Warrior's Deception by Diana Hall

lips.
    “I hope ‘tis fine ale ye be drinkin’, ‘cause if’n ye don’t be tellin’ milord the truth, ‘twill be ye last.”
    Roen felt the pressure of a dagger against the base of his neck. He drained the bowl and with slow movements set it next to the jug.
    The older knight swirled his ale in his mouth, obviously enjoying the flavor of the strong drink. “Tom, we don’t know for sure he is a liar.” Edmund quirked a smile at the motionless Roen. “So tell me, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy, why are you here? Why the fairy story about saving my daughter? Lenora needs to be delivered from her sharp tongue and hot temper, but never from the back of a horse.”
    “I come from King Henry.” Roen spoke quietly. He could feel the hot breath of his assailant and the prick of a dagger point on the back of his neck.
    “‘E could be lyin’, Sir Edmund.” The sharp point pressed a trifle more.
    Roen willed his heart to beat normally, his chest to rise and fall naturally. His huge hands gripped his knees, his knuckles white with indignation. As he spoke, his outrage spilled over. “You wrote a letter to the king using the code from the battle at Hastings. You asked for help, Henry sent me.”
    His words caused Sir Edmund to pull back and the blade moved just a hair away from his neck. Now was the time to act. Roen dived forward and kicked the chair hard. It thumped into the midsection of the man with the knife. Roen scrambled to his feet. Grabbing the overturned chair, he prepared to break it over the head of his assailant.
    “Wait!” Sir Edmund shouted.
    Roen held the sturdy chair high over his head, his breath ragged. It took only a few seconds for him to realize the dazed man was unable to rise and was blind in one eye.
    “Well, ain’t ye goin’ to help me up?” The old man wheezed and held up his hand.
    “You must be daft, both of you.” Roen swung the chair to the floor. He grabbed the old man’s arm and plopped him into the chair Roen had nearly crushed his skull with.
    “Tom?” Edmund examined his coconspirator with a critical eye. Tom nodded while he tried to regain his breath. “Sir Roen, I apologize for the subterfuge. In a case like this, I can trust very few.”
    “And you trust me now?” Roen towered over the men.
    “Aye. One, you held your blow when you saw the condition of your attacker, and second—” Edmund arched his brows “—I have no choice. I need help to protect my family.”
    Roen paced the room before hitching a leg onto an ironbanded chest near the window. “What makes you think you are in any danger, other than from your own harebrained schemes?”
    Tom stopped wheezing and started to sputter, “What—why, you…I don’t care if’n you are a lord, ye don’t go talkin’ to Sir Edmund like that.”
    Sir Edmund silenced his man with an annoyed frown. “’Tis little proof I have, more of a hunch. My illness for one.” He released a long, anguished breath and eased himself back against the pillows. The stress of the recent events shone on his face.
    “Aye, ‘tis a strange illness.” Tom’s muscles creaked, his bad knee popped. He used the back of the chair to pull himself up. “My lord grows weak, then grows strong, then weak again.”
    “He’s old. It happens,” Roen replied nonchalantly.
    “Then why is it when I bring his food myself, not from the kitchen, he gets stronger? Why is it that when I fed his kitchen food to the rats in the stable, they died?” Tom gave Roen a nearly toothless grin. “Someone’s a-tryin’ to poison ‘im.”
    “Rats die, they eat spoiled food. You doped the stable with poison, they got hold of it.” Roen scrutinized the ill man, noted the paleness of his face.
    “Aye, it could be so, I wish it were so,” Edmund replied wearily. “I do not wish to think someone of my house would poison me. But ‘tis true. Tom smuggles me food through a secret chamber into this room. Yet, I still suffer from bouts of illness. I know not