The Wolf of Harrow Hall (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms Book 7) by Christine Pope Page A

wild theory had been true, and that no one inhabited this enormous building save the man who owned it and his lone servitor.
    Well, even if that happened to be the case, it still meant that Master Merryk must be about somewhere. Jaw clenched in determination, I descended the stairs once again, this time going directly to the ground floor. As I neared the bottom, I hesitated, for at last I did hear the murmur of men’s voices, more than I had ever thought I had heard gathered in a single place. Once again, my hands began to tremble, but I told myself to be brave, that I was still Lord Greymount’s guest, even if he had dismissed me so rudely. Besides, perhaps one of the men I now heard could direct me to my room.
    I emerged into a great hall with a lofty ceiling of alternating carved beams and flat panels of dark wood. At the far end of that hall was a fireplace so large that it seemed as if entire tree trunks burned within it. Clustered near that fireplace, sitting at a long table with benches on either side, was a group of about twenty men wearing the dark blue wool doublets, trimmed in grey, that I recognized as the livery of his lordship’s household. Here in the castle, they had apparently abandoned the steel greaves and helmets they donned when they rode through the forest on official business.
    As one, they turned and looked at me when I began to make my gingerly approach. A murmur swept over them, but I could not make out what they were saying. Everything in me was telling me to turn around and head back up the stairs. That was foolishness, though, or at the very least a nervousness I needed to ignore. Certainly I was safe enough here.
    One of the men stood and came toward me. As he grew closer, I could see that he was probably of an age with his lordship, and therefore in his early thirties. The resemblance ended there, however, for while this man was also dark-haired, his eyes were a pale, restless blue, and a jagged scar marred one of his cheeks. That scar seemed to move of its own accord as he grinned at me, pulling his expression into something resembling an exaggerated grimace.
    “Well, and who are you, my lady?” he asked.
    I hesitated, uncertain as to whether he knew very well who I was, and so mocked me with that “my lady,” or whether he truly had no idea who I was, and so gave me the honorific because of the rich garments I wore. But my grandmother had always said it was better to expect the best of people, rather than the opposite, and so I said, “My name is Bettany Sendris, sir. I am a guest here in Lord Greymount’s castle.”
    Something in my reply apparently amused him, because he threw his head back and laughed. Discomfited by his reaction, I glanced past him to see what his companions were doing. They all had remained seated, but I could tell that they watched our exchange with some interest.
    “Indeed?” the man said, once he had recovered himself. “That is an interesting tale, my lady, for you must know that no woman has graced the halls of this castle for almost two decades.”
    My first response was to say that he must be mistaken, but I held my tongue. Surely he knew better than I who or who not had been here during Harrow Hall’s past. Still, my mind reeled at what he had just told me. Truly, had not a single woman set foot here for almost as long as I had been alive? What on earth could be the reason for such a strange omission?
    “That may be,” I said, hoping the man-at-arms hadn’t noted the way I paused before answering. “As I have never been here before, I cannot say one way or another. All I know is that his lordship offered me shelter from the storm.”
    “It’s true,” offered another of the men, who had approached while I was speaking with the first man-at-arms. “Heard her banging on the gate and fetched Master Merryk. Near dead she was.”
    “She doesn’t look dead now,” said the first man-at-arms, giving me a leer. Or at least, it appeared to be that sort