“Then I have work for you.”
And, with that, a gold coin was slid across the bench.
The former knight looked up at his new benefactor, then back down at the coin. After a moment's thought, he picked it up and slipped it into his leather pouch.
“Who do I have the honor of addressing?”
“My name is Drefan.”
“I’m Baldwin.”
Drefan smiled.
“Yes, I know who you are.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The passage of weeks was marked by the turning of autumn leaves from green to vivid shades of red and yellow and the sun losing its summer sting.
Providence smiled on Tyrswick this year. A bountiful harvest not only guaranteed the villagers would have plenty to eat over the frigid winter months, but also ensured plenty for sale and trade.
Despite rapidly approaching her time, Rosalind reveled in her role as mistress of Tryswick Keep, employing both Heloise and Frey to be her arms and legs.
Heloise seemed proud to be so honored and took her responsibilities seriously—perhaps too seriously for the likes of some of the more experienced household servants.
Frey was also happy to have domestic activity to fill her days and gladly joined the rest of the household women in preparing pickled and jellied meats and making candied fruits and preserves to be placed in the cold stores of the Keep’s basement.
The abundance of good growing was also evidenced in the generous amount of honey and beeswax gathered, and quite a few of the young female servants were delighted to be taken away from their regular chores to make up beeswax candles, which were much more pleasantly aromatic than the usual animal-fat tallows.
What resentment or disquiet anyone at the Keep may have felt at Frey’s unexpected return to the land of the living disappeared when they saw her willingness to not simply give orders, but to work just as vigorously as they.
And those servants who were there when her father ruled Tyrswick were simply happy to see their mistress back home.
As Frey crossed a sunny courtyard on her way back to the Keep, she noted with approval the rows and rows of trestle tables boasting a cornucopia of fruit to be dried in the sunshine.
She stopped briefly to turn her face to the sun and breathe in the sweet scent of ripe fruit. She was content, more at peace than she had been over the past seven years. However, the knowledge that soon she would be married off to a stranger and leaving her home yet again nagged at her.
Sebastian’s promise of six weeks ago that she was home for good echoed through Frey’s mind. He had yet to explain himself, but in seeing such a well-run keep and a prosperous village which produced a magnificent harvest, she was beginning to appreciate that Sebastian was a man capable of getting what he wanted.
On reaching the entrance to the Keep, Frey was stopped by one of the household servants.
“My Lady Rosalind has asked if you could join her in the solar,” said the girl.
“Is she well?” Frey enquired. “She doesn’t suffer with birthing pangs yet?”
“Not that I am aware, my lady.”
Frey was not the only one keeping a watchful eye on Rosalind, though not all the concern was welcomed by her.
Some weeks earlier, the baron had questioned the amount of physical activity she was doing and received a tongue-lashing in response. Rosalind refused to be confined and insisted on taking long daily constitutionals with Heloise and sometimes with Frey.
In fact, Rosalind put such a flea in Sebastian's ear about his nervous hovering that Frey didn't blame him for gladly taking his sister’s advice to be about his own business. Since then, he had occupied himself almost solely with holding sessions of his seigniorial court or riding out to the villages under his domain.
So busy had he been, in fact, that Frey and Sebastian only managed to speak a few words to one another in passing, and they were merely everyday pleasantries.
Now, as she ascended to the upper floors, she noted the smell of sour rushes from the Great Hall, which assailed her nostrils this morning, was gone. The sodden rushes had been cleared away and, following a thorough scrubbing of the stone floor with lye, fresh rushes mixed with fragrant dried lavender and fennel lay in their place.
In the solar, the floor had been similarly scrubbed yesterday at Rosalind’s direction, and not without a few grumbles from some of the serving girls about it not being spring and “how odd women get when they’re on the nest.”
Here, however, the rushes were not simply strewn about as they were in the Great Hall; instead, they were woven into thick mats nearly covering the floor from wall to wall. Frey observed the newly completed tapestries adorning the walls and considered wintering in this room would be no hardship indeed.
“There you are!” Rosalind exclaimed. “A messenger arrived today bearing two missives for you, my dear.”
Heloise hovered by her sister-in-law’s elbow, glancing at the handwriting before sitting back down and picking up a piece of needlework.
The first was obviously slow and laboriously written. Frey smiled. It was from her brother.
Brice was being encouraged by his tutor to practice writing. This was the second letter she'd received and this one had only half as many ink splotches as the first. Frey smiled at his progress.
“News from your brother?” Rosalind asked, looking up from her spinning.
“Indeed. He has taken his first steps without crutches but is frustrated that he cannot run like the other boys. He says Brother Halig tells him ‘that the trying of your faith worketh patience.’ He also hates learning Latin.”
Frey scanned farther down the page and continued.
“He writes that his kitten, Grindan, the one Sebastian gave him, was very brave and chased a fox harassing the chickens, but, with the threat dispatched, the hens turned on him and Grindan ran up the abbot’s robes and hid in his cowl.”
Rosalind laughed heartily and Frey joined in.
“Oh Alfreya, you shouldn’t make me laugh in my delicate condition!”
She struggled to her feet before anyone could offer assistance and waddled off to the privy.
“And what of your second letter, Mistress Alfreya?” inquired Heloise.
Frey set aside Brice’s letter and picked up the second. She didn’t immediately recognize the hand. She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
It contained just seven words in a neat, economical script.
I am coming for you, Alfreya.
Drefan
Frey stared until the strokes on the paper shimmered and blurred; only when she heard the paper rustling in her trembling hand did she remember to breathe.
Heloise looked at her with a mixture of surprise and intense curiosity.
“Is aught amiss?”
Frey swallowed and glanced up at the girl, blinking owlishly at her.
“No,” Frey finally answered with a shake of her head. “Nothing amiss, but I shall lie down for a while.”
She excused herself and left the solar, sidestepping Rosalind, who reentered the room.
Rosalind watched the pale and distressed Frey disappear down the stairs at a clip.
“Was there bad news in her brother’s letter?” she asked.
“It was the other one,” came Heloise’s fading voice.
* * *
Larcwide wasn’t difficult to find. Frey followed the rhythmic sound of a staff being using used to tap out a beat to which two squires practiced their timing and stroke play, brandishing wooden wasters instead of more dangerous steel swords.
Not wishing to distract them, Frey stood out of their eye-line at the edge of the quadrangle and watched Robert, along with another young squire, run through the sword drill—parry, thrust, fend, parry, thrust, fend. It came to an abrupt end when Robert’s opponent sensed Frey's presence and glanced around. Robert landed a bruising blow to his arm and the young man yelped.
“Concentrate, lad!” Larcwide yelled, although a twitch at the ed
ges of his stern mouth told Frey he didn’t consider the infraction a serious one.
With the lesson disrupted, Larcwide dismissed his students and offered Frey his full attention.
“You’re too soft on them,” she teased.
“That’s not what you said when you begged me to teach you how to use a short sword,” he answered with a smile.
Although Frey had seen little of Larcwide, and even less of Orlege, she was pleased the easy relationship between them still remained.
“How can I help you, my lady?”
Frey’s smile disappeared.
“I received a message from Drefan.”
Larcwide’s eyes widened in surprise.
“When?” he hissed. “What did he say?” He glanced about them to see if there was anyone to overhear and pulled her into a shady corner to ensure they were unseen.
Frey relayed the one-line message and the frown on Larcwide’s face deepened.
“You know this is over, don’t you my lady? No more rebellion, no more grand dreams of restoring the Northumbrian dynasty. We are all, Saxon and Norman alike, a part of one England and probably stronger for it.”
Frey didn’t object to Larcwide’s speech. He spoke as a beloved family friend and she appreciated his candor.
“I know, I know,” she nodded. “Even if I were of a mind to wage war—”
“If Drefan had landed a sizeable army with siege engines, there would have been news reaching us.”
“What do you think he means?”
“I know not… Have you spoken to the baron? Does he know of Drefan?”
Frey hesitated and Larcwide gave her a look that brooked no dissembling on her part.
“Some. He knows we were waiting on him to supply us, and he may suspect Drefan and I had an attachment,” she said.
“But nothing of your contract to marry?”
She shook her head. “I never saw such a contract. For all his drunken talk, I do not believe father ever made the arrangements.”
Larcwide said nothing immediately, though Frey could see from the set of his jaw he had other thoughts he wasn’t willing to share. And then, as though coming to the end of a long deliberation, the man-at-arms finally nodded.
“I’ll speak to Orlege about finding the messenger. You’ll be pleased to know Orlege has been persuaded being well paid and well fed is a better proposition than having his head on a pike,” he said. “Now, I have to go and earn my keep, and you, my lady, should tell the baron all.”
Larcwide walked away without a further glance.
Frey shuddered in the cold shadow of the thick stone walls and stepped out into the sunshine without knowing the entire exchange had been observed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The servants were thrown into a frenzy of activity just a few hours later with the unexpected early return of Baron Rhys Villiers and his men from London. His arrival may have been unexpected, but it was most certainly welcome. Tyrswick Keep took on a festive atmosphere for the return of the baron’s brother-in-law and friend.
The cook promised a menu fit for royalty. He consulted with the butler over which wines, ales, and meads were to be fetched from the buttery and demanded the services of a couple of the stable boys to help turn the large roast spits.
The scullions and servant girls who complained earlier about Lady Rosalind’s cleaning fit were now grateful their workload was light compared to the rest of the household.
“Ho! We thought you were at least another week away. Why didn’t you send word?” Sebastian called over the din of booted feet, hooves, and the jangle of armor and bridles in the outer bailey. He clasped arms with Rhys in a traditional greeting.
Rhys was only a year or two older than his host, and about the same build—tall and muscular, well used to wielding a broad sword as well as a battle-axe. He shared his sister’s coloring, hair a shade of chestnut brown with light blue eyes.
“I could say I was anxious to see my wife before the babe is born, but I’d only be telling a half truth,” he answered. “I have word from London for you and then gossip reached me on the road that I couldn’t believe so I decided to press on.”
“Well, whatever news you have cannot be so burning as to keep you from your wife any longer. Go see Rosalind. Gaines can settle your men in.”
With a familiarity of square Norman Keeps and this one in particular, Rhys didn’t ask where his wife could be found. She would be in the solar.
Despite being tired from many days on the road, he bounded up each flight of stairs with the energy of a youth, but, when he emerged at the top floor, the first woman in his arms was not his wife but his sister, who threw herself into his embrace.
Heloise greeted him with kisses and dozens of questions about court. Who had he seen? What did they wear? What was the gossip?
Over her shoulder, Rhys shared a smile with his wife before answering the most urgent of Heloise’s questions.
Her nanny, Dorcas, recalled something important and asked Heloise for her assistance. The girl didn’t notice the grateful look both Baron and his lady gave the servant as she and Heloise left the room.
Rhys sat beside Rosalind on the settle and kissed her fingers and then her lips tenderly, ending the caress with a stroke of her hair and cheek.
“I’ve missed you, my beloved,” he whispered.
“And I you. I prayed you would be back before the babe was born.”
“You look well and I trust my son fares well?”
Rosalind smiled, taking his hand and placing it on her belly. “He does indeed, my lord, and we will both rest easier now you are here. But tell me, what news do you bring from Court?”
“Before I do, tell me if the gossip I hear is true, that Sebastian has taken a viper to his nest and given succor to the daughter of a Saxon traitor.”
“I’d hardly call Alfreya a viper, but it’s true she’s been living here nigh on two months,” Rosalind affirmed. “Why should the news distress you, Rhys? Earl Alfred is dead, his youngest son resides at St. Cuthbert’s and is keen to renounce any claim to Tyrswick, and, according to Sebastian, Lady Alfreya herself negotiated very admirably for a peaceful end.”
“Do you know outside these walls she is considered a sorceress who can cast spells on wolves?”
“What nonsense!” Rosalind exclaimed with passion. “She’s no more a sorceress than I am. It’s not like you to pay attention to superstitious nonsense,” she said, chiding him.
“It’s a long tale,” he agreed.
“I can smell it might be,” Rosalind told him with a twinkle of amusement in her eye. “I’ve had a bath ordered; then you can tell me all about it and I won’t be jealous of your horse.”
* * *
Late into the evening, after most of Tyrswick Keep retired, two lamps glowed softly in Sebastian’s chambers, just enough to add a little extra light to the red glow from the banked coals in his fireplace.
Sebastian could see that Rhys, filled with good food and drink, and exhausted from a long journey, yearned to crawl into bed next to his wife.
Except one more obligation awaited him.
They sat by the fire, each with his long legs stretched before him.
After the servant who brought their wine withdrew, Rhys repeated the rumor to Sebastian, watching him carefully for his reaction.
It was to laugh—heartily.
Sebastian raised his cup in salute.
“Well, you have no fear on that count,” he exclaimed. “It would be a poor thing indeed to kill one’s own familiars. Alfreya’s aptitude with a bow is to blame, not some pact with the devil.”
Sebastian poked at the coals. The flames flickered and danced.
He took a sip from his cup and let the sweet, pungent flavor of the spiced wine fall down his throat and settle warmly in his stomach.
“That is not the only rumor,” Rhys said.
Sebastian shrugged.
“Let them gossip. It matters not to me and, I dare say, not to Alfreya
either.”
Rhys would not be dissuaded by Sebastian’s lukewarm attitude toward the tales. He pressed on.
“They say Lady Alfreya is not a woman at all but a fiend who took on her form after killing her. The story goes she chews off young women’s fingers and steals their souls by taking their eyes.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. Disgusting slander! Evil lies…
By and large, superstition of witches and familiars riding across the night sky had disappeared from these lands, but despite being nominally Christian, there were still those who clung to the old pagan ways. Sebastian doubted even the church could rid the world of gossip and jealousy, those two great sins that bit and irritated like fleas, causing annoyance at best and disease at worse.
Rhys offered him a sympathetic look.
“I’m glad you say it is a tale,” Sebastian answered coldly. “I cannot begin to fathom the malice behind creating such a rumor over the brutal deaths of two girls.”
Rhys shook his head.
“There’s been another.”
“On my lands?” Sebastian slammed his goblet on the low table beside him. “Impossible! I would have been told.”
“It happened on Alnwick lands two weeks ago. The body of a girl ill-used, missing fingers on the hands, eyes gouged out, hair hacked off.”
“The Beast is moving south,” Sebastian mused aloud.
“And so too is the story that goes with it, which makes the letter I carry with me all the more concerning.”
“From Court?”
Rhys nodded and handed the sealed parchment to Sebastian.
The letter was written by the one of the joint chief justiciars, Richard FitzGilbert, who possessed the governorship of England while William sojourned in Normandy. He opened by offering congratulations to Sebastian on his proposal to unite Saxon and Norman by wedding the daughter of the dispossessed earl. It was, wrote FitzGilbert, “a political move most clever.”
The contents of the letter pleased Sebastian. He looked up at Rhys with a broad grin to replace the scowl of a few moments before, but the tense expression on Rhys’s face suggested, though the document had been sealed, he had been told of its contents.
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