Chapter Three
As Gray had planned, the grand hall of Erith was resplendent with light and fresh rushes as it had once been when times were more plentiful.
More than the appearance of the hall, it was the mood of it.
Standing in the main entrance to the hall and clad in the finest surcoat she owned, a faded yellow silk, Gray stood a moment and absorbed the ghost of the once-great hall; the days when Simon de Montfort and his beloved Eleanor sat at the dais, or when great nobles of the north gathered to feast over a victory greatly won.
She could hear their laughter and feel their spirit.
It was something she’d not felt in a very long time.
The servants had brought all of the precious fat candles in the keep into the hall so that they would not have to dip into the stores for them.
Consequently, the rest of the keep was in blackness.
Gray had dressed by firelight from the hearth in the old but clean surcoat that had once belonged to her grandmother.
It was sorely out of date but it was the best she had.
With her blond hair pulled away from her face and secured with another heirloom comb that had once belonged to the wealthy Grays, she had cleaned up rather well.
An old bronze mirror in her room told her so.
For a woman who had seen twenty-nine sometimes difficult years, she was as beautiful and youthful as she had ever been.
Brooke was still finishing her dress. It took the girl hours sometimes to dress, a strange occurrence considering they had nowhere to go.
It wasn’t as if she was fancying herself for a great gala.
But Brooke took great pains to brush her hair just so, or put a precious ribbon on a bodice that had seen better days.
There wasn’t a day that passed that Gray wished she could give her daughter all of the pretty things she longed for.
Even though there was no use in wishing for what they did not have, it did not prevent her from feeling guilt or sadness for her daughter’s plight.
A few of the servants were beginning to bring out the loaves of bread.
The rich smell of the baked goods filled the hall and Gray inhaled deeply.
As she moved into the room to speak to one of the women about the shortage of wooden cups that would undoubtedly be facing them, Braxton and his men entered the keep.
She heard their voices before she saw their faces, and a cluster of powerful men soon came from the entry and spilled into the great hall.
Braxton was the first face she recognized. His blue-green eyes focused on her immediately and, as a good hostess, she went to greet him and his men. Dipping in a graceful curtsy, she smiled timidly.
“Welcome, my lords,” she said to Braxton, to the group. “You may take a seat anywhere. The meal will be served shortly.”
The men thanked her silently. Gray’s gaze moved across the line of men; tall, blond and handsome Sir Dallas, shorter and stockier Sir Graehm, and very tall and sinewy Sir Geoffrey.
Slightly behind the knights stood two brown-haired boys, perhaps a year or two older than Brooke.
Their eyes were roving about the room, wide-eyed and curious of their surroundings.
The knights excused themselves and the young squires with them, drifting towards the long table and selecting their best spots. Braxton, however, continued to stand in front of Gray. She felt somewhat self-conscious, feeling his heady gaze upon her.
“Where do you sit, my lady?” he asked.
She gestured towards the worn table. “Usually at the end. There is oft much to do and I must be able to move from the table freely.”
He lifted an eyebrow. Then he extended his arm, indicating for her to take his elbow. “Tonight you shall sit and enjoy the meal,” he said as she hesitantly took his arm. “And I shall sit with you.”
His softly uttered words caused her cheeks to flame brilliantly.
She had no idea why. He was without his mail and plate armor this night, dressed in a soft linen tunic and leather breeches as he led her over to the table and helped her sit before taking a seat beside her.
She stole a glance at him as he poured her a measure of wine into a wooden cup and then took a helping for himself.
His face was washed and it looked to her as if he had shaved, for his skin was smooth.
It was curious that he had taken time to clean for this meal. As if it meant something.
He lifted the cup in her direction, distracting her from her thoughts. “To our lovely hostess,” he said loud enough for his men to hear. “To you, my lady, our thanks for your kindness in offering us food and shelter.”
The other three knights around the table took up their cups and drank heartily.
The wine was cheap, bitter, but none of them flinched as they sucked it down.
In fact, two of them poured themselves more.
One of them was Braxton. Gray was suddenly embarrassed at the cheap quality of the wine, but it was all they had to offer.
A few more soldiers filtered into the hall, seasoned-looking men that took up seats in various places around the room.
Gray was unused to having soldiers in her keep and she was somewhat nervous watching them mill about.
They were wearing weapons. Deep down, she wondered if they weren’t going to rob her or seize the castle from under her, but when she gazed back at Braxton, she couldn’t honestly believe that.
He had been extraordinarily kind to her.
But, then again, perhaps that had been his scheme.
He was a mercenary, after all. Perhaps he was going to lull her into a false sense of security before snatching the fortress for his own. They were, after all, easy prey.
Her natural suspicion began to grow. More soldiers wandered into the hall and her anxiety took flight. Mayhap she had been stupid about this entire situation, letting her confusion destroy her common sense. Setting her cup down, she excused herself from the table and fled the room.
Braxton sat there a moment, staring at the empty doorway from where Gray had just disappeared.
He’d barely said a few words to her and she was running from him.
The moment he had met her at the falls of Erith, in spite of the fact that he had saved her daughter, she had been mistrustful of his company.
He had reviewed their conversation a few times; he doubted it was something he had said.
And since his arrival at Erith, he’d gone out of his way to show her kindness and generosity.
In truth, he had no idea what it was about him that frightened her so.
He took a long drink of the unpleasant wine, listening to Dallas and Graehm debate the quality of Hereford leather against Douglas leather.
It was a foolish conversation, but Dallas and Graehm seemed to have many foolish conversations.
They debated each other on the smallest things to see who had the most knowledge about a particular subject.
Geoff usually stayed out of it, content to laugh at the two for their arrogance.
Squires Edgar and older brother Norman sat against the wall behind the arguing knights, shoving bread into their mouths.
Braxton usually enjoyed these ridiculous exchanges, but not tonight.
Tonight he was in no mood for his men’s entertainment.
He had been looking forward to Lady Gray’s company and was, in truth, disappointed.
The servants began to bring out heaping plates of venison, filling the room with its heady smell.
He sat back, drank, and watched his men dig into the fare.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement by the door.
Hoping it was the lady returned, he was disappointed to see young Brooke entering the hall in the company of an older woman.
Braxton noted the girl, washed and dressed in her worn clothing, but found more curiosity with the older woman.
She was fine featured, frail, and he could see the resemblance between Lady Gray and this woman.
When the two ladies approached, he stood up politely.
Brooke smiled broadly at him. “My lord,” she dipped in a practiced curtsy. “Please meet my grandmother, the Lady Constance Gray de Montfort.”
De Montfort. It was the first time Braxton had heard that name within these walls. It confirmed his suspicion that the de Montforts did indeed retain the holding once awarded to their ancestor Simon. Now it belonged to a derelict branch of the family. He bowed his head in greeting.
“My lady,” he addressed her. “I am Braxton de Nerra. These are my men…”
The older woman cut him off before he could introduce her to what she undoubtedly, by her expression, considered rabble.
“De Nerra,” she repeated. “Correct me if I am wrong, Sir Knight, but are you of the Anjou de Nerra’s?”
Brooke piped up before Braxton could reply. “Anjou? In France?”
Constance nodded coolly, her gaze never leaving Braxton’s face. Her entire manner reeked of breeding, of arrogance. “The House of de Nerra is the hereditary family to the Earldom of Anjou.”
Brooke’s face lit up, looking at Braxton through new eyes. “An earldom?”
Braxton’s eyes were steady on the older woman. He never did look at Brooke. “My family is another branch. We do not hold the Earldom of Anjou.”
“I see,” Constance’s amber eyes appraised him.
“So you have no connection with Anjou at all?” Before he could answer, she waved her hand as if to wash away the probing tone of her words.
“You will forgive me, Sir Knight, but I was raised in a fine house. I am quite familiar with peerage and it is always a pleasure to meet an equal.”
Braxton had known the woman all of thirty seconds and already he didn’t particularly care for her. “The current earl is my father’s second cousin,” he replied. “I have never met him, nor have any of my three older brothers.”