My Man Godric by R. Cooper Read Free Book Online

far but this time there was no guarantee,
and the Green Men would gladly claim his head.
    There was very little to do now however but
to fret and pet the cat and force himself to eat as his stomach
tried to reject his meager supper, and then to sit and wait and
pray to every god he could think of. He managed to even his nails,
to borrow a better change of clothes from the Count, but he had
impulsively, stupidly, decided to leave his face unshaven for one
more day. He could not think of why the hair on his chin mattered
when tomorrow would take Godric from him.
    The braziers were burning low and he was
sitting atop Godric’s bed in his borrowed skirts when Godric
finally returned. Godric was alone and obviously tired. Perhaps he
had forgotten Bertie’s presence there in his tent, for he removed
his cloak and outer armor and washed his face and hands before
settling into a chair and letting out a heavy breath.
    “Godric,” Bertie whispered.
    Godric did not move. “First light, you and
your people will ride out with two small wagons for the wounded. If
all goes well, you could be within the city’s outer walls in under
a week. I will not accompany you, my lord. I am sorry.”
    “I see.” Bertie worried his lower lip
between his teeth for a moment. “Do you think this was right? That
I did right?”
    Godric raised his head and turned at last.
“I have realized that as odd as your decisions might seem to
others, they are always the correct ones. So yes, my lord, I
do.”
    How Bertie longed to hold him up, make him
smile again. But he only gave one sad shrug as anything else he
might have tried would have no doubt been unwelcome. “Don’t worry,
Godric beloved, all will be well. I’ve suffered worse in the past
weeks then some uncomfortable travel.” There was no need to mention
his possible slow death by vengeful marauders aloud; it already sat
with them.
    “Aye, I know.” Godric must be weary indeed,
as his accent was becoming more obvious. “I spoke to your people,”
he said again, significantly. Bertie did not get a chance to ask
what he meant because Godric went on. “I am very sorry, my lord,
that you had to kill a man.”
    The knife had stuck. Bertie was struck by
the memory more than he had been by the action at the time. It
would hit him again later, he was certain of it, but for now he
regarded the moment as almost foreign to him, as someone else’s
memory. He had not expected it to take such force, that it would
take two strikes before the man had fallen to the ground, gasping,
choking, bleeding a mess atop the screaming serving girl he’d been
attacking.
    “I didn’t have to.” Bertie shook himself and
tried a court smile. “Anyway, I thought it was the business of
soldiers. Why be sorry? All I need now is a tattoo to commemorate
the event.” He could have been sick. He knew Godric saw through his
attempt to act brave, but still he had to try, anything to lift
some of the weight from Godric’s shoulders. “Isn’t that why
soldiers get them?”
    Godric considered the question, and Bertie,
then stood up. He left Bertie to stare as he pulled off first his
thin outer shirt, and then his chainmail and the shirt beneath
that. His chest was broad, and furred, and paler than the rest of
him, decorated with marks and old scars and inked designs of
various, mostly dark, colors. Bertie could make out nothing
distinct at this distance in the candlelight save the slashing
language of the Old Ones down his forearms and the trail of hair
leading down from his stomach.
    He eyed the sight greedily, flushing with
heat. He learned each line of muscle from shoulder to hip before
starting over to learn it all anew.
    “Some soldiers do,” Godric murmured. “I do
not. I see no need to mark myself with my nightmares. We are not
likely to forget, are we?”
    Startled out of his ogling, Bertie looked up
into Godric’s eyes. He caught his breath, then slowly shook his
head. Godric nodded sadly in acknowledgment of