Midwinter Reckoning

By Kate

The usual fine print:  This story is strictly fanfic and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by ABC Television, Gil Grant Productions, or any other holder of Covington Cross Copyrights.  All “genre-type” fanfic aside, this is mostly straight drama (with a minor detour or two), and was written solely to please the author.  (Yes, I admit it¾selfish as it may be, I wrote this one for me!!).  Of course I’d still be interested in your comments, so email me.   I swore I’d never write a sequel in Covington Cross, but this is it¾part II of The King’s Decree.  Ignore any glaring historical errors and try to enjoy!

  Late morning frost lingered on the windowpane, plaiting the narrow panels with jagged crystalline blossoms.  Lady Gwendolyn Grey pressed her fingertips to the cold glass and gazed over the barren landscape surrounding Covington Cross.  From her vantage point high in the castle she could easily see the adjoining hillsides¾each rounded crest mottled with snow.  Further to the east lay the jutting line of Tiner Forest, cutting a black swath through the white-speckled ground.   

Softly, Gwendolyn exhaled.  The warmth of her breath against the frigid glass induced a halo of steam which she idly severed with her finger.  In the four short months of her marriage, she and her husband had endured separation, but none quite so long as this. 

 ¾an eternity that left her aching for his return.  Worse was the knowledge he would be detained yet another week visiting Sir Thomas’s lower holdings.  Despite his older brother Armus’s return to castle life, Richard still actively managed his father’s estates.  While Gwendolyn admired both his skill and dedication, she found his bent for responsibility oft times difficult to bear.  Mostly because his departures left her increasingly lonely. 

Perhaps it was simply the overwhelming size of Covington Cross, with its long corridors and vast chambers.  Though her father’s ancestral home was far from small, Torsun-Narr seemed somehow diminutive by comparison.  Coupled with the expansive size of her husband’s home was the marked absence of his father and eldest brother.  Both Sir Thomas and Armus had been summoned to London to attend the King for an extended stay at court.  Scheduled to return two days ago, Sir Thomas had sent a courier informing the household, protocol dictated he and Armus remain yet a fortnight. 

With only Cedric, Eleanor, and the friar for company, Gwendolyn felt oddly isolated.  Briefly she considered visiting her father at Torsun-Narr.  Since marrying Richard she’d seen him only once, when she’d taken a carriage to his hilltop castle.  The reunion had been strained and awkward, marked by undercurrents of hostility.  He’d declined to see Richard after the wedding and had steadfastly refused all invitations to visit Covington Cross.  She had known that marrying the son of her father’s enemy would bring both obstacles and grief, but hadn’t envisioned such a complete disassociation from Baron John Mullens. 

Turning sideways and propping her shoulder against the window, Gwendolyn pressed her temple to the glass.  The bleached hue of sunlight was such that she could see the faintest wisp of reflection in the narrow pane¾a glimpse of her own raven hair; streaks of gold surrounding her face like liquid strands of precious metal.  Quite suddenly she became aware of movement on the hillside.  Jerking upright she watched as a dark shape eclipsed the snow-covered grounds.  As the rider drew nearer, venturing into the outer courtyard, Gwendolyn felt her heart leap with joy.  There was no mistaking the way Richard sat a horse.

 Bolting for the staircase, Gwendolyn clambered down the rickety steps.  The stairs to the tower were winding and steep, cut into the stone turret in wraparound fashion.  It occurred to Gwendolyn that she was hardly behaving in a ladylike manner, but she’d never been one to embrace the constraints of proper society.  Her Aunt Edrea would likely chastise her severely for showing the barest hint of emotion, let alone a display of passion. 

Gwendolyn grinned wickedly as she raced down the steps, folds of her skirt clutched in one hand to keep from tripping.  If she had any say in the matter, she’d keep Richard occupied well into the night, proper society be damned!  Hampered by the heavy folds of her gown, Gwendolyn somehow managed to traverse the remaining three levels of the castle.  By the time she reached the main floor, she silently cursed the restrictive fit of the dress¾designed, she was certain to make her feel like a suckling trussed for a pig roast.  In her Aunt Edrea’s society, women were meant to be decorative. 

Biting back an impulsive giggle, Gwendolyn rounded the rear corner of the Great Hall just as Richard entered from the opposite side.  Distracted, he failed to notice her as he absently fingercombed his hair.  His boots struck echoes from the stone floor as he strode across the room.  Lounging by the hearth, one of Sir Thomas’s hunting dogs raised its head only long enough to identify the disturbance.  

“Richard!”  Gwendolyn shrieked his name, then laughing, threw herself into his arms.  Startled only momentarily, he caught her about the waist, lifting her off the floor and turning in a half circle.  As her feet touched the ground, Richard’s mouth closed over hers, parting her lips in a welcoming kiss.  Held tightly in his arms, she could feel the chill touch of winter still clinging to his flesh.  The cold press of his green leather jerkin against her breasts sent a delightful tingling racing down her spine.  She could smell the feral redolence of woodsmoke and wet winter grasses clinging to his long hair.  “Dear Lord, I’ve missed you,” she whispered breathlessly, when he broke the kiss. 

Richard traced a gloved finger over her upturned chin.  “I’ve dreamt of nothing but this moment,” he assured.  A dimple bloomed in his cheek as he grinned crookedly.  “And one or two others spent in the privacy of our bed.” 

“Where I would willingly keep you, My Lord.”  Fastening her hands behind his neck, Gwendolyn laid her head upon his shoulder.  “I don’t know what fortune has brought you home a week early, but I praise its maker nonetheless.”  Her grip tightened possessively.  “Richard, you won’t leave again, will you¾at least not for some time?” 

Distressed by the imploring tone of her voice, Richard pressed his lips to her temple.  “Not for some time,” he vowed. “If circumstance dictates otherwise, I promise to take you with me.” Tilting his head, he gazed playfully into her eyes.  “Will that suffice, Lady Gwen, dearest wife?” 

The combination of subtle frivolity and impish charm was enough to hold Gwendolyn prisoner in his arms.  Her lips curled in a slow smile as mischievous light kindled her dark blue eyes.  “That depends.”  Lifting one hand, she touched his mouth gently¾two slender fingers tracing over the curve of his lips.  “I think I should need some private convincing.  And I don’t mean conversation.”   

Grinning brashly, he gripped her chin and kissed her, the touch of his lips long and lingering.  When he drew back he was still smiling.  “You’re a seductive shrew, Gwen.  Women are supposed to be demure and skittish.  Didn’t your Aunt Edrea teach you anything?” 

“Yes¾to avoid handsome men with impossibly glib tongues.”

 Richard chuckled.  “Too late.  You’ve already married me.”   Bracing one arm behind her shoulders, he bent and swept the other under her knees.  In one swift motion he lifted her in his arms.

 “Richard Bartholomew Quentin Grey!” With her hands twined about his neck, Gwendolyn squirmed.  The effort was more for show then any true desire to be separated from her husband.  Truth be told, she was quite content with his extravagant attention. “Put me down!”  

“Not if you continue to use that atrocious name.”  Striding from the hall, Richard carried his wife to the stairs.  Behind them, alerted by the shrill pitch of Gwendolyn’s voice, the dog came to its feet.  Curious over the ruckus, it loped beside Richard, barking for attention.

 Despite herself, Gwendolyn giggled.  “Shoo, you besotted beast.” 

“Gwen, is that any way to talk to your husband?” As he spoke, Richard placed his boot on the bottom step.  Still slick from snow, the sole slipped on the rolled edge, sending them both tumbling to the floor.  Twisting at the last moment, Richard absorbed the brunt of impact on his side, shielding Gwendolyn with his body.  Startled, the dog leaped backward then began a frenzied, yapping dance as the couple burst into spontaneous laughter. 

“Oh, heavens.”  Gripping Richard by the collar, Gwendolyn bent her head to his.  “You are a clumsy elegant oaf.” 

With a theatrical groan, Richard lodged a hand in the small of his back.  “I think I’ve injured myself, and that’s paradoxical, you know.”   

“Much like you my gallant knight, and I’d warrant that bruise is more to your vanity than your body.”  Bracing her hands against his shoulders, Gwendolyn pushed backward and clambered unsteadily to her feet.  Pushing the hair from her eyes, she stared down at her husband who was still sprawled over the steps.  “Of course¾” Her full lips curled beguilingly. “¾I’d have to examine you thoroughly to be certain.”

 Before Richard could say a word, Cedric appeared breathlessly in the Great Hall, two chamberlains trailing behind.  The youngest Grey looked as though he’d run a fair distance, summoned no doubt by the dog’s continual baying.  Sensing the others, the animal desisted its caterwauling and trotted to their side.  Snuffling Cedric’s boots it ringed the dark-haired man then retreated to the hearth where it lay down, bored with the entire affair.

 Gwendolyn bit her lip to keep from laughing.  Glancing from Cedric to Richard and back to Cedric again, she laced her hands over her stomach.  With genteel poise she raised her chin, acting as though there was nothing unusual with having Richard sprawled at her feet.  “Look Cedric,” she announced evenly.  “Your brother’s come home.”

 +++++

 Richard was uncomfortable occupying his father’s chair.  With Sir Thomas and Armus still in London, he was left in charge of both Covington Cross and all Grey interests.  Even so, it felt odd to be sitting in Sir Thomas’s high-backed chair, positioned at the head of the dinner table.  Gwendolyn sat to his left with Eleanor, Cedric to his right.  Occasionally his wife cast a sideways glance in his direction, her blue eyes veiled by a lush curtain of lashes.  He had no doubt she recalled the lazy afternoon hours they’d spent twined in each other’s arms, oblivious to all but each other.  That brief time together made Richard realize how desperately he’d missed her when he was gone.

 “ . . . so they’re going to be detained a fortnight,” Cedric was saying, jarring him back to the present.  “Father sent a courier earlier in the week.  Apparently the Queen is insisting on Midwinter Court, and many of the nobles haven’t arrived yet.” 

“It’s father’s poor luck that he attended early,” Eleanor inserted with a smile.  Spearing a piece of venison from her plate, she raised her fork to her lips.  “I can just see Armus fending off all those fashionable ladies.”

 Gwendolyn giggled.  “While discussing things like embroidery patterns and the latest dance steps.  I’m sure he’ll find the conversation riveting.”

 “I warrant he’ll barely be able to tear himself away,” Eleanor agreed.  The two women exchanged a glance then burst into laughter.   

With a half-hearted scowl, Cedric looked at Richard.  His brother appeared fairly amused, an appreciative twinkle in his eye as he watched his wife.  Cedric puffed out his cheeks and exhaled noisily.  “As uneventful as it’s been here, I’d trade places with Armus for a farthing.  Have a care, you two,” he added with a nod of his head for Eleanor and Gwendolyn. “There are some men would forsake power for the opportunity to discuss dance steps.” 

Once again Eleanor and Gwendolyn exchanged a glance.  The latter propped her elbow on the table, resting her chin on the back of her hand.  Smiling craftily, she studied her brother-in-law.  “Cedric, dearest¾dance is power in a woman’s hands.  Uther Pendragon went to war when he saw Igrayne of Cornwall dance.”  Her eyes slewed sideways, touching speculatively on her husband.  The corners of her lips twitched further in a thoroughly bewitching smile.  “What of that, My Lord?  Would you fight a war for my hand?” 

Richard’s gaze was direct, but there was mischief in his eyes.  “That depends on whether or not you have Igrayne’s talent for dance.”

 Cedric snorted.  “Whatever her skill, I’d wager it’s more interesting than embroidery.”

 Richard smiled sharply and kicked him beneath the table.  Cedric’s laughter was broken by the arrival of a servant in the room, who sketched a hasty bow and announced the arrival of Lady Elizabeth Leland.  Surprised by the unexpected visit, Richard nonetheless instructed she be escorted to the Great Hall.  Moments later, Sir Thomas’s consort appeared looking uncharacteristically frazzled.   

Rising, Richard took her hand in courtly fashion and motioned to the table.  “Lady Elizabeth, please join us.”

 Though she’d left her cloak with the servant, Elizabeth had yet to banish the possessive touch of cold winter air from her bones.  With a quick shake of her head, she moved before the hearth, extending her hands to the flames. “That’s kind of you, Richard, but I need to see your father.” 

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Richard returned evenly.  “He’s still in London.”

 “Oh!”  The gasp of dismay that slipped from her lips was as uncharacteristic as Lady Elizabeth’s nervousness.  Chagrined by her slip, the dark-haired woman glanced away.  “That’s unfortunate. I had a favor to beg of him.”

 Richard exchanged a glance with his brother who appeared as puzzled as he was.  Eleanor frowned slightly, then pointedly returned her attention to her dinner plate.  With a sharp glance for her sister-in-law, Gwendolyn nudged her elbow.  “What?” Eleanor hissed. 

Choosing to overlook his sister’s usual animosity for their guest, Richard stepped to Elizabeth’s side.  “Perhaps I could be of service?” he suggested. 

Elizabeth rounded on him surprised.  A wild spark of hope entered her eyes but was quickly squelched.  Sadly, she shook her head.  “I don’t think that’s possible.” 

Distressed by her obvious anxiety, Richard leaned closer and lowered his voice.  “Lady Elizabeth, would you speak with me in private about whatever is troubling you?” 

No, I¾” Elizabeth hesitated, then pressed her lips together.  Reluctantly, she nodded. “Very well.” 

With a nod to the others that he would return, Richard escorted his father’s mistress to the solar.  Once there he turned on her expectantly.  “You said you wished to beg a favor of my father.” 

“Yes . . .” Elizabeth agreed hesitantly.  Striding past him, she twined her hands together, obviously struggling to explain her behavior.  “It’s actually very silly.”  Frowning, Elizabeth turned.  “Richard, your father was expected back from London days ago.  What detains him?”

 Richard smiled briefly.  “The Queen.  She’s holding Midwinter Court and wishes him to remain a fortnight.”  Though he had expected her to smile at the image of Thomas paying court with a group of long-winded noblemen, her frown only deepened.  Growing increasingly concerned, Richard strode forward and gripped her shoulders.  She wasn’t quite as tall as Gwendolyn and when he gazed down at her, she was forced to raise her head.  “Lady Elizabeth, my father cares about you a great deal.  If you’re in some sort of trouble, you must be straightforward and tell me.”

 Elizabeth closed her eyes.  Richard could feel the tension in her slender frame, shattering her normally self-reliant poise.  Beyond the walls of the castle the wind moaned across the heath, inciting slumbering ghosts of winter to gleeful mischief.  The powdery lace of new snow frosted the window glass as swollen clouds emptied their bellies on the earth below.  Elizabeth drew an uneven breath.  Reluctantly she met Richard’s eyes.  “I’ve received an invitation I fear I can’t refuse.”  When Richard only stared at her blankly, Elizabeth plowed ahead.  “My late husband’s cousin, Sir Lionel Rothrock holds a Midwinter Feast each year.  Each year he invites me, and each year I decline the courtesy.  This year he has sent a carriage with servants to fetch me, presumably so I can’t refuse.” 

“And this is so terrible?”  Richard ventured, uncertain where the quandary lie. 

Elizabeth turned away.  “You don’t understand,” she said with difficulty.  “Lionel . . . has a fondness for me that exceeds that of a kinsmen.  I’ve put him off successfully in the past, but each time I see him his advances grow bolder.  I’ve declined his invitation for the last two years, but I’ve run out of excuses for refusing.” 

“And you wanted my father to . . . escort you to this gala?” Richard guessed, “Thus having a protector¾so to speak¾against Lionel?”

 “I told you it was silly,” Elizabeth said with a tight smile.  “If the man weren’t so . . . forceful . . . I’d venture his lair on my own.” 

Richard chuckled.  Striding forward, he took her hand.  “And when does Cousin Lionel expect you there?” 

“He’s instructed his servants to fetch me forth in two days.  With Thomas gone¾” 

“I’ll go in his place,” Richard interjected.  When he saw her look of disbelief, he rolled his shoulders.  “Certainly no one will mistake us for romantic partners, but that doesn’t prevent me from protecting you against the man’s advances.” 

Elizabeth shook her head.  “Richard, I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” 

“Why not?” 

Wetting her lips, Elizabeth took a step backward.  Absently, she dusted her hands against her sleeves as though attempting to ward off a chill.  “John Mullens will be there.  He and Lionel are the best of friends.” 

Richard’s smile was tight.  “Now I have a sense of your cousin’s character,” he said with more bitterness than he intended.  Sighing, Richard dropped into the nearest chair.  He had planned for Gwendolyn to accompany him when he’d offered to go with Lady Elizabeth, but the presence of her father made that situation awkward.  Richard knew he’d likely only stoke the Baron’s ire if he arrived with Gwendolyn on his arm.  “The Baron and I need to arrive at an understanding,” Richard told Elizabeth.  “Perhaps it’s just as well he’ll be in attendance.”

 “And Gwendolyn?” Elizabeth ventured.  “Richard, I do not wish to part you from your wife.”

 Richard looked distinctly uncomfortable.  He swallowed hard.  “My wife will understand,” he vowed.

 +++++ 

“I don’t understand why I can’t go with you,” Gwendolyn protested hotly.  Stalking toward the bed, she shrugged out of her robe and threw it angrily on the feather mattress.  Clothed in a long-sleeved sleeping gown, she gathered the folds of the rose-colored material in one hand and plopped in unbecoming fashion on the bed.  Her hair was unbound, spilling forward over her face, creating a tangled veil not unlike the snarled curls of her childhood.  If she weren’t so angry, Richard may have been tempted to laugh.  “You promised if you left again you’d take me with you.”

 “Gwendolyn, I didn’t expect¾”

 “¾that’s the problem, Richard.  You never expect!  You just react without thinking.”  Snatching a hairbrush from the bedside table, she waved it in his direction.  “Lady Elizabeth arrives in a quandary so you gallantly volunteer to assist her, never once considering the effect on your wife.” Angrily, Gwendolyn raked the brush through her long hair, using short, savage strokes.

 Perturbed, Richard strode forward. “That’s not true, Gwen. I told you I had planned to take you with me, it’s just¾” 

“What?” she snapped.  “My father?  Don’t you think that’s all the more reason I should attend?  If we’re ever going to make peace with the man¾”

“Gwendolyn, I don’t want to argue about this,” Richard said flatly, his own volatile anger taking hold. 

“No,” she agreed, “You’d rather just lie to me, promising one thing then doing another!”

 “That’s enough!”  Catching her arm, Richard pulled her roughly to her feet.  For a moment they glared at one another, neither willing to yield, until Richard grudgingly recalled he’d only just returned and they were shortly wed.  Exhaling tiredly, he wrapped his arms around her.  Though she made no move to withdraw, Gwendolyn’s back was rigid in his embrace. Richard bowed his face to her hair.  “You’re right,” he relented.  “I did promise.  It’s just¾I¾Gwendolyn, this is difficult, you understand?  It’s because of our marriage that I ask you to remain.  If your father weren’t in attendance I wouldn’t hesitate for you to accompany me.” 

Unconvinced, Gwendolyn raised her eyes.  “You will not surmount my father’s dislike of you so easily, Richard.” 

“I don’t expect it to be easy,” he returned quickly, “But nor do I think it’s prudent to add salt to an already festering wound.”

 Stiffly Gwendolyn pulled free of her husband’s embrace.  Turning her back, she drew her arms close, hugging them to her chest.  “I fear his dislike of you transcends our marriage.” Glancing over her shoulder, Gwendolyn met her husband’s eyes.  “Richard, it’s no secret my father has always held fierce animosity for you, but I fear that rancor has nothing to do with your father, or Henry’s death.”

 “Then what?”  Richard asked, taking a step forward.  Though the Baron had always looked on him with snide contempt, the last few years had given way to blatant hostility.  Though Eleanor had been the one to loose the arrow killing Henry of Gault, Richard sometimes felt that Mullens hated him most of all. 

Gwendolyn glanced at her hands as though uncomfortable.  The unreasonable anger had left her face, replaced by an unsettling emotion Richard couldn’t identify.  “To understand what I’m going to tell you, you must envision another John Mullens,” Gwendolyn said softly.  “A man who loved his wife, Charlotte Canter, beyond life itself.  A man who would have sacrificed his soul, if only to claim her heart.” 

Unable to place the Baron he knew in the same context as the man she described, Richard remained silent.  Wetting her lips, Gwendolyn continued: 

“Shortly after they were wed, my mother betrayed my father by having an affair with a man she wouldn’t name.  A child was born of that union¾my half-brother Simon Canter.  A child my father hated with more passion than he’d once loved my mother.  It was my mother’s betrayal which created the John Mullens you know today.” 

Richard rolled his shoulders.  Though the news was unexpected, he didn’t see a connection.  “What does that have to do with me?  With us?”

 Her expression remorseful, Gwendolyn sat on the edge of the bed.  “Simon has blonde-hair and blue-eyes.  I’ve not seen him since he was nineteen, but his features are much like yours.  He is tall and slender and elegant of face.  I fear each time my father looks at you, he sees Simon staring back.” 

Richard gave a short snort.  “Gwen, that’s preposterous.  I’m almost twenty-two, and I find it difficult to believe I could look so similar to this half-brother of yours, when our coloring isn’t even remotely similar.”  Folding his arms across his chest, Richard cocked his head to the side.  “How old is he now?” 

“Thirty,” Gwendolyn supplied.  “But that doesn’t matter.  My father remembers him as a nineteen-year-old, and you’re close enough in age and appearance to resurrect those memories.  So you see it doesn’t matter whether I go to this gala or not¾his animosity has to do with Simon, not with us.” 

Richard exhaled loudly.  Somehow the conversation had looped right back to the topic he’d hoped to avoid.  Striding to the bed, he sat beside her.  “That may very well be, but I still think it’s best if you give me this opportunity alone with him.”  Richard’s voice was earnest, his gaze steady.  Reaching forward, he took her hand.  “Please, Gwendolyn¾I have two days remaining before I depart.  I don’t wish to spend them arguing.”

 Gwendolyn pressed her lips together.  “Nor I,” she returned sharply and snatched her hand free.  “Which is why I suggest you sleep elsewhere this evening, My Lord.”

Richard’s expression grew dark.  “You’re being unreasonable,” he returned shortly.

 “I’m very good at it,” she countered.  Then just as quickly:  “I don’t see why Cedric can’t go.  He doesn’t have a wife to consider, though I’d wager he’d be far more considerate of her if he did.” 

Angry now, Richard stood.  Gazing down at her helped him gain a measure of discipline over his erratic emotions. With effort he contained the brittle edge in his voice. “Cedric is needed here, and my father would expect me to address this.  With Armus gone I am the eldest son.  It’s my responsibility.” 

Gwendolyn’s eyes flashed gem-fire.  “It’s always your responsibility, Richard.  The simple truth is you don’t know how to relinquish control.  You believe no one else can accomplish the same task as readily or as effectively as you.”

 “That’s not true.”

 As though dismissing a servant, Gwendolyn turned away and began brushing her hair.  “There are plenty of bedchambers in this castle, Richard.  If you wish to remain here, I’ll have the servants ready another for my needs.” 

“You’ll do no such thing!”  His voice cracked with authority, causing Gwendolyn to pause momentarily.   

Her hesitation was brief¾just a flicker as she digested the command in his tone. Once again she stroked her hair, gliding the brush slowly and smoothly through the gold-tipped black tresses.  She’d known Richard since childhood, and while his temper was volatile, she knew he’d never raise a hand against her.  With perfect poise, she kept her back turned.  “I do not think it’s wise we share a bed tonight, My Lord.” 

“Damn it, Gwendolyn, stop ‘My Lording’ me!”  Infuriated, he snatched her arm and pulled her to her feet.  Only belatedly did he realize his grip was hard, likely bruising her flesh.  As quickly as the black rage surfaced, it washed away, sweeping from his body in an ill-gotten tide.  With an almost inaudible groan, Richard bowed his head.  “Do what you will, Woman, but you’ll stay here when I depart.  That’s final.” 

Turning on his heel he strode from the room, slamming the door behind him. Though the afternoon had been blissful wrapped in his wife’s arms, Richard spent a lonely night in Sir Thomas’s bedchamber.  The servants would gossip of course, and his brother and sister would likely learn of the conflict, but none of it was relevant.  All that mattered was the wretched state of his loneliness, separated from his wife of four short months.  Tossing restlessly, he envisioned her in their bed, only a short distance down the hall.  Another man would demand her subservience and force himself on her, intent on satisfying his own needs.  

Rather than succumb to such crass behavior, Richard swallowed his pride and spent the night alone.

 +++++ 

The jostling sway of the carriage was almost rhythmic in its monotony.  Broken only by a few occasional ruts in the road, the rickety wheels traversed the snow-laden grounds with single-mindedness.  Lady Elizabeth Leland glanced through the side window, watching as the winter-draped landscape rolled past.  Though the snow was not deep, frigid temperatures kept it clinging to the smooth grasslands of the heath.  Here and there, dark veins scored the undulating hills where persistent light melted the surface dust, revealing clumps of mud and grass beneath.  Alabaster lace clung to the brittle limbs of barren trees, invoking contrasting webs on the rag-tag edge of Tiner Forest.  Further east, pockets of mist hung disembodied, scant feet above the ground. 

Drawing her cloak closer for warmth, Elizabeth looked at her companion who sat opposite.  Richard gazed steadily out the window, his expression bleak.  He’d been reserved most of the morning, greeting her cordially when they’d departed, then falling into morose silence. With a woman’s gift for intuition, Elizabeth guessed his separation from Gwendolyn had not gone as smoothly as planned.  “You’re awfully quiet, Richard,” she observed casually.   

“Hmm?”  He started as though awakening from a daydream.  A nervous smile flitted over his lips.  “Sorry¾I wasn’t listening.” 

“I said you’re awfully quiet,” Elizabeth repeated.   

Richard shrugged.  Though the roll of his shoulders was casual, Elizabeth saw tension etched in his face.  It never failed to amaze her how complex his personality proved¾one moment unrestrained emotion, the next carefully guarded reserve.  Raising a black-gloved hand, he laced it through his long hair, sweeping the scattered bangs from his brow.  A habitual nervous gesture, it told her more about his present state of mind then all his carefully chosen words strung together.  “Please pardon my lack of attention, Lady Elizabeth.  I didn’t mean to appear rude.” 

Chuckling softly, Elizabeth arranged the folds of a thick travelling blanket on her lap.  She could feel the influx of heat from large hearth-warmed stones, tucked within and bundled at her feet.  “I didn’t mean to imply that you were¾just that you appear distracted.  I hope this favor has not caused you undo distress, Richard.” 

Distinctly uncomfortable now, he shifted on the padded seat.  A short tug on his burgundy jerkin drew the stiff leather tightly across his chest.  Beneath the garment, the softer fabric of an ebony tunic crinkled with his movement.  “It doesn’t matter,” he said shortly.  “I would not allow you to attend unescorted whatever the circumstance.” 

Elizabeth frowned, bothered by the clipped tone of his voice.  His staggering self-confidence often made her overlook the fact he was only twenty-one.  The Richard who addressed her now could easily slide into arrogance with little coaxing.  “Don’t be so predisposed to obstinacy, Richard.  It’s ill-becoming in a husband.” 

He glanced at her sharply.  “What does that mean?”  

Elizabeth took her time replying, adjusting the long braid of her black hair before surrendering her attention.  “I trust your leave from Gwendolyn did not go as smoothly as you would have liked.”

 Richard glowered.  “Are you gossiping with servants now, Lady Elizabeth?”

 Unperturbed, Elizabeth held his gaze.  “I remember what it’s like to be newly wed and separated,” she returned coolly.  “It doesn’t take a loose tongue to decipher what’s troubling you.”

 Turning his head, Richard glanced out the window.  She could see the constricted line of his mouth, tiny white creases etched at the corners of his lips.  Viewed in profile, the tousled waves of his hair lent a certain autocratic elegance to his features, easily rekindling the impression of arrogance.  “It’s a long ride to the inn,” he mumbled, “I’d rather pass it in silence.” 

Tempted to press him further, Elizabeth relented when she decided he didn’t spar nearly as well as his father.  Locating her travel bag, she withdrew an embroidery hoop.  Long hours whittled away as she spent the time redefining a cluster of wildflowers and looping vines.  When the carriage halted shortly after midday for a basket lunch, Richard offered his hand and helped her step outside.  While the servants prepared the meal, he wandered into the surrounding trees, his dark burgundy cloak eventually disappearing among the dense cluster of charcoal trunks. 

Elizabeth glanced at the whitewashed sky, noting the mass of full-bodied clouds gathering on the horizon.  It would likely snow before the day was out, impeding travel time.  With any luck they’d reach the inn before weather and darkness combined to make the journey treacherous. 

 Nibbling on a piece of honey-laced cake, Elizabeth watched the trees where Richard had disappeared.  He was well skilled to fend off trouble, but still she worried over his absence.  In the years that she and Sir Thomas had grown close, she’d grown close to his children as well.  There was no doubting Eleanor was the most difficult of all, but that was almost expected in a woman-to-woman meeting of the minds.  Eleanor guarded her mother’s position in her heart with jealous animosity.  Richard’s enmity however, grew from an innate refusal to acknowledge situations he couldn’t resolve on his own.  More than any of Sir Thomas’s children, Richard stubbornly refused the aide of others. 

When he returned a short time later, he spoke briefly about the impending snow and its effect on their travel time.  Though the servants had set up a chair for Lady Elizabeth, Richard sat on the roll-down carriage steps, bracing his knees apart to steady the rope supports.  He ate quickly and silently, ushering the others through the repast with his marked refusal to dawdle. When the carriage departed, he fell into silence again, and Elizabeth took to watching the countryside.   

She was uncertain when the veil of sleep claimed her eyes; remembered only the rhythmic jostling sway of the wheels which eventually lulled her to slumber.  Sometime later she was awakened by a touch on her shoulder. 

“Lady Elizabeth?”

 Blinking, she looked up into Richard’s green eyes.  His face was wrapped in bands of shadow, the jeweled glint of his irises abnormally bright in a muted filtering of moonlight.  Blackest night clustered behind him, informing her they’d reached their destination.  Sitting upright she pushed aside the blanket he’d earlier draped over her.  “Are we at the inn?” she asked distractedly.  

Richard nodded.  Before he could speak, a servant opened the carriage door, peering anxiously inside.  “M’Lord, there be a slight problem.” 

Sitting forward, his attention on Elizabeth, Richard half-turned.  “Well?” he prompted.

 

The man wet his lips nervously, his thick-lidded gaze skittering between Elizabeth and Richard.  “It’s jest that M’Lord Rothrock expected only the Lady.  ‘E reserved a room fer the mistress, but there ain’t t’nother to be had.  I’ve already spoke to the innkeeper.” 

“Don’t concern yourself with it,” Richard said shortly.  “Take Lady Elizabeth’s bags to her room.”       

“Aye, M’Lord.”  With a quick bob of his head, the servant disappeared.   

Elizabeth glanced expectantly at her escort.  “What of you, Richard?” 

He shrugged.  “There’s always the common room or the stable.  Come¾let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”  Before she could protest further, he gathered her slim fingers in his and helped her from the carriage.   

The inn was small, but inviting.  The flickering glow of a roaring fire infused the common room with welcoming light.  Overhead, straw rushes on the timbered roof provided additional insulation and warmth.  Richard could smell the tantalizing aroma of baking bread and simmering stew¾likely venison or mutton¾the latter creating a rumble in his belly.  The cold lunch they’d shared was hours past and he was ready to banish his somberness with a hearty meal, complimented by a tankard or three of ale.  

Half a dozen tables were scattered around the hearth, most occupied by farmers and serfs.  Curious eyes turned toward Richard and Elizabeth as they stepped indoors.  Bracing his arm across the small of her back, Richard escorted his father’s mistress to an unoccupied bench, then glanced about for the innkeeper.   

Almost immediately, a short balding man appeared at his elbow.  Hastily wiping his brow with the back of a thick arm, the man gave a quick dip of his head.  “What be yer pleasure, M’Lord?” 

“Lord Rothrock reserved a room with you,” Richard explained evenly. “It’s for this lady.  Kindly show us which one so she may retire.”  As he spoke Richard became aware of a courtly-attired man seated by himself in a far corner of the room.  Fair-haired with strikingly chiseled features, he looked the part of young nobleman.  Richard could feel the man’s eyes on him, yet more disturbingly he could sense the same calculating gaze sidling over Elizabeth.  Somewhat protectively, Richard looped his arm over her shoulders. “The room,” he reminded the innkeeper.   

Bobbing his head, the shorter man wet his lips nervously.  “Aye, M’Lord.”  From the darting look he sent Lady Elizabeth, it was clear he thought she was Richard’s lover. 

Richard felt his face flame red.  Before he could snap a belligerent reply, Elizabeth gripped his arm.  With a quick warning glance to silence him, she turned her attention on the innkeeper.  “My escort is a bit cross tonight.  Perhaps you could serve him dinner after you show me my room.” 

“Of course, M’Lady.”  Hobbling down a short hallway, the innkeeper beckoned them to follow.  Lady Elizabeth’s room was the first off the common area, not large by any means, but clean nonetheless.  Her travel bags had already been stacked neatly by the door, deposited by the servants.  As the innkeeper moved to withdraw, Richard passed him a few coins with instructions to bring Lady Elizabeth’s meal to her room.  

After he’d departed, Elizabeth unfastened her cloak and laid it on the bed.  Extra blankets and pillows had been stacked on the edge of the mattress for added comfort.  “Richard, there’s no reason you can’t use this spare bedding and sleep on the floor.  It would be more comfortable than the common room, and certainly warmer than the stable.” 

“And give that fool innkeeper credence?  The man already thinks we’re sleeping together.” Recovering her bags, Richard moved them to the bed where she’d have easier access to them.  “Besides¾I’ve slept outdoors on countless occasions, winter included.” 

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed stubbornly, “But it isn’t necessary.  I’ve already inconvenienced you with this trip. And as far as that silly proprietor goes, he’ll wag his tongue regardless of what we do. You may as well be comfortable for the slight.” 

 Richard frowned.

 “I’ll likely be asleep by the time you return anyway,” she persisted.  “Don’t be foolish, Richard.  I’m old enough to be your mother, and even if I weren’t¾” her lips quirked in a arch smile, “¾you’re a trifle too arrogant for my taste.”

 Involuntarily, Richard grinned.  “Very well,” he agreed.  “Just don’t tell my father.”  Turning toward the door, he paused then glanced over his shoulder.  “Lady Elizabeth?”

She had moved away and was looking inside her travel bag.  “Yes?” 

Richard wet his lips.  “You were right about Gwendolyn.   She hasn’t spoken to me for two days, and . . .” his eyes dipped self-consciously. “ . . . we’ve slept apart.  I wish I could find a way to heal the rift between us.  She thinks I’ve broken my word, and in a way, I suppose I have.” 

“This is my fault,” Elizabeth said, coming to his side.  Taking his hands, she looked up into his eyes.  It was easy to see how a younger woman could become lost there¾ensnared by the comely lines of his face; the striking green depths of his irises.  “Give your wife time,” Elizabeth said sincerely.  “She’s been uprooted from her home, thrust into a life that is alien to all she’s known.  To make matters worse, you are frequently gone on your father’s business.  Now that you are wed, perhaps you should consider a less active role in the management of Sir Thomas’s estates¾at least until you and Gwendolyn have had time to adjust.”

 Richard smiled tightly.  “She says I don’t know how to relinquish control.” 

Elizabeth cocked her head.  “I’ve known you a long time, Richard.  I’d say that’s a perceptive observation.” 

His smile thinned to a frown.  Before he could reply, a rap on the door intervened.  Richard drew open the barrier, finding a serving wench on the threshold, a platter of food balanced in her arms.  Beckoning her within, he watched as she curtsied to Lady Elizabeth.  “Enjoy your dinner,” Richard told the dark-haired woman and withdrew.   

As she set the platter on a nearby table, the serving wench cast a sidelong glance at the door.  “Oh, M’Lady, he’s terribly ‘andsum.  Surely t’ain’t a sin like some folk are sayin’.” 

Confused, Elizabeth studied the girl.  “I beg your pardon?” 

“To ‘ave a lover so young,” the girl explained awkwardly.  “We all seen ‘ow he fussed over you in the common area.  Made me ‘n the other servin’ girl weak in the knees, it did, a courtly knight like that.” 

Though she might have been offended, Elizabeth supressed a giggle.  The idea of she and Richard as lovers was absurd.  Briefly, she wondered if Gwendolyn and Thomas would find the situation as humorous as she did. “Sir Richard is merely a friend acting as my escort,” she explained.  Judging from the girl’s expression, Elizabeth’s denial had only increased the belief she and Richard were romantically involved.  Realizing further contradiction was fruitless, Elizabeth abandoned the topic and sat down to her meal. 

+++++ 

Richard was on his fourth tankard of ale when the blonde-haired Noble approached him.  Many of the farmers had already departed, with others taking residence at the inn.  The crowd in the common area had thinned considerably leaving Richard, the young nobleman and three serfs to linger among the tables.  Judging from the conversation ensuing beside him, the serfs had ingested more than their fair share of mead and were presently arguing over the correct method of shoeing a horse.  “ . . . no, no, no!” the big-boned one was saying.  “Ye got it all wrong, Doyle.  T’aint like that at all . . .”  The words faded away into a slurred mish-mash which was too muted to understand.

Shoving his plate aside, Richard leaned back in his stool, bracing his shoulders against the wall.  The combination of warm firelight, full belly and ale left him feeling sated and sleepy.  He was just considering retiring to the mound of bedding Lady Elizabeth had graciously offered, when he heard the scrape of boot heels against the plank floor.  Glancing up, he saw the blonde-haired man hovering at the edge of the table.   

“I’m Lord Selby Markem,” the other introduced himself. 

His tongue loosened by the ale, Richard’s innate arrogance slipped through.  “You’re flattering yourself if you think that means something to me.” 

Unflustered, the other appraised him coolly.  “A cordial introduction would have been my guess, but I see I’ve misjudged you for a gentleman.” 

Richard grinned lazily.  Another time he might have taken offense, but the slight buzzing in his head warned he wasn’t in any shape to engage in conflict.  Drowning his sorrows over Gwendolyn in full-bodied ale had distinct disadvantages.  Bored, he yawned.  “I’m too tired to fence with you, Markem.  Was there something you wanted?” 

Though it was obvious the older man took affront, he contained his temper with relative ease.  Pulling out a stool, he sat at the table.  Realizing the other had no intention of departing, Richard blinked, studying him briefly.  Up close Markem appeared somewhere in his early thirties, his chiseled features sharply planed and offset by light blue eyes.  Any number of women would have found Markem devastatingly handsome.  Richard thought him irritating.  “Won’t you join me?” he asked sarcastically. 

“I was more interested in your Mistress,” Markem returned bluntly. 

For a moment Richard thought he’d heard incorrectly.  When he didn’t immediately reply, the other continued: 

“She’s a vision to be certain, and surely needs more entertainment than you can provide.  I’d pay handsomely for an introduction.”

 “Damnation!”  Richard’s mouth twisted at the full impact of the other’s words.  With a savage thrust of his arm, he flung his ale in Markem’s face.  Just as quickly he tossed the tankard aside and unsheathed his sword.  The blade cracked across the table splitting the surface wood with a resounding echo.  Startled into silence, the serfs, innkeeper and serving wenches gaped openmouthed at the two men occupying the corner table.   

Richard was out of his seat, the tip of his blade pressed against Markem’s breastbone.  “And you have the audacity to inquire if I’m a gentleman?” he spat acidly, green eyes flashing brimstone. “I’d gut you for the slander, but Lady Elizabeth would call me on a quarrelsome temper.”  Drawing back, Richard lowered his sword.  “Take your insinuations elsewhere Markem, before I forget my manners and lob off your head.” 

His comely face contorting with rage, Markem stood.  Turning on his heel, he strode from the common area and disappeared down the hallway.  Realizing he had more reasons to remain indoors then before, Richard followed, hesitating at Elizabeth’s doorway before knocking softly then slipping inside. 

+++++ 

Elizabeth glanced at the young man sprawled amid the tangle of blankets.  Richard had dragged the extra bedding to a corner of the room, then discarded his sword, cloak and jerkin in a pile on the floor.  His boots and outer belt had been dropped further away as though he had removed those items first, then shed additional clothing as he walked toward the bedding.  His tunic was rumpled and partially unlaced, exposing the smooth skin of his chest.  Supine on his back, he lay with one arm tossed above his head, the other draped over his stomach. 

“Richard.”  Bending over him, Elizabeth supressed a smile.  His brown curls created a riotous fan against the pillow, each tousled end tipped with red or gold where morning sunlight kindled the highlights in his hair.  “Richard,” Elizabeth said again, louder this time, giving his shoulder a short shake. 

He came awake with a grunt, instinctively reaching for the sword near his side.  Elizabeth smiled.  “Do restrain yourself from slaying me.  I’m told the breakfast here isn’t that appalling.” 

Exhaling noisily, Richard flopped back against the bedding.  A groan slipped from his lips as he dragged a hand across his face.  “God, my head hurts.” 

“Hmm.”  Elizabeth arched a brow.  “It serves you right if the smell of ale clinging to your clothing has anything to do with it.  Do wake up, Richard.  If we leave shortly we should reach Lionel’s castle by nightfall.”

 Groaning, he rolled onto his side.  “Very well.”  Convinced women were irritatingly, perpetually cheerful in the morning, Richard dragged himself into the waking world.  Having already attended to her personal needs, Elizabeth moved to depart.  “Lady Elizabeth¾”  Shoving the blankets aside, Richard stood.  “I’d rather you didn’t go anywhere without me.” 

“And why is that?”  The sight of him in stocking feet with unkempt hair and rumpled tunic, standing amid the discarded bedding was oddly comical.  Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud.   

Unaware she found his state of disarray so amusing, Richard pulled his tunic over his head.  “There’s a loathsome guttersnipe lodging here who’d like to become better acquainted with you.” Turning, he sloshed water into a nearby washbowl.  “We had a  . . . disagreement . . . last night, and I’d rather you didn’t go wandering alone.” 

“Richard you weren’t involved in a fight, were you?”  Elizabeth queried sharply, stalking to his side.  But he was already bent over the washbowl, dousing his face and neck with water.  Pressing her lips together, Elizabeth stared at his back.  She’d seen him grow up, and thus was well acquainted with the limits of his reckless temper.  “Richard¾” 

“I was the perfect gentleman,” he inserted quickly.  Claiming a folded cloth from the washstand, he toweled it over his face and neck.  His lips curled in the wide impish grin she knew so well.  “After I threatened his life.” 

Elizabeth closed her eyes.  “I should have brought Cedric,” she mumbled.   

Later, her back turned, she patiently waited for him to change clothes.  By now the servants would have eaten and the horses would be harnessed.  When he took her arm announcing he was ready to depart, she glanced aside.  The overly confident knight she knew so well had replaced the scruffy-looking waif of moments before.  Rich hues of navy, jet and walnut blended in his leather jerkin, offsetting his beige tunic and black breeches.  Elizabeth felt almost docile by comparison, attired in a flowing gown of cranberry and cream.   

Taking her arm, Richard stepped from the room and nearly collided with Selby Markem who was exiting the hall. 

The older man stopped short, a skewing glance raking over Elizabeth before shifting to Richard.  “T’were I you, I’d be a trifle more discreet about my sleeping arrangements,” he commented snidely.  When he turned away Richard lunged forward, but Elizabeth snagged his arm.  

“Leave it be, Richard.  We’ll be departing shortly and won’t see him again.  We both know your intentions are honorable.  You’ve nothing to prove.” 

Though not entirely convinced, Richard reluctantly conceded.  Escorting Lady Elizabeth to the common area, he motioned the serving wench to bring breakfast.  When the meal was finished, they departed, glad to put the inn and its gossipy inhabitants behind them.

 A fresh blanket of snow had fallen overnight, slowing travel considerably.  The carriage moved cumbersomely over the obstructed roadway, sloughing through occasional drifts and skirting downed tree limbs.  A concealed rut in the ground caused a delay when the rear wheel became embedded and would not roll free without additional leverage.  Disembarking, Richard knelt beside it, applying his knife to a thin underlayer of ice, chipping away at the fringe.  Once cleared, he moved to the head of the carriage, forcibly pulling on the horses’ reins, while the servants packed leaves and twigs beneath the wheel’s smooth rim. 

Richard’s breath plumed in the air, coaxed by the same icy wind that lashed the scattered curls at his neck.  Beneath the stiff leather of his black gloves his fingers grew cold and unresponsive as minute slipped into lengthening minute and still the wheel would not budge.  Irritated, he tugged free his cloak and stalked to the rear of the carriage, where he rammed it beneath the wheel.  “Now!” he ordered the servants.  As they pulled the horses, he added his own strength to the wheel, gripping the rim and forcing it forward.  When it came free with an unexpected lurch, he stumbled, carried by the momentum, and dropped to his knees.  Cursing softly, he slapped snow from his breeches then vigorously shook it from his rumpled cloak. 

“I hope you have another,” Elizabeth said aside when he returned to the carriage.  The wind had heightened the color in his cheeks, imbuing his green eyes with an edge like cut glass.  Tossing a blanket to him, Elizabeth watched with quiet amusement as he shook clinging snowflakes from his long hair.  Damp from the powdery lace still drifting from the heavens, his hair had lost its natural curl and hung lankly against his face. 

 Absently, Richard scraped the bangs from his eyes.  “Next time your cousin has a gala, suggest he hold it during the summer.”

 “My husband’s cousin,” Elizabeth corrected, but she smiled nonetheless.  “I hope you’re better disposed when you meet Lionel.  I’d hate for him to gain the wrong impression of you.”

 Puzzled, Richard raised his head. 

Elizabeth’s lips curled enchantingly.  “He might mistake you for a quarrelsome man given to arrogance.”  Tilting her head, she smiled disarmingly.  “And that would be a dreadful mistake, for we all know there’s nothing hidden about your vanity.” 

Richard’s grin was barbed.  “You are too kind, Lady Elizabeth.” 

Laughing, she reached across the carriage and gripped his wrist.  “And you are much too staid.  Pray soften your demeanor before we reach Lothdoren Castle.  There will be plenty of stiff-lipped protocol from all the Nobles twittering around Lionel.  I don’t need uppercrust superiority from my escort.” 

Before Richard could answer, one of Rothrock’s servants appeared at the door.  Glancing hesitantly inside, he passed Richard his knife.  “You dropped this, My Lord.” 

“Thank you.” Accepting the blade, Richard returned it to his belt sheath. 

 When the servant had departed and the carriage started moving again, Elizabeth nodded to his knife.  “That’s a rather striking weapon,” she commented mildly. 

Richard’s eyes dipped to the blade sheathed against his hip.  The hilt was intricately designed, cross-braided with gold wire, inset with slivers of emerald and smoked topaz.  Beneath the filigree-encrusted scabbard, the thick blade was mirror-white.  “A gift from Gwendolyn,” Richard replied stiffly, his mood soured by thoughts of his wife.   

Abruptly sullen he glanced out the window.  Briefly he wondered how Gwendolyn fared, and whether or not she gave him any thought, as day slipped into day and the length of their separation grew.  Sensing his mood, Elizabeth fell silent.  Swaying side-to-side, the carriage continued its trek toward Lothdoren Castle, the remainder of the journey proving uneventful.

By the time they arrived at Lord Rothrock’s estate night unfolded against the sky, chasing tepid sunlight from the heavens and supplanting it with billowing cords of black.  Richard and Elizabeth were escorted indoors where bright firelight and rug-warmed floors made the night seem harsher still.  After a brief delay, Lionel Rothrock greeted them in the solar.   

A tall, bearded man with black hair, he looked much like John Mullens from a distance.  At first glance, Richard experienced an unexpected twinge of anxiety.  Though he knew his father-in-law would be in attendance at the castle, he hadn’t expected to encounter him so soon.  Disquiet gave way to relief as the man approached and Richard realized he was not the Baron. 

“Dearest Elizabeth.” Ignoring Richard, Rothrock claimed Elizabeth’s hand.  His smile was toothy, his gaze much too encompassing¾flitting over her body with sly appraisal.  Bowing, he kissed her fingers.  “I’m grateful you’ve come to my humble festivities at long last.”

Annoyed by his fawning, Richard cleared his throat.

 Rothrock’s eyes slewed to the side and Elizabeth smiled politely.  “Lionel, may I introduce my escort¾Sir Richard Grey.” 

Straightening to his full height, Rothrock stared flatly.  The solicitous flattery left his eyes, replaced by brittle disdain.  “I didn’t realize you were bringing a guest,”  he said aside to Elizabeth.  Lips quirking in a pointed smile, he inclined his head.  “You increase our number to unlucky thirteen, Richard.  Hopefully your presence will not prove ill-fated.” 

Before Richard could speak, Elizabeth touched his arm, slipping her hand companionably into the crook of his elbow.  “Have all the other guests arrived then, Lionel?” she asked brightly. 

Though his mouth tightened at the familiarity she showed Richard, Lionel kept his tone cordial.  “You are the last, my dear.  Lord Markem arrived just hours before.” 

“Selby Markem?”  Richard asked, disbelieving. 

Rothrock’s gaze was dismissive and sharp.  “You know him then?” 

Scowling, Richard laid his hand over Elizabeth’s fingers.  “Of a sort.  We met recently.”  A sideways glance at Lady Leland informed him she wearied of the conversation.  Richard could feel her tension, generated no doubt, from the way Rothrock kept looking at her when he thought himself unobserved.  “Perhaps you could have a servant show Lady Elizabeth her chambers?” he suggested.  “We’ve been traveling since morning.  I’m sure she’d like to rest.” 

“Of course,” Rothrock agreed solicitously, but there was annoyance in his eyes that Richard was bold enough to direct him.  Summoning a servant, Sir Lionel instructed that Elizabeth and Richard be shown separate quarters.   

Once he knew Lady Elizabeth needs were addressed, Richard followed the chamberlain to his rooms.  As the servant unburdened his travel bag, he stepped to the window, glancing over the shadow-draped courtyard below.  “I didn’t see any of the other guests,” he observed. 

“There’s a late dinner in the Great Hall, My Lord.  You’ll find a few of Lord Rothrock’s guests gathered there, though I understand Lady Cort has taken to her rooms with a headache, and Sir Tobias is an early sleeper.”  

Richard inclined his head.  This was a different servant than the two who had escorted he and Lady Elizabeth via carriage.  There was a manner of courtly decorum about the silver-haired chamberlain, and Richard didn’t doubt he ran the castle as effectively and regally as a palace.

 “Sir Tobias?”  Richard asked. 

“Sir Tobias Farrel,” the older man elaborated.  Frowning at the soiled, rumpled ball of Richard’s cloak, he draped it over his arm, silently decreeing it warranted proper laundering.  “Sir Tobias has been a friend of Lord Rothrock for many years.  I’ve never known him to miss a Midwinter Gathering.” 

“And Lady Cort?” Richard persisted.

 “Lady Helena is a widow.  Sir Tobias’ is the half brother of her dead husband.  Though her estates are further north, they always journey together.”  Pausing, he glanced at Richard, a slight frown on his lips.  “There’s nothing untoward between them, understand.”

Richard cocked a brow, uncertain why the information was volunteered. 

Though he tried to mask the disapproval in his eyes, the chamberlain’s gaze flicked over Richard before shifting back to his task.  Placing Richard’s clothing in the wardrobe closet, he kept his back carefully turned.  “It was good of you to escort Lady Elizabeth, especially since the journey required a stay overnight.”  Though his tone was neutral, a sliver of implication lingered in the words. 

Annoyed, Richard pressed his lips together.  “Yes.  My wife thought so too.” 

Startled, the servant raised his head.  “My Lord?” 

“I suggest you remember your place,” Richard said sharply.  “I’ve crossed blades with men for less.” 

Swallowing hard, the chamberlain bowed hastily and retreated from the room.  Smiling tightly, Richard unbuckled his sword belt, depositing the weapon, along with the knife Gwendolyn had given him on a low table.  Though there was an overabundance of cutting observations at Lothdoren castle, Richard reasoned he could consume a simple dinner without engaging in swordplay.  Proceeding downstairs, he followed a series of short doorways to the outer chamber of the Great Hall.  Before he could enter, a familiar voice drew him up short.  

“I knew there was a reason I declined dinner.  The sight of you would induce regurgitation with little effort.” 

Like a flash of lightning in the summer sky, Richard felt a quicksilver bolt of anger ricochet through his body.  Tamping down his instinctive antagonism, he swallowed his pride and turned.  For Gwendolyn’s sake he had vowed to make peace with this man.  “Baron Mullens,” he greeted evenly.   

His father-in-law stood just inside the arched entrance of the chamber, his shoulder propped casually against the wall.  As though happening on something distinctly repugnant, his gaze flicked over Richard and his lips stretched in grim satisfaction.  “So now you’re playing gallant¾acting as escort to Lady Elizabeth.”  Chuckling, Mullens pushed away from the wall and strode casually toward the center of the room.  “Interesting thing, Richard.  Lord Markem arrived a few hours before you with some very prickly gossip about a young, short-tempered knight and the Mistress of Leland Castle.”

“You’ve lost what little intelligence you had if you believed him,”  Richard snapped acidly.  Immediately he berated himself for the slip.  There was something about Mullens that inflamed his natural belligerence.  Exhaling raggedly, he tried to dispel his anger.  “Gwendolyn is well, but regrets she doesn’t see you very often.  You’ve not been to Covington Cross since our wedding.”

 “And you find that surprising?  Don’t martyr yourself with restraint, boy¾if it weren’t for King Edward’s decree, I’d have you on the dueling field.” 

Too weary for subtlety, Richard abandoned his efforts of politeness.  “Then you’ll pardon my bluntness, Baron Mullens¾for a man so tangled in hate he doesn’t know the difference between past and present, you’re amazingly transparent.  Gwendolyn thinks you snub us because of me¾” 

“She’s right¾”

 “¾and my resemblance to Simon Canter.” 

Though he hadn’t truly believed the story Gwendolyn told him, Richard realized he’d struck a nerve.  The look on Mullens’ face was one of appalled shock.  Recovering quickly, the Baron lurched forward, his expression changing from distress to blatant outrage.  “Listen to me, you conniving little dervish.” Bunching his fingers tightly in Richard’s jerkin, he yanked the younger man forward.  “¾whatever she’s told you, it’s tripe.  Repeat a word of that drivel and you’ll rue the day your tongue grew so bold.” 

Angrily, Richard stiff-armed him aside. “Keep your hands off me.” 

“When you keep yours off my daughter,” Mullens returned just as sharply. 

“She’s my wife.  She shares my bed willingly enough.” 

Mullens sneered. “On orders from the King, you conceited popinjay.” 

Though the insult was nothing new, Richard’s lips thinned in a dangerous line.  He’d hoped to make peace with this man for Gwendolyn’s sake, but something inside abruptly snapped, causing a mercurial burst of rage.  Incensed, Richard jabbed his finger against Mullens’ chest.  “Do not judge all marriages by your own miserable failing, Baron Mullens.  Perhaps if you’d been man enough to satisfy your wife, she needn’t have looked elsewhere.” 

The moment he’d uttered the words, Richard knew he’d gone too far.  The black rapture of unreasonable rage contorted Mullens’ face.  Before Richard could recoil, he drove his fist across the younger man’s jaw, viciously snapping his head to the side.  “Damn your tongue, you whey-faced bastard¾” 

Unprepared for the blow, Richard staggered backward.  He could taste blood in his mouth.  With a savage glance, he dragged the back of one hand across his lips, mopping up the sticky residue.  “Bastard, is it?”  Seething, he glanced a blow off Mullens cheek, them grappled him back against the wall.  The sound of pounding feet echoed hollowly in his ears, followed by the insistent pressure of hands on his shoulders.   

“Here, here¾let him go,” a voice commanded bluntly.  Abruptly, Richard became aware of others in the room.  A blonde-haired man and an older gentleman struggled to pull him from Mullens.  The blonde wrenched on his arms, while the older man locked a vise-grip around his neck.  Coming to his senses, Richard released his hold and quickly stepped backward, his chest heaving.  Immediately the older man released him, though the younger kept his arms restrained.

 “Damn you, boy,” Mullens spat.  “I’ll take your head off one of these days.” 

“Not before I disembowel you.” 

“Here, enough of that.”  The man holding Richard gave him a rough shake.  Snarling under his breath, Mullens shoved past them and stalked from the room. 

Richard took stock of his intercessors. The older was of medium height, powerfully built, with silver-gray hair and a square-jawed face. His lips were thick, slightly protruding; his coppery complexion like granules of rough sand.  By contrast the younger man was tall and slender, with short dark blonde hair, a precisely trimmed beard and navy-blue eyes.  At one time he may have been considered strikingly handsome, but misfortune had since scored the left side of his face with a series of deep, jagged scars.  Purplish lines criss-crossed his cheek and nose, fading to a lighter smattering of web-like strings around his eye and brow.  At first glance, the disfigurement was ghastly.  

“From the Crusades,” the younger man explained when he caught Richard staring.  “A gift from our Saracen friends.”  Smiling to show he wasn’t offended, he offered his hand.  “I’m Sir Lucian Carrister, and this¾” he inclined his head to the older man, “¾is Lord Exton of Summerford Hall.”  

Flushing, Richard shook the pro-offered hand, then did the same with Lord Exton.  “Richard Grey of Covington Cross,” he introduced himself.  Chagrined by his earlier behavior, he glanced back to Carrister.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to appear rude.” 

Amused, Carrister chuckled.  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not referring to Baron Mullens?”

 Richard wet his lips.  “The Baron and I have an understanding that surpasses modest threats.  When I’m rude to him he deserves it.  You, on the other hand¾”

 Carrister waived aside his concern.  “I’ve lived with this disfigurement for the last four years, Sir Richard.  Staring is the least of it.” 

Still uncomfortable, Richard shifted awkwardly.  Exton saved him from further embarrassment by suggesting the Great Hall was better suited to discussion.  A large room, dwarfing even the chamber at Covington Cross, Lothdoren’s Hall was presently draped with fresh winter greens, holly berries and garlands of ribbon-laced pinecones.  Though there was no mistress at Lothdoren, someone had invested painstaking effort to ensure the surroundings were as visual as they were inviting. 

 As promised, the servants had prepared a late dinner for any Noble inclined to partake of an evening repast.  Platters of cold mutton and foul complimented bowls of fruit, wafers and cheeses.  A tantalizing variety of rolled pastries and breads occupied sugar-trimmed baskets, and trays lined with dried rosemary.  In the hall, Richard was introduced to Lady Exton and Lord Evan Tarrington. The former, like her husband, was silver-haired and squat; the latter long-limbed with a hatchet-shaped face and mud-colored eyes.  Though he bore the title of Lord, he was unusually young, not much older than Armus.

“I believe I know your father,” Lord Tarrington intoned when Richard had taken a seat at the table.  “Sir Thomas Grey and I have had occasion to share business dealings.”  Managing a smile, he inclined his head.  “An honorable man.”

“Thank you.”  Though Tarrington’s smile was solicitous, Richard had the feeling he swam among piranhas.  Even Lady Exton, who demurely toyed with a piece of fruit, regarded him like a specimen for dissection.   

“You arrived late, I take it?”  she inquired, arching a delicately shaped brow. 

Richard swallowed a mouthful of wine.  Claiming a piece of gamebird, he tried to appear indifferent.  “Yes.  We experienced a minor delay when our carriage foundered due to weather.” 

Exton chewed around a mouthful of bread. “We?” 

“I am came with Lady Elizabeth Leland,” Richard said evenly. 

Tarrington blew air through his teeth.  “Lord Rothrock’s . . .” hesitating, he groped for the appropriate word, “ . . . cousin?”  The emphasis couldn’t have been any baser. 

Richard blanched. Recovering quickly, he moved as though to rise from his seat.  Sensing the irate surge of his unstable temper, Carrister¾seated beside him¾placed a restraining hand on his arm.  “I believe Lord Rothrock is the cousin of Lady Leland’s deceased husband,” he told Tarrington neutrally. 

Lady Exton’s smile was acidic.  “Which one¾husband, I mean?  She’s buried three.” 

Richard decided he wanted to strangle her.   

Maintaining a hold on Richard’s arm, Lucian Carrister leaned toward Lady Exton, then pitched his voice low as though sharing a confidence.  “I wouldn’t say such things around Lady Leland if I were you.  I understand she has a temper.” 

“Hmph!”  Raising her chin, Lady Exton looked down the long hook of her nose.  “Much like this young man, if Selby Markem is to be believed.”  Coal-black eyes shifted to Richard, decadent color somehow obscene for the white powder and excessive rouge contrasting her face.  “A man with a vile streak of rage and an even baser craving for . . . mature . . . women.”

 “You’d do well not to listen to gossip, Lady Exton,” Richard snapped.  He could barely contain himself now, and knew that sooner or later his tongue would get the best of him.  “It’s rarely anything but fanciful boasts and lies.” 

“Indeed,” the white-haired matron returned.  Rising, she motioned to her husband.  “Come, Warren¾present company and conversation lacks for sufficient breeding.” 

Richard rolled his eyes as the two left the room.  A moment later, Tarrington followed.   

“Exton really isn’t a bad sort,” Carrister told him when they were alone.  “Granted his wife warrants improvement, but I fought beside him in the Crusades and vouch he’s honorable.”  A grin touched his lips making the scars on his face appear deeper still.  “A bit hen-pecked, as most married men are, but honorable nonetheless.” 

“I wouldn’t stand for such a woman as wife,” Richard retorted, chewing around a mouthful of pheasant. 

Claiming his wine goblet, Carrister chuckled.  “You’re young yet, my friend.  You’ve no idea who you’d stand for a wife.” 

“That’s not true.”  Richard cast him a sideways glance.  “I’ve been married four months, and I can tell you my wife is no shrew.”  Pausing, he considered, a fond smile touching his lips as he thought of Gwen in one of her defiant moods.  “Well . . . most of the time anyway.” 

Though Carrister grinned there was a measure of surprise in his eyes.  “I wouldn’t have thought you wed, as young as you are.  Childhood sweetheart?” 

Richard laughed.  “Childhood thorn is more like.  She’s Baron Mullens daughter.” 

“Mullens?”  There was true shock in Carrister’s voice now.  Drawing back, he looked at Richard anew.  “You’re a study in revelation, my friend.  So the man you were set on disemboweling just moments ago, is actually your father-in-law.” 

Richard reached for more wine.  Though the meal was good, drink was better.  Coupled with Lucian Carrister’s friendliness, he could feel it loosening his tongue.  Perhaps it was nothing more than the repeated barbs thrown his way lately, but Carrister’s companionship was inherently welcome.  “I don’t make a habit of discussing it,” Richard admitted, “but, yes, he’s my father-in-law.”  Releasing a tired sigh, he laced a hand through his long hair, raking the bangs straight back from his brow.  “Enough about me.  How do you know Lord Rothrock?” he asked evenly. 

Carrister shrugged.  “Mostly through Lord Exton.  We met over the summer, when Exton and I were traveling together. Admittedly, I don’t know many of the guests in attendance, though I had met Selby Markem before.” 

“Lucky you,” Richard chuckled. 

It set a bond of sorts and the two finished the night, picking through cold pheasant and cheese, accompanied by diminishing flagons of wine.  Richard couldn’t recall when he finally went to bed, but his sleep grew troubled almost immediately with dreams of his absent wife.  Somewhere near dawn he awoke in a cold sweat, heart pounding, mouth dry, unable to recall what plagued him.  “A nightmare,” he whispered aloud, but the images were like mist, slipping through his fingers, insubstantial and fleeting. 

Lady Elizabeth joined him for breakfast in the solar, where he met the last of the guests, Baron and Lady Wicklow, Lady Helena Cort and her escort, Sir Tobias Farrel.  The Wicklows were congenial; Lady Cort sophisticated and elegant; Sir Tobias overly talkative while somehow endearing. 

“A better group then those I encountered last night,” Richard whispered aside to Lady Elizabeth, who sat next to him at a small table.  Morning sunlight streamed through a trio of narrow windows, bathing the table in a golden haze.  The infusion of color heightened the amused glimmer in Lady Elizabeth’s eyes.  Smiling warmly, she squeezed Richard’s hand.

 “Lady Wicklow is Lady Exton’s sister,” she supplied with marked humor.  Richard’s bewildered expression brought laughter to her lips.  Tilting her head, she continued:  “As different as night and day, and with