Page 75 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

“ W hen it is enshrouded in the clouds, that ridge appears almost gray.”

They rode together, a situation Amalia had been glad for until this fourth day of riding. Her backside sorely needed a rest.

“And that,” she asked, “is what is called Greyridge Castle?”

“It seems I’ve chosen a highly intelligent woman.”

She turned from the impressive sight of Roland’s home backward to peer at him. “Did you choose me, my lord? Or did I choose you?”

“It would seem both,” he said as the castle loomed before them.

It was situated on a rise beside a lake and surrounded by dense woodland.

Just as Roland described it...beautiful, with distinct defensive advantages.

As they approached, making their way through the outer walls to the inner gatehouse, Amalia spied an ivy-covered keep with overly large wooden doors emblazoned with the same wolf, the de Vere crest, on Roland’s surcoat.

He’d not worn it at any time during their journey to London, so Amalia was surprised he’d donned the surcoat that morn.

The sound of horses’ hooves as they clinked atop the cobblestones mingled with that of running water from the fountain central to the inner courtyard. The few servants not taking their evening meal waved to Roland.

It was not until they made their way into the hall after being led inside by an elderly gentleman, the castle steward, that Amalia was able to get her first look at the Lord and Lady de Vere.

They sat on a dais well above the others.

His father looked like an older version of Roland.

Aside from gray in his hair and more wrinkles, the two could have been twins.

His mother’s hair was covered so she did not see her as clearly, but it seemed she would do so very soon. She had risen from the dais and was making her way to them even now.

As she approached, Amalia could see the resemblance easily. Those blue eyes of his had come from her.

“Roland,” she said, her arms going around him.

Amalia was surprised by the public display of affection, not typical of a noblewoman of Lady de Vere’s status. By the time she let him go, they were joined by a young man who also bore the jet-black hair of Roland and his father.

“Geoffrey.” Roland let go of his mother, who was looking at Amalia, and embraced the very brother whose life he’d saved.

Lady De Vere looked at Amalia. Her eyes were more than just a pretty shade of blue. They were knowing.

“You are with my son.”

“With” did not mean they traveled together. Amalia sensed its true meaning and said simply, “Aye.”

“We are handfasted,” Roland said, taking Amalia’s hand. “I would marry her with Father’s permission.”

Amalia held the woman’s gaze.

“Handfasted?” his brother asked. “Is this...the woman from that day? On horseback?”

“It is.” Roland was looking beyond his brother, into the hall. His father, perhaps sensing they were not returning to their seats, made his way toward the trio.

“Do not be nervous,” Lady de Vere said to Amalia.

How did she know? Indeed, with every step the earl took toward them, it seemed Amalia was robbed of more breath.

She noticed the rich tapestries covering the walls of the hall.

Noticed those taking their meal were watching them.

But mostly, she noticed a man even taller than Roland, with a presence that put her old master to shame, finally reaching them.

“Roland.” He stuck out his hand.

His voice boomed with authority, though not as much with affection. Roland had told her his father was an earl first, before any other role, and she understood his meaning now.

“Father,” he said back.

“We will go to the small hall.”

With barely a glance to her, Roland’s father strode away, leaving them to follow.

Don’t be nervous? The advice seemed futile.

They moved to a small solar-like chamber opposite the great hall, Amalia barely noticing Roland’s home as his mother spoke.

“Your father has made inquiries as to your whereabouts,” Lady de Vere said.

“I’ve sent messages,” Roland said, his voice as defensive as Amalia had ever heard it.

“Not,” his father boomed as they entered and sat in the chamber that appeared to have been already waiting for them. “Of your whereabouts.” A fire was lit. Wall sconces offered additional light, as did candles on a massive wooden desk, although they sat in the chairs nearest the stone hearth.

“We will take wine,” Lady de Vere said to the steward, who was already closing the door behind them with unparalleled efficiency.

Finally, the earl looked at Amalia.

“This is Mistress Amalia Sinclair,” Roland said. “My father, 2nd Earl of de Vere, Lion of Ravenbrook.”

His father frowned at that last part, as if he did not care for the moniker.

“Your Grace,” she said, inclining her head as they were already seated. “It is a pleasure.”

Before his father could answer, Roland continued. “And my brother, Sir Geoffrey, whom you met briefly already.”

His brother, with the same grin as Roland, said, “We are pleased to welcome you into our home.” Then, to Roland, “I am uncertain if ‘met’ is the word I would use, brother. I was otherwise occupied.”

“You were,” Roland said, clearly displeased. “Why?”

“First, thank you for saving my life.”

Roland’s parents watched the discussion but said nothing.

“I would do it a hundred times, but would also know why you were on that battlefield. You,” he said to his father, “did not send any other men, for Geoffrey’s was the only de Vere crest on that field.”

“We will discuss your whereabouts these past weeks first,” his father said as the steward returned with wine goblets and a flask, which he placed on the desk.

Hiding behind hers, Amalia watched as Roland’s jaw showed his displeasure.

He ground it whenever he was angry, and he was most certainly that now.

“You are scaring our guest,” Lady de Vere admonished the earl, who looked at Amalia.

Surprisingly, he said, “Apologies, Mistress Amalia. It has been some time since I have seen my son. And on the heels of his defiance.” The earl glared once again at Roland.

“They are mollified,” Roland argued, presumably about the broken betrothal.

“With a manor house that was intended to be yours.”

“A price I was willing to pay,” Roland said.

“It was not your decision to make. Where. Were. You?” The earl’s tone was not one Amalia would personally dare to defy.

“With others who support the rightful queen of England. Which is how I came to be on that battlefield that you,” he said to Geoffrey, “should not have been on.”

“Do I not have the right to defend a cause I believe in as much as you?” his brother asked.

“What others?” the earl asked.

Roland lifted his chin in defiance. “An order of knights that, as a supporter of the king, I can tell you no more about.”

The earl’s eyes narrowed. “I am your lord and father.”

Roland’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

The earl sighed, took a sip of wine, and turned his attention to Amalia once again.

“How did you come to know my son?”

Amalia swallowed. “I met him at...through the order he mentioned. And was traveling with the others as their healer.”

“You are a healer?” Lady de Vere asked.

“I am an herbalist and reluctant healer,” she said.

“And is handfasted to me,” Roland said to his father, matching the elder de Vere’s tone from before. Authoritative. Almost frightening in its finality. It seemed father and son were alike in more than just appearance.

“Handfasted?” The earl did not appear at all pleased.

“Aye. I would have married her already but seek your approval. We traveled together, and I would not allow Amalia to be dishonored, and so, the handfasting.”

“Mistress,” the earl said. “And not lady?”

It was the moment she had been dreading.

Tears sprang to Amalia’s eyes, not because she was frightened, but because she had never once been embarrassed by her parents, her heritage, until this moment.

She should not be ashamed. Her father worked hard and was a good man.

Her mother too. Wiping away a tear, Amalia held her head high.

She would not be ashamed of them.

“Aye,” she said, before Roland had the opportunity. “I am a lady’s maid. My father, a farmer. And a good man.”

To his credit, the earl’s expression did not change as she expected.

Lady de Vere rose from her seat. “Geoffrey. Amalia. Come. We will return to the meal and allow them a discussion.”

Amalia could not leave the chamber quickly enough. Roland glanced at her, as if asking if she wished to leave. With a small nod, she stood, bowed to the earl, saying, “Your Grace,” and followed Sir Geoffrey and Lady de Vere from the chamber.

“I do believe that went well,” Roland’s mother said when the door closed behind them.

Geoffrey snickered.

Amalia looked at her, certain it must be a jest.

It was.

Lady de Vere smiled.

“Come. Eat. All will be well. And...” The lady’s smile reached her eyes. “Welcome to the family.”