The Nun and King

Chapter 8

"Ekon?" Sven questions as we break down the final remnants of camp.

"Aye," I say, dumping a pot of water onto the hot coals of the fire. It sizzles and a flume of smoke rises in the air. "We need supplies, more so unperishable food. Hunting will become scarcer the further south we travel—you know this Sven." We would be able to get by just as we did on our journey to Paevia, but with a dozen women in tow I'd rather not have to subject them to the conditions of having to suck on bone marrow as a meal or stealing eggs from a gator's nest and hoping the mother isn't close by.

Besides, the nuns have proven to require other necessities as well and I'm not going to be the one to tell them to grit their teeth and bare it, what kind of man would I be? A poor excuse of one at best.

"But Ekon? It's not exactly the friendliest of places," Sven continues, rolling up the canvas tarp of his tent. It collects the morning dew off of grass creating mud and he has to wipe his hands on his pants several times before fastening it with buckles.

Raising my brows, I nod agreeing with him. "No, but given the size of our party I highly doubt a few thugs will be much of a nuisance. Don't tell me you're scared of getting your feelings hurt but a few dirty looks from townsfolk?" I tease.

Sven frowns and slings the canvas roll over his toned shoulder. "Of course I'm not. I was only saying," he mutters before trudging to his horse.

My stomach grumbles and I look over to the women—and Father Anthony—who gobble down the remains of last night's dinner. They insisted that they share with the rest of my men, and being the gentleman we are, we declined though I'll admit there were a few that were about to accept their offer until I had to shoot them a silent glance. If we plan our day right and have no setbacks, we should arrive in Ekon before sunset, which means bellies full of mead and hot stew.

Gathering up the last few remaining items, we load the horses and begin to saddle them as we wait for the women to finish breakfast. As I tighten the straps of my stirrups on my mare Rory joins me. Placing his elbow on her rear and rests against her muscular thigh, causing her to shift her weight to balance him. She looks back and lets out a tuft of air in protest but he ignores her.

"She doesn't like that," I state and return my focus on my tack.

"Yeah well she's a horse, so," Rory counters, but he removes his elbow and instead stands with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Today it appears he has opted for a simple tunic over a pair of trousers and carries his sword loosely around his waist. "You were upset last night, yes?"

Pausing with what I am doing, I take a slow breath before turning towards him. "A bit," I admit, "So?"

Rory purses his lips and brushes his unclean chestnut hair from his face. "I have a gut feeling it had to do with me. Do you want to talk about it man to man or do you want to let it go like water under a bridge?" he asks, waving motioning his a hand through the air to imitate a stream.

This rubs me the wrong way and I frown, shooting him a look of annoyance. "I feel the end result will be the same either way so what's the point? You'll go on about your day thinking of who you can bed next, will drink one to many ales tonight and fall asleep without a second thought of what you said to me the night before."

His dark brows furrow together and he gives me a condescending smirk. "Tell me brother, do you have a stick up your arse or did you get your monthly cycle like the women too?"

Immediately I step forward to where our chests are only an inch or so apart. For the most part Rory and I get along quite well together, but every once in a while there are times where our personalities can clash.