No one had been at Sayerne in a while.
It was cursed cold.Would there be fuel for a fire?Any morsel to eat?And what of the horses?Would there be fodder and bedding for them?Quinn feared not.
He refused to be daunted.Hewouldrebuild.
“I had no notion that our destination would be abandoned,” Bayard commented.
“Nor I, but it is.It is no less mine for all of that.”Quinn raised his voice, letting it ring out across the bailey.“I am Lord de Sayerne, and I stake my claim on my ancestral holdings!”
He leaped from his saddle and abruptly found himself hip-deep in snow.Fortitude snorted and stamped, tossing his dark head and prancing to one side.Of course, Quinn should have anticipated that the snow would rise over the tops of his boots for it fairly reached Fortitude’s belly.
Bayard, curse him, laughed aloud.
Quinn felt the snow slide its icy fingers into his boots and noticed the squires’ surprised expressions.He scowled at his old companion, hoping to reassure the boys with a jest.
“Laugh while you may, for this snow is wicked cold in the boots.”
“That I can see from here,” Bayard said.
“Perhaps you should confirm how cold it is within one’s tunic.”Quinn lunged toward his fellow with a fistful of snow before Bayard could guess his intent.
His weight threw the other knight off balance in his saddle and landed the two of them in the deep snow.They tussled, laughing and shoving handfuls of snow into each other’s garments by turn.The young squires laughed then cheered for one knight or the other.
“Woho!It is indeed cold in the tunic!”Bayard roared.“How does it fare within the chausses?”
Quinn shouted in dismay as Bayard shoved a handful of snow into his chausses.He spun and pelted his chuckling companion with snowballs.They chased each other, dodged and feinted, until Quinn leapt and landed solidly atop his friend.
Bayard’s dark hair was already dusted with snow but Quinn still pushed him headfirst into a drift.The knight gained the surface again with a roar that sent the horses stepping sideways, then attacked Quinn.
When they halted, breathless and covered in snow, Quinn could not help but laugh.“Your hair,” he managed to say.Bayard’s dark hair stood up on one side, snow shoved into it.“You could be a demon defending this place.”
Bayard made a menacing face and the squires retreated.One slipped from his saddle and made a snowball.“Take this, demon!”he cried and his missile hit Bayard in the middle of the chest, splattering on his green tabard.The snowball fight commenced again, this time with all six of them at odds, three of the boys yet astride their palfreys.
“Perhaps it was you who frightened everyone away,” Quinn teased.
Bayard grinned.“Are you certain that no one sent one of your boots in advance to terrify those in residence here?”
“Not me, though I would not put such a feat past you.”
“Me?”Bayard shook his head in mock disappointment.“Sadly, the thought did not occur to me in time.I could have dispatched a warning with that courier from your lord if my wits had been about me.He would have had a memorable journey, riding all the way from Palestine with that boot.”
They laughed together at that.
“As your wits desert you, so Sayerne’s villeins have deserted me,” Quinn said, his smile fading as he considered the implications of that.
“Perhaps we should both check our boots,” Bayard whispered, giving him a nudge.
Quinn was glad of his comrade’s presence.Bayard could always find a bright light and together, they would see all restored to rights.“If the villeins were so dismayed at the prospect of a new lord, it is better that they left,” Quinn concluded.
“Aye,” Bayard agreed.“There will be challenges enough without doubt in the ranks.”
Quinn beckoned to the squires and indicated the stables.“See whether you can make your way there and tend to our steeds.They have traveled far this day and are in sore need of rest.”
“Aye, my lord.”The youngest boy, Michel, eight summers old, jumped from his palfrey’s back with enthusiasm.
He disappeared into a drift of snow.
“Nay!”Quinn shouted.
