ix.

Surveying the great hall at Knighton, Guy could not help but be struck by the genuine warmth of the celebration. There was love and devotion for this Sheriff and his daughter of a kind that could not feigned, bought, or inspired by fear. He stood at one of the lintel beams, arms across his chest, watching the melee. There were minstrels performing in front of the largest table, where the lords from the Council of Nobles were taking their fill of the revels. Guy could not see Edward or his daughter there, but with a hall so full of moving people, this was not surprising. The people of the estate, and the neighboring villages, he wagered, had been invited to the feast, wearing their homespun best. He had already eaten, but the curling smoke laced through with the rich, briney scent of the sturgeon, pike, eels, and barnacle geese—it was Lent—half moved him to sit down to table again. Taking one step forward almost brought him careening into kitchen boys bringing manchet loaves from the scullery and cup-bearing girls with so many jugs of ale Guy thought greedily of what wealth Vaisey would have—and share—when he was Sheriff. Vaisey had promised him lands and an estate—Guy's task was to see which one he wanted for himself. He abandoned his attempt at a second helping and remained standing.

Knighton had its charms—Guy lazily held out his cup for a refill from the pretty serving wench who came nearest to him, simpering with eyes that practically bathed him admiration—but the very love which the peasants had for its "good, generous" master Sir Edward turned him away from the idea. They would be too much trouble. He would take no pleasure in breaking them. Those who needed to be taught a lesson would find in him a very willing teacher.

He sighed. These were simple, inoffensive folk. They loved King Richard without thought or question. They could be led, one way or another, and when Vaisey was Sheriff and Guy in power, they would be swayed to follow their law and order. The room was filled with the sweet smell of herbs that hung from the doorways. The rushes, he noticed underfoot, had been freshly changed. Looking down, one of the hounds that had bristled threateningly at him when he had crossed the threshold now moved toward him cautiously, tail wagging hopefully.

"Eusebius! Leave Sir Guy!"

Guy was too occupied in removing the sniffing canine's nose from the top of his boot to look up at Marian of Knighton as she said this. When she had called the hound to her, laughing, he saw that she was dressed in pale green with her hair pulled severely from her face. He frowned at the formality of her dress as opposed to the unabashed pleasure in her face as she called her dog to her. He felt strangely disappointed when the pleasure faded to a formality of expression that matched her clothing and carriage.

"I am sorry, Sir Guy. He is a little overenthusiastic."

He was thinking of the uncomfortable moment when he had arrived to the feast, and Sir Edward had formally introduced him to his daughter. Marian had looked very young indeed, then, curtseying stiffly before him, and his efforts at careless chitchat were matched only by hers—desultory. If he hadn't felt so thrown, he would have been insulted at her lack of respect. To compensate, he said, "Does your father hunt?"

"When his duties permit it," she said vaguely, glancing beyond him even as she affectionately stroked the hound's ears as it sat in front of her legs protectively, its lower body hidden beneath her gown.

Guy set his jaw. Her lack of interest bordered on insolence. Though, to be fair, he relented, there could be very little for them to say to each other. "Sir Guy!" They both turned to see Marian's father coming toward them, arms outstretched. "Why do you stand here on your own? You should be sitting and enjoying the music and the refreshments!"

"I assure you, Sir Edward, that I have done so." Guy inclined his head. "It is a good feast and a good welcome." Nevertheless, Sir Edward beckoned them both to sit down. Marian, Guy noticed, gave the dog a final rub behind the ears before she set it off into a corner to gnaw on a bone. She picked up her skirts with dignity and followed her father to the main table. Guy shrugged and followed as well. Edward sat him on his right side while Marian was on the old Sheriff's left. They had taken their seats as one of the village women had finished a song. She curtseyed to the audience and their applause. Then she held out a hand toward Marian.

"Would that Lady Marian gave us a song?"

The company around them turned to look at Marian, who blushed quite naturally—and quite becomingly, Guy thought to himself—as people seated next to them insisted she sing a song. "I am sorry," Marian demurred. "As everyone here knows—except perhaps Sir Guy—I cannot sing. I do not have any of the female arts." There was a long raucous chorus that spoke of disbelief for her statement, but at last Sir Edward nodded at Marian and then at the peasant woman who was still entreating her.

Sir Edward hailed a passing woman with a tankard of ale and filled Guy's cup. Guy risked a sideways glance at Marian and noted that, instead of being shamed by her admission, she seemed much happier to have foregone the opportunity. He was still looking at her when Sir Edward touched his arm. Another peasant woman had taken the dais area. There was a whispered name of "Annie," and Guy recognized the serving wench who had filled his cup earlier. As before, her gaze was bashfully, but quite openly, directed at him.

She curtseyed at Sir Edward and the other nobles further along the table. And she sang, at first waveringly, then with feeling,

"An outlandish knight came from the north land

And he came wooing to me,

He told me he'd take me up to the north lands

And then he would marry me.

'Go fetch me some of your father's gold

And some of your mother's fee

And two of the horses from the stable

Where they stand thirty and three.'"

The girl called Annie sang the familiar song to its conclusion, and Guy held her gaze throughout it. All the other revellers seemed too involved in their food, drink, and company to note that the girl seemed to be singing for Guy alone; at least, if any had challenged him upon its conclusion he would have called their observations baseless. Still, as the girl curtseyed again and demurely let her gaze drop to the floor, he could see no reason not to follow her.

"Sir Guy, you cannot be leaving!" exclaimed Sir Edward.

"It is your feast," Marian observed, coolly, though her frown was expansive.

"I fear I cannot trespass on your hospitality any longer," Guy said, and meant it.

One of the nobles was calling for a toast to Sir Edward, the founder of the feast, and the Sheriff was momentarily distracted. "Marian, will you-?" he muttered to his daughter, who rose swiftly after Guy and, to his surprise, followed him to the door of the great hall.

"I take you away from your guests," he muttered, having no wish to drag her away from her party. Though she had been civil, he had expected more of this woman whom Sarah had called "queer."

"To be honest, it is a relief." He turned to her, searching her face—flushed from the heat of the great hall—for sarcasm. He found none and saw only her undeniable beauty. He had seen many women—noble and serf—and had even known a few, but none quite so beautiful . . . She had taken up a book which had been hidden behind the latch of the front door. "My cousin sent me a present, and I have been aching to read it all day."

"A book?" he questioned, genuinely surprised. With a slight, questioning quirk of her eyebrow, the girl Marian handed it to him. It was Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain. "This . . . this interests you?"

"Why not?" she replied, taking the book back from him. "Everything interests me."

"Though not the female arts."

He thought for a moment he had gone too far. But she smiled at him, acknowledging the joke. "Thank you father for the kindness," he said, not knowing what else to say.

"Good night, Sir Guy."