Curtis shook his head. He was already tipsy from the fine wine he’d been drinking throughout the afternoon, and now, as the guests arrived in earnest and great lords were being admitted into Brython while their escorts set up camp beyond the castle walls, the drink had gone to his head a little.
But the entire day had been filled with joy.
So much joy.
It all started when he’d told his father that Elle was expecting their first child and made him promise not to tell anyone until he and Elle could make the announcement together. He and his father had toasted the coming de Lohr heir, and even now, in the presence of Elle’s brother, Curtis could hardly keep his mouth shut. Or his joy contained.
It was a struggle.
“She is a changed woman,” he said. “Trust me, Gruffydd. I think you will find that much of her has changed.”
Gruffydd wasn’t convinced. “I’ve known her longer than you have,” he said. “You will forgive me for doubting this great change.”
Curtis looked at him. “You are a de Lohr ally,” he said. “She is going to have to become accustomed to that. She hated you, in large part, because you sided with the English, but now she is married to an English knight and her child will be half English.”
“True.”
“And it was your grandmother who instilled that hatred in her.”
“Also true.”
Curtis shook his head. “Your sister has learned to see more of the world than what your grandmother narrowly allowed,” he said. “I am not saying she will throw herself in your arms, but I do not think she’ll be as bitter as she has been. With me, she has changed a good deal.”
Gruffydd shrugged. He didn’t know what to make of this situation—his sister or the great feast. But he’d come at the request of Curtis, to celebrate the great alliance with the son of Gwenwynwyn, but also to celebrate the alliance with English marcher lords who were allied with the House of de Lohr.
And there were many.
“I suppose we shall soon discover what she thinks of my presence here,” he said after a moment. Then he pointed tothe land beyond the moat of Brython where, two months ago, the de Lohr army had sent up their encampment. Now, it was an encampment for several great houses, all of them setting up their colorful tents with banners snapping in the sunset. “Tell me who has arrived. For a Welshman, it is a bit disconcerting to see all of the English camped out there.”
Curtis grinned, looking over the field as the sun set in the west, bathing the sky in shades of lavender and pink. “Myles and Hugo have been settling them since they started arriving yesterday,” he said, pointing. “The blue and red standard closest to us? You should recognize that one. Sean de Lara, Lord of the Trilaterals. That is Trelystan, Hyssington, and Caradoc Castles.”
Gruffydd nodded in recognition. “De Lara,” he muttered. “My father knew him.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“He was a great knight with King John, was he not?”
Curtis nodded. “He was one of William Marshal’s greatest spies,” he said. “The man is a legend, so treat him with all due respect. Frankly, I am surprised to see him because he is getting up there in age, like my father.”
“I was told once that great knights never die.”
“If that is true, then de Lara shall live forever,” Curtis said. Then he pointed to the larger encampment behind de Lara. “See the green and black? That is the Earl of Wolverhampton, Robert de Wolfe. The House of de Wolfe and the House of de Lohr go back many years. Robert’s father, Edward, was my father’s best friend. In fact, Robert’s full name is Robert Richard Christopher.”
Gruffydd squinted to see the green and black standards. “I’ve never met de Wolfe,” he said. “Warstone Castle, isn’t it?”
“Aye.”
“Who else is here?”
Curtis was looking over the recognizable standards. “I see my brother, Peter,” he said. “Lord Pembridge of Ludlow Castle, he is. To his south is Sherry, Christin’s husband.”
“Who is Christin?”
“My sister,” Curtis said. “Alexander de Sherrington is the most fearsome killer you’ve ever come across. On his way back from the crusade of Richard, he spent a few years in Rome at the Lateran Palace, committing dirty deeds for the pope.”
Gruffydd looked at him in surprise. “Is that so?” he said. “Impressive. But I’ll be sure to stay away from him.”
Curtis snorted softly. “He has become a family man in his old age,” he said. “As he tells it, all of that assassin madness is well in his past. He’s the garrison commander of Wigmore Castle, one of my father’s properties, and my father recently gifted him with the title of Lord Barringdon. It was a title that belonged to my mother’s father, a courtesy title, so my father gave it to Sherry. Being married to Christin, he has earned it.”
