drew his sword and slapped the flat of the blade across the man’s bare buttocks. The mercenary jerked upright with a bark of surprise, the curse dying instantly in his throat when he recognized who had wielded the sword.
“My lord,” he roared with good-natured drunkenness. “Care to ’ave a wee slap at her yerself, do ye?”
“Sunrick, you hoary old boar. Can you not conduct your affairs in private?”
“Eh?” The knight was older, his skin as leathery as bull-hide armour, his hair a shock of snow white scattered over his shoulders.
“My betrothed”—Wardieu cast a meaningful glance to the top of the stairs—“finds such open displays of affection in poor taste.”
The knight and his group of merrymakers squinted up through the smoke and sifting dust and gaped at the pale figure standing in the gloom. One of them muttered something ribald enough to win a broken-toothed smile from Sunrick, who spat a rejoinder carelessly out of the corner of his mouth and ran a loving hand over the whore’s bare thigh. With a grunt, he bent forward and pulled the wench upright, causing her to give a shriek of laughter as he slung her over his shoulder and carried her into one of the adjoining antechambers. The other men hefted their tankards of ale and followed, some still grinning over their shoulders at Servanne de Briscourt.
“My lady?”
Servanne looked beside her and was surprised to see Eduard’s perplexed expression mirroring her own. Apart from Biddy and Sir Roger, the young squire had been the only friendly face in the long journey from Alford—clearly smitten, Biddy would have said, by her ladyship’s youth and fragile loveliness.
“The running of the castle has been left in the hands of men too long, methinks,” he said, offering one of his rare smiles. “’tis certain your presence here will work a change or two for the betterment of us all.”
Servanne started to smile back, but a burst of laughter from farther down the hall caused the boy to look away, and something in his profile caused her breath to stall in her throat. For a brief, dizzying moment, another profile as angular and rugged superimposed itself over Eduard’s. The similarity was made even more pronounced by the darkness of his hair, thick and swirling softly against the nape of his neck, and, when he turned back to face her, by eyes that were the same smoky gray that placed a hint of wolfish cynicism on every glance.
Servanne stared, and Eduard stared back.
“Eduard!” Wardieu called. “Bring Lady Servanne forward that she might be properly introduced to some of our more loyal retainers.”
Eduard’s smile shifted again, becoming tauter and grimmer than the situation warranted. He offered Servanne his arm and escorted her down the steep flight of steps, whereupon, at the bottom, she could have sworn she heard a murmured: “Courage, my lady.”
The Baron de Gournay strode forward and relieved Eduard of his delicate burden. Like a king leading his queen to the throne, he held his arm outstretched so that Servanne had to reach up and out to keep the tips of her fingers in contact with his wrist. She was led along the length of the hall toward the dais, her skirt dragging gently over the grimy rushes, her dainty slippered feet snapping the occasional thin bone overlooked by scavenging dogs.
Long before they reached the end of their promenade, the silence had become as pronounced and oppressive as the windowless gloom. Wardieu extended greetings to a familiar face here and there, some of them wedding guests who had arrived early to take advantage of their host’s good food and strong wine. A goodly number of knights and ladies stopped their eating and drinking to stare curiously at the prospective bride. They were not of the same ilk as the villeins who owned tenancy on Sir Hubert’s estates. These knights were bleary-eyed and coarsely dressed; their women were blowsy and vulgar, their gowns spotted with grease, their fingers and chins slick with sweet fat.
“Wardieu, ye old Dragon!” One of the knights came forward, a goblet in one hand, a partially gnawed joint of mutton in the other. “I see ye’ve resolved yer difficulties with the outlaw rabble. Have her back safe and sound, do ye? Not tupped, were she?”
“Godfrey, Lord Tydfil,” Wardieu murmured by way of an introduction. “A brazen old warrior, but a stout ally and keeper of the peace on my marcher estates. The Lady Servanne de Briscourt.”