“I have always thought,” Margaret said, “that
Tristan was at a disadvantage, staying at home as he did, under his
father's tutelage, instead of going elsewhere to be fostered, as so
many boys do. And I think because of the unusual arrangement, he
felt himself compelled to excel as a page, as a squire, and in his
politesse
toward the ladies, in order to prove he was as
good as the other boys and not just a lad favored by a doting
parent. I suspect it would have been better for Tristan and easier
for him, too, if he had gone away to another castle for those
years.”
“I am sure it would have been better for me,”
Catherine said. “Still, there's no point in blaming Tristan for my
girlish fantasies. Seeing him with Isabel, faced with the reality
of his devotion to her, I have come to my senses at last. I am
released from those fantasies.”
“I'm glad of it,” Margaret said, kissing
her.
“It will take me some time to recover
completely from my lovesickness,” Catherine said with a wry, little
laugh. “Unfortunately, at four-and-twenty, I have grown so old that
men are no longer asking for my hand. As a result of my
foolishness, I fear I shall remain a spinster for the rest of my
days.”
“I cannot think so,” Margaret cried.
“Ah, well, there are worse fates than living
at Wortham Castle and caring for my father,” Catherine said.
* * * * *
“My lady Margaret.”
“My lord Tristan.” Margaret regarded him
warily, thinking that he knew how to choose his time and place
well. The day was still young, Isabel had not yet appeared in the
great hall, Catherine was in the kitchen, and Arden was conferring
with Sir Wace at the high table. Tristan's approach left Margaret
with her back to the fireplace and no means of escape from him,
unless she could think of a suitable excuse. His next words
prevented even that release from what she feared was going to be an
embarrassing confrontation.
“My lady,” Tristan said, going straight to
the point, “I do fear from your manner that I have unknowingly
offended you in some way.”
“How could you, my lord, when you have not
been at Bowen for a full day yet?” Margaret asked.
“Is it simply because Isabel and I are here?”
Tristan asked. “While we broke our fast this morning Arden told me
about your flight from an unwanted marriage. You need have no fear
that Isabel or I will say a single word of your whereabouts. Your
secret is safe with us.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Need we be so formal? I am sure when we were
children, we used each other's given names. Shall we agree to do so
again?” Tristan said, smiling at her.
Margaret saw his open, boyish face, gazed
into his clear, blue eyes, and was struck by the idea that Tristan
was not quite as guileless as he appeared to be. It was entirely
possible that he knew other secrets than hers.
“You and Arden have been friends for many
years,” she said, feeling her way cautiously toward the subject
dearest to her heart.
“Since we were pages,” Tristan said.
“You left for the Holy Land some months after
Arden did.”
“After Arden was gone, I decided I had been
coddled and protected by my parents for too long,” Tristan
responded. “However, it took a fair amount of arguing before I
could convince them it was time for me to leave the shelter of
Cliffmore Castle and set out to see the world on my own.”
“Then, you met Arden again in the Holy
Land?”
“Actually, I found him in Sicily, where he
and his party were waiting for a ship. We have been together for
most of the time since that day.” Tristan looked at her in silence
for a moment, before asking, “What is it you wish to know, Lady
Margaret?”
“Arden is much changed from the boy I
remember. I know he was wounded.” Feeling herself begin to blush,
Margaret stopped. She could scarcely admit how familiar she was
with the scars on Arden's body.
“Several times wounded,” Tristan said. “It's
no secret that Arden was one of the bravest men in the Christian
armies. His valor saved many a life, including mine. I would not be
here today, were it not for Arden.”
“Were you wounded, too?” Margaret asked.
“Once a minor wound, the second time more
severely,” Tristan said. “I was never as badly hurt as Arden.
Everyone who knew him in those days admired his courage in battle.
We admired even more the brave way he struggled to recover from his
grievous injuries, and from the illness that was the result of
overlong exposure to the desert heat and sun. I doubt if I could
have survived so grim a challenge, or so great a tragedy.”
“Tragedy?” Margaret repeated.
“You claim Arden has changed since you knew
him long ago,” Tristan said. “It's the result of warfare, of the
terrible sights and sounds of battle, of seeing good friends killed
before his eyes, or watching them die of disease or festering
wounds. It takes a man a long time to recover from witnessing such
horrors. I have known men who probably will never recover.”
“There you are, Tristan, my dear.” Isabel's
light voice interrupted a conversation that Margaret was finding
more interesting by the moment.
“Good morning, my lady,” she said, smiling to
hide her disappointment at Isabel's untimely appearance. “Have you
broken your fast yet?”
“I thought I would join Tristan,” Isabel
replied. She linked her arm with her husband's and looked up at him
in an adoring way.
“I'll find a maidservant to attend you,”
Margaret said, and headed for the kitchen door.
She had learned more than she expected from
Tristan, yet there remained tantalizing gaps in her knowledge of
Arden's past. She wondered if he would recover in time, or if he
would prove to be one of the men Tristan had mentioned, whose soul
was so badly scarred by warfare that he could never be restored to
his former self.
Wortham Castle was so well fortified that the
guards posted along the high battlements were not overly concerned
when they sighted a troop of at least two dozen riders approaching.
Nor did they feel at all threatened by the irate manner of the
nobleman who was leading the riders, when he declared his name and
title and demanded in a loud voice that the gate be opened at
once.
“If you will wait just a short time, Lord
Phelan,” the watchman politely called down from the gate tower,
“our captain of the guard will be informed of your presence, and of
your desire to enter.”
“To the devil with your captain of the
guard!” Phelan shouted back. “I want to speak with Royce, and I
want to do it at once!”
A short discussion ensued above on the gate
tower. Neither Phelan nor any other member of his company could
distinguish what was being said, although none of the castle guards
seemed to be alarmed or even excited by the presence of armed men
insisting upon prompt entrance.
To Phelan's chagrin, he and those with him
could do naught but wait as they were bidden. It was past
mid-afternoon and the winter sun was fast sinking behind the trees
of the distant forest. The air was still, with no wind stirring
along the wide farmlands that stretched on all sides of Wortham
Castle. In the village a mile or so down the road a few lights
could be seen, though most windows were shuttered against the cold.
In Phelan's troop each man's breath made a small cloud upon
exhalation, noses were red and dripping from the chill, and here
and there a man tucked gloved hands beneath his arms to preserve
his fingers from frostbite.
It was but a short wait, as the watchman had
promised, though it seemed long to those sitting impatiently upon
their horses before the response came, shouted from the gate tower
by the same watchman.
“My lord, will you be pleased to enter? The
hospitality of Wortham is yours.”
“It's about time,” muttered Eustace, who rode
at his father's left side. “I was beginning to think they were
going to leave us to freeze out here. What kind of treatment is
this from a baron famed for his hospitality?”
Eustace's remarks generated no response from
his father. With a muttered curse Phelan kicked his horse's sides
and started across the drawbridge before the portcullis was fully
lifted. Lord Adhemar, who had been rather phlegmatically awaiting
the invitation to enter while sitting upon his mount at Phelan's
right hand, edged forward behind Phelan, his movement forcing
Eustace to drop into third place. The rest of the men-at-arms and
squires fell into double file.
As he passed through the narrow opening in
the gatehouse, Phelan looked up and saw the murder holes just above
his head, through which arrows or flaming oil could be sent to
wreak havoc upon invaders. Men were posted at the holes; Phelan
could see the torchlight shining in their watching eyes, and their
bows poised and ready for use. The order to loose the arrows was
not given, and Phelan's company passed unchallenged into the large
outer bailey, where a man in leather tunic and short cloak was
waiting. Stableboys ran forward to catch the reins of the horses
belonging to Phelan's men and hold them in place.
“I am Sir William, the seneschal here,” the
man awaiting them said. “In the name of our baron, I welcome you to
Wortham Castle. If you will dismount, my lords, I will escort you
to Lord Royce while your men and horses are being cared for. No
doubt all of you are uncomfortable after a ride in this cold
weather, and will be pleased to have a chance to warm
yourselves.”
“Now, see here,” Phelan began, the
irritations of recent days rising anew at Sir William's smooth
tones.
“An order has been sent to the kitchen to
prepare a large meal that is both hot and hearty,” Sir William
continued as if Phelan had not interrupted him. He raised his voice
so all the riders crowding through the gatehouse and into the
bailey could hear what he said. “The tables will be set in the
great hall in one hour and every man among you is invited to
partake of Lord Royce's hospitality.”
A murmur of approval at these arrangements
went through the group of weary, still-mounted men, though not
everyone was pleased at the invitation.
“Curse your eyes, I don't want Royce's
hospitality!” Phelan shouted at the seneschal. “I want to see him
now.
This minute! Bring him here.”
“My lord, I must ask you again to dismount.”
Sir William's voice was still courteous, but the outer bailey was
suddenly full of men-at-arms. They offered no threat to Phelan and
his party, yet the message sent by their presence could not be
mistaken.
“Phelan,” said Lord Adhemar, “you may stay
here and do battle if you wish, but I shall walk to the keep and
speak with Lord Royce. If he offers me decent wine to drink and a
warm bed for the night, I'll thank him for it and count myself in
his debt.” Upon those words Lord Adhemar dismounted, grumbling at
the pain in his aging joints.
“Have you no pride?” Phelan demanded of him.
“It is an insult to expect a nobleman to give up his horse. Next
the baron of Wortham will demand our swords.”
“He will if he's heard about the present
state of your temper,” said Adhemar. “Don't be a fool, Phelan;
everyone dismounts when visiting inside a castle. Get off that nag
and come press your complaint with Royce while you have the chance.
Lead on, Sir William. I, at least, will follow you.” Adhemar nodded
at the seneschal.
Adhemar's actions left his companions with
little choice. Both Phelan and Eustace dismounted and went on foot
through the inner gatehouse, then across the inner bailey to a
long, steep flight of steps that led to a well-guarded entrance
hall, and thence into the great hall.
Phelan looked around, his expression growing
more disgruntled by the moment. He was rightly proud of the
richness of Sutton Castle. His late wife had brought him chest upon
chest of valuable plate and fine wall hangings in her dowry and,
since his wife's death, Phelan's youthful mistress had spent
lavishly to add to Sutton's glories.
The great hall of Wortham Castle immediately
produced an uneasy feeling in Phelan's breast. Without fully
comprehending why it was so, the tasteful appointments of Wortham
made him vaguely ashamed of the barbaric splendour of his own
castle.
The hall that Phelan, Adhemar, and Eustace
entered behind Sir William was spotlessly clean. Finely detailed
and richly colored tapestries depicting hunting scenes or famous
martial triumphs hung upon every wall. Torches flared in metal
sconces placed so their flames illuminated the tapestries. Beneath
the tapestries massive carved wooden chests sat, with a discreet
display of the baron's gold and silver plate on top of each chest.
Every chest also bore a many-branched candelabrum, with wax candles
lit in each arm. In the fireplaces at either end of the hall huge
logs burned, sending out a welcome heat.
Servants moved about the hall, not in haste
as might be expected when so many sudden guests were invited to a
meal within the hour, but in orderly pursuit of their tasks. The
high table looked most inviting, spread with a fine white linen
cloth topped by more candelabra and well-polished silver plates and
goblets. A row of cushioned chairs waited behind the table.
While Phelan and his companions stared around
the hall in awe, their host came forward to greet them, closely
followed by a servant bearing wine goblets upon a tray.
Royce the baron of Wortham was a tall man in
his early forties and still as hale and strong as he had been
during his youth. There were few lines on his face and his thick
mane of red-gold hair shone bright, without a single strand of
silver in it. The color of his hair was set off by his bright green
wool tunic and hose and was matched in brilliance by the heavy gold
chain around his neck. The chain bore a medallion given to him by
King Henry I. Royce was, and always would be, Henry's man. He had
been Henry's friend when William Rufus still ruled England, and he
had been handsomely rewarded by Henry for his enduring loyalty, as
the adornment of the great hall of Wortham Castle attested. Few men
in England could match Royce of Wortham in honors or wealth.