Margaret could almost bring herself to say this. Her father sat on a bench beside a thin fire, holding his hands out to the pale flames, having listened to his daughter’s description of the violence against the juggler. He had devoured his portion of fish pie hungrily and exclaimed what an excellent dish it had been, down to the very crust. Hygd, the sole house servant, ate her share with thanks and worked now in the scullery, her slight figure passing back and forth, scrubbing and rearranging pots as though the entire house had to be set in perfect order for the forthcoming marriage to be blessed. “Margaret, I wish you every happiness under Heaven,” said William Lea with a sigh. He’s a cruel man, she wanted to say. “Knights become rough,” her father continued, as though he knew her thoughts. “They live to knock other knights down, in games or in war. His old injury pains him, and a hurt man has a short temper.” A horse had tumbled during a legendary tournament in Doncaster, and Sir Gilbert’s leg had been broken so badly that now, ten years later, the knight walked with a decided limp.
