Chapter 6

Struggling to untie another knot in her embroidery thread, Melinda squinted down at the fine silk, her concentration marred by her frustration with the task. The altar cloth she worked on would never be finished if she let her inept fingers get the best of her. She rolled her tired eyes to clear her vision. Soon her sons would wake again and Harry would demand her attention.

Part of the problem that made her back teeth grind, was her lack of interest in finishing a cloth that their usually inebriate priest’s unsteady hand would slop communion wine over, leaving stains that were hard to remove. It was as if she laboured for a lost cause. To Melinda’s mind, a plain black cloth would suit the chapel far better and make less work.

Another day had passed since her father left to prey on his luckless enemy. Melinda had heard he was ruthless and gave nae quarter unless it benefitted him—as in Rob’s case where Euan McArthur had paid a large ransom for his son’s freedom.

She sighed. It was at times like this, when the twins were asleep and the solar a haven of quiet, Becky and Jess performing chores elsewhere, that her mind would slip away, recalling how it had felt to be with of Rob. On those occasions, her needlework bore the brunt of such a sensual distraction. And after...

Guilt.

She wanted to hate him, had cause to hate him.

Melinda dragged in a long breath and tried to bury it deep in her chest, as she had all her feelings—the love she had felt for Rob. At first she hadn’t understood why all these latent emotions had bobbed up to the surface; now she did. She may be older, a mother, but it felt as if she were reliving the days before she and Rob met—the battle, the predictable outcome. She shook her head and stabbed the needle several times through the linen cloth she had grown weary of, tossed it aside and stood up, restless.

When a clatter rose up from the cobbles and in through the arrow slit as horses thundered into the Bailey, she hurried to look out. The Bailey was crowded, filled with horses and men. Yesterday’s storm had passed leaving a pale winter light in its wake—enough to brighten the riders’ mail and reflect off their curved helms. She watched as rough commands were shouted, but no orders could diminish an atmosphere that vibrated with triumph, rang with the voices of winners.

She had never expected any less of her father. Before he was awarded Wolfsdale for his efforts on King William’s behalf, he had never known failure, and although she remembered her mother bemoaning the fact that Wolfsdale was so isolated, her father’s response had been harsh and sardonic—that the King wanted a man with a strong hand close enough to the Scottish border to keep the barbarians out. Her mother, a Scot, had given him such a look and walked away.

Strange how some things stick in yer memory.

A quick glance at her kirtle reassured Melinda that it was fine enough to welcome home the conquering hero the way her father had come to expect. She had long since decided he was a hard man who liked to pretend his only weakness was the adulation of his family. In the Bailey, her father’s squire rushed to his side, gathering up his shield, catching the mail gloves tossed down to him, running to his chestnut destrier’s head, as Henry La Mont began to dismount. Her father’s shield reflected the colours of his flag flying high on the battlements—red chequered with white beneath a red hawk.

She sighed, extremely pleased her father had returned with no apparent harm, for he was a poor patient and yelled at those tending him, usually her. Melinda squelched a flash of hope that mayhap in the future Brodwyn would take care of his hurts, as well as his other bodily needs. Her face coloured in shame at the thought that it was time the red-haired besom had a taste of what his daughter put up with while he was sick and hated everyone including himself.

Lost in thought, she took little notice of the others knights until her gaze was drawn away from her father to the man by his side. Covered in an almost black metal helm, mail and breastplate, she wondered if the devil had ridden into battle at her father’s side.

He was tall. She could tell that much from how high he sat in the saddle, and he proved it a moment later by dismounting. If the design of his armour was to be believed, the shoulders beneath it were broad. The sigil on his black shield consisted of a clenched, mailed fist, silver metal upon dull black. Was this the Hammer she had heard tales of?

Without being aware of the reason, she shuddered as her father flung an arm across his visitor’s shoulders in an act of camaraderie and steered him toward the entrance to the Great Hall.

Smoothing down her leaf-green kirtle, patting the long plait of dark brown hair that hung over her shoulder, she moved to the door, giving a last touch to the brown leather band across her forehead that matched the girdle tied around her waist. She refused to wear a veil, even a short one, as Harry delighted in pulling it off as if it were a great jest, though she had to admit she loved it when he laughed.

On the gallery, she leaned over to look down into the hall just as her father, minus his helm, looked up and saw her. Henry La Mont’s hair, once the same colour as hers, was lavishly sprinkled with grey, though his demeanour was that of a younger man—and his bedroom antics as well if Brodwyn’s squeals emanating from the master chamber were to be believed. Grinning, her father waved at her to come down to the Great Hall. She nodded and went to obey then hesitated as the cruel face of her father’s companion caught her eye. Raven black hair and course beard bordered creamy skin with none of the ruddiness of her father’s, and amongst all this black and cream were set eyes like cold jewels, icy even from this distance. She dragged her gaze away to hurry down the stairs, but not before a mocking smile narrowed his lips.

Why had her father brought him to Wolfsdale?

Her intention to reach her father before Brodwyn did was foiled; her father’s leman was already curtsying before him as Melinda stepped into the Great Hall. The woman’s saffron gold kirtle drew out the brightness of red hair beneath a white veil as she dropped another curtsy afore the strange knight.

Melinda made a quick curtsy to her father then stepped closer, hand resting on his breastplate as she reached up to buss his cheek. “Welcome home, sire. I’m so happy to see you in rude health.”

“Not as happy as I am to see ye daughter. It was a close run thing at times, but thanks to my companion here we made it through.” He turned to the dark knight. “Sir Charles, let me introduce ye to the ladies of my manor. My daughter Melinda and her companion, Brodwyn.”

For all he was clothed from head to toe in metal, Sir Charles’ bow to her and Brodwyn was done with a flourish. “I am honoured to meet ye both. Baron Wolfsdale forgot to mention he had two beauties awaiting him in his manor house.” The eyes Melinda had deemed icy from a distance were even more so up close, pale blue like a frozen lake. Even so, she felt herself blush. Brodwyn, it seemed, had forgotten how.

“Ah well,” Henry growled as if embarrassed by the flattery that Melinda sensed was aimed more at him than at Brodwyn and herself, “Wolfsdale would be a dull place without them and my grandsons. Where are the lads?”

“Asleep. I’ll have them brought down to see ye before the evening meal.” Becky would have to feed them both when they woke. Though they now ate pap at midday Becky didn’t advise it at night, which meant she would have to miss the pleasure of feeding Harry while making certain her father’s evening meal was fit for a king.

Out the corner of her eye she saw Bernard, Wolfsdale’s seneschal, approach balancing a silver tray holding silver goblets of wine. Bernard always fulfilled his duties to perfection, and the show of wealth would add to her father’s stature before this cold young knight; up close it was obvious he was far too young to have acquired the reputation they spoke of in whispers before the hearth.

The two men served and already sipping their wine, Bernard held the tray out to her. “No, Bernard, though I thank ye,” she demurred, careful to give no offence. Brodwyn on the other hand had no such worries and reached for a goblet to toast the heroes.

“Ye don’t wish to celebrate our victory?” Sir Charles teased, but she wasn’t fooled by the well shaped eyebrow that crooked up over one eye like a black sickle cutting into his forehead.

“I do. That’s why I’ll make sure that the evening meal is a celebration in itself, a banquet fit for a king.” She could say that with confidence since she and Bernard had planned a feast in advance of her father’s return—optimistic mayhap, but not without reason.

To her amazement, both her father and Sir Charles let out short, sharp barks, almost snorts of laughter, and the younger man told her, “It’s to be hoped ye’re referring to my good friend William Rufus.”

Her father finished the statement for him, shocking her, filling her with fears she ought not to feel. “Aye, for King Malcolm Canmore is dead, and Edward his son. As of this moment the Scots have no leader, nor much of an army.”

Her mind filled with an aguish she had to hide. What of Rob? Did ye kill him this time? “In that case, I’ll have Bernard decant the best wine in the cellar to compliment the food we will serve ye and our guest, father.”

Turning away, it wasn’t the thought of wine that sped her feet, but blood, fields running red with the heart’s harvest. They had never married, never attempted to. Why then did she feel as if she had been widowed?