|
|
|
|
|
|
Lady Alinor raised her head from the letter she had just read and stared blankly at her husband. From the expression on Lord Ian's face when he first read the letter, she had been prepared for disconcerting though not tragic or dangerous news. But now Ian looked back at her, his surprised disbelief already melting into exasperated amusement. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
They sat, as they often did these days, in a wall chamber rather than in the great hall of Roselynde keep. Although the hearth was small and could not accommodate the huge logs that roared and spat in the fireplaces of the great hall, the small room was also free of sweeping drafts. In good measure this was owing to the brilliant tapestries that covered the walls. In addition to providing the chief beauty of the room, for the jewellike tints of the cloth showing the hunting scenes relieved the gloom and gave an impression of warmth to the eyes, the tapestries actually did keep out the damp chill that oozed from the rubble-filled stone walls while they reflected heat from the dancing fire. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
There was a sense of peace in the small chamber, of protection from the winds of November that lashed the sea into great breakers, which crashed against the cliff below the enormous stone walls of Roselynde. There was also protection from the noise and bustle of activity in the great hall. As they grew old together. Alinor and Ian prized more highly whatever time of quiet they could seize. There was not much. The fits and starts of King Henry III kept England in turmoil and, at the present time, had brought many powerful barons into open rebellion. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Is it a jest?" Alinor asked, holding up the letter. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," Ian replied. "It is signed and sealed officially. It is no jest. That is a formal invitation to the wedding of our |
|
|
|
|
|