, when he remembers to.
They have seen too much death to treat it like anything but part of life, dark and dirty and inevitable.

For a still moment, Evelyn's features remained the same as he spoke, eyes steadily upon him as she shifted herself into a more natural position. Her arm fell away from his shoulder, shifting to lay upon the blanket as she adjusted the rest of her body to lean backwards in a casual manner while retaining a ladylike elegance of sorts. Again, her ankles crossed, but her eyes would remain still upon him until he finished speaking-- then for but a moment afterwards. The sincere conviction in her facial expression did not fade, though she did not care to hide the grave sullenness that drew over her. His words were true, her suggestion was far too weak to withstand them. Evelyn was not so young and naive, even as a young lady, to believe that she knew anything of war.

Her jaw tightened the slightest, a darker tone shading her eyes, and her fists curled as her torso moved in a fashion that one may suspect that the breath had been knocked right out of her. In a manner, it had. While her opinion differed in part, she knew that this was not true for but a few others, if even so. Fallen soldiers, regardless of whether she knew who they were or how many, held a heavy place on her mind as of late and not for the cause of politics nor the nation's strength. Still, what did she really know of them? She could only speak what her father had shared about his experience, but even then he had never lived as the majority of their soldiers now did. That was a time when the members of the court enlisted in service had been bountiful; a time Evelyn had never known.

No sooner had her slender fingers curled into fists than they released. Her gaze drawn down upon the pale porcelain quality of her palms and the near translucence of the inside of her arms. While exposed to other parts of the world and well-taught, she was aware that she knew little of happenings outside of her sheltered life. The last few years had draped political turmoil about her, yet what few mercenaries had come thus far were stopped, they faced no true financial problems as of yet, and she foresaw no immediate danger to her health. She had always been well fed and sheltered, never witnessed a death nor more than a few crimes, lived well in every sense of the term. Still, her lack of experience in the outside world, especially that of war, drove a sharp tone within her. The thought dwelled heavily upon her mind.

Again after a moment of thoughts her eyes would trail up to his face, gaze steady yet facial expression composed carefully, "If it were that I could, I would fight my kingdom's wars." She knew there were many ways in which that could be taken, but she viewed her response as simple as her thoughts. If it were possible she would prefer to take upon the struggles of the nation herself, as she viewed the nobles should, but it's was not the time no circumstance for such thoughts and she knew enough to hold her tongue about this with her court. Wars were an unfortunate necessity however, and death would always accompany them. She could not change this. As she had taught herself while young, she grinned and bore it-- preferred to have faith in her people when her thoughts were too grave to bear. It appeared Wolfe, as a soldier, was forced to think more frankly so about this.

She was mildly startled when a single pair of hoofsteps approached swiftly, turning herself fully around to see one of the younger footman arrive just behind them. The young man was panting, cheeks a tad pink, obviously flustered. Evelyn was a tad alarmed at this, and apparently it showed for her soon spoke.

"My lady, Lieutenant," he greeted quickly, not sparing the time to dismount from his horse. "Lady Evelyn, the court has proceeded this morning without your presence."

Evelyn's reaction was clear shock, for never had a court been held with such swiftness, and while her body tensed visibly, her eyebrows drew together in frustration. While it was a surprise to hear, she did not believe that it could be so for the other nobles. Else they could not have all been fetched to hold a proper hearing, and they had, else court would not have begun quite yet. "Under my father's orders?" she questioned, tone calm, tension clearing the slightest though she was still quite bothered.

"Yes, my lady. His Majesty sent the order for the court to gather for the hunt last week, the lord and ladies will share in a extended stay in the castle beginning this morn," he explained hesitantly, observing the coldly neutral expression Evelyn cast in his direction. "My apologies my lady, I did not wish to disturb your lesson when it began," he began to stumble over his words, cuing Evelyn to stand carefully and nod in his direction. Her grin sent in his direction was warm, though her manner was stiff. "My thanks. If you would tell me what part in the sentence the court is occupied, kind sir?"

"Nearly at the hearing's close." he replied swiftly, now perhaps a bit more compose, his panting evened out and speech now steadying with the calm he saw in Evelyn.

"Ah. Do return to your duties, I thank thee for informing me," she bows her head to him slightly as he in turn bows as deeply as possible form n his steed. He takes off just as swiftly as he had come and she turns to look upon Wolfe with a mixture of emotions, brows drawn together, the slightest downward draw of her lips, yet the rest of her expressionrelatively calm. This was, until a slight shudder overtook her. Her body again tensed once before she drew in a deep breath and decomposed herself. Then standing tall, she whistled, Thea approaching readily as Evelyn bent to pick up their picnic basket. "Lieutenant, you do not mind our return? I can send for footmen to meet with me at the stables if you wish to depart."