Claire Delacroix Read Free

changed naught. Bayard still would not see Montvieux besieged and its defenders slaughtered.
    Perhaps one matter changed - his tactic. He would protect them from the fullness of the threat against them, but he would do so without them even realizing what he did. Let them think him wicked, if it assuaged their fears.
    They knew naught of true fear -- and the truth of it was that he preferred to not have them learn.
    “Why are you here?” Rowan demanded.
    “I came to see my grandmother, of course,” Bayard said smoothly, and managed a thin smile.
    Rowan snorted. “You seek out Margaux, of all people? Is it true, then, that like appeals to like?”
    “She was always good to me.”
    “You mean that she always favored you. Do you think to persuade her to take your cause? If so, know that none will agree with her, regardless of the respect her age calls as its due.”
    Bayard stiffened. “I know Margaux is aged and I would see her once again while yet I can. Is there aught amiss with that?”
    “Naught save that it is unanticipated. Sentiment is not what I would have expected of you.”
    Bayard was unwilling to argue this perception of him. “But then, you know so little of me, do you not?”
    Rowan frowned. “That was your choice, Bayard.”
    “Was it?”
    “You left .”
    “I believed then that I had no choice.”
    “And now?”
    Bayard almost smiled. “I know that I had no choice.”
    Rowan’s expression tightened and Bayard knew ’twas not the answer for which his uncle had hoped. But ’twas the truth and the truth was not always comforting. Bayard had no regrets and doubted that he ever would.
    Rowan’s gaze danced over him and Bayard knew what his uncle saw. He was a knight and a crusader, a champion and the companion of a king. He was larger and stronger and more hardened than he had been when last he saw his family, and he had no doubt that his experiences had left their mark upon him. He had waged war and won, he could afford the finest weaponry and steeds, and he had them.
    Rowan looked, but said naught for the longest time.
    The rain began to fall in earnest, slanting coldly against the trio outside the gates, splattering against the stone. The destrier did not move, but the palfreys ridden by Bayard’s two squires began to flick their ears restlessly.
    Then Rowan stepped abruptly away, gesturing to the sentry. “’Tis in good faith that I take you at your word and grant you admission - take care that you do not forget as much.”
    “And what is that to mean?”
    “Have the courtesy not to turn Margaux against me,” Rowan said harshly, then strode away.
    He did not wait for Bayard to pass beneath the gates, but disappeared into a side entry. ’Twas one that Bayard knew entered the great hall itself.
    The sentries stood back, wary, weapons at the ready, as the horses passed beneath the arch and through the tunnel of stone behind the gates. No ostler ran to take their reins, not so much as a stable hand came to tend them.
    And if Bayard had been angry before, now he was furious. ’Twas unspeakably rude that he had not been invited to the board, that he was offered no cup of greeting, that his uncle chose to blame him alone for his estrangement from his father.
    He had expected more from Rowan than this, far more. Rowan, after all, had always been the rebel, the one who confounded expectation. Bayard had expected at least a hearing from his uncle. Clearly it had been too much to hope that someone in his family would hear aught against his august father, or at least grant him a chance to discuss the matter. Instead they had closed ranks against him so surely that even Rowan - Rowan! - offered him little.
    And this when he had come to aid them. Though he might have been prepared to soften, to be swayed by sentiment, now his resolve hardened. Bayard brushed down his destrier himself, his strokes vigorous in his fury. The boys hung back, sensing his mood. They stayed silent as they tended their own