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“I suppose I should get up.” Willow pulled the blanket off the bed, wrapping it around her. She padded across the floor in bare feet to see the procession of men entering the courtyard. The herald blew the straight trumpet and started to announce the men one by one.
“The Lord and Lady Pellington of Dover,” he said, blowing the horn in between each name he announced. “Earl Roger Herrington of Devon. Lord and Lady Simon Boshce of Northumbria. Sir Carl de Verre of Suffolk.”
Willow pushed her way between her cousins to see out the window. One after another, the nobles piled into the courtyard. Squires held poles fluttering with the crests of the knights as the horses whickered and clomped across the cobbled stones. It was a grand procession, and even the horses wore decorated bridles and saddles and long coverings depicting each of the knights’ crests. Lord Beaufort and Lady Ernestine sat atop a wooden dais, greeting each knight, baron, and earl with a nod of their heads.
Willow’s heart raced in excitement. The noble entourage held her interest. She had never seen anything as impressive in her life, except for when she visited her cousin, King Richard, at court once a year. Each year the festival became better and better.
“There’s quite a crowd,” said Rook, walking up behind Willow and laying his hands on her shoulders. “Look, there is Sir Bedivere of Gaunt.”
Rowen moaned. “I wonder why Beaufort invited him.”
“Probably because he’s one of the richest knights in all of England,” answered Rook.
“He’s also the greediest,” said Rowen.
“Sir Bedivere is handsome.” Willow stretched her neck, perusing the tall man with dark, trimmed hair and mustache.
“You stay away from him. He’s a womanizer,” warned Rook, his large hands gripping Willow’s shoulders tighter.
“Aye, he’s ruined more than a dozen ladies that I know of, and most likely another dozen servant girls,” agreed Rowen.
“Father, I’m not a child anymore,” said Willow with a sigh and a roll of her eyes. “I don’t need you telling me to stay away from men. Besides, I am already well past marrying age and might want to choose a husband someday.”
“You’ll choose no one. I’ll decide who you marry and when,” Rook warned her. “You are not ready to take a husband yet.”
“Grandfather told me on his deathbed that I can choose my own husband.”
“He said you could agree or disagree, but I will be the one who gives you the choice of which man to marry.”
Willow didn’t want to argue with her father, so she said nothing more.
“Look over there.” Rowen pointed out the window as another man rode into the courtyard. “Isn’t that the page boy you mentored years ago, Rook? You remember, the one that you really admired?”
“Let me see.” Rook released Willow and stepped closer to the window. “Aye, it is, indeed. Sir Conrad,” he called out the window, waving his arm, trying to get the man’s attention. “Sir Conrad, up here.”
“Father, it’s not proper to be shouting and waving your arm out the window! What will people think?” Willow stepped back, embarrassed by her father’s actions.
“Neither was it proper to live in the catacombs, but yet it didn’t bother me at all to do it,” said Rook. “Then again, I’m a man. It doesn’t matter. You just worry about what is proper for a lady.”
“Aye, Father,” she answered, not knowing why the same rules didn’t apply to men and women both.
“Look, Willow, it’s Sir Conrad Lochwood,” her father told her, motioning with his head out to the courtyard.
“Who?” she asked, pretending not to recognize the name of the boy who grew up as her father’s ward.
“It’s Conrad,” he said. “You used to play with him when you were little, before coming to Rothbury to be mentored. I’m sure you remember him.”
Aye, she remembered Conrad all right. But she was far from excited about seeing him again. “Father, Conrad used to pull my braids and hide frogs in my bed,” she told him, wrinkling her nose as she said it. “Why on earth would I want to see Conrad the Cur? I despise him.” She didn’t bother to look out the window.
“Willow, you are being haughty again,” Rook scolded her. “Conrad was just a boy when he did those things. You haven’t seen him since you’ve been living here in Rothbury. He’s a grown man and a knight now.”
“I don’t care.” Willow yawned and stretched one arm out from under the blanket she held around her. “I still don’t like him.”
“Daughter, how many times do I have to tell you to cover your mouth when you yawn?” asked her father.
“I do cover it,” she told him. “But I’m only around family, so what does it matter?” She scratched the back of her head next.
“And stop itching yourself like a flea-ridden scullery maid,” snapped Rook. “Now hurry and get dressed, because we need to take to the road right away.”
