The babe born while he was in prison and presumed dead. Poor Enid, born after Blanche wed another. They’d cast Enid out like soiled goods, Blanche and her noble husband. God, when he thought of the hovel where he’d found his daughter—
“Enid is only two,” Darcy said slowly. “She’ll forget.”
“Forget!” Gowain snarled. “How can you say that, when she wakes screaming every night? You’ve heard her. Jesu, what can those beasts have done to make my babe so terrified? If only she would tell us what happened, mayhap I could help.”
“Don’t!” Darcy said. “Don’t torture yourself, Gowain. None of this is your fault.”
“I’d speak of it no more,” Gowain said gruffly. He shoved the anguish to the back of his mind and shut the door on it. A skill he’d mastered as a child and perfected over the years. He didn’t just hide his emotions, he ceased to feel them. ‘Twas the only way he’d survived the French prison and Blanche’s betrayal.
“Is that Eastham?” Darcy asked, pointing ahead.
“Aye.” A sense of relief swept through Gowain as his weary eyes traced the familiar lines of his birthplace.
Set atop a rocky promontory, Eastham Castle’s twin towers rose defiantly against the rapidly darkening sky. Strong and stalwart as an ancient warrior, it cast a long, protective shadow over the village huddled at its base. After all that had happened to him of late, Gowain had half feared he’d return to find Eastham shattered along with his other dreams and hopes.
“Do we bypass the village or ride through it?” Darcy asked.
“Through. The way is shorter.” But as they approached the low wall of rocks surrounding the village, Gowain’s unease returned. The wall looked unkempt, the cottages neglected.
“This place looks deserted,” Darcy muttered.
“Hmm.” Gowain leaned from the saddle to examine the road in the fading light. The track showed signs of recent traffic. “It could be nightfall or the approaching storm has driven everyone within.” Yet no hint of light seeped out from around the tightly closed door and shuttered window of the cottage on his right.
Gowain knew who had lived there. Master Everhard, the tavernkeeper, and his daughter, Maye. Beautiful, lively Maye had been pursued by half the village lads, himself included. He was half tempted to dismount and ask for news, of Maye and the castle.
“I like this not.” Darcy loosed the loop of his battle-ax from the saddle. He was big as an ox, with arms like tree trunks. A good man to have on your side in a fight.
“Slip to the rear and alert the men,” Gowain whispered. Slowly drawing the sword from its sheath, Gowain laid it across his thighs. Just in case. Around them, the wind whistiled between the buildings, the only sound other than the ring of iron shoes on hard earth and the jingle of harness. By the time they cleared the village, Gowain had decided on a change of plans.
“I’ll not let you go up there alone,” Darcy protested when he heard what Gowain intended to do.
Gowain looked up the hill to the castle, set out against the billowing clouds, lights shining from the uppermost tower windows and flickering along the wall walks, where the guards no doubt made their rounds. Whatever awaited him there, he was used to facing his demons alone. “I need you to keep Enid safe. Dismount and hide the men in these rocks. After I’m assured of our welcome, I’ll come myself to fetch you. Myself. If another should come and say I sent him, know that I’m taken, and flee.”
“But—”
“I hate to leave you here in the wind and cold, but I will not be longer than is needful.” Gowain turned away before Darcy could say more. For all his resolve, the ride up the steep hill to the castle was the longest in his life. Nerves stretched taut with dread, he drew rein before the drawbridge.
“Halt and state your business,” a stern voice shouted down from atop Eastham’s walls.
“Open the gates for Sir Gowain de Crecy,” he called.
“The hell ye say,” came the reply. “He’s dead.”
Gowain lifted the visor of his helm. “I’m very much alive, as you can see. I come alone, in peace, to see my father and—”
“Wait here while I see what His Lordship says.”
Gowain stared at the closed drawbridge, unable to fathom that his father might not let him in. An interminable wait followed. Just when Gowain thought he might burst into a thousand pieces, the door of the sally port to the right of the drawbridge creaked open and a group of men rode out.
The tingle of apprehension in Gowain’s belly became full-blown alarm. He backed his stallion up till he stood on the crest of the road. It was purposefully narrow, so that an invader might bring up only a few men at a time. At the first sign of trouble, he’d spur down the path.
As the troop drew near, he recognized their leader.
Ranulf!
It was like seeing their father as he might have been at thirty. Ranulf had their sire’s fair hair and eyes the color of summer sky. How Gowain had envied Ranulf that link with the man he adored. How he’d hated the black hair and green eyes he got from his mother. Ranulf had known, of course, and taunted Gowain with it. Calling him “gypsy boy” and “black savage.” The passing years had intensified Ranulf’s resemblance to their father, Gowain saw as his brother halted before him.
“You are not well come here,” Ranulf snarled. Though they were of a height, he glared at Gowain as imperiously as Zeus from Mount Olympus. “Get you gone from Eastham.”
Gowain glared right back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ranulf’s men fan out, flanking him on the sides, but unable to get behind him on the narrow trail. So, they thought to take him. Reflexively his fist tightened on the hilt of his sword. “When I left for France, our father said I would always be well come in his castle,” he said, calmly yet firmly.
“My father is dead, and I am lord here, now.”
“Dead?” Gowain blinked, only years of absorbing physical blows keeping him upright. “When?” he whispered.
“A year ago…for all the notice you took.”
“I…I was in prison.”
“I am not surprised you ended up there.”
Gowain barely heard the taunt as he struggled to absorb this latest blow without revealing the pain it caused. Ranulf had the ruthless instincts of a wolf. If he knew he’d drawn blood, he’d close in for the kill. It had always been thus between them. Gowain the outsider, though he’d been born at Eastham, and Ranulf, the heir, jealous of the young rival for their father’s affection and for the wealthy estate.
“I truly did not know about Papa.” Gowain tried to think what he should do next. “I will not presume further on your hospitality, then. I assume my mother has gone to Malpas Tower, and I will join her there.”
“She has not gone to Malpas.”
“Where is she, then?”
Ranulf shrugged.
