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“I will not stand for it any longer!”
Alistair cringed. Maker, he was in trouble. Granted, he'd be in a great deal more trouble if he was caught eavesdropping, but it couldn't be helped. He'd never seen Isolde so angry before, and whatever punishment she came up with would be all the worse if it came as a surprise.
On the other side of the door, Arl Eamon was responding to Isolde's shouts in a steady, even tone that Alistair couldn't quite make out properly. Eamon probably meant it to be soothing; the arlessa just shouted louder.
Alistair sighed defeatedly, letting his head fall back against the door frame. He hadn't meant to make her angry. He never meant to. But somehow, no matter how good he tried to be and how hard he tried to please her, he always seemed to wind up making her hate him more in the end.
Eamon spoke a bit more firmly. “The boy meant well, dear, and there was no harm done.”
“There could have been! He is a clumsy, oafish boy—anything could have happened! And he knowingly disobeyed me!”
There was a long pause. Finally, the arl let out a heavy sigh. “Yes. He did.”
Alistair's hopes of some gallant defense were dashed just as quickly as they'd risen. He wanted to scream; he settled for clenching his fists. Yes, he'd broken one of Isolde's rules, but he'd done it for a good reason, and it was a stupid rule, and he wouldn't have had to break it in the first place if there had been any grown-ups around, so it wasn't even really his fault!
What was he supposed to have done? Connor was crying, and his nurse was nowhere to be found. Alistair knew Isolde didn't want him touching the baby, but was he to just let him cry until someone else came? She thought he was clumsy, but he knew babies were fragile and he'd been careful; he'd done nothing more dangerous than pick Connor up and cuddle him and make funny faces until he stopped crying.
Sure, the baby had gone straight back to crying when Isolde came in and started yelling, but that was her fault, not Alistair's.
“This is the last straw, Eamon. I want him gone!”
There was another pause, even longer than the first, and Alistair's insides squirmed unpleasantly. It wasn't the first time Isolde had tried to get rid of him, but Eamon usually said no right away. What was taking him so long this time?
Eamon sighed again. “Perhaps... the boy might be better suited to life in the Chantry. I will make the arrangements in the morning.”
Alistair's heart stopped.
Eamon was sending him away. He hadn't even heard his side of the story, and he was sending him away!
Hot, angry tears welled in his eyes as he pushed himself to his feet and tore down the hall as fast as his legs would carry him. He didn't know where he was running, and he didn't care; he just needed to be anywhere but there.
Eamon was sending him away!
Isolde demanded it at least once a week, but Alistair had never imagined it would actually happen. Somewhere in the back of his mind he'd always thought that Eamon... well, loved him was a bit of a stretch, but he'd certainly thought he liked him, or at least cared enough about him not to ship him off to the Chantry.
His bitter tears had turned to full-on sobs by the time he found himself outside—a fact he only became aware of once he'd slipped on rain-slicked grass and fallen face-first into a huge puddle of foul-smelling mud.
“Alistair?”
The familiar voice shook Alistair out of his grim thoughts of how appropriate it would be to drown there. He sat up and managed to get most of the muck out of his eyes by the time Teagan reached him.
“Alistair?” the Bann repeated. “What's the matter, lad?”
Another choked sob was all Alistair could muster as Teagan sat down beside him. “Your c-clothes...” Alistair protested weakly.
“It's just a bit of mud,” Teagan said breezily, producing his handkerchief and setting about cleaning the rest of the grime from Alistair's face. “Now, what's got you so upset?”
The tears returned in earnest. “I'm getting sent to the Chantry! All because stupid Isolde is angry that I broke her stupid rule about keeping away from the baby! I didn't hurt him—I wouldn't hurt him; I like him! It's not fair!”
“No. It's not fair.”
Somehow, having a grown-up agree made Alistair feel even more wretched.
“But, fair or not, it may turn out to be a blessing in disguise,” Teagan continued.
Alistair sniffled. “How?”
“Well, for one thing,” Teagan dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “you shall no longer be subjected to the arlessa's shrieking.” When that earned him a small laugh, he continued rather more seriously, “Apart from that, the Chantry provides a fine education and there will plenty of boys your own age to make friends with.”
Alistair frowned thoughtfully. That cold, angry pit in his stomach was still there, but... “I would like to learn to read,” he admitted.
Teagan hugged his shoulders. “There's a good man! And now, if you've no objections, perhaps we should both find ourselves some dry clothes before we catch our death of cold.”
Once they'd freed themselves from the mud—a rather more difficult task than anticipated, which ended in both of them getting quite a bit filthier—they made for the servants' entrance, and as they passed the stables, Alistair had a thought.
“D'you suppose the Sisters will make me sleep with the dogs?”
“No, lad. They won't make you sleep with the dogs.”