tromping of horses’ hooves stopped directly below her. “Hail!”
Rhian froze midstep. Her breath and heart skipped over each other. She clenched her fists at her sides and closed her eyes. She’d no wish to see the danger heading her way.
“You, girl!”
The approaching danger didn’t sound extremely threatening. She took a fortifying breath of air before peering over the walkway to look down at the man in the bailey.
Rhian shielded her eyes from the torch he held aloft. The light flickered across his face. His voice had belied his age. This man was little more than a boy. A squire perhaps? Since he was not demanding to know why she was on the wall, it was apparent he was not from Browan.
“Ah, she does hear.”
When the men around him snickered, Rhian backed away from the edge of the walk. By himself he didn’t appear threatening, but the men with him seemed a scurvy lot and they were many years beyond boyhood.
“I mean you no harm. Just a question if you please.”
The pleading in his voice beckoned her to answer. “I’ve no time for idle chatter, be quick.”
“Is your master in residence?”
“Now how would—” She caught herself. “Nay. There is no master of Browan.”
“Surely someone is in charge.”
“Sir Hector holds the keep until the new master arrives.” Why was he asking her this question in the first place? Had he not inquired at the gates?
“Excellent. My lord will be pleased to hear that.” He tugged on his horse’s reins as if to leave, then turned back to her. “Tell me, are Browan’s gates always unguarded?”
Rhian gasped softly. That explained why this lad questioned a serving wench. What type of imbecile was in charge of the haven she’d found? While it did explain why nobody had noticed her on the wall, it did not explain why during a time of unending battles a sane man left a keep open for conquest. She realized she was taking too long to answer and fumbled for a suitable response. “I…I know not. Perhaps the guards were occupied elsewhere.”
If she valued her safety, she knew that her time at Browan was at an end. She’d leave at first light. Surely there was another keep nearby. One where a residing lord valued his property and those inside the walls.
The young man nodded. “Perhaps you are right. I will bid you good evening then and thank-you for your kind assistance.”
Without waiting for him and his companions to leave, Rhian paced back and forth, resuming her search for a ladder down to the bailey.
The man cleared his throat. When she peered at him, he motioned toward her left with the torch. “If you are searching for a ladder, there is one a few feet that way.” Without another word he turned and left. The men with him followed, their renewed snickers echoing off into the night.
To her great relief, she managed to descend the ladder without breaking her neck. The relative quiet of the inner bailey provided her a small semblance of peace as she crossed the nearly dark yard. The two guards she encountered paid her little heed other than asking her business at Browan. It amazed her that once she admitted to being a serving wench, they waved her on her way. Aye, she’d have no regrets about leaving in the morning. She had no intentions of being in residence when this keep fell to the next enemy who approached.
Rhian leaned against the wall of a shed to rest awhile before heading back to the kitchens. Hopefully, Hawise would not notice her absence until she found a measure of ease for her weary body and mind. While the tenseness left her body, her mind ran in circles. How could she have come here like this? Had she lost her sense of reason? Why did she not just stay with—?
“You! Girl!”
Why did everyone call her girl? Did the clothes she’d filched fit that poorly? She quickly realized her mistake—being seen as nothing more than a girl was a blessing, not a curse.
After banishing her unwarranted ire, she looked up at the man on horseback. In the near pitch blackness of the night, she could see little more than his silhouette. Since he was mounted and accompanied by a host of others, she assumed he was of some consequence.
“Aye, milord?”
“Where are the stable boys? Why has no one come to greet us?”
Disoriented by the night, Rhian looked toward what she hoped was the stable before replying, “There is a great celebration this night. Perhaps all are making merry in the hall.”
“’Tis a poor excuse.”
While she could not discern his features, something in his voice rang familiar, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to rise. Nay, she’d been careful to hide her trail. He’d not have been able to find her so quickly.
Confident of the abilities learned at her father’s side, Rhian shook off her concern. All men of rank spoke with that same arrogant tone, making their names and faces blend into one indiscernible toad in her mind. Instead of replying with the barb that wanted to escape her lips, she said, “It is the only excuse I can offer, milord.”
“Why are you out here alone on such a dark, moonless night?”
A question she should have asked herself before seeking refuge in a dark, nearly deserted bailey. Still, her safety was none of his concern. “I just wished for a breath of air. The hall is overcrowded and airless.”
“And have you had your air?”
“Aye.”
“Then return to the keep where it’s safer.”
She jerked away from the shed at his order. Of all the arrogance she’d witnessed this night, he was by far the most…the worst…the—
He moved his horse closer until she could feel the beast’s hot breath on her cheek. She shrank away from what felt like the fires of hell. “Unless you seek to disobey an order, go. Now.”
The urge to argue with him was nigh on irresistible. His demeanor, his tone of voice, his haughty bearing all begged for a good tongue-lashing. Rhian knew that she was more than capable of performing the task. But it would raise suspicion if a serving wench addressed her betters in such a manner.
Suspicion she could not risk.
It took one deep breath to swallow her wayward urge. And another three to become as close to meek and subservient as she could.
“Oh, nay, milord, one such as I would never seek to disobey an order.” She winced at the tone of her own voice.
He ignored her tone. And ordered again, “Go.” In a voice so low, so sinister that it brooked no further argument.
“Choose.”
“Choose what?” Rhian knew her voice was tinged with anger, but cared not. She was tired of being told to choose, tired of being told to do anything. What was she to choose? She glanced around the smoke-filled kitchen in confusion. Outside of half a dozen serving girls, a cook and
