“Are you almost ready, Lady Fay? They’ve just arrived at the outer gate and your sister is beside herself.”
“Batty?” Fay asked, her voice coming out in a hoarse croak. None of this could be real.
The young woman looked expectant. “Yes? May I help you with something? Your hair, perhaps?”
Fay swallowed hard and looked back down at the book. Her maid Batty thought her hair needed some help, it seemed. Her sister—Anne, according to this list—was beside herself and someone was at the gate. She needed more time or she needed to wake the hell up. Either one, but waking up would be better. Batty came into the room, but Fay quickly shooed her away, too alarmed to worry about hurting the apparently very sweet girl’s feelings.
“My hair’s fine. I’ll be down in a bit,” she snapped. “Go and tell Anne to have patience.”
Batty nodded and retreated. Fay returned to the list, hoping she could learn whatever names she needed in a hurry.
Roric—Father’s chamberlain
Brom—likes Batty, at least the first time
Marjorie—Anne’s maid
There wasn’t a single word to describe Marjorie. Before she could return to the cast of characters in this farce she was supposed to take part in, another girl burst through the door. Though there had been no physical description of Anne, just the cryptic “don’t get attached”, Fay knew at once that this must be her sister. The gown she wore was much finer than Batty’s had been and while her dark brown hair was in braids, it wasn’t two simple plaits, but a mass of loops and rolls with a lace veil attached with what looked like upholstery studs. It looked painful.
She was thinner than Fay, apparent even in her flowing gown, and her skin was almost translucent it was so pale. She had the tiniest bit of some kind of rouge on her cheeks which told Fay she was self-conscious about it, or a little vain. She smiled at Fay as if she hadn’t seen her sister in ages. Fay instantly liked her. Then Anne sighed and strode to her, tugging at her hair.
“Oh, Fay, why did you send Batty away if your hair wasn’t done yet?”
So it was true. They knew her name. And they didn’t seem concerned that she must look different from the last person. And she was certain people spoke the Queen’s English quite a bit differently now than they did in her time. And yet she understood them perfectly well.
The whole castle and everyone in it must be enchanted, the poor, clueless saps. As odd as it was, she was grateful she didn’t have to fake her name. It was going to be difficult enough forcing herself to fall in love with someone, and she had a sinking feeling that had to be real or else the curse wouldn’t be broken. She wasn’t exactly the sort to have a life plan, and she hadn’t figured out her perfect job yet. Getting married wasn’t even on her radar.
But that was before she put on that damned dress. Now she had to find a man, fall in love with him, make him fall in love with her, or else … die? It didn’t sound easy by any means and, no, it wasn’t in her nonexistent five year plan, but it wasn’t the worst possible thing. Dying was the worst possible thing. Why did the people before her keep giving up?
While Fay pondered futilely and wished she could be left alone to continue reading, Anne dug in and began yanking and twisting and braiding her hair, hollering out for help. Batty returned to the room along with another young woman. She was blonde with rosy cheeks and a harried look about her, and Fay guessed it must be the unannotated Marjorie.
They all attacked her head with gusto and within a few minutes she had a similarly elaborate hairstyle as Anne. She’d guessed right, it was painful, but she thought it looked amazing. It made her hold her head up straight for fear her neck would snap under the weight of the jeweled veil they’d attached to her if she relaxed. When she stood up, she felt almost regal. She also felt quite a bit calmer, until Anne grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the hall.
“It would be so shameful if we were late in greeting them,” Anne moaned, shaking her head at Fay. “Hurry. There’s no time for decorum on the stairs, dear. We must run until the great hall, then we can be ladies again.”
“Who? Who are we greeting?” Fay threw caution to the wind and asked, knowing there was no way she could fake her way through this. What if the people were relatives she was supposed to have known since birth?
The exhilaration of being rushed down the winding stairs left her as soon as they reached the ground floor landing. All that stood between her and the complete unknown was the same wooden door she’d pushed through a short time ago, to put on that damned gown. She was so screwed.
Anne shook her head, looking exasperated. “Always with your head in the clouds, never listening. Sir Tristan Ballard of Dernier Keep. He’s just inherited from Sir Andrew, remember, goose? He’s come to make his oath of fealty to Father.”
“He’s said to be fierce and as big as a giant, and so handsome ladies have swooned just at the sight of his smile,” Batty announced. “He’s not only a master of the sword, but he can send an arrow further than the eye can see and always hit its target. His fists—”
Batty’s breathless account was cut off by Marjorie, who scoffed. “He’ll be obnoxious and covered in filth as all knights are. I don’t know where you hear such romantic tales, Batilda, or why you continue to believe them.”
Fay almost clapped to find out what Batty was a nickname for.
“Hush, both of you,” Anne said. “He’s to be our honored guest, and I won’t have any of you swooning or treating him with disdain. That goes for you as well, Fay.”
“What did I say?” she asked indignantly, surprised to find she was defending herself in a sisterly argument, as if Anne were really her sister. It gave her a strange shifting feeling, as if the stones beneath her feet were moving.
Anne ignored Fay’s question and pressed her ear to the huge, heavy door. “I think we made it on time. Father is probably still in the bailey with them. Let’s make sure everything is in order.”
With that, she moved aside and Batty and Marjorie heaved open the door, making Fay gasp at what she saw.
“Oh, what is it?” Anne asked. “Did one of the lads leave a slop bucket lying around again?”
“Er, no,” Fay said, trying to recover. “It looks great.”
And, indeed, it did. The great hall as she’d known it had been decorated well enough for the fashion show, but it was still half-ruins back then. Back then, she marveled, pulling herself together, trying to take in what was now her present, her reality. More brilliant tapestries lined the walls, and torches and candles in sconces at regular intervals made the huge, open room seem almost cheery and cozy. A massive fireplace at one end roared with a fire that could have cooked two cows with room left over for a pig. Rows of trestle tables covered with crisp, tidy cloths took up half the room. Just as she’d seen in pictures, one of the tables was longer and raised higher than the others. Servant boys bustled around, setting out goblets and filling pitchers, shooing away dogs.
“It looks fine,” Anne decreed, grabbing Fay’s hand. She nodded at the two maids, who fell into step behind them. They all made their way toward the great hall entrance. “Let’s greet them in the courtyard before they enter.”
Fay thought Batty and Marjorie must not just be servants or they would have been sent to do some chores instead of greeting the guests. She wondered if they were related somehow, like ladies-in-waiting to royalty were often distant relatives. At any rate, they were on very chummy terms with Anne and, she supposed, herself. They seemed to know their place, but weren’t especially subservient.
Two boys who might have been nine or ten hurried to open the big double doors for them. A gust of wintery air nearly knocked her off her feet. Once again, Fay had to stop and stare, earning herself a hard tug on the arm by Anne as she dragged her into the courtyard. First of all, it was an actual courtyard now, surrounded by a high, forbidding wall that had been a few piles of rocks the last she saw. Instead of making it seem smaller, being enclosed by the thirty or so foot tall wal
l made the outdoor space seem larger and airier.
She looked around her as inconspicuously as she could, taking in the barrels and crates here and there. Chickens were making their way back to their coops now that the sun was going down. Next, she caught a glimpse of what looked like a small blacksmith station. It was all so alive. At the gate, which was raised more than halfway, what looked like a small army of men made their way through. At the lead was a tall man, slightly portly, with a glorious mane of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
Once again, she experienced the shifting feeling when she laid eyes on him. He waved at them and smiled straight at her. A genuine, fatherly smile. He had to be her father, Sir Walter Grancourt. Or the cursed girl’s father, anyway. Another thought struck her that she was surprised she hadn’t had before. What had become of the first girl, the one Fay and the others who’d put on the cursed dress replaced? Anne’s real sister, Walter’s real daughter? Where was she?
She didn’t have time to ponder it because, at that moment, a bevy of servants leading horses hustled past, making her lose sight of Sir Walter. Just another mystery she’d have to try and figure out later. Right now, she was in survival mode, trying not to do anything wrong.
A cloud of dust from a passel of servants leading the visitors’ horses past her obscured her vision. She grabbed Anne’s hand and stepped back to keep from getting trampled. Anne squeezed her fingers and nodded toward the gates their father had come through, an odd little smile on her face. As Fay turned, she saw Batty gaping. Even Marjorie was having a hard time keeping her sour look in place.
As the dust cleared, she saw what they were looking at, or rather, who they were looking at. For a moment, she thought she heard music playing.
“Knight in shining armor, indeed,” Fay said, having to do a double take.
Okay, so the armor was most definitely not shining. It was quite dinged up and stained, in fact. She noticed a few broken bits of chainmail as she let her eyes wander up his chest. He was as big as Batty had said, and as filthy as Marjorie had conjectured. She wondered how much of his great bulk was actually him, and how much of it was padding and metal. As she leaned forward to get a better look, she realized that the rusty stains on his armor weren’t actually rust, but looked to be dried blood. His chainmail was spattered with it, with a larger smear near a dent in his shoulder plate. Her horror at whose blood it might be fizzled away when he shook his hair behind that broad, bloodstained shoulder.
His hair was brown, as her hair was brown, and as her new sister Anne’s hair was brown. Probably the most common hair color in the world. And yet, the different hues all caught the failing daylight and made her recall her uncle’s paint palette. Umber, chocolate, chestnut. It shouldn’t have caused her to stand on her toes to get a better look at it as the wavy strands settled along his shoulders. She thought it was like a shampoo commercial and failed to keep in her disbelieving giggle.
Anne hissed at her to be quiet, her pale cheeks reddening. Fay’s cheeks felt a little hot as well and she stumbled as the man walked past them, dipping his head in acknowledgement before getting lost in the crowd of servants. She craned her neck and actually jumped to try and get another glimpse of him. She’d been so distracted by his size and ruggedness, that mane of hair, that she’d barely had a chance to register his face. Chiseled jaw, yes, she was sure she’d seen that. Strong cheekbones, aristocratic nose that might have been broken a time or two. Steely eyes that seemed to stare right into her soul—but what color were they? She ached to know.
Anne pinched her, bringing her back to reality. Yes, the reality that she was now in another time and knew absolutely nothing except that she had to somehow prove that true love existed. She had a very brief and not so clean thought about the hunk of metal-encased man who’d just strode past her, but Anne pinched her again.
“Fay, do I have to send you upstairs or can you comport yourself like you’ve been properly reared?” She sighed and apologetically rubbed the spot where she’d pinched. “Yes, he’s quite handsome, but—”
“Is he?” Fay asked, praying she sounded calm and that her cheeks would go back to their normal color. She glanced at Batty, who gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I was more concerned he might be injured and how, er, dirty he was. It must have been a long ride.”
Marjorie snorted. “They’re always dirty, always covered in blood. Soulless creatures, knights.”
Fay nodded, noting that Anne didn’t berate her maid for this bit of commentary. She only frowned and shook her head. “We must pray whatever fighting they were in doesn’t follow them here.” She glared at Batty and Marjorie. “Sir Tristan will need a bath after supper. He may be too tired for the entertainment Father’s prepared, so see that it’s ready in time.”
The two girls snapped quick curtseys and took off, leaving Fay and Anne in the courtyard. The hubbub of Sir Tristan and his entourage’s arrival had died down, with only a few servants tending horses left. Anne nodded toward the main entry where their father stood, waving them forward before turning and entering the great hall.
“How important is he?” Fay asked, not wanting to go in and be introduced as someone she wasn’t.
No matter how much she wanted to rest her eyes on Sir Tristan’s glorious countenance again, she was so overwhelmed by nerves she would have given up the chance to be back at the fashion show, getting bossed around by drunken socialites.
Anne shrugged, seemingly in no hurry to go in either. “It’s a crucial property, as well you know,” she said. “The main fortification between us and those scoundrels to the north. Sir Andrew had father’s full trust and, apparently, Sir Andrew trusted Sir Tristan enough to leave it to him. We must pray he’s worthy, for if it falls, so do we.” With a freshly stiffened spine, Anne moved toward the entrance.
“So, he’s not important at all, then,” Fay mumbled dispiritedly.
She’d been worried enough about which fork to use during supper, but now she feared she may do something so wrong as to jeopardize the safety of the entire castle and all its inhabitants. If only she’d had more time to read through that book, maybe she would have found some answers.
“Come along,” Anne called from the entryway steps. She looked tiny in the huge arched doorway and, even from the distance, Fay could see how anxious she was.
Feeling that odd shifting again, she found she wanted to do the right thing for this family who unknowingly treated her as one of their own. Set this castle full of people she’d never seen before free from their curse.
If only she had a single clue how to go about it.
Chapter 4
Tristan surveyed the large, well-appointed chamber he’d been led to by two tittering young ladies. At least a dozen bright tapestries adorned the walls and there was a roaring fire already lit in the fireplace. It was a luxury he was grateful for since the gloomy winter weather had sunk deep into his bones, adding to his fatigue and the pain in his shoulder. As soon as the two girls wrested most of his armor off him, he collapsed onto the huge bed, unable to hold back a contented sigh when he found how soft and inviting it was.
“If you please, sir,” one of the girls said, swallowing hard and looking every which way but at him. “Our lord Sir Walter has ordered a feast for you and …” she trailed off, clutching at her flowing sleeves.
He sighed, sick of being an object of fear, and sat up. He tried to smile benignly at her, but the way she jumped, he may as well have been baring fangs. The other one was already half out the door.
“What of a bath?” he asked, certain no one wanted him at their table in the state he was in.
“Yes, of course. You shall have one after the feast,” she said. Unable to take another second of his presence, they both fled the room.
He dragged himself from the bed and found a pitcher of water to rinse his hands and face, at least, hoping the castle had heartier servants or he’d never get a request out before they ran in terror. He scrubbed his wet hands over his face a few tim
es, wincing at a small cut near his hairline, then turning around to further survey his new home for the next fortnight.
Yes, it was a fine room, but he suspected it was nowhere near as fine as what Sir Andrew had been given on his trips to visit their liege lord. With a shrug, he imagined it was because he hadn’t yet proven himself. No matter, he was used to proving himself.
Not that he should have to. He reminded himself that he was now the rightful owner of Dernier Keep. If Sir Walter was as honorable as Sir Andrew had always believed and told him, then there should be no disputing that. And Dernier Keep was the final stronghold against the marauders from the north. Sir Andrew had helped keep Grancourt Castle as well as the rest of England safe these many years and Tristan intended to keep doing that. He hoped to keep doing that.
He wondered if someone was going to come for him or if he should find his own way back to the great hall. Or if someone was ever going to bring his things. He blinked, trying not to judge the appalling lack of welcome he was receiving. He knew Sir Walter’s wife had died recently, but what of the daughters?
He recalled the small gaggle of young ladies as he’d passed through the gates, two of which he was sure were the frightened servants. Another of them had actually stood on her toes to get a look at them, as if she’d never seen someone come from a battle before. She couldn’t have been one of the daughters, as Sir Walter had a great reputation for fighting, keeping their borders safe for many years before he retired. And it hadn’t been all that long ago that his own children wouldn’t remember it, unless they’d been sheltered by their mother when she was alive.
He grunted and tried to dust off his clothes. It was a lost cause. At least two of those young ladies he’d seen at the gates had been Sir Walter’s offspring and, according to Brom, he should keep them in mind for a wife. But, except for the oddity of the one girl gawking at him like a peasant, none of them had especially stood out to him. Certainly not as someone he’d want to live with for the rest of his days, back at the keep he so loved.
Endearing (Knight Everlasting Book 1) Page 3
