Night. Most scholars agree the festive season dates back before the Early Middle Ages, but it is commonly accepted that by the fifth century, the celebration of Christmas had spread throughout the whole of the East and the West. During the season, many major holy days are celebrated and though the order and inclusion of festivals has changed over the years, the overall meaning of the season has not.
Bronwyn scooped up her hairbrush, comb, and the two knitted snoods lying on the chest and placed them with her other items on the bed. There lay everything she possessed and even that was too much to pack and bring on such short notice.
Being forced out of her home perhaps should have been expected, but Bronwyn had not been prepared to be summarily shoved out the door within hours of the new lord’s arrival. And not even by the lord himself! He had compelled poor Constance to make his cowardly demands and explain that their presence—hers and her sisters’—was highly unwelcome and akin to trespassing. Bronwyn suspected that Constance, their childhood nursemaid, who was also a noted village gossip, relayed the message to vacate a bit more dramatically than the new lord intended, but it didn’t matter. Lord Anscombe had arrived and with a temper.
The door cracked open and Bronwyn spied Constance’s short frame and frizzy gray hair pop in the opening. “Are my sisters packing?” Bronwyn asked as she began folding the clothes on the bed.
“Aye, they are. I’m telling you, milady, that man will not be borne by many of us. Ordering you out of your own home—”
“It’s not my home, Constance. It never was.”
“But you have the people’s allegiance, and if he thinks he will gain our support by treating the three of you thus…well, I’m glad to be leaving.”
Bronwyn paused and looked at the plump older woman whom she had known as a child and through her worst days. “You need to stay, Constance, and so do the others. My sisters and I do not need much and it would be a shame for anyone to miss celebrating Twelfthtide. The new lord and his men will need support, and you are beholden to him. Not me.”
Constance scoffed. “The man brought no more than two dozen men with him and not a farmer, a woman, or a child. All hardened soldiers like himself. Nothing that would help replenish what they take and eat.”
“Then,” Bronwyn began with a mischievous smile, “I think a strict adherence to Advent should be followed. Father Morrell will be quite pleased when he arrives to deliver his Christmas sermon.”
“But we never fasted bef—” Constance stopped in midsentence. Her jaw dropped for a moment before it closed into a devious smile that matched Bronwyn’s. “Aye, milady. His lordship will soon realize he should have kept you running the place. Henson is too old to be a steward and doesn’t know half of what goes on around here.”
“That is because we have been protecting him, just as the new lord should.” Bronwyn finished folding her last gown and looked up. “In fact, Constance, I intend to tell him myself. Please relay to Lord Anscombe that I and my sisters will leave without incident, but we wish to be introduced first—that to dismiss a vassal in such a way is beyond rude and would not make for good relations.”
Constance turned, grimaced, and with a sound akin to a growl, said, “I’ll do it, but I doubt he’ll see you. He’s a scarred one. And not just on the outside.”
The door closed and almost immediately it opened again. Bronwyn didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Angry fast-paced chatter proved her sisters had either finished their packing or were refusing to continue. “Are you done? I want to leave within the hour.”
Edythe nodded. Lily sulked. “It’s not fair we can only bring two satchels. I cannot decide on what to take and what to leave. It is easy enough for the both of you, you each prefer to limit your wardrobes, but I love my gowns. How am I ever to choose?”
“You would have had to do so in a few days anyway when we left for Scotland,” Edythe clucked.
Not wanting to hear another argument, Bronwyn gave Edythe a look and said, “Don’t worry, Lily. I’ll have Constance pack the rest of your gowns and send them to Syndlear in the next day or two. Just make sure you have the most important item.”
Lily nodded heartily. “Mother’s tapestry was packed first, and that is why I have so little room,” she said, her scorn directed at Edythe before she moved to one of the two large windows on the far wall of the bedchamber. “Is that him?” Lily asked, her voice full of captivated interest.
“Who?” Edythe questioned, grabbing Bronwyn’s hand as she moved to the window to see what caught Lily’s rapt attention.
Below were several new men, all soldiers, but two of them stood out. Both held themselves differently as if born for leadership. One was tall and muscular, with shoulder-length reddish-brown hair. He was talking and suddenly laughed, revealing deep dimples that changed his moderately good-looking face into one that was undeniably attractive.
“Oh, he is nothing like I thought he would be,” Lily hummed, clearly fascinated. “He looks so strong and capable and friendly.”
Bronwyn agreed, but her description of the overly large figure would not have ended there. He had a pleasant face, but there was much more to the man. A hardness that held absolutely no flexibility. The tall soldier was not to be trifled with.
His companion, on the other hand, was harder to discern. He was shorter, though only marginally so, and his broad back was much harder and more powerfully built. He sat with an eerie stillness to him, as if every movement, even a small one, was controlled and had a purpose. Bronwyn shivered and was about to resume her packing when he turned slightly so that she could make out part of his profile. It conveyed strength—brute strength—for there was no softness in his mouth or facial expression. His dark hair was thin and cut very short, which helped to disguise how it had started balding in the middle. Then she saw the Phrygian cap with its pointed tip clutched in his grasp. Just the idea of him wearing such an absurd item removed the tension that had been building studying him and she almost laughed aloud.
“Men shouldn’t be so pretty,” Edythe commented, staring at the taller, more handsome of the two. “They are either dull witted or possess an air of arrogance that is even more tiresome. And he…I don’t know. He smiles too easily and not with his eyes.”
“Oh, you’re wrong,” Lily sighed in disagreement. “Maybe I was mistaken about not getting married. I would be able to protect you from Luc and—”
Bronwyn cut her off. “The new lord could not extend such protection to all of us. And do not be swayed by a pretty face.”
“Hmm,” Lily sighed absentmindedly and gave Edythe a light elbow to the side. “Well, you have to admit he is intriguing.”
Edythe kept silent. She was intrigued, but not for the same reasons as her sister. The man was indeed handsome, but Edythe recognized something else. His mouth. He smiled without smiling. An aura of latent power surrounded him, and just as if to prove her point, one of the stable boys swaggered up to him and made a remark. What was said was unknown, but it caused the tall soldier to whip out his sword faster than Edythe had ever seen anyone move and slice it through the air, stopping just in time before he took Ansel’s head off.
Everything in the courtyard stopped, and the stable boy, visibly shaken, immediately started talking quickly, his face one of contrition. Eventually, the sword was put away and both men disappeared toward the stables. Until then, everyone had been holding their breath.
“What are we going to do?” Lily wailed as she threw herself into her hearth chair. “We cannot leave Hunswick to him! He’s a monster! He nearly chopped off Ansel’s head.”
“I doubt that very much,” Bronwyn argued. “Ansel can be very contrary and is known for being combative. He probably said something that more than deserved such a reaction. I don’t think you will have to worry about the new lord ruining Hunswick.”
“Well, then you can be me and stall for time, for I want nothing to do with him or his violence.”