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CHAPTER ONE

 

 

Barony of Blackwood, Northern England

December 12, 1333

 

“Have a care, my lady. You are within range of their arrows.”

 

So she was. But she did not fear them. Only a man not a man would order a bolt loosed upon the defenseless woman come unto his well-defended walls. True, the Baron of Blackwood was surely torn from the same foul cloth as his sire, but no word had she ever heard spoken against his gallantry and few against his valor. Indeed, though it was much exaggeration, some said he was as formidable a warrior as her brother, The Boursier.

 

As for being a defenseless woman, that was also exaggeration. Quintin Boursier was no fainting flower. She had not been trained up in arms—her mother would not have tolerated that—but she could wield a dagger beyond the capacity to reduce tough boar’s meat to edible bites. After all, many were the idle hours in a lady’s day.

 

“Pray, come away,” entreated her brother’s senior household knight where he had halted his mount alongside hers. “Baron Boursier would not—”

 

“Nay, he would not, but he is not here, is he?” She narrowed her lids at the immense stone fortress whose crisply white walls evidenced they had been white-washed months earlier. “At least, he is not this side of the wall.”

 

Sir Victor went silent, but before she could relax into having won the argument, he said, “Tell me what you wish told, and I will ride forth and deliver your words.”

 

Beneath cover of her fur-lined mantle, she squeezed her arms against her sides lest the shiver inside ventured outside, making her appear weak beside the knight seemingly unaffected by the late morning chill though he wore fewer layers of clothes than she.

 

“I thank you, Sir Victor, but I will myself deliver my demand to the Baron of Blackwood.”

 

His cheeks puffed, breath blew from him, and he shrugged a shoulder. And she knew he was reminded of that of which her departed father had teasingly bemoaned—she would have fared better born a man.

 

She did not concur, liking very much having been born a woman. Still, at times the limitations of wearing skirts rather than chausses could chafe. And this was one of those times.

 

She shifted her gaze to Castle Mathe’s gatehouse, then the battlements left and right, the openings of which were filled with archers whose nocked arrows were trained on the score of knights and thirty men-at-arms who had reluctantly accompanied their lord’s sister to retrieve Bayard Boursier.

 

Her brother was here. She was certain of it—that the Baron of Blackwood had captured and imprisoned his daughter’s betrothed to prevent the wedding two days hence. Thus, for defying the king’s decree that the three neighboring families be united through marriage to end their twenty-five-year feud, the lands held by the Boursiers would be declared forfeit.

 

But that Quintin could not allow. Somehow, she would bring her brother out of Castle Mathe.

 

She moved a hand from the pommel of her saddle to the pommel at her waist. No meat dagger this. And no ordinary misericorde. She gripped it hard, knowing that were she to draw forth her hand as she had done several times during the chill ride, the impression in her palm would be that of the cross of crucifixion, pressed there by the jewels forming it.

 

This dagger should not be upon her person, but before the departure from Castle Adderstone this morn, she had gone looking for courage in the form of something better than a meat dagger. From the bottom of her brother’s chest, she had drawn forth that which had belonged to their father.

 

Having received his knighthood training from the Wulfriths of Wulfen Castle, a fortress centuries-renowned for training boys into men, Archard Boursier had been awarded a coveted Wulfrith dagger. And Quintin could not recall a day he had not proudly worn it on his belt. Now she wore it on her girdle.

 

Sacrilege? Likely. But were her father yet alive, he would forgive her this as he had forgiven her all things.

 

“Better born a man,” she whispered and tapped her heels to her horse’s sides.

 

Sir Victor shouted over his shoulder, commanding the men of the barony of Godsmere to hold, then he followed.

 

Knowing she could not dissuade him from accompanying her, and not certain she wished to, Quintin picked her gaze embrasure to embrasure in search of the Baron of Blackwood who must surely be upon Castle Mathe’s outer wall. As told her, he would be taller and broader than most men. As did not need to be told her, he would not be one of those whose bow was fit with a flesh-and-bone-piercing arrow. Griffin de Arell was a man of the sword.

 

Without warning shots or shouts, the garrison allowed Sir Victor and her to advance amid the sound of armored men shifting their weight, the breeze whispering of snowfall as it whistled through the brittle grass at the base of the wall, the flapping of the flag that bore high the green and black colors of De Arell, and the piercing cry of a falcon gliding above all.

 

Not surprisingly, the drawbridge did not let out its chains.

 

If only Griffin de Arell were a fool, Quintin silently bemoaned. Of course, were he the one she was to wed to end the feud, that would not do. It would be hard enough joined for life to an enemy without also suffering a dullard until death released her from one she could not respect.

 

Recalling the argument with her brother the day before his disappearance, she grimaced. She had tried to convince him it was better she wed De Arell who already had an heir, but Bayard’s choice of the man’s daughter for a wife meant Quintin would be bound to a different enemy within the next few months—Magnus Verdun, the Baron of Emberly, also not a fool, but likely full up on himself for as handsome as he was said to be.

 

Her long sigh misted the air. Her sharply indrawn breath cleared it when Sir Victor snatched hold of her reins and jerked her mount to a halt.

 

“Near enough, my lady. Far too near.”

 

He was right. They were less than twenty feet from where the upper edge of the drawbridge would settle to the ground were it lowered. And it would be lowered.

 

Fingers stiff from the cold though her gloves were thick, she tugged to free her reins from the knight’s grip.

 

He held on, raised his eyebrows.

 

“Aye,” she conceded, “near enough.”

 

When he returned to her control of her mount, she raised her gaze up the drawbridge to the roof of the gatehouse and looked from one archer-filled embrasure to the next. Just off center, she stopped on the one she sought. It was no highly-polished armor that revealed him, and certainly no bearing of self importance where he leaned forward as if to look out upon a day that held no challenge though fifty of his enemy were outside his walls. It was instinct that told her here was the Baron of Blackwood. And his eyes that captured hers. And his mouth that, when finally it delivered its expression, presented as a smirk.

 

Though the hairs across her limbs prickled, she did not avert her gaze, for that was no way to preface demands.

 

Slowly filling her lungs in hopes he would not notice she sought to breathe in courage the Wulfrith dagger did not sufficiently impart, she drew a hand from beneath her mantle, freed the ties that had cinched the hood about her face during the ride, and pushed the covering down around her shoulders.

 

Something nearer a true smile, albeit crooked, moved Griffin de Arell’s mouth as her jaw-skimming hair celebrated its liberation by dancing in the breeze before her face—the same breeze that moved the baron’s dark blond hair back off his face.

 

For but a moment wishing she did not eschew troublesomely long tresses that would have remained tucked beneath the neck of her mantle, she squelched the impulse to drag the hood back over her head and called, “I am Lady Quintin of the house of Boursier, of the Barony of Godsmere, sister of Baron Boursier.”

 

“Of course you are,” the voice of her family’s enemy rumbled across the chill air. “Though you are not the one I expected.”

 

It was Bayard who should have ridden on Castle Mathe this day to collect his De Arell bride, but the young woman’s father surely knew that was impossible. He but played at ignorance. And not very well, for he had greeted Quintin’s entourage with a raised drawbridge and archers ready to loose killing arrows. Hardly the way to welcome the man who was to be his son-in-law. Griffin de Arell was found out and prepared for Boursier wrath to descend.

 

Returning his skewed smile, she said, “Come now, Baron. Though I be the fairer sex, I am no more fond of silly women’s games than you, a warrior, should be.”

 

She could not be certain at this distance, but she thought his smile wavered. And in the next instant determined she could be certain, for she questioned his prowess before all.

 

“Ho!” he said as if with sudden understanding, though it was surely further mockery. “Your brother has chosen to wed Elianor of Emberly instead of my daughter. And you are the bearer of those tidings that, I confess, could not please me more.”

 

Quintin dug her nails into her palms. “That is not why I am here.”

 

He flashed white teeth. “Then since there must be a marriage between the De Arells and the Boursiers, you deliver yourself. A most eager bride.”

 

Amid the sniggers of his men and the anger rolling between her ears, Sir Victor rasped, “Lady Quintin,” his urgent voice prying at the emotion warming her insides as no wood-fed fire could do.

 

She held her gaze to the man she had told Bayard it was better she wed, and not only because the Baron of Blackwood already had an heir. Because she had wished to spare her brother marriage into the family of his most hated enemy, Bayard having been made a cuckold by Griffin’s brother. Of course, Elianor of Emberly was nearly as unsavory, for she was the niece of Bayard’s first wife, whom he had found abed with Serle de Arell.

 

I assure you, Quintin’s brother had said, one Verdun wife was enough to last me unto death.

 

She stuck her chin higher, called, “I would put myself through with a blade ere delivering myself unto one such as you.”

 

He lost his smile, gained a frown. Yet she sensed he was more amused than dismayed. “Then difficult as ’tis to believe of the mighty Boursier, one must conclude he has determined it is better to forfeit his lands than wed a wee De Arell lass.”

 

Now, before all, he questioned Bayard’s prowess.

 

Quintin did not realize how quickly her breath came and went until Sir Victor leaned near. “Pray, my lady, let us withdraw so we might discuss the best course.”

 

“This is the only course,” she hissed and once more raised her voice up Castle Mathe’s walls. “Release my brother, Baron de Arell, else not only will you forfeit your lands when the king learns of your treachery, but your life.”

 

He gave a short laugh. “Then your brother has fled.”

 

“He has not. As well you know, he was stolen from his bed. Now release him!”

 

To her amazement, he lifted toward his mouth what looked to be an apple, paused, and called out, “Forgive me, but your arrival interrupted my dinner.” He took a bite.

 

Realizing how far her jaw had descended, Quintin snapped it up.

 

Griffin de Arell chewed, nodded. “Were it true I held your brother, Lady Quintin, I might seriously consider releasing him—for you. But, alas, he is not inside my walls.”

 

Ignoring what was only made to sound like flattery, she said, “I would see for myself.”

 

“My word I give you.”

 

Something in his tone tempted her to believe him. But that would require she accept what she dare not—that Bayard might be dead, whether by De Arell’s hand or another’s.

 

“Your word I do not trust,” she said, her voice half choked with fear.

 

He had raised the apple to take another bite, but he lowered it. “Methinks this bears closer discussion. I shall come out to you, Lady Quintin.”

 

She blinked. Why? Because her voice had revealed vulnerability from which he hoped to benefit? Before she could think how to respond, he went from sight.

 

“I do not like this, my lady.”

 

She looked around. “We are nearer to retrieving my brother, Sir Victor.”

 

“I am not as certain as you that Baron de Arell holds him.”

 

“All the more reason why we must enter.” She pushed her chin in the direction of the drawbridge. “Even if I have to be a woman to his man, I will make a way in.” In spite of her less than desirable short hair and, when riled, an inclination to speak as she wished to speak, she knew how to work her wiles. Providing she could hide from Griffin de Arell how much he repulsed her, she would tie a knot in him, loosening it only when he yielded what she sought.

 

Or so I pray, she sent heavenward, and wished she had not said she would rather put herself through than deliver herself as his bride.

 

At the sound of her entourage advancing, she snapped her chin around. Realizing Sir Victor had signaled them forward, she said, “Send them back.” Not only might they turn De Arell from coming outside his walls, but they could prove too tempting a target for the archers.

 

Sir Victor shook his head. “Ere long, I may once more answer to your brother, and that day I fear more than this.”

 

“But—”

 

The drawbridge chains let out, and she caught her breath in anticipation of the great planked beast grinding to a halt before returning to its upright position.

 

It did not, though Godsmere’s knights and men-at-arms drew rein directly behind her.

 

The top of the portcullis came into view, and beyond its crossed iron bars she saw the buildings in the outer bailey, next the garrison. But it was the blond head and broad shoulders of the man striding—not riding—past the others that captured her regard.

 

Surely he did not intend to leave the protection of his walls on foot? But as the drawbridge so heavily thumped to the ground she felt it through her horse, Griffin de Arell halted before the portcullis and it began to rise. When it was at waist level, he did not duck beneath it so it might sooner lower and secure the castle entrance. And even when it was high enough that his head easily cleared and he strode forward, it did not drop.

 

He was that confident. But then, his archers still had Godsmere’s men sighted down their arrows.

As the baron advanced, his eyes—were they the same intense blue as his brother’s?—moved over Quintin’s entourage, and she knew he measured Godsmere’s men against the risk he took.

 

If he wore chain mail, and surely he must, she could not detect the metallic ring, nor the flash of silver links as she moved her gaze down his black mantle that parted with each stride. All she glimpsed was a dark green tunic above black boots.

 

He was a bigger man than his brother, Serle, but not of fat—of large bones and thick muscles like Bayard. And the nearer he came, the more she begrudged the appeal of his face, though its weathered skin and several day’s growth of beard made him appear older than the thirty and five years she understood him to be. Too rough-hewn to be called handsome, but still attractive, this man whose half-noble daughter, Thomasin, was to have been Bayard’s wife.

 

“Is to be,” she whispered as her heart lurched over the terrible slip of the mind. Bayard was at Castle Mathe and would wed before the deadline to preserve his family’s lands.

 

Lord, let him be here and hale, she silently pleaded.

 

The Baron of Blackwood halted before the drawbridge’s threshold, less than twenty feet from his uninvited guests, and it was then she saw he still held the apple. And it looked to be more than half eaten, as if his crossing from the gatehouse roof to the drawbridge had been but a leisurely stroll.

But if that was so, it was no more. He stared hard at Sir Victor out of eyes that were, indeed, blue. Then he moved them to her.

 

She held steady, noting that the miserly sunlight reaching through the sparse gaps in the clouds ran its fingers through the hair at his crown that was lighter than that below, a sure sign he was often out of doors.

 

“You may approach, Lady Quintin,” he startled her out of her reverie.

 

Resenting the warmth flushing her cold cheeks, hoping it was not as visible as it was felt, she urged her mount forward and Sir Victor followed.

 

One side of Griffin de Arell’s mouth lifted, and he said dryly, “And you as well, Sir…Victor, is it not?”

 

Quintin was taken aback that he was familiar with the knight, but since Bayard knew the names of De Arell’s and Verdun’s most esteemed warriors, it followed this man knew those of Godsmere.

 

“It is,” Sir Victor said, and at five feet from the drawbridge halted his mount.

 

Quintin did the same, glad to be no nearer her enemy, his regard intense enough. Further glad that just as he did not mirror his brother’s slighter figure, neither did his features—excepting the color of his eyes, a remarkable blue that dragged her back years to when she had hurtled herself between Serle de Arell and Bayard.

 

“So you believe I hold your brother, that I seek to deny him my daughter and, thereby, cause him to forfeit,” Griffin de Arell jolted her back to the present where she found the hand beneath her mantle turned into a fist she pressed to her lower abdomen.

 

Swallowing bile, she returned her hand to the Wulfrith dagger and breathed deep. “I do. Unfortunately, as evidenced by the history between our families, the word you give holds no meaning for the Boursiers.”

 

“I grant that.”

 

He did? She moistened her lips, and his gaze flicked to them—as expected. “Thus, I require proof. I would enter your walls to myself determine if you hold the Baron of Godsmere.”

 

His lids narrowed, brow grooved—hopefully, signs he seriously considered what she asked of him.

 

“If ’tis true you do not hold him,” she pressed, “you can have no objection, Baron de Arell.”

 

“I can. And I do. However…” He looked to Sir Victor. “That I might prove your lord is not within my walls, and afterward invite your lady to my table, you would entrust her to me?”

 

“I would not!” It was barked with more indignation than Quintin could remember having heard from the self-possessed knight. “Where she goes, I go, accompanied by a sufficient number of Godsmere men to defend her if need be.”

 

“It need not be. Should I honor Lady Quintin’s request and she observes the rules, she will depart Castle Mathe the same as she entered it.”

 

The rules? Quintin pondered.

 

“As my lady has clearly expressed, your word carries no weight with the Boursiers—or those who serve them.”

 

The baron exhaled a misted breath that drifted toward Quintin and dissipated. “For your sake, I did try, my lady. But it appears we are at a place from which neither party can be moved.”

 

“We are not.” She urged her mount forward, heard Sir Victor curse beneath his breath, felt his arm brush hers. But too late he caught her reins. Her horse’s muzzle was now but a step from Baron de Arell, and the man did not look at all concerned.

 

“A dozen escort,” she asked for more than was needed to allow for negotiation that would return to him the control such men required. “Allow me a dozen, and we can move from this place.”

 

He peered up at her, and she nearly winced at the perceived advantage she had over him that could not possibly sit well. But then he stepped forward. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw the knight at her side close his hand around his sword hilt. And knew those behind did the same.

 

“Do not, Sir Victor,” Baron de Arell growled, once more causing the hairs across her limbs to stand to attention, then he glanced at his archers on the wall. “At such close range, those arrows easily pierce armor.”

 

And she was to fault for that. When her brother’s knight slid his gaze to her, she shook her head. He did not draw his sword, but neither did he remove his hand from it.

 

The Baron of Blackwood raised his own hands to show they were empty save for the half-eaten apple, then he parted his mantle to reveal he wore no chain mail beneath his tunic. There was, however, a great sword on his belt. “Precaution only,” he said. “No harm do I intend your lady.” Then he let the mantle resettle around him and gripped the bridle of Quintin’s horse.

 

Dry-mouthed, she stared at the man whose size made her mount seem almost diminutive.

 

“A fine horse.” Eyes that had been flint-hard once more gleamed with amusement. “Though methinks too tame for a Boursier.”

 

She agreed, having pressed Bayard for a steed, and for a moment felt kindly toward the baron.

 

Fool, she silently rebuked. Were she the one to wed into the De Arells, this man would not gift her a worthy mount. As his wife, a mare would remain her lot. He simply baited her.

 

He fed the remains of his apple to her horse, patted the animal’s jaw, and said, “Six men.”

 

Though certain that would be enough, he must be made to feel she wanted more so his win would seem all the sweeter. “Ten, Baron de Arell.”

 

“Six.”

 

“Eight.”

 

He released her mare’s bridle and turned.

 

“Six!” she blurted, much to her disgust.

 

“My lady!”

 

Ignoring Sir Victor’s protest that was answered by other Godsmere knights and men-at-arms, she met Griffin de Arell’s gaze when he came back around.

 

“Choose whomever you wish,” he said.

 

Quintin looked to her brother’s knight. “I leave it to you.”

 

His mouth crimped, but after raising his eyes heavenward, he summoned five of Godsmere’s best men to join him in accompanying her.

 

Wishing her personal guard was among them—Rollo, who had been called home to tend his ailing mother—she gripped the Wulfrith dagger harder. If Sir Victor and the other knights could not keep her safe, she would see to it herself.

 

She guided her horse onto the drawbridge alongside Sir Victor, and when she drew even with the Baron of Blackwood, he turned and walked beside her.

 

“Methinks we are both pleased with our compromise,” he said, and when she shot her gaze to him, he added, “though I would have allowed you a dozen men if required to assuage your fear.”

 

“Fear?” she scoffed, and wished she had not, her distaste doing nothing to further the wiles she ought to work upon him.

 

As they neared the portcullis, she looked up at the archers. “For one who expected his future son-in-law, you make an unconvincing show of welcome.”

 

“None was intended.”

 

She frowned.

 

“I knew it was not Baron Boursier who rode on Castle Mathe, my lady.”

 

“How did you so soon come by that?”

 

He did not answer until they entered the outer bailey. “I would think that obvious. Just as I am easily picked from among my men, so is your brother who is not only identified by his size but his red hair. Too, though I would have Baron Boursier so fear me that he would deem it necessary to bring such a great number of armed men to his wedding, he does not.”

 

It was obvious, and she blamed a near sleepless night for a mind usually more clever.

 

Once her men were within the outer bailey, the portcullis lowered, cutting them off from the greater body of Godsmere men.

 

“You will leave your mounts here,” Griffin de Arell announced to his guests, then reached up and closed a hand over Quintin’s reins—and her gloved fingers that held them.

 

Though it was not flesh to flesh contact, a peculiar sensation moved through her, so warm…so languorous…so deep she did not attempt to correct his trespass, though she knew she should. And she met his gaze though she knew she should not.

 

“I thought so,” he said low, eyes a darker blue than they had appeared outside the walls.

 

And still she could not bring herself to spurn his touch, though he in no way prevented her from doing so.

 

Drawing a thumb across her knuckles, he said, “Yet another reason I would not have my daughter wed your brother.”

 

She stopped her breath. Did he infer the marriage between the houses of De Arell and Boursier be made, instead, through himself and her? Had her wiles worked that quickly? That well? Or was she the one who had fallen victim to them?

 

That last freeing her from whatever hold he had over her, she jerked her fingers from beneath his, twisted opposite, and dismounted from the wrong side. The mare did not like it, whinnying and sidestepping so sharply that had Baron de Arell not swiftly brought her under control, she might have trod upon her mistress.

 

But Quintin would not thank Griffin de Arell who was the cause of her unseemly dismount.

 

As she tugged her mantle into place, ignoring the curious looks angled at her by the men of Godsmere as well as Blackwood, the baron came around the mare.

 

“It seems I overestimated your ability to handle a horse," he said. "Indeed, this one may not be tame enough.”

 

Pressing her hands into fists, she said, “I await proof my brother is not at Castle Mathe."

 

He passed the mare into the care of a lad who stepped forward, then ran his gaze down Quintin. "And so you shall have it, my lady. Let us begin here."