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“Sir Rory Waryn, son of Sir Bryce Waryn, Lord of Bristol Manor,” he said to the guard stationed on the left, closest to him. “My companions and I seek bed and board from Lord Whithorn.”

“It would be our honor,” the guard said, his hand lifting to indicate the portcullis do so as well. Almost immediately, the iron began to creak. Rory’s name indeed gained them easy entry. Freya had lifted her hood earlier and peeked around it as they rode through the bailey. Riding past workshops toward the stables, she noted that every woman they passed, from young ones to those much older, stopped to look up at Rory. One even approached him, asking his name. Rory slowed, gave it, and reached down as the woman handed him something from her basket.

She turned in her saddle to Isaac, who shrugged.

“Everywhere it happens,” he said.

“Everywhere?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“As you can see, my lady, his encouragement of the attention only feeds it. So aye, everywhere.”

Indeed, Rory seemed to revel in his newfound status as the visiting knight whom all the women of Whithorn suddenly swooned over. She could not see his face from her vantage point but could imagine it easily.

’Twas no wonder the man thought so highly of himself.

By the time they reached the stables, giving over their mounts and being escorted beyond the bridge and up the stone stairs to the keep, Freya was ready to meet the notorious Lord Whithorn. Which it seemed she would do without delay. The evening meal was already underway as they entered. The steward, who introduced himself to Rory, escorted their small party directly into the hall after giving their mantles to a servant.

It was a small room, though well furnished, and she first noticed the large tapestry depicting the Duke of Normandy’s great victory, behind the raised dais. There, sat a man with long grey hair streaked with strands of black. Next to him, a young woman, likely not much older than she.

“So it is true,” the lord bellowed. “You’ve the look of a Waryn, young Rory. Come, introduce your guests. Enjoy the hospitality of Whithorn Manor and tell me why you travel with the daughter of a traitor.”

Did he just say . . . ?

“You may drop your hood, Lady Freya. Show my men the rumors are indeed true.”

She glanced at Rory, who nodded. How did he know it was she? What did he mean by the insult he’d given her father, a man Freya thought was an ally to Whithorn?

“Ahh, it has been many years, my lady. And you are lovelier than suggested. Come closer so that I may see you more clearly.”

The look on Rory’s face rid Freya of any trepidation she had about approaching the old lord. ’Twould be up to her to smooth over this meeting. She’d seen that look on her companion once before, and it was not one that would bode well for their ability to remain here as guests. It would serve none of them for Rory to kill Lord Whithorn in his own hall.

Chapter Eleven

Rory would kill him.

That he’d immediately be captured would matter little. If he thought of his own life too carefully, he would never enter into battle or accept many of the missions that had seen him in circumstances Rory later was glad to escape unscathed.

He also did not like being taken unawares as had just been done, Lord Whithorn having somehow learned Freya’s identity.

Rory would not typically be startled into inaction, but Freya’s hand on his arm did just that. He’d been unsuccessful in his attempt to ignore his burgeoning discomfort with the lady all day. Imminent death and his argument with her about leaving Edyington overshadowed one most obvious fact.

He was more attracted to her than he should be.

Few women were off-limits to him, but unfortunately she fell into one of the only categories that would prevent a dalliance between them. Namely, a virgin noblewoman.

“As I would never disparage you in your own hall,” Freya was already saying to Whithorn as her hand slipped from his arm and she walked toward the lord, “I instead simply ask why you do so to my father’s good name?”

“And I would ask,” Whithorn answered, the forty or so inhabitants of the hall now silent, making the conversation easy enough to hear, “why you hide yourself from us, Lady Freya.”

Offering the bastard a slight bow, she said, “One cannot be too careful in these trying times in which we live, my lord. Do you not agree?”

Whithorn grunted as Rory moved to Freya’s side.

“I do indeed.” Whithorn raised the silver goblet in front of him. “As to your question, I name your father only what our king does. Of course I do not share the opinion.” At that, a goblet of wine was shoved first in Lady Freya’s hand and then Rory’s own. “God rest his soul and a toast to the honorable Sir Alymer, second Lord Hathawaye of Edyington. May he rest in peace, and may his enemies burn in the fires of hell for all eternity.”

A cheer was raised as they toasted. After the toast, they were bade to sit by the steward who, along with Isaac, had joined Freya and Rory at the back of the hall.

“Eat,” Whithorn said, “and rest. We will speak of your circumstance tomorrow.”