Castle of the Wolf

by Margaret Moore - Castle of the Wolf

  Below the dais, several of the younger knights were moving about the hall, speaking to friends and being introduced to the other guests. Some of the mothers with daughters of a marriageable age looked like peddlers hawking their wares at any fair in the land.

  Sir Jocelyn was Mavis’s favorite of the moment, a handsome young man of good family, and the most expensively attired in emerald-green and bright blue velvet. He reminded Tamsin more of a peacock than a warrior, and he was also one of the most boring young men Tamsin had ever met. She was quite sure Mavis would tire of him soon, too.

  Sir Robert of Tammerly was even younger, and not nearly so good-looking, but Tamsin didn’t doubt that someday he would be a knight to be reckoned with. He seemed wary and watchful, and ate and drank sparingly, like Sir Rheged. He was very unlike the Welshman in one way, though. Like the others, Sir Robert wore his hair cut around his head as if a bowl had been placed upon it, which only seemed to emphasize the roundness of his face.

  Although he was clean-shaven, Sir Rheged wore his dark hair—thick and wavy enough to make a woman weep with envy—to his shoulders.

  She shouldn’t be thinking about the one man who’d already left the feast, no matter how flattered she’d been by his compliments.

  She spotted Denly, one of the stronger servants, and told him it was time to start taking down the tables to clear a space for dancing. Then she went to have a few words with Gordon, the minstrel, about the music for dancing. She herself never danced, but Mavis enjoyed it.

  First, though, she would speak to Sally, a young and particularly voluptuous and overly friendly maidservant lingering at the table where the youthful squires sat.

  Until tonight, Tamsin had never understood how any woman could give up the precious possession of her virginity to any man outside of marriage. There was too much to lose, even for a poor girl.

  Now, though, when she remembered Sir Rheged’s dark eyes and voice, she was beginning to understand how a woman could succumb to desire regardless of the consequences. His compliments had sounded so sincere, she could believe his words were not mere meaningless flattery, but spoken from the heart.

  Even so, any pleasure to be gained from giving in to lust surely outweighed the risks, especially for a highborn lady. Bearing a child out of wedlock meant telling the world you were too weak to resist your base impulses. You were a woman of shame.

  As for Sally, one of these days, she would probably come to Tamsin in tears to say she was with child and what should she do? Tamsin would see that some kind of dowry was provided and perhaps even a husband, if there was another servant willing to marry her.

  But she would deal with that when and if it became necessary. In the meantime... “Sally!”

  The maidservant with thick auburn hair and a pert little nose knew better than to linger any longer and came forward at once. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Open the shutters near the doors. The hall is getting too stuffy.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Sally replied, doing as she was bid and wisely ignoring the obvious disappointment of the young squires.

  Tamsin couldn’t imagine Sir Rheged ever being like those boys, giddy with excitement over the tournament, trying their best to look manly and to persuade a woman into their bed.

  Determined, even ruthless she could see, but never giddy. As for looking manly, she could well believe Sir Rheged had always exuded that sense of contained and controlled power. And when it came to persuading a woman into bed, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn women had fought for the privilege.

  “Careful, my lady!” Denly called out as she nearly stepped into the path of the servants moving the top of one of the trestle tables out of the way.

  “I shall be,” she murmured, and not just when it came to moving the tables. She would avoid Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron for the rest of his visit there. It would surely be better—and safer—that way.

  * * *

  Late the next morning, after the light rain had let up just as Sir Rheged had said it would and the melee had commenced in the far field, Tamsin headed to the kitchen to check the progress of the preparations for the feast that would mark the end of the tournament. As she neared the entrance, she heard the unmistakable sound of a slap, followed by Armond’s loud and angry voice. “Get up, you lazy, good-for-nothing scamp!”

  Tamsin hurried into the kitchen to see Ben, the little spit boy, holding his cheek, while Armond towered over him, hands on beefy hips. “Armond!” she snapped. “You know I don’t allow any servant to strike another!”

  Armond glowered at her. “He was asleep when he has work to do.”

  “You know my rules,” she replied. “If you don’t wish to obey them, you may leave the castle.”

  “Your uncle—”

  “Has no desire to be involved in any household disputes, as anyone will tell you. The servants are in my charge, and I keep the peace, not him. If you don’t wish to obey my rules, there are plenty of other cooks who would be glad to have your place. Hit Ben or any other servant again, and—”

  Mavis burst into the kitchen like a howling gale. “They’re coming back! The melee’s over already!” She came to a startled halt. “Oh, am I interrupting?”

  Tamsin turned her back on the cook. “Are you sure?”

  “Charlie says one of the guards saw their armor gleaming in the sunlight down the road, so they’re coming back. Let’s go to the wall walk and see if we can tell who won,” Mavis eagerly suggested.

  Despite Tamsin’s avid curiosity, that news could wait. The returning knights would be wanting hot water and fresh linen to wash before the feast. Their ladies, too.

  “I can’t,” Tamsin replied before she addressed some of the younger maidservants. “Sally, Meg and Becky, start taking hot water to the guest apartments.”

  The young women sighed in unison, for carrying the buckets of hot water was no easy task.

  “Oh, please come with me, Tamsin!” Mavis pleaded. “There’s time and you don’t have to stand near the edge of the walk. They haven’t reached the outer gate yet.”

  “Charlie could be wrong, then. Meg, Sally, Becky, don’t bother with the water until we’re sure, or it might be too cold when they return.”

  “That’s right—we should be sure,” Mavis agreed. “Let’s go look ourselves.”

  “All right, but I can only spare a little time,” she said, giving in. After all, she should know if the melee was really over or not, and she could stand against the tower, where she couldn’t see over the edge to the ground below. She had always been afraid of being up high, even as a little child and before her parents died of the ague, and for no reason that she could name, other than a vivid notion of what a fall from a great height could do.

  Together the two young women hurried through the corridor connecting the kitchen to the great hall.

  Mavis wore a finely woven green gown with a lighter green overtunic, her blond hair gleaming like molten gold; Tamsin wore a plainer gown of doe-brown wool, the sleeves rolled back to expose slender arms and capable hands, her long braid of chestnut hair swinging down her back as always.

  Skirting the excited and ever-present hounds, they walked quickly through the hall bustling with servants spreading clean linen on the tables and sprinkling fresh rosemary and fleabane on the rush-covered floors. Denly was putting new torches in the sconces. Despite their hurry, Tamsin made sure all was as it should be as she passed the servants, giving each a nod and a smile.

  “I’m sure Sir Jocelyn won the day,” Mavis said as they climbed the steps to the wall walk near the main gate in the inner curtain wall. “He was the squire of Sir William of Kent.”

  “He’s very comely, too.”

  “That isn’t why I think he’ll win,” Mavis replied with a toss of her head. “He’s very well trained.”

  That might be, but he’s no Sir Rheged, Tamsin thought, then silently chastised herself for even thinking of the Welsh knight.

  As they came out onto the wall walk, Mavis we
nt right to the edge, while Tamsin stood with her back against the solid tower. Her cousin pointed at the group of men in the area between the outer and inner curtain walls. Some were mounted, a few walked and behind them came the squires, carrying shields and swords. “There they are. I can’t tell who won. Can you?”

  Tamsin scanned the group. No man was obviously triumphant. No one rode out in front, or with a victor’s proud poise.

  She spotted Sir Jocelyn, his shoulders slumped. Clearly not the winner. Her gaze passed over a few others, until she saw Sir Rheged. He was among the last, walking and leading his huge black warhorse, while another man leaned on him for support.

  She shouldn’t feel so disappointed...but she did.

  “There’s the Wolf of Wales,” Mavis said as if she’d been reading Tamsin’s mind, “and that’s young Sir Robert of Tammerly limping beside him.”

  “Sir Robert must not be badly hurt, or he would still be in the tent or in a cart,” Tamsin noted. She’d arranged for a physician and servants to be at the site of the melee to take care of anyone injured on the field.

  “Sir Rheged doesn’t look so fierce now, does he?”

  “No,” Tamsin agreed.

  “Since he’s lost, perhaps he’ll cut his hair. He’s clearly not another Samson.”

  “I wouldn’t venture to suggest it.”

  “I wouldn’t venture to talk to him at all if I could help it,” Mavis said with a sniff and a second toss of her head. “I’ve never seen a grimmer fellow. I think he’s barely said three words since he arrived.”

  He’d said more than three words to Tamsin, but she didn’t bother to correct her cousin. She didn’t want to tell Mavis about that meeting in the courtyard, or what he’d said, or how he’d looked at her, or how she’d felt when he looked at her, and she certainly wasn’t going to tell Mavis about that dream.

  “And he’s so poor, he has absolutely no influence at court. Indeed, he’s only got the small estate he has because Sir Algar gave it to him.”

  “Who is Sir Algar? I don’t recall the name.”

  “A minor lord who used to be friendly with my father. He hasn’t come here in years, though. The poor old man must be in his dotage, Father says. I gather the estate he gave Sir Rheged is barely enough to maintain a household and the fortress is a ruin. He can’t have more than a few soldiers and servants. And he’s called it Coom Bron, whatever that means in Welsh.”

  “Lady Thomasina!”

  They both turned as Charlie came rushing up the steps. The lad was small for his age, lively and inquisitive, and often delivered messages about the castle. A lock of his brown hair was forever flopping over his forehead and a score of freckles spanned his wide nose. “Lord DeLac wants to see you, my lady,” he panted, addressing Tamsin. “Right away, he says.”

  Chapter Two

  Tamsin and Mavis exchanged glances. Such a summons on such a day could herald nothing good.

  “Did you hear who won, Charlie?” Mavis asked as Tamsin started down the well-worn steps, wondering what she’d forgotten or failed to anticipate.

  “Aye, my lady. The Welshman with the hair to his shoulders.”

  Tamsin came to an abrupt halt and glanced back at the grinning boy. “Sir Rheged?”

  “Are you quite sure?” Mavis demanded.

  “Aye, my lady. I had it from Wilf at the gate, who got it from the messenger himself come from the field. The Welshman bested seven knights and should be getting a pretty penny in exchange for their arms and horses, as well as the prize, o’ course.”

  Tamsin started on her way again, smiling to herself as she headed to her uncle’s solar. She stopped smiling when she reached the solar and knocked on the heavy oaken door, entering when she heard her uncle’s gruff response.

  A quick glance assured her nothing was amiss with the chamber itself. The brazier full of coals glowed brightly, the tapestries were clean and free of dust and the rushes on the floor newly laid. The candles, not lit during the day, had been well trimmed, and the cloth shutter over the arched window was open just enough to allow a bit of fresh air, but not enough to create a draft.

  Her middle-aged, gray-haired, bearded uncle sat behind the large table polished with beeswax. As always he was richly dressed in a long tunic of finely woven brown wool, with an embossed belt around his ample middle and a long necklace of heavy silver links. Several rings adorned his thick fingers. The golden box studded with gemstones, which was to be awarded to the tournament champion at the feast that night, rested near his elbow.

  Uncle Simon tapped the parchment open before him with his stubby index finger. She should have been relieved he didn’t immediately launch into a litany of complaints, but there was something about the look in his beady gray eyes that did nothing to lessen her trepidation.

  “You’re finally going to pay me back for all I’ve spent on you,” he announced.

  Tamsin’s heart leapt to her throat. She was a lady, a nobleman’s daughter, and couldn’t repay him in coin. There was but one way, and his next words confirmed her dread.

  “I need an ally in the north, so you’re going to marry Sir Blane of Dunborough. He’s on his way for the wedding and should be here in a fortnight.”

  It was no more than she had expected, and yet— a fortnight! Less than a month. And who was Sir Blane of Dunborough?

  The answer crashed into her mind like a boulder. He was the bone-thin, lecherous old man who’d visited Castle Delac in the spring. She’d noticed at once how he’d stared at Mavis like an aged satyr, and she’d immediately declared that her cousin was feeling unwell. One look at Sir Blane, and Mavis had just as swiftly agreed, taking to her bed for the duration of his visit. Tamsin had kept the younger maidservants away from him, too, and even the oldest ones, who’d had years of experience fending off unwanted advances, had complained that he was the worst they’d ever encountered.

  All the women of the household had breathed a sigh of relief when he had gone, and Tamsin had considered herself fortunate that she’d managed to avoid getting within ten feet of the man.

  And now to hear she was supposed to marry him!

  Her uncle’s eyebrows lowered as he frowned. “Well? Where is your gratitude?”

  She’d rather spend her days in the coldest, most barren, inhospitable convent in Scotland than marry Blane of Dunborough, but it surely wouldn’t be wise to say so. “You surprised me, Uncle. I didn’t think I would ever marry.”

  “What, you expected to live off my generosity forever?”

  As if he hadn’t begrudged every coin he’d ever spent on her and cast up her dependence on him nearly every day since she arrived after her parents had died when she was ten years old. “I had hoped I could remain in Castle DeLac.”

  “Living off my largess for life?”

  There was no hope for it. “Or perhaps a convent...?”

  “Good God, girl! It costs money to have the sisters take you. You expect me to pay for that?”

  “Do you not have to provide a dowry to Sir Blane?”

  Glaring, her uncle hoisted himself to his feet. “How dare you question me, you insolent wench? Where is your gratitude for everything I’ve done for you? Your thanks that I’ve found a man willing to take you?”

  A man? Sir Rheged was a man. Sir Blane was more like a degenerate fiend in human form. “While I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, Uncle—”

  “You don’t sound grateful! You sound just like your damned mother!”

  The words stung like a slap. Nevertheless she had to object. If she didn’t speak now, she might regret it for the rest of her life. “Sir Blane—”

  “Is willing to take you off my hands and that’s the end of it,” her uncle said as he threw himself back into his chair. “Say nothing of this to anyone until I announce it tomorrow. I won’t have you taking the attention from my feast, or the champion, even if he is an ignorant, uncouth Welshman. Now go.”

  She stayed where she was. “Uncle, I appreciate that I came to
you with little, and you were forced to take me in. But to marry me off to a man like Sir Blane! Can you really be so callous and cruel, and to your own flesh and blood?”

  Her uncle’s face was like iron, hard and cold. “If you refuse him, another must take your place, so either you marry him or Mavis must, for the agreement has been signed and the alliance made. But if it must be Mavis, know that I’ll marry you off to the first man I can find willing to take you for nothing except an alliance with me.”

  Her choice was no choice. Making the merry, gentle, loving Mavis wed Sir Blane would be like murdering her. “I shall abide by your agreement, Uncle, and marry Sir Blane.”

  “On your word of honor?”

  She wanted to scream. She wanted to refuse. She wanted to tell him exactly what she thought of him. “On my word of honor,” she replied, each word like a nail in her coffin.

  “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

  She looked at the man who had never loved her, despite all her efforts, until his gaze faltered.

  Then she turned and left him.

  * * *

  Feet planted, hands clasped behind his back, his stoic gaze sweeping over the hall and those gathered there, Rheged stood on the dais in the great hall of Castle DeLac waiting to receive his prize. The torches and expensive candles gracing the tables burned brightly, illuminating not just his prize and the fine clothes of the guests, but their less-than-pleased expressions, too.

  His arms ached and he would have a few bruises come the morning, but what was that, or the angry and jealous looks from those who’d lost, if he received that valuable golden box?

  Even so, it was not the box that commanded his attention most. It was Tamsin, far down the hall, half-hidden behind one of the stone pillars. Something had obviously upset or disturbed her. Gone was the lively gleam in her eye and the proud carriage of her head. The vitality that had seemed to shine forth from her slender frame and made him think she would be capable of managing everything and anything in a lord’s castle, even to commanding the garrison if need be, had apparently ebbed away.