Chapter 4
Tristan surveyed the large, well-appointed chamber he’d been led to by two tittering young ladies. At least a dozen bright tapestries adorned the walls and there was a roaring fire already lit in the fireplace. It was a luxury he was grateful for since the gloomy winter weather had sunk deep into his bones, adding to his fatigue and the pain in his shoulder. As soon as the two girls wrested most of his armor off him, he collapsed onto the huge bed, unable to hold back a contented sigh when he found how soft and inviting it was.
“If you please, sir,” one of the girls said, swallowing hard and looking every which way but at him. “Our lord Sir Walter has ordered a feast for you and …” she trailed off, clutching at her flowing sleeves.
He sighed, sick of being an object of fear, and sat up. He tried to smile benignly at her, but the way she jumped, he may as well have been baring fangs. The other one was already half out the door.
“What of a bath?” he asked, certain no one wanted him at their table in the state he was in.
“Yes, of course. You shall have one after the feast,” she said. Unable to take another second of his presence, they both fled the room.
He dragged himself from the bed and found a pitcher of water to rinse his hands and face, at least, hoping the castle had heartier servants or he’d never get a request out before they ran in terror. He scrubbed his wet hands over his face a few times, wincing at a small cut near his hairline, then turning around to further survey his new home for the next fortnight.
Yes, it was a fine room, but he suspected it was nowhere near as fine as what Sir Andrew had been given on his trips to visit their liege lord. With a shrug, he imagined it was because he hadn’t yet proven himself. No matter, he was used to proving himself.
Not that he should have to. He reminded himself that he was now the rightful owner of Dernier Keep. If Sir Walter was as honorable as Sir Andrew had always believed and told him, then there should be no disputing that. And Dernier Keep was the final stronghold against the marauders from the north. Sir Andrew had helped keep Grancourt Castle as well as the rest of England safe these many years and Tristan intended to keep doing that. He hoped to keep doing that.
He wondered if someone was going to come for him or if he should find his own way back to the great hall. Or if someone was ever going to bring his things. He blinked, trying not to judge the appalling lack of welcome he was receiving. He knew Sir Walter’s wife had died recently, but what of the daughters?
He recalled the small gaggle of young ladies as he’d passed through the gates, two of which he was sure were the frightened servants. Another of them had actually stood on her toes to get a look at them, as if she’d never seen someone come from a battle before. She couldn’t have been one of the daughters, as Sir Walter had a great reputation for fighting, keeping their borders safe for many years before he retired. And it hadn’t been all that long ago that his own children wouldn’t remember it, unless they’d been sheltered by their mother when she was alive.
He grunted and tried to dust off his clothes. It was a lost cause. At least two of those young ladies he’d seen at the gates had been Sir Walter’s offspring and, according to Brom, he should keep them in mind for a wife. But, except for the oddity of the one girl gawking at him like a peasant, none of them had especially stood out to him. Certainly not as someone he’d want to live with for the rest of his days, back at the keep he so loved.
Neither had any of them looked especially sickly or ill-tempered, so he hoped that was poor information on Brom’s part. Brom had parted ways with him in the courtyard, wanting to see to the horses, but promised to meet up with him as soon as the task was done. A broken promise, as the light knock at his chamber door turned out to be a page.
The young lad looked up at him with reverence. In as firm of a voice as he could manage, he announced he’d be taking Sir Tristan to dine.
“If you’re ready, that is, my lord,” the boy stammered. “The family awaits you.”
“You needn’t call me your lord, as I am not,” Tristan said gruffly. He didn’t especially want the boy to fear him, but he felt it better to keep everyone on their toes. “You may lead the way.”
The boy bowed three times in succession and hurried away on his thin legs. Tristan followed him down the curving stairs and through a heavy, wooden door. He noticed with appreciation that the place was almost completely free of drafts and every wall had a luxurious tapestry or two hanging from it. The place was well-lit and smelled of fresh herbs and delicious, roasted meat. Sir Walter had done well for himself over the years, keeping the favor of the king and earning himself this luxurious, and now somewhat safe existence.
As he was led to the high table where Sir Walter sat, along with two young ladies and an older man, he scanned the lower tables for Brom. He saw his squire already lifting a mug and laughing with some of his men and envied them a bit. He decided then and there to knight his idiot squire just so he’d have an ally close at hand at suppers like this.
Sir Walter stood and motioned for the two girls to do the same. One was exceedingly thin, as if she might blow away, and he was glad the place was so free of drafts. Her father boomed that she was Lady Anne, his eldest, and the creator of many of the tapestries all around them. She had dark hair and a pale face, but smiled and curtseyed before casting her eyes downward.
“And this is my Fay,” Sir Walter said, squeezing the other girl’s shoulder. “My youngest.” He trailed off, seeming not to have anything else to say about her.
It was the one who’d stood on her toes and gawked at them as they entered, he was sure of it. He was absolutely sure of it when, after her somewhat clumsy curtsey, she gawked at him some more. He furrowed his brow at her, something that usually made even the most stalwart look away, but she continued inspecting him. That was the only way he could describe to himself the way her eyes roamed from the top of his head to his boots and back up again.
Impertinent, he thought, taking his seat next to Sir Walter.
He hated thinking ill of this family he’d never heard anything but wonderful things about, but clearly this one daughter had been left to her own devices quite a bit too much. To his chagrin, she sat on the other side of him, still staring. He would have much preferred the quiet one, who demurely sat on the other side of her father.
The other man was introduced as Roric, the chamberlain, and he sat at the far end of the table. Too far for Tristan to hope to make conversation with him. It looked like he was stuck with this girl. This—he’d already forgotten her name and trying to put things on a better foot, turned to beg her pardon and remind him.
She was still staring at him! He decided to return her rudeness in kind and gave her a slow once-over, gratified to see it make a rosy blush rise to her cheeks. He instantly cursed himself for his bad judgment and looked at his plate. Staring back at her had only made him realize she was quite attractive. Creamy skin and bright eyes, her form-fitting gown revealing curves in all the places he liked. He found to his extreme discomfort that he wanted to look at her more, but was saved by a serving lad piling his plate with food.
He wanted to take another peek, just to set the record straight in his mind if her eyes were more the green of the sea in summer or rather the hue of new leaves in spring. And when had he cared so much about varying shades of green? Still, it took all his strength not to look back in her direction. He set to his roasted pig with gusto.
“And I was worried about which fork to use.”
He couldn’t help it. He was certain she’d spoken, so he had to look at her. “I beg your pardon, Lady …” Damn it. He still couldn’t remember her name. And her eyes were definitely more the green of a summer sea, right after a storm. Good God, what was wrong with him?
“Oh my goodness, they’re so blue,” she burst out, then looked pained. After a moment, she held up her knife and stabbed daintily at a piece of meat, smiling at him nervously. “Nothing,” she said. “I was worried about something that doesn’t seem to exist yet.” She popped the bite of pork into her mouth and, for a moment, he was paralyzed by the sight of her plump, pink lips as she chewed.
It had been far too long for him to have gone without a woman, but not nearly long enough, he decided as he took in her senseless words.
“Blue? Doesn’t exist yet?” he repeated, shaking his head.
She blushed harder, looking fearful for a moment. Was she addled? Turning away from her, he stared out at the lower tables until he caught Brom’s eye. He only wanted a little commiseration from a friend, but Brom raised his cup and nodded his chin toward the girl, waggling his brows outrageously. Tristan gave him such a glare in return that Brom spilled some of his wine. As soon as he was able to speak to his squire again, he’d put any notions of marrying out of his head. With force if he had to.
He leaned over, spying the other daughter speaking quietly to her father. That one seemed normal enough, though when she sensed him looking her way and nodded politely at him, he didn’t find himself obsessing about the color of her eyes.
“How was your trip?”
He spun back to find those sea green eyes looking at him, wide and curious. All at once, he recalled her name. Fay? Fae? Had he been enchanted by the wee forest folk his drunk of a father sometimes went on about?
“It seemed like a rough journey,” she prodded after he blinked at her dumbly for a moment.
He almost laughed aloud at her tone. Did she think there was something wrong with him? He wanted to say something cutting to put her in her place, but all thoughts escaped him. Every moment that passed in silence, her eyes grew darker. Pity, or contempt, he wasn’t sure.
“The journey was uneventful,” he grumbled.
She looked him up and down some more, giving him the strangest urge to either strangle her or claim her mouth in a kiss. “You seemed … I thought there was blood.” she pressed her lips together. “I mean, I hope you and your men aren’t injured.”
He did laugh then at her naivety. Her father had been out of action too long. “There’s always blood,” he said. “Someone’s always injured.”
For some reason, her feelings looked slightly hurt, something he was surprised he noticed. More surprised that he cared. If only those eyes of hers weren’t so expressive. They captivated him in a way he’d never experienced before. He decided it was because he was exhausted, and his throbbing shoulder was affecting his ability to think. It was better to ignore her for the rest of the evening rather than risk making a fool of himself.
He turned so that he faced Sir Walter, who immediately struck up a conversation, wanting to know, in detail, everything he’d seen and heard since Sir Andrew’s death. As difficult as it was to speak of it, it was a relief to be free of that green gaze. He made it through the rest of the meal answering questions and decided he liked Sir Walter. Everything he’d been told about the man’s intelligence shone through in his conversation and though the girls did seem to be lacking—the one anyway—it was clear he adored his family.
Tristan began to wonder how many more courses the feast would be, so full to bursting with fine food he didn’t think he could take a single bite of the pastries that finally signaled the end of the meal. Still, it had been so long since he’d even seen a fruit tart, he forced himself to bite into its flaky crust, savoring the sweet, chewy center. He knew he’d end up with a terrible stomachache from his overindulgence but, right now, it felt worth it.
The music grew louder and the supper companion to his other side jolted herself back into his consciousness.
“Oh my gosh, is that a real live jester?” she squealed, then clapped her hand over her mouth. She’d also been eating a tart and he found himself irrationally disappointed that he’d missed watching her bite into it. She turned to him, obviously aghast that he’d heard her outburst. She cleared her throat. “Do you care for this sort of entertainment? Jesters?”
“Real ones,” he said, pleased to see her face go purple. “Does your household often avail themselves of imaginary jesters? I can only devise that’s what you mean by real? And live? Certainly the dead ones can’t be very entertaining.”
She looked so devastated by his teasing that he worried she might become ill and he cast around for words to put her at ease. If she was truly not well in her mind, it wasn’t right of him to bait her. Just because her good looks had given him uncomfortable and inappropriate thoughts, it was no reason for him to be so churlish.
Before he could think of anything to say, Lady Anne coughed violently. It wasn’t the quick burst of someone who’d swallowed their drink wrong. The poor girl clutched at her chest and leaned over, gasping for breath, the wracking coughs refusing to subside.
Sir Walter jumped up, taking his other daughter by the arm. “Fay, take her to her chamber at once.” He desperately cast around the hall. “Where’s Edgar? Someone find the physician,” he bellowed.
Lady Anne tried to straighten up, her face strained. “Please, do not worry yourself, Father. I’ll be fine in a moment. Don’t let this spoil the festivities.” She tried valiantly to hold her breath but, after a second, another bout of hacking overtook her.
Fay grabbed her elbow and led her away. She looked mildly concerned, but Sir Walter was beside himself, still hollering for the physician. Now he knew who the sickly one was, he supposed. That hadn’t been bad information from Brom. But the tender way Fay helped her sister up the stairs belied the claim of someone who was ill-tempered. Simple perhaps. Definitely odd. He watched her until the two young ladies slipped behind the door to one of the stairways. He hoped she’d disappear as easily from his mind now that she was out of his sight, but still she remained there.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Sir Walter said, gripping his forearm. “Please continue to enjoy yourself. But I must see to my daughter. She hasn’t been well lately.”
“Certainly, Sir Walter,” he said, bowing slightly. “And do not worry about me. I only want a bath and my bed, so do what you must.”
The older man nodded absently. “I’m sure someone will see to it.”
He hurried off, leaving Tristan to either sit down again or find his way back to his chamber. Everyone at the lower tables had returned to their festivities already. He didn’t want to disturb Brom, who was swilling back yet another cup of wine, nor did he want to answer any of his questions. He thought about grabbing the neck of a passing servant boy to lead him back to his chamber, but then laughed at himself.
Had he grown used to being lord of the manor so quickly that he needed a servant for every damn thing? He could find his own way and if his bath wasn’t brought up in due time, then he’d grouse about it. Honestly, he was so tired he could have done without the bath, but something told him not to be too easy of a guest.
He’d been treated with the utmost respect by Sir Walter at supper, but it was clear the older knight still saw him as a lad. Not a peer. Certainly not someone who he needed to worry overly about, as evidenced by his being abandoned at table. Tristan felt small thinking that way, especially since Sir Walter had only recently lost his wife to an illness. It made sense he should be so concerned about his eldest daughter. He chuckled to himself, thinking he should probably be more concerned about Lady Anne as well, as she was the only daughter anywhere near suitable to be his bride. If it came to that, which he still prayed it wouldn’t.
He huffed as he finally found the door to his room and pushed it open, pleased to see a steaming tub of water waiting for him. No one to assist him, but he’d already learned to be grateful for small things in this strange castle.