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“A pleasure? I would say the same if I knew your purpose here at my tents, alone with my daughter.”

“Father!”

I do not blame the man for his suspicions.

“I came here looking for you and happened upon Lady Reyne.”

He grunts and addresses his daughter. “You missed your brother. He just won the stone throw.”

I am not surprised. Warin has long been one of the strongest men I know.

“I am sorry to have missed it,” she says, looking down.

The conciliatory response surprises me. I do not remember Reyne as the sort to defer to anyone, even her father. The woman Reyne is much more subdued than I remember.

“I would speak to you,” I finally manage as the Highland lord turns his attention back to me. Only one of his men accompanied him from the field, and any fool could see how he looks at Reyne.

Moray gestures toward the biggest of the cluster of tents. While most of the occupants are off at either that day’s games or the makeshift market that springs up for the tournament, a few stragglers, including ourselves, remain.

Following Moray into the tent, I glance back and give his man a look of warning. I’ve no right to do so, of course, but I doubt Reyne or her father would appreciate his leering if they were to notice. For his part, the man seems surprised by my interference.

“I’d have thought you too busy at court to come here,” Moray says, taking a seat and gesturing for me to do the same. This tent, unlike my own, is not for sleeping but for entertaining. The table is equipped with a pitcher and mugs and candleholders for the evening, surrounded by four chairs, nicer than the low slingback ones Gille insisted on bringing. It must have required at least two separate wagons to bring the furnishings for this one tent.

Moray never did do anything in half measures.

I accept his offer of wine and then sit.

“I’ve been kept busy,” I admit, “with Galfrid’s attempted attack and the return of the queen’s sister and brother-in-law.” The latter I admit only because of my family’s history with this man. Moray and my father may no longer be allies, but I can trust him. That much I know well.

“’Tis true, then? The rumors of Whitley’s meddling?”

“Aye, ’tis true enough.”

Moray grunts. “Once a bastard . . .”

He has no love for the man, nor for any of the border lords, from what I can remember.

“And Galfrid? Does the queen intend to strike back at him?”

So much for idle chatter.

“The course forward is still undecided. There are many factors at play.”

King Galfrid seems genuinely interested in peace. Having lost his son and heir, he has larger problems than the never-ending conflict between our nations. And with his men in Breywood opening discussions with Cettina, and ours in Meria’s capital, I think it almost possible.

But only if the Highlanders fall into line.

“That is why I am here. I must speak to you about the future,” I say.

Before he answers, I realize I’ve not spoken to him since Fara’s death.

“I am sorry for your loss, Moray. I would have come to the funeral had I not been detained at the capital.”

A shadow crosses his expression, though briefly, and a quick nod is the only indication he’s heard me.

“I bear no grudge against you, lad.”

Though it’s been some time since I’ve been called as such, I hold my tongue.