Outside, wind struck the keep hard enough to rattle the shutters.
The Baron glanced toward the sound. “Storm’s worsening.”
Almost immediately, voices rose below in the courtyard. The Baron stood at once as I followed him toward the narrowwindow overlooking the bailey just as the gates opened through the snow.
Horsemen rode into the courtyard half-buried beneath winter. My pulse betrayed me instantly. Even at a distance I recognized Geoffrey.
He swung stiffly from the saddle while snow blew sideways across the courtyard. Martin said something beside him that earned no visible response. Geoffrey removed one glove with obvious difficulty before passing the reins toward a stableboy.
And even from above, even through snowfall and gathering dusk, I could see the exhaustion dragging at him.
The Baron exhaled slowly beside me. “God help England,” he muttered. “My son looks like diplomacy finally murdered him.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. Relief hit me so suddenly it almost hurt.
Down below, Geoffrey looked upward toward the keep as though sensing movement at the window. For one suspended moment across the falling snow, our eyes met.
By the time Geoffrey entered the great hall, the storm had swallowed the world entirely.
Snow struck the narrow windows in soft relentless waves while servants hurried between trestle tables carrying trenchers of pottage and fresh bread still steaming from the ovens belowstairs. Wet cloaks hung near the hearth giving off the sharp scent of snowmelt, horse, and woodsmoke.
And Geoffrey looked exhausted enough to break my heart.
He had changed clothes while I stood with the Baron reviewing supply inventories in the solar. The dark green wool tunic he wore now fit closely across his shoulders. Freshly washed perhaps an hour ago, his dark hair curled slightly at the ends.
But exhaustion lingered everywhere else. In the roughness shadowing his jaw and in the hollows beneath his eyes. He looked older than he had three weeks ago.
His father noticed it too.
“Ale first,” he ordered before Geoffrey had fully crossed the hall. “Politics after.”
Geoffrey accepted the cup from a servant as I caught sight of his hands that were raw from the cold, the knuckles split in two places. There was a shallow cut crossing the heel of his palm.
Something unpleasant twisted beneath my ribs. I had spent most of my adult life around men whose hardships involved delayed flights and annoying email chains.
Geoffrey drank half the ale without speaking before finally exhaling slowly. “I had forgotten how much I hate winter campaigning.”
“God created winter campaigning specifically to punish the English,” the Baron replied.
Despite everything, despite the exhaustion dragging visibly at him, Geoffrey’s gaze shifted toward me as he sat beside the hearth.
And there it was again. That awareness between us. Like some invisible thread had tightened quietly during his absence instead of weakening.
The rest of supper arrived. Roasted river fish seasoned with herbs the cook had somehow preserved despite the season. The Baron’s steward rationed wine carefully now, though Geoffrey received a larger portion than usual after his time on the road.
Outside, wind rattled hard against the shutters. The hall felt smaller tonight than it normally did. War had stripped away excess from the household. Fewer guests. Fewer musicians, and fewer idle conversations stretching lazily through supper.
Everyone listened now when riders arrived, watching the doors.
The Baron finally set down his cup. “How bad?”
Geoffrey leaned back slightly in his chair, staring into the fire for one long moment before answering.
“Worse than October. Better than spring will be.”
The honesty of it settled heavily across the hall. Even the servants nearby seemed to grow quieter.
“The king?” the Baron asked.
