As Tristan’s feedings decreased, Gwen started boxing with Gavin. Greylen even took to it himself, incorporating it in routines with his men. ’Twas Gwen’s talk of marathons that intrigued him most, her constant teasing of her endurance that finally got the better
of him.

He watched her as she sat on the steps one morning, her eyes narrowing as his men raised flags along the path and later rode out with more secured to their mounts. Greylen joined her, taking Tristan from her arms and kissing his belly.

“Greylen?”

“Aye, wife,” he said, knowing exactly what was on her mind.

“What are the men doing?”

He heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “They’re raising flags, love,” he replied, like she’d not understand his statement.

“I know they’re raising flags,” she hissed. “Why?”

“I’ve proposed a race.” He grinned, throwing Tristan in the air.

“I’ve just fed him,” she cried. “He’ll spit up all over the place.”

“Nay, he’ll be fine.”

Gwen sighed; she obviously knew Tristan loved to be jostled by him. “Tell me of this race, husband.”

“’Tis nothing really,” he teased.

“You lie.” She laughed, swatting his arm.

“Very well…if you must know…” He purposely didn’t finish.

“Tell me!”

He threw his head back and laughed. Tristan laughed with him. “I thought to run one of your marathons,” he explained. “If you’re a good wife, and I use that term very loosely, I may let you join us.”

“You may let me join you,” she said, standing, hands upon her hips now. “I’ll be joining your damn race. Wild horses couldn’t stop me.”

“Tristan, your mama’s gifted us with yet another phrase from her sorry past.”

“That happens to be a great phrase. Store it in your sorry memory bank.”

Their banter was interrupted as riders approached. Greylen handed Tristan to Gwen and walked to the courtyard to greet them. They’d been escorted by Duncan and Ian. Greylen took a missive from one of the men’s outstretched hands and read it. Then exchanged words with the men as Gavin rode into the courtyard. Gavin dismounted and Greylen filled him in as they headed back toward Gwen.

“What is it, Greylen?” Gwen asked as he stood before her.

“Malcolm’s been captured. Our king awaits my presence to see justice done.”

At first, she seemed relieved that he’d been caught, then she must have realized what he’d also said. She looked terrified. “I must go, Gwen. I’ll sail on the morrow. It should only be days,” he assured her, taking her hand. “A week at most.”

His wife nodded but held Tristan more closely. He pulled them both into his arms. “Gavin and I have things to see to,” he told her. “Would you like me to take you upstairs?”

“Nay,” she whispered. “I’ll see if Cook needs help before supper.”