In The King's Service. Margaret Moore

      “Perhaps he won’t be surprised.” Her smile dimmed, but she didn’t sound worried.

      Then she wrapped her cloak more tightly about her slender frame. “Aren’t you in a hurry to meet the lovely Lady Laelia?” She gave him another smile. “I think you might actually stand a chance.”

      “Well, then, since I’ve apparently won your good opinion, I’ll consider myself nearly betrothed.”

      The look in her sparkling eyes shifted again, becoming serious. “You may not have had much competition in anything before, Sir Blaidd Morgan of Wales, but you will now. I wish you luck, if you think Laelia and her dowry will make you happy.”

      He asked the next question without thought. “Will I be seeing you in the castle?”

      “I hope not,” she replied, in a way that left no doubt that she meant it.

      The guards nearby stifled smiles and tried not to laugh.

      Sir Blaidd Morgan enjoyed having people laugh with him, and women most of all. But he hated being laughed at, and it had been years upon years since anybody had dared.

      He turned on his heel, marched back to Aderyn Du and threw himself into the saddle. “Let’s go, Trev,” he snapped.

      His squire immediately obeyed. “Do you suppose she really is a gatekeeper?” he asked as they rode into the ward.

      “Whoever she is,” Blaidd answered grimly, “I don’t think she’s right in the head, and I hope I never see her again.”

      As Sir Blaidd Morgan rode away, Becca glanced at the castle guards, and the tall, gray-haired man in mail at the head of them. “Poor man. I don’t think he expected my reception.”

      They burst out laughing.

      “That’s enough, lads,” the commander of the garrison ordered, although Dobbin was having trouble keeping a straight face himself. “Back to your duties.”

      Exchanging muffled words and snickers, the men returned to their posts, while Dobbin joined Becca in the room in the gatehouse where the guards spent their time while not on patrol or sleeping. The plain stone walls were as stark as the battered trestle table upon which, over the years, men off duty had scratched their signs or initials. A couple of stools provided the only seating. A single shelf held materials for cleaning metal and leather, a task often performed here. The scent of the polish lingered, and helped add to the cozy feeling of the room, which was warmed by a fire.

      Becca and Dobbin hung up their drenched cloaks on pegs near the door and returned to their stools by the small hearth.

      Dobbin stretched out his legs and sighed. “I’m getting too old to stand in the rain,” he muttered, his words betraying his childhood spent in the dales of Yorkshire.

      “You could have stayed inside.”

      “Too risky.”

      “They were hardly on the attack.”

      Dobbin gave her a shrewd look. “But what might you have said if I wasn’t there?”

      She smiled, for he was quite right. She might have been even more impertinent toward yet another knight who’d arrived to see if the beauty of Throckton lived up to that name, and to court her if she did.

      “Big fellow, he was, for a Welshman,” Dobbin noted. “Sits his horse well. A man with shoulders and legs like that would probably be some fighter.”

      “I daresay he probably is a champion of tournaments,” Becca agreed as she spread her damp skirts to enable them to dry more quickly. The ring of keys at her belt jingled with the movement.

      “He’s a handsome one, too, even with that hair. I’ve never seen a nobleman with hair to his shoulders like some kind of savage.”

      “Maybe all Welshmen wear it that way.”

      “I’ve never seen ’em do it,” Dobbin replied, “and I’ve met a fair few at tournaments and such.”

      Becca clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll ask him, shall I?”

      Dobbin nearly fell off his stool. “You’d better not. He looked angry enough to strangle you before. I thought he was going to, the way he got so close to you.”

      Becca tried not to remember how her heart had pounded when the handsome knight with the incredible physique had strolled toward her, a look on his face as if…as if…

      Well, she’d never had a man walk up to her with that look on his face. “Very well, I won’t ask.” She gave Dobbin a grin. “Judging by that smile of his, I wouldn’t be surprised if Sir Blaidd expects to win Laelia with nothing more than a wink and a grin.”

      “I just hope his lordship ain’t going to be angry when he hears what you said to a knight from King Henry’s court.”

      “I expect he will be.” Becca hunched her shoulders, lowered her chin and gruffly spoke in imitation of the overlord of Throckton Castle. “Ignore her, Sir Blaidd. She’s flighty and foolish—a woman, that’s all.”

      Dobbin shook his head. “You’d better take care, my lady, or one of these days you might push your father too far, and then where will you be?”

Chapter Two

      While Trev finished taking their baggage to the chamber they would share, Blaidd waited for Lord Throckton in the great hall. He stood with his back to the massive hearth, and the heat felt so good, he barely managed not to squirm like a pig in mud.

      His mood continued to improve as he surveyed the chamber, which, like the rest of the fortress, was larger and more indicative of personal wealth than he had expected. After entering the cobbled courtyard, he’d taken note of the huge building that had to be the hall, and the chapel beside it, judging by the windows. The rooms on the second level of the half-timbered stables were surely barracks for the garrison and living quarters for grooms and stable boys. Blaidd guessed the two-story building on this side of the yard, adjoining the hall, contained the apartments where the family and the other servants slept, as well as the lord’s solar. The other buildings he could readily identify were the kitchen, attached to the hall and with a large chimney louvered so that rain couldn’t put out the fire below, and the blacksmith’s shop. The keep, a huge circular building to the left of the entrance, probably doubled as the armory, and would serve as a last redoubt should the walls be breached.

      The keep was decades old, and the inner walls, too. Blaidd estimated that the hall, the chapel, the outer wall and the formidable gatehouse were new, built within the last five years. The second floors—the apartments and barracks—were likewise of recent construction.

      As for the interior of the hall, the only place Blaidd had seen to rival it belonged to the king. Heavy and finely wrought tapestries covered the walls, depicting battles and hunts, their bright green, scarlet and gold threads catching the light. The benches and tables were relatively new, free of scars, scratches and gouges, and polished to a high sheen. Clean rushes covered the floor, and the light scents of rosemary and fleabane reached his nostrils.

      Huge oak beams supported the ceiling, and banners of knights who owed allegiance to Lord Throckton moved in the shifting air like lazy maidens dancing. It was quite a collection—far more than Blaidd would have expected for a lord of Throckton’s apparent standing—and most of them were unfamiliar. Should the king’s suspicions about Throckton’s possible disloyalty prove well founded, he would have to remember them.

      One of the hounds slumbering near the fire twitched, drawing his attention. They had stood growling and quivering at him when he had first entered, until one of the male servants had commanded them to sit and be quiet.

      That wench at the gate had practically snapped and growled at him, too. What would she look like asleep, her bright blue eyes closed