“Still burning villages in retaliation.” Geoffrey rubbed one hand across his jaw wearily. “Canterbury fears he may march north again before Christmas if weather allows movement.”
I watched Geoffrey from across the table while pretending not to. He ate like a man who had gone too many days surviving on necessity instead of actual meals. Efficiently. Without attention. Occasionally pausing as though remembering halfway through supper that civilized behavior still existed.
And every few moments his eyes drifted toward the windows.
“You cannot cross the southern road tonight,” his father said flatly.
Geoffrey looked up immediately. “I can by morning.”
“Not if the river freezes.”
“It will not freeze fully overnight.”
A loud gust slammed suddenly against the shutters hard enough to make several candles flicker. As though summoned directly by dramatic timing, Martin entered the hall with snow still clinging to his shoulders.
“The lower crossing’s nearly gone,” he announced grimly. “Another hour of this and nobody rides south before dawn.”
The Baron looked unbearably satisfied.
Geoffrey muttered something in Norman French that I was becoming increasingly certain translated loosely to,this entire kingdom is determined to inconvenience me personally.
I bit the inside of my cheek hard to stop smiling.
The Baron pointed one finger toward his son. “You’re staying.”
Geoffrey opened his mouth to argue as another blast of wind howled through the castle like the opening movement of the apocalypse.
Then somewhere outside came the unmistakable crack of a tree splitting beneath the ice.
Geoffrey closed his eyes briefly.
“Fine,” he said at last.
Relief moved through me so suddenly and so intensely it nearly stole my breath.
* * *
The storm worsened steadily through supper. By the time servants cleared the final trenchers from the tables, snow buried the courtyard in uneven white drifts while wind howled through the outer walls hard enough to rattle the iron sconces.
Most of the household had already begun retreating toward warmer corners of the castle when the doors to the great hall opened once more.
Cold air swept inward alongside Aldwin de Warenne.
He entered without ceremony, snow clinging to the shoulders of his dark cloak and melting slowly into the stone beneath his boots. Two men-at-arms followed behind him carrying travel lanterns and expressions suggesting the roads north had attempted murder several times that afternoon.
Aldwin removed his gloves as he crossed the hall, revealing fingers nearly as raw from cold as Geoffrey’s.
“Well,” he announced dryly, “England appears determined to freeze us to death.”
The Baron looked up from his wine with immediate irritation. “You rode in this?”
“The alternative was remaining in Canterbury listening to men discuss loyalty while quietly planning betrayal.”
“A fair point.”
Only then did Aldwin’s gaze settle fully on Geoffrey. I saw the precise instant older-brother concern cut beneath military assessment.
Geoffrey looked exhausted beside the hearth. The firelight only made it more obvious now. Snowstorm aside, he had the appearance of a man running on discipline and stubbornness alone.