Castle of the Wolf. Margaret Moore
to linger any longer and came forward at once. “Yes, my lady?”
“Open the shutters near the doors. The hall is getting too stuffy.”
“Yes, my lady,” Sally replied, doing as she was bid and wisely ignoring the obvious disappointment of the young squires.
Tamsin couldn’t imagine Sir Rheged ever being like those boys, giddy with excitement over the tournament, trying their best to look manly and to persuade a woman into their bed.
Determined, even ruthless she could see, but never giddy. As for looking manly, she could well believe Sir Rheged had always exuded that sense of contained and controlled power. And when it came to persuading a woman into bed, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn women had fought for the privilege.
“Careful, my lady!” Denly called out as she nearly stepped into the path of the servants moving the top of one of the trestle tables out of the way.
“I shall be,” she murmured, and not just when it came to moving the tables. She would avoid Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron for the rest of his visit there. It would surely be better—and safer—that way.
* * *
Late the next morning, after the light rain had let up just as Sir Rheged had said it would and the melee had commenced in the far field, Tamsin headed to the kitchen to check the progress of the preparations for the feast that would mark the end of the tournament. As she neared the entrance, she heard the unmistakable sound of a slap, followed by Armond’s loud and angry voice. “Get up, you lazy, good-for-nothing scamp!”
Tamsin hurried into the kitchen to see Ben, the little spit boy, holding his cheek, while Armond towered over him, hands on beefy hips. “Armond!” she snapped. “You know I don’t allow any servant to strike another!”
Armond glowered at her. “He was asleep when he has work to do.”
“You know my rules,” she replied. “If you don’t wish to obey them, you may leave the castle.”
“Your uncle—”
“Has no desire to be involved in any household disputes, as anyone will tell you. The servants are in my charge, and I keep the peace, not him. If you don’t wish to obey my rules, there are plenty of other cooks who would be glad to have your place. Hit Ben or any other servant again, and—”
Mavis burst into the kitchen like a howling gale. “They’re coming back! The melee’s over already!” She came to a startled halt. “Oh, am I interrupting?”
Tamsin turned her back on the cook. “Are you sure?”
“Charlie says one of the guards saw their armor gleaming in the sunlight down the road, so they’re coming back. Let’s go to the wall walk and see if we can tell who won,” Mavis eagerly suggested.
Despite Tamsin’s avid curiosity, that news could wait. The returning knights would be wanting hot water and fresh linen to wash before the feast. Their ladies, too.
“I can’t,” Tamsin replied before she addressed some of the younger maidservants. “Sally, Meg and Becky, start taking hot water to the guest apartments.”
The young women sighed in unison, for carrying the buckets of hot water was no easy task.
“Oh, please come with me, Tamsin!” Mavis pleaded. “There’s time and you don’t have to stand near the edge of the walk. They haven’t reached the outer gate yet.”
“Charlie could be wrong, then. Meg, Sally, Becky, don’t bother with the water until we’re sure, or it might be too cold when they return.”
“That’s right—we should be sure,” Mavis agreed. “Let’s go look ourselves.”
“All right, but I can only spare a little time,” she said, giving in. After all, she should know if the melee was really over or not, and she could stand against the tower, where she couldn’t see over the edge to the ground below. She had always been afraid of being up high, even as a little child and before her parents died of the ague, and for no reason that she could name, other than a vivid notion of what a fall from a great height could do.
Together the two young women hurried through the corridor connecting the kitchen to the great hall.
Mavis wore a finely woven green gown with a lighter green overtunic, her blond hair gleaming like molten gold; Tamsin wore a plainer gown of doe-brown wool, the sleeves rolled back to expose slender arms and capable hands, her long braid of chestnut hair swinging down her back as always.
Skirting the excited and ever-present hounds, they walked quickly through the hall bustling with servants spreading clean linen on the tables and sprinkling fresh rosemary and fleabane on the rush-covered floors. Denly was putting new torches in the sconces. Despite their hurry, Tamsin made sure all was as it should be as she passed the servants, giving each a nod and a smile.
“I’m sure Sir Jocelyn won the day,” Mavis said as they climbed the steps to the wall walk near the main gate in the inner curtain wall. “He was the squire of Sir William of Kent.”
“He’s very comely, too.”
“That isn’t why I think he’ll win,” Mavis replied with a toss of her head. “He’s very well trained.”
That might be, but he’s no Sir Rheged, Tamsin thought, then silently chastised herself for even thinking of the Welsh knight.
As they came out onto the wall walk, Mavis went right to the edge, while Tamsin stood with her back against the solid tower. Her cousin pointed at the group of men in the area between the outer and inner curtain walls. Some were mounted, a few walked and behind them came the squires, carrying shields and swords. “There they are. I can’t tell who won. Can you?”
Tamsin scanned the group. No man was obviously triumphant. No one rode out in front, or with a victor’s proud poise.
She spotted Sir Jocelyn, his shoulders slumped. Clearly not the winner. Her gaze passed over a few others, until she saw Sir Rheged. He was among the last, walking and leading his huge black warhorse, while another man leaned on him for support.
She shouldn’t feel so disappointed...but she did.
“There’s the Wolf of Wales,” Mavis said as if she’d been reading Tamsin’s mind, “and that’s young Sir Robert of Tammerly limping beside him.”
“Sir Robert must not be badly hurt, or he would still be in the tent or in a cart,” Tamsin noted. She’d arranged for a physician and servants to be at the site of the melee to take care of anyone injured on the field.
“Sir Rheged doesn’t look so fierce now, does he?”
“No,” Tamsin agreed.
“Since he’s lost, perhaps he’ll cut his hair. He’s clearly not another Samson.”
“I wouldn’t venture to suggest it.”
“I wouldn’t venture to talk to him at all if I could help it,” Mavis said with a sniff and a second toss of her head. “I’ve never seen a grimmer fellow. I think he’s barely said three words since he arrived.”
He’d said more than three words to Tamsin, but she didn’t bother to correct her cousin. She didn’t want to tell Mavis about that meeting in the courtyard, or what he’d said, or how he’d looked at her, or how she’d felt when he looked at her, and she certainly wasn’t going to tell Mavis about that dream.
“And he’s so poor, he has absolutely no influence at court. Indeed, he’s only got the small estate he has because Sir Algar gave it to him.”
“Who is Sir Algar? I don’t recall the name.”
“A minor lord who used to be friendly with my father. He hasn’t come here in years, though. The poor old man must be in his dotage, Father says. I gather the estate he gave Sir Rheged is barely enough to maintain a household and the fortress is a ruin. He can’t have