Page 19 of The Darkland

Kirk knew his father to be an intelligent warrior, not one to panic prematurely. If Ryan said a revolt was imminent, then Kirk was inclined to believe immediate action was necessary regardless of Edmund’s caution. “I shall send word to our allies nonetheless, preparing them for the potentiality,” he said. “Did my father say anything about my brothers or mother? Are they in danger?”

“He did not mention the fact.” Edmund went to the wardrobe and, rummaging about, drew forth the missive from Ireland. Kirk accepted it eagerly. “I am sure your younger brothers are well. Drew recently returned from fostering in Devon, did he not?”

Kirk nodded, scanning the contents of the vellum. “After Steven injured his hand in a riding accident, my father was without the power of a son by his side. But now with Drew returned….” He suddenly re-rolled the vellum, frustrated. “This missive tells me nothing. It’s as if… as if he is holding something back.”

“Your father holds nothing back,” Edmund replied. “The missive is quite frank.”

Kirk shook his head, his fatigue fading as frustration took hold. “He probably does not want to worry me. He knows I shall sail for Ireland with half of England under my command at the first sign of trouble.”

Edmund watched the man work himself into a substantial fret. “According to your father, there is no trouble– yet. Trust that the man will inform us when he needs reinforcements.” Kirk continued to pace, the missive clutched in his hand, and Edmund set his goblet down. “Retire to your chambers, Kirk. Rest, relax. We shall have a grand feast this night to celebrate your return.”

Kirk looked up from his pacing boots. “You mean the arrival of Lady Micheline.”

Edmund met his gaze. After a moment, he shrugged. “As you say. Regardless, I demand you rest until the meal. You look as if it has been a hellish journey.”

Kirk did not say what he was thinking, thoughts turning from the situation in Ireland to the events of the past two days.

Not hellish, Edmund.Hellion.

*

The first thingMara was aware of was the smell of roasting beef. A heavy, mouth-watering smell and she realized she was famished. Seated in the great smoky hall at the table reserved for the de Cleveley family, Mara and Micheline huddled together as the rumbled of conversation filled the room.

Kirk had explained that the guests this eve had been part of Johanne’s birthday celebration a few days prior. Most of them were older, a few young men and ladies in fine court dress. Clad in the finest surcoats they owned, Mara and Micheline were sorely out of place among the wealthy visitors.

Even though Micheline was trying her best to remain dignified, Mara wanted no part of it. The crowd had been staring and pointing since her arrival a half-hour before and she was nearly wild with what she perceived to be negative attention. When Kirk passed the table on his rounds of the room, she latched onto his hand and refused to let go.

Smiling gently, he knelt beside her chair. “What’s the matter with you? Are you not enjoying yourself?”

He could see she was close to tears. “These people,” she whispered. “They are staring at Micheline and I. I want to leave!”

Micheline heard her sister’s plea, meeting Kirk’s gaze. His expression was surprisingly gentle, considering his usual reaction to Mara. Even after spanking her earlier in the day, which her sister had explained with very little outrage, it was obvious he was no longer angry. And Mara, too, apparently held no grudge.

“Relax, lass,” he said. “They are simply curious and nothing more.”

She shook her head, still holding his hand. He had escorted Micheline to the dining hall, clean shaven and without his armor. Mara had followed on Niles’ arm, awed by the sight of Kirk, combed and bathed and in gentlemen clothing, as he chatted pleasantly with her sister. If she had thought him handsome before, the new picture was enough to set her head spinning. And he smelled nice, too. A smell of precious oils and pine that filled her nostrils even as he knelt beside the chair and attempted to comfort her.

“They are laughing at us,” she hissed, her bright blue gaze full of uncharacteristic emotion. “You promised there would be no more humiliation for Micheline!”

He sighed, patting her hand. “They are not laughing, love. I would kill them all if they were laughing.”

Mara was not convinced, frustrated that he could not see the truth of the situation. “Look at us, Kirk.” She let go of him and grabbed a fistful of her skirt. “Look at this surcoat; it was my mother’s and it is several years old. And Micheline; she is wearing a silk surcoat that was once burgundy. Now it’s pink. We’re shamefully dressed, I tell you!”

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You could wear rags and you would both still outshine every woman in this room.” He caught a glimpse of Micheline’s grateful smile from the corner of his eye. But Mara was still frowning and he touched her cheek gently, rising. “Do not worry so, Lady Mara. Enjoy the feast and forget about these women who stare. They are simply jealous.”

Mara rolled her eyes miserably. Kirk smiled at her, enjoying her animated response, when Corwin and two women approached the table. Before Mara could further lament the atmosphere of the room, Kirk turned her in the direction of the visitors.

“Lady Mara, you have not yet been introduced to Sir Corwin’s wife and sister-in-law.” He gestured to the identical pale-faced women. “Lady Valdine and Lady Wanda, may I present the Lady Mara le Bec.”

Mara smiled weakly at the woman on Corwin’s arm, who bowed crisply. As she did so, the woman standing next to her mimicked her actions perfectly. It was like watching two of the same person.

“’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Lady Valdine,” she said. “Your husband’s pleasant conversation helped pass the time on our journey here.”

“We…”

“…thank you, my lady.”

Mara blinked. Lady Valdine had started the sentence; her sister had finished it. Puzzled, she looked to Micheline for support. But her sister merely smiled.