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“I’m afraid this is the farthest north of London I’ve been,” she said. “My home is just north of Glastonbury. My mother was co-heir with her younger brother with property in Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire. But I’ve not been there myself.”

“Your mother,” he prompted. It was the first time she made mention of her.

“Died in childbirth when Catherine was born.” She shrugged. “Denying my father the son he so desperately hoped for.”

The bitterness in those words told him more than the words themselves. So her father blamed Phillipa and her sister for his lack of sons. Which accounted for his mistreatment of them, for if he abused Phillipa, surely he did the same to her younger sister.

“My aunt Emma and her husband have three daughters,” he said, hoping to further demonstrate the difference between he and Phillipa’s father. “My uncle dotes on them all, as your father should have done, rather than blaming you for something that was not your control.”

His guess hit its mark; Haydn could tell from her expression.

“Dotes. My father does not know the meaning of the word.”

It was her lack of emotion that made him want to comfort her. Which, of course, he could not, and would not, do. He’d promised himself at the start of this journey that he’d speak as little as possible, consummate their marriage as was his duty, ensure she was well-installed at Hillside, and move on.

Feeling pity for her would not do. He had to change the tone of the discussion. Haydn raised his mug. “To the border. You are one of us now.” He’d meant only that she would be leaving the stifled sophistication of the South for the less nepotistic and more independent North. But, Haydn realized belatedly as they drank, it sounded like much more.

Indeed, she caught his eye and looked at him with a measure of longing that had nothing to do with the upcoming evening. And he wasn’t sure which was worse. If Haydn had hoped to keep a distance between him and his wife, he was failing miserably.

“My father,” she said hesitantly, “says the borders are more dangerous now than ever. Is it difficult, living so close to the unrest?”

The question, asked innocently enough, was too close to home for him. Of course, Hamon took it upon himself to answer.

“Not as dangerous as it will be if this truce does not hold.”

Holt, for all his talk of offering more kindness to his wife, eyed his wife with a suspicion likely only Haydn could discern. “Do you believe it will hold?”

All three men waited for his wife’s response.

“I. . .” she blinked. “I am not privy to discussions that would give me cause to believe aye or nay.”

If his mother, or Haddie, or most of the women in his family were to say such a thing, Haydn would roar with laughter. But from his wife? The statement might be true. Or not. Either way, she’d offer them little insight into the mind of the king.

“Your father is King Edward’s closest advisor, is he not?” Holt asked the question with a tone so light if it had wings, the words would fly through the air.

“One of them,” she said, swallowing hard. Clearly uncomfortable. “But he tells me little.” Phillipa caught Haydn’s eye. She wanted him to rescue her, and dammit if Haydn didn’t do just that.

“A fact I can attest to,” he said, gaining a raised eyebrow from his brother, “having met the man.”

The look of gratitude she gave him made Haydn wish he could take back the words.

“This is no way to spend your wedding night,” a loud voice burst into their discussion from behind him. One that hardly matched the frail man who came into view.

Haydn tried to stand but Big Barney, as he was known, laid a hand on his shoulder.

“No need, m’boy.” Barney looked at Haydn’s wife. She was very much out of place here. He was aware of the fact, and indeed Phillipa should be staying in a manor house, at least. Tomorrow, if they reached it, they would be guests of another friend of his father. But in the meantime, in his haste to reach Bristol Manor, they would do what was necessary.

“This is Big Barney, owner of the Cony Inn and an old friend of my father’s,” he told the group. “I am pleased to introduce you to two of my men, Sir Isaac and Sir Hamon, and my wife, Lady Phillipa. You know Holt, of course.” His brother had spoken to Big Barney when they’d first arrived.

Fairly leaning on the back of Haydn’s old wooden chair, Barney nodded to each of them but held his wife’s gaze. “Apologies for not greeting you sooner. My favorite goat got loose. Had a bit of a time catching her.”

The thought of Big Barney, certainly not as able as he’d once been, chasing a goat made Haydn smile. Holt must have been thinking the same.

“You chased her down yourself?” his brother asked.

“O’ course not, boy. Do I look like I can chase anything these days?” No one answered. “But there was a time I could catch anything. Or anyone. Reiver,” he said to Phillipa. “And not ashamed of it. Did what needed to be done.”

Phillipa smiled. “As do we all, Master Barney.”