An Outlaw's Honor - Terri Brisbin Page 0,1

They paused while the guard knocked, this time politely, and waited for permission from someone within. Once granted, they brought him in and held him in their grasp before the man who stood there. The very image of power and wealth, this tall, muscular, red-haired nobleman arrayed in costly robes studied him for several moments in silence.

“Brisbois?” the man asked, staring first at the guards and then at him. One guard shoved a fist into his ribs.

“Aye.” ’Twas all he could manage after that punch knocked the breath from him, and the question shocked him. No one had called him “Brisbois” since well, since his father yet lived. The legacy of his father’s family who began as the royal torturers—bone breakers—when that first Norman king came to Scotland generations ago. Sucking in against the pain, he nodded. “We have been called that in the past.”

“Leave us,” the man ordered, dismissing the guards.

And they did, as though the hounds of hell nipped at their heels. Thomas faced the man who held such power and wondered if he was some minister or courtier of the king. Once the door closed, the man motioned to the corner of the room where Thomas now saw a table...laden with food. Bowls, plates, cups and more. His stomach cramped at the sight and worsened when the aromas of the fare reached him and overcame the stench of his own body.

“I have been told that the hospitality in my dungeon is somewhat lacking.”

Holy Christ, this was...the king? King William. Of Scotland. The man his father had betrayed. The king.

Thomas delayed not, dropping to his knees and lowering his head. No matter that he was no longer knight or noble. No matter that he had sinned against this man and his kingdom. A man did not stand before the king of Scotland.

“Your Grace,” he whispered.

“Rise, Thomas, and partake in the food there.”

“Your Grace? I do not understand,” he admitted, not lifting his head, and without moving from his knees.

“The table. The food. Eat.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” he said as he struggled to his feet.

It took only a moment, it seemed, to cross the chamber to the table. A single place had been set there, so he looked at the king before sitting. When the king did not deign to respond, Thomas accepted the invitation and indeed the order and filled the metal plate there with some of the roasted meat and bread and cheese. He counseled himself not to gorge, but his belly, aching with emptiness and need, controlled his actions.

All it took was those first few mouthfuls, barely chewed when they landed in his stomach, to begin the rebellion. Cramps spread through his gut as his body rejected the first good food he’d had in... a fortnight or two. Roiling and burning followed until he fell off the chair, heaving into the corner.

Bloody hell! Could his humiliation get any worse? Thomas wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and rested back on his heels, not daring to look over at the king. Only when a goblet was held out before him did he glance over his shoulder to see the king standing next to him, offering him the cup.

“Rinse your mouth,” the king said. A hint of sympathy filled his tone, and he nodded to someone else. “Sit at the table.”

Servants appeared where none had been and with quiet, effective actions, cleaned up the mess he’d made. They left without a word or glance at him. Now, when his stomach grumbled in hunger once more, in clear disregard for what had just happened, Thomas resisted its call. Another cup, this one filled with wine, appeared on the table before him.

“Dip a chunk of the bread’s crust in this and chew it slowly.”

The king playing serving maid to him? How could this be happening? Surely, he must be in that dungeon cell, having visions brought on by starvation and weeks and weeks in the dark and cold.

Thomas pushed his disheveled hair out of his face, and with trembling hands, he did as the king instructed. After the first bite and then another, the wine-soaked bread seemed to be tolerated. How long would the king stand idly by while his prisoner ate? Was this the last meal for him? Would the king declare his fate as calmly as he’d offered advice about eating while starving?

When he had devoured several pieces, Thomas swallowed a mouthful of the wine and then stood, facing the king.

“Your Grace.”

“I have heard that you