Knight's Rebellion. Suzanne Barclay

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      “So I reminded him when his leg kept him confined to bed and he raged like a caged bear. Gareth has yet to forgive me for threatening to tie him to the bed. For his own good. He did that once to your uncle Alex, when he was being stupid.” Their mood lightened as she recounted the incident. By the time they’d descended the two sets of stairs, they were smiling and laughing.

      “You two are in a good mood,” her father remarked, limping from the shadows into a circle of torchlight at the foot of the stairs. Despite his sixty years, he was an active, vigorous man, his ruggedly handsome face tanned from hours outdoors working with the warhorses he raised. Pain flickered in his midnight-brown eyes, and he still leaned heavily on a cane, but his steps were surer every day.

      Needing to make some kind of a connection with him, Alys risked touching his arm. Through the rich velvet of his tunic, she felt iron-hard muscles and a surge of love so strong it nearly made her weep. Drawing back, she asked, “How are you?”

      “Up and about, thanks be to your sacrifice.”

      “I was glad to do it, Papa.”

      “Still, it was not easy,” he muttered. When they reached the great hall, he added, “I hope you do not mind a guest for dinner. The guard brought word that a Lord Ranulf de Crecy has come, begging entrance. He has a petition for me to hear.”

      “Business?” Arianna grimaced. “Oh, Gareth, you are not yet healed and cannot ride off to settle some squabble.”

      “The man wants a hearing. Which I am bound to give him.” As a justice of the king’s chancery court, the Earl of Winchester was often called upon to render judgment and mediate disputes between nobles.

      Alys trailed unhappily after them as they slowly made their way across the rush-strewn floor to the high table. She’d not be able to propose her own plans to her father until he was done with this Lord Ranulf. Fuming inwardly, she took the seat beside her mother and propped her chin on her hands.

      Sunlight slanted in through the high windows of the long, stately room, the shimmering rays bent into a dozen colors by the costly leaded glass. Bands of light fell on the brilliant tapestries depicting the triumphs of generations of Sommervilles. There had been many in the years since the first Lord Sommerville helped William of Normandy conquer England. Aye, her family had a proud heritage. The Sommerville men, and women, knew their minds and followed their hearts.

      The bustle of activity in the hall caught her attention. A pair of brawny men in Sommerville livery were setting up extra trestle tables, while the maids scurried about placing manchet bread trenchers and cups at each place. Her father’s pages dodged through the throng with pitchers of wine and new ale. Ordinary as these tasks were, an air. of suppressed excitement hung on the air, along with smoke from the hearth and the scent of baking bread.

      Oriel rushed up, her face flushed, her brown braids flying. She was the daughter of Ransford’s former housekeeper, Grizel, and had recently taken over her mother’s duties. “Do not fret, Lady Arianna, we’ve food aplenty for your noble guests.”

      “I am not the least worried,” the countess replied. Which was probably the truth. Busy with her family and her smithing, Arianna paid little attention to domestic matters.

      Alys looked over and caught her father smiling fondly at his wife. Ah, if only I might find someone like Papa. Someone who accepted me for what I am, she thought.

      A commotion in the hall intruded. Ransford’s portly steward advanced down the aisle between the tables. In Edgar’s wake trailed a nobleman and a trio of roughlooking soldiers.

      “Edgar’s joints must be paining him again, for his steps are halting. I shall give him some of that bryony salve to apply to his knees,” Alys whispered. “It may ease the stiffness.”

      Her mother nodded. “That tall man must be Lord Ranulf. Is he not a most handsome man?”

      That he was, tall and blond, with the regal bearing of one of her Papa’s warhorses. His close-fitting sapphire-blue cote-hardie emphasized the width of his shoulders and the fairness of his skin. If the quantity of jewels embroidering his tunic seemed a bit ostentatious, Alys was willing to overlook it, for he so resembled a statue come to life. The image of male perfection was marred somewhat by the stranger’s dark scowl and haughty glare.

      When they reached the foot of the dais, the man waited an instant, then turned his frown on Edgar. “Will you announce me to the earl, or must I do that myself?”

      Pompous, as well as pretty, Alys thought, and the newcomer fell a mark in her estimation. Her cousin Jamie was even more handsome, yet he did not pose and swagger so.

      Edgar drew himself up to his full height of five feet and five inches, pounded his staff on the floor in the manner of a court herald and bawled, “Lord Ranulf de Crecy, Baron of Eastham, lord of Malpas, Donnerford and numerous lesser holdings, does beg an audience with your grace.”

      “I’ll wager this Lord Ranulf never begged for a thing in his life,” Alys muttered.

      “I’ll wager he never had to…leastwise not from a woman,” her mother replied with a saucy grin.

      “Mother!” Alys exclaimed.

      “Well, he is most wondrous to look on. With a sizable estate. Let him be your dining companion and see what comes—”

      “Naught will come of it.”

      “You will not know till you try.”

      “How? If I cannot bear the touch of my own dear family, how could I stomach the touch of a strange man?” Alys shook her head. “It would be cruel to lead him on when I cannot wed him.”

      “But if you left your gown and gloves on—”

      “Even at night, in bed?” Alys sighed. “What man would want a wife he could not kiss or touch or couple with? No bed sport? No heirs?” She looked over at the handsome Lord Ranulf and then at her equally handsome sire. “Men, even those as wonderful as my papa, have not the patience or self-denial for that.” Still it was hard not to hope, to wish for what could never be.

      “Excuse me for not rising, Lord Ranulf,” Gareth said. “But I am just recovering from a broken leg.”

      “My condolences. Does it mend well?”

      “Very. My daughter is a skilled healer.” Gareth beamed in Alys’s direction, but Lord Ranulf continued to stare at him. “What brings you to Ransford, sir?” her father asked.

      “Treason,” Lord Ranulf growled.

      “Treason!” The word riffled through the room, stilling the hum of pleasant conversation.

      “Against King Richard?” her father asked slowly.

      “Nay. This strikes far closer to home. My half brother has taken arms against me and is ravaging the land about Eastham.”

      “Ah.” Her father settled back. “How comes it that you bring the matter to me instead of your overlord? Whoever that—”

      “James Hartley of Hardwicke.”

      “A good man,” Gareth said slowly.

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