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 no more stomach for one another than a swan for a crow.”  Pausing, Elizabeth frowned.  “Sometimes I think Lionel arranges these galas simply as a means to instigate strife among his guests.”

Richard shrugged nonchalantly, using a short-bladed knife to trim a wedge of bread from the heel on his plate.  “Lord Tarrington seemed friendly enough with the Extons.  I take it not everyone has a grievance, although it doesn’t require a great stretch of the imagination to envision Rothrock in the role of agitator.” 

Picking delicately at a piece of lavender-laced pastry, Elizabeth paused.  Small bits of sugarcoated crust flaked off in her hand.  Absently, she dusted her fingers together, sending a tiny shower of crumbs to her plate.  “Tarrington plays both sides of the fence,” she informed him.  “He’s young and well-titled, but unsated in his quest for power.  Rumor has linked him with both Adina Wicklow and Helena Cort as mistresses.  If he fawns over Beatrice Exton, it’s only because he believes the association might gain him something.” 

Richard balked.  “Certainly not the bedchamber, I hope.”  His mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste as he thought of the stuffy white-faced matron who’d snubbed him the previous eve.  “She’s old enough to be his . . . ancestor.” 

Elizabeth shook her head.  “Richard, must everything come down to what happens in bed?  The Extons are titled and wealthy.  Remaining in their favor ranks Tarrington high in the eyes of his peers.”

“And Lady Wicklow?”  Richard used the edge of his knife to pass a piece of salted pork to his mouth.  “If she’s Tarrington’s Mistress, I would think Beatrice Exton would snub him more dramatically then she did me.” 

Elizabeth shrugged.  “Who can say?  Maybe she uses Tarrington as a lackey¾sending him to her sister’s arms, where Adina might reveal secrets in the heat of passion.  Beatrice Exton is no fool, Richard.  If she allows Tarrington at her table, he’s likely a lap dog.” 

Amused, Richard chuckled softly.  “And women accuse men of being heartless.” 

“We are simply gifted at strategy,” Elizabeth supplied.  Lowering her voice, she leaned closer.  “There is Lady Cort, as well, who is rumored to be enraptured of Sir Tobias Farrel.” 

“Her deceased husband’s half brother,” Richard inserted quickly. 

Drawing back, Elizabeth glanced at him sharply.  “How did you know?” 

Richard smiled.  “One night in this castle, My Lady, and it’s damn near impossible not to know everyone else’s business.  You’re lucky my father didn’t come¾his sense of humor is not as tolerant as mine.” 

“I’ll remember that,” Elizabeth said dryly. 

Richard glanced back to his plate, working his knife through the butt of salted pork.  “If Lady Cort is infatuated with her brother-in-law, what’s she doing as Tarrington’s Mistress?”

 “These are just rumors, Richard,” Elizabeth cautioned.  “I’m only telling you, because you’ll be conversing with these people for the next few days, and I’d hate for you to say something indiscreet.” 

Richard snorted.  “Indiscreet¾wth this group?  I don’t believe that’s possible.”

 Smiling, Elizabeth watched as the sunlight played on his long hair, threading the curling tresses with a myriad of highlights.  It suddenly occurred to her that she enjoyed this time with Richard¾not just now, but over the last few days as well.  She felt somehow closer to him for their shared association, even if the remaining guests made the gala a burden to endure.  Watching him work his knife, she realized belatedly it was not the one Gwendolyn had given him. “Where is your knife, Richard?  The one from your wife?” 

Uncomfortable, he paused.  “I left it in my chambers,” he muttered.  Exhaling, he glanced aside, green eyes touched with gold in the prismatic glint of the sun.  Briefly, he considered telling her of last night’s encounter with John Mullens¾she would likely hear of it anyway.  The knife reminded him of Gwendolyn, and that reminded him of his failure.  He’d come to make peace with the man, and instead he’d only incited him to further wrath.  Deciding to avoid the subject altogether, he steered Lady Elizabeth back on the track of their original conversation.  “What of Lucian Carrister?  Do you know anything of him?” 

Realizing she’d just been manipulated, but respecting his privacy, Elizabeth appeared thoughtful.  Idly, she fingered the pewter foot of her wine goblet.  “I know very little¾just that he fought in the Crusades.  Lionel mentioned him in his invitation, but it was a minor reference.  I did hear one of the servants remark he’s reputed to have holdings near Derry.” 

Surprised, Richard forgot his reluctance over Mullens.  “Derry?  Gwendolyn’s aunt resides there.  I wonder if he knows her.”

 “Is that good or bad?” 

Richard smiled tightly.  “Definitely bad.  Edrea is as sour as they come.”  Pausing, he chewed on a piece of bread.  “With the possible exception of Lady Exton.” 

Feigning disapproval, Elizabeth shook her head.  “You are truly wicked, Richard Grey.”  She kissed him on the cheek.  “But I happen to agree with you.  Let’s hope our stay passes quickly.”

 +++++

 It did not pass quickly enough for Richard.  Frowning, he kept an arrow knocked to the bow Rothrock had supplied as he trudged through the snow-draped woods, Sir Tobias Farrel at his side.  Richard’s breath plumed in the air, prompted by a cold wind that whistled beneath his collar and rattled the limbs of stark, leaf-stripped trees overhead.  In the distance he could hear the muted baying of hounds as the dogs pursued their quarry deeper into the woods.  Though Richard generally enjoyed hunting, flushing a hart from a dense thicket on a cold, winter day did not rank as his favorite pastime.  Worse, the man at his side seemed intent on providing a thorough discourse on every one of Rothrock’s tainted guests. He was beginning to regret the fact he’d let Selby Markem goad him into the hunting party.

 “Lord Rothrock doesn’t require his guests to participate,” Markem had told him, as the other Nobles prepared to depart, “But it provides the opportunity to become better acquainted while enjoying sport.”  His glance grew measuring.  “Of course, if you haven’t the skill or good graces¾” 

“I’ve plenty of both,” Richard had snapped, though the latter was in dangerously short supply.  Now hours later, he trudged through the woods listening to Farrel’s continuing dialogue.

 “ . . . and Markem owes a bundle of money to Lionel Rothrock,” Tobias was saying, his breath growing short with the effort of speech.  Though he was young, just past thirty, excessive weight punished him with the marked slowness of an aged man.  Unconsciously, Richard slowed his pace.  Farrel puffed out his cheeks, stopping to draw a jagged breath.  “Gambling debts, I’m told, though Markem is like to decree it differently.”

 Halting, Richard glanced over his shoulder.  The color on Farrel’s face was high, almost pink.  Contrasted against his curling blonde hair he looked almost cherubic, his blue eyes set like stones amid womanly soft skin.  On a thinner man, his ivory complexion might have appeared ethereal, but added pounds made his flesh seem pasty.  “Have you known Markem long?”  Richard asked, mainly as a means to distract himself from the cold.

 “Barely a year.” Snuffling, Tobias rifled a finger beneath his nose.  “I’m told he was friends with the Extons, who provided his introduction to Rothrock.  He’s gambled with Tarrington to be sure and hunted with Lucian Carrister.”

 “What of Carrister?” Richard asked.  “I’m informed he has estates near Derry.” 

“Bridgeport, I was told.”  With a grunt of effort, Farrel started walking again.  Richard fell in comfortably at his side, matching his long-legged stride to the other’s shorter pace.  “He’s dined with my sister-in-law¾that would be Lady Cort¾and was a regular in London when the Wicklows were there.  Rumor says he’s a highly respected Crusader awarded his lands by the King.  Those scars on his face didn’t come cheaply.” 

“And he met Lord Rothrock through the Extons?” Richard persisted.  Overhead the sky grayed with a rag-tag infusion of snow-bloated clouds.  Already powdery flakes drifted from the heavens, melting in the long strands of Richard’s hair.  The sting of wind against his face made him tilt his chin close to his chest as he turned to glance at Farrel. 

“So they say,” the heavier man agreed.  Scrunching his lips together, he looked disapprovingly at the sky.  “Damn unsightly day to be flushing hart.  Hopefully Lionel will come to his senses and call this cursed hunt off before we all catch our death of cold.” 

“He’s a difficult man, isn’t he?”  Richard asked.  “¾Lionel, I mean.” 

Tobias snorted.  “You’d have me speak ill of my host, boy?  The man’s a saint.  Unless you happen to be Selby Markem who owes him debt money, or Lord Exton who would receive greater tithes of grain from the village were it not for Rothrock’s estate, or even Evan Tarrington who views him a rival for Lady Cort’s hand.” 

Richard canted his head to the side.  “I thought your sister-in-law’s affection was otherwise engaged.” 

“With me?”  Tobias chuckled.  “You’re listening to gossip, Sir Richard.  Look at me.  Am I the kind of man unattached women fawn over?”  Sadly, he shook his head.  “No, it’s knights like you who draw a Lady’s eyes¾young, comely and tall.  I might have been considered handsome at one time, but that was before this.”  Lowering his hands, he gripped his ample waist, shaking his stomach so his flesh jiggled beneath his tunic.  “If I pine for Helena, I do it in private.” 

Uncomfortable with the other’s low opinion of his worth, Richard wet his lips.  Faltering, he attempted to steer clear of the awkward conversation.  “But I thought Lord Rothrock was enamored of . . .”  His voice trailed into silence as he struggled to voice the unspeakable.

“Your companion for this gala?”  Tobias ventured, doing him the courtesy of avoiding her name.

 Richard nodded. 

“There’s no doubt he fancies her¾greatly, I would propose¾but that doesn’t stop him from looking elsewhere as well.” 

Richard pressed his lips together.  “A man worth emulating,” he said scathingly.  “ ‘Tis no wonder he and John Mullens are friends.”

 “Ho!”  The loud cry broke from the distance, drawing Richard and Farrel to an immediate halt.  Glancing toward the horizon, Richard glimpsed Lord Exton at the edge of the tree line.  The older man waved his arm in the air then cupped both hands around his mouth.  “Sir Carrister’s felled the hart. Come lads, lend a hand.  We’ll dine on fresh meat tonight!”

 Richard smiled sharply, acknowledging with a wave.  “I do hope he’s referring to the venison,” he muttered to Farrel. 

+++++ 

Richard took Lady Elizabeth’s hand and placed it in the crook of his arm.  “You look exquisite,” he said staring down on her.  “If your goal is to dissuade Rothrock’s attentions, I don’t think you’re dressed appropriately.” 

Pleased by his flattery, Elizabeth raised her chin.  “So you’d have me dress like a dairy maid?  I wouldn’t give Lionel the satisfaction of forcing me to such trouble.” 

Feeling oddly protective of her, Richard leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead.  When he drew back he was smiling.  “My dear Lady Elizabeth, even in rags you would not look like a dairy maid.”  Closing his fingers over hers, he considered her gown¾royal blue, trimmed with embroidered appliques of lavender and plum, the waist cinched tightly and belted by a soft violet sash.  Flowing loosely to her hips, her long hair was held back from her shoulders, pinned by gem-encrusted combs.  An amethyst medallion encircled the slender column of her neck, exposed by the plunging cut of her gown.   

By contrast Richard felt underdressed in a long-sleeved, mud-colored jerkin and white tunic¾ boots and breeches hued to match the outer garment.  Open to the waist with cut-away sleeves, the leather jerkin bore bands of charcoal piping around the wrist guards, belt, and outer edge.

 “You are somewhat appealing yourself,” Elizabeth reciprocated.  The compliment was by no means lacking.  While she had always considered him handsome, it wasn’t until now that she realized Richard was striking in more ways than one.  His appearance transcended the comeliness of his features, encompassing both his flawless poise and an unmistakable air of utter confidence. 

He winked mischievously.  “Then let’s see if we can’t inspire some gossip.”  His smile was infectious¾the dazzling grin that had likely reduced countless maidens to simpering fools over the years.  Only slightly less affected, Elizabeth allowed him to escort her to the Great Hall, where Lionel Rothrock and his guests gathered for dinner.  As they drew near, Richard stiffened, hearing the low rumble of Baron Mullens’ voice. 

Sensing his misgiving, Elizabeth tugged his sleeve.  “If you really wish to speak with him privately, he strolls the southern battlement every night after evening prayer.  It’s his habit whenever he visits Lothdoren.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Richard said tightly, but never broke his stride.  In the Great Hall Lionel Rothrock greeted him and Lady Elizabeth.  Once again, Richard was struck by the similarity of appearance between the Master of Lothdoren and John Mullens.  The resemblance was distressingly uncanny. 

“Dearest Elizabeth.”  Rothrock claimed her fingers, lingering theatrically over the kiss he bestowed on her hand.  “Your beauty outshines the very stars in the heavens and graces my home with unequaled loveliness.” 

Though Richard frowned, Elizabeth’s expression remained neutral.  “Why, Lord Rothrock, you confer too high an adoration, and will surely offend your other guests.  There are many here more comely than I.” 

“Yes,” John Mullens agreed, appearing suddenly at her shoulder.  His lips twisted contemptuously.  “Like that vanity-puffed peacock at your side.” 

Determined not to raise his voice, Richard kept his expression neutral.  “I’d return the compliment Baron Mullens, but I lack words to express my true sentiment.”

 Realizing Richard initiated a dangerous game of subtlety likely to escalate into something ugly, Elizabeth intervened.  “This is all very charming, but I’d like to sit down.  Would you escort me to the table please, Richard?”  It irritated her that while he wished to make peace with his father-in-law, he stubbornly persisted in provoking him.

 “Allow me,” Lionel insisted, claiming her hand.  Before protest could be made, he led her into the throng of guests.  Though his smile was elegant and genteel, the glint in his eyes was unmistakably smug. 

Scowling, Richard moved to Mullens’ side. Lowering his voice, he strove for patience.  “I’d like to speak with you at length, Baron Mullens.  For Gwendolyn’s sake¾” 

“My daughter made her choice,” Mullens interrupted sharply, his words like double-edged knives.  “Now she must live with it.” 

As he moved away, Baron Wicklow appeared at Richard’s shoulder.  “You seem disturbed, young man.  I hope John Mullens isn’t showing his fangs again.” 

Surprised by the older man’s appearance, Richard gave a short jerk.  Recovering quickly, he offered a fleeting smile.  “We have history between us.  I’m afraid it hasn’t yet healed.”

 “Ah.”  Wicklow nodded his head in sage agreement.  “The infamous Grey/Mullens feud.”  Placing his hand on Richard’s shoulder he steered him into the crowd.  “There’s enough undercurrents in this room to kindle a fire, my lad.  Yours isn’t the only family with history.” 

Surprised that Wicklow would tell tales on others, Richard remained silent.  A tall man, with autocratic bearing and immaculately trimmed auburn hair, Wicklow appeared a few years younger than Sir Thomas.  Though Richard knew his name, and that he was highly respected in the shire, he knew little else about him. Claiming a goblet of wine from a passing servant, Richard studied his companion with keen interest. 

Chuckling softly, Wicklow motioned to the other guests.  A few milled around the dinner table, idly picking at platters of wafers and cheese.  Lucian Carrister conversed with Evan Tarrington and Lady Exton, while Helena Cort demurely fended off the persistent advances of Selby Markem.  As Richard watched, Sir Tobias Farrel went to his sister-in-law’s aide.   

“They’re all rather pitiful, wouldn’t you say?”  Wicklow asked softly, almost sadly.  “Is this what Nobility has come to¾this charade of false civility, underscored by malicious loathing?”

 Taken aback, Richard balked.  “That’s a rather jaded observation, My Lord.”

 “From a man who’s witnessed far too much injustice disguised as gentility.”  With a sudden start, Wicklow uttered a short laugh.  “My, but I am rather bleak company, aren’t I?  Tell me, Sir Richard¾what do you think of our host?” 

Richard’s eyes swept across the room to Rothrock.  Though he’d escorted Elizabeth to the table as she’d requested, he hovered at her side.  There was something about his elegant façade that made Richard’s stomach turn¾as though the gracious fawning masked a lecherous beast within.  Though he really didn’t care to partake in the sniping rampant at Lothdoren, Richard reacted instinctively.  “I think he’s an utterly repellant creature,” he said bluntly. 

With a laugh, Wicklow clapped him on the back.  “No one will ever fault you for lack of honesty,” he returned.  “Come my young friend¾let’s get something to eat.” 

The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully, though Richard made it a point to claim Lady Elizabeth’s hand and keep her at his side throughout the night.  The hour grew late when the guests finally retired, bemoaning an excess of food and wine.  Richard escorted Lady Elizabeth to her bedchamber where he paused outside the door.  Already most of the wall torches had been dimmed, veiling the corridor in soft curtains of velvety shadow.  “Was Rothrock untoward with you tonight, My Lady?” Richard asked. 

Elizabeth appeared vaguely amused.  “Only annoying,” she replied, “¾veiling innuendo in courtly words.  It was nothing I couldn’t handle, Richard, though I think your presence has collared his baser advances.”  Smiling, she slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him.  “I couldn’t ask for a braver protector.”  Raising both hands, she gripped his face and kissed him on the cheek. “Or a more handsome one.  Goodnight, Richard.” 

As she moved into her room Richard turned and departed, grinning foolishly.  When he’d disappeared down the hallway, a silhouette materialized from the alcove at the end of the corridor.  Pausing, the man replayed the scene he’d just witnessed.  Though the shadows in the corridor had hindered his vision, and he hadn’t been close enough to hear words, it seemed apparent there was something of a passionate nature between Lady Elizabeth and her young escort.  

Disturbed, the man went in search of Lionel Rothrock. 

+++++

 The next day Richard declined the hunt, opting to pass the hours in Rothrock’s practice yard instead.  Though the air was bitterly cold, Richard stripped to his undertunic and expelled his frustrations on a series of blunt wooden targets.  As he worked the sword, wielding it with dangerous precision and strength, his hair grew saturated with sweat.  Despite the frigid temperatures, his tunic clung to his body, pinioned there with thin rivulets of perspiration.  Engrossed in the workout, he never heard the crunch of snow behind him.  Something struck him across the back, sending the air from his lungs in a harsh rush, tossing him unceremoniously forward.  Unable to maintain his balance, Richard stumbled, then rolled quickly to the side, prepared to defend himself. 

A quarterstaff clutched in his hands, Lionel Rothrock stared down on him.  His features twisted in contempt as his lips drew back from his teeth in a wolfish snarl.  “If you know what’s good for you boy, you’ll stay away from Lady Elizabeth.” 

“Are you threatening me?”  Enraged, Richard rose to his feet.  Rothrock turned away, never pausing as he strode confidently from the yard. 

“You’ve been warned, pup,” he called.  “If you’ve any sense, you’ll take my advice and leave Lothdoren.” 

Seething, Richard ground his teeth together, reminding himself a display of temper would do no good. 

+++++ 

“You seem out of sorts tonight,” Lucian Carrister remarked at Richard’s side.  Dressed elegantly in a rich brocade tunic with belted sash and tapered sleeves, the Crusader was obviously most comfortable in courtly attire.  His dark blonde hair was immaculately groomed; his short beard trimmed in the latest fashion.  Viewed in profile, Richard realized Carrister was a striking man¾one who would likely melt the heart of any woman.  The illusion shattered however, when he turned, revealing ghastly facial scars. 

Smoothing the sleeves of his simple white tunic, Richard gave a distracted shrug.  “Admittedly, I’m not much for social events¾at least not ones where the conversation is as steeped in strategy as a battlefield.”  His mouth twisted in a tight smile.  “The stay merely grows tiresome.”

Carrister nodded.  “I thought as much.”  With a companionable hand, he led Richard to the dinner table.  Like the previous eve, countless platters covered the stout wooden surface¾ranging from mutton, venison and pheasant to a myriad assortment of pastries, breads, cheeses, nuts and dried fruits.  Richard glanced at it all without appetite.   “I fear I miss my wife,” he muttered not realizing he’d spoken aloud. 

Carrister glanced at him askance.  Richard was dressed simply tonight¾attired in ebony breeches and boots with a sleeveless black jerkin and white undershirt.  Briefly Carrister wondered if his understated mode of dress wasn’t an insult to his host, who came lavishly attended in navy brocade.  Presently Rothrock was focused on Lady Elizabeth, who despite a strained smile, remained pleasant beneath his continued attentions. 

“The gala will end in a few more days,” Lucian told Richard.  “What harm to depart early?”

 Pained by thoughts of Gwendolyn, Richard raised his head.  There were musicians in attendance tonight, the soft melody of lyre and harp floating gently through the room.  Briefly, he recalled a night a few short months ago when he’d danced with Gwendolyn beneath the moon.  He’d hummed softly as accompaniment, smiling down at her, until they’d moved beyond the proper steps of dance, creating their own harmony with body and touch.  Quite suddenly he ached for his wife with such intensity it brought a crippling pang to his heart.  Richard drew a ragged breath.  “I shouldn’t have left her,” he whispered.  “I should have brought her with me.”

 Carrister motioned him to a bench and they sat down.  “Why didn’t you?” 

Richard frowned.  “Because I thought if she wasn’t here I might be able to make peace with her father.” 

Glancing across the room, Carrister oriented on John Mullens.  “The Baron dislikes you that much?” 

“You have no idea,” Richard countered.  Before he could say another word, Lady Elizabeth’s sharp cry brought his head up with a jerk.  A quick scan of the room revealed she was no where in sight.  Again the cry came.  Stomach clutching with dread, Richard pushed from his seat and darted into the adjoining chamber.  There, Elizabeth struggled in the embrace of Rothrock, who held her pinned against the wall.  Enraged Richard caught him by the shoulder and spun him about.  “Get your hands off her, you worm-ridden bastard!”   Driving his fist into Rothrock’s face, he propelled the startled Lord backward.  Incensed, Richard struck again, following his blow with an uppercut to the older man’s jaw.  When he grappled the Master of Lothdoren to the floor, Carrister and Wicklow appeared, wrenching him roughly backward.

 “Enough!”  Wicklow commanded harshly. 

 ¾the whites glazed and veined with an alcoholic haze.  Lurching forward he snagged Richard by the tunic.  “You’ll pay for this, you insolent brat.”

 “You’re drunk!”  Richard spat.  Shrugging from Wicklow’s and Carrister’s grip, he raised his arms, breaking Rothrock’s hold on his clothing.  “Stay away from Elizabeth or you’ll find yourself on the short-end of my sword.” 

“I want you out of my castle!”  Rothrock snarled. 

“Lionel, calm down,” Wicklow said sharply. 

But Rothrock was beyond reasoning. Stepping forward, he leveled a squat finger in Richard’s face.  “By morning, cur¾I want you gone!” 

Catching his hand, Richard snapped his arm to the side.  “With pleasure, you black-hearted ratsbane.” Only then, when Wicklow stalked from the room, did Richard become aware of the crowd behind him.  Alerted by the noise, the guests arrived in time to witness the heated exchange.  Annoyed, Richard pressed his together.  He extended his hand to Lady Elizabeth. 

 Recovering her poise, Elizabeth moved to his side and allowed him to escort her from the room. 

“I’m sorry,” she said much later when they stood in her chambers.  “I should have realized Lionel would try something foolish, intoxicated as he was.  He said he wanted to discuss affairs pertaining to my late husband, Malcom.  That’s the only reason I allowed him to escort me from the room.” 

“It’s all right,” Richard reassured.  Seated on the edge of her bed, he sat with his legs braced apart, hands clasped between his knees.  The hour had grown late, inching past evening prayer, effectively quelling the festivities in the Great Hall below.  With a frustrated sigh, Richard laced a hand through his hair.  “If nothing else, it gives us an excuse to take leave of this god-forsaken group of cutthroats.  Personally, the morning won’t come quickly enough for me.”

 Elizabeth chuckled.  “You don’t like Lionel’s guests much, do you, Richard?”

 He frowned.  “I don’t like Lionel.” 

Moving to the bed, Elizabeth sat at his side.  “You’re out of sorts, but it isn’t entirely over what’s happened tonight, is it?”  Uncomfortable with the query, Richard shifted.  His expression grew guarded and evasive.  Sensing his reluctance, Elizabeth laid one hand over his wrist guard.  “I know you miss Gwendolyn, Richard.  There’s nothing wrong with admitting that.”

 “You don’t understand,” he said more sharply than he intended.  “I refused to allow her to accompany me solely because I wanted to rectify things with her father.”

 “There’s still time,” Elizabeth countered. 

“There’s no time,” Richard said flatly.  Shrugging aside her hand, he stood. “Pardon me, Elizabeth, I’m going to bed.” 

Realizing anger made him careless, she overlooked the informality of his address.  Stalking from the room, Richard headed for his chambers.  He was almost there, when he realized she was right¾he had one last chance to rectify matters with the Baron, ensuring his separation from Gwendolyn wasn’t for naught.  Richard headed for the southern battlement where Mullens traditionally took late night walks.  He had almost reached the stone rampart when he encountered the older man rounding the corner, headed in the same direction. 

Pausing by a short staircase, Richard waited for Mullens to join him. “I’m leaving in the morning,” he announced as the other drew abreast. 

The dark-haired man brushed past him.  “How fortunate for the rest of us.” 

“Damn you!”  As he started up the steps, Richard caught his arm, pulling him to a halt.  “The least you can do is hear me out.  For your daughter’s sake, you might attempt speaking to me with something other than disdain in your heart.  Whether you like it or not we are bound together through Gwendolyn.  What will you do when she gives me children, Baron Mullens?  Will you snub them too?” 

“Children of your issue will deserve no less than rebuff.”  Wrenching free, Mullens continued up the staircase.   

Richard remained on the landing, glaring up at him, chest heaving with constrained rage.  “As you rebuffed Simon Canter?” he challenged.   

Mullens stopped and turned.  In the fickle light of sputtering wall torches, his face appeared sallow, mottled with the black smoke of caressing shadow.  “You will not mention that name in my presence, or I will not be accountable for my actions.” 

“You never are,” Richard snapped, striding up the staircase.  “And yet you held your wife accountable for hers.  So accountable in fact, that twenty-one years later you can’t look on my face without seeing her bastard son.  Am I so like him, Baron Mullens?  Did he frustrate and taunt you, challenge you at every step¾or didn’t you allow him the familiarity of becoming that close?” 

“Why would I?  He was nothing to me except a living reminder of her infidelity.  I drove him from Torsun-Narr¾” 

“As you eventually drove her¾” 

“I’ll snap your neck, you demon-spawned cockscomb.”  Enraged, Mullens lurched forward.  Richard sidestepped nimbly, bracing his back against the wooden railing.  Before either man could move there came a loud thud from above, followed by the frenzied pounding of feet.  Exchanging a quick glance, Mullens and Richard bolted for the door, pushing shoulder-to-shoulder onto the battlement.

 “There¾” Richard said pointing to a form fleeing in the darkness. 

“No,” Mullens returned in a grim voice.  Extending his arm he indicated the outer wall where deep shadow hugged the flagstone base.  “There,” he said quietly, and Richard followed his gaze.   

A dark shape lay bundled against the stone.  Alarmed, Richard bent by the man, recognizing the inert form of Lionel Rothrock.  The Lord of Lothdoren lay at an awkward angle, a deep gash scored across his chalky throat. Ghastly strings of blood flowed from the wound, dribbling onto his navy tunic like some macabre collar decoration.  Head twisted to the side, mouth gaping wide, his eyes were frozen in a bloated, horrific stare.   

Stunned, Richard felt for a pulse, ignoring the hot flow of blood against his fingertips. Though he grasped the cooling flesh in desperation, no glimmer of life remained.   With a ragged sigh, he sat back on his haunches.  Something jutted against his boot and he glanced downward, sucking in his breath as he spied a bloodstained knife on the cobblestones.  Its markings were blatantly familiar, inducing a tight flutter of uncertainty in his stomach.  Swallowing hard, Richard retrieved the blade. 

“Lord in heaven, what is this?”  Baron Wicklow appeared from the doorway, Lord Exton at his shoulder.  Crouched by the body, bloody knife in hand, Richard glanced from Mullens to the two older men.  “Dear God, boy, what have you done?”  Wicklow cried appalled.

 “You don’t understand.”  Rising to his feet, Richard motioned down the battlement.  “We saw a man fleeing.” 

Exton’s eyes were on the knife.  “I don’t recognize that blade.” 

“I do,” Mullens said smoothly.  “It belongs to Richard.  My daughter gave it to him as a wedding gift.” 

“There was someone else here,” Richard insisted angrily.  “Baron Mullens and I were on the staircase when we heard a commotion.”

“Is that true, Baron?”  Wicklow asked.  Others had arrived now¾Carrister, Markem, Farrel and Tarrington, each appearing dazed and disbelieving at the sight before them. 

Mullens looked squarely at Richard.  “I was alone,” he said without emotion, “Intending to take a walk as I normally do.  When I arrived, Richard Grey was already here and Lord Rothrock was dead.” 

“Liar!”  Incensed, Richard flung himself at Mullens.  The knife slipped from his fingers clattering loudly against the flagstone.  Though he managed to lock his hands around Mullens’ throat, someone struck him from behind, and the world spun away in a suffocating black web.

 +++++

 Richard awoke to the unpleasant sensation of moldy straw against his cheek.  The ground beneath him was hard and utterly unyielding, pressing against his side with a bitter infusion of cold.  Groaning softly, Richard wedged his hands under his body and pushed to a sitting position.  Sinking gratefully against a stone wall, he closed his eyes, waiting for the ache in his head to recede.  

Blinking, he oriented on his surroundings, noting the desolate lines which readily identified the stark confines of a dungeon.  The floor was filthy, covered with moldy straw and other decomposing material.  At one time the rotting mass in the corner had likely scurried across the room, scavenging crusts of bread from the cell’s previous occupant.  Reduced now to a gelatinous puddle of diseased flesh and waxy body fluid, it would likely become fodder for some larger rodent intent on filling its body with sweet decay.   

Mouth twisting at the wretched scent of tainted air, Richard dispelled a breath.  Above his head a barred window leaked pale crystals of winter sun onto the colorless slab floor.  Realizing the night had waned before the dawn, Richard struggled groggily to his feet.  He immediately became aware of two things¾the razor-sharp flare of pain in the back of his skull, and the heavy tug of manacles about his wrists. 

Swearing softly, he turned his head, lifting a tentative touch to the tender spot on his skull.  He could feel the crust of dried blood beneath his fingertips; a similar tackiness in the blood-stiffened strands of his hair.  A short length of chain rattled with his movement, reminding him he’d been incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit.  Striding to the doorway, he griped the squat bars of a grated window, craning his neck to see beyond the obstruction.  “Guard!” 

Though Richard’s voice carried down the corridor no one answered his summons.  He hailed the non-existent sentry twice more before realizing the effort was futile.  If a jailer lingered at the opposite end of the corridor, he’d obviously been instructed not to respond.  Turning back to the cell, Richard crossed to a thin, straw-filled mattress and sat down.  With a frustrated sigh, he drew his legs up, crossing his feet at the ankles, linking his hands around his knees.  Though he was uncertain of the time, he was fairly sure the hour was still early. 

The day lengthened and grew and still no one came to visit his prison.  As the hours multiplied, bloated with the passing of time, Richard’s level of frustration gradually increased.  Incensed at the confinement, he paced throughout the cell, pointedly ignoring the jangling echo of chains dangling from his wrists.  It wasn’t until late afternoon that a key creaked in the lock and the ponderous door swung inward, admitting visitors. 

“Richard!”   

Lady Elizabeth’s exclamation seemed overly loud after hours of suffocating silence.  Thankful for her presence, Richard embraced her awkwardly, hampered by the restriction of the chains. Raising his head, he glanced over her shoulder, noting that Lucian Carrister followed her into the cell.  The door swung shut behind the blonde-haired man, sealing Richard and his visitors within the bleak walls.  “I was beginning to think no one would come,” he commented as evenly as he could. 

Placing her hands on his shoulders, Elizabeth pushed up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.  “Are you hurt?” she asked worriedly, noting the dark stain on the collar of his white tunic. 

A smattering of blood had seeped from his scalp, soiling the linen where his hair brushed against the fabric.   

Absently, Richard threaded a hand through his hair.  Dried blood flaked off beneath his fingertips, waffling into the stale air.  “I’m fine,” he assured Elizabeth.  “Just angry.”  His gaze shifted sideways to Carrister.  “Lucian, why am I being detained?” 

Raising both hands, the older man spread his palms in helpless frustration.  “Richard, I’m afraid the evidence against you is damaging.  Even you must see that.  You were found bent over Rothrock’s body only hours after arguing with him.  To make matters worse, your knife appears to be the murder weapon.” 

“A knife I haven’t had in my possession since arriving at Lothdoren,” Richard snapped.  “Anyone could have taken it from my room.”  

“Unfortunately, there’s other matters to take into account.”  Stepping forward, Carrister looped his arm around Richard’s shoulder and carefully guided him away from Lady Elizabeth.  “Baron Wicklow has appointed himself overseer until the Sheriff can be summoned.  A page has already been sent, but snow continues to obstruct the roadways.  There’s no telling how long it may take.” 

“And in the interim, I’m to remain here?”  Richard demanded hotly.  “Like a criminal awaiting execution.” 

“I think you’re overreacting.”  Tightening his grip on Richard’s shoulder, Carrister leaned closer and lowered his voice.  “Selby Markem’s repeated the incident that occurred at the inn, Richard.  He said you threatened to kill him for making a comment about Lady Elizabeth that may have been construed improperly.” 

“May have been?”  Richard spat acidly.  “Damn it, man, there was no may involved.” 

“Don’t you see that only incriminates you further?” Carrister persisted.  “Wicklow and the others perceive you as a jealous lover, exacting vengeance on Rothrock for his treatment of your mistress.” 

“That’s ludicrous!”  Patience frayed to the breaking point, Richard pushed away from Carrister and strode briskly to the opposite wall.  Like a caged beast, he spun on his heel, confronting his accuser. “There is nothing between Lady Elizabeth and I other than the mutual fondness of close friends.”  With an agitated gesture he motioned toward Elizabeth.  “Bloody hell, she’s my father’s consort.  The very idea that she and I could be romantically involved¾” 

“Wicklow saw you in the corridor not a day past,” Carrister interrupted.   “Whatever took place between you¾however innocent the exchange¾he viewed it differently.  He’s even admitted to telling Rothrock, in hopes of warning the man away from Elizabeth.  Apparently he thought he was doing you a favor.” 

“God’s teeth!”  Turning away, Richard braced a hand against the wall.  With effort, he struggled to get his emotions under control.  Behind him he heard the soft swish of Lady Elizabeth’s gown as she strode across the floor. 

“Richard, I’ve sent a courier to Covington Cross with news of what’s transpired.  Hopefully Cedric will get word to your father in London.” 

Richard nodded, maintaining his composure with effort.  The news would likely devastate Gwendolyn, but he didn’t see any way of sparing her the ugliness.  “You should return as well,” he said distractedly. 

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Elizabeth replied.  “Baron Wicklow has decreed no one leave the castle until the matter of Lord Rothrock’s murder is resolved.  He only allowed the courier to depart because the man was visiting his family in the village the day of the murder.”

 Exhaling loudly, Richard slumped against the wall.  In short order his emotions ran the gamut from frustration and anger to bitter defeat.  Realizing he was helpless to prove his innocence as long as he remained in the cell, he frowned sourly, contemplating his limited options.  Sunlight sketched hazy diamonds at the toes of his black boots, accentuating a long scuff on the outside edge.  With a vague sense of detachment he realized he must have acquired the scrape in his scuffle with Rothrock.  Vividly he recalled snagging the Lord of Lothdoren by his tunic¾a navy blue garment, which surely would have appeared black beneath the nighttime sky on the southern battlement.  With thoughtful deliberation, Richard drew his thumb and index finger over his bottom lip.  “Lady Elizabeth, perhaps I could speak with Sir Lucian alone?” he ventured, casting an expectant glance in her direction. 

Though the request obviously puzzled her, Elizabeth complied.  Taking his hands, she smiled briefly, the effort obviously forced.  “I’ll visit again as soon as I have news.” 

Richard nodded.  “A dungeon is no place for a lady,” he instructed.  Once she’d hailed the guard and departed, Richard turned to Carrister.   

The older man watched him attentively, blue eyes narrowed beneath a scattered fringe of dark blonde hair.  “You think I can help?” he asked cautiously.  In the sun-streaked light of the chamber, the scars on his face appeared abnormally harsh and mottled with contorting shadow.

 Richard’s gaze was direct.  “Lucian, I didn’t kill Lionel Rothrock.” 

“So you say, but I don’t know you very well, Richard.” 

“You know me well enough to judge my character.  It’s not difficult to do, even on short acquaintance.”  Agitated Richard strode forward, the wrist chain rattling loudly with his movement.  “Think about it¾almost everyone here had a reason to hate Rothrock.  Markem was in debt to him, Exton stands to gain greater rank now that he’s gone and even Tarrington viewed him as a rival.”

 Carrister shrugged.  “You’re right of course.  Markem in particular has been extremely vocal about pinning the blame on you.” 

“It’s rather convenient for him with Rothrock out of the way,” Richard continued.  Raising a hand, he tapped a finger against his lips, silently reasoning the impasse through.  “As I recall, he’s been very vocal from the moment he arrived at Lothdoren, making sure everyone knew about the incident between us at the inn.  The only one who failed to mention it to me was Lord Rothrock himself and that may well have been by design.” 

Puzzled, Carrister glanced at him askance.  “I don’t follow.” 

“Simply this¾”  Eager to explain, Richard stepped to his side.  “Perhaps Lord Markem recognized Lady Elizabeth at the inn, and played the entire scenario to his advantage.  It’s common knowledge Rothrock pined for Elizabeth’s attentions.  What better way to plot a murder then to create the illusion of a jealous lover?” 

“You’re suggesting Markem deliberately provoked you, then relayed your anger to the other guests¾so he would have a scapegoat when he killed Rothrock?”  At Richard’s nod, Carrister exhaled loudly.  “Richard, as much as I’d like to believe you innocent, such reasoning requires more than a plausible stretch of the imagination.” 

“There’s no stretch involved,” Richard retorted, insistent now.  It was easy to believe Markem was the likely candidate to wield a grudge to the point of murder.  If what Tobias Farel had told him was true and Markem really did owe a sizeable amount of money to the Lord of Lothdoren, Lionel’s death would instantly free him of the obligation.  Markem would also have noticed his knife at the inn, and could have easily made a search of his chambers to procure the blade. 

“Suppose I believe you?” Lucian ventured.  “What would you have me do?” 

Richard paused.  The easy path of logic was to brand Markem the murderer.  Arranged properly, circumstance pointed to the puffed-up lord as perpetrator of the deed.  Which implied Markem had more to gain from Rothrock’s death than Exton or Tarrington or someone else Richard hadn’t even considered.  And then there was Mullens¾he’d lied about Richard’s involvement in the murder, but to what end?  Perhaps it had been his intention to frame Richard for Rothrock’s death all along, and Richard’s unexpected presence on the battlement had made it that much easier.  Richard didn’t doubt Mullens would murder a friend to gain the advantage on an enemy. 

Absently he bit down on his lip.  Once again he thought of Lionel’s navy blue tunic twisted in his hand . . . of how utterly dark it had looked on the battlement¾hued like ebony in the sputtering rim of weak torchlight.  In the gloaming¾their appearance so strikingly similar¾Rothrock might easily have been mistaken for Mullens, clothed as he was.  And that put a whole new slant on the murder.  One that Richard hadn’t considered before¾perhaps John Mullens was truly the intended target.  

Frowning, he glanced aside at Carrister.  “I can’t prove anything right now, Lucian.  Would you send John Mullens to me?”

 +++++

 Mullens smile was thin¾the silken sneer of a man who readily enjoyed the misfortune of others.  “Those chains become you quite nicely, Richard.” Striding confidently into the cell, he folded his arms across his chest and braced his feet apart as though preparing for confrontation.  Dark eyes flicked over the younger man who was beginning to show the strained signs of confinement.  

With effort, Richard kept his expression neutral.  The torturous advance of slow-creeping hours had dwindled into blackest night before Mullens had been inclined to make his appearance.  While alone, Richard had replayed every conceivable nuance of Rothrock’s murder in his mind, silently categorizing all potential suspects.  The toil and frustration of imprisonment had gouged shadows beneath his eyes; tight lines at the corners of his mouth.  His clothing was rumpled; the sleeves of his white tunic streaked with the repugnant filth of walls and floors.  The habitual agitation of nervously filtering his hand through his hair left the long tresses disheveled¾curling bangs pushed straight back from his brow, exposing the high plane of his forehead.  The ghost impression of a chain was visible on his breeches, where the dusty links had rested briefly against his thigh.  “Why did you lie?”  Richard challenged. 

Mullens shrugged as though the matter bore little thought.  “With the history between us, how can you ask something so utterly foolish?” 

“So you would send me to the gallows?”  Richard snapped, striding forward.  “Simply from spite?  What about Gwen?  Have you considered what your silence would do to her?  Whatever the multitude of lies you wish to believe, your daughter loves me, Baron Mullens.  You can’t change that.” 

Scowling, Mullens squared his shoulders.  He was a big man¾slightly taller than Richard, broad through the chest.  Height, and the somber hue of his customary black clothing, made him appear imposing.  Richard knew the sinister aura of his presence was something he routinely used to advantage with others.  Unfazed, he jabbed a finger against the older man’s shoulder.  “You’re so set on seeing me hanged, you’ve overlooked the most important detail in Rothrock’s death.” 

“And that is?”  Mullens asked condescendingly. 

Biding his time, Richard stepped backward.  However contemptuously Mullens voiced the query, veiled interest lay in his dark eyes. Crossing to the far corner, Richard propped his shoulder against the grimy wall.  He could feel the bite of coarse stone through the thin fabric of his tunic; smell the rancid scent of decay, stirred awake beneath his dust-covered boots.  Folding his arms across his chest, he titled his head, shifting a sidelong glance to his father-in-law.  “Surely you’ve noticed the striking resemblance you bear Lord Rothrock.” 

“What of it?”  Mullens persisted. 

Richard wet his lips.  He could feel the heavy weight of the wrist chain dangling against his stomach and abdomen.  Beneath the cumbersome manacles and the intervening leather of his wrist guards, his skin grew chafed.  “It’s common knowledge you visit the southern battlement each night after evening prayer.” 

“Go on.”  Clearly interested now, Mullens took a step forward.   

Richard could see the glint of shrewd light in his eyes and knew he’d already analyzed the scenario in his head.  “It’s very possible that in the dark, dressed as he was, Rothrock could have been mistaken for you.  It’s very possible the murderer killed the wrong man.” 

Mullens was silent.  Eyes dropping to the floor, he hesitated a moment then turned away.  Richard could tell by the set of his shoulders that he realized how plausible the solution was.  In truth, Lionel Rothrock had any number of enemies gathered for his Midwinter Festival, but in truth, only one man should have been on the battlement that night.  “The feud between our families is long standing, Baron Mullens, and you’ve made it no secret how you feel about me.  If someone wished to murder you, what better candidate to blame, then the son-in-law you despise?” 

Disturbed, Mullens scraped a hand through his beard.  “Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully.  “But that doesn’t explain what Rothrock was doing there.” 

“Perhaps he was looking for you.  It’s no secret he and I quarreled.  He may have simply wanted to commiserate with someone who despised me as greatly as he did.”  Richard’s lips thinned in a sharp smile.  “I’m more curious about what you were doing there.  You don’t strike me as a man who enjoys contemplative walks.” 

Mullens uttered at short laugh.  “I have a pensive side,” he returned dryly. 

Richard frowned.  “Scoff if you will, but if I’m right, the murderer is isn’t likely to rest until he claims the real target.”  Striding across the cell, Richard confronted Mullens face-to-face.  Lifting his chin definitely, he met the other man’s stony gaze.  “I wouldn’t want you to die before clearing me of Rothrock’s murder.”  The corner of his mouth twitched in a cocky grin as determination gave way to insolence.  “I’d remind you I’m your son-in-law but somehow I fear that would go against me.”

 Mullens’ expression was sour.  Irritably he turned away, silently contemplating what Richard proposed.  Taking slow strides, he paced to the opposite end of the cell where he pursed his lips in deliberate thought.  Richard shifted slightly, causing the chain to disrupt the stillness.  Glancing over his shoulder, Mullens came to a decision.  “If I believe you, and if I provide you with an alibi¾” 

“You mean the truth,” Richard interrupted.   

“An alibi,” Mullens continued as though he hadn’t heard. “There’s only one man at Lothdoren motivated enough to attempt an assault on my life.  That said, I fail to believe the gut-pasted craven has the courage.” 

“Who?”  Richard challenged. 

But Mullens merely grinned.  Wordlessly he strode for the door, beckoning to the guard outside.  Richard watched as the ponderous barrier yawned inward, permitting a glimpse of sallow torchlight and clustering shadow beyond.  A draft of cool air permeated the cell, momentarily displacing the fetid reek of decay.  With a backward glance the Baron departed, leaving Richard alone in the bleak prison.  Cursing softly, he retreated to the moldy mattress and sank dejectedly onto the ratty material.   

It was cold in the cell.  His sleeveless jerkin was meant for the hearth-warmed rooms upstairs, not the frigid confines of a dungeon.  Dusting his hands against the thin sleeves of his tunic, Richard attempted to concentrate on something other than his growing list of discomforts.  Immediately his thoughts turned to Gwendolyn.   

Resting his head against the wall, Richard closed his eyes.  He could well recall the last blissful afternoon they’d spent together, before anger had turned his wife’s heart to implacable stone.   He could almost feel the hungry touch of her lips on his, the lush warmth of her bare flesh pressed to his body. With a soft groan, Richard dropped his head into his hands.  As usual, he’d made a mess of things. 

+++++ 

“Richard.”  Lucian Carrister gripped the younger man by the shoulder and shook him gently.   

Groaning against the invasion of weak morning light and the insistent hand that dragged him from the blissful cocoon of sleep, Richard blinked groggily.  It took him a moment to orient on the other’s face¾a moment to define substance from shadow; the waking world from the scattered ghosts of the Nether realm.  Fighting the cramps in his arms and legs, Richard pushed to a sitting position.  “You look damn cheerful this morning,” he muttered moodily.  Stifling a yawn, he raised his hand and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. 

Lucian grinned brashly, squatting back on his haunches.  The deep scars on his face made the smile seem almost cadaverous, and for a split-second Richard felt revulsion.  Carrister never noticed.  “Good news, my friend¾Baron Wicklow says you can join the privileged upstairs.”  Raising his hand, he dangled a key before Richard’s eyes.  “Those manacles couldn’t have been too comfortable as bedmates.  What say we leave them in this stinking rathole where they belong?”

 With a grateful sigh, Richard extended his arms.  Carrister inserted the key, and the heavy iron bands fell away with a loud click.  Almost immediately Richard felt the ping of returning circulation, coupled with the strange weightlessness of sudden freedom.  Shivering, he rubbed at his bruised wrists.  “Did Mullens come forward?” he asked. 

Lucian shrugged.  “I didn’t get the particulars.  Come on¾you’re freezing.  Let’s get you out of here.  I’ve already instructed the servants to have a hot bath waiting.” 

As Lucian helped him to his feet, Richard grinned appreciatively.  “Have I mentioned I value you more highly than gold?” 

Carrister chuckled.  “If you didn’t, I’d leave you for the guard.  He said you were the prettiest morsel he’d seen in a long time, and he was smiling indolently as he said it.” 

“Bastard,” Richard retorted with an arch grin.  He kept his arm looped around the older man’s shoulder as Carrister led him to the door.  The stiffness in his legs spread through the rest of his body, making him wince with the effort of movement.  Eventually, rigidity induced by the frigid air of the cell bowed before the liquid heat of loosening muscle.  By the time they’d reached the upper staircase, Richard was walking on his own. 

Once in his chambers Richard stripped, sinking gratefully into the large tub positioned before a roaring hearth. Carrister collected his scattered clothes from the floor and dropped them by the door for the servants.  “My advice would be to burn them.  It will take more than lye and perfumed oils to the eradicate the stench of decay.”   

“You may be right.”  Resting his head against the rim of the tub, Richard glanced at his benefactor.  “I don’t suppose you requested some food for me?”

 “You’re dreadfully predictable, Richard.  It’s already on the way.” 

With a tired grin, Richard closed his eyes.  He could hear the crackle and hiss of shifting logs in the stone hearth; smell the familiar redolence of woodsmoke.  His left arm rested on the rim of the tub, small beads of water dropping from his fingertips.  The steady drip against the larger pool of still liquid created a comforting cadence that would have lulled him to sleep, were it not for the tread of Carrister’s boots near his head.  Startled from a lethargic haze, Richard opened his eyes.

 Crouched at his side, Lucian gripped the edge of the tub.  “No time for sleep, Richard Grey.  Wicklow wants to see you in the solar.” 

Richard wet his lips.  “Did you tell him what I said¾about Markem?” 

“Only in passing.” 

With a distinct sigh of relief, Richard relaxed.  He could feel the steam from the tub engulfing his face, weaving exaggerated curls in the ragged strands of his tousled hair.  “I may have been wrong,” he admitted.  “I’m no longer sure Rothrock was even the intended victim.” 

Lucian balked.  “I think spending two days in a dungeon has rattled your brains.”  Before he could say anything further, a knock at the door interrupted their discourse.  A servant appeared bearing a tray laden with breakfast food.  As Carrister directed the woman where to deposit the platter, Richard felt his mouth water with the glut of tempting aromas.  The bath was suddenly secondary to satisfying his craving for food. 

Carrister grinned, noting the direction of his eyes.  Halting at the door, he hesitated with his hand on the latch.  “I’ll leave you to eat and dress in private.  I’d be remiss however, if I failed to mention Lady Elizabeth wishes to see you as soon as you’re able.”  The hint of a smile flitted across his lips.  “She’s quite the treasure, Richard.  If you weren’t married and you did favor older women, there’d be no need to look further.” 

Richard chuckled.  “You’re debauched, Carrister, and my father might have something to say about that.”  Grinning, he watched the other leave.  Somehow the aches and discomfort of the last two days mattered little when measured against present circumstance.  If John Mullens really had come forward and told the truth, it meant his father-in-law had taken the initial steps to healing the rift between them.   

Content, Richard closed his eyes.   

Gwendolyn would be pleased. 

+++++ 

Though Richard took his time bathing and eating, he didn’t keep Baron Wicklow waiting overly long.  As angry as he was about his imprisonment, he was also eager to discover if John Mullens had indeed spoken on his behalf.  In retrospect, he knew Wicklow had acted sensibly, incarcerating the most likely suspect for Rothrock’s death.  Though it galled Richard he hadn’t been granted a chance to speak in his own defense, he grudgingly admitted there’d been wisdom in Wicklow’s decision. 

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Richard paid careful attention to his wrist guards, cautiously lacing the stiff leather over his chafed skin.  He wore a heavier jerkin¾hued with earthy shades of moss, russet and bark¾chosen for its enveloping warmth after the prolonged cold of the dungeon.  Though he wasn’t normally effected by extremes in temperature, buried dampness lingered in his bones.  Standing, he reached for his sword and buckled it about his waist.  Since arriving in Lothdoren, it was the first he felt compelled to wear the blade. 

“You look . .  refreshed,” Baron Wicklow said later, when Richard joined him in the solar.  The word fell from his tongue with difficulty, making Richard realize the nobleman was remorseful for the two days Richard had spent in confinement.  Standing before the hearth, Wicklow motioned to a nearby chair.  “Please be seated, Sir Richard.” 

Though the use of his title indicated Wicklow wished to be formal, Richard sensed he would speak cordially about what had transpired.  Opting to stand, Richard shook his head.  “I’m fine, My Lord.”  He paused only briefly before coming directly to the point.  “My release would seem to indicate there’s been a change in circumstance.  Did Baron Mullens recant his tale about my involvement with Rothrock?” 

Clasping his hands behind his back, Wicklow stepped away from the hearth.  The flame of a squat candle sputtered with his movement¾stirred to gyrations before succumbing to attentive stability.  “Baron Mullens did indicate he was mistaken about your whereabouts the night of the murder, but his revelation is not what freed you.” 

“Oh?”  Curious, Richard cocked a brow. 

“There was another witness,” Wicklow explained.  “Someone who was on the battlement just before you and the Baron arrived.  That individual actually saw someone fleeing.  And no¾” he said quickly with a curt shake of his head, “I’m not at liberty to say who the person is.”

 Disturbed, Richard frowned.  If someone had been on the battlement why had they waited two days before coming forth with their story?  Two miserable days, he’d spent in the rat-infested cold- cube Rothrock called a dungeon.  “Did the witness see the person who fled?” Richard persisted, fervently wishing an end to the wretched affair.  Yet even as he voiced the question, he knew Lucian would have told him had someone been apprehended.

 Confirming the thought, Wicklow shook his head.  “Not clearly.  Unfortunately, I’m unable to discuss details further.  Matters must remain as they are until the sheriff arrives.  I simply wanted you to know you’re no longer under immediate suspicion, and to express my regret for any discomfort the situation may have caused.” 

“Immediate?”  With an unbelieving shake of his head, Richard straightened his shoulders. Frustration kept him from commenting on Wicklow’s clumsy apology.  Briefly he considered sharing his suspicions that the murderer may have really intended Mullens as his target.  The Lord of Torsun-Narr himself had indicated there was someone at Lothdoren who wanted him dead.  As quickly as the thoughts surfaced, Richard shuffled them aside.  Wicklow wasn’t apt to take anything he said seriously.  Confinement to the dungeon had merely been replaced by confinement to the castle.  “Do you have any objection if I take some fresh air?”  Richard queried a trifle too sharply.  With effort he controlled an instinctive impulse for belligerence.  Wicklow, after all, was only acting as befitted his station. 

The auburn-haired man inclined his head.  “I trust you are honorable enough to remain for the sheriff’s proceedings.  We’ll speak again.” 

Richard’s mouth tugged downward in a severe scrawl.  “Of that, Baron Wicklow, I’m fairly certain.”

Though he knew he should have visited Lady Elizabeth to put her mind at ease, Richard left the clustering walls of Lothdoren and strode briskly to the stable.  Despite the coiling caress of an icy draft, he found the outdoors preferable to the oppressive confines of the castle.  Perhaps it was only his brief imprisonment which made him yearn for open space.  The sky unfolded overhead¾expansive and blue, riddled with the tattered lace of low-lying clouds.  Snow cloaked the heath, obscuring rolling hillocks beneath a veil of silver-white.  Drenched in the fawning kiss of sunlight, the countryside glimmered with opalescent brilliance.  Yet despite that glittering touch there remained an unnatural brittleness to the surroundings that reminded Richard of a glass prism.  The taut stretch of his nerves whispered the fragile environment must soon shatter.

 “I see you’ve been released from your cell,” a voice said lazily.  “Pity.”

 Richard had just reached the entrance of the stable.  Glancing aside, he noted Selby Markem standing beneath the thatched overhang, one arm resting casually against the dividing wood of an open stall.  There was something antagonistically superior in his stance, but Richard chose to overlook the veiled challenge.  Striding past the blonde-haired man, he moved to his horse, pausing to check its supply of feed.  Markem followed, his expression now clearly combative.  “I was addressing you,” he said sharply. 

Richard didn’t bother turning.  “And I was ignoring you.”    

“You’re damn cocky for someone likely to lose their head for murder.” 

Annoyed by the other’s persistence, Richard glanced over his shoulder.  “Haven’t you heard?  My father-in-law is an alibi, and there was a witness to Rothrock’s death.”

“Witness?”  The color drained from Markem’s face with such alacrity Richard was left momentarily unbalanced.  Though Markem was high on his list of suspects, he hadn’t expected such a blatant reaction. 

 Placing his hands on his hips he stepped forward, squarely confronting the other.  “You seem inordinately distressed, Markem.  Surely you’ve nothing to fear from a witness.”

 Regaining his composure, Markem raised his chin.  His expression was unmistakably haughty as he glanced down his finely-boned nose.  “It isn’t what you think, you cocky little guttersnipe. I simply hoped the matter would remain unresolved until my debt was cleared.” 

“Oh, yes, your debt.”  Richard folded his arms across his chest.  “You’ve been so bloody quick to pin this murder on me, you’ve forgotten how incriminating it makes you appear.  A man in danger of losing his fortune is a man motivated by desperation¾a man likely to do anything.” 

Stepping backward, Markem drew his sword.  “I will not stand for accusation.” 

Easily given to hostility after the unjust confinement he’d suffered, Richard smiled thinly and unsheathed his blade.  Every nerve in his body was strung to heightened awareness, ready for the invigorating clash of metal on metal. Flexing his fingers on the hilt, he rotated the sword with showy, flawless ease.  “And I will stand for nothing less.” 

Paling slightly, Markem swallowed hard.  His blue eyes followed the deft path of the blade before returning to Richard’s face.  Though it obviously galled him to do so, he relaxed his stance.  “Perhaps I was rash.” 

Richard pressed his lips together.  He was angry and he wanted to fight.  Since arriving at Lothdoren he’d withstood the sniping quips of the nobles; John Mullens’ condescending insults; Rothrock’s stagy manipulations, and most recently, unwarranted confinement.  There was simply no way Markem was going to escape without some sort of payment for the accusations he’d cast on Richard and Lady Elizabeth.  Tapping his sword lightly against the other’s breastbone, Richard grinned wickedly.  “You, my friend, are going to pay for that haste.” 

“That’s enough, Richard.”   

Startled, Richard glanced aside just as Lucian Carrister stepped beneath the overhang.  The older man’s expression was tight, his glance undeniably stern.  “There will be no skirmishes today.  Put your blade away, young man.” 

Frustrated, Richard exhaled loudly.  “Lucian, you don’t understand.” 

“I understand your quarrelsome temper is likely to put you back into the dungeon, if you’re not careful.”  With a terse nod of his head to Markem, Lucian indicated the exit.  “Lord Markem, I suggest you leave¾and quickly.” 

Flustered, the blonde-haired noble did as he was told, hastily exiting the stable.  Irritated, Richard sheathed his sword, driving the blade against the scabbard with a resounding clack.  His breath plumed in the air with the agitated flutter of his breath.  “I don’t need a guardian angel.  Or a protector.” 

Lucian chuckled softly.  “Yes, I can see that.”  Striding forward he gripped Richard by the shoulders.  “But you do need someone to rein in that ungodly willfulness of yours from time to time.  It’s a wonder your wife Gwendolyn has any measure of poise left.”  Before Richard could comment, Carrister planted a hand in the middle of his back and pushed him firmly from the stable.  Smiling, he kept pace at his side.  “Come indoors, Richard.  Lady Elizabeth is beside herself worrying.  She sent me to fetch you.” 

Richard sighed with tired resignation. “Very well.” He didn’t bother to comment Lothdoren was about as inviting as a bat-infested cave at sundown.  He was fairly certain Lucian Carrister felt the same way. 

+++++ 

The passing of Lothdoren’s Lord and Master was increasingly evident as Richard strode from room to room.  All decorative touches for Rothrock’s midwinter gala had been removed, replaced by black shrouds and wreaths of mourning.  The servants scurried about, barely whispering, their faces pinched and sullen.  Some embraced a mere façade of grief, while others were truly morose.  Rothrock himself was laid in a wooden casket.  The wound on his neck had been covered with a richly embroidered scarf, his bloodstained clothing replaced by immaculate silks.  The cold air of the chapel, coupled with an excess of perfumed oils, kept his body from growing pungent until burial could take place later in the week.

 Richard visited with Lady Elizabeth as promised, then spent the remainder of the day idly roaming the long corridors.  His mind drifted continually to Gwendolyn as he pined for his missing wife.  Only belatedly did he realize he’d never mentioned her name to Carrister.  Perhaps Lucian had overhead John Mullens reference his daughter, and assumed she must be his wife.  Admittedly, were it not for his newfound friend and Lady Elizabeth, he’d likely let his mercurial temper get the best of him, ensuring a return to the dungeon.  He had little patience for imperious behavior, and Lothdoren positively bristled with it. 

When evening settled, Richard wandered to the Great Hall.  Though excessive feasts no longer took place, the servants prepared a passable meal for those wishing to partake.  This night, the room was mostly empty, occupied only by Lord and Lady Exton and Tobias Farrel.  The Extons sat apart from the heavy-set man, seemingly occupied in their own closed world.  With graceful ease, Richard slid into the seat across from Farrel.  “Good Eventide, Sir Tobias.” 

Intent on his meal, the other glanced up with a jerk.  Pausing, a thick slab of cheese raised to his lips, Farrel flushed guiltily.  “Sir Richard.  Pardon my indulgence.  Good Eventide.”  His lips stretched in a fleshly grin.  “Won’t you join me?” 

Richard motioned for a servant to fill his wine goblet.  Scanning the table, he concentrated on maneuvering a piece of roasted venison onto his plate.  “I don’t see your sister-in-law, Lady Cort,” he commented casually. 

Tobias rolled his shoulders.  “Headache,” he returned shortly. 

“I seem to recall her being indisposed with a headache the night I arrived,” Richard observed.  Confiscating a table knife, he carved a heel of bread from the round loaf at his elbow.  “She’s not ill is she?” 

Tobias snorted in a most ungentlemanly manner.  “Not unless you consider sickness of the heart.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

With a contrite shake of his head, Tobias smiled ruefully.  “I fear my tongue is bitter this night, Sir Richard.  As difficult as it is, I’ve come to accept the painful truth my sister-in-law will never care for me in the manner I desire.  Rothrock’s death has opened my eyes.  I fear like him, I shall die lonely, with barely a soul to weep at my grave.” 

Richard stared, uncertain how to respond.  Sensing his discomfort, Tobias returned to his meal.   He smiled robustly.  “You needn’t look so grim, my young friend.  There is always food to fill the void in my heart.”

 Distressed by the bleak observation, Richard shifted awkwardly.  “I hardly think that qualifies.  Lady Cort is not the only woman in the world¾” 

“The only one that matters,” Tobias interrupted shortly.  With a sigh, he sat back from the table, bracing his forearms against the stout wood.  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not discuss this.”  Distracted, he glanced to the side.  Almost immediately a change came over his face, molding the fleshy, cherubic lines into something clearly malevolent.  Surprised by the unlikely transformation in a man he’d pegged as harmless, Richard followed his gaze.   

John Mullens had just entered the room. 

“Excuse me,” Tobias said, rising stiffly from the table.  “I’ve lost my appetite.” 

Chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip, Richard watched him depart.  Mullens had said there was only one man at Lothdoren with reason enough to wish him dead.  Surely, he hadn’t meant Tobias Farrel¾the most improbable candidate for murderer in the group. 

Mullens caught his stare and sauntered in his direction.  Sliding into a seat on the bench, he folded his hands on the table, the perfect picture of conceit.  “You look remarkably improved since I last saw you.  Regretfully I couldn’t keep you imprisoned longer.  A witness appeared and countered my story.” 

“You’re too kind.”  Determined not to argue, Richard chewed on a piece of venison.  “Do you know who the witness was?”  he asked evenly. 

Mullens motioned to a servant for wine.  “Wicklow isn’t saying.  Odds are it’s some kitchen maid or stable groom too skittish to proclaim their involvement boldly.  The whole affair grows tiresome. Rothrock needs to be interred before his stench pollutes the chapel.” 

Richard scowled.  It was sometimes difficult perceiving Gwendolyn as the daughter of this vile man.  Even worse was the realization she loved him dearly, despite his horrendous faults.  As Richard watched, Mullens filled a plate with food.  It was inconceivable the Baron intended to sit with him as he dined.  Taken slightly aback, Richard chose to overlook his latest comment in hopes of finding neutral ground.  He hadn’t forgotten Rothrock was one of the few people Mullens had called friend.  What atrocities must the man say about enemies?  “Have you given any further thought to what I suggested?”

 “The foolish notion I should be dead instead of Lionel?”  Mullens glanced at Richard from beneath the heavy line of his black brows.  A discourteous chuckle slipped from his lips.  “Difficult as it is to believe, Rothrock had more enemies than I.”  A nod of his head indicated the couple at the end of the table.  “Take the noble Lord Exton and his harpy-shrew wife.  Exton’s always been jealous of Rothrock’s achievements and his position in the shire.  He stands to be elevated considerably with Lionel out of the way.  The King will likely grant him a portion of Rothrock’s lands, since there’s no heir.” 

Startled, Richard glanced sharply at his father-in-law.  “I hadn’t realized he stood to gain so profitably.”

 Mullens’s mouth thinned.  “There’s quite a few things you don’t realize.  Perhaps it’s best if you leave it that way.” 

Standing, the Baron retrieved his plate and carried it to the opposite end of the table.  He sat with the Extons¾seemingly an old friend, not a rival who had just spewed poison about them.    Richard finished his dinner in silence, contemplating the myriad complexities he’d just witnessed.  Later he returned to the southern battlement where Rothrock had been killed.  All trace of the murder had been removed. Even the stones had been washed by the servants, eradicating the dark stains which once marred their surface.  

Richard examined the area thoroughly¾uncertain what he was looking for, finding nothing.  Discouraged he retreated indoors, pausing to visit Lady Elizabeth in her chambers before withdrawing to his own.  The interior of his room was dark, thick shadow broken only by the flames in the hearth.  Moving to the dresser, Richard lit two candles sending a ring of soft light skittering into the room. A rustle of clothing drew him sharply about, hand dropping instinctively to his sword. 

“Forgive me for startling you.  I’ve been waiting to speak with you.” 

Speechless, Richard watched as Helena Cort moved into the light.   A tall woman of inordinate grace, she seemed an unlikely match for her swag-bellied brother-in-law.  Eyes the color of winter wheat regarded Richard from a thin, heart-shaped face.  A soft dusting of white-blonde hair fell to her shoulders, where it was swept into a loose braid.   

“Lady Helena,” Richard greeted, recovering his poise, “Your brother-in-law said you weren’t feeling well.” 

She smiled sadly, tightly.  “It’s hardly that.”  Taking her hand Richard led her to a chair, where she sat rigidly, her body strung with obvious tension.  “I feel I owe you an explanation,” she said warily.  “It was my silence which caused you those unwelcome days in the dungeon.” 

Richard balked.  “You’re the witness Baron Wicklow spoke of?” 

Hesitantly, Helena nodded.  “I should have come forward immediately, but feared the recrimination.”

 “I don’t understand.” 

Helena’s eyes dropped to her lap.  Clearly uncomfortable, she twisted a lace handkerchief between her fingers.  Richard watched as she pleated the ivory fabric¾folding it absently, then brushing it smooth.  “If I’d said I was on the battlement, the question would have arisen as to why I was there.  I’d told Tobias I was retiring early.” 

Folding his arms over his chest, Richard digested the information.  There’d been two other people on the battlement that night¾Rothrock and Mullens¾but only one who’d been expected.  With abrupt insight, he understood the scathing glance Tobias Farrel had cast the Lord of Torsun-Narr.  “You were meeting John Mullens,” he said firmly. 

Eyes averted, Helena nodded.  When she spoke her voice was thin, flushed with intricate layers of guilt.  “I told Tobias I wished to retire early¾just as I’ve told him a lie of one sort or another since arriving. I didn’t intend to be cruel.  I simply didn’t wish to hurt his feelings.” 

“He knows of your involvement with Mullens,” Richard informed her. 

“Now¾but he wasn’t certain then.”  With a heartfelt sigh, Helena raised her eyes.  “Do you understand why I kept my silence?” 

Richard sat across from her, his poise causal.  “There’s nothing untoward in your relationship with John Mullens, Lady Cort.  You are currently unattached and he has long been a widower.  The only impropriety may have been the manner of your meetings.  It’s crueler to allow Tobias to think he stands a chance of winning your favor.” 

Abandoning her anxiety, Helena tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve.  “There is no fear of that any longer.  Although I asked Lord Wicklow to keep my identity confidential, I felt it necessary to share the truth with Tobias.  I’m certain he harbored suspicions long before now.  My involvement with Baron Mullens began when Tobias engaged him in a business deal this past summer.” 

Though Richard thought the affair likely to end in heartache for Helena, he kept the opinion private. At present, there was only one matter which truly concerned him.  Wetting his lips, he sat forward on the edge of his chair.  “Lady Helena, did you actually see the murderer?” 

A short shake of her head left Richard scowling.  “When I arrived on the battlement, Lord Rothrock was already dead.  There was a man bending over him with a knife in his hand.”  Remembering, she closed her eyes.  “I was startled and cried aloud.  The sound drew his attention, though I don’t believe he saw me for I was concealed behind a wall.  Fortunately he heard the door, and that’s when you and John arrived.” 

“Did you see his face?”  Richard asked. 

She shook her head. 

“Lady Helena¾could it have been your brother-in-law?”  Though he hated asking the question, Richard knew a jealous lover was capable of extremes.  It was entirely possible Farrel had gone in search of Mullens and in the dark mistakenly killed Rothrock. 

“No.”  Helena was firm.  “Tobias is heavily built and this man was slender¾tall like you.” 

Mentally Richard ran the list of guests in his head¾Markem, Carrister, Tarrington, Wicklow¾all were of his height or similar.  Only Farrel and Exton were shorter, solidly built with added pounds. 

“There is one thing,” Helena said cautiously.  “I should have given this to Baron Wicklow, but I didn’t think he’d take it seriously.”  Unabashedly, she slipped a finger into the deep neckline of her bodice and withdrew a short gold chain.  Extending her hand, she offered it to Richard.

 Rising from the chair, Richard accepted the trinket.  The metal was heated in his palm, warmed by close contact with her flesh.  The chain was braided, held together by a pin-and-circle clasp.  Obviously a woman’s bracelet, it was further embellished by an oval medallion.  Richard studied the surface, noting the finely detailed relief of a prancing unicorn.  “I heard it drop when he ran past me,” Lady Cort explained.  “I think it was probably looped on his belt or concealed in his jerkin.”

 “Are you sure it was a man?”  Richard asked, recalling his sister often dressed in breeches and tunic.  Though improbable, it wasn’t an entirely foolish notion a woman could have committed the crime.

Helena shook her head firmly.  “I’m positive¾and I don’t think a woman would have had the strength to kill Lionel Rothrock, even if he was caught unaware.” 

Reluctantly Richard nodded.  His eyes dropped to the bracelet.  “Have you seen this item of jewelry before?  Perhaps on Lady Exton or Lady Wicklow?”  Frowning, he tried to place the image.  Something about it was disturbingly familiar. 

Once again, Helena shook her head.  “I did fear it might be Lady Wicklow’s¾which was another reason I didn’t reveal it to her husband.  I do not wish to keep it in my possession, My Lord.  May I leave it with you?” 

“Of course.”  Richard extended his hand and helped her to her feet.  The gesture signaled an end to the conversation for both of them. 

Pausing by the door, Helena glanced over her shoulder.  “I am sorry my silence caused you such discomfort.” 

Richard smiled gently.  “It is forgotten, Lady.” 

After she’d departed, his eyes dropped immediately to the medallion.  Tracing his thumb over the surface, he tried to remember where he’d seen the crest before.  Familiarity tugged at his mind, the answer just beyond his reach.  Frustrated, he scraped a hand through his hair, lacing the long curls to agitated life.   

Beyond the door, a sudden commotion erupted in the hallway.  Alarmed, Richard crossed to the dresser and slipped the medallion into the top drawer.  Behind him, the door to his chamber swept open. 

“There you are, little brother.”  Armus Grey stood on the threshold, a broad smile on his face.  “I’ve brought you a present¾” 

Richard’s eyes shifted from his brother to the woman standing hesitantly at his side.  For the briefest moment he experienced an unreasonable surge of anger.  Yet as quickly as the emotion surfaced, it was quelled beneath the sharper pain of separation.   

“Gwendolyn,” he breathed, and offered his hand. 

+++++ 

Richard didn’t even hear the door close as Armus left the room.  His only conscious thought was for the woman in his arms; the delicious feel of her body pressed to his.  He held her tightly, inhaling her scent¾the rosewater she’d used in her morning bath; the lingering touch of winter wind in her hair.  Burying his face against her neck, he tried to eradicate the ugliness of the last few days. 

“I thought you would be furious with me for disobeying you,” Gwendolyn whispered. 

“I should be,” Richard chided softly, then kissed her, not caring how she came to be there.  She responded willingly to the warm touch of his lips, melting so thoroughly into his embrace he was momentarily overcome by her nearness.  With effort he restrained himself.  Tracing one finger over the bow of her mouth, he smiled down on his wife.  “How did you coerce Armus into bringing you here through three days of wretched weather?" 

“I didn’t.”  Gwendolyn twined her fingers into the long curls resting against his collar.  “Your father is still in London, but Armus was able to take leave early.  When he’d returned to Covington Cross and discovered where you’d gone, he volunteered to bring me.”

“And of course, you made no mention it was my desire for you remain where you were.” 

Gwendolyn lowered her eyes.  “You do not appear overly displeased with my conduct.” 

“No.”  Removing her cloak, Richard tossed it on the bed.  She was attired in traveling clothes¾a heavy maroon gown, and wine-red gloves. Tugging the gloves from her thin hands, Richard raised her fingers to his lips, kissing the tips gently.  “I’ve been lonely, Gwendolyn,” he admitted. 

She drew a breath¾sharp and tremulous, betraying the fluttering beat of her heart.  “We met a courier at the inn.  He was on his way to Covington Cross with a message from Lady Elizabeth.” 

Richard paused.  “About Rothrock’s murder?” 

Gwendolyn nodded, her expression troubled.  When she spoke, her voice caught in her throat.  “Richard, I thought you were in prison.”  

“I’m sorry, love.” Richard kissed her temple.  “It was a misunderstanding.” 

“Yes, I know.  We saw Lady Elizabeth below, shortly after we arrived and she explained everything.  It’s just¾”  Unable to finish, Gwendolyn shook her head.  “Richard, if I’d come with you from the start, my father never would have lied.  It pains me to think what may have happened if the witness hadn’t come forward.” 

“Your father would have told the truth eventually,” Richard assured, not wishing to cause her distress.  Though in truth he wasn’t so certain, Gwendolyn needn’t know that.  “He probably wanted me to feel his yoke for a while.”   

“He is not a vindictive man,” Gwendolyn said firmly. 

“Of course not.”  Again Richard kissed her, lingering this time as his mouth parted hers.  Her lips were soft and yielding, inviting him to explore the velvet lining of her mouth.  Though gentle at first the probe of his tongue grew insistent, questing deeper as he molded her supple body to his.  

Surrendering completely, Gwendolyn made a soft sound in the back of her throat.  She could feel the scrape of his leather jerkin pressing against her breasts, the rough fabric coaxing her nipples to pert peaks. Richard reached for the simple clasp in her hair and tugged it free, spilling the long ebony tresses in a satin cascade over her back and shoulders.  His lips trailed across her mouth and cheek; the delicate fringe of her eyelashes. Gwendolyn tilted her head, eager for the heated touch of his lips on her throat.  She felt the gentle sweep of his hand as his fingers slipped within the bodice of her gown, gently molding her breast. 

“You will corrupt me, Sir,” she whispered near his ear. 

Grinning wickedly, he guided her hand between his legs.  “I fear the damage is already done.”  He closed his eyes, shuddering as she touched him.  Enjoying the heady sensation as much as he, she kissed him boldly and intensified the caress.  Unable to restrain himself any longer, Richard scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed.  “As I recall you once struck me for kissing you.” 

“You were impertinent,” Gwendolyn returned impishly as he unlaced her bodice.  Lying on her back, black hair fanned out behind her, she looked both enchantress and seraph.  Richard bent over her, snarled hair falling forward against his face.  Raising her hand, Gwendolyn brushed the ragged curls from his eyes. Her expression altered, abruptly serious.  “I loved you even then, did you know that?  I think I’ve always loved you, Richard.” 

He kissed her deeply, moved by the words in a manner he hadn’t thought possible.  Here in Lothdoren, surrounded by the cruel manipulations of its venomous guests, Gwendolyn had restored a measure of faith in goodness.  Held in his wife’s arms, Richard was able to forget the spiteful schemes and social-climbing actions of the nobles. 

If only briefly.

 +++++ 

“It seems I owe this Lucian Carrister a debt of gratitude,” Gwendolyn observed later.  Lying in bed, nestled beneath a pair of fur-trimmed blankets, she rested her head on Richard’s chest.  The heat of his bare skin next to hers created a lethargic bliss after the long carriage ride.  Coupled with the delicious hours they’d exhausted in lovemaking, Gwendolyn felt the inviting haze of sleep grow dangerously nearer.  Tracing one finger over Richard’s chest, she tilted her head to stare up at him.  “It seems he’s managed the inconsistencies of your temper in a very short time.” 

“He isn’t all light,” Richard said thoughtfully, thinking of the scars on Carrister’s face.  “I sense there’s a dark side to him, just as in every man, but he’s become a good friend.  And I would have likely done something foolish where Markem was concerned had Lucian not intervened.” 

“I should like to meet him tomorrow,” Gwendolyn announced. 

“As you command, Lady Gwen.” Richard smiled crookedly¾thin grin blooming into the dazzling smile she knew so well.  It was impossible to resist him when he smiled like that¾the full upward curve of his lips crinkling his eyes at the corners; sinking dimples deep into his cheeks.  Though he was almost twenty-two, the smile made him seem like a boy intent on mischief.   

Rolling onto her stomach she traced a finger over his lips.  “My Lord, I have other commands for this evening.  Shall I instruct you on those as well?”   

Pushing the blanket from her shoulders, Richard molded his hands against her bare flesh.  “As you wish, My Lady.” 

+++++

 “Well Brother, you’ve managed to immerse yourself in the thick of things as usual,” Armus commented, reaching for a goblet of cider.  Seated at one of the smaller tables in the solar, the siblings shared breakfast with Lady Elizabeth, hours after most of the other nobles had dined.  Armus had overslept and Richard and Gwendolyn had been in no hurry to depart their chambers. 

“That’s not fair, Armus,” Lady Elizabeth reprimanded gently.  “Richard has behaved admirably through this whole wretched ordeal.  If anyone is to blame, it’s me for allowing Lionel to manipulate me into attending.” 

“You can hardly be held accountable for his actions,” Richard countered.  Sighing, he propped an elbow on the table.  Word had arrived earlier that although the roadways grew passable, the sheriff was detained in the eastern half of the shire, overseeing a judicial matter for the king.  As the days continued to lapse, Richard began to think he would never be free of Lothdoren.

 “Where’s Gwendolyn?”  Armus asked, shattering his reverie. 

“With her father.  I thought it better if she had some time with him alone.”  Richard glanced half-heartedly at his plate, idly picking through pieces of honey-laced bread and fruit.  Streamers of sunlight bounced off the metal studs on his wrist guard, sending reflected rays dancing across the table.  “He tends to grow belligerent when we sees us together.”

 “It’s a difficult marriage,” Elizabeth volunteered. 

“Only because of Mullens,” Richard countered.  Disheartened, he abandoned his breakfast.  “There is no obstacle between Gwendolyn and I, except those imposed by her father.”

 Armus chewed around a mouthful of bread.  “He really does seem to have a marked dislike for you, Richard.  Moreso then the rest of us.  Any idea why?” 

“Aside from the fact I’m married to his daughter?”  Richard glance was pointed, his words underscored with bitterness.  Briefly he fell silent, thinking of Simon Canter and Charlotte Mullens’ infidelity.  “I haven’t a clue.”  Shuffling aside the ghosts, he attempted to concentrate on the tangible.  “Have you met Lucian Carrister, Armus?” 

“The Crusader?  Yes, I met him last night.  We had quite an anjoyable conversation until I mentioned I came with Gwendolyn, at which point he grew agitated and left.” 

Puzzled, Richard frowned.  “Why would that bother him?” 

Armus rolled his shoulders, soft wheat-blonde hair rippling with the movement.  “Your guess is as good as mine.  He did seem to have an innate fondness for you, Brother.  Perhaps he sees Gwendolyn as a rival for your time.”

 Richard dismissed the notion with a curt wave of his hand.  “That’s plain silliness.  In any event I want Gwen to meet him.  He’s one of the few people at Lothdoren who’ve left a favorable impression on me.” 

Elizabeth smiled sharply.  “Not an easy thing to do.”

 When Lady Exton and Lord Tarrignton appeared a short time later, looking smugly down their noses, it confirmed the air of conceit prevalent at Lothdoren.  Though Richard scowled and Lady Elizabeth looked slightly annoyed, Armus merely chuckled. 

“It’s better than London,” he announced gamely. 

+++++

 Richard allowed Gwendolyn the time she needed with her father.  Though the other nobles wandered throughout Lothdoren, Richard had a difficult time locating Lucian Carrister.  It wasn’t until late afternoon that he stumbled across the Crusader in the armory. 

“Lucian.”  Richard smiled warmly as he stepped into the room.  “I’ve been looking all over for you.  Are you avoiding me?” 

Preoccupied, the blonde-haired man shook his head.  “Why would I do that, Richard?  I merely have things on my mind¾Rothrock’s murder; Wicklow playing God and keeping us all caged in this ghastly excuse for a castle; the constant sniping and underhanded manipulations of the others.  ‘Tis no place to bring a lady, I can assure you that.” 

Bewildered, Richard felt his smile falter.  In their short acquaintance, he’d never heard Carrister speak so bitterly.  “You mean Gwendolyn¾my wife?” 

“It’s exactly who I mean,” Carrister snapped.  Striding forward, he halted before Richard, his expression baleful.  “How could you let her come here?” 

“Damnation, man, what’s wrong with you¾do you think I sent her an engraved invitation?”  Shaking his head incredulously, Richard uttered a short laugh.  “Where’s your head, Lucian?  Gwendolyn came of her own initiative, and I’d be pleased if you’d meet her.” 

Appearing suddenly flustered, Carrister turned away.  “Of course.”  Clasping his hands behind his back he strode to the window.  Pausing, he considered the vast snow-drenched landscape unfurling from the castle walls. “Dinner perhaps?” he suggested. 

Richard nodded, bewildered by the inexplicable change in his attitude.  “We’ll see you this evening,” he promised and withdrew from the room.   

As Gwendolyn spent most of the day with her father and Lucian continued to avoid him, Richard remained with Armus.  Together with his brother, he examined the southern battlement yet again, but even detail-oriented Armus failed to unearth anything of interest. Later in the day they took part in a supervised hunt in which Baron Wicklow participated, thus ensuring none of the nobles left the grounds.  By the time Richard returned to his chambers, Gwendolyn had finished with her father and was preparing for dinner.   

“Did you have an enjoyable visit?”  Richard asked, closing the door behind him. 

Gwendolyn glanced up from the bureau where she sat, quietly brushing her hair.  The ghost of a smile flickered over her lips, inducing sudden warmth in her dark blue eyes.  “Richard!”  Rising she went to his embrace, eager for a welcoming kiss.  Wrapping her arms about his neck she pushed on tiptoe, brushing her lips hungrily against his.

 Richard smiled down on her.  “I take it this means the visit went well?” 

“Very well.  My father was pleased to see me, if a bit annoyed by the circumstances here at Lothdoren.  He doesn’t feel it’s appropriate for me to be here.”  

Though Richard agreed, he decided it was wiser if he remained silent.  As for Baron Mullens exasperation at his daughter’s presence, Richard imagined it was two-fold.  While he surely didn’t want her exposed to the ugliness of Rothrock’s murder, he also probably wanted to keep his affair with Helena Cort private.  Avoiding the subject altogether, Richard hooked a strand of raven hair and curled it behind her ear.  In the glow of the hearth, the highlights around her face gleamed like burnished gold.  “Lucian Carrister has agreed to dine with us this evening.”

 “How wonderful.  I should like to meet this friend of yours.”  Moving away, Gwendolyn stepped to the dresser where she discarded her brush and opened the top drawer.  “Perhaps I should wear something special¾that violet gown with the gold and silver lace.”  As she spoke, Gwendolyn sifted through the items in the drawer, pushing aside Richard’s neck scarves and her own silken leggings. “I have the perfect set of earrings Father gave me for Christmas two ye¾”  She stopped suddenly, words cut abruptly short as though strangled in her throat.

 Alarmed, Richard stepped to her side.  “Gwendolyn, what is it?”  He stood just behind her, one hand on her shoulder, head bent in concern.  Her eyes were riveted on the drawer and the object clutched in her hand.  Richard followed her glance, surprised when he saw the bracelet Helena Cort had given him dangling from her slim fingers.  “Gwen,” he persisted.  “Gwen, what’s wrong?” 

“Where did you get this?” she hissed. 

“From Lady Cort,” Richard supplied briefly, unwilling to go into details about the murder. Revelations about Helena’s involvement would likely result in the unintentional exposure of her affair with Mullens. “She found it on the battlement.”

 Gwendolyn turned, her eyes wide.  “The battlement where Lord Rothrock was killed?” 

Warily, Richard nodded.  He didn’t like the way she was looking at the medallion.  “Gwendolyn, tell me what’s wrong.” 

“This was my mother’s,” she replied swiftly.  And in the shocked incredulity of those words, Richard suddenly recalled where he had seen the crest before.  Once as a child he’d come upon Charlotte Canter on the banks of the Korleigh in Tiner Forest.  She’d been weeping¾a sight that had frightened Richard for reasons he couldn’t name.  As she turned from the river a lace handkerchief had fallen from her hand¾a handkerchief bearing a unicorn crest. 

Richard took the medallion from Gwendolyn’s fingers, turning her about to face him.  “Is this the Crest of Canter?” he asked firmly.

 “No.”  Eyes bright with unshed tears, Gwendolyn shook her head.  “The bracelet belonged to my mother, but it was not her family’s crest.  Someone gave it to her¾someone she trusted.  Oh Richard, how could Lady Cort possibly have found it at Lothdoren?” 

Richard bit his lip.  There was no reason for Helena Cort to lie, yet the fact the bracelet had belonged to Charlotte Canter left the blonde-haired Noblewoman open to suspicion.  Had she truly found it on the battlement, or was this yet another implausibility in an already impossible murder?  Closing his fingers over the medallion, Richard kissed his wife gently on the forehead.  “I don’t know, love¾but I promise we won’t leave without the answer.” 

+++++ 

Lucian Carrister did not show for dinner.  John Mullens and Lady Wicklow were also missing from the bickering group of nobles who gathered in the Great Hall.  The strain of remaining at Lothdoren was beginning to take its toll, evidenced by the barbed quips which grew blatantly ugly.  Insults and innuendo were no longer veiled in clever disguise, but spoken with utter disregard for social protocol.  Richard had to admit Mullens was right¾Lothdoren was no place for Gwendolyn.  When it grew apparent Lucian Carrister had no intention of showing, Richard suggested Lady Elizabeth and Gwendolyn retire to Elizabeth’s chambers and dine in private.  Though initially moved to protest, Gwendolyn reluctantly agreed when she noted the set mask of Richard’s face. 

“I’ll escort you,” Armus volunteered, helping Lady Elizabeth from her seat.  Richard did the same for Gwendolyn. 

 His wife hesitated with her hand on his arm.  “Aren’t you coming?” 

“In a moment,” he returned.  “There’s something I need to do first.” 

As Armus and the others left the room, Richard stalked from the hall in search of Lucian Carrister.  Blinded by unreasonable rage, he failed to look where he was headed and collided with Lady Wicklow in the outer chamber. “Oh¾I’m sorry¾”  Mortified, Richard steadied the demure woman with a hand to her shoulder.  Though a heightened flush stained her cheeks, she appeared otherwise composed.  Unlike the other nobles who thrived on condescending sneers and social-climbing schemes, Richard had always thought Adina Wicklow a woman of poise and refinement.  "I’m dreadfully sorry, Lady Wicklow¾I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

 “That’s quite all right, Sir Richard.”  Adina Wicklow offered a polite smile, but her manner was unusually strained.  With her husband acting as interim Lord of Lothdoren, Richard imagined she’d endured more than a fair share of pressure over the last few days. It showed in the ring of shadow beneath her nut-brown eyes.  Absently she fingered an oval brooch pinned to her high-necked gown. “I was just headed to the Great Hall to join my husband for dinner.”

 Following the movement of her hand, Richard sucked in his breath.  The brooch was intricately detailed, bordered with gold filigree.  But it was the crest painstakingly etched in the center which drew Richard’s attention¾the rendering of a prancing unicorn.  “That’s an unusual brooch,” he commented carefully. 

Unaware she’d been fingering the trinket, Lady Wicklow dropped her hand to her side.  She laughed self-consciously.  “Not entirely, I’m afraid.  It’s the Crest of the House of Wicklow.” 

“Is it?”  Richard voiced the words with only mild interest.  Inwardly his stomach clenched.  Wicklow couldn’t have possibly been the man he’d seen running on the rampart, for he’d appeared in the doorway immediately after Richard had discovered Rothrock.  Was it possible Wicklow could have had access to a secret passage and doubled back that quickly?  If so, surely Helena Cort would have seen him.  Even more troubling, what had Wicklow¾if Wicklow it had been¾been doing with a bracelet that once belonged to Gwendolyn’s mother?

 “I’m sorry, young man,” Adina Wicklow said kindly. “You’ll pardon if I don’t stay longer.  I promised my husband I’d be down an hour ago.” 

“Of course.”  Richard inclined his head as she stepped past him.  Reaching inside his tunic, he retrieved the medallion he’d taken from Gwendolyn.  Thoughtfully he rubbed his thumb over the surface.  Gwendolyn had said someone Charlotte trusted had given her the medallion¾just as they must have given her the handkerchief.  Trinkets from a lover or just a friend, Richard wondered? 

Sliding the medallion back inside his tunic, Richard strode from the room.  Though he was loathed to admit it, it seemed entirely possible Baron Brian Wicklow was the father of Charlotte Canter’s illegitimate son.

The outside air was frigid, coaxed to near glacial proportions by the piercing sting of an unyielding wind.  Ducking his head, Richard held the collar of his cloak clasped tightly to his throat.  Surrounded by the night’s swaddling pall, he trudged through the snow-covered ground toward the stable.  His boots sank into wet drifts halfway up his calves, making the trek difficult.  Persistence and the track of another man’s footprints in the snow kept him to the path.  The watchful eye of the moon sketched contorted shadows on the ground, coaxed from the tangled branches of a nearby tree. 

 Beckoned by the warm glow of torchlight, Richard stepped within the stable.  Lucian Carrister was just exiting, trailing his horse by the reins.  Disturbed that his friend was departing in so secretive a manner, Richard felt himself grow immediately defensive.  “Why are you leaving?”   

 Carrister balked, surprised by his presence.  It took him only a moment to recover. “You’re a bright lad¾you figure it out.” 

Richard ignored the curt sting of his words.  “Wicklow’s decreed no one should depart until after the Sheriff arrives.  Lucian¾there’s still the matter of Rothrock’s murder.” 

Scowling, the other man started forward.  “An unfortunate accident.” 

“Accident?”  Richard snagged the bridle, wrenching the horse to a halt.  With only inches separating them, he could readily see the anger in Carrister’s eyes.  Deeper still and more disturbing, lingered painful remorse.  “Do you know something about that night you haven’t told me?” 

Lucian laughed¾a dry, brittle sound, wholly lacking for warmth.  “God’s teeth, Richard, you’re as utterly blind as Mullens.  If you haven’t figured it out by now you’re slower than I thought.  Your lady wife would know in an instant, but then she has greater cause to remember me.  Years can’t alter the bond we formed in childhood.”

 Richard grew utterly still.  He felt each word cut deeper into his soul, paring away façade and pretense until only painful truth remained¾truth he adamantly wished to deny.  In the flickering glow of soft torchlight, he could almost see a younger Lucian¾comely and delicate, blonde hair near white; face clean-shaven and unmarred by feature-altering scars.  It wasn’t just disfigurement that had made Simon Canter unrecognizable to his stepfather¾it was the passage of bitter years, each twisting Canter’s already tainted soul to greater levels of hatred. 

Richard felt his mouth go suddenly dry.  “It was you on the battlement that night.  You meant to kill John Mullens.”

 “With your knife,” Canter supplied.  “I never expected to find such a perfect scapegoat at Rothrock’s gala.  The very night you arrived you threatened to kill Mullens¾in front of witnesses, no less.  It should have been the perfect murder.” 

“But you killed the wrong man.” 

“Yes,” Canter said evenly.  “And I grew unexpectedly fond of you.  That complicates matters, Richard.” 

“I can’t let you go.” 

Canter grinned thinly, a ghastly sight when coupled with the deep scars on his face.  “I expected as much.  You have no cause to intervene.  What can you know of the hatred I feel for Mullens¾a man who’s denial sent me to the Crusades?  I had no other place to go, Richard.  No other father.  My mother died prematurely¾grown ill in a loveless marriage.”  Brusquely, Canter motioned to his face.  “I have Mullens to thank for this.  Eight months in the festering rat-hole of a Saracen prison.  I barely escaped with my life, but the memory of torture still wakes me in a cold sweat many nights.  My hatred is justified.” 

“Damn it, Lucian!  You would have let me hang for his death.  How can you justify that?” 

“A regrettable matter,” the older man said sincerely.  With a rueful smile he laid his hand on Richard’s shoulder.  His fingers tightened, squeezing in warm companionship.  “My sister chose well, when she accepted you as husband.  Under other circumstances you and I surely would have been friends.”  Canter tilted his head to the side, his gaze direct.  “I won’t stay and wait for the Sheriff, Richard.  All you have to do is turn away.” 

“I can’t do that,” Richard said miserably.  Every conceivable instinct told him to yield to Canter’s logic¾to turn away and feign ignorance about the whole wretched ordeal.  True, Rothrock was dead, but what great loss did the world suffer from the passing of one vile man?  Wasn’t the shire better off without a vain lord who routinely manipulated others to deceitful and injurious conduct?  Drawing a ragged breath, Richard dismissed the notion.  He knew he couldn’t turn his back on the principals his father had ingrained in him since childhood¾principals of right and wrong and justice.  “I can’t do it, Lucian,” he repeated, firmly this time. 

Canter maintained his grip on Richard’s shoulder.  “Then you’ll be forced to draw your blade on me.”  

“On the brother of my wife?”  It seemed to Richard every nuance of sound and movement grew stilted¾suspended in a weightless shroud.  For a moment he couldn’t breathe.  “I can’t do that either.” 

The older man looked remorseful, his expression growing pained.  Sadly he shook his head.  Hooking an arm around Richard’s shoulder he drew him close.  “You leave me little choice,” he whispered thickly.  Even as the last word left his mouth, Richard felt a shattering influx of pain below his ribs.  Too stunned to respond, he could only gasp as a disgorging flow of blood sluiced over his belt and jerkin.  Canter released him and he staggered a step backward, eyes dropping in disbelief to the hole in his side.

 “God, Lucian.”  Pressing a hand to the wound, Richard fell back against the waist-high beam erected as divider between two stalls.  His eyes tracked to the bloody knife in his friend’s hand as a heated rush of vertigo swept over him.  Light-headed, he clung to the beam for support, his knees threatening to buckle.  “How could you?”

Turning away, Canter swung up onto his horse.  Wordlessly, he coaxed the steed from beneath the overhang.  Though moonlight silhouetted his form in blackest shadow, the cold glint of his eyes was visible when he glanced back at Richard.  “Because I am what Mullens made me.” 

Closing his eyes, Richard listened to the receding beat of the horse’s hooves.  The cadence was sharp and hollow, almost melodic when coupled with the keening wail of the wind.  It reminded Richard of a funeral dirge¾the winter song of the heath proclaiming the demise of once verdant land.  Grimacing Richard bent forward, cupping his hand against the wound.  He could feel the warm tackiness of blood seeping between his fingers despite the intervening leather of his glove.   Each rattling intake of breath sent a sharp pain ricocheting through his side.  Groping unsteadily the length of the beam, Richard located blanket and saddle for the nearest horse and clumsily maneuvered them onto the steed.  Twice he had to stop when pain and dizziness threatened to render him unconscious.   

Determined Lucian Carrister must stand trial for his crimes, Richard fumbled onto the horse and headed in pursuit of the man he’d once called friend. 

+++++    

“Father, please!”  Gwendolyn tugged on Mullens’ sleeve, blue eyes imploring.  Though she knew her father could be implacable when he chose, she also knew he had an inherent soft spot for his daughters’ wishes. “It’s been almost two hours.  Something is wrong.” 

Not unkindly, Mullens removed her hand.  Seated before the hearth in his chambers, he let the roaring warmth of cascading firelight wash over him, adding to the heat of sweet wine in his belly.  “Your husband isn’t a child, Gwendolyn.  He’s perfectly capable of fending for himself.”  Almost thoughtfully, he poured himself more wine. 

“But one of the servants saw him go outside and it’s positively dreadful out there.”  Frustrated, Gwendolyn stalked to the opposite side of the room, her gown swishing agitatedly about her ankles.  “Armus and the stable master are out looking, but there’s far too much ground to cover in the dark.  Father, please go look for Richard.” 

Mullens frowned.  “You’d have me look for someone I despise?” 

Gwendolyn returned to his side, dropping to her knees by the chair.  Face upturned, she looked on him beseechingly. “For me,” she pleaded. 

Inwardly Mullens swore.  The insertion of those two simple words in the conversation effectively quelled any objection he might have voiced. 

+++++ 

Between the distorting haze of pain and the merciless teeth of an unforgiving wind, Richard lost all sense of direction.  Though the cold helped clot the sluicing flow of blood from his side, it made progress difficult.  In prime condition he might have withstood the punishing onslaught of cruel weather, but it was all he could do to remain mounted now.  Hunched over the saddle, he clung to the reins, his fingers stiffened with cold beneath his bloodstained gloves.  Canter’s tracks were no longer visible, obscured by scattered snow and crumbling drifts. 

Likewise, Richard lost all sense of time.  As he ventured deeper among the snarled tangle of forestland, it suddenly occurred to him he’d acted foolishly.  Without proper attention the knife wound could prove fatal if the cold didn’t claim him first.  He was still dressed as he’d been for dinner, in a lightweight tunic and jerkin, much too thin for the harsher weather outdoors.    

Glancing skyward he felt the cold kiss of new snow against his face.  The heavens spun overhead, strewn with the diamondine dance of crystal-white stars.  In the twinkle of an eye the glittering array of light twirled into a convoluted sphere.  A rush of vertigo spiked in Richard’s head and he slumped forward, tumbling from his horse.  The bite of cold snow against his shoulder made him grunt and roll onto his back.  The sky reeled maddeningly overhead, broken patches of darkness and light glimpsed through the contorted branches of disfigured trees. 

Richard struggled to rise but the movement only reopened the wound, expelling a fresh glut of blood.  Choking on a white-knuckle rush of nausea, Richard slumped into the cold embrace of snow¾oblivious to all but the darkness that gradually claimed his eyes. 

+++++ 

“Swallow.”  The voice was harsh, pitched close to his ear.  Complying without thought, Richard did as he was told.  Immediately warmth burned his throat, tracking a heated path to his stomach.  Though the wine tasted sour it was blissfully welcome¾like a Faerie-warding cast against the denizens of sorcerous-inspired cold.  Richard stirred and tried to rise.  He was aware of snow-covered ground beneath him; enveloping warmth cushioning his back.  Belatedly he realized  Simon Canter supported him against his chest.  “I should have just let you die,” the older man said.  “Instead I suffer an infernal pang of conscience at the last moment.” 

Richard pushed away from him.  With effort he gained his feet, then stood swaying until he braced a steadying hand against the gnarled trunk of a wizened oak.  He wasn’t certain if it was anger or relief that he felt¾only knew the complex web of emotion left him slightly off-kilter.  Coupled with the grating influx of pain in his side and the relentless cold plaguing his body, it made him dangerously vulnerable to error.  Reaching inside his jerkin he withdrew the bracelet Helena Cort had given him.  Not trusting his voice, he tossed it at Canter’s feet. 

The older man retrieved it, slowly straightening to his full height.  Snagged in the soft glow of celestial light, the surface seemed imbued with its own luminous radiance.  Canter rubbed his thumb over the unicorn crest.  “I dropped this the night I killed Rothrock.  It belonged to my mother.”  Canter’s lips twisted with the grief of remembrance.  “She told me my father had given it to her.” 

“Helena Cort found it,” Richard said as evenly as he could.  Wet snow had saturated his cloak and clothing, inducing a tremor in his body.  The affliction was evident in his usually precise voice, which quavered every so slightly.  “Would you have killed her too?” 

Canter glanced up sharply.  For a moment he looked as though he would reply, then he simply tucked the medallion into his belt.  Turning toward his horse, he gathered the reins.  “Go back to Lothdoren, Richard.” 

Before either could speak, the silhouette of an approaching rider drew their attention.  Filtering between the trees like an apparition at midnight, John Mullens rode into the small clearing.  Richard felt his mouth go dry.   

“Well.”  Mullens smiled snidely, gazing down upon the other two men.  His eyes flicked between Richard and Canter, noting the latter’s heavily burdened horse; his son-in-law’s blood-soaked side and awkward stance.  “What have we here¾one man wounded, the other prepared for a long journey.  Unless I’ve missed my guess, Wicklow would have something to say about this.” 

Canter unsheathed his sword.  “Step down you ratsbane.” 

“Lucian, no¾”  Clumsily, Richard moved away from the tree.   

Rather than grow angry, Mullens appeared amused.  “Ratsbane, is it?  And what tiresome quarrel would I have with you, Carrister?” 

“Not Carrister¾Canter.  Simon Canter.” 

Mullens blanched.  Abruptly ill at ease he shifted in the saddle, features slack and pasty-white.   In the contouring touch of moonlight and shadow, the sudden distress made his face seem almost skeletal.  “That’s impossible,” he hissed. 

Canter strode forward, halting beside Mullens’ horse.  Tilting his head back, he gazed definitely at his stepfather.  “Not so impossible when you consider what years and Saracen torture have done to my face.  Look closely, Baron, and you’ll see my mother staring back at you.” 

“Bastard!”  Raising his leg, Mullens planted his foot squarely in the other’s chest and thrust backward.  Canter reeled off balance and Mullens dismounted swiftly, drawing his sword.  Metal clashed against metal as Mullens pressed the attack.   

Incensed, Richard unsheathed his blade.  “Stop!” 

Neither combatant paid any heed as the clash of their swords reverberated through the still woods.  Possessed by hatred so diseased it had twisted his soul, Mullens wielded his weapon with beserker rage.  By contrast Canter was poised precision, striking lithely then dancing free of reciprocating blows.  To Richard, dazed and bedraggled with pain, the exchange looked like something enacted in slow motion.  When Canter struck again, Richard slid his sword into the fray, cleanly deflecting the blow.   

Enraged, Canter glanced at him with hatred in his eyes.  “Stay out of this, Richard.” 

“I’ll be damned if I will!”  Even injured he managed to batter Mullens’ sword aside.  Catching Lucian by the tunic, he shoved backward, thrusting him up against a tree.  It took every pain-wracked ounce of strength he possessed to hold him there.  “You’re so bloody set on blaming Mullens for your misery, you’ve forgotten you had a father¾a real father who might have raised you outside of Torsun-Narr had he the courage to do so.” 

“She told me my father was dead,” Lucian snapped. 

Behind him, Richard heard the crunch of snow as Mullens moved closer.  Turning his head only slightly, he snarled over his shoulder:  “Stay were you are, Baron.”  And then to Lucian:  “She told you what you needed to hear.  What would you have done if she told you your real father had no want of you either?” 

“You’re lying.”  Canter dropped his sword.  Unsheathing his knife, he raised it above his head.  From the corner of his eye Richard could see the polluted blade still stained with his own blood.  “Release me,” Canter warned.  “Or I’ll finish what I started at the stable.” 

Behind Richard, Mullens leaned forward thrusting cleanly with his sword.  The blade cleared Richard’s side, embedding deeply into Canter’s chest.  Jerking spasmodically, the blonde-haired man wrenched backward, impaled like a fish on a gaffing pole.  Eyes boggling in his head, his mouth pumped soundlessly as his hands groped futilely at the thick blade pinning him to the tree.  Mullens wrenched the weapon free and Richard¾mortified by his unwilling part in the attack¾released his hold.  Canter crumbled soundlessly to the ground. 

 For a moment Richard only stared at the lifeless heap sprawled at his boots¾a belated sense of shock pinging hollowly through his veins.  There was a sound like rushing water in his ears, and then the enormity of what had transpired eradicated every sensation but for the engulfing black tide of rage.

“Damn you!”  Whirling about, Richard swung his sword in a deadly arc, battering his father-in-law’s bloodstained blade to the ground.  “Damn you to hell, you yellow-skinned bastard!”  There was no reason in his actions, just sheer volatile rage, blinding him to everything but the gut-twisting turmoil devouring his insides. 

“He would have killed you, you pig-headed fool,” Mullens spat, stumbling backward. 

Richard heard nothing.  He struck again and again, the unerring path of his blade as precise as it was lethal.  It was all Mullens could do to fend off the blows and purchase precious seconds.  If he’d ever doubted Richard’s skill with a sword, there was no longer any question.  Even injured, blood spilling from his side, Richard was a deadly opponent.   Mullens held the younger man off as long as he could, but eventually stumbled.  On one knee he raised his sword perpendicular above his head, his only defense against the deadly arc of silver in Richard’s hands.  One final blow from Richard’s sword sent it crashing from his numb fingers.  Defenseless, Mullens sucked in a breath, looking on the enraged visage of his son-in-law. 

Richard’s breath rasped in his throat.  Only belatedly did his senses clear, revealing the sight of his father-in-law kneeling in the snow.  Richard’s sword hovered just shy of his throat, the tempered edge gleaming coldly silver.  Chest heaving, Richard tried to get his erratic emotions under control.  Though frequently given to anger, he couldn’t recall ever being so completely consumed by rage before. 

“He would have killed you,” Mullens repeated flatly. 

Richard lowered his blade.   Though he doubted Mullens had taken Canter’s life to save his, he couldn’t dispute it under the circumstances.  As the unreasonable surge of anger washed away he felt a shattering influx of weakness.  Sheathing his sword he staggered away from Mullens and dropped at Canter’s side.  Extending his hand he brushed his fingers over his friend’s eyes, gently sweeping them closed.  Within moments, Mullens appeared at his shoulder.  The naked tip of his blade dripped beads of Canter’s blood to the snow-covered ground. 

“You will say nothing of who he was to my daughter,” Mullens instructed coldly.  Raising his sword, he held the blade poised casually behind Richard’s neck.  A single stroke would have ended the Mullens/Grey alliance . . . would have freed Gwendolyn to marry a man of the Baron’s choosing.  With a little finesse, Richard’s demise could easily have been blamed on Carrister.  And more importantly to the Lord of Torsun-Narr¾it would have healed his wounded pride.

 Mullens sheathed his sword.   

Unnerved, Richard cast him a questioning glance.   

“It’s better Gwendolyn thinks her brother still lives somewhere distant,” Mullens said flatly.  His eyes dipped to the blood dripping from Richard’s side.  “I promised her I’d see you safely inside, so get on your feet.  I’ll send a wagon to fetch Carrister’s body.” 

Even in death, Mullens couldn’t bring himself to voice Lucian’s true name, Richard thought distastefully.  He might have argued the point but exhaustion kept him mute.  Grimacing, he struggled to his feet and glanced bleakly about for his horse.  He took two steps toward the animal before crumbling to his knees in the snow. 

Mullens swore loudly.  Snow crunched beneath his boots as he strode brusquely to Richard’s side.  Mumbling beneath his breath he hooked Richard’s arm, roughly stretching it across his shoulders as he pulled the younger man to his feet.  “If it weren’t for Gwendolyn I’d let you rot out here,” he spat vehemently. 

Too tired to care, Richard sagged against him.  “That’s what I like about you, Baron¾you’re utterly predictable.” 

+++++ 

“Dearest.”  The word was gentle and soft, drawing Richard from the blissful cocoon of sleep.  Something touched his face¾a feather caress, tracking smoothly over his cheek like the petal-soft wings of a butterfly.  With a muffled groan he blinked and opened his eyes, enraptured by the sight of his wife smiling down on him.  “It’s almost morning,” she whispered.  “How do you feel?”

Richard concentrated on the softness of the bed against his back; the enveloping warmth of the fur-trimmed blankets effectively blocking remembered cold.  Gwendolyn sat on the edge of the bed wrapped in a robe of sapphire blue, her unbound hair spilling over her shoulders.  Richard raised his arm and she gripped his hand, twining her fingers about his.  “Father brought you back,” she volunteered, sensing his confusion.  “The healer tended you and you’ve slept most of the night.” 

Richard wet his lips.  “Carrister,” he said with difficulty. 

Gwendolyn appeared uncomfortable if only briefly.  “The stable master and Armus took a wagon to fetch his body,” she explained carefully.  “Father went with them to mark the location.” 

“And?”  Richard persisted when she lapsed into silence. 

Gwendolyn glanced at their hands twined so closely together.  “Carrister’s body wasn’t there, Richard.”

 “What do you mean it wasn’t there?” 

Awkwardly, Gwendolyn rolled her shoulders.  “It was  . . . gone.  Vanished, as though it’d never been.” 

“But that’s impossible.”  Agitated at the revelation, Richard struggled to rise.  

Pressing her hands to his chest, Gwendolyn held him firmly in place.  “The healer says you’re not to move.  You’ll rip open his stitching if you’re not careful.” 

“The Devil take it!”  Richard snapped.  Thrusting aside the blankets, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.  Gwendolyn hurried to the opposite side, attempting to restrain him. The moment his legs took the full force of his weight, Richard felt an unforgiving lance of pain splinter through his side.  With a startled cry, he pressed his hand to the angry wound and slumped back into the bed.

 Sitting beside him, Gwendolyn supported him with a hand beneath his arm.  “Please, Richard¾you must not be so willful.” 

Had it been anyone other than his wife voicing those words, Richard might have scoffed.  As it was, he felt oddly chastised for the heated rush of agitation.  “I saw Carrister die,” he said firmly, trying to still the irrational rush of emotion.  Was it possible he’d been so wrong?  Could there have existed some glimmer of life in the battered shell of his friend?

“Father said he tried to kill you.  He said he had no choice.” 

Richard glanced away.  He couldn’t tell her the truth.  In her eyes Lucian Carrister must forever remain a murderer who had taken the life of Lionel Rothrock for undisclosed reasons.  To her, Mullens had acted heroically¾saving Richard from a butchering fiend who’d beguiled him with false friendship.  And as much as Richard believed Mullens had murdered Lucian for the pleasure it brought, a smaller part wanted to believe the Baron had truly been protecting his life. 

“What of my mother’s bracelet?”  Gwendolyn asked when he’d remained silent too long.  “Father made no mention of it, but if Carrister truly killed Lord Rothrock, he must have had the medallion as well.” 

Uncomfortably Richard wet his lips.  “I do believe it was his, Gwen.”  Though he’d promised Mullens not to tell Gwendolyn Carrister’s true identity, it wasn’t in him to blatantly lie to his wife.  He consoled himself with a half-truth.  “I’m not certain how he came upon it¾perhaps his path crossed with your mother’s at some point in time.  I guess we’ll never know for certain.”

 Even as he voiced the words a niggling doubt told Richard Carrister wasn’t dead.  He’d looked on his friend’s face¾on the staring, lifeless eyes¾but maybe that was what Lucian Carrister had wanted him to see.  Perhaps Carrister had freed him from involvement and guilt by feigning death so complete, even Mullens had been fooled.  It was¾however deceitful¾the carefully orchestrated act of a friend. 

Gwendolyn touched his arm and he jerked suddenly, coming back to his senses.  Tomorrow he’d have to face Baron Wicklow, knowing the man had turned his back on Charlotte Canter and the illegitimate son she’d borne him so many years ago.  What would Mullens do, Richard wondered, if he knew the identity of the man who’d stolen his wife’s heart?  It was better the secret remained buried.  Struggling with the truth, Richard found it oddly disconcerting to realize how much respect he’d lost for a man he’d once admired. 

 For Lucian he wanted to confront Wicklow.  For Gwendolyn he could not.

 “You’re tired,” his wife said, and he realized quite suddenly she was right.  His bones felt weighted with iron; his eyelids with burgeoning fatigue.  Looping his arm around Gwendolyn’s shoulders, Richard pulled her close.  Brushing his lips across her temple, he closed his eyes¾inhaling the wondrous fragrance of her hair; the heady perfume of her rose-dusted flesh.  Slipping a finger beneath her chin he tilted her head back, bringing her lips within inches of his own. 

 “Stay with me,” he whispered.  “I promise we’ll never be parted again.”

 Eagerly Gwendolyn folded into his arms, welcoming the vow he anointed with a kiss.  To her, it mattered not if Lucian Carrister had lived or died.  But to Richard Grey and John Mullens, the torment would forever linger.

*****End*****

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