Is this the correct place?
Zacharias Barnham looked up and down the narrow road, nose filling with the briny odor of freshly caught merchandise from the fishmonger's stall halfway down the street. He didn't often come to this part of Labyrinthia, but Lady Darklaw had been kind enough to write down the address for him yesterday evening, when she'd told him of a possible solution to his troubles. The parchment was crumpled in his palm, the thin script faded from his sweat, but that was no matter. He'd read and reread the address until he could recite it from memory.
He felt self-conscious as he moved down the street, avoiding a passing cart and nearly stumbling into the gutter as a loose cobblestone slid beneath his sandal. He chalked the unfamiliar feeling to his lack of armor; he was trying to get used to going without it, but the missing weight on his limbs made him feel oddly vulnerable. He wished that he had worn it today, just so that he could feel like himself. It was easier to talk when he felt as though… as though he belonged. But the unfortunate truth was that the Barnham inside that armor was…. Well, that was the whole reason why he was here. Perhaps… perhaps that was untrue; it was only one of the reasons he was searching this part of town.
He passed the fishmonger's stall, unable to help feeling the stares of the man's wife and daughter and hurrying his step. He crossed a small side street and nearly missed the place he was looking for in his effort to move along. Standing on the corner, nestled between a tiny alleyway and the lane, stood an orderly two-story building. At first glance, one might have mistook it for a florist stand, thanks to the bushy vines growing from the window boxes and the ferns hanging from metal poles tacked beneath the beams of the second story. Yet, creaking cheerfully from its own iron rod was a small wooden sign that read 'Eclaire Bakery' in an elegant, yet crooked script. A pink canvas stretched over moveable wooden joists served as an overhang and sunshield for the front of the store; along the canvas hung baskets of bread, and wooden rollers sat out beneath hosted a variety of day-old goods at half price. The overall scene was a bit plain, but cozy all the same.
He breathed in deeply, and despite the fishmonger's stall just next door he could smell the tantalizing aroma of fresh bread, of fluffy cakes and a hint of fruit. As he stood in front of the shop, inhaling like a fool and taking up valuable street space, a familiar figure came from the shadows of the open threshold with a basket of baguettes. Even without the blonde plaits and thin frame, he could have recognized that red cloak anywhere. He'd seen more than his share of it during the past few weeks. He stepped forward, the canvas blocking the bright morning sun and the smell of bread growing tenfold as he stood directly in front of the door.
The girl was encumbered with the baguettes, which were long enough that they didn't want to sit neatly in the basket and instead leaned all to one side or the other, upsetting the balance of the thin wicker. Every time she sat them down on one of the wooden rollers, the entire display threatened to tip over and spill the merchandise. Staring at it, he found a solution quickly and stepped up behind her, clearing his throat.
"I think you'll find that this would be easier," he said, reaching around her with one hand and twisting a few of the baguettes around. It was like one of the puzzles that the Storyteller used to make up for the townsfolk from time to time. Turn three of the baguettes to make an equal balance across all sides. Espella gasped and twisted quickly out of his way, and he ignored her as he finished arranging the basket and then sat it on the nearest roller, where it wobbled, but stood without tipping. Looking up, he cringed inwardly at the emotion glimmering in her large eyes, her hands clasped to her chest as she stood with her back to the bakery's front wall.
"S-Sir Barnham!" she squeaked, her face pale and eyes flitting between his hands and the door, as if trying to guess her chances of making it to relative safety. She acts as though I'm about to arrest her, he thought with a sigh. It didn't surprise him; he had been the one to jail and interrogate her during the witch trials. Even if he had treated her with all the respect an accused could be feasibly offered, there was still plenty of reason for her to hate and even fear him.
"Esp—Miss Ca—Espella Cantabella," he grunted, trying—and failing—to find a civilized way to say her name. Espella sounded too casual, Miss Cantabella too strange. He'd been used to simply stating her name as an accused, and the habit seemed liable to stick. Still, his voice was gruffer than he'd meant it to be, and she cowered back further. "I… trust you are well."
"I—" She faltered, staring at the baguette basket before turning and fleeing, her hand grasping the door handle and yanking it open. "Thank you for your assistance," she called over her shoulder, letting it slam behind her and leaving him under the overhang. The fishmonger's family was staring openly, and he didn't bother sparing them a glance as he went inside.
The inside of the shop was as quaint and cozy as the outside. Shelves of bread lined the left wall from floor to ceiling, the loaves calling out to potential customers with a warm smell and soft, fluffy appearance. Just beyond stood a large brick oven, the fire roaring merrily inside as it baked more bread to a golden hue. In an alcove behind a counter, there were large sacks of flour and a half-hidden door. Pots and pans hung from racks on the ceiling above the counters, which were dusted in a fine coating of flour and covered in various utensils, some of which he knew the usage of and others he had never seen before.
He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking at a display of éclairs and thinking about how much Constantine would like one. Actually, Constantine would enjoy nearly every delicacy on these shelves. He reached hesitantly for one of the rolls in a basket nearest him; they looked so mouthwatering, and smelled so fresh and warm, reminding him that he hadn't eaten any breakfast…. Perhaps he could pay for it later, and eat now?
"Welcome!" Jumping at the enthusiastic greeting, he looked up guiltily and jerked his hand back from the basket, rolls untouched. Perhaps it was best to leave temptations for later, after all. The greeter turned out to be a squat little lump of a woman, perhaps three and forty at the oldest, with red curls tucked demurely beneath a pristine white kerchief. Her arms were plump, not too jiggly and dwarfed by the thick oven mitts she wore. Her green dress was homemade, as most of the clothing of the town, and it was protected by a white apron with frills along the sleeves and large brown buttons. She wore little in the way of decoration, but there was a blue ribbon tied around her neck. Her face was round and smooth as a ball of dough, though it was crinkled into dimples as she smiled amicably at him. She was the living embodiment of the bakery; plain, but with a certain charm in the twinkling of her dark eyes.
He vaguely recognized her as the woman who'd given the Vigilantes so much trouble in the bell tower. Covered them in flour and shouted them down, hadn't she? He hadn't been up there at the time, more concerned with what he'd seen in the forest and the Storyteller's supposed death than he was with the trifle of subduing a teenage girl. Now, looking down at her small form and cheerful face, he wondered how such a sweet little lady could ever give anyone any trouble at all. He forced himself to stand straight, with the proper stature of the Leader of the Knights. Former leader, he corrected himself silently, unable to stop the pang of loss from pricking his heart. The knights no longer needed a leader.
"A-Are you the proprietor of this bakery?" he asked uncertainly, feeling an anxious lump in his throat. "The baker Eclaire?"
"That would be me, yes." She walked around the counter, sizing him up before motioning to the rolls. "Would you like one, dear?" He shook his head.
"Not at the moment," he stated truthfully. "Actually, I've come to speak with you on a matter of great importance." He shuffled in place uncomfortably as she peered more closely at him. Then a glow of remembrance lit her face and one red brow arched as she crossed her arms. Suddenly she looked far less friendly.
"It's Barnham, isn't it?" she asked bluntly. "Normally, a body introduces themselves before talking about great importance." He blushed, feeling more out of place than ever. If I'd just worn my armor… then, he was sure that he'd have remembered common courtesy over his own selfish, jumbled thoughts.
"Forgive me, I forgot myself," he stammered, throwing a hand over his chest in a sign of honor and nearly beating the breath from his lungs. Usually, his breastplate softened such a blow. "I am Zacharias Barnham, In—Ex-Inquisitor and… former Head of Knights." He trailed off, wincing at how pathetic it sounded. Zacharias Barnham, former position of importance, now an unemployed wretch no longer fit to do more than volunteer for construction work and drive a boat when needed.
"Well, Zacharias Barnham, former this and ex that, what does a man like you need to speak of with a baker like me?" she asked, squaring off with him. He could see, now that she held herself in a different manner, that the plumpness of her limbs was hiding a stoutness that could easily put her at an advantage in a fight. Perhaps she was the one to give those men a hard time, he wondered, seeing the challenging glint in her eye. "If this is something about my darling Espella, you might as well march right back out of here and—"
"N-no, 'tis nothing to do with her," he said quickly, cutting her off. "Forgive me, I don't mean to interrupt. But I merely wished to ask you…." He looked away, feeling the heat rising back into his cheeks. "That is, I know that-that Sir Apprentice—that is, that defender and his assistant used to help here in the bakery."
"Yes?" Her protective expression was giving way to puzzlement. "They did, at Espella's behest. She said they were friends of hers. Why?"
"Well, 'tis just that I wondered if… now that they were gone, if you might be in need of more assistance." There, the worst of it was out now.
"You?" He wasn't shocked at her incredulousness. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and wrung them out of sight, his eyes locked on her surprised, bewildered, and even wary expression. "Do you know anything at all about baking?"
"True, I am not skilled in the art of bread making. But 'tis only because I never applied my hand. I am most willing to learn anything you will teach, and in the meantime I am strong enough to lift heavy things for you, and I'll scrub the floors and counters, sweep the ceilings, clean the ash from the oven, hark wares on the streets…." He swallowed, biting his tongue to keep from prattling on and embarrassing himself. It was bad enough that he'd been tossed so far down as to beg for work. Mrs. Eclaire stared at him with pure bafflement, and he could see the gears turning behind her eyes as she thought.
"But why?" she finally asked. "Why do you want a job? And here, of all places?"
"Erm, I have… recently found myself in rather dire circumstances, where any extra coin I can earn is helpful. You see," he explained hesitantly, "the garrison is being changed into a tourist center and all the barracks are closing. I have to have some source of income, however I may get it."
"Well, you can just go on and get it somewhere else, as far as I'm concerned." She was pitiless again, staring him down with a tight frown on her face. "You nearly burned my Espella to a crisp on more than one occasion, and I don't care if the flames were real or not—we all thought they were at the time, and that's all that matters. And what's more, you sent so many more innocents to the same fate before her! I never liked those show trials you lot used to put on down there, acting like it was a carnival and screaming down at those poor defenseless women before tossing them in a metal cage and terrorizing the life out of them."
"Nothing you say is wrong," he admitted, looking down at his sandals. It's not as if he hadn't been turning the same thing over in his mind since the Storyteller had come down to the dungeons to collect him that fateful morning. "I can do little more than to offer my sincerest apologies—to everyone—but I know that it would never be enough to undo the harm caused by my hand." It wouldn't even do to blame Espella's father; he could have chosen to say no, to step down and refuse to be responsible for even one witch's demise. But he had thought, at the time, that he was doing what was best for his town and its people. Now, despite however deeply he'd felt that conviction, there was only a burning guilt in his gut and the shame of bullying innocent women weighing on his shoulders.
"Forgive me for taking your time," he said, half-turning. "'Tis just that Lady Dar—Miss Eve recommended you to me first, as you were down two assistants. I will take my leave of you now." He walked towards the door, forcing his shoulders back and trying to keep his head high.
"S-Sir Barnham, wait!" Surprised, he turned back to see Espella standing in the threshold of the alcove door, where she had obviously been eavesdropping. He could see a set of narrow stairs behind her, which he surmised led to the upper story and possibly the residential area. . When she saw them both staring, she stepped shyly into the bakery and shut the door behind her.
"Um… forgive me for overhearing, but—did you say that the garrison was closing completely?" she asked, unable to look him in the eyes and instead staring at the oven's flames.
"Aye. When we finish the renovations, it will be a tourist information center. Almost like a…" he searched his mind for the word Lady Darklaw had used when she had first revealed the plans. "A museum." It was all decided already. The barracks were going to become an office for the knights, who would be under the direct supervision of the Captain. The man had been one of the rare few whose memories had returned almost immediately after being released from the Storyteller's hypnotization, and he had been a police chief in his—for lack of a better term—previous life. He was now in charge of changing the knights of the Inquisition from witch hunters to public security: a worthwhile endeavor, yet not without its own reward.
"But where will everyone go?" He looked blankly at her, wondering why she cared.
"Most of the men have families to go back to." Many of them were his age or younger, and still had a home in their parent's house. "The rest of us have to make do the best we might." Some had money stored away, meticulously saved towards a house of their own once they married and were relieved of a Knight's duty. A few were, he knew, bunking with friends or siblings until they could procure a place of their own. He thought he might be the only one still unsure of where he would go.
"Are you telling me you don't have a place to sleep at night?" Mrs. Eclaire said sharply, reading between the lines faster than her young charge.
"Well—I will make do. We don't have to be moved out until the month's end." He felt a rush of shame and cleared his throat, looking away and hoping that the women mistook his red face as a result of the growing heat inside the bakery. "I decided not to look at housing until I was… more secure," he explained hesitantly, as Mrs. Eclaire pursed her lips in clear disapproval. "I want to make sure that whatever job I can find will be sufficient for rent."
Of course, she probably can guess how clueless I am about all this. I've never had to find a home outside the garrison before…. I must look like such a nervous idiot in her eyes. He fidgeted, hoping that he was in the right. None of the other knights seemed to have this problem, having families to go back to until they could find something. He, on the other hand, would end up sleeping under his desk in the Courthouse if he didn't find a job as soon as possible. And he knew from past experience that the floor in the office was both as cold and unforgiving as the High Inquisitor.
Not that she was quite so cold now… though she hadn't spoken more than a handful of words to him since the Professor and Mr. Wright had left for home. She seemed shyer, and possibly even embarrassed to be around him. He assumed it was because she'd thrown him in the dungeon; however, he harbored no ill will towards her. The Storyteller had explained everything, and after learning about her role in the town, he couldn't begrudge her a little animosity. He wasn't going to bring it up, though; when she was ready, he'd be more than happy to hear her out.
"Um—I'll go now," he repeated, as the silence grew from contemplative to awkward. Mrs. Eclaire and Espella were sharing some sort of silent conversation, and he'd already been turned down; there was no reason to remain here, standing like the fool he was. He'd have to go somewhere else for a job.
"Well now, wait just a moment." This was Mrs. Eclaire, her eyes narrowed as she looked him over.
"What?" He turned back. "Do you know someone who might need some assistance?" Espella shook her head, plaits bouncing, and he was astounded to see a smile on her face.
"We can't just let you be homeless…." She inched forward, still cautious yet curious as she looked up at him. "You said Eve recommended us to you?"
"Aye, Lad—Miss Eve mentioned that the bakery would be the most in need of some extra help." The teen looked at her hands, and then back at him. A new emotion, one that reminded him more of obstinacy than determination, lit her bright eyes from within.
"If Eve trusts you, than so do I," she said aloud, and he wondered for whose sake she was saying it: his or hers.
"We can't have you sleeping on the streets," Mrs. Eclaire added uncertainly, a mitt cupping her chin. "But I'll have you know that it's not easy work, and its long hours."
"I don't mind." A hope flickered to life in his chest. "I'm used to hard labor—we took care of all our own chores in the garrison, and I can come in as early or stay as late as you need. I'll start looking for rental properties near here, so I don't have to travel as far—" Mrs. Eclaire cut him off with an upraised hand.
"The bed is still in Phoenix and Maya's old bedroom; no reason you can't stay upstairs with us," she said matter-of-factly. "It'll be easier on you, since I can just take rent out of your wages and what you have left is yours to do with."
"Truly?" She nodded. "But—Constantine will have to come too, if that's alright with you. I can't give him away."
"Who's Constantine?" Espella asked, and Mrs. Eclaire looked puzzled as well.
"My puppy." He wished he had the image tacked onto his corkboard at the office to show them. "He's very well-behaved, but he does have an appetite." He had no doubts that he would grow up to be a handsome beast as large as his ill-fated mother. He already ate nearly twice his weight in scraps as it was, not counting the meat-covered bones Rouge slipped him from under the bar whenever they visited the tavern.
"Is he friendly to cats?" At that moment, a black blob dropped onto his shoulders from the rafters, and he reached for an invisible sword habitually, his heart skipping a beat. Two large eyes stared into his, and he recognized her as the cat Espella carried around with her everywhere.
"He has no real experience with them," he managed to say once he found his voice. "But as I said before, he's the picture of knightly honor. I doubt he'd chase—" He paused, waiting for a name.
"Eve." Eve? He looked back at the animal, mouth twitching at the thought of his former superior. The ex-High Inquisitor did look rather cattish, now that he thought about it. In more ways than one, though perhaps that is a little rude.
"I doubt he'd chase Eve for long, especially if she gave him one good swipe and put him back in his place." Again he nearly laughed, remembering the first time he'd brought Constantine to the office. He'd rushed the High Inquisitor, only to turn tail when she not only stood her ground, but brought up her boot as if to stomp him flat on the tile. At the time he'd been concerned, but now he wondered if she would have really done something so heartless after all. The walking lint, she called him. He had flattered himself into thinking that Constantine had grown on her, but she still called him a mutt at every opportunity. Perhaps Miss Eve was more of a cat person after all….
"Then it should be fine. After all, what's one more fur ball?" Mrs. Eclaire joked, reaching out to wipe some Eve fur from the counter. "Anything else?" He thought a moment, before another, equally important detail came to the forefront of his mind.
"I did say last week that I would help Lady D—Miss Eve with the reconstruction effort. After all, we should all do our part for—" he tapered off, realizing that he sounded preachy. "In any case, I should like perhaps three mornings as week to help her out. I'd be back for the afternoon, or if you should need me that morning, I'm sure we can work something out?" he finished hopefully.
"I don't see why not, provided that you don't fall behind here." Mrs. Eclaire crossed her arms. "Phoenix and Maya might not have been the best bakers, but they were two to your one. You'll have to work doubly hard if you're going to help out around here." She sounded severe and for a moment he was actually worried. Then, like the moon behind a moving cloud, a mischievous expression pushed its way onto her face and he realized that she was teasing him.
"I'll work three times as hard, and you can give Constantine the extra wages," he teased in return, giving his best, most charming grin. She actually blushed, winking at him before waving him on with both mitts.
"I suppose you ought go get your things from the garrison now. Espella, go sweep out that room and open the window. It hasn't seen fresh air in nearly a month now."
And just like that, now he not only had a job but also a place to stay. Walking back to the garrison with a new spring in his step, he couldn't believe his good fortune. But, he thought as he turned the corner and began to weave through the streets towards the wall looming in the distance, you almost didn't get it. Again the feeling of guilt tore at his insides. Because you nearly burned Espella Cantabella to a crisp. Of course, now they knew that she'd never have been burned at all, but even so…. Both of them had every right to be angry with him. It was a blessing that they had decided, without either of them saying a word, to give him a second chance.
Was it pity? Did they pity him for not having a place to stay? It's not as if he wouldn't have just convinced Rouge to let him sleep at the tavern until he could get a job. Then again, it was probably better that he didn't mention that to them; most people considered the tavern, and the shady streets around it, to be a place most foul with iniquity. A good practice was to keep a would-be employer from knowing that you frequented the black market area. Either way, you're a baker now. You have no clue about baking, so you will have to work three times as hard to convince them to keep you on.
It would be worth it, though. Not only would he learn a profitable trade, but the money he earned could go towards a present for Miss Eve. Her birthday was nearly four months away, more than enough time for him to pick something out. If he gave her a gift, surely then she would realize that he had no grudge against her, if she hadn't already. Then they could be friends, something that he'd admittedly wanted even when they were Inquisitors. She was highly intelligent and, as far as their meager conversations had went, she had good taste in literature, music, art, and a myriad of other things. How often he'd wished that they could have long conversations that weren't about work! But she'd cut such 'idle chatter' down to a bare minimum when she was his superior. Did she really not want to converse with him, or was she just doing that to keep him from growing into a liability against her plans for revenge? If he could help her to get over her shyness, perhaps he could find out.
The garrison was as busy as ever, men running around in every direction. He weaved through them easily, used to having to take roundabout routes to wherever he needed to go. He waved to the Captain, who was ordering about the carriage caretakers as they prepared the old float to be moved. As far as he had heard, it would still be used on Parade days, which had been changed by public vote to be biannual: one on Founding Day and one on the commemorative evening of the Last Witch Trial. He wondered what they would do with it now that the garrison was being changed. Would it be a tourist attraction in the museum? Would they put it in storage?
He entered the barracks and was immediately assaulted with the din of many men's voices in a small space. As usual, they were spread all over the thin cots, talking animatedly to one another or playing card games as they relaxed. Most of them weren't even in full armor, the warmth of the day prompting them to remain in tunics or even in nothing but their breeches as they reclined on the floor or peered down at the games from the top bunks. He knew they would miss this closeness; despite having little to no privacy in the barracks, there was also a sense of camaraderie and brotherliness among the knights that they wouldn't have once they were all spread out in town and not having to live literally stacked on top of one another.
"Wait, are you leaving?" one asked, when he saw Barnham move to his (admittedly less crowded) officer's bunk and start yanking things out from beneath the cot. Like many of the other men in the barracks, he found it much easier to throw thing into the shadowy space beneath his bed rather than into the standard wooden chest they were all given on being inducted into the Order of Knights.
"Aye. I have a new job." He found a sock he thought he'd lost years ago and began digging for its mate, which he had recently tossed behind the headboard.
"Leave it to Barnham to find a new job before the rest of us," another sighed. "You're popular enough to get one anywhere, are you not?" The others let out sounds of agreement and he lifted his head back up, the rushing blood pounding in his ears.
"I am not. Have any of the rest of you actually looked for one?" he asked accusingly, knowing already what the answer would be. No one replied, the group sheepishly going back to their game. "Pssh." he let out a breath between his teeth, something he'd picked up from the High Inquisitor. After a few more minutes of digging, he finally had all the dusty items rescued from beneath the cot and began putting the chest to rights. When had all his personal belongings gotten so messy? He huffed to himself and started yanking things from the chest, trying to organize it so that the weight would be evenly distributed. If he was going to have to carry it across town, he might as well make it as easy for himself as possible.
"Where's it at?" It took him a moment to realize they were still speaking to him.
"Hmm?"
"The job. Where's it at?"
"Eclaire bakery." He squashed the last of his items into the chest and began trying to stuff Constantine's cloth bed on top of them. One of the onlookers hopped off his bunk and came over to help, holding it down while Barnham tried to fasten the lock on the chest.
"Eclaire bakery, huh?" he panted, arms straining to hold the lid in place. "That's where that girl works, isn't it?"
"Espella Cantabella?" another clarified. "I heard she stayed on there, even though she's reconciled with her father." He threw down the Ace of Spades and the group groaned. "Surprised they even let you through the door. I thought they didn't like the knights."
"They have a reason not to," the one helping him replied thoughtfully. He gave up trying to hold it down and turned to sit on the lid, adding the extra weight needed for the lock to fasten properly. "But she likes the High Inquisitor, so maybe that's why she let him in."
"You certainly know a lot about Espella Cantabella," another onlooker pointed out with a grin. He shrugged before hopping off the chest. The lock trembled, but the chest didn't burst open.
"She's cute. Even when we all thought she was a witch, I still thought she was cute. Was a waste to send her to fire, though after the whole dragon bit—" He trailed off with another shrug. Barnham looked him over, unsure of his name. He was one of the newer lads, sandy-haired and hardly a day over eighteen years himself. He wrinkled his nose at Barnham and grinned, unabashed at his confession. A boy, nothing more than a boy.
But now the topic had turned, as such things often did in the garrison, to which women in town were the prettiest; but now they were all debating witches as well, which ones were the cutest even when crying at the stand, which they were sorry to see go, if there was a spell to bewitch a man would they be afraid of it, etc. etc. etc. Barnham ignored the crude talk as he always did, going around and making sure that he hadn't left anything. A few men came over and returned things that they'd borrowed of his; he in turn started giving back belongings that he had borrowed as well. It wasn't until one name stuck out of the conversation that he began to eavesdrop.
"But she's pretty too, eh? You'd think the Storyteller would have picked an old bag as the High Inquisitor." Miss Eve? One thing he had never tolerated was the knights talking down about their superiors, even if they didn't see them often. They were to always show respect for both the High Inquisitor and the Storyteller—within his hearing range, at least. But they weren't making fun of her or demeaning her this time, rather….
"I know what you mean. I remember the first time I ever saw her in that other uniform—you know, with the tight leggings? It took me forever to look at her face."
"I used to love watching her in the Parade before I became a knight. She was always so beautiful, throwing out the Story. Like an angel."
"Aye, but she's the devil herself when you mess up your report!"
"You think—" the knight's voice dropped. "You think she's as threatening in bed as she is at work?"
"Don't doubt it." A ripple of laughter ran through the men. "I bet she likes to be on top."
"I'd be fine with that." More laughter. "But my older brother told me that fierce women are the ones who like to be tied up when—you know. My sister in law is like that, apparently." He made a face. "I told him I could have went my entire life without knowing that about her."
"I'd like to tie her up."
"M-my sister in law?!"
"No!" The man opened his mouth, but snapped it shut again when he caught Barnham glaring at them. "What?" he asked, as innocently as he could muster.
"You shouldn't be speaking so of the High—of Miss Eve." Some of the men had the forethought to look chastised, though others just rolled their eyes in annoyance.
"C'mon, you work with her every day," one of them pointed out. "You've never thought of… well—I mean, are you blind?" he laughed. "She's not bad looking, when it comes down to it."
"I've always held the highest respect for her," Barnham snapped, thoroughly irritated. "I would not think of her in such demeaning terms, and you shouldn't either."
"Well who are you interested in?" another one asked, poking him in the back of the head from his bunk. This question caught him off guard, but he kept it from showing on his face. He might not be the Head of Knights anymore, but he could still be a good role model for the younger men.
"No particular woman in town holds my interest," he stated truthfully, before adding rather quickly, "and besides: romance has no place on the battlefield." One of the older men laughed again as he dealt the King of Hearts. The others hissed and threw their cards facedown, giving up.
"Romance doesn't always have something to do with the act, my boy." A few of the teenagers snickered, but Barnham ignored them.
"No lady would ask for less," he pointed out in reply.
"I dunno," he replied offhandedly, shuffling the cards before dealing another hand. "I've had a few ladies in my time all the same—wouldn't you say?" he asked his neighbor, who smirked.
"Sure," he drawled, picking up his hand and looking it over with a neutral poker face. "That's one way of putting it." Barnham shook his head in disgust and stepped over the game, going back to his trunk and trying to lift it. He could, but only just. The sandy-haired youth came back over and picked up the other end.
"Here, I'll help you carry it." Suddenly, the card game was stopped the men were standing up, blocking the way.
"What?" he asked them, still a little sour over their less than honorable conversation.
"It's really goodbye then, eh?" They all looked everywhere but at him, strange expressions on their faces.
"It's not as though you'll never see me," he pointed out. "There'll be Parades and holidays. Come by the bakery and say hello." He paused. "Leave your lady-talk here, though," he advised warningly. "I expect you all to be examples of honor while on city streets. Anyone who isn't will have to deal with me personally. Shall I rub some of your faces in the dirt right now, to remind you of what happens?" he asked.
"No, no!" they chorused, surging around him and clapping him on the back, punching his shoulders and ruffling his hair. "We'll behave."
"Take care of yourself, Sir Barnham."
"Bring some of those rolls next Parade, okay?"
"'Tis hard to see you go, Zacharias."
They followed him out the door, and someone brought out a pushcart from the stables. Constantine joined the crowd, trotting along at his heels with the rest of them. They helped him load his trunk onto it and accompanied him to the gates, shirtless and all.
"Come back by when we hold exhibitions for the tourists! You always were the best one at hand to hand combat."
"Can you get us some discounted pastries?"
"We'll see," he called back, turning at the other end of the moat and waving a farewell. Constantine hopped onto the pushcart next to the chest, sniffing it as if to say 'Where are we going with all of our things?'. He adjusted the dog's helmet, waving again at them before pushing the cart along the cobblestones.
A new chapter of his own Story was unfolding, and he wondered just what it might bring.
Afterword: I wanted to write for a long time about Barnham after the game ended. At first, it was just a one shot about him joining the bakery team and getting used to a life outside the garrison, but as time went on it morphed into this story. There's more angst about him having to create a niche to belong in, since he has no family of his own and he's leaving the friends he knew for the bakery, etc.
I also wanted to explore more of him actually falling in love with Eve, rather than them both already having feelings for each other and just being too shy/dense to act on them. That also ties into the belonging, as they both have to try and get used to this new equal footing they're on since she's no longer the High Inquisitor, as well as rebuilding trust, yadda yadda yadda. It also struck me as odd that in the first Special Episode you see Barnham in, he talks about getting enough money to buy a gift for her, but then later on he was trying to make her one and everyone just assumes he got paid in bread so he couldn't get one.
I sort of shifted it around a little for this story, where he's buying her a gift for her upcoming birthday to show that he's not mad at any old bad blood between them, and it slowly morphs into showing her how much he cares as he starts to fall for her. It's an angle I haven't tried to tackle before, so hopefully I can get it right!
As always, thanks for reading and leave a nice review in the little box in lieu of payment, if you so wish. It can even be three lines of nothing but screaming "AHHH", which I recently left on a friend's post to good results. Juju out!