Slowing, he scrutinized Fosterly’s curtain wall.
The usual number of guards stood atop it. The gate was raised, the drawbridge lowered. He could find naught to indicate that any kind of catastrophe had befallen them, yet his stomach still knotted with tension.
A few nights earlier, Alyssa’s sobs had awoken him. Still a prisoner of her nightmare, his wife had not roused until he had shaken her gently, then wrapped his arms around her and held her close to calm her. He had known ’twas grave when she had hesitated to tell him her dream. But he had not expected the worst.
She had dreamed of Robert’s death.
And her dreams foretold the future.
Alyssa had tried to reassure him in her usual manner. Death in dreams more oft than not represents change, much like hallways represent transition.
And when it does not mean change? he had countered.
She had looked away with furrowed brow, heightening his fears.
The next morning, as they had packed horses and a wagon in the bailey, preparing to leave with two score men, a young messenger from Fosterly had arrived. Dillon’s stomach had sunk like a stone. He feared he had inadvertently frightened the boy in his haste to tear the missive from his trembling fingers and read it, expecting news of his brother’s death.
Instead, there had been an oddly curt request for their presence penned by Robert himself.
Dillon scowled as he approached the gate.
Fosterly’s guards offered no protest as he crossed the drawbridge and rode through the barbican. The men guarding the gate bowed nervous greetings as he passed, too tongue-tied to speak. All wore Fosterly’s coat of arms, so at least the keep had not been taken by another.
Or so he thought, until he entered the bailey and saw the bodies strewn across the ground.
Alarm and adrenaline surging through his veins, Dillon drew his sword and prepared to fight.
Naught happened. No one attacked.
Cautiously, he lowered his sword. Guiding his horse forward, he studied the dead.
They lay in various stages of dress. Some in full armor. Some garbed only in tunics, braies, and hose. Others somewhere in between, as if someone had scavenged a piece of armor here and another piece there after they had fallen.
None bore bloodstains. Dillon’s sharp gaze could locate no apparent wounds. No weapons either. And, as he looked more closely, apparently no dead.
The men all lived.
Many of them lay like the dead, exhausted and gasping for breath. But they lived.
What in hell had happened? Had some illness befallen Fosterly?
Laughter drew his attention to the keep.
Relief poured through him when Dillon spotted Robert, fully clothed and armored, sprawled comfortably on the steps. A substantial number of his warriors, only partially garbed like the others, surrounded him, including Sir Michael.
The rest of the bailey nigh the donjon was crowded with serfs, who strangely had divided themselves into two groups according to gender.
Growing more and more puzzled, Dillon dismounted, barely noticing the quaking man who crept forward to take the reins from him. Dillon scowled as he sheathed his sword and approached the steps.
Some of the men attempted to straighten when they saw him, then gave up and fell backward, still huffing.
Leaning back on his elbows, looking happier and more relaxed than Dillon had seen him in years, Robert finally noticed his brother’s arrival.
“Dillon!” Blue eyes sparkling, his smile widening, he leapt up, hopped down the last few steps and drew him into a rough hug. “I did not think you would arrive so soon.”
His fears temporarily assuaged, Dillon pounded his younger brother on the back, then kissed both cheeks. Damn, but he looked good. Not at all like he knocked at death’s door. “What has transpired here?” He motioned to the men around them.
Robert grinned. “A contest of sorts. The men you see here have all failed in their quest for victory.”
Those closest to them either flushed or cursed. One muttered beneath his breath.
Robert laughed and dealt that one a soft kick to the ribs. “She warned you not to underestimate her.”
The man groaned and rubbed his side, feigning pain. “I shall never doubt her again, my lord.”
Dillon pounced on the word that most piqued his interest. “Her?”
Robert nodded. “Lady Bethany, the woman I intend to wed.”
Astonishment rendered Dillon mute.
Robert laughed and slapped him on the back. “Shocked you, did I? I am eager for you to meet her, brother. You will love her as we all do.” His brow furrowing suddenly, Robert peered over Dillon’s shoulder. “Where is Alyssa? Did she not accompany you?”
Still reeling, Dillon almost missed the anxiety that stole into his brother’s voice.
What was this, then? Robert almost sounded as if he hoped Dillon had come alone. “I rode ahead. She and the rest of our party will be along in a few hours.”