concealed by the coif. “It is only his lordship of Rocky Ford, come to visit our young lady. The falcon scout spotted the banners miles out. He said his bird identified the lead rider as young Lord Matew.”
“What?” Jess asked. She straightened up, a cuirass in one hand and a gauntlet in the other. “Oh!” She slammed them back into the chest. “Oh, when will I stop thinking that Uthbridge knows what he is talking about?”
Bainton’s broad shoulders relaxed.
“It’s understood, lass. Never you mind.”
The mistress-of-arms smiled. “Come and present yourself to greet Lord Matew. Then you may inform the lady of the arrival of her intended.”
Jess shrugged out of the long undertunic and cap and put them back with the rest. She took a couple of quick swipes at her braid to tidy it, and brushed down her skirts.
The courtyard was filled with people, most of them kitchen servants who hurried back and forth with armloads of rushes, flowers and beautifully wrought sugar subtleties. Trestle tables were covered and laid out in a U-shape under the sun for the upcoming feast. The smell of roasting meat and baking bread wafted deliciously through the air. How could she have thought there was anything wrong?
She stood in between the double-file of soldiers-at-arms and the servants of the house to watch the party arrive. They all peered toward the broad gravel road that led up the hill toward the citadel gate.
Lord Matew certainly meant to make an impression. Thirty, no, forty soldiers in full armor, even more than remained in the garrison of the castle, rode behind the tall man at their head. Pennants flew from the tips of their swords and from the horns of the heralds that flanked the nobleman. Baggage carts and a covered litter brought up the rear.
For a man of peace and a doctor of letters, Matew certainly held himself on horseback like an expert, thought Jess. His long, lanky body was at utter ease in the saddle of a destrier whose coat was so black it was blue. He wore a shimmering chainmail tunic underneath a sable leather tabard marked with the silver waterfall emblem of Rocky Ford. Both sword and spear were ready at hand. Perhaps he meant to surprise Caitlin and show her he was at home in both worlds.
But something didn’t seem right. The shock of hair was darker and the jaw narrower than depicted in the small painting that Caitlin cherished. Heaven knew that Jess had studied it time and again since it had arrived four weeks before. She noticed small differences between the man and the image. It could be that the painter was more skilled at expression than resemblance, if such a thing was possible. Jess herself couldn’t draw a circle or a straight line. His expression had no trace of the amiable fellow in the picture. She might even call this man cruelly handsome. She straightened her back. There was deception of some kind here, but what?
The approaching heralds lifted their trumpets to their lips and blew a musical fanfare. The mistress-of-arms drew her sword and held it blade up before her nose.
“Present arms!” she shouted. “Open the gate!”
The creaking portcullis rose. Behind its jagged black teeth, the colorful procession cantered forward, not even slowing as it flowed into the courtyard.
“Welcome, Lord Matew!” the crowd cried out.
The black-haired man raised a fist. His contingent of soldiers wheeled their horses and halted facing the guards of Kalb De. He swung out of the saddle.
“Well, a pretty greeting! Where is my lady?”
The mistress-of-arms, as the ranking person remaining in the citadel, stood forward.
“She will appear soon, my lord. I am Captain Leehall. In the name of the Duke and Duchess of Kalb De, I bid you and your people to rest and refresh yourselves. As you see,” the mistress-of-arms said, sweeping her arm toward the decorated tables, “your engagement feast is almost prepared.”
“But why wait?” the man asked, spreading his arms wide and turning in a circle. “Our parents have already agreed our two lands are to be made one. Let this be our wedding day! I have brought with me a celebrant of the Sphere of Heaven. Come here, priest!”
A stout man dropped the reins of the lead baggage cart and scrambled down. He wore the traditional green robe, but he had none of the rings or a diadem proclaiming him a high member of the church. He was a humble forest priest.
“Shouldn’t the Archdruid perform a ceremony between two future