Page 8 of The Guardian’s Favor

“Alec would allow your father to ride alone?” he asked Lawrence.

Lawrence’s older brother Alec was their father’s second, just as Aidan was Graeme’s second, and he would never consider such a thing. They both knew it.

“Alec was never forced to treat with the man responsible for ruining his life.”

As guards approached them, Aidan gave his friend a look he hoped would make him stop talking.

“Alec has not spent two years brooding.”

“I have not—”

“Greetings, my lords.”

Thankful for the interruption, Aidan allowed the reins to be taken from him by a stablehand. Setting aside his irritation, he prepared for the meeting, which promised to be unpleasant at best, deadly at worst.

Theffield was their last hope to bring back the Day of Truce, and with it, peace. If he could not convince the earl to help them, and he doubted very much the man was inclined to do so, the recent skirmishes along the border might escalate to full-scale battles. A discomforting thought indeed.

“My lord is expecting you,” another servant said as he led them through the courtyard. “Your men are welcome in the main keep.”

He and Lawrence exchanged a glance. It was an odd statement to make, one that implied there had been some discussion about what to do with his men. And obviously a consideration to not allow them in. Though it was the kind of reception he’d expect from the earl, it did not bode well for their meeting.

Theffield was no ordinary keep. Its door, nearly three times the size of most and constructed of old, heavy wood, took two men to open. One pulled the iron handle, and the other pushed from the inside. An elderly man, straining with his efforts, appeared as the door slowly swung open. Like each of the servants that greeted them, his face was dour. Theffield was much as he remembered it . . . without joy. Without light and certainly without love.

Aidan hated it. Hated being here and hated the man who was now walking toward them. His only consolation was knowing the earl had no knowledge of his rendezvous with Clarissa at the Tournament of the North two years earlier. If she had told her father, Aidan would certainly have known about it long ago.

“De Sowlis,” the man said, hardly concealing a sneer. “Derrickson.”

Though the earl was accustomed to deference, they were no English lords and would not bow as it was not their custom. For a more deserving man, however, he and Lawrence would have done so out of respect. Instead, Aidan extended a hand, which Theffield, not surprisingly, refused to shake.

“Take them to the hall,” he ordered of Aidan’s men. His rough, dismissive tone was exactly as Aidan remembered it. “You may follow me.”

It was unclear whether the invitation had been offered solely to him or also to Lawrence. It did not matter. They would both be going.

“I would bring you to the solar but do not expect this to take long.”

Theffield spoke like a man who was accustomed to being in command. And to having those commands followed, no matter how ruthless or ill-advised.

The kind of man who would marry his only daughter to an old man simply to gain a tract of land. But Theffield was not alone in his approach. Men killed, and died, for patches of soil every day. Gillian and Allie could attest to such a fact. Their father had attempted to marry them off well in order to collect the funds to save their home.

Escorting them to the solar, a room much smaller than Aidan would have expected in a castle this size, Theffield seated himself behind the large, flat-topped wooden desk. Its surface was empty but for a single candle in a plain iron holder, its tripod not quite even.

The desk was like the room. Dark and foreboding. Unlike most solar chambers, which allowed for natural light, this one was bathed in shadow barely repelled by the four additional torches on each side of the walls.

“You are here concerning Caxton.” It was not a question.

Without being invited to do so, Aidan and Lawrence sat on the high-backed wooden chairs across from Theffield.

“We are,” Aidan began. “You have been a neighbor . . .” His tongue stuck on the word friend. “. . . to our clan for many years.”

Even in the dim light Aidan could see the earl’s eyes narrow. “Sutworth. That crumbling pile of stone,” he muttered.

In fact, Sutworth was anything but. Its people were rather resilient in remaining self-sufficient and avoiding conflict, especially considering they had an absentee lord.

“And surely cannot be pleased with the recent turn of events.”

A lie, and they both knew it.

If Theffield had wanted to intervene, he would have done so already. Allowing the terms of the treaty to crumble around him, the earl was as responsible as anyone for their current troubles. One word, and he could have Caxton removed from power. Only his English king could make the same claim.