Margaret Moore - Castle of the Wolf

He needed no adornment to draw attention to his powerful warrior’s body, and as for those watchful and intense dark eyes, he obviously saw things others did not, like the way she worked—something no other guest had ever mentioned.

But she was no fool, just as she was no beauty, no matter what he said, and it would surely be wrong to let him know how much his words had affected her.

As she entered the kitchen to return her empty basket, Armond, the burly, aproned cook, red-faced after the efforts of overseeing the feast, looked about to have an attack of apoplexy. The shoulders of the exhausted scullery maids slumped from the effort of scrubbing the numerous pots and roasting pans and forks. Middle-aged Vila, who had been at Castle DeLac since her youth, wiped down the long table still snowed with flour that stood in the middle of the chamber. Baldur, the bottler, was excitedly urging Meg and Becky, two of the younger maidservants, to hurry as they headed to the door leading to the hall with more wine.

She followed the maidservants back to the even noisier hall. She swiftly surveyed the chamber and then the high table, where her uncle was comfortably settled with a goblet of wine in his hand. Mavis, attired as befit a wealthy lord’s daughter in a gown of scarlet with embroidered trim of delicate blue and yellow flowers, sat with downcast eyes beside him, looking every inch the demure maiden. Later, though, when they were alone, she would have plenty to say about the guests. She could be surprisingly insightful and was very clever in her way, something Sir Rheged, like most men, failed to appreciate. The other nobles at the high table—lords of importance in the south and London—appeared to be well sated with food and drink. Old Lord Russford at the far end was already dozing in his chair.

Below the dais, several of the younger knights were moving about the hall, speaking to friends and being introduced to the other guests. Some of the mothers with daughters of a marriageable age looked like peddlers hawking their wares at any fair in the land.

Sir Jocelyn was Mavis’s favorite of the moment, a handsome young man of good family, and the most expensively attired in emerald-green and bright blue velvet. He reminded Tamsin more of a peacock than a warrior, and he was also one of the most boring young men Tamsin had ever met. She was quite sure Mavis would tire of him soon, too.

Sir Robert of Tammerly was even younger, and not nearly so good-looking, but Tamsin didn’t doubt that someday he would be a knight to be reckoned with. He seemed wary and watchful, and ate and drank sparingly, like Sir Rheged. He was very unlike the Welshman in one way, though. Like the others, Sir Robert wore his hair cut around his head as if a bowl had been placed upon it, which only seemed to emphasize the roundness of his face.

Although he was clean-shaven, Sir Rheged wore his dark hair—thick and wavy enough to make a woman weep with envy—to his shoulders.

She shouldn’t be thinking about the one man who’d already left the feast, no matter how flattered she’d been by his compliments.

She spotted Denly, one of the stronger servants, and told him it was time to start taking down the tables to clear a space for dancing. Then she went to have a few words with Gordon, the minstrel, about the music for dancing. She herself never danced, but Mavis enjoyed it.

First, though, she would speak to Sally, a young and particularly voluptuous and overly friendly maidservant lingering at the table where the youthful squires sat.

Until tonight, Tamsin had never understood how any woman could give up the precious possession of her virginity to any man outside of marriage. There was too much to lose, even for a poor girl.

Now, though, when she remembered Sir Rheged’s dark eyes and voice, she was beginning to understand how a woman could succumb to desire regardless of the consequences. His compliments had sounded so sincere, she could believe his words were not mere meaningless flattery, but spoken from the heart.

Even so, any pleasure to be gained from giving in to lust surely outweighed the risks, especially for a highborn lady. Bearing a child out of wedlock meant telling the world you were too weak to resist your base impulses. You were a woman of shame.

As for Sally, one of these days, she would probably come to Tamsin in tears to say she was with child and what should she do? Tamsin would see that some kind of dowry was provided and perhaps even a husband, if there was another servant willing to marry her.

But she would deal with that when and if it became necessary. In the meantime... “Sally!”

The maidservant with thick auburn hair and a pert little nose knew better than to linger any longer and came forward at once. “Yes, my lady?”

“Open the shutters near the doors. The hall is getting too stuffy.”

“Yes, my lady,” Sally replied, doing as she was bid and wisely ignoring the obvious disappointment of the young squires.

Tamsin couldn’t imagine Sir Rheged ever being like those boys, giddy with excitement over the tournament, trying their best to look manly and to persuade a woman into their bed.

Determined, even ruthless she could see, but never giddy. As for looking manly, she could well believe Sir Rheged had always exuded that sense of contained and controlled power. And when it came to persuading a woman into bed, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn women had fought for the privilege.

“Careful, my lady!” Denly called out as she nearly stepped into the path of the servants moving the top of one of the trestle tables out of the way.

“I shall be,” she murmured, and not just when it came to moving the tables. She would avoid Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron for the rest of his visit there. It would surely be better—and safer—that way.

* * *

Late the next morning, after the light rain had let up just as Sir Rheged had said it would and the melee had commenced in the far field, Tamsin headed to the kitchen to check the progress of the preparations for the feast that would mark the end of the tournament. As she neared the entrance, she heard the unmistakable sound of a slap, followed by Armond’s loud and angry voice. “Get up, you lazy, good-for-nothing scamp!”

Tamsin hurried into the kitchen to see Ben, the little spit boy, holding his cheek, while Armond towered over him, hands on beefy hips. “Armond!” she snapped. “You know I don’t allow any servant to strike another!”

Armond glowered at her. “He was asleep when he has work to do.”

“You know my rules,” she replied. “If you don’t wish to obey them, you may leave the castle.”

“Your uncle—”

“Has no desire to be involved in any household disputes, as anyone will tell you. The servants are in my charge, and I keep the peace, not him. If you don’t wish to obey my rules, there are plenty of other cooks who would be glad to have your place. Hit Ben or any other servant again, and—”

Mavis burst into the kitchen like a howling gale. “They’re coming back! The melee’s over already!” She came to a startled halt. “Oh, am I interrupting?”

Tamsin turned her back on the cook. “Are you sure?”

“Charlie says one of the guards saw their armor gleaming in the sunlight down the road, so they’re coming back. Let’s go to the wall walk and see if we can tell who won,” Mavis eagerly suggested.

Despite Tamsin’s avid curiosity, that news could wait. The returning knights would be wanting hot water and fresh linen to wash before the feast. Their ladies, too.

“I can’t,” Tamsin replied before she addressed some of the younger maidservants. “Sally, Meg and Becky, start taking hot water to the guest apartments.”

The young women sighed in unison, for carrying the buckets of hot water was no easy task.