“We nail it shut,” said Thomas, getting into the spirit of the thing.
“And someone sits with James. Lets him sleep, but watches what happens,” said Matthew. “I’ll do it.”
“It might be better if Cordelia did it,” James said quietly.
Matthew looked a little hurt. “Why?”
“Because I have Cortana,” said Cordelia. “I have wounded Belial with Cortana before; if necessary, I suppose…” For the first time she looked doubtful. “I could do so again.”
“Indeed,” said James. “She can strike me down if necessary.”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed Lucie, bolting to her feet. “There will be no striking down of anyone!”
“Except Belial,” remarked Christopher. “If he makes an appearance—on his own, you know, not inside James, as it were.”
“Just wound me, then,” James said to Cordelia. “Stab me in the leg if you need to. The left one, if you can—I’m fonder of my right.”
“Just promise you’ll call out, if you need us,” Matthew said. He exchanged a long look with James. It said all the things Matthew would never say in front of all these people, no matter how he cared for them: it said that he loved James, that he would be here all night, if James needed him, that he believed in James as he believed in himself.
“So it’s decided,” said Anna. “We will wait down here tonight and make sure James never leaves his room; Cordelia will stand guard upstairs. And I will raid the larder, since we are likely to get hungry. An army marches on its stomach, as the saying goes.”
“So how are we planning to stay awake all night?” Thomas inquired.
“I could read to you all from The Beautiful Cordelia,” Lucie suggested. “I have some pages in my handbag. One never knows when inspiration may strike.”
“Oh Lord,” said Matthew, reaching for his flask. “In that case, I’ll be needing brandy. What was it Lord Byron said? ‘Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.’？” He raised the flask in a salute. “Lucie, begin. As the demons of Hell are battled upstairs, so we shall battle the demons of romantic prose in the drawing room.”
* * *
James retired to his room with Thomas, who helped nail the window shut before heading back downstairs to play cards. Cordelia, after visiting her own room to change into a comfortable tea gown, joined James, who locked the connecting door firmly after her and moved a chair in front of it for good measure.
Then he began to get undressed.
Cordelia supposed she should have expected this. The whole idea was that James would go to bed, after all, and he couldn’t be expected to sleep with his shoes and jacket on. She pulled a chair up beside the bed and settled herself on it, Cortana across her lap.
“Your drive today,” he said, undoing his cuff links. His shirt sprang apart at the wrists, revealing the strong line of his forearms. “Did it lift your spirits?”
“Yes,” she said. “There’s a fanciful story of a barrow in the Berkshire Downs where if you leave a coin, Wayland the Smith will mend your sword. I brought Cortana there, and it does seem to be sitting easier in my hand now.”
She wanted to tell him the rest—of Wayland the Smith, of her swearing fealty as a paladin. She had not told Matthew. It was too new, then, and there was too much wonder in it. And now, she found, she could not tell James, either; it was too much, too strange a tale for tonight. If all went well, she would tell him tomorrow.
“They say Wayland the Smith made the sword Balmung, which Sigurd used to kill the dragon Fafnir,” James said, stripping off his jacket and braces. “A king imprisoned Wayland, to try to force him to forge weapons. He killed the king’s sons in revenge, and made goblets from their skulls and a necklace from their eyes.”
Cordelia thought of the blue stone necklace Wayland had been wearing and shivered a little. It had not looked even a bit like eyes, but nothing about the man she had met made her believe him incapable of the deeds in the story James was telling.
“They say all swords have souls,” she said. “That makes me feel slightly uneasy about Cortana’s.”
He smiled crookedly, unbuttoning his shirt. “Perhaps not all the stories are true.”
“We can hope not,” she said, as he clambered onto the bed in trousers and undershirt; there were already pillows stacked against the headboard, and a coil of rope on the coverlet. The undershirt left his arms bare from the elbows down, traced with black Marks and the pale scars of faded runes. “I will tie my wrist to the bedpost, here,” he said, “and then, if you could tie the other wrist, it would be safest, I think.”