LITMIR.BIZ

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flickering light of the torches and beeswax candles in the great hall of Castle DeLac threw huge, moving shadows on the tapestries depicting hunts and battles hanging on the walls. A fire blazed in the long central hearth, warming the chill of the September evening. On either side of the hearth, knights and their ladies sat at the tables closest to the dais where Lord DeLac, his daughter and the most important guests dined on a sumptuous repast. Hounds wandered among the tables, snatching at the bits of food that fell into the rushes covering the flagstone floor, while a weak-chinned minstrel, dressed in blue, warbled a ballad about a knight on a quest to save his lost love.

      Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron didn’t care about the feast, or the ballad, or the other guests. Let the nobles spend the rest of the evening amusing themselves with banter and drink, dancing and music. He would rather be well rested for the tournament on the morrow.

      As he rose from his place, straightened his black tunic and started for the door leading to the courtyard, he ran another measuring gaze over the knights who would compete with him in the melee, a contest more like a true battle than a tilt in the lists. Some of them, like the excited young fellow dressed in bright green velvet, or the old knight already dozing over his wine, could be dismissed outright, being either too young to have much experience or too old to move swiftly. Others had clearly come more to enjoy the feasting and entertainment than to win the prize.

      Rheged glanced again at the prize resting on the high table, a golden box embossed with jewels. That was what had brought him here, as well as ransoms for arms and horses from those he defeated in the melee. Since he was a veteran of many a real battle, a melee was more familiar to him and, he thought, a better test of true skill.

      While he strode down the side of the hall, whispers of the other knights and nobles followed him like the wake after a ship at sea.

      “Isn’t that the Wolf of Wales?” one drunken Norman nobleman slurred.

      “By God, it is!” another muttered.

      A woman’s voice rose above the minstrel’s music. “Why doesn’t he cut his hair? He looks like a savage.”

      “My dear, he’s Welsh,” another nobleman drawled in equally disdainful reply. “They’re all savages.”

      There had been a time those whispers and insults would have infuriated Rheged. Now it didn’t matter what they thought of him, as long as he triumphed on the field. And if his long hair made them think he would fight with all the fierce determination of a savage, all the better.

      Taking a deep breath of the fresher air, Rheged stepped into the courtyard and looked up at the cloudless sky. The full moon lit the yard as bright as day, yet there was a hint of rain on the wind. It would be a light rain, though. Likely not enough to postpone the melee.

      A door opened in a long, low building to his left that was attached to the hall, sending a shaft of golden light onto the cobblestones. The noise of clattering wooden bowls, chopping and the querulous demands and orders of a harried cook told him it was the kitchen.

      A slender, shapely woman in a dark gown and lighter over-tunic, carrying a large basket, slipped out of the kitchen into the courtyard. As she nudged the door shut with her hip, he recognized Lady Thomasina, his host’s niece, dressed in nunlike garments, her long, dark braid swishing down her back like a living thing. When he was introduced to her upon his arrival, he’d been impressed by the bright intelligence gleaming in her brown eyes. Later it became clear that she ran the well-regulated household, and not Lord DeLac’s beautiful daughter, Mavis, although that should have been her responsibility.

      Rheged watched as Lady Thomasina crossed the yard to the wicket gate, the smaller door inside the huge double gate. Despite her relatively plain attire, Lady Thomasina had a dignity and a graceful carriage that no garment, however costly and well made, could enhance.

      She spoke a few quiet words to the guards, who opened the wicket. Then he heard voices that sent his mind racing back to his childhood—the grateful words of the poor and hungry who would receive the remains of the feast.

      “Thank you, my lady!”

      “Bless you, my lady!”

      “God save you, my lady.”

      “There is plenty for all,” she replied. “Come closer, Bob, and take something for your mother, too.”

      There would be no bruises or black eyes from scrambling for the scraps, or bellies left empty here, tonight.

      Once upon a time, he had been among the beggars waiting at a lord’s gate with starving bellies and desperate hope, anxious to get even the smallest bit of bread or meat. The person doling out the remains—always a servant, never a lady—had usually dumped the food on the ground like so much refuse and looked at those eagerly awaiting as if they were worth even less.

      Leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed, he tried to shove the memories of those days of hunger and need, loneliness and desperation into the back of his mind. Those days were long ago. He was a knight now, with an estate of his own. It wasn’t a rich one yet, but in time, with effort—

      “Sir Rheged?”

      He opened his eyes to find Lady Thomasina standing in front of him, her empty basket over her arm, her brown eyes regarding him with grave concern. “Are you ill?”

      He straightened. “I am never ill. I merely sought a breath of fresh air.”

      She frowned, her eyebrows drawing together, her full lips turning down at the corners. “You found the hall too smoky or stuffy?”

      “No more than most.”

      “Nevertheless I shall see that more of the shutters in the hall are open.” She turned as if she intended to do that at once, and by herself.

      “I wouldn’t bother. It’s going to rain soon,” he said as she started to hurry away.

      She turned back. “Rain? The sky is clear.”

      “I can smell it on the breeze—not a heavy rain,” he hastened to assure her. “Likely just a shower during the night, so not enough to delay the melee.”

      “I hope not.”

      “I’m fairly certain.” He gave her a little smile. “I grew up where it rains much of the time, Lady Thomasina.”

      “Tamsin,” she said quickly, then just as swiftly added, “That’s easier to say than Thomasina.”

      “Tamsin,” he quietly repeated.

      She moved the basket in front of her. “I’ve heard you called the Wolf of Wales,” she said, repeating the nickname given to him after his first tournament triumphs. “Are you so ferocious?”

      “Not as much as I was in my youth.”

      “You’re hardly an old man!”

      “Older than some here.”

      “Surely that gives you the benefit of experience, as well as reputation.”

      “Experience, aye, and a reputation has its purpose, although it’s not for fame I fight. Unlike your uncle, I’m not a wealthy man.”

      The moment he mentioned his poverty, he regretted it. She didn’t need to know about that, nor did he want her to think the less of him because of it.

      “You fight for money.” To his relief, she didn’t sound appalled or disgusted. She sounded...matter-of-fact. Practical. Accepting.

      “I fight to earn more, to keep what I have.”

      She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Life gives us all battles to fight and we all try to win as best we can. I wish I could fight some of mine with sword or mace.”

      “I don’t doubt you’d be a worthy foe. The clever ones are always hardest to beat.”

      “You flatter me, my lord,” she replied, and not in the usual manner of coy young ladies.

      She

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