Constantine (Daughter of War #1)

Chapter 2: Estranged Ties

I woke up to the sound of ringing bells.

Fire had invaded my dreams—the flames that were supposed to consume me, but didn't. Then I heard the cathedral bells and groggily pulled myself up from my slumber. I count eight bells, which sends me to a full blown panic. My squire duties are supposed to start at precisely eight in the morning. No more, no less, otherwise Sir Isaac would have my head.

He will soon.

I stumble out of bed, nearly tripping over my cloak, which I haven't bothered to take off. My candle still burns in its lamp, which miraculously did not make anything catch fire. I quickly snuff it out. Instead of folding my cloak neatly like I should, I unclasp, then fling it hastily onto my bed. I am wearing acceptable training clothes, so I don't change.

A tiny mirror sits on my table. I peer into it—its surface is caked and blurry with dust—barely discerning the unruliness of my copper-coloured hair and the circles under my eyes. I should be fine, so long as I constrain myself from yawning.

I run out of my room, slamming the door shut behind me. The squires' quarters are a long row of shambling wood and bricks, pasted together with dried clay. They're the only tumble-down and shoddy part of the castle grounds, kept out of sight in the farthest corner of the land. At least the training field is a mere sprint away.

I dash towards there, spotting the lines of squires filing in at the centre. With panic rising in me, I increase my speed, tearing through the wind. I land agilely in front of the training knight and salute him. Sir Isaac's face is blotchy with rage, making him look like a wrinkled sea-shroom. I almost laugh at the image, but then silently chastise myself for such thoughts at this time.

"Squire Rutherland!" His voice has never been particularly pleasing to the ears, and at this full-blown temper tantrum, there is nothing I can do but to feign deafness. Better than throwing my hands over my ears, trying to muffle the noise. "What time is it?"

"I do not know, sir," I say. It's approximately fifteen minutes past eight. However, I don't dare to give a reply; Sir Isaac has a ridiculously accurate sense of timing.

"Eight fifteen." Aha, I was correct. Unfortunately I didn't voice it; now I'll pay for the consequences. "You are fifteen minutes late for practice, squire! May I be so kind as to inquire why?"

"I overslept, Sir Isaac." The excuse is feeble. At least I'm not telling a falsehood.

"He overslept!" cries Sir Isaac with mock horror on his face. "Tell me squires, is that a plausible excuse for being late?"

"No sir!" they chant. I'm doomed.

"What is the punishment for being late, squires?"

"Twenty laps around the field and cleaning up the horses' muck, sir!" I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at Sir Isaac for introducing the 'horse muck' punishment.

Sir Isaac gives me a sardonic smile, which slowly fades away. "Unfortunately, Squire Rutherland won't have such a punishment imposed upon him today," he says gloomily. I stare at him incredulously. The old knight is definitely not one to miss an opportunity to dish out legal torture. The other squires look as though they want to hurl me into the horse muck.

He jerks his chin towards the trees. "Go, your father is waiting for you." My muscles tense up. Why did I have to oversleep on the day my father came?

I walk towards the figure concealing itself within the shadows. Only now when my mind isn't occupied with squire duties that I can see him. My father steps out of the shadows; the sudden sunlight thrust upon him turns his blond hair into a blinding flash. I keep my eyes focused on the golden buttons of his jerkin, not daring to look at him in the face.