had a jolly game of hazard going at the castle, did they not, Papa?" Little Freddie interrupted.
Papa rumpled his son's silver-blond hair. "Roddy, you never cease to amaze me."
"It's Freddie." Ducking away, Freddie returned to the hearth, busying himself once again with the kettle.
"So," Papa continued briskly, "seeking to rid myself of some of this cumbersome load—for the dear gelding's sake, of course—I entered into a game of hazard with an old acquaintance of mine, the son of an earl whose fief I held long ago. The lad once bore me a great fondness and is now grown into a great and noble knight."
Something about the way Papa spoke the last two words sent a chill down Little Freddie's spine. He straightened, the turnips forgotten.
"First I wagered what I had. Then I wagered what I didn't have. Mayhaps I had imbibed a tad too much ale." He held his thumb and finger apart in illustration.
Little Freddie's arms spread as wide as they could go, adjusting the inaccurate measure. Irwin smothered a giggle behind his plump hand. Little Freddie pretended to stretch as his father's gaze fell upon him.
Papa shrugged. "So I lost my fortune. When my old friend discovered my penniless straits, I fear he lost his temper. With the unfortunate memory of a winner, he recalled my boasts of the eight strapping lads who tended my castle while I sought my fortune. So the gist of the matter is that one of you lucky lads is going to serve an earl for the period of one year." He beamed at them, his bright pig-eyes awaiting their congratulations.
Only silence greeted him.
"You wagered one of your children?" Little Freddie pushed through the forest of shoulders to face his father.
Lindsey Fordyce's smile faded. He rubbed his head, peeling back the hair to reveal the bald spot he usually struggled to hide.
"Not precisely. The choice was not mine to make." He surveyed them glumly, dropping all pretense of happiness. "He said he would journey to Revelwood to choose one of my lads for service, or he would journey to Revelwood bearing my head on a pikestaff."
"Oh, Uncle," breathed Irwin, paling to an unpleasant shade of green.
" Tis your good fortune he was not your enemy. Does this virtuous knight have a name?" Little Freddie's eyes narrowed to slits.
Fordyce mopped his brow with his sleeve, the heat from the small fire suddenly oppressive. He froze as the thunder of hooves echoed in the courtyard. Silence followed. Then the door flew open with a mighty crash that nearly shook it from its hinges.
Rowena came bursting in like a ray of sunshine cutting through the stale layer of smoke that hung over the hall. The wild, sweet scent of the moor clung to her hair, her skin, the handwoven tunic she wore. Her cheeks were touched with the flushed rose of exertion; her eyes were alight with exuberance.
She ran straight to her father, her words tumbling out faster than the apples dumped from the sack she clutched upside down.
"Oh, Papa, I am ever so happy you've come home! Where did you have the stallion hidden? He is the most beautiful animal I ever saw. Did you truly find your elusive fortune this journey?"
Falling to her knees beside his chair, she pulled a crumpled bunch of heather from her pocket and dumped it in his lap without giving him time to reply.
"I brought your favorite flowers and Little Freddie has promised to cook apples on the coals. They will be hot and sweet and juicy, just as you like them. 'Twill be a hundred times better than any nasty old roasted hare. Oh, Papa, you're home! We thought you were never coming back."
She threw her arms around his waist. The uninhibited gesture knocked the cap from her head to unleash a cascade of wheaten curls.
Fordyce's arms did not move to encircle her. He sat stiffly in her embrace. She lifted her face, aware of a silence broken only by the thump of a log shifting on the fire. Her father did not meet her eyes, and for one disturbing moment, she thought she saw his lower lip
Papa rumpled his son's silver-blond hair. "Roddy, you never cease to amaze me."
"It's Freddie." Ducking away, Freddie returned to the hearth, busying himself once again with the kettle.
"So," Papa continued briskly, "seeking to rid myself of some of this cumbersome load—for the dear gelding's sake, of course—I entered into a game of hazard with an old acquaintance of mine, the son of an earl whose fief I held long ago. The lad once bore me a great fondness and is now grown into a great and noble knight."
Something about the way Papa spoke the last two words sent a chill down Little Freddie's spine. He straightened, the turnips forgotten.
"First I wagered what I had. Then I wagered what I didn't have. Mayhaps I had imbibed a tad too much ale." He held his thumb and finger apart in illustration.
Little Freddie's arms spread as wide as they could go, adjusting the inaccurate measure. Irwin smothered a giggle behind his plump hand. Little Freddie pretended to stretch as his father's gaze fell upon him.
Papa shrugged. "So I lost my fortune. When my old friend discovered my penniless straits, I fear he lost his temper. With the unfortunate memory of a winner, he recalled my boasts of the eight strapping lads who tended my castle while I sought my fortune. So the gist of the matter is that one of you lucky lads is going to serve an earl for the period of one year." He beamed at them, his bright pig-eyes awaiting their congratulations.
Only silence greeted him.
"You wagered one of your children?" Little Freddie pushed through the forest of shoulders to face his father.
Lindsey Fordyce's smile faded. He rubbed his head, peeling back the hair to reveal the bald spot he usually struggled to hide.
"Not precisely. The choice was not mine to make." He surveyed them glumly, dropping all pretense of happiness. "He said he would journey to Revelwood to choose one of my lads for service, or he would journey to Revelwood bearing my head on a pikestaff."
"Oh, Uncle," breathed Irwin, paling to an unpleasant shade of green.
" Tis your good fortune he was not your enemy. Does this virtuous knight have a name?" Little Freddie's eyes narrowed to slits.
Fordyce mopped his brow with his sleeve, the heat from the small fire suddenly oppressive. He froze as the thunder of hooves echoed in the courtyard. Silence followed. Then the door flew open with a mighty crash that nearly shook it from its hinges.
Rowena came bursting in like a ray of sunshine cutting through the stale layer of smoke that hung over the hall. The wild, sweet scent of the moor clung to her hair, her skin, the handwoven tunic she wore. Her cheeks were touched with the flushed rose of exertion; her eyes were alight with exuberance.
She ran straight to her father, her words tumbling out faster than the apples dumped from the sack she clutched upside down.
"Oh, Papa, I am ever so happy you've come home! Where did you have the stallion hidden? He is the most beautiful animal I ever saw. Did you truly find your elusive fortune this journey?"
Falling to her knees beside his chair, she pulled a crumpled bunch of heather from her pocket and dumped it in his lap without giving him time to reply.
"I brought your favorite flowers and Little Freddie has promised to cook apples on the coals. They will be hot and sweet and juicy, just as you like them. 'Twill be a hundred times better than any nasty old roasted hare. Oh, Papa, you're home! We thought you were never coming back."
She threw her arms around his waist. The uninhibited gesture knocked the cap from her head to unleash a cascade of wheaten curls.
Fordyce's arms did not move to encircle her. He sat stiffly in her embrace. She lifted her face, aware of a silence broken only by the thump of a log shifting on the fire. Her father did not meet her eyes, and for one disturbing moment, she thought she saw his lower lip
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