could make no answer to any of these queries. She did regret not telling their father when Christian had confided in her that he was leaving. Christian had been so certain that he would return within a fortnight, had, in fact, given his solemn word on it. He had also assured her that he would be free to tell her every detail of his mysterious mission on his return.
Aislynn sighed, catching the first scents of the roasted fowl that she herself had seasoned that afternoon. She felt no pangs of hunger though she had eaten little that day. She greatly dreaded sitting at table with her father, having to bite back her own fears. For, more troubling than their father’s worry, was Aislynn’s thought that her brother had not returned because he could not.
Visions of him, ill…or worse, had begun to assault her day and night.
Those visions had driven her to do something that made it even more difficult to face her father. She had written to the friends Christian had spoken so much of. She had not bid her father’s permission, fearing that in his pride he would not give it.
Although she had asked for no more than information concerning her brother’s whereabouts, she secretly hoped and prayed that they would come to Bransbury. Christian had told her much of Jarrod Maxwell and Simon Warleigh, whom he had known since fostering with them even before the three of them had accompanied King Richard to the Holy Land. Not only his love, but his admiration for their strength and abilities was abundantly clear.
Surely in the event that Christian was not with them, such men could find her brother.
Her father, his leg having never healed properly after a fall from his horse, was in no condition to search further than the immediate surroundings for his son. Moreover, he had no notion of where to start his search.
“Dear God,” she prayed, as she slowed her steps at the end of the corridor that led into the hall, “even if Simon Warleigh or Jarrod Maxwell do not wish to help us, please let them send word soon.”
To hide her anxiety, she took a deep breath and schooled her features to appear calm. Stepping into the Great Hall, with its wide hearth and high, narrow windows, Aislynn gathered the strength to appear hopeful—not only for her father’s sake, but all those at Bransbury keep. As she passed through the hall, she observed, with approval, the clean, scrubbed surfaces of the trestle tables that were set up for the evening meal. Many of the castle folk had already gathered in their accustomed places, chatting as they waited for the food to arrive from the kitchen. But there was a decided solemnity to their expressions.
She was sure they had noted their master’s recent melancholy and were moved by it, not to mention their own uncertainty at the disappearance of the heir to the lands. Strong leadership could mean the difference between peace or war. Aside from being a strong leader, her father, though a reserved and quiet man, was a fair and just overlord. These qualities made him well loved by his folk.
Aislynn was taking her place at the high table when her father, Thomas Greatham, lord of Bransbury keep, entered with several of his men. She could see the weariness in his lean face as he removed his gloves. It was also apparent in his slow, measured step that did much to disguise his limp as he moved toward her. She was glad of the heat from the fire as the men’s entrance brought with it a breath of chill air that made gooseflesh appear on her arms even beneath the heavy sapphire velvet of her gown.
As her father took his place, she noted a sheen of frost in his mustache. He looked to her with a hopeful expression in his periwinkle-blue eyes, eyes he had passed on to both of his children. “Any word of your brother?”
Regret made Aislynn look down at her folded hands. She took a deep breath then faced him with a fixed smile. “Nay, Father, not yet. But I am sure he, or word of him, will come soon.” It was something she said each day and she no longer imagined that it offered any comfort.
The naked disappointment that came over her sire’s face for a brief instant made her wish there was something, anything else she might do to help. There was nothing.
Not for the first time she considered telling him about the letter she had sent to Christian’s friends. She dismissed the notion instantly. There had been no reply. Better that he not know in the event that no word came. Not only might he be angry with her for sending it, he would surely be even more disheartened.
She spoke with forced cheer. “And you, Father, what of your day?”
He frowned. “The blackguards will not give me rest of late. Llewellyn’s constant efforts to plague me have been extended to his neighbors on the Welsh side of the border as well. Obviously there is some trouble brewing there, but I have been unable to glean any hint of what it might be.”
Aislynn sighed. The problems of holding the lands along the border did not abate simply because they had other worries. “Have you contacted Gwyn?”
“I have questioned your intended, but he seems to know naught, though he is deeply troubled by his neighbor’s obvious quest to wreck havoc with us all.”
Aislynn sighed again. Gwyn ap Cyrnain was the one of the few Welsh lords who had reached out in any kind of friendship to them. He had done so to the point of offering for Aislynn’s hand in marriage. Her father approved of the match and Gwyn had been a friend to Aislynn in the long years when her brother had been away. The marriage would strengthen her father’s position with Gwyn’s countrymen. She had agreed. That Gwyn seemed in no great hurry to see the matter settled suited her most well.
Gwyn was a good man, a solid man, not only in size but in heart. With him she would create a stable base about which their children would gravitate. It would be a family such as she had always wished hers had been.
To the getting of those children she gave little thought. Although Gwyn had kissed her on the day their marriage contracts were signed over a year gone by, she had felt nothing but the same filial affection toward him that she always had. She did not bemoan this fact, for she had no notion of experiencing love such as was told in tales of romance. Family was what mattered to Aislynn.
Her father sighed now, bringing her attention back to him. He said, “As you know, under normal circumstances, I do my duty here gladly. It is only now, with Christian gone and with no explanation that I chafe under the responsibilities of keeping matters in check.”
She touched his hand gently. “I understand.”
There was no more conversation between them as the trays arrived from the kitchen and the meal began.
Aislynn did not take her father’s distraction as any insult to her person. In the years she had lived alone with him he had been a good father, if somewhat preoccupied with his duties. Only after Christian’s return from the Holy Land had he been more garrulous at mealtimes. That was, until her brother’s disappearance.
Aislynn was making every effort to eat the food, when the door to the hall flew open wide, bringing on a rush of cold air.
Like all those present, she glanced up, thinking the new arrival must simply be some latecomer for the meal, and stared. For the man coming toward them was not a resident of the keep or the surroundings lands.
Aislynn was quite sure that had she seen this man about the demesne she would certainly remember it. As he moved toward them with both casual grace and alertness, she noted the exotic quality of his appearance. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, his skin darkly tanned, though most other men were paling as they all did at winter’s approach. When he halted before the high table, she saw that his eyes were no less dark than his shoulder-length hair, their
