I look again at the Lord of Thorntyne, master of his castle and all its people. The warm way he’s greeting Jarrod isn’t at all how I imagined he’d be, especially after what those villagers said of him.
The other two soldiers welcome Jarrod too, though one of them remains coolly reserved. The Lord introduces him as Malcolm, his twenty year old son, but remains oblivious in his own joy to notice his son’s chilly reception. The older soldier is Thomas, apparently a life-long friend of Jarrod’s ‘father’. Thomas can’t take his eyes off Jarrod, keeps shaking his head, touching Jarrod’s shoulder and grinning.
An elegantly dressed woman suddenly pushes through a gathering crowd at the front gates. ‘Richard,’ she calls the Lord. ‘What’s going on? We can hear the ruckus from inside the Great Hall.’
‘Isabel, my love,’ Lord Richard says excitedly, draping one of his arms around the slender woman’s waist. ‘It’s Lionel’s son, returned to us from a distant land.’
Isabel’s eyes widen, instantly on alert, scepticism fighting hospitality on her refined yet delicate face. She studies Jarrod closely. ‘Aye, he certainly resembles a Thorntyne, but not Lionel directly.’
This last comment worries me. If not Lionel, who is apparently the long lost brother, then who?
‘Geoffrey,’ she decides.
‘Geoffrey?’ Jarrod queries tactfully. Earlier we decided that if we needed information, family names and such, we would have to make the inquiry sound casual. Jarrod’s is perfect.
Isabel, apparently content now with Jarrod’s claim to ancestry, links an arm through his, explaining, ‘Of course you wouldn’t know him, and your father, bless him, should have told you about your heritage. Geoffrey was your grandfather. He passed away long before you were born, my dear.’ She peers studiously at him. ‘But you’re too young to be Lionel’s first-born.’
Jarrod quickly explains, ‘I’m not. I have a brother before me.’ He’s good, I breathe in slight relief. But the show’s not over yet, the major hurdle is yet to come – me.
‘He is well, but I had an urge to see my homeland,’ Jarrod continues carefully.
We have to be careful not to release any information we’re not sure of, and that is really just about everything we know. Jillian warned us not to disturb any future destinies, not to do anything, or say anything that might lead to changing history. We know that Lionel’s real first-born son will return one day to claim his rightful inheritance.
Others join them, a girl about my age, introduced as Jarrod’s cousin, Emmeline, who can’t take her eyes off her new-found cousin, smiling at him with a mixture of shyness and slyness. I dislike her instantly. There is another child, maybe six or seven, attached to a woman’s leg, who turns out to be Isabel and Lord Richard’s youngest son, John. The woman that shelters him is Isabel’s maid, and, apparently, not worthy of introduction.
While all this is going on, I am momentarily forgotten. I don’t mind though, it gives me a chance to evaluate everything. If it wasn’t for Jarrod’s uncanny resemblance to his Thorntyne ancestors I doubt our first meeting would have gone so smoothly. But my presence is yet to be explained. And this is where we’re going to have a problem. Why were we so stupid?
They begin moving across the drawbridge into the bailey, when Jarrod turns for me. He doesn’t get a chance to speak though. Lord Richard starts babbling apologies for his rudeness.
He puts his arm around my shoulders urging me forward. Once inside the castle walls we have to stop as a large group of curious people gather in number. Richard proudly introduces Jarrod to the crowd as if the prodigal son himself has returned. There is wild cheering and Jarrod almost drowns in their welcome.
Amongst all the ruckus Lord Richard angles his head down to me and says, ‘Who is this lovely noblewoman?’ And the crowd goes quiet.
Jarrod is supposed to say his sister, which was, of course, our plan. His eyes connect with mine, troubled. What should he say now?
Isabel frowns at me and says, ‘Of course she’s not a Thorntyne, just look at her pale skin, the colour of her hair, like ebony, and those eyes, so light yet incredibly still blue and … such an unusual shape.’
‘They’re shaped like a cat’s,’ Malcolm tosses in.
I try not to stare at him, even though I wouldn’t mind turning him into a cat right now.
To me Isabel adds, ‘My dear, from what lands do you hail?’
I stare back at her numbly.
Lord Richard, who is still holding my shoulder, glances across at Jarrod for an explanation, his head inclined with impatience. Obviously, he’s not a man used to waiting.