"I should have been there!" Owain shouted, whirling to face the older knight with wild eyes, his bloodied hand clenched at his side. The pain in his fist helped in ways that he hadn't expected when he struck the wall. It gave him something real to react to, to make his performance more convincing.
Owain wasn't a trained actor, after all, and of all the masks he donned in order to win the hearts of the people of Lothian March, a weak, grieving husband was one that he had no practice in at all. He knew how to put on a face of sorrow and pride when he told a widow that her husband had died while fighting beside him against the demons in the wilderness, and he knew well the look of righteous fury to display when someone slighted a woman whose favor he wanted to win for an evening's entertainment.
