“You are going to grow weary of that after a while.”
“I already have. But I need the money.”
Tor could understand that and he felt rather sorry for the man. But in the same breath, he respected him for doing as he must. Each knight had a story and that was Fraser’s.
From that point on, the rest of the ride into town was silent. As they drew near Haltwhistle, the road grew more crowded as they began to blend with the farmers coming in off the fields, bringing in their produce to sell. The mist had lifted a little more by this time and patches of bright sunlight were streaming through the soupy mess, revealing a busy village. As they entered the outskirts of town, Tor paused.
“I am going to inspect a couple of places,” he said, pointing. “You check the stables. Yesterday, I happened to know she had some interest in a man selling horses there, so she may have gone back there.”
He refrained from mentioning the wild Arabian and Fraser nodded. “Where are you going?” he asked.
Tor looked towards the east end of the village. “There is a tavern over there I am going to check.”
“The Crown and Sword?”
“Aye,” Tor said. “I swear I have never eaten so much in my life.”
Fraser snorted. “That place will make a glutton out of you.”
Tor grinned. “If she is not there, I will make my way down the avenue and see if I spy her. I would suggest you do the same if you do not find her in the stables. Sweep until the end of the avenue heading west and I will meet you right here when I am finished.”
It seemed like a good enough plan. Fraser nodded as he headed off towards the livery and Tor turned in the opposite direction, heading for the Crown and Sword.
The tavern seemed like as good a place to start as any. He really didn’t know where else Isalyn could go this early in the morning, but the entire town seemed to be open for business at this early hour.
If she was here, she could be anywhere.
The Crown and Sword was empty at this hour, at least of diners, but there were a few people sleeping on tables and in the corners. Isalyn was not among them, so Tor headed down the street, planning to check in every stall he could find.
As Tor had noted yesterday, Haltwhistle was a surprisingly busy village, but not so surprising considering it was the largest village on the road between Newcastle upon Tyne and Carlisle. Leading Enbarr behind him, Tor came to a row of stalls whose sole business was precious metals. There were heavily armed guards all around, and they eyed him suspiciously. Unwilling to be seen as a threat, he stayed clear of them as he moved down the avenue.
Across the street were more stalls that seemed to have a good deal of wool. Raw wool, woven wool, and woolen thread, and they were advertising the fact that they could dye the wool whatever color one might wish. Two men stood out in front of one of the stalls, calling to women passing by, promising that they could dye thread the color of the sky or the color of their eyes. They seemed to be very enthusiastic, pulling in customers for their colored wool.
But still, no Isalyn.
Further down the street came an area that had more to do with the heavy wool trade in the region – beaters, sorters, and washers of wool were spread out in an organized fashion, overseen by managers, and there was a good deal of business going on. At this time of year, sheep were being brought to market, as he’d observed yesterday. He had his own sheep at Blackpool to take to market, but last year he took them into Carlisle. He thought that this time, he might bring them here because they clearly had a heavy wool trade industry. Thoughts of bringing his sheep down here were interrupted, however, by what he thought might have been a cry.
A scream.
Tor paused, ears cocked. There were crowds around him, so he thought he might be hearing things until he heard it again.
He’d heard that scream before.
Yesterday.
He was on the move.
The day had started out as a good one.
Isalyn had awoken before dawn, rising in a chamber that was already warm because the servants had stoked the hearth in the wee hours while she’d been sleeping. Her father always made sure that she was well-tended when she visited, which meant the room was warm, fragrant, and richly appointed in all aspects.
As the daughter of a merchant, luxury was a given, and that was readily apparent at Featherstone. Covering the wooden floor were fluffy hides and expensive woolen carpets that had been imported from points east. Because her father had many suppliers all over the known world, and supply trains that traveled all over the continent, they often had exotic items from the Holy Land and even further east.
Things from the lands of the pagan gods.
One of those items was beneath her feet at that very moment, a rug from Baghdad. It was elaborate and beautiful, magnificent in every aspect. Featherstone had at least four of those rugs that she knew of, including two in her father’s bedchamber and one of them hanging on the wall in the great hall. When she walked the floors of Featherstone, her feet never touched the floor because of all the rugs and hides.
Her father always insisted on that.
She was thankful for the floor coverings this morning because it had dawned cold and misty. She made her way over to the hearth to see that a thoughtful servant had put a pot of water over the flame to heat and it was already steaming. Hissing with the cold, Isalyn removed her sleeping shift and washed with the hot water and a soft, white bar of soap that smelled like flowers. She was quick and vigorous in her grooming because today was going to be a busy day.
She had things to attend to.
It seemed to be a rather strange deviation from her usual routine because her thoughts this morning were not of returning to London. As long as she had been at Featherstone, she had awoken every morning thinking that this was going to be the last day at her father’s manse. She very much wanted to return home and she had made no secret of that, so nearly every day since her arrival, she had thought that this particular day would be her last.
It hadn’t worked out that way.
This morning, her thoughts lingered on Tor and not her return trip home. After the distasteful shock of her brother’s death yesterday, she and Tor had retreated to the great hall for the remainder of the day and into the night. It was clear that he was trying to be kind to her because of what had happened and, truth be told, she was going to let him. Tor de Wolfe was beginning to grow on her, just a little, and she was starting to appreciate his company.
Provincial knight or not.
In fact, she had come to see that he was no backwards knight. He watched her with a gaze so intense that surely it could have driven nails through stone. He missed nothing, remembered things she said from yesterday to the last detail, and generally seemed to be one of the smarter men she’d ever met.
Their conversation in the hall had been a continuation of their other conversation from the tavern in Haltwhistle. That conversation at the Crown and Sword had been a little stiff and perhaps even a little uncertain given the circumstances, but the continuing conversation in the great hall had been anything but stiff and uncertain. Tor was becoming more comfortable with her, so the conversation had been more animated.
And that’s when Isalyn figured out just how smart he really was.
Even so, she realized that she had done most of the talking while he had done most of the listening, but it seemed to her that he’d had a smile on his face the entire time. That enormous, handsome, rural knight had her attention and she had no idea why. She wasn’t even really sure if she liked him. Well… that was a lie.