Page 7

Chapter

Five

Grahame

G rahame awoke at dawn. He’d had a fitful sleep, unable to lose himself in the luxurious comfort of his down-filled mattress.

All grown up, images of Adara haunted him.

The cut of her cheeks was different than when she’d been a girl—they’d become like the rounded tops of bells—while her too-wide mouth had filled into a sensuous pout.

Desire simmered in him like a lingering slap across a cheek.

He should not have had any thoughts of her other than how much he loathed what she’d become.

Even the hate in her steel-colored eyes was not enough to cool the shock of seeing her again.

When thoughts of Adara became too much, he knifed upward to ready himself for the day.

He’d offered to be exchanged for Yrsa, and the herald had returned from the Clayton’s with an agreement of terms. Though he had no inkling of Ridley’s supposed debt, he would make it right.

Grahame lit a candle. He pulled on a wheat-colored tunic that he knew made his brassy hair seem brighter, and paired it with a belt dyed with lavender he wore at special gatherings. Dark brown trousers went on beneath the tunic while leather boots finished his dress.

Grahame wasn’t one to shy away from fine things.

With excellent grazing land and the smooth manner in which his mother spun the wool, his family had done well in recent years.

The wealth didn’t matter much to Grahame other than giving him a sense of comfort.

If anything, his family’s wealth was something that set him apart from others in Hyrstow.

Indeed, Grahame’s loose way with women was the main reason men applauded him while women admonished him, but he managed with that well enough.

A pretty face and a grin went a long way.

However, his family’s income was another reason for them to joke on his behalf.

No matter. He prided himself on looking good, and on a day that felt like a funeral, he wanted to look his best.

Hurrying, he packed several pieces of clothing into a cloth bag he could sling along his back.

There was no way to know what Adara wanted with him or how long she would keep him.

Would it be for days? A week? Would she deliver some punishment she felt he deserved?

Or had Yrsa received that punishment already?

His middle churned as all the terrible tortures that could befall Yrsa flitted through his mind. And whatever Grahame was thinking, he imagined Ridley’s thoughts to be worse. With a sigh, he tightened the bag, rotating his head to release the sense of unease that had locked around his neck.

He was to see Adara. After eight years of heartbreak and wonder over her wellbeing, he was to enter her home. As what? Friend or foe? Whatever her motives were, Grahame hated that he did not know this version of her after knowing the other so well.

In the main living area, his mother, Fiona, stood by the hearth’s crackling fire. Herbs dangled above her head as she stirred an iron pot of something simmering over the flames.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she offered with a wan smile. “Here, sit. Have something to eat.”

Something inside Grahame crumbled at the slouch in his mother’s proud shoulders.

She’d lost her daughter the year prior and now had to send off her son.

Grahame crossed the spacious living area, rounding the chairs made of leather and wood that his father had bought at market years ago when they started earning reliable coin.

Grahame scooped the bowl of pottage from his mother’s hand, placing it on the table before enveloping her in a hug.

She welcomed it, pressing her nose into his chest, shaking with the tears she tried to hold back.

“I’ll be alright, Ma,” he said gruffly into her kerchief.

Like always, she smelled of lanolin and broth, woodsmoke and thyme.

Most boys wanted to leave home to find a bride, to make something of themselves on their own.

It was another thing that made Grahame odd.

He loved his parents and was loath to leave them.

Staying in the men’s hall held a certain sense of freedom sometimes, but his mother had never tried to clip his wings, and therefore, he always came back to her.

To have to leave and not know when—or if—he would return was a special kind of torture. One he turned inward to kindle the roiling hate he was cultivating for Adara.

“I have to believe it will be.” She sniffed, releasing him as she tipped her head back to look at him. “Otherwise, I will have nothing left.”

“Ma,” Grahame chided, shaking his head as he offered a grin to bolster her spirits. His heart already felt shredded, and it was merely morning. “I’ll be back to bother you before you know it. You’ll be begging Clayton to take me back.”

She stepped out of his embrace to smack him playfully on the arm. “Watch your words.”

Grahame chuckled as he pulled a stool from beneath the sturdy wood table.

“What is it you’re on about?” Wilfred’s voice came from his bedroom.

His father sauntered into the living area, a brittle smile pasted across his mouth. He ran his fingers through his white hair, unruly curls similar to Grahame’s flopping forward as soon as his hand came away. Grahame nudged him with his shoulder as he passed to sit at the table.

“I was just saying I can’t wait to come back and take over this poor excuse of a sheep farm you’re running,” Grahame volleyed before stuffing a spoonful of pottage into his mouth.

Breakfast passed in much the same manner; affectionate jabs amid slurps of warm food.

Everyone’s smiles were a little too wide, their eyes a little too watery.

When they finished, Grahame accepted the bread, cheese, ale, and apples his mother had packed for his journey.

He joked that she had sent enough to feed an army, though it didn’t land well.

Fiona’s mouth pinched downward, her hands clutching her apron.

He gave her another hug, but it was interrupted by a loud knock.

Wilfred opened the door to find Branton on the threshold, his dark features dressed in a frown.

“Good morn’,” he said.

His son, Neil, stood behind him, trying to see past Branton’s broad shoulder into his grandparents’ home. Behind, a group of men on horseback shifted in their saddles.

“I brought Neil to keep you both company,” Bran said, a gentle grin weaving its way up his mouth.

Grahame’s shoulders came down from around his ears. The distraction of a grandchild was a gift.

“Wonderful,” Fiona said, stepping forward as Wilfred moved back to allow the boy to enter.

Neil accepted his grandmother’s embrace dutifully. A small child no longer, Neil towered over his grandmother by a handspan.

“Indeed.” Grahame gave his nephew’s shoulder a hearty pat as he followed Wilfred outside.

Clouds the color of dirty wool hung close to the treetops that bordered the valley to the southwest. Past the yard’s gate, Ridley, clad in metal, sat atop his horse.

Chainmail, gauntlets, a helmet—only his mouth, pressed into a line, was visible.

It pained Grahame to see the tension on the reins.

He knew the only reason Ridley wasn’t trying to break down the doors of Clayton House was because both Branton and Grahame had spent the previous two nights convincing him to be smart and wait for news from the herald.

Branton stayed with Ridley overnight to ensure he did not race to the keep and put Yrsa or himself in jeopardy.

It also ensured Grahame could have one last sleep in his home.

“Hello,” Grahame said as he approached Ridley.

His friend nodded. The slits in his helmet revealed shadowed eyes, weary with fatigue.

“Did ya get any sleep?” Grahame asked, taking the reins of the horse Wilf held out to him.

Ridley gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to impart much on the road or at the Clayton’s, Grahame patted Ridley’s knee. “We’ll get her back. She’ll be alright.”

The sound that keened from Ridley was halfway between a groan and a sigh, as if thoughts of what Yrsa was enduring were too much to bear.

There was no way of knowing how she fared other than to trust the herald’s message of her safe keeping.

All Grahame could do was pray that the girl he once knew was still ’Dara, a girl who’d once asked him to save a dragonfly tangled in a spider’s web.

When he turned away, Wilf was waiting, arms outstretched. His father would not accompany the party. He had to tend the sheep. And Grahame was not convinced his father wouldn’t do something stupid on his behalf.

“See you in a while, old man,” Grahame said, embracing his father and clapping him about the shoulders.

“Good, son,” was the gruff reply.

His Pa made to step away as Branton came through the gate, but Grahame held on just a little longer, taking in his father’s sheepskin and woodsmoke scent.

Life was always balanced on the edge of a knife, however, Grahame felt the potential loss sharpen the longer he held onto the man who’d taught him the value of it.

When Ridley turned his horse in preparation to leave, Grahame let his father go.

Bran came up and slung an arm about his shoulder, pulling him into a crisp, hard hug.

Bran also would not accompany the party to Clayton’s.

Instead, he would remain in Hyrstow, guarding Emma, their children, and the rest of the village.

The two did not speak as they released one another.

It wasn’t needed. Though related through marriage, they were brothers in bond, Grahame having witnessed some of Branton’s darkest moments and pulling him back from the brink.

Grahame followed Ridley’s horse down the hill to meet up with the other men.

There were not many. His friends Sam, Awolf, Murhed, plus Geoff Wagner and Robert Lister.

He told himself he wouldn’t look back at his parents, that it was not goodbye.

He would help free Yrsa. While doing so, somehow he would find out about Adara’s vendetta against Ridley and change her mind.

Or end her. Never in his life had Grahame been relied upon in such a manner, but he would do these things for his friends.

As his horse neared the bottom of the hill, he cast a glance over his shoulder to find his parents and nephew staring at him, their features filled with sorrow, as if they knew something he did not.