Angus half raised his hand. “Come back soon, my boy. With Mirabel at your side.”
Tristan walked quietly from the chamber, closing the panel behind him.
His father was recovering. This much was certain. And Tristan’s heart was much lighter for it. Were it not for the risk of being spotted in a moment of weakness, he might have put his hands on his knees and wept with relief. As it was, he held his head high and marched back along the corridor and down the wide wooden staircase to the great hall. There, his hungry senses were met with the tempting aromas of freshly-baked bread, glistening ripe fruit and soft cheese cut into wheels.
“Tris!”
Whilst he was perusing the offerings of the long table, his name was hollered across the bustling room. Tristan turned to see Jakob, a red-headed knight who had trained alongside him at Lindum, waving frantically from a small table set below the dais.
Grabbing a fistful of red berries, Tristan walked over to the group of men. Jakob was dining with two recent recruits. He did not know their names, which meant he must learn them at the first opportunity. Tristan did not like to be at a disadvantage, even amongst his own men. And he had always believed that soldiers would more willingly follow a leader who gave them the time of day.
“Good morn,” he greeted them.
“Especially for you, I hear.” Jakob grinned up at him cheekily. Tristan remembered Jakob’s many teasing taunts in their more youthful days. He was always the first to laugh and quick to celebrate any trifling success.
Tristan picked an empty cup from the table, sloshed ale into it from a nearby jug and raised it in a toast. “Well said, Jakob. I am just come from my father’s bedchamber. He is on the road to recovery.”
The men readily raised their cups to his and voiced their pleasure at this news.
“That is indeed something to celebrate. Although I was not at first talking of the earl,” Jakob added, unexpectedly. “Congratulations on your betrothal. You did not tell me you were courting Miss Mirabel.”
Tristan took a breath, telling himself that the length of his and Jakob’s friendship would forgive the impertinence of such a statement.
Usually it would not be impertinent at all to compliment a man on his betrothal to a beautiful woman.
But he had not yet readied himself for such dialogue. Events seemed to be spiralling out of his control, which was ridiculous as this ruse was entirely of his own making.
“Thank you.” He took a mouthful of ale to negate the need for further conversation.
“I am only sorry I missed last night’s announcement.” Jakob’s gaze was trained on Tristan. A lesser acquaintance would have thought the exchange to be innocent, but Tristan could see the calculations taking place behind the man’s eyes.
Jakob was wondering if this sudden betrothal was brought aboutby necessity.He would wager a bagful of coin that the knight was counting back the weeks since Tristan’s last visit to Ember Hall.
Tristan recalled Mirrie’s insistence that he leave her chamber last night before they could be seen together. Until she had spoken up, he had not spared a thought to how careless he was being with her reputation.
A reputation that was already being questioned.Because of him.
He grimaced behind his cup, before banging it back down on the table. “Fear not, Jakob, you will have full opportunity to celebrate with us at the midsummer ball. And perchance thereafter, for we are in no rush to set a wedding date.” Whilst Jakob’s jaw worked to formulate a response, Tristan looked for a change of subject. “How is your new squire working out? The lad that I sent over to you at Beltane.”
Jakob flashed him a genuine smile. “As you know, I had my doubts, but he is progressing better by far than I predicted. He is a quick study, good with the horses and brave to boot. I readily admit that you were right about him.”
Tristan was pleased. “I sensed the lad’s potential.” He turned his attention to Jakob’s companions. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”
“Edward Byers, milord,” spoke up the oldest of the two; a muscular youth with freckles across his nose. “My father served yours, under Sir Henry de Gaunt.”
Tristan nodded in recognition of the loyal knight who had led the Wolvesley army for more than two decades. “Sir Henry was a great man.”
Edward Byers nodded enthusiastically, while the young man at his side turned a shade of beetroot red.
“I am new to Wolvesley, milord.”
“And what is your name?” Tristan was instinctively cautious of newcomers, although ’twas far from easy to join the ranks at Wolvesley. No man could claim so much as a trial without a seal of recommendation.
“’Tis Thomas. I travelled here from Darkmoor, milord.”
Tristan was reassured. Darkmoor was the province of one of his father’s oldest friends. Otto Sarragnac was unlikely to send spies into their midst.
“You are both welcome.” He smiled widely at them all, even Jakob. “Forgive me, I have business to attend to.”
