[littlemanpoet]

Faramund waited, mounted, before his men, as Athanar's horses, led by some of his men, passed between them and the Hall toward the front where most of Athanar's men were gathered. The men leading the horses eyed his company warily, as if they expected Faramund to suddenly call for a charge against them.

He smirked.

He enjoyed their caution, their fear. It made him feel full of self control. He was holding a position defense, as he had said he would to that self-important steward of Athanar's. He would show them all.

As soon as the last horses were taken from the paddock and were well on their way toward Athanar's men, Faramund ordered his men to move forward so as to fill the gap between the stables and the Hall. To move back between the Hall and Athanar's men could be construed as an offensive move, so Faramund chose against it. Even this was symbolic of determination and restraint. It would do.

Let him attack, Faramund said to himself. Then I would have him against the king's law.

But what was this? Coming from the other side of the Hall was a small group of men, and they were carrying something. It looked like a bed, or cot.

Father!

"Garrulf!"

"Yes, lord?"

"Go to the eorl. Find out whether he called my father, or if my father goes to the eorl by his own choice."

Garrulf rode off.

Faramund was not sure which would enrage him more. That blasted steward said that Athanar was not trying to trap him. This gesture, like no other, gave the lie to that piece of clever talk. Faramund ground his teeth, waiting while Garrulf ran his errand.