USA Today Bestselling Author of Medieval Romance

CHAPTER ONE

 

 

Arlecy Abbey, England

Early Autumn, 1156

 

Of what benefit was it to be a vision in virginal white if one’s groom was not of one’s choosing? 

 

Hoping to calm her racing heart, Lady Graeye Charwyck lifted a hand and pressed it between her breasts. She loved the Lord, but she did not believe He was any more pleased to have her as His bride than she was to have Him as her groom. If what she had been taught was true, He knew her heart. He knew she did not want this. He knew there was no worth—nothing precious—in vows grudgingly given.

 

“Dear Lord,” she breathed and lowered her chin to stare at the toes of her shoes peeking from beneath the skirts of her bridal habit.

 

“Be still!” the novice mistress snapped, jolting her charge’s slender frame.

 

Graeye lifted her head, stiffened her spine with well-learned obedience, and sighed—a lack of deference for which she immediately repented. Though not of late, she had more than once felt the sting of Mistress Hermana’s strap, for that part of her spirit which had not been broken picked the most inopportune times to declare that this life was not of her choosing. Of the three vows she was about to take, obedience would be the most difficult to keep.

 

Digging her short nails into her palms, she slid her gaze up the black-clad woman. She need not have gone farther than that square, unmoving chin to know of the novice mistress’s displeasure, but she did.

 

With a snort of disapproval, Hermana reached forward and tugged on the wimple where it passed beneath Graeye’s chin up to the stiffened band around her forehead.

 

Heart sinking further, Graeye lowered her eyes. Over the years, she had become painfully accustomed to such ministrations—a vain attempt to conceal the faint stain marring the left side of her face. Starting just shy of her eyebrow, the mark faded back into the hairline at her temple. Though it was not very large or conspicuous, it might as well have covered her entire face.

 

The mark of the devil, Hermana called it. Always, the devil in Graeye was responsible for the trouble she got herself into. What would otherwise have been viewed as simple, childish pranks or the foolishness of youth, the superstitious woman attributed to evil. When other novices skipped matins or devised tricks against one another, their punishment was a verbal reprimand and prayers of repentance. For Graeye, it was that and more—a strap across the back, hours on her knees scrubbing floors and pulling weeds, humiliation before her peers.

 

Though she did not believe the devil was responsible for her penchant for trouble, she knew well the curse her physical flaw afforded. It was, after all, the shape of her destiny thus far.

 

Her father, unable to bear the sight of her, had dedicated her to the Church when she was seven, only days following her mother’s death. The handsome dowry he had provided the convent at Arlecy had ensured her acceptance no matter what mark she bore. And no matter her own feelings. Now she was to wed—not to a mortal as she might have wished, but to the Church.

 

On this, the day of her Clothing, she would become a nun, her profession made, hair sheared, a black habit her only garment. It burdened her, but still there was a blessing in it, for her passage into sisterhood would finally free her from Hermana’s dominance. Though the woman was not a nun, for she had once been wed and her chastity forever lost, she had held the esteemed position of novice mistress for as long as Graeye could remember.

 

Now Graeye would have a kinder master to serve—the Lord.

 

If only I could rejoice in that and be content, she whispered into herself.

 

When the strains of music sounded from the chapel, indicating the commencement of the ceremony, Hermana said, “Eyes forward!”

 

Graeye began a mental recitation of her prayers—not those devised for a novice preparing to take the veil, but her own pleading that she be freed from this obligation.

 

Minutes later, the large oaken doors to the chapel groaned inward.

 

Graeye squared her shoulders and pressed her bouquet to her abdomen, gripping it so tightly her fingers crushed the delicate stems and leaves. But though she commanded her legs to take that first, fateful step forward, they would not.

 

As always, Hermana knew what to do—in this instance, a sharp elbow to the arm that would likely leave a bruise.

 

“Halt!” a gruff voice sliced the cool morning air.

 

As if joined, Graeye and the woman beside her whirled around to search out the man in their midst.

 

Though the half-dozen knights who emerged from between two of the outlying buildings came disarmed, as was the only permissible entrance to this holy place, a small group of clergy were vainly trying to halt their advance.

 

“You dare enter consecrated ground without permission?” Hermana demanded as she hurried forward into the intruders’ path.

 

“Forgive us,” a tall, thin knight said, though he sounded not at all repentant. He withdrew a rolled parchment from his belt and handed it to the novice mistress. “An urgent message from Baron Edward Charwyck.”

 

Graeye sucked in a breath. Had her letter of appeal to her father brought about a change of heart? Biting her inner lip so hard she tasted blood, she watched as Hermana turned to put the sun at her back to better read the missive.

 

The woman’s thick eyebrows drew closer, ever closer. Then she lifted her eyes and stared at her charge over the top of the parchment.

 

Suppressing the desire to wrap her arms around herself, Graeye shifted her gaze to the right. There, a young, fair-headed knight stood beside the messenger, eyes intent upon her. Self-consciously, she lifted a hand to the wimple to ensure the mark remained covered.

 

The crackle of parchment broke the silence, then Hermana traversed the stone walkway and ascended the steps to the chapel. The abbess stood at the top, having come outside to discover the cause for the delay.

 

The exchange between the two women was hushed. While the abbess, whom Graeye regarded with affection, mostly listened, Hermana grew increasingly agitated and began to gesticulate. The abbess raised a hand to quiet her, took the parchment, and examined it. Shortly, more words passed between the two, then the novice mistress descended the steps.

 

Venturing a look past the stern-faced woman approaching her, Graeye was startled by the abbess’s serene countenance. Though she could not be certain, she thought the woman’s mouth curved toward a smile.

 

Hermana halted before Graeye. “’Tis your brother, Philip,” she began, her voice strained as if with intense emotion. “He is deceased.” As the words passed her thin, colorless lips, she crossed herself.

 

Graeye stared. Then, remembering herself, she also made the sign of the cross.

 

Philip dead.

 

She felt a flutter in her chest, but little else. Contrite that she could not be said to be grieved, she offered up a silent explanation for her un-Christian reaction. She had hardly known her half sibling, for he had been much older than she, and her few remembrances of him were seeped in pain.

 

As a child, she had seen little of Philip while he had been in training, first as a page, then a squire, at a neighboring barony. However, she had seen enough to dislike the loud, foul-mouthed boy with whom she shared a father. He had taunted her about her “devil’s mark” and played cruel pranks on her when he caught her out from behind her mother’s skirts.

 

God forgive her, but she could not mourn one whose memory dredged up old hurts, and whom she had not seen for nigh on eleven years. He was a stranger, and now would forever remain one. Still, she would pray for his soul.

 

“Your father has requested you attend him so that your brother may be given a proper burial,” Hermana went on, voice choked, eyes moist.

 

Graeye wondered at the woman’s peculiar behavior. She had never known the novice mistress to be capable of any deep emotion other than anger and displeasure.

 

“And as you are his only hope for a male heir,” she continued, “’tis not likely you will return to us.”

 

Leave Arlecy? Forever? Graeye’s heart swelled as she stared into that wizened face, her hand reflexively opening to release the ravaged bouquet to the cold stones at her feet.

 

My prayers have been answered. I am freed.

 

In the next instant, she suppressed the smile that tried to bend her mouth into a shape with which it was mostly unaccustomed. Why had God waited until the last moment to grant her desires? Had He been testing her? Had He—?

 

“You are to depart immediately,” Hermana said. “I will have your possessions packed and sent on later.”

 

“I must change,” Graeye whispered.

 

“Nay, you are to leave now so you might complete the journey ere nightfall.”

 

Graeye would not argue it. Atremble with excitement, she lifted the skirts of her bridal habit clear of her feet and walked quickly to the knight who had delivered the message. 

 

He was much older than he had appeared from a distance. In fact, he looked well past two score years, every groove in his hard face stark against his chalky complexion.

 

“Lady Graeye,” he said, “I am Sir William Rotwyld, Lord of Sulle, vassal to Baron Edward Charwyck.” His eyes shone with a coldness she feared to fathom.

 

She inclined her head and clasped her hands before her. “Sir William.”

 

“Come.” He grasped her elbow. “Your father awaits you at Medland.”

 

Stealing a look behind, Graeye cast her gaze from Hermana to the abbess. This time, there was no doubt it was a smile that graced the latter’s face.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Medland, England

Mid-Autumn, 1156

 

A broom in one hand, a dirty rag in the other, Graeye took a rest from her labors to cast a critical eye over the hall. Through her efforts this past month, the castle had seen many changes inside and out, but none were as obvious as those found here.

 

Gone was the sparse, putrid straw that had covered the floor and upon which she had slipped on her first day at Medland. In its place were fresh rushes that smelled of sweet herbs. Immense networks of cobwebs and thick layers of dust had been swept away. Tattered window coverings had been replaced with oiled linen that held back the night’s icy draught and let day’s light spill beams throughout. Trestle tables and benches that had threatened to collapse beneath a man’s weight had been repaired, though they did not look much better for all the effort. Even the threadbare tapestries had been salvaged by days of cleaning and needlework.

 

Still, no matter how hard she toiled, the donjon would never be grand, Graeye conceded with a wistful sigh. But at least it was more habitable than before. And she had the castle folk to thank for that. Despite her determination to set Medland right, she would have accomplished little without their aid.

 

It had taken persistence and a considerable show of interest in the reasons behind the sorry state of the demesne before the people had set aside their superstitions over the mark she bore and revealed what had transpired these past years.

 

Four years earlier, her father had relinquished the responsibility of overseeing Medland to Philip, and it had been a poor decision. Unconcerned for the welfare of his people, the young lord had squandered time and money.

 

By the second year, his neglect had led to diminished stores of food for the castle inhabitants. Hence, he had appropriated livestock and grain from the villagers to meet the demand within the walled fortress. That had weakened the once prosperous people and resulted in winter famine.

 

Philip had also been a cruel master, doling out harsh punishment for minor offenses and using his authority to gain the beds of serving wenches and village women. There were even whispered rumors that his cruelty had extended to the taking of lives when he was displeased—that his late wife had met her end by such means.

 

Graeye had chosen not to delve too deeply into that last matter. Instead, she set to righting the wrongs, and it was that which brought the castle folk and villagers to her side. It had taken courage she had not known she possessed, but she had opened the stores of grain her father hoarded and distributed a goodly portion among the people. Though Baron Charwyck and his men had grumbled over her actions, none had directly opposed her.

 

When she had toured the villages and fields, she was relieved to find that the peasants’ crops had fared better than their lord’s, though she kept this to herself for fear her father would lay claim to that which the people needed to see them through the long winter portended by cool, brisk autumn winds. Through her efforts, the harvesting of the lord’s sparse fields and the sowing of winter crops were set in motion, and she had faith that the state of the demesne would look less grim a year hence. Unfortunately, though the changes she had wrought were significant, there was yet much to do before season’s end.

 

With that reminder, Graeye drew the back of a hand over her warm, moist face. She was tempted to remove the stifling wimple but squelched the impulse. As much as she longed to discard it altogether, the one time she had eschewed it in her father’s presence, he had made it humiliatingly clear that its absence would not be tolerated. Thus, she removed it only when certain he would not happen upon her.

 

“Lady Graeye,” a man called.

 

She propped the broom against the wall and turned to face the one who crossed the hall toward her. It was the young knight who had caught her notice at the abbey—Sir Michael Trevier. During her first days at Medland, he had been instrumental in helping her gain acceptance among the people and implementing changes. But though he had been all smiles for her then, always at hand to assist in whatever task she undertook, that was in the past.

 

A fortnight earlier, he had issued a challenge to the knight her father had chosen to become her husband. Sir Michael had wanted her for himself and been prepared to do battle to win her hand. However, Edward Charwyck had remained adamant that she wed Sir William Rotwyld, the knight who had retrieved her from the abbey.

 

Sir Michael had hurled insults at her betrothed, pointing out that the man’s great age might prevent him from fathering the heir Edward badly wanted.

 

Graeye would have preferred the kind young knight over the repulsive man Edward had chosen for her, but to avoid bloodshed, she had declared she was content to wed William.

 

She had succeeded in preventing the two men from taking up swords, but Sir Michael was no longer her champion. He had no warm words for her, nor smiles, and had become conspicuously scarce in the days since. She missed him.

 

“There is a merchant at the postern gate who says he has cloth for you,” he said as he halted before her.

 

“Cloth?” Graeye pondered when and for what purpose she had ordered it. “Ah, for the tables.” She gestured toward their bare, unsightly tops. “Do you not think coverings will brighten the entire hall?”

 

Mouth grimly set, he turned and tossed over his shoulder, “I will send the man to you.”

 

Once more pained by his indifference, she hurried after him and caught his arm. “Sir Michael, do you not understand why—?”

 

“Perfectly, my lady.” His gaze was stony.

 

“Nay, I do not think you do. Will you not let me explain?”

 

He shrugged her hand off. “A lowly knight deserves no explanation.”

 

So he thought she had rejected him because of his rank. “You are wrong. I—”

 

“Pardon me, but I have other tasks to which I must needs attend.” He bowed stiffly and walked away.

 

Graeye watched him go. Though she could not say she loved him, he was much like the brother she had once imagined having. Perhaps love would have grown from that, but she would never know.

 

“He is the one you want, is he not?”

 

She spun around. “F-father!”

 

His lips twisted into a knowing smile.

 

Trying to gauge his mood, she took in the sour smell of alcohol carried upon his breath, the sound of his shallow, labored breathing, and the gray, sagging features set with reddened eyes. It was a common sight, for he was more often drunk than sober, but she had yet to become accustomed to such a state.

 

His mood was harmless, she decided. Blessedly, with each passing day, he became more genial, but it had not been like that when she had first arrived. Then he had been half-mad with grief over Philip’s death, had called her the devil’s daughter, had—

 

She did not want to think on that first night, for it chilled her to relive the memory. Fortunately, now he mostly named her Daughter of Eve when displeased. Not that she cared to be blamed for the sins of man alongside Eve, but it was better than the alternative.

 

“The cloth has arrived,” she said, hoping he would not pursue the matter of Sir Michael. “By tomorrow eve, the tables will all be covered.”

 

He glowered, then slurred, “William will make you a good husband. That pup Michael knows nothing of responsibility or loyalty. And, I assure you, he knows little of breeding.”

 

Blushing, Graeye averted her gaze. “Aye, Father.”

 

“But still you want the young one, eh?”

 

She shook her head. “I have said I am content with Sir William.”

 

“Content!” he spat. “Yet you would choose Sir Michael if I allowed it. Do not speak false to me.”

 

Reminding herself of the vow she had made weeks earlier not to cower, she lifted her chin. “It is true Sir Michael is young and handsome, and he is soft of heart, but—”

 

“He is a weakling, that is what he is. He has no property and very little coin.”

 

Though Graeye knew it was unwise to defend him, she said, “He is still young, and what would William have if you had not given it to him?”

 

Surprisingly, Edward seemed to consider her argument. “True,” he mused, “but he earned it, something Sir Michael has yet to do. If ever.”

 

“Methinks he will.”

 

“Not with my daughter. I want an heir—and soon—and your union with William will ensure that.”

 

“How can you be certain?”

 

He grinned. “William made seven boys on his first two wives—not a single girl.” He let that sink in, then added, “It is a son you will bear come spring.”

 

Then it was not the knight’s possessions, nor his years of loyalty that had decided Edward. It was his ability to produce sons. She suppressed a shudder at the thought of the man making an heir on her.

 

Edward turned and surveyed the hall. “You have done well, Daughter.”

 

He had turned the conversation so abruptly that it took her some moments to realize he referred to the improvements made to the hall.

 

Happily abandoning all thoughts of her future as William Rotwyld’s wife, she said, “I thank you.” All the hard work was worth it for just those few words of praise. Had he also noticed the improved foodstuffs at table? Or had drinking numbed his sense of taste?

 

“Methinks I shall have to reward you,” he said.

 

She blinked. “’Tis not necessary, Father.”

 

“Of course it is not! Were it, I would not do it.”

 

Realizing he teetered on the edge of a black mood, Graeye merely nodded.

 

Edward grumbled beneath his breath, studied the floor and, a short while later, smacked his lips. “A new wardrobe! Aye, it would not be fitting for a Charwyck to go to her wedding dressed as you are.” Sneering, he slid his gaze down the faded bliaut she wore.

 

Graeye smoothed the material. Having no clothing other than what she had worn as a novice at the abbey, she had taken possession of the garments that had belonged to her mother. Though aged, they fit well, for she was nearly the same size as Lady Alienor had been, just a bit shorter.

 

“I would like that,” she said and indulged in imaginings of the beautiful fabrics she might choose.

 

“It will be done.” Edward swung away and stumbled in his attempt to negotiate the level floor. Though he scattered the rushes beneath his feet, he somehow managed to remain upright.

 

Graeye hurried forward and caught his arm. “You are tired,” she said, hoping he would not thrust her away as he often did when she touched him—as if he truly believed the devil resided in her.

 

He looked down at her hand but did not push her away. “Aye, most tired.”

 

She urged him toward the stairs. “I will help you to your chamber.”

 

The wooden steps creaked alarmingly beneath their feet, soft in some places, brittle in others, reminding Graeye that she needed to set men the task of replacing them.

 

Up a second flight of stairs they went, down a narrow corridor, and into the lord’s chamber where Graeye tossed the covers back from the bed. “I will send a servant to awaken you when supper is ready,” she said as her father collapsed on the mattress.

 

“Supper.” He grunted. “Nay, a wench and ale will far better serve me.”

 

He asked for the same thing each evening, and each time she sent a manservant to deliver him to the hall. It was bold, but thus far he had allowed it.

 

Graeye pulled the covers over him, but as she straightened, Edward caught hold of her hand. “A grandson,” he groaned. “’Tis all I ask of you.”

 

Pity surged through her as she gazed into his pleading eyes. He was vulnerable, pained, heartbroken. Here was a man of whom she was no longer frightened—the one who should have been her father these past eleven years. Perhaps it was not too late.

 

Graeye knew she should not entertain such thoughts. After all, had she not been Edward’s only chance for a male heir, he would not have sent for her. Knowing this should have been enough to banish false hope, but she could not help herself.

 

She bent, kissed his weathered cheek, and whispered, “A grandson you will have. This I vow.” When she lifted her head, his eyes shone with gratitude amid brimming tears.

 

“I thank you,” he muttered, his fingers gripping hers tightly. Moments later, he fell asleep.

 

Graeye withdrew from his chamber and quietly closed the door. She had taken but a single step toward the stairs when a sound drew her attention. Chills pricking her skin, she slowly turned toward the small chapel at the end of the corridor. As no torches were lit beyond Edward’s chamber, she squinted to see past the shadows, but they were too deep.

 

As much as she longed to return to her chores belowstairs, she knew she must eventually face the memories that had haunted her dreams since that first night at Medland. Determinedly squaring her shoulders, she drew a full breath and walked forward.

 

What had caused the noise? she wondered, refusing to allow her imagination to believe it had anything to do with her brother’s death. A rat, perhaps, or a breeze stirring the rushes about the chapel.

 

As she drew near, the sound became that of scratching and quick, shallow breathing.

 

Heart feeling as if it tested the bounds of her ribs, Graeye halted and peered into the shadows. “Who goes?” she demanded, hating that her voice shook betrayingly.

 

Silence, then a deep groan. An instant later, a large figure leapt out of the darkness and skidded to a halt before her.

 

Mouth wide with the scream she had nearly loosed, she stared at the great, mangy dog. “Oh, Groan!”

 

Tongue lolling, he wagged his tail so vigorously his backside jerked side to side.

 

Graeye sank to her knees and slid an arm around him. “You are naughty for frightening me,” she scolded and turned her face away when he tried to lick it.

 

As she stroked his head, she remembered how frightened of the beast she had been when he had introduced himself during her first meal at Medland. She had rarely been around dogs, certainly never one of such grand proportions, and had shrieked when he had laid his slavering chin upon her lap. That had gained her nothing but humiliation, for the dog had not moved, and her father’s men had roared with laughter.

 

She had dislodged him by tossing food to him, but always he returned to her and Edward had advised that if she beat him rather than feed him, he would not bother her. Such callous words had replaced her fright with a longing to protect him.

 

Since that day, Groan—as she had named him due to his penchant for making that horrible sound—had attached himself to her. And he had more than once proved valuable.

 

Recalling the night, a sennight after she had returned to Medland, when Sir William had cornered her as she readied to bed down in the hall, she shuddered. The vile man had taunted her with cruel words, and his hands had bruised her as he familiarized himself with her cringing body. Though he was to be her husband, and she had known it was unlikely she could prevent ravishment, she had fought him. It had not deterred him. In fact, he had seemed to enjoy her resistance. Even as he had torn her bliaut and laid hands to her flesh, he had threatened that if she bore him a child with the same mark she carried, he would kill it himself.

 

That had frightened her more than the inevitable violation of her body. She had been about to scream when Groan appeared. Snapping and snarling, he had circled William, bunching his body as he readied to attack.

 

The man who had thought nothing of exerting his greater strength over a frightened woman had retreated, leaving Graeye to offer profuse thanks to her unlikely champion.

 

Now, conveniently forgetting her resolve to face the memories that had been birthed within the chapel, she straightened. “Come,” she said. “I will find you a nice morsel.”

 

The dog looked over his shoulder, back at her, then returned to the chapel door and resumed his scratching and sniffing.

 

Graeye pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. Sooner or later, she would have to go inside and brave her fears. It might as well be now.

 

She stepped forward. “Shall we see what interests you, Groan?” When she pushed open the door, he rushed in ahead of her.

 

It was not like that first night when a profusion of candlelight had greeted Graeye. Today, the chapel was dim, its only source of light that which shone from the small window that had been opened to air out the room.

 

Crossing herself, Graeye stepped inside. Instantly, her gaze was drawn to the high table that stood against the far wall. Her brother had been laid out on it that first night, his ravaged, decomposing corpse emitting a horrible stench. She could still smell it. And found herself reliving when Edward had brought her here. She had been unable to cross the threshold for the smell that assailed her, and so he had thrust her inside.

 

“I would have you see Philip with your own eyes,” he had said, “that you might know the brutality of his murder.” He had pulled her forward and swept aside the covering to reveal the festering wounds and Philip’s awful death mask.

 

“See the marks on his hands and chest?” He had run his fingers over the stiffened corpse. “These he survived. ’Twas the arrow that killed him.”

 

Battling nausea, Graeye asked, “Arrow?” She saw no evidence of such a wound.

 

“Took it in the back!” Edward’s face turned crimson as he stared into his son’s sightless eyes.

 

Anxious to withdraw, Graeye touched his sleeve. “Let us speak elsewhere. This is not the place—”

 

“The Balmaine witch and her brother did this to him!”

 

Graeye’s head snapped back. Balmaine? Was that not the family under which Philip had completed his knighthood training, the same whose properties bordered those of Medland?

 

“I do not understand, Father. The Balmaines are responsible for this?”

 

He looked up, the hate upon his face so tangible it gripped a cold hand about her heart. “Gilbert Balmaine challenged your brother to a duel, and when Philip bettered him, his wicked sister put an arrow through his back.”

 

Graeye gasped. Though her familial ties were strained by the long years of absence, she was appalled to learn of the injustice done her brother.

 

“Why?” she whispered.

 

Edward gripped her upper arm. “’Twas the Balmaine woman’s revenge upon Philip for breaking his betrothal to her.”

 

Graeye had not known her brother was to wed. Despair over the lost years gripping her, she wondered if things would have been different had her mother lived and Graeye had been allowed to grow up at Medland.

 

“Why would Philip break the betrothal?” she asked, and flinched when Edward’s fingers bit into her flesh.

 

“She was a harlot—gave herself to another man days before she was to wed Philip. He could not wed her after such a betrayal.”

 

Graeye clenched her hands. What evil lurked in a woman’s heart that made her seek such means of revenge? “When did he die?”

 

“Over a fortnight past.”

 

She glanced at his corpse. “Why has he lain in state so long?”

 

“He was returned to me nine days ago over the back of his horse,” Edward said, the corners of his mouth collecting spittle.

 

“Whence?”

 

“One of the northern shires—Chesne.”

 

“The north? But what was he—?”

 

“Be silent!” Edward gave her a shake. “The Balmaine is my enemy—ours! Do not forget what you have seen here, for we will have our revenge.”

 

“Nay, we must forgive, Father. ’Tis not for us to judge. That is God’s place.”

 

“Do not preach at me!” He drew his arm back as if to strike her and she instinctively shrank from him.

Then, abruptly, he released her. “I will have my revenge,” he barked. “And you, Daughter, will pass the night here and pray Philip’s soul into heaven.”

 

She shook her head. It was too much to ask. If there was not yet disease in this chamber, soon there would be. She pulled free, spun around, and ran for the door.

 

With a gasp, Graeye dragged herself back to the present. She did not need to relive any more of that night to exorcise her memories. There was not much else to them other than endless hours of prayer. Locked in the chapel, she had knelt before the altar and prayed for her brother’s soul and her own deliverance until dawn when a servant had let her out. Since then, she had not come near this place.

 

Groan’s bark brought her head around. “What have you found?” she asked.

 

Crouching low, he pushed his paws beneath the kneeler and swatted at something that gave a high-pitched cry.

 

“Is it a bird?” No sooner did she ask it than a young falcon flew out from beneath the kneeler and swept across the chapel.

 

Had it slipped free of the mews? Graeye wondered as she rushed to close the door so it would not escape into the rest of the castle.

 

It took patience and effort, but between her and Groan chasing it about, the falcon finally found the small window and its freedom. Gripping the sill, Graeye watched the bird arc and dip in the broad expanse of sky.

 

How would it feel to have wings? she wondered. To fly free and—

 

She chastised herself for such foolish yearnings. There was nothing she had wanted more than to come home to Medland and assume her place as lady of the castle. In spite of the obstacles encountered these past weeks, and that she must wed a man she loathed, she had never known greater fulfillment.

 

With the abbey forever behind her, her future was assured. That, no one could take from her.