“It’s like I told Lord Merrick,” Myghal replied with obvious reluctance. “He was out hunting—”
“With whom?”
Myghal’s brow furrowed. “There was Hedyn, and me, and Yestin and Terithien—men of his household. We often went hunting with him, my lord. Penterwell’s a peaceful sort of place, so there wasn’t a lot for us to do otherwise.’ Twas no different that day— except for Sir Frioc dying, of course.”
Ranulf heard the sorrow and dismay in the younger man’s voice. “It’s never easy to lose a friend, or someone we respect. We all need time to mourn such a loss, but at least we have our memories of better days to sustain us.”
With a heavy sigh, Myghal nodded.
“Sir Frioc must have liked and trusted you, to have you in his hunting party.”
That brought a smile to Myghal’s face. “Aye, sir, he did. He was a kind man, and after my father died, he treated me…well, not like a son, exactly, but very well indeed.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t know him better myself,” Ranulf answered honestly, thinking of his own youth and the man who’d been a better, second father to him.
Myghal’s face resumed its grim expression. “And all because of a rabbit.”
“That does seem a small beast for such a chase.”
“Aye, sir,’ twas. But we’d had no luck that day finding anything bigger, and we were on our way home when the dogs started fussing and Sir Frioc spotted this big rabbit. And hewasbig! So my lord laughed and said he’d be damned if he’d have fish again for his dinner and spurred his horse to give chase. The rabbit took off like a shot from a bow. By the time the dogs were loosed, we’d lost sight of Sir Frioc. His tracks were easy enough to follow, though, and we come to a dip in the hill, and there he was.” Myghal swallowed hard. “He was just lying there on the ground, his eyes wide open and he looked so surprised….”
Ranulf took pity on the man and changed the subject. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to Penterwell. I assume little else has changed in the past few months.”
Rather unexpectedly, Myghal flushed. “Some things have, my lord.”
“Such as?”
“Well, sir, Gwenbritha went home to her mother.”
Myghal seemed to think Ranulf would know who this was, but no one came immediately to mind.
“Sir Frioc’s leman, sir,” Myghal clarified. “They quarreled and she left him.”
Ranulf didn’t want gossip. On the other hand, a lover scorned could mean trouble. He knew full well that honor and wisdom could be subverted by the need to regain one’s wounded pride. “What did they argue about?”
“I heard she wanted him to marry her, and he wouldn’t, so she left him. She said she wasn’t never coming back, neither.”
“Has she been seen around the village since?”
“No, sir, she’s been true to that. Sir Frioc, well, he, um, didn’t take it too well. He tried to pretend he wasn’t upset, but he spent a lot of time hunting, or sitting in the hall…thinking.”
“Thinking, or drinking?” Ranulf asked. A man in sorrow often imbibed more than he should, as he also knew from personal experience.
“Well, sir, drinking,” Myghal admitted.
“The day he died—had he been drinking then?”
Myghal shook his head. “No, sir, not so’s you’d notice. He’d had some ale when he broke the fast and a few tugs at the wineskin while we tried to find some game, but he wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you mean. He could hold his drink, too. Why, many’s the night I saw him…well, sir, he could hold his drink.”
Which didn’t mean Frioc wasn’t the worse for wine or ale when he died, Ranulf thought. But he would say no more about Frioc now. He would ask the sheriff later.
They rode over a small rise, and there in the distance, close to the turbulent sea, was the castle of Penterwell. Its gray stone walls rose up from the cliff upon which it sat as if they’d grown there, and gulls wheeled in the sky above like pale vultures. Ranulf knew that there was a village on the other side of the castle, where its great walls afforded some protection from the winds that blew off the sea and churned the white-capped waves. Even from here he could hear those waves crashing on the rocks at the foot of the cliff.
Of all the places he could have been given as castellan! This must be God’s idea of a jest—or perhaps a punishment—to have Penterwell so close to the sea.
Realizing Myghal was eyeing him curiously, Ranulf gave the fellow a genial smile. “I’m in need of a warm fire and a good meal.”
A flicker of dread flashed across Myghal’s face.
