“Ah, administrator now,” Hargrave challenged. “You wear many caps, Lucan.”
“I’ve only come for the truth, Lord Hargrave.”
The way the knight said the words tickled at Padraig’s curiosity, but now was not the time to indulge in imaginative theories.
“He should stay in the village,” Hargrave insisted. “He is a stranger to this house, and possibly a danger to those in my care.”
“I claim full responsibility to the Crown for his actions,” Lucan answered back at once. “And, yes, I—and the troops that accompany me—shall enforce the terms. Fully,” he emphasized.
Hargrave held Padraig’s gaze for what seemed an eternity—his perfectly coiffed hair seeming to make Padraig’s scalp itch, his immaculate costume causing Padraig’s own rough garb to chafe and emit the odor of so many days’ travel. But Padraig never let his chin drop, never let his glance stray in any sign of submission.
“I see that I have little choice but to defend that which is rightfully mine against foreign usurpers. Again,” Hargrave insisted bitterly. His tone had modulated, the high color in his cheeks fading, but the man’s eyes had narrowed the tiniest bit, as if desperate to view a thing that was just out of focus. “But as I am confident that the king will not only reward me finally with what I deserve but redress others accordingly, I will, of course, cooperate.” He broke gaze with Padraig to flick a nasty and meaningful glance at Montague. “The redress will be far-reaching, I do hope.”
“I have no fear of the truth,” Lucan said calmly, and there was so much meaning behind the simple declaration, before he added the deferential “my lord,” almost as an afterthought.
Hargrave’s noble countenance turned stony, but he did not bother to look at Montague again. Instead, he barked, “Beryl!” The hall was silent. “Beryl, where are you, girl?” He looked over his shoulder with an irritated jerk.
“I am here, my lord,” a lilting voice answered reluctantly.
“Well, come here,” Hargrave insisted, his words so obviously strained that the command was gritty and forced.
The crowd parted, and the beautiful servant girl who had fallen at his feet moved near Hargrave’s side, her pretty face downcast, seeming to try to keep herself turned away from Padraig so that he could barely see her porcelain skin beyond the edge of her veil.
Already his enemy, was she?
“My lord?” she queried softly, and Padraig could hear the accented lilt behind her words. Perhaps she wasn’t native to Darlyrede House either.
“Make your report to Lady Hargrave as she requested,” Hargrave ordered. “And then advise her that I would seek her council before she retires for the evening.”
Beryl fidgeted. “But, my lord, she is already—”
“Go,” Hargrave insisted.
The maid curtsied stiffly and began to slip into the crowd, but then Montague’s arm shot out, grabbing her arm and jerking her back around to face him. Padraig thought there was fear in her gray eyes as she stared up at the knight.
“What the devil, Montague?” Hargrave demanded.
Lucan Montague’s glare seemed to slowly sink beneath his high cheekbones and he abruptly released her with a shallow bow. “Forgive me. I only wished to have the girl convey my regards to Lady Hargrave.”
“Very well.” Hargrave sighed and waved his hand. “See that you do so, Beryl.”
Beryl disappeared into the crowd so quickly that Padraig could not tell the direction of her flight. She seemed to simply vanish before his eyes.
“The hour is late,” Lucan announced, and although his words were once more crisp and matter-of-fact, Padraig could sense a note of disquiet beneath the cool façade. “The king’s men have ridden far, and I would not detain you further from your evening, my lord. Tomorrow is soon enough for us to lay out the details of the thing.”
“Upon that point, I find I do agree with you,” Hargrave said. “I assume you will take up your usual quarters?”
“The barracks will be adequate, my lord,” Montague responded.
The older man looked upon Padraig as if he were a bit of dung dragged onto the marble floor of the grand entry. “My steward shall show you to a chamber—Boyd, is it?”
Padraig answered with a curt nod as a dark-haired man with a neatly trimmed, pointed beard stepped forward.
“In that case,” Hargrave looked between Montague and Padraig, “you are all dismissed.” He turned on his heel and strode toward a staircase springing from the marble paving in the left rear corner of the soaring entry, and the servants scattered like beetles before a torch at night. In a moment the entry was empty save for Padraig, Lucan, and the steward.
“Rolf,” the knight said. “Please forgive the inconvenience this might cause you in your duties.”
“Have no care for it, Sir Lucan,” the man said. His face was fish-belly pale within the tight frame of his rich, dark red hair, his eyes like glistening jet. “I am at your service, always.” The man then turned to Padraig. “If you will follow me, lord.”
Lord.
Padraig looked to Lucan, suddenly unsure but loath to show it. The great house was cathedral-silent now—the scores of servants vanished and leaving an echoing stillness that somehow seemed ominous to Padraig as he noticed the portraits soaring up a wood-paneled wall, their subjects staring at him accusingly, judging him.
Montague seemed to read Padraig’s thoughts. “It is well,” he advised quietly. “I would not let you go alone otherwise. However, I would advise that you not take it upon yourself to go exploring in the night.”
“I shall provide Master Boyd with anything he requires before I retire,” Rolf volunteered.
“Very good.” Lucan looked back to Padraig. “Keep the bolt thrown until morning.”
Padraig gave him a nod, but then held up his open hand before Lucan’s doublet to stop him when he would have gone. “The maid you spoke to. Beryl.”
“What of her?”
“Do you know her?”
“She was certainly not employed by the Lady Hargrave when last I visited,” he replied.
Rolf cleared his throat quietly, drawing Padraig’s attention. “If I may; Beryl has only been at
