A Warrior's Bride. Margaret Moore
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in his own right now.
“Come inside and have some wine. It’s late in the day. You must have gone slowly, or else come by the north road,” Sir Thomas noted, his voice slightly condemning, with the unspoken implication that unless George had taken the longer route, the lateness of his arrival meant that he was a lazy fellow.
George reminded himself that Sir Thomas thought everyone who didn’t work as hard as he did or take his military and lordly duties as seriously must be a lazy fellow, a judgment that encompassed every other nobleman George knew.
Then he realized that Aileas must not have returned, or if she had, she had not mentioned their meeting on the southern road. Considering her own impertinent behavior, perhaps she had thought that the better course.
They entered the hall, a large, exceptionally cold room in which the vast hearth stood empty. The walls were free of tapestry or anything that could remotely be construed as decoration, and the furnishings old, worn and unembellished. There was not a single feminine attribute about the place, nor were there any soldiers or noble guests taking their ease inside.
Sir Thomas sat in the largest chair on the dais, a heavy oaken thing much carved, with no cushion upon the seat. He gestured for George to sit next to him in a chair of similar design. George complied, to his regret, for the seat was as hard, cold and comfortable as a boulder, and the carving in the back of the chair made it feel as if fifty dagger points were digging into his back.
“How is Lady Aileas?” George inquired politely, deciding that if she had not thought fit to mention their meeting, neither would he. “I had hoped to greet her when I arrived.”
Sir Thomas made a dismissive grunt. “She’s healthy as that horse of hers. Took him out for a gallop. They’ll be back soon.”
Although George knew Sir Thomas was not a man given to emotional display—or. indeed, display of any kind—the perfunctory tone of his reply startled him nonetheless, especially when George recalled that Aileas had apparently been riding alone. “She is a skilled horsewoman, I’m sure,” he ventured.
“Best I ever saw. Taught her myself,” Sir Thomas bragged. “Better even than her brothers, and they’re excellent.”
Not excellent enough to keep from getting thrown and abandoned, George thought. “I daresay she likes a lively horse.”
A cowed-looking page boy appeared in a doorway George suspected led to the kitchen. “Wine!” Sir Thomas barked, and the lad quickly disappeared. “Lively, did you say?” his host continued. “That stallion of hers is the very devil of a horse. I told her she’ll break her neck, but she won’t listen to me. Too strong willed.” For all the apparent condemnation of his words, his tone was distinctly boastful.
“She has an escort, I presume?” George asked, certain the answer would be no and beginning to wonder if Aileas had met with another accident on the journey home.
“Escort?” Sir Thomas replied with a harsh caw of a laugh. “She’d lose ’em in a thunderclap if she did. Prefers to ride alone. Always has. As long as she stays on my land, she’s safe.”
“Of course,” George said, not willing to point out that outlaws and brigands often didn’t respect a lord’s borders, and the sight of a young woman alone would be tempting for such men.
Sir Thomas continued to peer angrily at the kitchen doorway. “Where the devil’s the wine?” he bellowed, then he turned his fierce gaze on George. “She’s like her mother, that one. See this scar?” Sir Thomas pointed at a small, crescent-shaped mark on his forehead. “Her mother gave me this the first time I tried to kiss her.” His bushy gray eyebrows lowered ominously while the rest of his face remained immobile. “Aileas would do worse to any man who took liberties.”
“Naturally,” George replied nonchalantly.
Sir Thomas leaned back in his chair. Undoubtedly chain mail made that possible. The page boy arrived with a carafe of wine and two plain silver goblets into which he poured the burgundy beverage, his hands trembling all the while. Sir Thomas said nothing, but George smiled with kindness when the boy glanced at him.
The boy finished his task without any response, then quickly moved to the side of the room, where he proceeded to stare at the men as they drank. George suspected that the lad had absolutely no interest in anything passing before him except the necessity of refilling the goblets when necessary.
“Pity about your father,” Sir Thomas remarked after taking a gulp of wine.
George took a sip of the surprisingly fine wine and steeled himself to discuss that particular subject. “Yes. He was a good man.”
“A good neighbor. Little lax, perhaps, but good for all that.”
George forced a smile onto his face.
“Sir Richard Jolliet still the estate steward?”
“Yes, and his brother, Herbert, is the household steward. Richard has just gone to London to answer some questions about the taxes on my property.”
“Not trouble with the exchequer, I trust?” the old man asked suspiciously.
“Not a bit. I may have to pay a little more this year, that’s all. My estate has been doing rather better than expected.”
“Ah! Glad to hear it. It was a hard winter, but those of us who were prepared weathered it easily enough.”
George nodded his agreement, although he doubted anybody would ever be as prepared as Sir Thomas for bad times. His father always said that Sir Thomas lived in anticipation of a repetition of the biblical seven years of famine.
“Good men, the Jolliets,” Sir Thomas continued with a hint of approval. “Trustworthy.”
“Absolutely.” George agreed.
“No doubt your father’s affairs were in excellent order.”
“Yes, Sir Thomas.”
“Too bad you couldn’t get home sooner.”
“I came as quickly as I could,” George said. Then he chose the one excuse for his delayed arrival at his father’s deathbed that Sir Thomas could understand, and that would surely put an end to this painful topic, which he had no desire to discuss with near strangers—or anyone else, for that matter. “I was dutybound to stay with Baron DeGuerre until after Candlemas.”
Sir Thomas nodded and took another gulp. “Still, a pity.”
George sipped slowly and tried not to be annoyed by Sir Thomas’s unforgiving, judgmental tone.
“So, you want to marry Aileas,” Sir Thomas announced suddenly.
George nearly choked. “I have decided to marry,” he replied truthfully.
“Why Aileas?”
It had not seemed to occur to Sir Thomas that there might be other ladies George could marry. “My father thought she would be a good choice for me,” he answered honestly.
“She doesn’t get any land when she marries,” the older man declared.
“I would not ask you for any.” Knowing better, he thought wryly.
“Good. She does get a dowry, of course. Movable goods.”
“Delightful—but of course, the true prize will be Aileas herself.”
Sir Thomas stared at George as if he had suddenly started to speak Greek. “Save that kind of nonsense for her, boy, although she’ll probably laugh in your face,” he growled. “She is a prize, as I well know. Especially if you’re ever under seige. Give her a bow and send her to the battlements, and you’ll be glad you did.”
George prevented himself from saying that he would never, ever, send a woman to the battlements, and certainly not his wife. “I’m sure she is a worthy woman.”
“Aye, she is.” Sir