Chapter 1 #2
The increasing peril driving her, Merewyn had sought help from the Lady of Talisand.
A countess, Serena was also Talisand’s best archer.
Merewyn had begged Serena to train her in the way of the bow.
She was only beginning her lessons when the Welshman, Rhodri, and his Scottish wife, Fia, came through the demesne on their way to Wales.
In his youth, Rhodri had been Serena’s teacher of the bow and a bard of some renown. Now, he ruled Powys with his two brothers. He had married Fia, a noble Scotswoman, during his sojourn at the court of Malcolm, King of Scots.
When Rhodri observed Merewyn shooting, he complimented her on her rapid progress and suggested she might accompany him to Wales where he could see to her further training.
Merewyn had been only too glad to go.
It was in Wales under Rhodri’s tutoring that she had perfected her skill, eventually drawing the respect of his most senior archers. No one in Powys inquired about her origin or her parentage. Impressed with her archery skills, no one cared.
But now she was back and the day she both anticipated and dreaded had arrived.
* * *
Alex pulled rein in front of the manor, the cloud of dust settling around Azor’s hooves. The bailey’s inner courtyard swarmed with men-at-arms, villeins and servants welcoming them home.
He swung from the saddle, his spurs jingling as his heels hit the ground. Tired from the road, he was happy to be home and waved to the men and women whose smiles greeted him.
Talisand’s great hounds rushed to his side, scattering the geese shrieking their protests.
The wolf dogs were so tall their shaggy heads reached Azor’s elbow.
Swift in the hunt yet docile around the hearth fire, the hounds were favorites of Alex.
Patting the hound’s grizzled gray head nuzzling his gauntlet, Alex breathed in the scent of the beast. The familiar odor comforted him even if it was the smell of unwashed dog that had lain too long in the mud and rolled in moldy straw.
“ ’Tis a welcome sight you are, Cathal.”
Casting his gaze about the large open space of the bailey, his eyes were drawn upward to the great mound of dirt, the motte, now covered with summer’s grass.
On top sat the huge timber castle, towering above all.
It was the landmark he had followed as he tore down the slope.
One day, when it was his turn to rule Talisand, he would see it reinforced with stone.
A short distance away from where he stood was the two-story whitewashed manor he called home. Adjoining it was the larger, wooden hall that could hold more than a hundred men.
On the far side of the bailey were the armory and stables set against the palisade fence. Smoke billowed from the smith’s forge and the sound of metal being tortured on the anvil added to the discordant sounds around him. But it was home.
To the north, he could just see the daub and wattle cottages that marked the village. Whiffs of smoke from the hearth fires rose through the thatched roofs.
On three sides of the palisade wound the River Lune like a natural moat. In Talisand, far from Normandy’s battles, there was peace.
Children pushed their way through the crowd to stare at the knights, the boldest waving their hands in hearty welcome.
Alex’s youngest brother, Thibaut, separated himself from his friends and raced to Alex. “You’re home!” The boy’s eyes shone with excitement. “Did you have many adventures?”
Alex chuckled and tousled Tibby’s brown curls. “I did, but the telling of them must wait.”
His youngest brother returned him a momentary pout, but was soon grinning once again.
Tibby, only ten summers, could never be dour for long.
Of the Red Wolf’s four sons, he was the merriest and the most indulged.
Like Alex’s other brothers, Tibby had the brown eyes of their paternal grandfather in Normandy.
Only Alex had his father’s gray eyes. And only Alex, as the eldest, had been fostered away from Talisand.
With his fostering and his training to be a squire that followed, Alex had spent more years away than at home.
A stable boy eagerly rushed to meet him, reaching for Azor’s reins. Alex thrust them into the boy’s hand. “Give him a good rub down and oats. I’ve ridden him hard this day and he did a destrier’s service in Normandy.”
“Aye, Sir Alex,” the lad said with a grin.
Alex’s squire stepped to Azor’s saddle and removed the shield and helm from where they were secured. “I will see these to the armory, sir.”
Alex nodded as the squire walked off and the boy led Azor toward the stables, the stallion briefly tossing his head.
Still at his side, Tibby said, “I will help,” and ran to catch up with the stable boy.
Nearby, Rory and Guy slipped from their saddles and handed the reins of their horses to their waiting squires. The rest of Alex’s men waved goodbye before going in search of their families.
Doffing his gauntlets, Alex watched Rory wending his way to him.
“Who is that stable boy?” Alex asked when Rory reached him. “There are so many children at Talisand now, I can scarce remember to whom they belong.” The boy looked familiar, one of the groom’s sons most likely.
“ ’Tis young Leppe,” said Rory.
Alex watched Tibby and the stable boy nearing the stables.
Leppe stroked the stallion’s neck to calm its agitated snorting.
Azor had scented the stables and was impatient for his stall, but the boy’s deft touch worked its magic and the stallion settled.
“I remember him now. He is the grandson of one of the old guards who served my grandfather.”
“The child has grown up among us Normans,” said Rory. “Like so many of his friends, Leppe even speaks a few words of Norman French.”
When his father had first been given Talisand by the Conqueror, he’d had to win the trust of the English who were there, survivors of the Conquest and fearful of their Norman overlord.
The Red Wolf’s reputation for savagery on the battlefield only made them more anxious.
But his father had won their respect, along with that of Talisand’s lady, Serena.
Alex would not mar that trust for it was the legacy that would one day be his.
“Is it possible Talisand’s numbers have grown while we were away?” Rory asked, looking around. “I see many new faces.”
Alex remembered the conversation he’d had with his father before he left for Normandy. “The last time we were home, Father told me the king’s levy for his many wars made more men-at-arms necessary.”
A pretty serving wench passed by with a slow smile aimed at Alex. Returning it, he said, “Some faces are familiar.”
Rory’s mouth formed a mocking smile. “Mayhap you bedded her when last we were here and have forgotten. Obviously she has not.” With a shake of his head, Rory added, “You pile up conquests with women like you do bodies of the king’s enemies.”
“And you exaggerate. ’Tis the Red Wolf the men spoke of over the night fires in Normandy.”
“Not since that day in Avranches when you took on five of Henry’s men and managed to cut through three of them before help arrived. Now they speak of his cub, the Black Wolf. Did you know?”
Alex chuckled. “Nay, but I suppose it fits. My hair, my horse—”
“Your way with woman,” teased Rory.
“More likely, my scowl,” Alex returned.
His face suddenly serious, Rory said, “The men admire you more than you know, Alex.”
Alex raised his brows but said nothing. He had wanted to be like his father, but in truth, he could not claim to be the equal of the man he so admired.
Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he watched Guy, the younger of his two friends, sauntering toward him. Guy brushed a lock of his light brown hair from his forehead and turned to wink at the same serving wench.
“The swagger in his step is new,” Alex remarked. “Was he doing that in London?”
Amusement danced in Rory’s blue-green eyes. “Aye, it came with his knighting in Normandy. ’Twill pass the first time he loses a fight to another of the king’s new knights.”
Casting the woman a parting glance, Guy joined them. “ ’Tis good to be home.”
Rory rolled his eyes. “As if there were not enough women for you in London.”
Guy sighed wistfully, gazing at the swaying hips of the woman as she walked toward the door of the hall.
“We were not in London long enough for me to sample many. And you well know there are never enough women, particularly when the supply is limited by the need to compete for our share. Alex leaves few comely women unattended.”
“ ’Tis true,” Rory muttered.
“Enough you two!” Alex cut off his friends.
But he could not deny that some unseen force drove him, as if life would be brief and he must taste it all before he left this world.
He thrilled to the excitement of battle and lost himself in the arms of willing women, ever restless and always looking for the next challenge.
“Alex can endure anything save being idle,” quipped Guy.
Ignoring the jests of his friends, Alex searched the crowd for the face of the girl he had not seen for many years, a girl who he had been told was recently returned to Talisand. “Where is Merewyn, I wonder?”
“Just there,” said Guy. “Your gaze is set in her direction.”
Alex scanned the people moving about the bailey. “I see no golden-haired girl.”
“You must remember her as she was when we left to squire in Rouen. I grant you, it has been years and ’tis obvious Merewyn has not been a girl for some while. But even dressed as a lad, I would know her anywhere. We were raised in the same household.”
Guy gestured with a nod toward a young bowman wearing a cap of brown felt, a leather jerkin over a linen tunic and loose green hosen tucked into brown leather boots.
“That is Merewyn?” asked Alex. “Looks more like kin to the Welshman who is friend to my mother.”