USA Today Bestselling Author of Medieval Romance

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Barony of Emberly, Northern England

Mid-Spring, 1334

 

Thomasin considered the great edifice rising above the town laid out before it. There she was expected to live out her days titled Lady of Emberly, she who was to have aspired to no higher than a chambermaid. Or so the steward of Waring Castle had believed, just as he had thought it his right to pursue the girl she had been four years past. But she had possessed something his other prey had not. Beyond the temerity to defend herself, she knew how to use the glistening ink at the tip of a quill—a skill kept hidden from those who would not have approved, and known only by the one who had made it possible. She who was no more.

 

Swallowing sorrow, Thomasin glanced over her shoulder to confirm no others had happened upon this portion of the wood. All was still. Too still?

 

When she had shed Castle Mathe this morn, she had not intended to venture this far, but impulse had struck as she moved through the village of Cross distributing bread. Prompted by the knowledge she would leave her father’s lands five days hence, and the galling presence of the one who kept watch over her, she had borrowed a horse from the miller and put heels to it.

 

She did not doubt that the one who followed her, likely Sir Otto, had also obtained a mount, but not before she had gained a league or more on him. Had he known her destination, he could have overtaken her due to her fair horsemanship, but she had bested him. As he deserved to be. Aye, he who skulked after her outside the castle walls, who had little to do with her inside them, who had looked too long and often upon her father’s betrothed, Quintin Boursier—

 

“Fie on ye,” she rebuked herself. Jealousy benefitted her naught. Had she the beauty of Lady Quintin, therefore a chance to catch the handsome knight’s attention, perhaps it would be worth churning up her insides and risking disdain. But as her mother had oft said—one of few remembrances of that woman Thomasin had not abandoned as she had been abandoned—one ought not wish where wishes were prey.

 

She caught back a laugh. She had wished, as well as prayed, though not for a man to look well upon her. A better life was what she had longed for, away from orders she resented, given by those who pinched and prodded her as if she were freshly baked bread to be granted no more thought beyond satisfying a man’s immediate hunger.

 

Miraculously, her wishes and prayers had been answered, and chafe though she sometimes did over her father’s control, a far better life he had given her. Rather than dirtying her hands amid the foul things others left behind, she was a lady whose hands were to be kept busy with the offices of sewing and weaving and resting prettily in her lap. And now…

 

She returned Castle Kelling to focus. Now her half-noble blood would become intimate with the full-noble blood of a baron—of handsome note, she understood. More handsome than Sir Otto?

 

Though she told herself she did not care what her husband thought of her and that marriage to her was far more than a traitorous Verdun deserved, she felt a nervous flutter. Regardless of what his face revealed and what words he spoke when first they met, she would not flinch. She would clasp to her the blessing in being bereft of beauty—that one did not have to struggle to match what was inside to what was outside. And if he ill-treated her, he would discover she was noble enough of mind to retaliate.

 

“I shall not be afeared,” she whispered and looked to the sky in the spaces between the canopy of brilliant leaves. From the village of Cross, it had taken two hours to reach the home of her betrothed. Thus, two hours back to return the horse, and another hour on foot, would see her at Castle Mathe by late afternoon. Though it was possible she would not be missed, her father confident she was in the care of his knight, it was also possible the knight had returned home to report she had evaded him.

 

Averse to starting back, she pondered what Griffin de Arell would do if he learned she was missing. It had been quiet of late upon the three baronies, almost as if the threat of last Christmas had never been.

 

Almost, for murder had come. It was not known for certain who had killed Lady Maeve Boursier, but the woman Thomasin had thought was her friend—Aude to her, Agatha to others—had been involved. And though Aude was now dead herself, it was believed there were others who wanted what the woman had failed to deliver—revenge against the De Arells, Verduns, and Boursiers whose betrayal had caused the once immense barony of Kilbourne to be divided into lesser baronies to reward the three vassals who had exposed their lord’s treachery.

 

Aye, all was quiet, so perhaps the threat no longer existed. Perhaps any left behind to stir the longstanding feud between the three families had forever gone.

 

She wanted to believe it, especially in that moment, for it would mean the difference between starting back now or later.

 

Later, she decided. She had come this far and been this long missing, so what were a few more hours that could be spent exploring the demesne she would eventually traverse as she did Blackwood? Even if her sire punished her by increasing her guard such that she could go nowhere unescorted, she would not suffer it long.

 

“Five days, Magnus Verdun,” she said, imagining him somewhere inside those walls. “Then you will be my problem. As I may prove yours.”

 

* * *

 

The lady could not have made it much easier, mused the one who had watched her since this morn when she had stolen out of the castle.

 

The plan had been to take her to ground after she departed the village of Cross, but she had borrowed a horse and headed opposite—here, to the home of the one she was to wed. Was.

 

Throughout her ride, there had been opportunities to bring her to ground when she veered off the road into the wood to avoid travelers, and he had been tempted to give the signal. But a need to scratch his months-long boredom had made him linger over her fate. Thus, he had allowed her to draw near Castle Kelling, though only because the one who lorded it had two days past gone to the village over the eastern border of the barony of Kilbourne—this portion of which the grasping Verduns had named Emberly.

 

Bile surged, and he let it bathe his teeth before spitting it out.

 

Emberly. Blackwood. Godsmere. By those names and the actions of the three who had betrayed Baron Denis Foucault, Kilbourne was debased. But it would rise again once he dealt with those who did not know they were dead men—and women.

 

Singing returned his attention to the lady, and he tensed in recognition of the pastorela that told of a nobleman who pursued a shepherdess with flattery and deception to convince her to lie down with him—a not uncommon pursuit, though it was sometimes the shepherdess who convinced the nobleman to lie with her.

 

This was not the first time he had heard the song from Griffin de Arell’s misbegotten brat, it having been taught her by the woman who had befriended her years past.

 

Fear not, Aude, he silently assured the presence that had fastened itself to his back after her passing. Her end will be as cruel as yours.

 

Seeing his prey turn her horse aside to follow the road from the cover of the bordering trees, he signaled the others to hold. They would assist the lady in dismounting once she went deeper into the wood where none but judge and jury would hear her cries—of which there would be a goodly amount since he was not the only one bored with waiting.

 

Soon, he told himself, for she had not yet watered her mount and it must be done. But as they trailed her, she did not stay the road that led back the way she had come. She took the one branching left toward the village just over the border, the same Magnus Verdun visited once and twice a month.

 

Pleased to know that baron’s secret, the watcher narrowed his eyes on Thomasin de Arell. He did not think she had lost her way, having observed her often enough to know she had a good sense of the land and made use of the sun's position to guide her. Thus, she was not done with her venture—else she had no intention of returning to Castle Mathe, this being her escape from marriage.

 

That gave him pause, but he shook it off. To her detriment, he would have to insist she accept his aid to ensure no marriage was made between the houses of Verdun and De Arell, for he could not risk failing as Aude had done in the marriage between the Boursiers and Verduns. Too, he could not resist the possibility that suspicion for the death of the low-born woman would fall on Magnus Verdun. Not necessary, but it would be a pretty boon—of which Aude would approve.

 

He sighed over memories of the woman who had sung the pastorela and once been handsome enough to tempt him into her bed, that same dead thing he had fished from the frozen lake following her failure. Ah well, she had served her purpose. Mostly.

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

A village likely lay in this direction, as evidenced by the occasional footprint in moist earth, a partially-hidden trap awaiting a creature destined for the pot, and scraps and threads that thorns and rough bark had snatched from the garments of those who passed too near.

 

Thomasin once more looked around, and decided to venture further east another league. If the village did not come into sight, she would begin the journey home.

 

She stepped to her mount and patted its neck bent low over the stream it had been necessary to venture deep into the wood to find. “Enough?” she said.

 

It continued to drink, and she rebuked herself for not sooner leading it to water. Just as she had much to learn of handling horses, she must become better versed in their care.

 

Her own thirst satisfied, she swept her gaze over the ground. She should not bother, and yet she found herself searching for a walking stick worthy enough that her grandfather would give his weight unto it.

 

A dozen paces from the stream, she found one whose lower reaches were sunk in the loam. Of good size, she determined as she freed it. She brushed the soil away and was pleased with its character—of a golden color from its bulbous hilt that would fit well the palm, to its thick tip that required little shortening and would not skitter out from beneath one who leaned on it.

 

Smiling, she swung around. And the breath went out of her.

 

Two men, wearing the garb and arms of warriors, stood before her mount. And beyond them, on the other side of the stream, another was seated on a great stallion between two riderless horses. Had she time to look nearer at one who was likely of the nobility with such a mount beneath him, she did not think she could have made out his features owing to the distance and the tree’s immense shadow falling over him. But that could not be tested, for the two men this side of the stream advanced.

 

Though she longed to flee, on foot it would be a token resistance. “What do you want?” she demanded.

 

Neither gave an ugly, knowing smile like that which the steward had often slanted at her, but she was not so fool to think they were different. She was a woman alone in a wood, and this time, unlike when she had come face-to-face with The Boursier, Sir Otto was not here to protect her.

 

“I am…” She swallowed. “…Lady Thomasin of Blackwood. My father is Baron de Arell.” She hated vaunting her status, but other than teeth, fingernails, and a stick that would prove a pitiful defense, it seemed her only weapon.

 

“Aye, you are,” the bearded one rasped.

 

He knew? Or was this mockery? She jerked her head in the direction from which she had come. “I am betrothed to Baron Verdun of Castle Kellin’.”

 

“Kellin’, eh?” said the bald, stubble-faced one, exaggerating the commoner’s turn of word into which she had lapsed.

 

Was that her heart in her throat, so large it felt as if she would choke?

 

Quiet thyself, she silently counseled. Watch your words and behave the lady, else this could go worse than wrong.

 

She set the stick’s tip to the ground. “Five days hence, I am to wed the Baron of Emberly upon whose lands ye stand.”

 

They halted ten feet distant, and she felt a flush of relief.

 

“Wed?” one said. “We think not. Now all you must do is decide how unpleasant you wish this.”

 

Dear God, she silently beseeched, help me.

 

“What say you?” the bearded one asked.

 

Thomasin shot her gaze to the one who watched from afar. “Sir Knight,” she called, “if you see me safely returned to my father, ye will be rewarded.”

 

He remained unmoving.

 

Heart thudding, she addressed the two men, “All of ye will be rewarded.”

 

“Alas”—the bald one jerked his head toward the one who remained astride—“I answer to another.” Then he and his companion strode forward.

 

She had just enough time to jump aside and raise the stick. Gripping it with both hands, she used it to stir the air between them. “Come no nearer!”

 

“Pity this must be so unpleasant,” the bearded one said and lunged, ducked beneath her next swing, and came up in front of her.

 

She stumbled back, gaining enough space to swing again. This time, she landed a blow, but not to the one at whom she aimed. The stick caught the bald one alongside the head, and she glimpsed a slash of crimson near his left eye as he wrenched the weapon from her.

 

The rough wood tore across her palms as it left them, and she knew there would be blood and stinging pain, but before either was seen or felt, her assailant turned the stick on her. The first strike caught her on the shoulder and finished its arc against her ear.

 

She screamed—or tried to, for if she had voice, she could not hear it above the ringing and humming in her head.

 

Then she was dealt a hit to the ribs.

 

She loosed another screamed, and as all began to blur, doubled over. Or was she already down? Curled on her side? All she knew for certain was that hands were on her, and no matter how she struggled, her only gain was more strikes and punches to the face and ribs.

 

Then weight fell upon her, and in the breaths drawn between screams, she inhaled the odor of a long-unwashed body.

 

As she continued to bite, claw, and kick, the men began shouting, and there was distant satisfaction in knowing that even in defeat, she could mark them for their sins—their flesh bruised, blood beneath her fingernails, soft places pained.

 

Amid a pounding of hooves, their shouts rose, and she became aware of the weight lifting from her and removal of the hands that had touched where they should not. But as her senses struggled to right themselves, she felt warm air upon her legs before the yank of her skirts that surely preceded the first sensation.

 

Dear Lord, preserve me, and by my words and actions I shall aspire higher, she silently vowed, and opened her eyes.

 

“Cur!” she shrieked at the one who loomed over her, though not as near as when last she had looked upon him. “Miscreant!”

 

His words were harsh and forceful, but the only one she made sense of was, “Cease!”

 

Attempting to keep her consciousness above dark waters, she saw enough of his wavering face to realize the one reaching for her was neither of the two who had beaten her to the ground.

 

This, then, the one who had watched from astride his horse. Now he would take what his men had gained for him. But she was not done fighting. And suddenly she had an abundance of means to defend herself.

No longer pinned, her arms were free to reach and rake, legs to kick. Though her head was too pained to allow her to look clearly on her assailant, when her knee struck hard muscle and she sank nails into stubbled flesh, there was no mistaking the baring of his teeth and tightening of a face too handsome to be fastened on a devil.

 

“Fie on ye!” she spat, and again reached with hooked hands.

 

He caught her wrists together and lowered his face near enough for the steel gray of his eyes to be told and the strangely pleasant scent of his body to be breathed.

 

“Me father’ll kill ye!” she shrieked over whatever threats he made. “Gut ye like the pig ye are!”

 

As the spit of his angry response flecked her face, she strained her back upward, then dropped to the ground and thrust her head toward his descending one.

 

There was a crack as of lightning near enough to burst one’s ears, and like the clouds through which it sounded, it dimmed her world.

 

“Pray, do not,” she whimpered as she was swept deeper and darker. “I am to…wed.”

 

* * *

 

Magnus Verdun knew it was possible to be angrier than he was in that moment, but not outwardly so—at least, not easily.

 

As he filled his lungs and slowly exhaled to bring his mind and body under control, he watched the woman’s lashes flutter and lips part on a sigh.

 

She had been beaten, this one who appeared to have ventured alone to the wood, her sullied and torn garments the least of her worries. The greater concern was the injury to her head, and not just the one he had shared with her when she believed him a party to her attack. Beneath scratches and smears of dirt were swellings and bright spots likely to present as bruises. Of further concern was whether or not her assailants had wrested from her what she had obviously refused them.

 

The one holding her to the ground had been the first against whom Magnus struck when, having followed her screams, he thundered his mount onto the scene. It had been no easy thing to allow to flee the one who watched his companions seek to ravish the young woman. But Magnus had granted it to all the sooner stop the one who had her skirts up.

 

The thrown dagger had served, though only just, for his mark had not been the shoulder into which the blade stuck. However, his horse’s movement had denied him the center of the back that would have laid down the bald man and allowed Magnus to give his full attention to the second one drawing a sword.

 

Guiding his horse with the press of his thighs, Magnus had veered away, those extra moments giving him time to bring his own sword to hand and counter the bearded one’s thrust. Thrice he had come around, and twice his blade let crimson that also marked him. But death was not to be for that one any more than the other. The bald man had made it astride and spurred toward the woman as if to trample her.

 

Magnus had urged his own mount into that one’s path, saving her, but gifting the bearded one with time in which to gain his own saddle. Then he and the other had set off after the one who had first fled.

 

Now Magnus had an injured and unconscious woman on his hands. And the sooner she was tended, the better. But he could not convey her to Castle Kelling, not because it was more distant than the village he had departed this morn, but because of the one he had hidden in the undergrowth before answering this woman’s cries. And already he had been gone too long.

 

He gathered up the seemingly slight woman and found her firmly built. Not that she was weighty. Rather, she lacked the fragile, fine-boned frame he expected. Whatever work she did, it put muscle on strong bones.

 

He lifted her onto his horse, draped her over its neck, and swung up behind her. As he drew her limp form back into his arms, his gaze fell on the flecks of blood staining his tunic. They were not his own, and it took effort to move his senses elsewhere, but he did and frowned over the scent of violets wafting from hair of lightest brown. She was no common laborer, as further evidenced by garments that, though simple and now near ruin, were far from worn. Too, whatever her destination, she had not come on foot. A merchant’s daughter or wife, he guessed.

 

He nudged his mount toward the horse by the stream, an animal far from fine. He caught up its reins, and setting it to a gallop, guided it back the way he had come.

 

Minutes later, the one he called forth poked his head above a tall shrub. “Who is that?” asked the wide-eyed boy of seven and some.

 

“I know not, but the sooner you show me you know how to mount a horse”—Magnus jerked his head toward the riderless one—“the sooner your mother can tend this woman’s injuries.”

 

As the boy emerged, he raised his strung bow over his head and settled it diagonally shoulder to hip. “Who did that to her?”

 

“Again, I know not, Eamon. I but stopped them from doing worse.” It was true he could not name her attackers, but the boy need not be told of the suspicion that the months-long respite following the death of the woman he now knew to be named Aude as well as Agatha, could be at an end. He prayed not, but that lone figure watching his lessers from astride a fine horse boded ill.

 

“Did you kill them?” Eamon asked, flushing with excitement as his gaze took in the blood upon Magnus.

 

“I did not, but they are done for—will surely seek other lands upon which to work their ill. Now make haste. We shall continue our hunt another day.”

 

It proved a challenge for the boy to mount the woman’s horse, for what the animal lacked in beauty and youth, it made up for in height. But shortly, Eamon accepted the reins. “May I lead the way?”

 

Magnus might have allowed it if not for those who were yet somewhere in this wood. “Another day. This day, stay near.”