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Chapter 6 - VI

Aldous stepped forward first. His beard was damp from the mist, his hands scarred, his shoulders squared like he'd walked into war councils harsher than this. He set his pack down at his feet and said, voice gruff but even:

"We're no pilgrims. We've tents of our own. We ask only for space within your walls. A few nights, and we'll be gone."

The Prioress regarded him with thin lips, her eyes sliding down the line of them all: Édric in his leather plates, weathered and hard; Adam scarred, broad, a half-smile curling as if even now he meant to disarm her with it; Victor at Emma's side, patch over his eye, jaw tight, hand never straying far from his hilt; Emma herself, braid red as flame, trousers worn from the road. And last of all Rufus, pale, thin, clutching Adam's tunic with both fists like a shadow refusing to be shaken.

Her gaze lingered on Emma, sharp as a blade. Then she spoke.

"Our rule is strict. If you stay within the building, men and women will be separated."

Rufus's head snapped up as though struck. His eyes went wide, his little fingers clutching harder at Adam's tunic. 

"No," he blurted, voice high and frightened.

The Prioress blinked, startled at the interruption. Adam's arm shifted instinctively, pressing the boy closer.

Victor's jaw flexed, and without a word he stepped closer to Emma until their shoulders nearly touched. He didn't speak, but his stance was enough. He would not be separated from her—not by walls, not by vows, not by anyone's decree.

Aldous's voice cut through, iron laid over gravel. 

"We don't separate. Not by sex, not by bedroll. We've buried too many already. If we stay, we stay together."

The courtyard hushed. Nuns shifted in their veils, scandal and disapproval sharp in their stares. But Aldous's words held, immovable as stone.

At last the Prioress's mouth thinned. 

"Very well. You may camp in the cloister garden. But hear me clearly: this is a house of God. We expect order, decency, restraint."

Aldous inclined his head, as much thanks as she'd get. 

"Done."

They were led through the covered walkways into the cloister garden, green grass hemmed by cloistered walls and watched from upper windows. 

The garden filled with the sounds of camp taking shape: canvas flapping, ropes tugged taut, the scrape of boots on flagstone. Smoke drifted thin from the little fire Bran coaxed to life, carrying the bite of kindling.

Emma moved like she always did, sleeves rolled, hands quick and sure. She hammered stakes into the soil, laughed when Victor fumbled the knot and Adam teased him for it. Her braid swung as she leaned to fix the corner of a canvas, and when she straightened, her cheeks were flushed from effort and mirth both.

Rufus, determined to prove himself, hovered at Édric's side. The boy carried pegs half his size, offered them up with solemn precision, and mimicked the man's motions with an earnestness that made Édric's mouth twitch despite himself. 

"Straight, lad," Édric muttered as Rufus tied a crooked loop, but his big hand guided the boy's without complaint.

Adam stood back a moment, watching them all, shoulders loose in a way they rarely were on the road. Then he leaned toward Victor, lowering his voice. 

"Tell me I'm not mad, but I swear I feel eyes burning holes in my back."

Victor glanced up from his rope, following Adam's gaze toward the gallery of veiled women watching from the cloister walk. Their faces were pale ovals above dark habits, silent as crows lined on a wall.

Victor's grin was immediate, irreverent. 

"Maybe it's the scar. Makes you look dangerous." His eye flicked toward Adam's cheek, then narrowed slyly. "Or maybe you've already got admirers. Be careful, brother—charm won't win you much in here."

Adam swatted his arm with the back of his hand, mock-scolding. 

"Oi. Don't laugh at vows, brat. Some things aren't for joking."

Victor's smirk softened into a chuckle, raising his hands in surrender.

"Alright, alright. Though you've got to admit, you stand out more than the rest of us." He tugged at the strap of his eyepatch with a crooked grin. "Maybe they're staring at me instead. Eye for an eye, eh?"

Adam rolled his eyes skyward but couldn't help the grin tugging at his mouth. 

"Reckon you'd like that, wouldn't you? Leave me to be the pious one for once."

Victor laughed, the sound carrying across the garden and making Emma glance up with a smile, though she had no idea what they were whispering about.

---

At sunset, Rufus, as ever, had wandered. He darted along the cloister walk after a moth, then stopped short when he passed under a row of veiled faces. The whispers floated down like smoke, sharp as thorns.

"Unmarried, living with men."

"Which is hers?"

"Or is she everyone's, passed from hand to hand?"

"Red hair, trousers. No shame."

The boy froze. His chest squeezed, throat closing on words he couldn't speak. He wanted to shout—wanted to tell them they were wrong, that Emma was kind and brave and better than any of them—but the words died in his mouth. His fists curled. His eyes burned.

He backed away before they could see his face, slipping down the steps into the grass where the troupe worked. He felt sick with it, as though the lies clung to his skin.

"Rufus!" Adam's voice cut across the square. He was crouched near the firepit, coaxing a flame. His head lifted, eyes narrowing. "Come here, pup. Food's nearly up. Don't want you getting lost in these stone walls."

Rufus swallowed hard, nodded quickly, and trotted back across the grass. He didn't go to Adam first, though. He went straight to Emma, who was kneeling in the grass with Victor, sorting through their packs. Without a word, he dropped down beside her, arms suddenly clutching around her waist.

Emma blinked, startled.

"Rufus?"

He pressed his face against her side, voice muffled but clear enough.

"I love you. You're kind and you're pretty ."

Emma's mouth softened into a smile, surprised and touched all at once. She wrapped an arm around him, kissing the top of his head.

"Oh, love... I love you too."

Victor looked over, one brow raised, but said nothing. There was something in the way Rufus held her—tight, almost desperate—that made him glance up at the cloister walk with a frown.

After a moment, Rufus pulled back, wiping quickly at his eyes as though nothing had happened. He went to Adam, pressing himself into his usual place at his side. Adam's arm hooked around him automatically, tugging him close.

But when the food was passed around, Rufus was unusually quiet. No quick chatter, no eager stories. Just silence, his hand fisted in Adam's tunic while he chewed slowly, eyes lowered.

Adam noticed, of course. He always did. He glanced down at the boy, suspicion flickering behind his easy grin. But he didn't press. Not yet. He only tightened his arm around Rufus's shoulders, anchoring him against his side while the fire crackled, the nuns whispered, and the night pressed close.

---

The cloister was already dark, the sky a stretch of cloud-muted stars. The troupe's fire had burned down to embers, and voices faded into murmurs. Adam dusted his hands on his breeches and nudged Rufus gently forward.

"Go on, pup. Do your rounds."

Rufus dragged his feet, blanket half-slipping from his arms, but ritual was ritual. He went first to Victor and Emma, sitting side by side on the grass. Victor reached to ruffle his hair, Emma bent to kiss his brow, whispering something soft that made his ears go pink. Then he padded to Édric, who gave his usual gruff nod of acknowledgment, and finally to Aldous, who grumbled "Goodnight" without looking up from tightening a strap.

When Rufus finished, Adam swooped him up under one arm, earning a half-hearted squeak, and carried him to their tent.

Inside, the air smelled of leather, wool, and the faint salt that clung to everything this close to the sea. Adam set him down on the heap of blankets, tugging off his boots one by one before flopping onto the floor himself with a grunt.

Rufus sat very still, drawing the blanket to his chin. His eyes, usually bright and restless, looked far away.

Adam frowned, propping himself up on an elbow.

"What's this? My pup's gone quiet? That's unnatural. Come on, out with it."

Rufus hesitated, chewing his lip, and finally whispered:

"How can people not like Emma?"

Adam blinked. The question came so earnest, so bewildered, it almost broke his heart.

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully.

Rufus's eyes shimmered in the dim light.

"First in the village. They stared at her. They whispered." His small fists bunched in the blanket. "And now the sisters here. I heard them." He swallowed. "They said… they said she was with all of you. Passed around. Like she was no one's. Everyone's."

The words came halting, confused, but Adam understood at once. His gut went hot with anger. He bit back the curse that rose to his tongue—no use letting Rufus taste that filth on his lips too.

"Pup," he said instead, voice low, steadying, "look at me."

Rufus did, eyes wide and wet.

"Those words—they're lies. Ugly ones. You don't need to understand them, only know this: Emma is ours. She's brave, kind, sharp as they come. She's Victor's heart. She's your family. None of what you heard touches that."

"But why would they say it?" Rufus whispered, almost pleading. "She's so nice. She helps me, she makes Victor laugh, she—she—"

His voice cracked. "Why would they say something mean if it's not true?"

Adam leaned forward, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him close.

"Because sometimes people are afraid of what they don't understand. A woman who walks bold, who wears trousers, who speaks her mind—she scares them. Instead of admitting they're small, they throw dirt. That's not about Emma. That's about them."

Rufus sniffled, clinging to his tunic.

"It's not fair."

"No," Adam agreed softly, resting his chin on the boy's head. "It isn't. But fair or not, it doesn't touch her. Not while we're here."

For a long moment, Rufus stayed tucked against him, trembling easing with each breath. Adam felt the knot in his own chest—the fury, the protective ache—and smoothed the boy's hair, forcing it back down flat.

Then, deliberately, he broke the heaviness.

"Alright, enough of this. You've been too quiet all evening, and that's punishable."

Rufus blinked up at him, startled.

"Punishable?"

"Wrestling," Adam growled, pouncing. He tickled the boy's sides until Rufus shrieked and kicked, giggling through the remnants of tears. Adam let him shove him onto his back, groaning like he'd been defeated by a knight ten times his size.

"Strongest pup alive," Adam wheezed, clutching his chest. "You'll have me crying for mercy one of these nights."

Rufus beamed, chest puffed with triumph. The weight of the whispers faded, at least for now.

Adam pulled him close again, gentler this time, and tucked the blanket around him

"Better?"

"Better," Rufus murmured, already drowsy, thumb brushing the seam of Adam's sleeve.

"Good." Adam kissed the boy's temple, rough beard scratching lightly against his skin. "Now. What do you say to your favorite brother?"

Rufus whispered, soft as breath,

"See you in the morning."

Adam swallowed the ache in his throat and answered steady:

"See you in the morning, pup."

The boy's eyes closed, his breathing evening out. Adam lay awake beside him, fury still simmering at what had been said, love burning hotter still.

And as he listened to Rufus's steady breaths, he swore silent in the dark: no whispers, no chains, no shadows would ever touch Emma—or the boy curled at his side—while he lived to stop it.

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