Page 52 of Her Baseborn Bridegroom

“It’s true, she had the fabrics carried up to the solar this morning,” said Cuthbert.

“Blue,” repeated Mason firmly. “I like her in blue.”

Without further ado, he turned from the panic-stricken tailor and headed to the place of arms where all the weapons were kept, and the castle guard, such as it was, assembled on a daily basis. His expectations weren’t high, and he approached the task without much enthusiasm even though it was his area of expertise. Maybe even because of it.

As expected, the castle guard was shambolic, but it seemed Cadwallader Castle had never suffered an attack in its entire existence. Any decent soldiers had been sent to swell Wymer’s troops for the war in the North. Jevons, acting as feudal lord, had sent fifty men to serve the King from the Cadwallader estate. That left a mere eight men behind to guard the castle, three of whom had to come back out of retirement. The returning men, he estimated, would return in waves over the next couple of months. They would be released from service as the peace held and things calmed down in the North. To his surprise, the leader of the guard, a rather stout individual of about sixty years old or thereabouts named Sir Lang hesitatingly asked after Linnet’s health. Mason regarded him narrowly.

“You have met my wife?” he asked sharply, detecting none of the usual hostility.

“Not exactly met,” he conceded grudgingly. “But before our men departed they were marched around to the tower so she could see them off from her window.”

“And?”

Sir Lang rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well . . . we were surprised,” he admitted. “She’s such a little thing. And young looking for her years. And when she waved them off, sir . . . ”

“Yes?”

“She cried. And not only that sir, she’s sent packages north for our men. Blankets, leather jerkins, woolen stockings, and boots. Her page brings them down to the armory and we send them off. Course, not many of them can read, but she writes that their positions are assured here at the castle when they come back.”

A faint memory stirred in Mason’s mind. She had spoken of this, but he had dismissed it as sentimental nonsense.

“The Jevonses certainly never showed any interest in the men’s welfare,” said Sir Lang resentfully.

“I doubt they ever showed any interest in anyone’s save their own,” Mason retorted. “When I’m back at court I will ask the King when we can expect their return to Cadwallader.”

Sir Lang’s eyes brightened. “That would be good of you, sir.”

Mason nodded. He gazed past Sir Lang’s shoulder at the nervous-looking men standing in their armor for inspection. They were a sorry lot. Usually he would shout and bawl and reel off a list of demands for improvement to bring the place up to scratch. But, after all, the regular guard would return soon. There seemed little point in giving them hell. And this small community in the castle was the only one that seemed to bear Linnet no ill will.

“Carry on men,” he found himself saying instead. He turned back thoughtfully to Sir Lang. “My wife would like it if you would join us in the great hall to take dinner at least once a week. As you are aware, the welfare of the men is high in her concerns. Do you have recent news of their number?”

Sir Lang looked more alarmed then gratified by the honor, but he pulled himself together. “We have lost two men, sir. And several more are injured to varying degrees.” He hesitated. “One has lost a limb. What do I—” He broke off awkwardly. “Lady Linnet may ask after them.”

“She is sure to ask,” Mason corrected him. “And you must tell her the truth, of course. Then she can prepare for their return.”

Sir Lang nodded though he looked ill at ease.

Mason guessed he was a lifelong soldier and not much used to the company of women. “You married, Lang?” he asked.

Sir Lang threw him a startled gaze. “Er . . . no, sir. Once I thought . . . But it was not to be.”

“You have quarters here in the castle?”

“Yes, sir. In the east wing.”

“We’re having a feast in three weeks’ time at the castle. All the men will be attending of course.”

Sir Lang looked pretty horrified at this news, but there was a stir of interest from the guards behind him. One, with more backbone than the others, cleared his throat.

“To celebrate your nuptials, sir?” the guard asked.

“That’s enough of that, Rolfe,” exploded Sir Lang.

Mason held up a hand to forestall his wrath.

“Rolfe is quite right. It’s a belated wedding feast,” he said mildly. “All the tenants and workers on the estate will be invited. Castle staff too.”

There was some nudging and staring at that.