Knave Of Hearts. Shari Anton

father.

      “I doubt the proceedings will lead to a confrontation, rather to a meeting of the minds.”

      “His lordship might be of a mind to deny you. You are late.”

      Long overdue, by several weeks. He’d been stuck in Normandy longer than planned. Then he’d spent several more weeks helping Richard. Then he’d stopped at Wilmont to report to Gerard. The four to six weeks he’d planned to be gone had stretched into three full months. Carolyn might not be pleased by his extended absence, but Stephen didn’t see how he could have done anything differently and still do right by Richard.

      And he’d done right by Richard—now settled at Collingwood, playing lord of the manor, getting along well with his ward and perhaps a bit too well with his ward’s mother. Stephen withheld judgment on that affair—’twas Richard’s decision to make the woman his bed mate or not.

      Still, Carolyn’s reaction to his tardy arrival might be a problem.

      “Then I shall have to placate his lordship somehow. Mayhap the keg of Burgundy wine will prove an acceptable bribe for forgiveness.” Stephen smiled. “Or perhaps I should have accepted Audra’s offer of refreshment in her parents’ hut. They might have told me how to best treat their lord.”

      Armand answered with a wry smile. “Can you imagine the reaction of the parents if a Norman noble deigned to grace their hut? The poor peasants might have died of heart failure!”

      Harlan, the white-bearded, crusty old knight on Stephen’s left, huffed. “Unnatural, I say, for a peasant tyke to make such an offer, and with the manners of the high born, too. Girl is headed for trouble if her parents continue to allow such behavior.”

      A valid observation, Stephen acknowledged. A peasant who forgot his or her place was most often severely reprimanded if caught by one of high rank who took offense. Audra’s actions had amused him, but another lord might have backhanded the girl, or worse, for her presumption. ’Twasn’t his problem, yet the thought of anyone mistreating the little girl didn’t sit well.

      Seeking a reason for Audra’s unusual behavior, Stephen wondered aloud. “Mayhap the girls are being trained for service in a noble household, and so are taught such manners?”

      Armand let out a laugh. “If so, then Lyssa is not taking to her lessons well. What a scamp!”

      Harlan shook his head. “’Twould never happen, not with twins. What noble household would have them?”

      Stephen knew of one. “Gerard would take them at Wilmont.”

      “Name me another.”

      Stephen conceded the point. The superstitions people held about twins would prevent their acceptance in most noble households. People feared what they considered an abomination of nature, so much so that dispensing of one of the twins at birth wasn’t unheard of among high and low born alike. Apparently, Audra and Lyssa’s parents didn’t fear the girls might become pawns of the devil and had allowed both girls to live.

      As had the parents of another set of twins. Corwin, Stephen’s best friend, was twin to Ardith, who had married his brother Gerard. No one at Wilmont would dare accuse either of consorting with the devil, at least not to their faces. The little girls might not be so fortunate.

      Cute tykes, destined to be lovely women. Their father would need to keep his wits about him as they grew up, to protect them from the randy bucks sure to come around, not caring if the object of their fancy was a twin or not.

      “We are spotted,” Armand said, ending Stephen’s musings.

      An imposing timber palisade surrounded Branwick Keep. Near the gate, several guards gathered to observe his company’s arrival.

      “Harlan, have the wagon drivers stay tight to each other,” Stephen commanded. “Once inside, halt the soldiers and wagons in the outer bailey. Armand and I will go up to the keep and send someone down to you with further instructions.”

      “As you wish, my lord.”

      Stephen gave his tunic a last, quick brushing. He’d dressed the part he must play, the wealthy noble come courting. Gold thread sparkled on his tunic. Silver studs shone bright on the leather of his steed’s bridle and saddle. Enough show of wealth to make an impression without being pompous.

      Stephen far preferred to travel on his own, or with one other companion, yet conceded when Gerard insisted on providing this escort and the wagonloads of goods. Though he truly hated it when his brother acted the baron, at times Gerard knew best how to approach an uncertain situation.

      Little could be more uncertain than a woman’s reaction if she felt insulted, and Carolyn could well bear him ill will for taking so long to come to Branwick.

      Only look how angry Marian had been because he hadn’t bid her farewell, and that six years ago! Even with three months to mull over her reaction to him, he still didn’t understand how she could hold harsh feelings against him for so long. Over the lack of a fare-thee-well. Over that which hadn’t been his fault.

      Pushing aside the vision of Marian’s beauty, even in her anger, Stephen crossed the bridge over the deep ditch surrounding the palisade. The guards waved him through the gate.

      “A good sign, do you not think?” Stephen asked Armand. “I had a moment’s dread that Carolyn might have left instructions for the guards to deny us entry.”

      “We have only gained the outer bailey,” Armand said in a droll tone. “Do not count yourself welcome until the lady allows you entry to the hall.”

      Stephen heard the creaks and groans of the wagons fall silent. Harlan would keep the soldiers and wagons in hand until told where to send them.

      Much as in any Norman keep in England, Branwick’s outer bailey teemed with people. Merchants’ shops, a smithy and the stables all lined the palisade, with guards patrolling the plank walk fastened high on the timbers. Men-at-arms practiced with swords, maces or lances in the tiltyard.

      Stephen passed through the gate of the second curtain wall into the inner bailey, noting the mouth-teasing aroma of roasting meat wafting out of the kitchen. Servants scurried about, in the midst of morning chores, a few of them taking note of the new arrivals.

      On a high, earthen motte sat a three-story, stone keep, the home and refuge to the lord of Branwick and his daughter. Though Carolyn possessed dower lands from her first two husbands, she preferred to live at Branwick Keep, which she would one day inherit and then pass along to her children. Stephen’s children, if all went well.

      He rode to the stairway that led up to the great hall on the second floor. As he dismounted, a short, thin, gray-haired man came scurrying down the stairs.

      William de Grasse? Probably not. According to Carolyn, her father was too frail to leave his bed, had been ill since last winter.

      The man bowed slightly. “I am Ivo, steward of Branwick. You are Stephen of Wilmont?”

      Stephen handed his horse’s reins to Armand. “I am, but how did you know?”

      “Oh, my lord, Lady Carolyn was most exacting in her description of you, so accurate the guards at the gate knew your identity immediately and sent word to us.”

      “Ah, I see. Then Carolyn knows I am here.”

      “Most certainly, my lord. She awaits you in the hall.”

      The steward’s words were given graciously, but something in the man’s tone warned of something amiss, and Stephen feared he knew what it was.

      He glanced over at Armand who, having relegated their horses to a stable lad, pushed his mail cowl back from his head. He ran his fingers through his sandy-colored hair, only half attempting to hold back a knowing grin.

      “Then we should not keep her ladyship waiting,” Stephen told the steward and took to the stairs, Ivo and Armand following close behind.

      Stephen opened the huge oak doors