The rumbling sound of many hooves began to push itself into the crowded entry, and although Padraig had no desire to turn his back on Vaughn Hargrave, the man’s frown of displeasure caused Padraig to hope for a miracle as he dared a glance over his shoulder.
Shadows separated themselves from the gloom of night across the bridge spanning the deep, protective ditch. Tall shadows, bouncing and rolling forward, peak upon peak. Riders, Padraig realized. The horses arrived with thunder upon the bridge, and a lone rider pulled ahead, his sharp features becoming clear in the torchlight to either side of Darlyrede’s entrance.
A miracle, aye.
“I told you to wait for me,” Lucan Montague chastised as he neared.
“An’ I told you I wouldna,” Padraig replied.
The knight swung from the magnificent black Agrios before it came to a complete halt and flung the reins across the saddle, his irritation clear. He strode forward, removing his black gauntlets with sharp efficiency, tucking them into his belt and then reaching into his quilted doublet in a series of seamless motions. His face was hard, and Padraig knew the man was used to those around him following his commands.
“Montague?” Hargrave said as Padraig turned back to the entry. The pretty maid was suddenly nowhere to be seen. “I thought I’d given you all that you required when last you tried my hospitality with your cryptic messages. Did you send this…this beggar to my door as some sort of grotesque joke? If I didn’t know better, I should take these soldiers as a sign of aggression.”
Lucan came to a stop just forward of Padraig. “Lord Hargrave. You received the message from London, I presume?”
“I did,” Hargrave blustered. “But it made no allusion to this chaos. The king’s men, I say?! I don’t see—”
Lucan Montague held forth one of two folded and sealed squares of parchment toward the lord. “From Henry himself.” After Hargrave had taken the packet with a frown, the knight held forth the remaining message toward Padraig. “Your own copy,” he said, meeting Padraig’s gaze. He lowered his voice. “Did you think to take on the whole of Darlyrede’s men-at-arms on your own?”
“If I’d had to, aye,” Padraig answered in an equally soft voice as he used his knife to break the wax seal of the parchment. He was carefully unfolding the missive when Hargrave’s outburst caused the servants in the entry to jump en masse.
“This is outrageous!” he shouted. “Is this your doing, Lucan?”
“Forgive me, my lord, but this is not the first instance of forewarning. You know I am only the king’s messenger,” Lucan Montague replied.
Hargrave sneered. “And enforcer, apparently.”
Padraig held the paper toward the nearest torch and scanned the words scrawled there. The bottom seemed to fall out of Padraig’s stomach, and it took all his pride to keep him from staggering on his feet.
A miracle indeed.
He looked up and found Lucan Montague watching him intently. “I told you to wait.”
Hargrave’s furious shouts filled the entry again. “Surely Henry cannot expect I would house a veritable stranger while he thinks of a way to scheme from me all I have rightfully earned. Why, this man looks like any vagrant found on the streets of any burg. He is no one!”
“I am Thomas Annesley’s son,” Padraig offered calmly, drawing the nobleman’s glare. “When Darlyrede’s ownership is in question the only heir of the man born to it must be considered. The king agrees.”
Hargrave turned his attention from Padraig without comment. “I thought you were employed by the Crown, Lucan? I may still call you Lucan now, mayn’t I? Or is such a knight too lofty to address in a personal manner?”
“I have been charged with investigating the truth of Darlyrede’s rightful claimant,” Montague replied evenly. “While I am in the king’s employ, it would be best that our relationship remain formal, Lord Hargrave.”
Padraig found himself looking between the two men, the older of whom made no further pretense of looking benevolently upon the dark-haired knight. Lucan Montague himself remained unmoved by any passion.
There was history here. History that Padraig could not fathom.
“The king is coming?” Padraig shook the message in the space between them for emphasis. “And I ken that I am to be given residence at Darlyrede House until he arrives?”
“There will be a hearing,” Lucan conceded with a nod. “But whether here or London, I do not yet know.”
“I’ll not give this…this pretender so much as a stall in the stable,” Hargrave declared.
“Very well,” Montague responded. “If you do not agree to the king’s terms, you immediately forfeit right of a hearing. It says so just here—” He leaned over Hargrave’s copy of the message, his finger trailing over the page. “Very clea—”
Hargrave jerked the parchment from Montague’s touch. “I can read, Lucan.”
Padraig knew a moment of satisfaction at the man’s phrasing, spoken by Padraig himself only moments before.
“Both claimants must occupy Darlyrede House until Henry’s determination, and be wholly present at the trial—in both body and mind. Any deviation from the terms shall result in a forfeit.” Montague looked directly at Vaughn Hargrave. “I do doubt that the king would consider a stall in the stables adequate.”
“He has no right,” Hargrave said through clenched teeth.
“I’ve more right than you,” Padraig spoke up, meeting the man’s gaze. “My claim is by blood—yours is by treachery.”
Hargrave leaned forward, as if to make a move toward Padraig; Padraig answered the motion.
Montague stepped between them. “Until the king’s decision, Darlyrede belongs to neither of you,” he interjected. “Lord Hargrave shall continue to see to the business interests of the hold, in light of his experience and station.”
“False station,” Padraig muttered.
“The hold will be divided between your households to prevent unnecessary conflict,” Lucan continued pointedly.
Hargrave interrupted. “But he has no household.”
“However, the resources shall be shared proportionately.” He looked to Hargrave. “I have been given leave to assign servants and appropriate quarters to Master Boyd fairly,
