Soon they would come to the wall that surrounded the park, and after that would come the smell of the sea. Each time he came home, the sheep were more plentiful and their wool whiter, evidence of his steward’s growing competence. He remembered the first time he had come here, the sparse clusters of brown sheep they had passed as his barely-remembered father impressed upon him what an honor it was to be fostered with so great a lord as Aymer of Morency. He knew that with the first lungful of sea air, he would feel the same wild hope as he had as a boy. And then, just as predictably, the thick walls of the castle would surround him and hope would be only a memory.

Sometimes he thought it a cruel joke, that the place he held to so fiercely and took such pride in, gave him no joy except when he was far from it. In the cold fields of France, under night skies crowded with stars in the Holy Land, through the wild green of Wales, he would think Morency, and it gave him heart. But always he thought of the word. Never of the place.

He had not been here for more than a year, and then only for the briefest of stays. The castle itself, he knew, would look much the same as it always had. For years he had spoken of the need to build and expand, allow for more comfort and more company. One day, he would vow. Then he would ride off and not return for months.

But now the castle had a lady again, a fact he had conveyed to the household in a short message sent two weeks ago. She would live here. He would stay much longer than a day this time. The sea air hit his lungs and his spirits rose. It could be a lively place, the hall filled with people talking freely, even laughing, and music. Visitors and travelers would come and be glad there among a bustling household.

Almost, he could see it in his mind’s eye. Almost, he believed in it. But then they came in sight of the place, and his heart sank like a stone.

He heard a gasp, an excited but unintelligible exclamation behind him. It was the boy, Davydd, who was now gaping at the sight. Ranulf slowed his horse and the others followed suit. It was beautiful from here, with the evening sun slanting low behind them and sparking off the lake, bathing the stone in the soft golden light. The castle was a simple but unusual design. Six square towers, connected by flintwork walls of dark gray and white, stood in a ring atop the raised earthwork. It was not impossibly large as so many of Edward’s castles, or as imposing as the keep of Ruardean. But it was beautiful, a stark and graceful sight reflected fully in the still waters of the lake.