Castle of the Wolf. Margaret Moore

      Chapter Two

      Tamsin and Mavis exchanged glances. Such a summons on such a day could herald nothing good.

      “Did you hear who won, Charlie?” Mavis asked as Tamsin started down the well-worn steps, wondering what she’d forgotten or failed to anticipate.

      “Aye, my lady. The Welshman with the hair to his shoulders.”

      Tamsin came to an abrupt halt and glanced back at the grinning boy. “Sir Rheged?”

      “Are you quite sure?” Mavis demanded.

      “Aye, my lady. I had it from Wilf at the gate, who got it from the messenger himself come from the field. The Welshman bested seven knights and should be getting a pretty penny in exchange for their arms and horses, as well as the prize, o’ course.”

      Tamsin started on her way again, smiling to herself as she headed to her uncle’s solar. She stopped smiling when she reached the solar and knocked on the heavy oaken door, entering when she heard her uncle’s gruff response.

      A quick glance assured her nothing was amiss with the chamber itself. The brazier full of coals glowed brightly, the tapestries were clean and free of dust and the rushes on the floor newly laid. The candles, not lit during the day, had been well trimmed, and the cloth shutter over the arched window was open just enough to allow a bit of fresh air, but not enough to create a draft.

      Her middle-aged, gray-haired, bearded uncle sat behind the large table polished with beeswax. As always he was richly dressed in a long tunic of finely woven brown wool, with an embossed belt around his ample middle and a long necklace of heavy silver links. Several rings adorned his thick fingers. The golden box studded with gemstones, which was to be awarded to the tournament champion at the feast that night, rested near his elbow.

      Uncle Simon tapped the parchment open before him with his stubby index finger. She should have been relieved he didn’t immediately launch into a litany of complaints, but there was something about the look in his beady gray eyes that did nothing to lessen her trepidation.

      “You’re finally going to pay me back for all I’ve spent on you,” he announced.

      Tamsin’s heart leapt to her throat. She was a lady, a nobleman’s daughter, and couldn’t repay him in coin. There was but one way, and his next words confirmed her dread.

      “I need an ally in the north, so you’re going to marry Sir Blane of Dunborough. He’s on his way for the wedding and should be here in a fortnight.”

      It was no more than she had expected, and yet— a fortnight! Less than a month. And who was Sir Blane of Dunborough?

      The answer crashed into her mind like a boulder. He was the bone-thin, lecherous old man who’d visited Castle Delac in the spring. She’d noticed at once how he’d stared at Mavis like an aged satyr, and she’d immediately declared that her cousin was feeling unwell. One look at Sir Blane, and Mavis had just as swiftly agreed, taking to her bed for the duration of his visit. Tamsin had kept the younger maidservants away from him, too, and even the oldest ones, who’d had years of experience fending off unwanted advances, had complained that he was the worst they’d ever encountered.

      All the women of the household had breathed a sigh of relief when he had gone, and Tamsin had considered herself fortunate that she’d managed to avoid getting within ten feet of the man.

      And now to hear she was supposed to marry him!

      Her uncle’s eyebrows lowered as he frowned. “Well? Where is your gratitude?”

      She’d rather spend her days in the coldest, most barren, inhospitable convent in Scotland than marry Blane of Dunborough, but it surely wouldn’t be wise to say so. “You surprised me, Uncle. I didn’t think I would ever marry.”

      “What, you expected to live off my generosity forever?”

      As if he hadn’t begrudged every coin he’d ever spent on her and cast up her dependence on him nearly every day since she arrived after her parents had died when she was ten years old. “I had hoped I could remain in Castle DeLac.”

      “Living off my largess for life?”

      There was no hope for it. “Or perhaps a convent...?”

      “Good God, girl! It costs money to have the sisters take you. You expect me to pay for that?”

      “Do you not have to provide a dowry to Sir Blane?”

      Glaring, her uncle hoisted himself to his feet. “How dare you question me, you insolent wench? Where is your gratitude for everything I’ve done for you? Your thanks that I’ve found a man willing to take you?”

      A man? Sir Rheged was a man. Sir Blane was more like a degenerate fiend in human form. “While I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, Uncle—”

      “You don’t sound grateful! You sound just like your damned mother!”

      The words stung like a slap. Nevertheless she had to object. If she didn’t speak now, she might regret it for the rest of her life. “Sir Blane—”

      “Is willing to take you off my hands and that’s the end of it,” her uncle said as he threw himself back into his chair. “Say nothing of this to anyone until I announce it tomorrow. I won’t have you taking the attention from my feast, or the champion, even if he is an ignorant, uncouth Welshman. Now go.”

      She stayed where she was. “Uncle, I appreciate that I came to you with little, and you were forced to take me in. But to marry me off to a man like Sir Blane! Can you really be so callous and cruel, and to your own flesh and blood?”

      Her uncle’s face was like iron, hard and cold. “If you refuse him, another must take your place, so either you marry him or Mavis must, for the agreement has been signed and the alliance made. But if it must be Mavis, know that I’ll marry you off to the first man I can find willing to take you for nothing except an alliance with me.”

      Her choice was no choice. Making the merry, gentle, loving Mavis wed Sir Blane would be like murdering her. “I shall abide by your agreement, Uncle, and marry Sir Blane.”

      “On your word of honor?”

      She wanted to scream. She wanted to refuse. She wanted to tell him exactly what she thought of him. “On my word of honor,” she replied, each word like a nail in her coffin.

      “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

      She looked at the man who had never loved her, despite all her efforts, until his gaze faltered.

      Then she turned and left him.

      * * *

      Feet planted, hands clasped behind his back, his stoic gaze sweeping over the hall and those gathered there, Rheged stood on the dais in the great hall of Castle DeLac waiting to receive his prize. The torches and expensive candles gracing the tables burned brightly, illuminating not just his prize and the fine clothes of the guests, but their less-than-pleased expressions, too.

      His arms ached and he would have a few bruises come the morning, but what was that, or the angry and jealous looks from those who’d lost, if he received that valuable golden box?

      Even so, it was not the box that commanded his attention most. It was Tamsin, far down the hall, half-hidden behind one of the stone pillars. Something had obviously upset or disturbed her. Gone was the lively gleam in her eye and the proud carriage of her head. The vitality that had seemed to shine forth from her slender frame and made him think she would be capable of managing everything and anything in a lord’s castle, even to commanding the garrison