cheeks gone pale. The dreaded day had arrived at last. Lord Jaufre was coming home. Intermixed with her fear was a strange fluttery sense of anticipation.
Her fingers closed over the handle of her cane, and she made her way slowly across the solar, avoiding the only pieces of furniture contained within the private withdrawing room: a heavy oak trestle table and a high-backed chair. Along one wall was a mural depicting a scene from the Norman invasion of 1066. Melyssan trailed her hand over one of the soldiers standing on shore awaiting the onslaught of the conqueror's army.
"Did your knees knock together, little Saxon," she whispered, "as badly as mine want to do?"
Someone seized her arm, and she spun around to confront
Whitney, his face as pale as her own. "Melyssan, here you are. What are you doing?"
"I suppose I am going down to prepare for the arrival of my lord and his guest. The chambers in the north tower will want new rushes, and then there must be food."
"Are you planning to bake the meats for your own funeral? We must flee from here. There's still time."
"But I can't leave Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor."
"Then bring them with us, for Christ's sake."
"No," Melyssan said, pulling away from him. " 'Tis not safe for them. They must wait until tonight when Sir Hugh's cousin comes with the boat."
"That is what you told me when they arrived two days ago, and so far no cousin has ever showed. We can all escape right now through the water gateway below the castle. There is a supply boat that—"
"We would never get that far in the daylight before we were overtaken. And Lady Gunnor's children! If there were a struggle, they might be harmed."
"What about the harm to us if we stay?" Perspiration beaded Whitney's brow. "I'm not arguing anymore. I will take you out of here even if I have to carry you."
He took a step toward her, but she backed off and held her staff before her as if to ward him away.
"For the love of God, Lyssa, please," Whitney begged. "What am I to do if the Dark Knight should draw his sword upon me? You know I cannot…"
Stark terror crept into his soft green eyes, the same terror Melyssan had seen on her gentle brother's face a hundred times before when threatened with the clash of arms. She reached out to touch his cheek.
"Oh, Whitney, you go. By yourself, you could get away."
"But I cannot leave you."
"I—I will be all right. At the most, Lord Jaufre will imprison me. And you could ride home to Wydevale for help."
Whitney seized on the suggestion with pathetic eagerness. "Yes, I could, couldn't I? I could get Father to intervene with Lord Jaufre."
"I will be safe until then." She gave him an overbright smile, hoping to hide her disbelief in her own words. "But you must hurry."
They both became aware of a clamor of voices and a scurrying of feet at the bottom of the stairway leading to the solar. Knights, men-at-arms, servants, all scrambled to the courtyard to shout a welcome to their returning lord.
"Lyssa!" Whitney said in an agonized whisper. He caught her up in his arms and planted a kiss on her cheek. Then he turned and was gone, leaving Melyssan with a strange sinking feeling.
She was tally alone now—alone to face Jaufre's fury. Outside the narrow window, she heard a guard up on the parapet walk cry, "I can just make out the horses. They're coming over the crest of the hill."
Squaring her shoulders, she descended to the great hall and then down the covered stair leading to the bailey. She could scarcely see over the throng of heads to the main gate. The doughty figure of an elderly knight elbowed his way through the milling crowd of grooms, chambermaids, and clerks.
Sir Dreyfan's deep voice boomed, "My lady. What do ye back here? The earl will wonder what has become of ye." His smile beaming through his thick, grizzled beard, he offered her his arm with a grand flourish. She could not look at him as she accepted it. The gruff old knight had been so protective of her, so courteous
Her fingers closed over the handle of her cane, and she made her way slowly across the solar, avoiding the only pieces of furniture contained within the private withdrawing room: a heavy oak trestle table and a high-backed chair. Along one wall was a mural depicting a scene from the Norman invasion of 1066. Melyssan trailed her hand over one of the soldiers standing on shore awaiting the onslaught of the conqueror's army.
"Did your knees knock together, little Saxon," she whispered, "as badly as mine want to do?"
Someone seized her arm, and she spun around to confront
Whitney, his face as pale as her own. "Melyssan, here you are. What are you doing?"
"I suppose I am going down to prepare for the arrival of my lord and his guest. The chambers in the north tower will want new rushes, and then there must be food."
"Are you planning to bake the meats for your own funeral? We must flee from here. There's still time."
"But I can't leave Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor."
"Then bring them with us, for Christ's sake."
"No," Melyssan said, pulling away from him. " 'Tis not safe for them. They must wait until tonight when Sir Hugh's cousin comes with the boat."
"That is what you told me when they arrived two days ago, and so far no cousin has ever showed. We can all escape right now through the water gateway below the castle. There is a supply boat that—"
"We would never get that far in the daylight before we were overtaken. And Lady Gunnor's children! If there were a struggle, they might be harmed."
"What about the harm to us if we stay?" Perspiration beaded Whitney's brow. "I'm not arguing anymore. I will take you out of here even if I have to carry you."
He took a step toward her, but she backed off and held her staff before her as if to ward him away.
"For the love of God, Lyssa, please," Whitney begged. "What am I to do if the Dark Knight should draw his sword upon me? You know I cannot…"
Stark terror crept into his soft green eyes, the same terror Melyssan had seen on her gentle brother's face a hundred times before when threatened with the clash of arms. She reached out to touch his cheek.
"Oh, Whitney, you go. By yourself, you could get away."
"But I cannot leave you."
"I—I will be all right. At the most, Lord Jaufre will imprison me. And you could ride home to Wydevale for help."
Whitney seized on the suggestion with pathetic eagerness. "Yes, I could, couldn't I? I could get Father to intervene with Lord Jaufre."
"I will be safe until then." She gave him an overbright smile, hoping to hide her disbelief in her own words. "But you must hurry."
They both became aware of a clamor of voices and a scurrying of feet at the bottom of the stairway leading to the solar. Knights, men-at-arms, servants, all scrambled to the courtyard to shout a welcome to their returning lord.
"Lyssa!" Whitney said in an agonized whisper. He caught her up in his arms and planted a kiss on her cheek. Then he turned and was gone, leaving Melyssan with a strange sinking feeling.
She was tally alone now—alone to face Jaufre's fury. Outside the narrow window, she heard a guard up on the parapet walk cry, "I can just make out the horses. They're coming over the crest of the hill."
Squaring her shoulders, she descended to the great hall and then down the covered stair leading to the bailey. She could scarcely see over the throng of heads to the main gate. The doughty figure of an elderly knight elbowed his way through the milling crowd of grooms, chambermaids, and clerks.
Sir Dreyfan's deep voice boomed, "My lady. What do ye back here? The earl will wonder what has become of ye." His smile beaming through his thick, grizzled beard, he offered her his arm with a grand flourish. She could not look at him as she accepted it. The gruff old knight had been so protective of her, so courteous
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