lent us some worthy mounts,” the knight suggested.
The count glared at the man before him. “You want me to lend you horses?” He made it sound as if it was the most outlandish thing he had heard so far. “And what? Watch you make my animals disappear along with the others? I’ll have none of it. You can ride back in the empty wagons. It would serve you right.”
The knight stiffened under the count’s sarcasm but held his ground. “The baron would be indebted to you, I daresay.”
“Yes, I daresay he would,” agreed the count. He regarded the knight; there was something in what he suggested. To have the baron beholden to him might prove a useful thing in future dealings. “Oh, very well, take some refreshment, and I will arrange it. You can leave tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, sire,” said the knight. “We are most grateful.”
When the knight had gone, Count Falkes put the matter out of his mind. Soldiers were a superstitious lot, all told, forever seeing signs and wonders where there were none.
Even the most solid-seeming needed little prompting—a shadow in the woods, was that it?—to embark on a flight of delirious fancy and set tongues wagging everywhere.
Probably the slack-witted guards, having ranged far ahead of the wagons, had emptied a skinful of wine between them and, in their drunken stupor, allowed their untethered horses to wander off.
Later that evening, however, as twilight deepened across the valley, the count was given opportunity to reappraise his hasty opinion when the missing soldier, Laurent, stumbled out of the forest and appeared at the gate of his stronghold. Half out of his head with fear, the fellow was gibbering about demons and ghosts and a weird phantom bird, and insisting that the ancient wood was haunted.
Before the count could interview the man in person, word had flashed throughout the caer that some sort of unworldly creature—a giant bird with a beak as long as a man’s arm, wings a double span wide, and glowing red eyes—had arisen in the forest, called forth by means both mysterious and infernal to instil terror in the hearts of the Ffreinc intruders. This last appeared only too likely, the count considered, watching his men fall over themselves in their haste to hear the lunatic. This time tomorrow, the tale would spread from one end of the valley to the other.
Whatever it was that had frightened the stricken soldier, it would take more than some cockeyed tale involving an oversized bird and the dubious misplacement of a few horses to make Count Falkes tremble in his boots. Nothing short of a midnight shower of fire and brimstone and the appearance of Lucifer himself could drive a de Braose from his throne once he had got his rump on it. And that was that.
CHAPTER 31
For Mérian, the invitation to attend the baron’s festivities came as a command to undertake an onerous obligation. “Must we go?” she demanded when her mother informed her. “Must I?”
She had heard how the Ffreinc lived: how the men worshipped their ladies and showered them with expensive baubles; how the noble houses were steeped in lavish displays of wealth—fine clothes, sumptuous food, imported wine, furniture made by artisans across the sea; how the Ffreinc prized beauty and held a high respect for ritual, indulging many extraordinary and extravagant courtesies.
All this and more she had heard from one gossip or another over the years, and it had never swayed her from her opinion that the Ffreinc were little more than belligerent swine, scrubbed up and dressed in satin and lace, perhaps, but born to the stockyard nonetheless. The mere thought of attending one of their festive celebrations produced in her a dread akin to the sweating queasiness some people feel aboard ship in uneasy seas.
“It is an honour to be asked,” Queen Anora told her.
“Then that is honour enough for me,” she replied crisply.
“Your father has already accepted the invitation.”
“He accepted without my permission,” Mérian pointed out. “Let him go without me.”
This was not the last word on the subject—far from it. In the end, however, she knew she must accept her father’s decision; she would pretend the dutiful daughter and go, like a martyr, to her fate.
Galled as she was to think of attending the event, she worried that she would not be properly dressed, that she would not know how to comport herself correctly, that her speech would betray her for a brutish Briton, that her family would embarrass her with their