full gored skirt of her gown of perse, while Lord Alfred stiffly held out his arm to lead her into the hall behind their host.
The soldiers in the yard remained where they were, watchful and suspicious.
The hall was rather small, and close, and old, the beams dark with age and smoke. Unlike more recently built halls, it had a central hearth and the roof was held up not by pillars of stone, but wood, some plain, some carved with vines and leaves and faces of animals. Rushes covered the floor, and three large hunting dogs, as shaggy as their master, lumbered to their feet, sniffing at the Normans as they passed. Several servants waited by the walls, watching like the soldiers in the yard, as their host led them toward the hearth and the benches and single wooden chair arranged around it.
After seeing the castle’s fortifications, Roslynn had assumed that the living quarters of Llanpowell would be more modern and comfortable. It was disappointing to discover they were not, but at least they would be dry.
And no matter how primitive the accommodations, this was still better than being at King John’s court, where she had to fend off the advances of the king and every other lascivious courtier who believed, given her recent history, that she should be grateful for his attention.
“Sit you down by the fire, my lady,” their host said as he threw off his cloak, goblet still in hand. He didn’t seem to notice or care that his cloak fell to the rush-covered floor before a servant had time to grab it.
“Bron, what are you about, girl?” he demanded of another maidservant standing by the wall, who looked about eighteen years old. “Take her ladyship’s cloak.”
The young woman darted forward and waited while Roslynn removed the rain-soaked garment. The servant, just as quickly, hurried to hang it on a peg on the wall before returning to her post.
It was warmer near the fire, and Roslynn was well dressed in a thick woolen gown and heavy boots, but she shivered nonetheless and wrapped her arms about herself as she took a seat on the bench.
Smiling expansively, the Welshman settled his bulk in the chair and grinned at Lord Alfred, who stood so stiffly, one might conclude he was incapable of bending at the waist.
“No doubt you’re wondering what has brought us here,” he began just as stiffly.
“Aye, I do, but sit down, man!” the Welsh nobleman commanded with a deep chuckle. “Drink and food before business. Can’t think of important matters when my belly rumbles. Bron, some mulled wine for our guests, and barley bread and the soft cheese, not the hard. No braggot. Not yet, anyway.”
As the young woman disappeared into what was likely the corridor to the kitchen, the Welshman turned to Roslynn with a wink. “Braggot’s Welsh mead, my lady, and strong, so we best stay with the wine for now.”
She managed to return his smile. Madoc ap Gruffydd was neither young nor handsome, but that was surely all to the good. Had she not learned how deceptive youth and a comely face and form could be? Besides, a man of his age could well be past greed and ambition, happy to live out his days in quiet contentment on his estate. That could explain why Madoc ap Gruffydd was so cheerful and welcoming: he had no reason not to be.
“So, my lord, how does the king fare these days?” he inquired as he tossed his now-empty goblet at another of the servants, who caught it so deftly, she assumed this happened often. “Still happy with his little French wife?”
“King John is quite well and, yes, happily wed. We have every hope an heir to the throne will soon be forthcoming,” Lord Alfred coldly replied. “Now, if you will permit me to introduce myself, my lord. I am Lord Alfred de Garleboine and this is—”
“Lord Alfred de Garleboine? There’s a mouthful. Can’t say I’ve heard of you, but then, I don’t pay much attention to the English court and the mischief they get up to.” The Welshman patted Roslynn’s hand. “Much more pleasant to tell stories round the fire and sing songs of brave deeds, eh, my lady?”
“A nobleman must pay heed to what transpires at court if he is to assist the king and protect his family,” she replied, not impressed by his apparently lackadaisical attitude, especially in such times, and with such a king upon the throne.
“Oh, I know enough, I know enough. Not quite at the end of the world, us,” Lord Madoc replied, before raising his voice to shout for Bron. She immediately reappeared in the doorway, a distinctly harried expression on her pretty face. “Where’s the food, girl? And the drink? Our guests are starving! Fine thing if they can’t get a bite to eat after riding in the wet!”
The maidservant said something in rapid Welsh, then disappeared again.
“It’s not that we don’t have plenty in the larder, my lady,” the lord of Llanpowell explained as if it was a matter of grave concern. “It’s just you caught us between meals while we wait for the patrols to come back. Had a bit of bother with them over the mountain.”
As Roslynn smiled to show him she wasn’t disturbed by the delay, she wondered what he meant by “bit of bother” and who “them over the mountain” might be. Enemies, clearly, but how many and how powerful? She’d been told almost nothing about the lord of Llanpowell and even less about any potential enemies he might have.
“My lord,” Lord Alfred began again, his exasperation obvious. “We have come—”
“Ah, here’s the food now!” the Welshman interrupted as the serving girl arrived carrying a large tray bearing three unexpectedly fine silver goblets, a carafe of steaming wine, whose spicy scent filled the air and a beechwood platter covered with a napkin. One of the other male servants hurried forward with a small bench, which he put in front of Madoc ap Gruffydd. After Bron set the tray on it, the Welshman whisked off the napkin to reveal two sliced loaves of fresh, brown bread and several slices of thick cheese, as well as honey cakes.
As the aroma from the warm bread and spiced wine filled her nostrils, Roslynn’s stomach growled loudly.
She blushed with embarrassment, but the lord of Llanpowell laughed and handed her one of the goblets before pouring her some wine. “What did I tell you? Hungry you are, and no mistake. I could see that by the look of you, and a little more flesh on your bones might not be amiss.”
“Perhaps now we could discuss the purpose of our visit,” Lord Alfred said through clenched teeth.
The Welshman’s merry expression disappeared in an instant, replaced by cold disapproval. “You may have come from the Plantagenet king, my lord, and with no invitation I’m aware of, but it’s hospitality first in this household, business after.”
Lord Alfred’s narrow face reddened before he finally, slowly, sat down across the fire from Roslynn and accepted a goblet of mulled wine.
“There now, eat and talk after,” the Welshman said, his anger disappearing as swiftly as the steam from the carafe.
The wine was surprisingly good and did indeed warm her. In spite of its taste and comforting effect, however, she was careful not to drink too much. She didn’t want anything clouding her ability to think.
“Isn’t that better?” the Welshman said after the platters were nearly empty and Roslynn couldn’t eat another bite. “And now to business. So, Lord Alfred de Garleboine, what brings you and your lovely daughter to Llanpowell?”
Roslynn nearly spit out her wine, although it was an innocent mistake.
