Chapter 2
Sir Tristan Ballard rode wearily over the dried mud, sorry for his horse and beginning to feel the inklings of pity for himself. His squire and most trusted friend Brom looked half-dead in his saddle and they still had miles to go before they reached their new liege’s castle.
It wasn’t a long journey, but they were both injured from the skirmish that had erupted when a small band of outlaws foolishly tried to lay claim to his new property. Word must have not properly spread that even though Sir Andrew had died without an heir, Dernier Keep was not up for grabs.
Sir Andrew had been like a father to him, taking him on as a squire when his own father had gone bankrupt and fled for France in the hopes of regaining what little he’d lost. When word came back that his father had taken up with the wrong lot and had perished in a tavern brawl, reportedly after being caught trying to cheat the proprietor, his mother had died of a broken heart. Why she’d continued to love the base, cowardly man was beyond Tristan’s comprehension, even at the tender age of seven when he found himself an orphan.
Sir Andrew had been everything he aspired to be; honest, fine, and fierce in battle. He was so grateful not to be judged by his weak father, but by his own accomplishments, Tristan became something of an overachiever and was knighted at only fifteen. He’d never once let Sir Andrew down. So, it was no surprise to him that his beloved foster father, mentor, and friend had left him the keep and its lands.
Everyone around him thought he should be delighted to be in charge of such good farmland and such a sturdy, though small keep, but his grief at losing Sir Andrew hadn’t left him yet. Andrew’s death had been sudden and, worse, Tristan had been away and hadn’t gotten to say goodbye or thank you, or ask what he was supposed to do.
Though it choked him with ungratefulness to admit it, he found being a lord of the manor a burden and would have rather continued battling under Sir Andrew’s name. Now, he’d have to send men off to keep the crown safe and be stuck at home tending … he wasn’t quite sure what, and that was part of the problem.
It might have been easier if infidels didn’t keep thinking they could lay claim to it. He wondered how many more men he’d have to kill before word spread that the land was his. Having to make this journey to Sir Walter Grancourt’s castle to assure that man of his continued loyalty, as Sir Andrew had always done, was not just an inconvenience, but dangerous, considering it seemed everyone who’d ever admired Dernier from afar thought they could take it for themselves. He’d left it well guarded by his most trusted men and the trip should only be a fortnight, but he would have felt better staying at home for now.
“You’ll have to get married,” Brom said suddenly, reaching around in his bags for a small, dried up apple. He took a bite and offered the rest to Tristan, who shook his head at the unsavory offer. Even more unsavory was Brom’s opinion.
“I daresay I won’t,” he countered. But his squire, only a year younger than him, wasn’t an idiot and wouldn’t say such a thing if he didn’t have a good reason. “But what makes you think so?” Tristan asked, feeling another burden settle onto his shoulders.
“Look at the trouble not having a legal heir caused Sir Andrew,” he said, taking another bite of the apple. “Look what trouble it’s causing you now. It’d be better to get a few honest brats out into the world so when you go, people can rest easy on who owns the place.”
“Well, I suppose if I were to die without an heir, it would all go back to Sir Walter,” Tristan said reasonably. He’d never met the man, always being out on campaign when Sir Andrew made his visits. But Tristan didn’t have anything against being a vassal to Sir Walter. He was, by all accounts, fair and had never shirked his duties when it came to war. “And anyway, I don’t plan on ‘going’ any time soon.”
“One never knows.” Brom grinned, then quickly straightened his face when he saw Tristan’s dark look. It was too soon to be making such jokes. Sir Andrew had probably thought the same thing, and it was only by good fortune that he’d thought to make a will naming Tristan as his heir. “And Tristan, it’s very likely someone’s going to come forward and contest it, try and convince the king the land should be theirs. It’s best to make a good impression on Sir Walter in case that happens, as he’ll have a say in the matter.”
“I don’t intend to insult Sir Walter,” Tristan grumbled. Then he sat up straighter in his saddle, despite it pulling on the wound in his shoulder. “You cannot mean I should try to marry one of his daughters? It’s daughters he has, correct?”
“Two of them.” Brom tossed his apple core and rubbed his hands together as if eager to tell a tale. “One is sickly and the other bad-tempered. From what I was told, they’re both past their prime, but Sir Walter is loath to let them go since his wife died only a year or two ago.”
“Then I shall not trouble him by taking one of them now,” Tristan said, shaking his head.
Brom had a straight face, but he felt like he was being teased. However, Brom wouldn’t drop the subject and, with a dawning sense of horror, realized that his squire honestly thought it was a good idea that he try to marry one of his new liege lord’s daughters.
“If you mean to hold on to Dernier Keep and its lands, I strongly advise it, sir,” Brom said.
Tristan turned and stared at the man. Brom never called him sir except in the direst of circumstances. They’d grown up together and were as close as brothers. Brom performed all his duties without a twitch and usually before he was asked. So Tristan had never seen any need to force protocol because he’d been knighted and Brom had not felt the need for that rank yet. He was the sort who liked more work and less responsibility, and sometimes Tristan envied him.
“Do you truly fear we may lose the land?” he asked.
As much as he didn’t relish the thought of taking over its day to day running, he couldn’t abide losing it. It was his home, and Sir Andrew had thought it was right for him to have it. Since he was seven and the man had taken him in, Tristan had always done what Sir Andrew thought was right.
“I do fear it,” he said. His usually merry face was grim.
“Sickly and bad-tempered, you say?” he asked after a long moment of pondering. “I suppose it would be too much to ask that one at least be fair of face?”
“That, I have not heard either way.” Brom wearily turned to see the men that were traveling with them had begun to lag behind and he whistled shrilly for them to keep up. “Let us pray it to be so.”