the great hall, he returned the greetings offered by passing servants and the vassals assembled to welcome him home and hear the news. Surrounded by the familiar noise and clatter of the feast ordered in honor of his homecoming, Ian gradually relaxed. The habit of caring for his large, boisterous family was so ingrained that he had no doubt of his ability to extricate William from this Lady Madeline’s coils, if he found it neces sary to do so.
“Ian!”
He loosed his hold on Lady Elizabeth just in time to catch a flying bundle of robes and long honey-colored braids.
“Oof!” He made a show of stumbling back with his laughing, squealing younger sister in his arms. “You’ve gained at least a stone since last I was home, Cat. And at least two score new freckles.”
Lady Elizabeth watched with an indulgent smile as Ian teased her youngest chick, a budding, blushing maid of some ten summers, then turned to take an equally lively greeting from her next youngest.
“Ian,” the boy exclaimed, “you must tell me every detail of the battle at Châteauroux! The other pages have promised to share their sweets with me for a month if I relay the exact order of the siege.”
Ian ruffled Dickon’s thick golden hair and answered his eager questions while Catherine hung on his other arm. Watching them, Lady Elizabeth felt her heart contract with love. Their tawny heads shone in the light of the torches placed around the hall. The three were so alike in color most people forgot they were but half brother and sister.
Ian looked older than his eight-and-twenty years, Elizabeth thought, ascribing it to the months of war from which he’d just returned. With rest, nourishment and her watchful care, he’d soon lose the lines of strain etching deep groves beside his dark blue eyes and the gauntness from his chiseled cheekbones. He’d have to be fattened up a bit, too, she decided. Although his thighs and muscles were roped with hard muscles, his long frame was far too thin, in her opinion.
She breathed a small sigh, wishing once again that Ian would seek another wife. One who would take him in hand, fuss over him and give him the love he deserved. One who would breed him fine sons and daughters. The maid he wed as a youth had been far too timid and delicate to curb his independent ways. And since the girl’s death from ague after a scant year of marriage, Ian had become much too comfortable with his stable of willing bedmates to seek out another bride. He had his mother and a throng of loving sisters to see to his household needs, or so he protested whenever Elizabeth brought up the subject. Why should he take a wife?
Elizabeth stood a moment longer, observing the play of light on the golden heads still bent in cheerful discourse. She’d been blessed with a fine brood, six babes of her own who lived past infancy and a tall, handsome son of her heart. They were her life, and she would give her life to keep any one of them from harm.
The thought brought her brows together, and her hand sought the folded parchment in her pocket. Praise God Ian was home. Ian would speak to Will. He’d end the boy’s infatuation with a woman whose unsavory reputation had penetrated even these remote northern reaches. Knowing that the matter was all but done, Elizabeth moved forward to join her lively family.
Bad weather and the myriad demands on a lord who had been absent for many months delayed Ian’s departure for the south. He spent a week at Wyndham, his principal holding, settling disputes among his tenants and overseeing the refurbishment of the armory after the depredations of the recent campaign.
Wet snow blanketed the hills the following week, making travel to his outlying manors an unpleasant chore and slowing progress between each of his demesne properties. Consequently, when he headed south the second week in February to attend the king’s wearing of the crown, he found the roads turned to mud. His troop was slowed by great processions of mounted knights moving their households from properties denuded of winter provisions to other holdings, as well as throngs of pilgrims, road merchants and jugglers. Where their ways converged, Ian offered travelers the protection of his troop against the bandits that ravaged the countryside.
After a week of slow progress, Ian neared the red sandstone walls of Kenilworth Castle. Appropriated as a royal residence a decade before, Kenilworth stood as a massive symbol of safety and comfort. Ian rode through its thick barbican with weary relief.
Within an hour, he’d found his assigned rooms, given his mail and weapons into his squire’s care and prepared to go in search of his younger brother. As it happened, Will came charging down the drafty corridor just as Ian opened the chamber door.
“Ian!”
Will’s enthusiastic greeting propelled them both back across the threshold. He buffeted Ian on the shoulder with all the enthusiasm of a youth of seventeen summers and the unrestrained strength of a yearling bull. He already matched Ian’s not inconsiderable height and promised fair to overtake him in weight before long.
“Jesu, lad,” Ian protested, laughing. “Is this the training a knight of the royal household receives? To all but knock his lord and guardian to the floor in rough greeting?”
“Ha! The day I knock you to the floor I will know myself truly a knight.”
The two brothers grinned at each other, remembering the many wrestling matches and mock combat they’d engaged in. Ian had never coddled his younger brothers, knowing they would need all their strength of arm to survive. The boys had taken many a toss from their horses in their youth and thumped the floor regularly in their efforts to best their older brother.
Throwing an arm across the young knight’s shoulders, Ian led Will back into his chambers. A roaring fire snapped in the great stone hearth in a vain attempt to ward off the icy February drafts that whistled through the tall mullioned glass windows.
The flickering flames illuminated the full glory of Will’s attire. Brows raised, Ian ran admiring eyes down the brilliant turquoise surcoat that sat easily on the young man’s broad shoulders. The wool gown sported rich embroidery along its neck and hem in an intricate pattern of mythical beasts and twisting vines. Lady Elizabeth must have spent months setting the stitches in precious gold and silver thread.
“Well, if you haven’t learned any manners in your time at court, at least you’ve acquired an elegant air. You shine from head to toe,” Ian intoned in awe. “Our lady mother will be pleased to know her efforts to display your curls to best advantage are finally appreciated.”
A dull red crept up William’s throat, but he laughed and raked a hand through his thick golden mane. Brighter by several shades than Ian’s own tawny hair, Will’s shining curls were the bane of his existence and the object of his sisters’ undying envy.
“I but dress to keep up with the courtiers,” he protested. “I swear, Ian, with every shipment of goods that comes from Jerusalem, the knights at court bedeck themselves ever more gaudily. ‘Tis like attending a damned May fair to walk amongst them.”
“And you the beribboned Maypole, towering above them all,” Ian teased good-naturedly.
“You could use some peacocking yourself,” Will retorted, giving his brother’s ringless hands and dark blue surcoat a candid once-over. “If you would not shame me, at least wear something other than those boots when you go to take the evening meal.”
“Nay, I’d look the fool in shoes such as yours, falling flat on my face every time I tried to take a step.”
Will lifted a huge foot clad in felt slippers with toes so long and pointed they had to be curled back and caught with garters below his knees.
“’Tis a ridiculous fashion,” Will agreed with a laugh. “But a fellow must wear them, or look the country bumpkin to all the ladies.”
“You’ve much yet to learn of women, if you think ‘tis your shoes that interests them.”
To Ian’s surprise, Will failed to respond to his wry comment. The laughter faded from the boy’s face, to be replaced by an expression containing an equal mixture of earnestness and defiance.
“I know I have much yet to learn of women, Ian, but I’m not quite