Bride for a Knight. Margaret Moore

now, and likely to stay there for the rest of her life, thanks to them! So get out, all of you! I’d rather starve than take your money! Get out, get out, get out!”

      Arnhelm quickly led the men outside. “Get the horses and the wagon,” he ordered, but he held his brother back. “There’s goin’ to be hell to pay now. We should have—”

      “Sssh!” Verdan hissed as Sir Roland, grim as death, and Lady Mavis, white to the lips, came out into the yard.

      “Let’s go see to the ox,” Arnhelm muttered, but before he could, Sir Roland called out his name.

      “Heaven preserve me,” he murmured under his breath. There was no help for it, though. He had to face the wrath of the lord of Dunborough.

      “Aye,” Verdan whispered as he followed his brother, ready to share the blame and take the punishment with him, too, whatever it might be, as they faced the irate nobleman.

      “You didn’t tell the fellow who I was?”

      Arnhelm kept his gaze focused somewhere over Sir Roland’s left shoulder as he answered. “I said I was looking for lodgings for a lord and his lady and their escort, my lord. He didn’t ask me your name or where you was from.”

      Arnhelm waited, trembling, for he knew not what—but he didn’t expect Sir Roland to simply say, “Ride on to the next inn and see if there’s room for us. And this time, Arnhelm, make sure you tell them it is Sir Roland of Dunborough who seeks lodging there.”

      Nearly fainting with relief, Arnhelm glanced at his brother before replying. “Yes, my lord. And Verdan?”

      The nobleman regarded his brother coldly. “What of him?”

      “Well, my lord, there might be thieves and outlaws on the road, and a man alone—”

      “Take him, then. Just be quick about it.”

      “Aye, my lord!” Arnhelm replied, turning smartly and hurrying to the stable with Verdan at his heels.

      “That was a close one,” Verdan said after they entered the stable.

      “Aye, and we’d best make sure we find a better place,” Arnhelm replied. “If there’s one who’ll take him.”

      * * *

      When the cortege left the inn yard, it was Mavis who didn’t want to talk. She’d been aware that Roland’s family was not held in high esteem and with good reason, yet the vehemence of the innkeeper and that serving woman’s reaction disturbed her greatly. Now she was glad that Roland rode ahead as she tried to decide what she would do if such a thing happened again.

      But before they had gone very far, Roland came back to ride beside her.

      Even more unexpectedly, he spoke. “Given my family’s reputation, I should have considered such a thing might happen. I would have spared you that humiliation.”

      The admission was more than she’d expected from him. “Elrod was glad to have our custom.”

      “We were closer to DeLac.”

      That was true, and yet... “It wasn’t your fault, my lord, any more than your father’s reputation is your fault. In time, reputations can be changed, if good deeds replace the bad.”

      “Do you truly believe that, my lady?”

      “Indeed I do, my lord.”

      He said no more, and neither did she as they continued for some distance, until Mavis wasn’t sure how much longer she could sit in the saddle. She was about to propose they stop, even if it meant making camp at the side of the road—not something to be wished at this time of year, even if it didn’t rain—when Arnhelm and Verdan appeared in the distance, riding back toward them.

      “At last,” Roland muttered.

      Unfortunately, as the two soldiers got closer, it was apparent from their expressions that they didn’t have good news.

      “I’m sorry, my lord,” Arnhelm said as he reined in, his expression as mournful as his brother’s, “but there’s no inn for the next ten miles willing to have you...us, for any amount of money.”

      It seemed word had already spread about the cortege and who led it. Given their slower pace because of the wagon and the ox, a swift rider or even a fast lad on foot could have taken the news from that other tavern ahead of them.

      Another glance at the sky confirmed that if they didn’t find a place to sleep soon, they would be benighted on the road.

      Nor were the rest of the men pleased, judging by the few muttered remarks that reached her ears until a sharp look from Arnhelm silenced them.

      If Roland heard, he gave no sign, although he was sitting even more stiff and upright in the saddle. “Join the rest of the men,” he said to Arnhelm and Verdan, then he motioned the cortege to begin moving forward again.

      “What are we to do, my lord? Make camp at the side of the road?” Mavis asked, trying not to sound dismayed. “We can’t go much farther before nightfall.”

      “No wife of mine will sleep out like a gypsy,” he grimly replied. “There is a manor nearby. I passed it on my way to DeLac. We shall seek shelter there.”

      Mavis was too tired and too worried to voice any doubts or protest, but what if the lord of the manor didn’t want them, either?

      They rounded a corner of the road and there before them lay what had to be the manor of a well-to-do farmer or minor nobleman. The low walls surrounding the manor house were made of stone, as was the house, and it had a slate roof. Several chickens clucked in the cobbled yard, and there was a stable and a good-sized barn, as well. A sprawling kitchen garden was at one side, and on the other, a pen holding six cows. In another meadow farther away, a herd of sheep grazed and bleated.

      A young woman carrying buckets on a yoke from what might be the dairy toward a back door of the house paused and stared when Roland rode into the yard and dismounted. “Whose holding is this?” he asked.

      “S-sir Melvin de Courcellet,” the girl stammered, the buckets swinging beside her.

      “Tell him he has guests.”

      “Y-yes, my lord,” she replied, setting down the yoke and running into the house.

      “We will spend the night here,” Roland announced just before a plump man dressed in a long robe, his round face slightly greasy and with a chicken leg in his hand, came barreling out of the main door. “Who is this who dares to—”

      He skittered to a halt and fell silent as his gaze took in Roland, the soldiers and Mavis. He tossed the chicken leg away and wiped his hands on his tunic. “Greetings, my lord. Who might you be?”

      “I am Sir Roland of Dunborough,” her husband replied, “and we seek shelter for the night.”

      “Roland of...” Sir Melvin cleared his throat and looked a little sick. “Dunborough, you said?”

      “Yes. And this is my wife, Lady Mavis, the daughter of Lord Simon DeLac.”

      Roland had never mentioned her father anywhere else, so this had to be an attempt to make the man more amenable. He might have done better to speak with less force and authority. From his tone, it sounded as if he was ordering Sir Melvin to take them in.

      “DeLac, eh? His daughter, is it?” Sir Melvin said, running a nervous hand around the neck of his tunic. “Of course you’re welcome to stay, my lord. And your lady, too, and your escort. Just, ahem, allow me a moment to tell my wife how fortunate we are. If you’ll excuse me...” He hurried back inside.

      “Perhaps, my lord, you should have asked, not demanded,” Mavis said.

      “My wife will not sleep rough on the road.”

      Behind them, Arnhelm and Verdan gave each other a wary look.

      Roland