Mayhap sharing his enthusiasm for home—or at least, for the prospect of a hearty meal—his warhorse broke into a canter for the final stretch to the stable yard. They burst under the archway then skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. His horse exhaled with relief and pricked his ears, looking this way and that for his familiar groom.
“Welcome home, milord.”
Gerrault, the stable master, came striding out of the workshop. He was a tall man with silvery hair who had worked at Wolvesley for most of his life. His grey eyes rested only momentarily on Tristan before going to the horse he loved.
“How is he?” he asked.
Tristan swung his leg over the horse’s back and jumped to the ground.
“Ready for a good feed,” he told Gerrault before reaching out his hands to catch at the bridle of Mirrie’s chestnut horse.
“Let me help you down,” he urged, placing his hands around her waist and lifting her easily towards him. But Mirrie heldherself stiff and taut, not relaxing into his arms as he had expected. He steadied her on the cobbles. “We made it,” he added, wanting to soothe her anxiety. “The hard bit is over.”
Mirrie gave a small shake of her head. “I fear it is only just beginning.”
Before he could respond, a flurry of grooms approached to untack the horses and lead them away. Tristan nodded in response to their greetings and when he next looked over at Mirrie, she was better composed; her hands folded neatly before her.
“’Tis good to see you again, Miss Mirabel.”
Gerrault’s sincerity brought a proper smile to her lips.
“You too, Gerrault. I am glad that naught e’er seems to change at Wolvesley.”
A flicker of anxiety passed over the stable master’s face, but he nodded smartly.
“Where is my mother?” Tristan asked. She was usually to be found somewhere about the stables or the paddocks.
Gerrault hesitated. “We have not seen the countess for nigh on two days.”
That seemed troubling. Tristan held out his arm for Mirrie and nodded his head towards Gerrault. “We shall look inside.”
The path from the stable yard to the castle keep was as familiar as the back of Tristan’s hand. They walked quickly under the high stone archway and passed through sweeping, well-tended lawns before reaching the sparkling fountain which arched into the deep blue sky. Mirrie paused for a moment, tugging on his arm as she gazed, entranced, at the foaming waters.
“I had forgotten how beautiful it is,” she breathed.
Aye. It was beautiful. But Tristan was impatient to move on.
“It will still be here on the morrow.” He smiled to take the sting from his words.
Mirrie was behaving more like a visitor to Wolvesley than a young woman who had grown up within its walls. She gazed at the intricately carved stone lions which guarded the steps to the keep with her hazel eyes open wide.
“They will also be here on the morrow,” he reminded her.
“’Tis all too easy to become immune to this grandeur when you see it every day.” She nudged him sharply with her elbow. “You should take the time to appreciate what you have.”
Hedidappreciate what he had. But one thing war had taught him was that everything could change in an instant. And right now, he had no wish to moon over fountains or lions when he had the nagging sense that something was wrong. All he wanted was to get to the bottom of it. The sooner the better.
Eventually, she allowed him to lead her into the keep, their boots rapping against the marble tiles in the entrance hall which was surprisingly quiet. Usually Wolvesley hummed with activity and servants running this way and that, but today just one guard stood to attention by the front steps.
Tristan placed his hands on his hips and gazed about. “Where is everyone?” His words ricocheted off the frescoed walls and reverberated up to the vaulted ceiling, high above their heads.
Mirrie was wide-eyed all over again. “This is most unusual.” She caught at his arm. “Tris, we should take heed.”
But he had already set off, taking the polished wooden stairs two at a time in his haste. He wasted no time in going to his own chamber and headed straight to the ladies’ solar where he expected to find his mother. But the familiar figure of his mother’s maid, standing to attention by his father’s chamber, stopped him in his tracks.
“Molly.” He strode over to her, his heavy footsteps making the wall torches flicker. “Why are you keeping watch here?”
Molly bobbed into a curtsy. Her chestnut hair was tidily pinned beneath her servant’s cap as usual, but her warm brown eyes were tinged red, as if she had been crying.
