Norwyck's Lady. Margo Maguire

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      “Thank you, John,” Marguerite replied, relieved by a moment of normalcy in this strange place.

      Henry was tearing into his meal, completely oblivious to her presence. Kathryn was there, too, but she stopped eating and placed her hands in her lap. Her displeasure with Marguerite’s presence could not have been made clearer. No one named Sir Walter was present.

      “Good morning to you all,” Marguerite said brightly.

      “Sit here, my lady,” John said. “Next to my place.”

      “Thank you, John,” she said as she took a seat. From the corner of her eyes, she observed Kathryn rolling her eyes with disdain.

      “I’m off to the training field,” Henry said as he wiped his mouth and stood.

      “But Bartholomew forbade you to—”

      “Stuff it, pest,” Henry said as he circled the table. “I do as I please.”

      Kathryn bit her lip to keep from responding, but Marguerite could see that Henry’s defiance, as well as the rude name he’d called her, did not sit well with his younger sister.

      “There’s bread and fish,” Eleanor said, ignoring her brother and handing Marguerite a platter laden with food.

      “And cider,” John added, filling a mug for her.

      “Thank you both,” Marguerite said as she applied herself to the food before her. Sitting here among the Holton children felt right. This was as it should be, she thought, with the children around her….

      A clear, but fleeting memory filtered through her mind, and she saw three bright blond heads bent over their bowls, children eating hungrily, happily.

      The memory disappeared before it really took hold in her mind, and Marguerite could not recapture it, though she concentrated hard enough to make herself light-headed. Frowning, she bit her lip and refrained from groaning in frustration.

      “My lady?” Eleanor asked as she placed one hand on Marguerite’s arm.

      “Oh, ’tis naught,” she replied, giving the child a quavering smile. “My head…’tis just a bit sore is all.”

      “Mayhap you should return to your bed,” Eleanor said, her voice full of concern.

      “I’ll be fine,” Marguerite said, “though a walk outside might help.” She thought the fresh air might serve to clear her head, and possibly bring back the memories that were so elusive.

      “Shall we go and see Bartie?” Eleanor asked, following Marguerite’s lead in pushing away from the table.

      “I think not,” she replied. She doubted that Bartholomew would appreciate her arrival upon the practice field. He barely tolerated her presence in the tower. “Mayhap to the beach? Where your brother found me?”

      Kathryn slapped one hand upon the table. “Bartholomew will be angry if you go outside the walls.”

      “Just to the beach?”

      “You know what he said, Eleanor,” Kathryn said angrily. She addressed her sister, as if it had not been Marguerite who had spoken. “No one is to leave Norwyck’s walls. Not with the Armstrong threatening us at every—”

      “Well, our men routed the Armstrongs when they last attacked, did they not?” John asked.

      “Yes, but—”

      “’Tis no matter, Kathryn,” Marguerite said, unwilling to ruffle anyone’s feathers. “I’ll walk in the garden if that’s permissible.”

      Kathryn shrugged. “It should be all right,” she said grudgingly.

      “We’ll come with you,” John said, arising from the table.

      “Nay, John,” Marguerite said. She needed to be alone to try to sort out her thoughts. She touched Eleanor’s head gently, and addressed them both. “I’d like to go by myself this time.”

      Both children looked disappointed, but they accepted Marguerite’s declination graciously.

      “Shall I find you a shawl?” Eleanor asked, regaining her usual enthusiasm.

      Marguerite smiled. “That would be lovely.”

      Bartholomew handed his helm and sword to the young page, while his squire unfastened the heavy breastplate and pulled it off him. Then he bent at the waist and unbuckled his own cuisses and greaves while he gave Henry’s argument his full attention.

      “But, Bartholomew, ’Tis well past time for me to begin my training,” the lad said. “I’ll never become a knight if you do not give your consent.”

      Henry’s argument was a valid one, but Bart would rather keep his brothers at Norwyck, safe behind its stout walls. If he sent them out to foster, they’d be subject to all sorts of dangers. Here, at least, he could keep them protected. Safe.

      Bart handed the last of his armor to his squire and turned to Henry. “I’ll give it due consideration, Hal.”

      “Not good enough, Bart,” Henry said, digging in his heels. “I am ready. You know I am.”

      Bart put his arm across his brother’s shoulders and started walking. “You are that anxious to leave us?”

      “’Tis not that,” Henry said. “But how will I ever become a man, make something of myself as you and Will did? If you do not send me out to foster—”

      “Hal, I did not deny your request,” Bart said. “I merely said—”

      “That you’d consider it. Aye, I know,” Henry said. “Please, Bart. I want to become a knight, like you. Like William. I want to come back and fight the damnable Armstrongs. Mayhap one day I’ll be the one to bring Lachann Armstrong’s head to Norwyck.”

      “Mayhap,” Bart said quietly. After all that had occurred, he’d hoped his younger brothers would be content to remain at Norwyck. Clearly, that was not the case. At least not with Henry. John gave no sign of wanting to leave, but ’twas possible the lad just kept his own counsel. He tended to be less outspoken than his twin.

      Bart let his arm drop, and continued walking toward the hall. The chilly air cooled his overheated body, right through the light tunic and hose that he wore. He was looking forward to a bath and a shave, and did not want to think about his brothers leaving.

      As they neared the keep, Bart caught sight of a woman walking toward the postern gate, a small, rusted entryway from the beach that was so rarely used, he’d forgotten it. ’Twas Marguerite.

      “Go on ahead,” he said to Henry. “I’ll return later.”

      Angry with his lack of a decisive answer, Henry did not protest, but stalked away as Bartholomew headed toward Marguerite.

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