He would search out a pallet on the floor in the below-stairs chamber for the men, and he would sleep. Sleep. He prayed he was too tired to dream, for the nightmare of what had befallen his father would surely haunt him.

Dirick managed the steps into the hall, but had barely begun his search for a spot at the long trestle tables when he was hailed from behind.

“Dirick! You are here.”

He turned toward the familiar voice. “Gavin. Aye, only just moments ago. I am in search of food and a pallet,” he responded, grasping the forearm of his friend in greeting.

Lord Gavin of Mal Verne was shaking his head, his stark features more sharp than usual. “I fear your rest must needs wait. Henry demands you attend him immediately.”

Dirick cursed, flexing his frozen fingers. “How can he know I am arrived? I have only just left the stable. I didn’t even take the time to unsaddle Nick myself.”

“We were in his private chamber when the news came you’d crossed the drawbridge. He bade me send you to him immediately, before you found yourself in the company of one lady or another.” A faint quirk of his mouth gave the words a humorous edge, but it slipped away at his next words. “I was aggrieved to hear of your father’s death. I am sorry that Madelyne and I could not attend the funeral, but the news did not reach us here until ’twas too late.”

“Aye. I learned the news in bare time to travel to Derkland myself,” Dirick replied, falling into reluctant step with Gavin as they left the hall. “I traveled two days with no rest from Kent, and then at the nonce of the funeral’s end, I remounted Nick and rode here with no rest.”

He’d felt more than a bit of guilt, leaving his brother Bernard—who was now Lord of Derkland—to deal with the grief of their mother, but it could not be helped. Joanna, Bernard’s wife, was a kind and gentle soul, and she would take good care of their mother.