place even earlier.
Already several hunters who had been Weldon’s closest friends had stalked out in an outraged huff over the new rules that Thurstan,Desmond’s nephew, had presented. Among the men who had remained, many had become embroiled in angry squabbles with Desmond’s cohorts, who had shown up in large number. All had been presided over by Thurstan, a haughty, cold young man who looked upon Abrielle with a distaste she found curious.
“A more insufferable group I’ve never met in my entire life,” Cordelia remarked derisively. “I’m fairly certain they’re representative of the dregs to be found mucking the bottom of a cask of wine. ’Tis always best to throw the residue out.”
If only that were possible, Abrielle thought wistfully, and not for the first time. Unfortunately she had not that choice, nor any other to rid herself of Desmond and his odious associates. Her future, such as it was, as well as her family honor, rested on a successful union between them. The marriage agreement might as well be a dungeon cell without a door for all the hope she had of freeing herself.
As much as Abrielle and Cordelia had sought to remove themselves from the numerous arguments that were even now being provoked within the courtyard, they glanced knowingly at each other as several more of Weldon’s friends left the structure and stalked down the length of the drawbridge, where they promptly motioned for their horses to be brought forth. In a few moments, they had taken their departure. It was just another example of the ire that Desmond, his companions, and his nephew had managed to cause since the first hunter had arrived. They had changed so many rules, from who decided the winners—once an impartial group of elders, and now merely Thurstan—to the obscene size of the purse needed to enter.
“Abrielle, you know there could be another reason that so many noblemen are leaving,” Cordelia said slyly.
Abrielle winced at her friend’s less-than-subtle reference to the food served at the keep under Desmond, and regretfully conceded in a small voice. “It is rather…plain and unappealing.”
“Promise me you’ll do something about this when you’re the mistress here. The older cook seems especially cantankerous, and by the looks of her, I’d be willing to wager she wields a war ax as well as any brigand and eats a goodly amount of her own cooking.”
Abrielle spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “Frankly, I have no idea why Desmond tolerates the cooking. For a man trying to move up in the world, he’s not trying very hard to impress anyone in that area.”
Indulging herself in the autumn-scented breezes wafting across the drawbridge, Abrielle sighed and paused a moment to look around. After being confined within the smoke-filled courtyard much longer than she had thought she could tolerate, the fresh air seemed especially invigorating.
She could fully understand why Weldon had chosen to build his keep in this area, for the scenery was no less than breathtaking. Some furlongs upstream, a tributary branching off from the river wound its way through thick forests before flowing beneath the drawbridge upon which they now stood. The stream not only supplied the moat surrounding the keep, but also continued on a winding path beneath the smaller bridge that led to the serfs’ dwellings, easily providing the families there with an abundance of fresh water.
The keep had been well conceived by Weldon de Marlé, under whose supervision it had been meticulously constructed with the intent that it would serve him, his family, and their descendants as an impenetrable fortress well into the future. From its numerous battlements and parapets, a defensive response could be launched from a vantage point of some safety to counter any attack that came against it. Drawbridges fore and aft could be raised to provide a refuge for its
Already several hunters who had been Weldon’s closest friends had stalked out in an outraged huff over the new rules that Thurstan,Desmond’s nephew, had presented. Among the men who had remained, many had become embroiled in angry squabbles with Desmond’s cohorts, who had shown up in large number. All had been presided over by Thurstan, a haughty, cold young man who looked upon Abrielle with a distaste she found curious.
“A more insufferable group I’ve never met in my entire life,” Cordelia remarked derisively. “I’m fairly certain they’re representative of the dregs to be found mucking the bottom of a cask of wine. ’Tis always best to throw the residue out.”
If only that were possible, Abrielle thought wistfully, and not for the first time. Unfortunately she had not that choice, nor any other to rid herself of Desmond and his odious associates. Her future, such as it was, as well as her family honor, rested on a successful union between them. The marriage agreement might as well be a dungeon cell without a door for all the hope she had of freeing herself.
As much as Abrielle and Cordelia had sought to remove themselves from the numerous arguments that were even now being provoked within the courtyard, they glanced knowingly at each other as several more of Weldon’s friends left the structure and stalked down the length of the drawbridge, where they promptly motioned for their horses to be brought forth. In a few moments, they had taken their departure. It was just another example of the ire that Desmond, his companions, and his nephew had managed to cause since the first hunter had arrived. They had changed so many rules, from who decided the winners—once an impartial group of elders, and now merely Thurstan—to the obscene size of the purse needed to enter.
“Abrielle, you know there could be another reason that so many noblemen are leaving,” Cordelia said slyly.
Abrielle winced at her friend’s less-than-subtle reference to the food served at the keep under Desmond, and regretfully conceded in a small voice. “It is rather…plain and unappealing.”
“Promise me you’ll do something about this when you’re the mistress here. The older cook seems especially cantankerous, and by the looks of her, I’d be willing to wager she wields a war ax as well as any brigand and eats a goodly amount of her own cooking.”
Abrielle spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “Frankly, I have no idea why Desmond tolerates the cooking. For a man trying to move up in the world, he’s not trying very hard to impress anyone in that area.”
Indulging herself in the autumn-scented breezes wafting across the drawbridge, Abrielle sighed and paused a moment to look around. After being confined within the smoke-filled courtyard much longer than she had thought she could tolerate, the fresh air seemed especially invigorating.
She could fully understand why Weldon had chosen to build his keep in this area, for the scenery was no less than breathtaking. Some furlongs upstream, a tributary branching off from the river wound its way through thick forests before flowing beneath the drawbridge upon which they now stood. The stream not only supplied the moat surrounding the keep, but also continued on a winding path beneath the smaller bridge that led to the serfs’ dwellings, easily providing the families there with an abundance of fresh water.
The keep had been well conceived by Weldon de Marlé, under whose supervision it had been meticulously constructed with the intent that it would serve him, his family, and their descendants as an impenetrable fortress well into the future. From its numerous battlements and parapets, a defensive response could be launched from a vantage point of some safety to counter any attack that came against it. Drawbridges fore and aft could be raised to provide a refuge for its
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