same, tall, broad, and cloaked.
And hard-pressed.
She almost giggled at the incongruous sight. They were struggling through the ankle-deep mud toward the hall, their long riders’ cloaks dragging them back like lead weights. Surely the mighty warrior wished he were stalking majestically over his conquered land.
She whipped her mind back into order. Nothing about this was funny. Her father lav dead in the chanel and muddy ground didn’t make these men any the less dangerous. They were doubtless used to muddy slaughter.
With a whispered command, she sent Thomas away, to their mother. To safety.
The long, water-dark, leather cloaks concealed the men’s bodies, and hoods sheltered their faces. She caught a glimpse of mail around chins, however, and the metal nasals that must extend down from helmets. Why were they so heavily armed? Didn’t they know they were wolves among rabbits?
Doubtless the middle wolf was her enemy.
Broad, broad shoulders. Probably a big-bellied swaggerer with thick, hairy fingers. It would hurt to see such a man in her father’s place, but perhaps he would appeal to Felice.
She began to pray that he not have a deforming scar, or warts, or bad teeth. Felice disliked disfigurement.
As the three men drew close to the hall doors the sheer size of de Lisle caused a swirl of fear in Claire’s belly. She tried to remember that he was just a man, but the dark cloaked mass of him began to block out the world. She realized she was retreating instead of standing her ground, but couldn’t stop herself.
Despite her will, she was trembling now, a faint yet violent tremor that ran through her whole body and set her teeth to chattering.
“Go any farther, girl,” snapped Lady Agnes, “and your skirts’ll be in the fire.”
Claire started, looked down, and hastily moved to the side out of danger.
By the time she looked back, de Lisle was by the hearth too. Head and shoulders taller than she and twice as broad, he pushed back his hood with bare hands.
Big, strong hands.
But not sausage-like.
She looked at his face. As she’d thought, he was armored, but she could see a square chin and firm lips. Not thick. Not at all slack.
The formidable set of those lips made her heart thump like a warning bell.
Slowly, he scanned the room, assessing the family by the central hearth and the servants huddled against wooden walls. She could tell he was ready for danger, ready to draw his sword and kill. The simple power of his readiness to kill filled the room like a fierce, hot wind.
In her peaceful life, Claire had never experienced such a thing.
Then he relaxed and unlaced his helmet. He pushed it off and tossed it to the man on his left. That man had pushed back his hood, too, pulling a face as if it was a huge relief to be rid of it. He was quite young, with reddish hair and freckles. Big and strong, though. Another fighting man. Probably de Lisle’s squire.
Claire jerked her attention back to her enemy, desperately squashing fear. She must watch him and study him if they were all to survive.
Chain mail still hid his hair, but his face was rather square, with strong bones and dark brows. She preferred a man with more delicate in his features but she had to admit that was comely for his sort. No obvious flaw.
Hope stirred. Surely Felice would find him pleasing.
His eyes were dark, too, but seemed worn. Bloodshot, perhaps. Probably the result of constant debauchery.
He unclasped his cloak and tossed it to the squire. The casual movement showed his strength, for a cloak like that, sodden with days of rain, was not an easy thing to handle.
Of course he’s strong, Claire! He’s a warrior to the last, iron inch.
Chain mail covered him to the knee, blousing over the wide, studded belt clasped around his hips. That drape of the mail was the only soft touch about him. No bulging belly here, no puffy cheeks. She suspected he’d be as hard to the touch without the armor as with it.
And as cold?
She
And hard-pressed.
She almost giggled at the incongruous sight. They were struggling through the ankle-deep mud toward the hall, their long riders’ cloaks dragging them back like lead weights. Surely the mighty warrior wished he were stalking majestically over his conquered land.
She whipped her mind back into order. Nothing about this was funny. Her father lav dead in the chanel and muddy ground didn’t make these men any the less dangerous. They were doubtless used to muddy slaughter.
With a whispered command, she sent Thomas away, to their mother. To safety.
The long, water-dark, leather cloaks concealed the men’s bodies, and hoods sheltered their faces. She caught a glimpse of mail around chins, however, and the metal nasals that must extend down from helmets. Why were they so heavily armed? Didn’t they know they were wolves among rabbits?
Doubtless the middle wolf was her enemy.
Broad, broad shoulders. Probably a big-bellied swaggerer with thick, hairy fingers. It would hurt to see such a man in her father’s place, but perhaps he would appeal to Felice.
She began to pray that he not have a deforming scar, or warts, or bad teeth. Felice disliked disfigurement.
As the three men drew close to the hall doors the sheer size of de Lisle caused a swirl of fear in Claire’s belly. She tried to remember that he was just a man, but the dark cloaked mass of him began to block out the world. She realized she was retreating instead of standing her ground, but couldn’t stop herself.
Despite her will, she was trembling now, a faint yet violent tremor that ran through her whole body and set her teeth to chattering.
“Go any farther, girl,” snapped Lady Agnes, “and your skirts’ll be in the fire.”
Claire started, looked down, and hastily moved to the side out of danger.
By the time she looked back, de Lisle was by the hearth too. Head and shoulders taller than she and twice as broad, he pushed back his hood with bare hands.
Big, strong hands.
But not sausage-like.
She looked at his face. As she’d thought, he was armored, but she could see a square chin and firm lips. Not thick. Not at all slack.
The formidable set of those lips made her heart thump like a warning bell.
Slowly, he scanned the room, assessing the family by the central hearth and the servants huddled against wooden walls. She could tell he was ready for danger, ready to draw his sword and kill. The simple power of his readiness to kill filled the room like a fierce, hot wind.
In her peaceful life, Claire had never experienced such a thing.
Then he relaxed and unlaced his helmet. He pushed it off and tossed it to the man on his left. That man had pushed back his hood, too, pulling a face as if it was a huge relief to be rid of it. He was quite young, with reddish hair and freckles. Big and strong, though. Another fighting man. Probably de Lisle’s squire.
Claire jerked her attention back to her enemy, desperately squashing fear. She must watch him and study him if they were all to survive.
Chain mail still hid his hair, but his face was rather square, with strong bones and dark brows. She preferred a man with more delicate in his features but she had to admit that was comely for his sort. No obvious flaw.
Hope stirred. Surely Felice would find him pleasing.
His eyes were dark, too, but seemed worn. Bloodshot, perhaps. Probably the result of constant debauchery.
He unclasped his cloak and tossed it to the squire. The casual movement showed his strength, for a cloak like that, sodden with days of rain, was not an easy thing to handle.
Of course he’s strong, Claire! He’s a warrior to the last, iron inch.
Chain mail covered him to the knee, blousing over the wide, studded belt clasped around his hips. That drape of the mail was the only soft touch about him. No bulging belly here, no puffy cheeks. She suspected he’d be as hard to the touch without the armor as with it.
And as cold?
She
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