Castle of the Wolf

He could achieve his goals faster if he wed a wealthy woman. Not a titled lady, who would likely look down on a man of his origins, but a rich merchant’s daughter or sister.

With snapping brown eyes and hair to her waist.

He must stop thinking of Tamsin of DeLac. She must be nothing to him.

He surveyed the wall walk nearest the gate and thought he could make out the stocky Gareth, his friend and garrison commander. Gareth had no doubt been watching for his return, ready to ply him with questions about the tournament, the fighting and, being Gareth, the women.

Gareth had lost three of his bottom teeth in a skirmish, most of one eyebrow was nothing but a scar and his visage had been none too pretty to begin with. Despite his lack of physical attractiveness, however, he rarely had trouble finding female company, for he was as merry as Rheged was serious. Nevertheless they had been friends and comrades-in-arms for over fifteen years, from the time a half-drunk Gareth had tried to knock Rheged down and instead had fallen, laughing, into a horse trough.

As Rheged raised his hand in greeting, Sir Algar, white-haired and agile despite his years, came hurrying out of the open gate of Cwm Bron. Rheged hadn’t expected to find his overlord waiting for him, and he was pleased and flattered. And relieved, too, a little, for now Gareth’s questions would have to wait.

“Greetings, my lord!” Rheged called out, riding closer. Unlike Lord DeLac, Sir Algar was slender and although his long tunic, embossed leather belt and polished boots had surely been expensive, he wore few jewels.

“I couldn’t wait to find out who the champion of the tournament was,” Sir Algar cheerfully explained when Rheged swung down from his horse to walk beside him.

“I was.”

“I knew it!” Algar cried, slapping his thigh with delight. “I knew nobody’d beat you!”

“Nobody at that tournament anyway,” Rheged replied.

They’d no sooner entered the yard than Dan the groom hurried out of the stable as fast as his short legs could take him. Between his lack of height, potbelly and red face, the groom was rather like an apple with limbs. He was also honest and good at his job, and that was what counted with Rheged.

“Rub Jevan down well, and have my mail and surcoat taken to the armory for cleaning,” Rheged said, stroking his destrier’s nose.

Dan nodded and took hold of the reins while Rheged retrieved the smaller leather pouch that had also been tied to his saddle.

“Well, then, no limbs missing, I see,” Gareth noted wryly after he joined them, running his gaze up and down Rheged’s frame, which was as long and lean as his was short and brawny.

“No,” Rheged replied, apparently equally serious. “Only a few bruises.”

“And he won!” Sir Algar exclaimed.

“Can’t have been much of a competition, then,” Gareth observed.

“Not much,” Rheged answered with a shrug. “I see the fortress is still standing, so no trouble while I was gone, I take it?”

“Not a thing.”

Rheged noticed Sir Algar fidgeting. “Good. Tell the guards the watchword for the night is...woolshed.”

Gareth looked a little surprised, but he nodded and strolled off toward the men standing near the gate while Rheged, with Sir Algar beside him, started toward the keep.

“What did you make of Lord DeLac?” Sir Algar asked as they went up the steps to the second level in the building that served as Rheged’s hall. The chamber where he slept was on the third level, just below the new slate roof.

“Rich and prosperous and pleased with himself,” Rheged replied as they entered. This room was half the size of Lord DeLac’s great hall, and had no tapestries or other decoration. The tables were scarred and none too clean, the benches likewise. There was one chair, also old and not in the best of condition. Compared to Lord DeLac’s hall... There was no comparison, but then, he had no wife to rule it.

Sir Algar chuckled. “That’s one way to put it, I suppose. He always was a vain fellow, and arrogant. Who else was there? Anyone to give you trouble?”

“It wasn’t my easiest victory,” Rheged conceded while they walked toward the smoking central hearth. “A few of the younger knights decided to try me, and one or two will be formidable when they’ve had more experience.”

Hopefully by the time those young bucks were skilled enough to be serious competition, his estate would be so prosperous that he wouldn’t have to travel to tournaments to augment his income like some kind of entertainer.

Sir Algar slid him a grin. “And the ladies? Any beauties among them? Did any quarrels break out over you?”

“I was thinking about the battle before the melee and was too tired to pay much attention afterward,” Rheged replied, deciding there was no need to tell Sir Algar about Lord DeLac’s niece and his encounters with her.

“What, you saw no one to make you think of marriage? What of DeLac’s daughter? I hear she’s very beautiful.”

Rheged wondered if that was why Sir Algar had been so keen that he go to this particular tournament. If so, he was going to be disappointed. “I don’t think Lord DeLac would consider me a fitting son-in-law, and Lady Mavis didn’t seem at all interested in me.”

The older man chuckled and settled into the chair. “I find that hard to fathom.”

Rheged sat on a nearby bench and called out for Hildie, a middle-aged maidservant with a mole on her cheek who was lingering near the door to the kitchen, to bring wine.

“I’m far from wealthy,” he said to Lord Algar, “and I’m Welsh to boot—hardly attributes to attract a Norman bride.”

“Plenty of women wouldn’t care about wealth or nationality when they look at you. Good God, man, you’re any maiden’s dream!”

“I didn’t appear to be Lady Mavis’s dream.”

Sir Algar sighed. Then his eyes lit up again. “What of the man’s niece? Is she not of marriageable age?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of woman is she?”

“Betrothed.”

“Betrothed? To whom?”

“Sir Blane of Dunborough.”

“That old reprobate?” Sir Algar cried with a disgust that matched Rheged’s own.

“I gather DeLac needs an ally in the north.”

“DeLac must truly be desperate if he’ll give his niece to that black-hearted villain!”

“Or she wants a rich and powerful husband,” Rheged answered, for was that not what she herself had said?

“Ah.” Sir Algar leaned back in the chair and stroked his beard. “That could be—and it would be understandable, too. She came to DeLac with nearly nothing as a child after her parents died of a sickness and has been dependent on his charity ever since. That cannot be a comfortable existence. But Blane! Surely there must be someone else she could marry in the north.”

“The lady has already agreed.”

“Well, then, there’s an end to it,” Sir Algar said with another sigh. “At least Blane is old, so she may soon be a widow. Perhaps she’s already considered that.”

“Perhaps,” Rheged agreed, although he found no comfort in that thought. He didn’t want to believe the passionate woman he had kissed could be so coldhearted that she would eagerly anticipate widowhood, any more than he wanted to see her in Blane’s household. As for spending even a single night in the man’s bed...