“Edwin,” Richard bellowed as he hopped about on one foot.

“Yes, my lord?” His steward shuffled into the chamber, looking even more bent than the past summer. Nigh on two years Richard had been lord over Bainford, and in truth, he enjoyed the solitude. Richard snorted. Solitude.

“What is that infernal noise?” He’d sat on the trunk at the foot of the bed and examined the source of the pain. A wooden wolf with red on its snout seemed to mock him. How it ended up in his chamber was a mystery. One of the lads, no doubt.

Ever since a woodworker had come to Bainford seeking sanctuary, the small carvings had turned up in the strangest places. He’d found one in the garderobe, the stables, and a carved cat in the corner of the dungeon.

The man was a fourth son with no prospects, and as he did not wish to join the monastery, he entered the gates, asked to speak to Richard, and offered his skill in exchange for a bed and meals. In the man’s favor, he did not flinch or cross himself—he met Richard’s gaze, and when he accepted, the man fell to his knees, grateful. Hrumph.

Edwin took the carved wolf. “The lads offered Merry aid in catching the chickens. She is making chicken pie for supper.”

“Mayhap I should ask,” Richard said as he pulled on his boots. “Where were the chickens this time?”

The long-suffering sigh from his steward said what Richard had felt these past months. The castle had gone from a dozen souls to a score and three. Orphan children appeared as if left by the faeries. Some were left by their parents; others made their own way. The king could make good use of such knowledgeable spies.

How did they know to come to Bainford? When asked, Richard heard the same answer: they heard on the road or in the tavern or on the streets.

“Never mind. ’Tis better I do not know. I’ll sort them out.”

“As you say, my lord.” Edwin shuffled across the floor. “One was in your solar, sitting on the stool before the fire.”

Richard covered his ears. “Nay, do not tell me more.” Blasted chickens. He ignored the state of his hall as he strode outside. The walls were bare, the decayed paneling ripped down and removed by the Irish, the furniture was sparse, and the table coverings all chewed by vermin. Then again, his coffers, cellar, and larder were full and his tunics clean. Outside, the sun warmed his bones. Mayhap this was the best life he could hope for.

The Irishmen finished repairs to the chapel and garrison. Next they would see to his hall. The outer walls would withstand any attack, the moat was full of fish, and the drawbridge was new and sturdy. The past two years had been filled with much-needed work, and if Richard caught sight of his ruined visage, he simply looked away. There were enough children at Bainford; he had no need of a wife and could seek out a wench if needs be. If he kept telling himself, perchance he would believe it to be so.

A carriage accompanied by five riders rolled into the courtyard, and he found himself besieged on all sides.

“I see the walls are in good repair, though you’ve need of more men to guard the place.” Garrick dismounted, brushing the dust from his hose.

The door to the carriage opened, and two women stepped out, followed by two children. Mouth slack, Richard watched. Saints, not more of the imps.

“Richard, I have brought you two chairs. Garrick says you’ve nowhere to sit in this decrepit hall of yours.”

“Edith. You traveled all the way from London in this weather? Is your husband vexing you again?” Richard embraced Garrick’s eldest sister. “Where are the rest of your fetching sisters?”

She sniffed. “Busy having babes and running their households. Margery is still unwed, if you have decided to marry.”

Richard looked to Garrick, who backed away, holding his hands out. “I want no part of womanly schemes.” He grinned over his shoulder. “I’m for the lists. If you’re wise, you’ll join me anon.”

Richard proffered his arm to Edith, careful to keep her on his left so she would not suffer to look upon him.

“Shall I run your husband through? You always wanted to visit distant lands.”

She patted his arm. “Nay. I will poison him if he becomes troublesome.”

“Mistress?” The serving woman stayed close to the carriage.

“Come along,” Edith said.

The woman crossed herself. “Nay, I cannot. The beast will kill me and eat the children.”

Richard knew that look of displeasure on her face. He stepped back, for there was no stopping Edith when she was in a temper.

“You will take the children to the kitchens and wait for me there. I will have no talk of beasts. Lord Bainford saved my brother’s life. Say another word and I will see you beaten.”

Wetness leaking down her face, the girl nodded. “Yes, mistress.”

“Tales of the black keep with its demon have spread to London.” Edith rolled her eyes. “I see you find this most pleasing. I brought gifts.”

“Aye. I see the gifts quite well with my one eye.” Richard snorted. The chairs were but a bribe for him to take in two more children.

The girl hid behind the servant while her brother darted looks at him. The boys were terrified and fascinated at the same time. Richard scowled and hid a grin when the boy ducked behind the servant’s skirts.

He saw Edith settled in one of the new chairs before the fire then sent the servants for wine.

“In truth, you will always find sanctuary here,” Richard said. “I will not let your husband use you ill.”

Edith stretched her toes before the fire. “Everand does not beat me. He is too busy with his mistress.” She patted his hand. “Do not worry overmuch; my sisters live close by and are fine company. I have two children and a home. It is enough.”

Edith was the eldest, then Garrick. There were six other sisters: Meg, Ella, Beatrice, Beverly, Heloise, and little Margery.

“Has Margery any prospects for suitors?” Garrick had wished for Richard to wed the girl, but he refused. ’Twas enough to see the loathing on the merchants’ faces. He would not bear such from a wife. Nay, he would rather be alone.

“The blacksmith will offer for her. It is a good match.” Edith accepted the goblet of wine from the servant. They sat in silence while Richard waited for her to tell him the reason for her visit.

Edith cleared her throat. “You know what is being said about you in London?”

“I can guess.” Richard looked at his blue tunic and hose. Both had been mended many times. ’Twas time to send for the merchant for more cloth. His men and the children also required new clothing, so he would see it done as much as it pained him.

“Can you?” Cool gray eyes met his.

She was plain, yet he found her eyes reminded him of a winter sky, and the kindness he saw within made her beautiful.

“No one willingly ventures here,” she continued. “You cannot keep men nor servants; they run shrieking from your hall. Why do you encourage these rumors? There are tales of parents leaving their changeling children at the gates of Bainford for the beast to eat. Others tell of tying up orphans and leaving them as sacrifices to the beast to ensure a good harvest.”

“Superstitions. You know ’tis not true.”

“Aye. But men are foolish, and I do not wish to hear my brother was killed fighting a mob come to drive away the devil.”

“I wish to be left alone. Garrick is free to go where he pleases.” Richard drained his wine.

Edith looked at his hall, her nose wrinkled at the dirty rushes on the floor and bare walls. He had been busy with the outer defenses these past years. There were no longer holes in his roof—the rest of the hall could wait.

“Garrick is loyal.” She cocked her head. “As are you. To a fault.” Edith placed a hand on his arm. “There is one truth in the rumors. I see the children.”

“I will not turn them away.”

“Nay, I know this, Richard,” she said softly. “’Tis why I brought the boy and the girl.”

“There was nowhere for them in London?”

Her gray dress swept the floor as she took his arm and walked with him around the hall.

“Their parents died. I was buying cloth when I saw them. They had been caught stealing bread. You know what happens to orphan children. I could not leave them, and Everand would not feed beggars.” She held up a hand. “I do not want your gold—we have enough, but not enough to feed any more mouths.”

Edith frowned as two dogs ran through the hall chased by two boys, shrieking like the very hounds of hell Richard was oft compared to.

She sighed, hands on her hips. “Wade has seven years and Maron five. The children need a home and you need servants. The boy can work in the stables, the girl in the gardens—what is left of them.”

Richard knew when he was bested. “I will see to them.”

She nodded and looked away, rubbing her eyes, but not before Richard saw her leaking. He might have rolled his eye had he not found a speck of dust preventing him from doing such.

In the morn, after a bout in the lists with Garrick, Richard saw Edith off then went in search of the children. He found them staring into the moat.

Crouching beside them, he peered into the dark water. “What do you see?”

The girl jumped. But the boy pointed. “Fish.”

“Aye. There are some big ones swimming in there. Good eating.” Richard eyed the urchin. “Do ye fish?”

“I cannot swim. How do I catch them?” His clothes were tattered and stained. The way he scratched told Richard the boy would have to bathe or spread lice to all the children.

“Robin will show you.” He looked to the girl. She was sitting still as if she might escape his notice if she did not move.

“Maron. Why did you and your brother steal?” Richard kept his gaze on the water, not wanting to startle the child. Edwin was fond of telling him he bellowed like the giants of old.

She was dirty, her hair matted, yet he could see a smile under the hair she kept over her face.

“We tried to work but none would have us. And we was hungry.”

“Our parents died of a sickness,” the boy said. “Then we had no place to live, so we slept in old buildings.” He met Richard’s gaze but did not flinch at what he saw. “I kept Maron safe. She is my responsibility.”

Richard respected that. “You will not steal from me.”

“Nay, my lord,” they said.

“If you do, I will eat you.”

The boy jumped, and Richard grinned. “Nay, methinks you would not have enough meat on you to feed the beast.” Then he struck true fear into their little hearts. “If you wish to live here at Bainford, you will have a bath and clean clothes.”

The children looked stricken. They whispered, then Wade and his sister stood, shoulder to shoulder.

“We will bathe, my lord.”

“Go find Merry. She will give you new clothes.” Richard stood, his leg sore from crouching so long. “After, you will have a proper meal.”

It seemed Bainford had become the home of lost souls, damaged men, and orphans.