servants cleaning after last night’s feast, a few soldiers finishing their early meal of bread and ale and the hounds. Tamsin was not there, nor were any of the guests, Lady Mavis or Lord DeLac. No doubt the lords and ladies were still abed.
As one of the maidservants—not that pretty pert one, but an older one—brought him bread and ale, stifling a yawn as she did so, he told himself to be glad Tamsin wasn’t there. She had made her feelings quite clear, so there was nothing more to say to her.
Trying to put Tamsin from his thoughts, he ate slowly, savoring the excellent bread and fine ale, better than anything he would have at his own castle. He watched with hidden amusement as some of the other knights and squires stumbled into the hall, clearly the worse for feasting too much and too long last night. None of the ladies appeared.
That was to be expected, he supposed. But he did hope to see Tamsin bustling about, giving orders and seeing that all was well later, when he was preparing to depart. Yet he never so much as caught a glimpse of her in the hall, the guest quarters or the courtyard.
It was as if Tamsin had disappeared off the face of the earth. Or been locked away.
Chapter Four
Rheged immediately went back to the hall. If Tamsin was being punished because they’d been together last night, he must and would make certain Lord DeLac knew the lady was innocent of any indiscretion.
Well, perhaps she wasn’t entirely innocent, but she’d certainly done nothing worthy of punishment.
When he entered the hall, he saw at once that Tamsin wasn’t there, although more of the guests were, including a few of the ladies.
Deciding he would wait until Tamsin appeared or Lord DeLac arrived, Rheged sat on one of the benches halfway down the hall, away from anyone else. Not surprisingly, no one moved to sit near him. Only the servants addressed him, hurrying to offer him bread, honey, wine or ale. He waved them away and paid no heed to their curious regard any more than he did to the sideways glances the Normans gave him.
“Not like her at all,” he heard a woman say behind him. “Normally she’s calm as can be, even after a feast, but I swear to you, Denly, she fair tore a strip off Baldur this morning for not telling her they was running short of wine.”
Rheged moved farther back in the shadow of the pillar and looked over his shoulder. Two servants, a man and a woman, were replacing the torches in the sconces.
“No wonder she’s snappish,” the man remarked as he lifted down a burned-out torch. “Poor thing’s bone-tired. Not that she’s resting. She’s been in the storerooms all morning, checking the stores as if the king himself were coming.”
So it seemed Tamsin wasn’t being punished. She was going about her daily business, as if nothing at all had happened.
And so should he.
* * *
So Rheged was still telling himself early the next morning as he rode the last mile toward his fortress. He had spent the night encamped in a wood halfway between Castle DeLac and his estate, in a ruin of a coal burner’s hut he’d spotted when he ventured from the road seeking water for his horse. As was his habit after years of being on his own, he always carried flint and steel, and had a loaf of bread he’d slipped into his tunic before he left the hall at Castle DeLac that morning. That meant he was able to save the cost of a night at an inn, as well as the worry that some outlaw or thief might guess that he carried something of value and try to rob him. Not that any thief or highwayman would have succeeded. None ever had before, not even when he was a boy. He fought fiercely to keep what was his, and had first learned to fight not from some honorable knight, but on the streets and in the alleys of more places than he could remember. He could use anything that came to hand to defend himself, or simply his bare fists, if need be.
Thank God those days of living hand to mouth, of never knowing if he would eat that day or starve, of fighting over scraps or holding off any who would take what little he had, were over.
His heart swelled with pride and satisfaction when he rode over the ridge and saw his fortress rising from the autumn mist in the valley—the White Valley, Cwm Bron. To be sure, compared to Castle DeLac, his castle seemed small and more than a half a ruin, but this was only a beginning. One day, he would build a new and better fortress with a moat, at least two curtain walls, an inner and outer ward and a gatehouse with a portcullis. Inside, there would be a larger keep, stables, a hall and a chapel, too. The family apartments would be spacious and comfortable, finely furnished with beds and perhaps even a carpet in his own chamber. Farmers, tradesmen, craftsmen and merchants would feel safe and secure under his protection, and the village beyond the castle walls would grow and prosper, too.
Now, though, only a very small village of wattle-and-daub cottages and wooden buildings had grown around the single outer stone walls of his fortress. Inside the wall only the ancient round keep and one other building were made of stone. The others were wattle-and-daub, or timber, and several were in a sad state of disrepair. So far, he’d managed to have the work on the keep completed and the mill, farther down the river, repaired. Recently his men had started on the outer wall. Later, when it was finished, the work on the rest of the interior buildings would begin.
He could achieve his goals faster if he wed a wealthy woman. Not a titled lady, who would likely look down on a man of his origins, but a rich merchant’s daughter or sister.
With snapping brown eyes and hair to her waist.
He must stop thinking of Tamsin of DeLac. She must be nothing to him.
He surveyed the wall walk nearest the gate and thought he could make out the stocky Gareth, his friend and garrison commander. Gareth had no doubt been watching for his return, ready to ply him with questions about the tournament, the fighting and, being Gareth, the women.
Gareth had lost three of his bottom teeth in a skirmish, most of one eyebrow was nothing but a scar and his visage had been none too pretty to begin with. Despite his lack of physical attractiveness, however, he rarely had trouble finding female company, for he was as merry as Rheged was serious. Nevertheless they had been friends and comrades-in-arms for over fifteen years, from the time a half-drunk Gareth had tried to knock Rheged down and instead had fallen, laughing, into a horse trough.
As Rheged raised his hand in greeting, Sir Algar, white-haired and agile despite his years, came hurrying out of the open gate of Cwm Bron. Rheged hadn’t expected to find his overlord waiting for him, and he was pleased and flattered. And relieved, too, a little, for now Gareth’s questions would have to wait.
“Greetings, my lord!” Rheged called out, riding closer. Unlike Lord DeLac, Sir Algar was slender and although his long tunic, embossed leather belt and polished boots had surely been expensive, he wore few jewels.
“I couldn’t wait to find out who the champion of the tournament was,” Sir Algar cheerfully explained when Rheged swung down from his horse to walk beside him.
“I was.”
“I knew it!” Algar cried, slapping his thigh with delight. “I knew nobody’d beat you!”
“Nobody at that tournament anyway,” Rheged replied.
They’d no sooner entered the yard than Dan the groom hurried out of the stable as fast as his short legs could take him. Between his lack of height, potbelly and red face, the groom was rather like an apple with limbs. He was also honest and good
