Sybilla’s heart twisted in her chest. “Lord Hamon? But why?” She leaned forward and pushed back her hood, heedless of the flurries. “Why would he?”
Simon glanced back again at his friend before he spoke. “Revenge. He discovered his wife, Lady Morna, proclaimed undying love for a poor knight, Sir Guy of Warwick. ’Twas more than a nobleman of his rank could stomach. The murders were meant as a message for Guy—to stay away from Morna.” His voice faded, as if it pained him to speak about the subject further.
The wind that swirled around Sybilla made her dizzy. She grabbed Addy’s withers to keep from falling.
Simon’s mouth clamped shut and the muffled sound of snowy footsteps moved closer.
Guy’s voice bellowed. “Simon, is the goat still breathing?”
Simon raised his finger to his lips, signaling to Sybilla to say nothing of their conversation. He turned and rested a hand on Bacchus’ furry rump. “She is, my friend. And your house is just ahead.”
Sybilla squinted. Through the snowfall, the two-story, buff-colored manor house appeared, complete with a steep snow-dusted roof. A cob half-wall surrounded a small inner yard, a horse barn, a dairy house and other buildings, all timber-framed with crumbling wattle and daub walls, and thatched roofs in bad need of repair.
She’d not expected such a grand, though neglected, place.
The nanny goat tucked beneath his arm, Simon drew Bacchus to a halt and dismounted. “Guy’s fair sister caught the eye of an old but landed knight, Sir Walter. ’Twas his place. He took sick and died right ’afore we got home. Roselynn had just given birth a week before she was made a widow.” He lowered his eyes. Snow covered his knees as he trod through the drifts, and wrestled with the hip gate that was hanging askew from a tilted fence post.
Sybilla couldn’t take her eyes from the looming house with the tall, narrow windows, two on the ground floor, two on the second, and a chimney as wide as it was thick. The walls needed patching, as did the roof. But the chimney alone promised warmth, and the thought of comforting heat made her want to rush inside.
The goat bleated. Sybilla slid off Addy and patted the mare on the neck. The horse kept her eyes closed. She felt alarmingly stiff and cold beneath Sybilla’s hand. The mare needed rest and shelter as much as did Regalo.
Simon hollered, “Guy, are you coming or not?” The goat squealed and squirmed in his arms. He set her down and she scampered close beside him, leaping through the snow as if she’d suddenly come back to life.
Guy didn’t answer.
Sybilla turned around. Guy stood fifty paces back, staring at the house, his face as cold and dispassionate as the wind. Regalo lifted his head and, for the first time in hours, he pricked his ears.
Simon took Addy’s reins from Sybilla’s hands. “Go inside and warm yerself, Mistress Corbuc.” He led Bacchus and the mare toward the barn. “I’ll put the animals up and get them fed. If the old steward, Dunback, is still here, send him out to help me, though I’ll bet he’s lost what was left of his wits.” He stopped and watched Guy moving through the snow, his approach reluctant and stalling.
Simon took a deep breath. He whispered, “I never seen a man rage like Guy did the night we found the bodies, not even in the pitch of battle. I’ll not forget the way Guy broke down when he found his sister and her babe lying in the dirt not far from here, God keep them. Or the way he cradled the lifeless body of his little nephew in his arms and cried. He blames himself for their deaths.”
The private look Simon gave Sybilla made her heart ache. Sir Guy of Warwick, a hulk of a man, didn’t seem like the kind of man to cry.
The snowfall faded for a moment, and Sybilla watched Guy’s back straighten as he approached the gates. He walked toward the house like a man walking into his own private hell—with the sick foal on his back.
She picked up her snow-soaked skirts and fell silently in beside him.
Guy’s deep voice rang out. “Could I have avoided bringing you and Regalo to this house, I would have.” With his hand on his sword hilt and the other wrapped around Regalo’s ankles, he pushed the door open with his foot and stepped across the threshold. He scanned the long dark hallway. “This place reeks of death.”
A sliver of light slipped through a crack between the wooden doors that opened into the great hall. Guy’s footsteps trod down the hallway, across the familiar glazed green and yellow tiles. His shadow tracked him, moving along thick stone walls, walls devoid now of the tapestries and flax sconces that once lit the place with color and with warmth. The cold air that filled the space smelled lifeless and stale, like the air inside a cathedral during a funeral mass. Guy motioned for Sybilla to follow, glad that the low light would keep anyone from noticing the sweat on his upper lip.
He pointed to the half-eaten bowl of pottage sitting on a long trestle table. “Looks like Dunback is still here. Somewhere.” The same beaten long table, serviceable and once of good quality, sat where it always had, in the center of the room. But the hearth that stretched across the east end of the room was filled with broken furniture. A small fire radiated from the fireplace and its golden light looked inviting, despite the source.
Guy set Regalo down beside the fire. The remnants of Roselynn’s spinning wheel crackled in the flames, the wooden spokes sticking up like charred fingers.
He swallowed, clenched his fists to keep dragging out what had once been her most prized possession. She’d been sitting by the fire spinning when he’d come to say goodbye. A one-eared yellow kitten at her feet batted at a ball of wool.
“Be careful, Guy,” his sister told him, setting her work aside. Then she threw her arms around him, her tears wetting the neckline of his tunic. “Mayhap when you return, you’ll have niece or little nephew to tell of your heroics, God willing,” she blurted out in a voice she barely managed to control. “Sir Walter and I…we’ll need your help with the harvest.”
Guy knew they didn’t need his help. The farm thrived and, even without him, they would do well. He’d made certain of it by recruiting the strongest men from the village, and the hardest workers. Sir Walter paid them well in shares of the crops and in beer.
Guy had kissed her on the top of her head and reassured her King Richard would have the French well beaten by mid-summer.
But he did not return until November—eight years later. Too late for Roselynn and her son.
He closed his eyes. Self-loathing filled his empty soul. He relished the stiffness and strain in his back from carrying Regalo. It distracted him from the pain in his heart.
He leaned on his sword and rubbed his forehead.
Sybilla took the wineskin filled with goat’s milk from her shoulder and offered Regalo a drink. He consumed what was left with vigor. Having sucked the wineskin dry, the colt promptly curled up like a hound just returned from a satisfying hunt, and slept.
The front door flung open and banged against the stone wall.
Simon strode in holding Dunback by the scruff of the neck. The old toothless man grinned and stared through glazed eyes.
Simon released the old man. “Look who I found in your cellar, Guy. The man who’s supposed to be guarding your reserves, not drinking them.”
Dunback smiled apologetically. He stumbled forward, his patched and dirtied woolen tunic reeking with the smell of soured wine. “Welcome home, my lord. We’ve missed you.” He bowed and almost lost his balance as he glanced at the foal sleeping by the fire.
Guy helped the man to his feet. “We? Who in God’s name is here besides you?”
A blank look crossed Dunback’s hollow face. His foggy eyes lit up with something quite akin to madness. “Why the Lady Roselynn, and her little babe, sir. We’ve been