A Warrior's Bride. Margaret Moore

she could tell by the stench wafting toward her that he had indeed been working hard.

      “God’s wounds, I’m tired,” he announced in a deep, resonant voice as he casually scratched himself. “And parched. And if I don’t get to the garderobe soon, I’m going to burst.” He started to walk to the men’s barracks. “What brings you here in such a hurry, Aileas?” he asked jovially. “Are we under attack?”

      “No,” she replied, “not exactly.”

      He gave her a curious look.

      “We’re going to have visitors in a little while.”

      “Oh?” Rufus halted and put on his tunic before smiling down at the shorter Aileas. “Who?”

      “Sir George de Gramercie.”

      It was obvious Rufus didn’t remember the name, for he shrugged and resumed walking, picking up his pace so that she had to trot to keep up with him.

      “Our neighbor’s son who’s been roving all over the country for the last ten years like a traveling minstrel,” she reminded him. “Now that his father has died, he’s come home at last.”

      Rufus’s response was a desultory grunt.

      They had reached the outskirts of the barracks, a large wattle and daub, timbered structure near the stables and armory. Rufus obviously couldn’t wait to get to the garderobe, for he turned down the small alley between the stable and armory and sighed as he relieved himself.

      “God’s holy rood, that’s better,” he said when he returned and began walking toward the barracks again. “So what’s all the fuss?” he asked, gazing at her with puzzlement. “Lots of visitors come here.”

      She couldn’t believe Rufus had forgotten about Sir George. “He’s the man my father wants me to marry!”

      Rufus barked a laugh as he shoved open the barracks’ heavy wooden door. “Isn’t he the one you said spends more on his clothes than his armour?”

      “Yes,” she said, catching the door before it hit her, then following him inside the large and chilly room, whose only furnishings were straw pallets covered with rough woolen blankets, a table with one basin and ewer and wooden chests—one per knight, squire or page. There were hooks on the wall, upon which hung an assortment of clothing, armor and weapons. In one corner was a battered chamber pot.

      Several men were also there, resting after their duties or before their watch. They called out greetings and nodded to Aileas. “Seems we’re about to have a popinjay in our midst, men!” Rufus declared. “Get out the feather beds and clean sheets!”

      Aileas smiled at Rufus’s sarcastic remarks. Surely once he saw Sir George, he would realize that she could never marry a man like that. Why, besides being vain, he was too thin, with no stomach at all to speak of. Surely he couldn’t fight worth a fig. And while his family was rich, he was probably lazy and derelict in his duties as the lord of an estate.

      Nevertheless, she didn’t want to talk about her future with an audience, so she lifted her brows and said, “Is it not nearly time for the changing of the guard? And should not some of you be cleaning your weapons? If my father sees even a hint of rust...”

      She did not have to say more, for the men quickly grabbed their accoutrements and went out, bowing their farewells.

      “I’m thinking of having my old blade mended instead of going to the expense of a new sword,” Rufus said meditatively as he hung his sword belt on a peg.

      “What?” Aileas cried, her hands on her hips. “That’s stupid! It’s been mended so much, it’s sure to snap any day now.”

      “It’s expensive to have a new sword made. Besides, the handle of my old one fits my hand perfectly.”

      Aileas realized she didn’t want to get involved in a discussion on the merits of new weapons versus old, familiar ones. “What about Sir George? What if my father insists that I marry him?”

      Rufus threw himself down on the first straw pallet he spied and gave her a quizzical look. “Isn’t he the one been neglecting his duties all these years?”

      “Yes!”

      “Then why would your father want you to marry a reckless puppy like that?”

      “Because our lands join.”

      “Well,” Rufus said, making a pillow of his hands and lying back so that he was looking at the beams in the ceiling, “you would be the lady of a great estate. You could do much worse.”

      For a moment, Aileas was very tempted to kick him. Didn’t he realize she thought he was the perfect man, the perfect warrior? He would be the perfect husband, too.

      How blind could a grown man be?

      “I saw him. On the road,” she revealed scornfully as she sat cross-legged on a nearby pallet. “I’m sure he’s as vain as ever. You should see his tunic. It’s embroidered He probably cries if he spills anything on it.”

      Rufus chuckled companionably. “I can hardly wait to meet him.”

      Aileas could hardly wait for Rufus to meet him, too.

      Then he would see that she could never marry a man like Sir George de Gramercie.

      Chapter Two

      

      

      As far as George could tell, nothing at all had changed at Dugall Castle in the years he had been away. The grimly gray stone walls were still thick and imposing, and the soldiers guarding the gates still numerous and watchful, as if a horde of enemies might suddenly sneak out of the moat and attack.

      Inside, there was not an animal, bale of hay, barrel or stick out of place. Several men were engaged in swordplay or practising their technique with mace and chain. Even the servants seemed to bustle about in a curiously military manner, and not a one of them was female.

      Far from making George feel secure and safe, it was as if the castle were under seige, with all the women safely sent away. Indeed, everything about Dugall Castle seemed to give the place a curious sense of tension and impending doom that George did not like.

      The surrounding village also had this air of suppressed anticipation, which was quite unnecessary, given the general peace in the land and the amiability of Sir Thomas’s neighbors.

      As George dismounted and handed his reins to a page who trotted out to meet them, he suddenly realized that he could feel insulted, or even threatened, by this castle’s battle-ready state, until he considered the squalor of some noblemen’s castles. Here, everything was neat and exactly where it should be, which was not usually George’s experience of households where men were on their own, without women to organize their domestic comforts.

      Sir Thomas himself marched out of the great hall almost at once. Though his neighbor’s face was marked by several scars of battle and tournament, his bearing was still erect, and his gaze still as piercing as a hawk’s. As usual, he wore a surcoat exactly like the one he had donned years ago when he went on Crusade.

      In fact, as George noted the several clumsily mended rents and the distinctly gray tinge to the white fabric that comprised the majority of the overgarment, he realized that perhaps this was the very one. Under that was a coat of very fine chain mail, polished to gleaming perfection. Sir Thomas wore no gloves, despite the cold, exposing gnarled, chapped hands, which George didn’t doubt could still level a man with one blow or maintain a grip on any weapon for hours.

      He had always made George feel like a naughty little boy. Fifteen years, it seemed, were not enough to erase that sensation.

      Sir Thomas halted and briskly took his guest by the shoulders to give him the kiss of greeting, his mail jingling slightly. “Welcome, Sir George,” he said, eyeing George’s soldiers over the younger man’s shoulder even as he spoke. “It is good to see you