weight of a man - partial manuscript

8/12/2019 Weight of a Man - partial manuscript

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Theresa Butler

[Address omitted]

[Phone omitted]

[email protected]

Weight of a Man

a novel by Theresa Butler

about 23,000 words


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Prologue

20 January, Year of Our Lord 1338

To the noble and most esteemed Guy de Beaumont, Comt de

Dieppe: I write to call upon your good graces at my time of

need. As you well know, Father has been gone for two years and I

have taken control of his lands and other holdings. This

includes the keep of my father's youngest child, your niece,

Edana.

My wife is at wits end attempting to run a household while

Edana continues subjugating her position. Edana is petulant,

controlling and uncivilized. Lady Marie, your sister, failed in

Edana's education. It seems my father did the same. It ruined


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Edana for any respectable man or any respectable position in

this household. No man will marry her; she will have no man.

The current climate of war in Scotland requires my

continued presence in diplomatic undertakings. I cannot

possibly seek to control her. I ask that you receive her as your

ward and do with her as you see fit. Marry her off, teach her a

few lessons, break her. I wash my hands of this if you choose to

undertake the task. Please respond promptly.

May the Holy Spirit keep you, Sir Thomas Murray


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Chapter 1

High atop a cliff along the northern coast of France sat

Castle Dieppe like a mighty king holding court from upon his

throne. Unyielding and imperious, it surveyed all the land and

people in its care, a silent warning to those who visited the

thriving port not to tarry too long with ill will lest the

sleeping giant be roused from its slumber; waking a force could

be ruinous to all those who were foolish enough to attempt such

a feat. For the most part, the unspoken truce remained, but

jagged scars cleaved into the walls and repaired with off

colored stone surrounding the keep told of all the times when

such truces had been broken. When lord battled lord, when mere

words and silent warnings meant nothing to calm discontent


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enemies, and when only the clash of steel ringing high in the

morning air could make the world right again. Even then, the

castle remained--forever resolute upon its advantageous perch.

It all might have been grotesquely beautiful, Edana

supposed, if it did not also embody everything she despised.

When she, with poor eyesight, glimpsed the crenellations carved

into a darkening sky for the first time, she knew without any

doubt she could never love it or the people within it. Castle

Dieppe may have withstood the test of time and battle, a beacon

of protection for the surrounding land and an important bastion

of strength for the kingdom, but such a strength carried with it

a horrifically sinister side. Not only would the fortifications

keep the unwanted out with little worry, but so too could it

imprison, holding against their will those who wished to choose

anything other than the predetermined path of a noble life. Her

life. The one in which she had no reasonable means of escape

from, save jumping overboard the ship ferrying her to the

future.

Pregnant gray clouds hung on the distant horizon, pushing

closer to the castle and promising to soak the stone giant

carved into an otherwise tranquil pasture of emerald green. A

damp chill crept into the thick cloak and shook her body until

she pulled the garment tighter to her chest. She hunched her

thin shoulders and sunk as far down into the collar of soft fox


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fur as it would allow. The scent of a sweet spring rain on the

wind whistled around her and whipped the auburn streamers of

hair back from her face. All too soon, it vanished. Left in

its wake was the stench of grimy sailors, rotting fish, and the

musty saltiness of the sea churning around them. She gagged and

took a step forward, attempting to catch the sweet breeze again.

The ship beneath her rose high and dropped over a choppy

wave, sending her stumbling forward. She grabbed for something

to steady herself but found only air until two huge paws laid

upon her shoulder and arm to right her. Edana looked up at the

hulk of a man standing over her, shading her from what was left

of the midday sun overhead. Sir Domnall mac Cormaic puffed out

his barrel chest and stared down at her with dark, serious eyes.

He grumbled low in his chest, a sound of warning that Edana had,

against her nature, learned to heed without question from an

early age. "Thank you, Domnall."

He rumbled again and nodded his head to the tight space

between barrels and the edge of the ship she had momentarily

vacated for more pleasurable air. "Stay where you are put," he

ordered.

"When have I ever done such a thing?" She hoped to lighten

his constant churlish mood, but knew it to be pointless. Even

on his best day, he still reminded Edana of a surly bear woken

far too early from its winter sleep.


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"You will stay where I put you," he repeated, "at least

until I have delivered you safely into your uncle's care. Then

whatever you do is your burden to bear."

Edana bit her tongue and irritably slipped back into her

place while Domnall stepped forward to block her into the tiny

area. He had maintained that confining her there was to protect

her; he did not trust the sailors. Nor did he trust the reports

that pirates abound or the fact that the English could appear

out of a thick fog at any time and overtake the ship. However,

the voyage had been absolutely--unnervingly--dull. Now that

they were within sight of land, she did not see the reason

behind such overprotection. No one would be foolish enough to

attack them this close to port without inciting all out war.

Just once she would have preferred to breathe, even if it was

offensive air.

"You will have to let me go eventually."

He cast her a long look. "Not if I can help it, milady."

"Thomas gave you strict instructions to leave me and return

home as soon as you were able."

Domnall pursed his thin lips and turned his assessing black

gaze back on the horizon. "So he did."

Edana sighed. She hated hearing the sound of resignation

in the man's voice more than she did in her own; a younger

Domnall would never roll over like a dog submissive to his


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master. But she saw exhaustion in his wizened eyes and heard it

more in his voice. He was tired of fighting a losing battle.

This knowledge of the strong man made her heart heavy.

"Perhaps," he finally spoke with some thoughtfulness, "I

will find myself unable to leave at once."

She bit her lower lip to quell the smile from blooming on

her face. "I should like it if you stay forever."

"My home is Scotland, milady," he replied.

Edana swallowed around a hard lump in her throat and turned

her gaze away from him. Icy fury shivered up her back and

filled her heavy heart with hatred. Her fingers curled around

the edges of her cloak, gripping the cloth as though it was

about to be forcefully wrenched from her body. It did nothing

to calm her.

"My apologies," Domnall said quickly. "I did not mean..."

She blew a small stream of air from her lips and lifted her

shoulders in an unconcerned gesticulation, hoping it had fooled

him into believing she had accepted her fate.

He cleared his throat. "I owe your brother my allegiance,

just as I gave it to your father. And he commands that I shall

return. So I shall. At some time."

"Thomas knows he cannot hold the Firth without you

commanding the garrison." It was not conjecture, but fact.


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"Your men are the majority of Loirston Castle's defense. That

is the only reason he has commanded you to return."

The right corner of Domnall's lips quirked up, but that was

as close to a smile or derisive smirk as she would ever receive.

"Your brother is as able a man as I have ever met. I am sure he

could accomplish great things were he pressed."

Edana snorted. "Perhaps able to drink and whore, but not

much else. Father would be ashamed at the man he became while

fighting with Moray and Mar."

Domnall's back straightened uncomfortably beneath his heavy

furs. "I have indulged you enough with this talk. I will not

speak poorly about my liege, even to his sister."

"Even when it is true?"

Domnall cast her another look of warning, lips clamped

tightly into a thin line to keep from rebuking her further.

Edana realized she may have deserved it for how she had spoken

about her brother, but was not convinced he did not deserve it.

Thomas' ineptitude on the battlefield was a well known fact

throughout the Highlands, disguised only by his personal charm

and bravado. Without knowing anything else about him, Edana at

least believed that was enough to disavow anyone of their oaths

of fealty.

When she knew she would get no further with her argument,

Edana set her jaw and turned to scan the swiftly increasing


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shoreline. A small colorful procession had started from the

castle and moved slowly down the sandy path worn into the side

of the hill. Two men bearing the green and silver standard of

Dieppe rode two black beasts at the head of the column.

Following them was a colorful retinue and two riderless horses

in the rear.

"The count came for you, at least," Domnall remarked.

Edana sighed. She had no doubt her uncle cared for her

more than her brother; any one person could care for her more

than her brother ever had. Even Domnall in his accursed

indifference had more of a care in her life than Thomas. It was

no surprise that her uncle had likely interrupted a busy day to

meet them at the docks. But, she mused, there was also the

possibility he had done so only to make certain she arrived at

the castle and did not wander off into the French wilderness.

She had certainly considered it on more than one occasion.

"I hate this," she sulked.

Her companion merely stared forward. He would never say he

agreed with her. Duty, honor, and allegiance dictated he did

not.

A loud, clear voice in Scotch accented French called toward

the men on the docks to prepare for the ship to anchor. Edana

watched with some interest as those on land and on the ship

conducted the intricate dance of their trade, hoping above all


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hopes it would relieve her mind of the worries currently

floating through it. She envied them and their usefulness; the

work would have been preferable to standing idly on deck wedged

into a tiny space and guarded like a prisoner. Though, she

supposed, prisoner was as close to describing what she would be

upon setting foot on French soil. She had certainly boarded the

ship as one back in Scotland.

The ship came to a bobbing stop at the dock as a chilling

mist began to fall from the heavens. Edana curled her nose and

closed her eyes in an attempt to gather herself, letting the

fine rain prick and sting her face. She would remain well

mannered. She would be pleasant. She would prove everyone else

wrong and that she was capable of more.

"Milady?" said the rumbly voice at her elbow.

Edana blinked at Domnall. "Hmm?"

He pointed at the opened egress and wooden plank spanning

the small distance between ship and dock. Edana stepped out of

her position and past the sentry who had been her constant

companion. The sailors paused in their work, watching with

knowing eyes as she passed them, each making a quick prostration

before returning to their tasks.

She stopped before stepping over the edge, looking down at

the men at the dock and once more at the noble assembly standing

on the sandy shore waiting to take her to her dungeon. The


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sourness in her belly that had not ceased since leaving Scotland

increased to insurmountable proportions. Edana grasped the

ledge of the boat for an anchor for the swaying motion she still

sensed in her body.

"Milady?" Concern had filled Domnall's voice. A huge paw

rested on her arm, whether to hold her up or force her forward,

she did not know.

Edana pulled her arm away from him. His nursemaid role was

beginning to wear thin. She would not break as easily as he

must have suspected she might after what had happened. "Shall

we?"

She left Domnall shaking his head and picked her way

carefully down the wooden plank and onto the dock, her legs

unsteady beneath her. Domnall's hard-soled boots clomped down

after her, but he did not pause to regain his sea legs as she

had required. When she looked up for him again, she realized a

leanly muscled man had dismounted his horse. He strode across

the beach with a lightness in his step and a purposeful gait.

Time had not changed the Comt de Dieppe except for the

deepened creases and lines at the corners of his slate gray

eyes; the same look of perplexed concern knit his brow. Age had

whitened his closely cropped hair, but his countenance was

otherwise sturdy and his shoulders broad. She remembered from

her childhood that he had seemed huge, much like Domnall, but


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his immensity did not come in brute strength. His was a

palpable energy--a vitality and zest of life that no Scottish or

English man could ever match. It made him seem enormous even

outside the castle hall he commanded.

When he stopped in front of her, she curtseyed lowly and

then stood to full height which was not so grand compared to

him. "My lord."

"You need not stand on ceremony with me, child," he replied

with a smile and turned to Domnall. "My old friend."

"Not so old as you, Beaumont," Domnall grabbed her uncle's

forearm in familiar greeting. "You seem ancient."

The man laughed, clasping a hand on Domnall's shoulder for

a moment before stepping away. "Come! This rain has made us all

soggy. We have warm fires and the best ale in the province."

With little more discussion, they made their way along the

path until they reached the others waiting for their liege.

Edana glanced quickly at all of them--most of them knights and

squires in her uncle's service--but tried not to focus on the

fact that all were assessing her. Frankly. No doubt she had

already been the subject of idle rumor well before she had

arrived, but she could only imagine what they would say now

about the bedraggled, half drowned woman the count had greeted

in such an informal manner.


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"I apologize for not bringing a carriage." Her uncle

grabbed the reins of a pretty dappled gray horse, small and

utilitarian. She was a beauty, but nothing more. Nothing like

the magnificent and sleek palfreys and chargers the other riders

sat comfortably astride. "The wheels have a propensity to bury

into the wet sand," he said, drawing her back from the

inspection of the horse.

Edana afforded him a pleasant smile. "I am an able rider,

Uncle."

He looked to Domnall for confirmation of her abilities.

Without waiting for him to turn back, she slipped her foot into

the stirrup and lifted herself, cumbersome sodden gown and all,

over the saddle. She settled carefully into place before

looking back at the two men.

"Aye, Beaumont," Domnall said with begrudging amusement in

his tone. "She is a horsewoman."

"Like her mother." Her uncle smiled fondly at the memory

of his sister, but Edana noticed the dark cloud pass over

Domnall's face. He took the reins of the horse offered to him

and turned away from her so she did not see it.

After her uncle had lifted onto his horse and turned back

around to them, he gave her face an open perusal. "It's like

Marie looking back at me."


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She pursed her lips. Her mother had looked like her uncle:

lean, fair and golden. Edana was lean and tall, but nothing of

the other two. Her proud jaw and ruddy skin came from her

father's people. What could he possibly see that was similar?

He turned his horse and spoke to his men, urging them

forward and back toward the path up the side of the hill. Edana

squeezed her thighs and the docile animal beneath her lurched

forward, slowly ambling its way across the sandy beach with no

urgency. Squeezing harder did nothing to spur the animal on

toward the path. Domnall returned to Edana's side as soon as he

realized they were not keeping with the party like a shepherd

dog biting at her heels.

"She will not move," Edana murmured under her breath. The

others looked back in laughing interest.

Domnall, in all solemnity, leaned over and lightly slapped

the horse on the rump. The horse came to life and began a

manageable trot toward the pathway. When Domnall returned to

her side, she looked up at him in silent gratitude. "I will

locate a more suitable animal for you before I depart," he said.

She mouthed a second thank you.

"Are you well?" called her uncle.

Edana felt the heat of embarrassment on her face. She

bowed her head and focused forward. "Nothing to concern yourself

with, Uncle."


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He chuckled and said something so quickly in his native

tongue she did not quite understand it. However, the exact

words to leave his mouth did not matter. The chorus of laughter

from the others was enough of a translation to set her jaw in

frustrated humiliation.


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Chapter 2

A short while later, Beaumont found himself sitting with

his back to a blazing fire in the giant stone hearth of his

private office, attending to the correspondence he had

momentarily neglected to retrieve his niece at the docks. No

business could wait; it seemed as though everyone needed

something from him. His vassals needed approval for use of this

or that land and the king's advisors required an updated rolls

of all the knights in Dieppe's company. One of his outlying

lookouts had noticed an increase of activity along the border

with Amiens. The kitchen needed more crockery for the

festivities planned in a week's time, and the stablemaster


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needed new livery due to an unfortunate incident of his own

making at the tannery.

It felt like everyone needed a piece of him, but he had

only a few pieces to give. He was not, however, in the frame of

mind to give anything to them. His body ached from the cold and

the mind which had once been so sharp had dulled like a blade

left unattended in its sheath. There was nothing in the world

that he wanted to do more than spend time with his guests, but

even managing a short discussion with them seemed impossible.

He did not relish adding the worry of his difficult niece

to his already extensive list of worries, even though it was his

duty to his sister that he watch over Edana when Murray refused

to do so. She would not, however, be allowed to squander away

her hours instigating trouble; she had a purpose to serve, just

as everyone else in the castle did, whether she knew it--or

accepted it.

The wooden door to the quiet room scraped against the

flagstone flooring, breaking his thoughts. He lifted his eyes

to see who had interrupted his solitude, ready to berate the

person, but stopped himself when he saw the yellow-haired youth

step into the dimness of the chamber. The lithe boy managed a

straight-backed show of reverence and then righted himself,

shoulders back, chin proud. "You asked for me, my lord?"


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Beaumont sighed and sat up in his seat, grabbing his quill

and dipping it into the inkhorn beside him. He signed the

bottom of the letter he had finished composing and blew on the

wet ink before folding and sealing it with wax and the imprint

of his crest. The youth reached for the missive when it was

offered across the table.

Beaumont did not release his grasp until the boy looked up

at him. "Take this to your master."

"Yes, m'lord."

"Do not delay in getting this to Conrad. "

The youth nodded. Beaumont sat back in his seat and waved

the boy on, but stopped him as he reached the door. "Jackin,

wait!"

Jackin spun on his booted feet to face him.

"Be sure to stay clear of Amiens. We have reports of

English scouts around Maximilian's lands."

"I will," Jackin said. "My master will be waiting for me."

With a curt nod of his head, the quiet boy disappeared out

the door, letting the heavy iron and wood groan shut just before

it opened again with a creak on the rusty hinges. Beaumont

pinched the part of his nose between his eyes, wishing the work

would cease for a little while, or that people would at least

let him alone to complete it. He did not acknowledge the new


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addition to the room and instead reached for the half-finished

letter to the king.

"My lord."

Beaumont paused in the slow arch of transcribing a sum onto

the clean parchment before him and set the quill in his hand to

the side. Shrewd brown eyes stared back until he was

acknowledged. "Yes, Henr?"

"Are those the garrison rolls to be sent to the king?"

"They are," Beaumont replied. "I am nearly finished."

"I would be pleased to do it for you," Henr said.

Beaumont waved Henr's comment away but grabbed the stack

of parchment to his right elbow, holding it out to the small

man. "These should be your work. Please answer them. Give them

what they need."

"Certainly," Henr replied, but did not retreat from his

spot.

Beaumont raised a brow in question. "Did you require

anything else?"

"Your niece, my lord," he began slowly, forming the words

carefully and thoughtfully on his tongue.

"She arrived while you were afield." He picked up the

quill again. "I did not think it pertinent to retrieve you from

your duties to attend her. Philippa was easy enough to call

from your brother to see to her."


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Henr vacillated.

Beaumont did not pause in his work and stuck four fingers

out, laying them on the desk as he counted aloud the number of

retainers from the south that would conscript into service.

"Un, deux, trois, quatre..."

Beaumont scratched the sum onto the thick paper. He

glanced up again, noting that the pointy-faced man had begun

wringing his hands. "What is it, Henr? Spit it out."

"Well, my lord," Henr began, "she is not as we had

originally planned. She has many more years than--"

Holding up a hand, Beaumont stopped his words. "I

underestimated."

"On the rolls?"

"No, her age," Beaumont replied.

"Conrad expects a girl."

Beaumont tossed his quill aside and stood from his seat.

That was the last worry on his long list he wished not to think

upon, but Henr was right. He was always right; Beaumont had

made him a steward for that reason.

The lord of Arras had been promised a headstrong but

malleable girl, not a fully grown woman, firmly entrenched in

her ways. Any plans for a successful and lawful union of their

families and their military might now seemed impossible despite

their long history with each other. Beaumont could not imagine


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the fallout should he fail to make this alliance for his king.

He prayed the plea in the letter now in Jackin's hands would not

fall on deaf ears.

"I sent Jackin back with a missive," Beaumont replied.

"Conrad will come because of the tournament regardless of any

wedding. Hopefully he will still agree to the terms of the

betrothal."

Henr pursed his lips. "But, my lord, your niece... she

will not agree to it."

Beaumont cringed and reached up on the carved stone arcing

the hearth, pressing his hand against the warmth and leaning

into the heat of the flames. "She has no choice in the matter."

"With all respect, but I have only just met her in passing

through the halls," Henr said. "She did not seem... amenable."

"I am aware." Beaumont closed his eyes for a moment before

stepping back from the fire. "But she will do it because she

trusts me."

"Are you so certain?"

The count nodded his head and slipped back into his vacated

seat. "It may have been long ago that I last saw her, but we

have always had an affinity, my niece and I. She is very much

like Lady Marie. You would not know that."


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Henr found nothing more to say to him and let out a low

sigh. "Very well, my lord. I trust your judgment on the matter

as you clearly know her better than anyone else."

Beaumont chose to ignore the mild disdain in Henr's voice.

The steward deserved a reprimand for his show of impertinence,

but Beaumont withheld his annoyance. Henr's misgivings were

well founded; he did not know Edana as well as he said he had.

She had been a very young child the last he had seen of her in

Scotland where he had helped her organize a coup on the page

boys with hundreds of tiny snowballs. Perhaps he had even

encouraged the behavior; Marie, for her part, had complained

about continually indulging Edana.

Both men looked toward the door when a light knocking on

the entrance filled the hollow space. "Come," Beaumont called.

The guard at the door opened it wide and stepped back in a

courteous bow as he admitted the subject of the conversation

into the room. She thanked the guard as he retreated outside

into the corridor.

"Come! Sit!" Beaumont pointed to the bench on the other

side of the table that she took with no hesitation or care to

acknowledge the other man in the room. She looked less like the

drowned rat he'd retrieved from the docs, and had both washed

the grime from her fair skin and found dry clothing. In this

state, she seemed almost docile, as though the wild had been


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taken out of her. However, he had a feeling it was only masked

by the fetching gown and tight braids woven around her head.

"Henr was just leaving."

The steward bowed out of the room with little more to say,

leaving them alone in silence but for the occasional pop of the

fire. Beaumont poured wine from the decanter on his table into

two goblets, handing one to her. She eyed it speculatively, but

took a small sip anyway. "Thank you."

He smiled and rested back into his seat, considering her.

She was no great beauty; she looked more Murray than Beaumont,

but she had her mother's finely boned features and thin Norman

nose. The hardy Scots in her blood, however, shone through

everywhere else. "Did you find everything to your liking in your

rooms?"

"Yes," she replied. "It is more comfortable than the

chamber at Loirston. The English--when they laid siege the last

time--damaged the chamber I had lived in before. My new

quarters were very small and cramped. My maid and I could

barely fit into it, and the masons were busy fixing other

locations. But I am sure Thomas intended for them to take as

long as possible."

He chuckled at her and leaned his elbows on the table in

front of him. "What is it about your brother that you hate so

much?"


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Edana huffed. "It isn't one thing. It is everything. He

has done nothing to earn his place and yet he feels he deserves

complete allegiance."

"I've heard reports to the contrary."

She would not even consider the facts, and instead shook

her head. "You do not know him like I do, Uncle."

"Perhaps your opinion of him is colored by his attempts to

curtail your frivolousness?"

Dead silence filled the room as she set her proud, square

jaw. He held her hard stare, waiting for her to respond. When

he thought he had stumped her, she opened her mouth. "He left me

with a dying father and the English pushing closer to the

castle. Loirston was under siege for months before he deigned

to return, and we had already beaten Edward back."

Edana, by this time, had vacated her seat and paced the

length of the long banquet table, her hands pressed so tightly

together in front of her that the knuckles had turned white.

Back and forth, he watched. "They had cut us off from any

resource and half of our people were starved to death..."

Back.

"Or very near it by the time he arrived. He sees himself

as a conquering hero, but he is the furthest from it."

Forth.


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"He cares nothing for his people and more for the accolades

he can receive fighting with two lords somewhere else in

Scotland."

She stopped suddenly and gave him a pointed look. "Now you

cannot sit there and tell me I should maintain an unquestioning

devotion to the man who only abhors me because he did not like

my mother."

Beaumont waited for the impassioned tirade to subside

before he even dared responding to her. He had imagined Thomas'

letter requesting his assistance in taking Edana to be greatly

exaggerated, but not in this amount of fallacy. Even then, he

did not know what to believe and had to rely on what he could

ascertain from her interactions with others so far in Dieppe.

Edana had a streak of pride as wide as France, and that did not

bode well for her place at this castle, especially in Conrad's

hands.

"Though it may be true," he said, "I need you to forget

about the past. You are in France now and under my protection,

and if Thomas is as lazy as you say, he will not be coming for

you any time soon. I suggest you begin now in making this your

home."

Edana ground her teeth and cast her eyes down. "Of course,

Uncle."


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He straightened his back, tired muscles and joints

protesting the movement. "We are preparing for a tournament in a

week's time. You will have the opportunity to meet all of the

vassals and retainers in Dieppe's control. It is my hope that

they will all come to look at you favorably as I hope you will

help Henr with the duties of running the household while you

are here. This castle has been lacking a feminine touch for too

long."

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Is that all I am

to be relegated to?"

"What else do you expect to do?" he asked. "Help plan

strategy with the king? March a garrison to Hainault to face

Edward?"

Edana shook her head. "No, of course not. But I do not

want to be stuck in a chamber all day sewing. All Thomas

allowed me after he returned was sewing."

"Truthfully?"

"Yes! You may inquire about it if you wish," she replied.

"Domnall will tell you."

He ignored her. "Regardless, in the morning, you will need

to begin working with the kitchen concerning the tournament and

also with Henr in preparing for the guests we will be

expecting. It is important that this goes off without an issue


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we are relying on this opportunity to curry favor with our

nearest foreign neighbors before the English get to them."

"I will do anything so long as its purpose is to ruin

England," she replied.

"Well, at least we're able to agree on something."

Beaumont once again reached for his quill and looked at the

incomplete letter laying on his table. He wanted no piece of

it. In some way he understood Edana's unyielding hatred of

everything having to do with her place in the world; he found no

relaxation or happiness in writing a rolls that would eventually

end in sending men to war. But there were times when the

difficult decisions had to be made, and he was the only one with

the title and right to do it, save the king himself.

Edana sighed. "Will you walk with me for a bit so I do not

get lost?"

He needed no other temptation to make him drop the quill

onto the table. The difficult tasks could wait for the morning;

the royal messenger would not leave until first light anyway.

He planned to enjoy what little time he could with his niece in

hopes of learning more about her before Conrad came to take her

away.


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Chapter 3

Any sort of goodwill Edana believed she was capable of

exhibiting while in her uncle's possession lasted less than one

full day, leaving the lord of the castle as mediator in fixing

her misery. Edana felt certain he would side with her in the

matter and stood to the side waiting for his pronouncement, a

proud chin held high by the heavy weight of coiled braids at the

base of her skull.

Her uncle, for his part, sat in the high-backed wooden

chair situated behind his long table in the middle of his

personal office, pale eyes flicking back and forth between her

and the sniveling maid after they had barged into his chamber

and created the scene. He adjusted in his seat and sat up


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straighter, placing his elbows on the armrests and steepled his

fingers in front of his lips. Edana blinked at him, watching

the rhythmic twitch of a muscle in his jaw.

"What are you telling me, Edana?" The count spoke with an

even tone, betraying nothing of what had been going through his

head. When he did not continue speaking, she shifted

uncomfortably on her feet. The hard stones beneath them froze

her toes and the dried rushes and herbs strewn across them

pricked at her bare skin. She wished she had thought to put

something on them before rushing from her chamber to take the

matter up with him. But this issue could not wait, even for a

more appropriate time when she was completely dressed and not

wearing anything more than a thin linen smock and cloak.

Edana spoke. "I cannot have Philippa as my maid."

"And why not?"

"She refuses to follow my instructions," Edana replied.

"Her voice is grating. And she has done nothing but turn her

nose up against me since you introduced me to her yesterday."

He sighed. "Mistress Philippa?"

"She would not wear a veil to mass, my lord," the old maid

replied and held out the white linen as though to show the man

what she meant. "She must wear a veil."

Beaumont drew in a slow breath and looked to the maid in

question who clutched the linen to her chest as though to


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protect her from the wrath of her lord. Edana pressed her mouth

together to keep the satisfied smirk from her lips.

"Philippa, you may return to your work," he said without

warning and a wave of his hand toward the door.

Edana gasped at his pronouncement, but the maid scurried to

the door as quickly as her feet could carry her rounded

physique. "Why did you send her away? She is the problem!"

Chair legs scraped across the stones and echoed off of the

walls in the hollow space. He rested his fists on the table

covered in parchment maps and documents. She recognized the

glare in his eyes as one of completely rage. "You mean to tell

me that you have not only come to me over an argument regarding

your personal dress--"

He paused and drew in a breath.

"But you have also done so at the expense of interrupting

me while I am at council?"

Edana blinked at his words and, for the first time since

she had entered the dim chamber, took a moment to look around

her. Men lined the room in varying stages of amusement and

disgust at having been swept aside into the dark reaches of the

room in deference to her immediate plight. These were not

pretty courtiers come to their lord's court with petty matters

of economy and justice; these were large, intimidating men

appearing both careworn and exhausted in mail shirts, plate


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armor and swords secured on their hips. Veils worn in daily

dress were of little concern to these men, no matter the battle

raging between maid and lady. Their battles were fought

elsewhere over more important causes.

"Uncle," she began, trying to think of a way to save

herself from complete embarrassment. She had so much to say to

him, but the expression on her uncle's face told her all she

needed to know. Her words and any argument she brought to him

would fall on deaf ears.

Beaumont stood to his full imposing height and straightened

the tunic on his shoulders in an effort to compose himself.

Edana prayed it would be for that purpose rather than in

preparation to further berate her for interrupting him. She had

never seen a man so livid. "And you've done so practically

naked."

Edana glanced around the room again as she listened to the

uncomfortable clank and grind of metal against metal spread

throughout the deafening silence within the room. Feeling a

chill skitter up her spine and no little amount of shyness, she

pulled her cloak tighter around her body, but did not move as if

rooted in her spot. This meant the world to her, whether or not

it did the same to these men. She felt certain that her uncle

could take a few short moments to do what she needed. Their

problems could wait.


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"Henr will handle reassigning your maid," he said in

dismissal. "If he deems it necessary. That is his duty."

She bristled at the notion. "He will not listen to me, my

lord."

Beaumont's back stiffened at her words. She could

practically see his hair bristle. He swallowed and flattened

his lips into a thin, dour line. "Do you see these men, Edana?"

To emphasize his point, he swept his wide arms around the room.

Edana refused to look at them again and stood staring

straight at him.

"They are here to tell me that our defenses to the west

have come under attack," he said. "They are here to say that

good men have died protecting the borders--protecting you. Good

men, who, for all purposes, were already indispensible to us as

we anticipate war."

He stalked her from around his table. For the first time

since arriving in Dieppe, she felt miniscule. And fearful. He

was no longer an uncle or even a nobleman, but rather a warrior

and commander facing down one of his occupation's worst tasks.

Somehow he had completely transformed into a formidable, fairly

terrifying man who did not suffer the whims of women well and

had seen too much death in his life to care of small-mindedness.

Strong hands grasped her shoulders and poked through the

material covering them with bruising strength. He spun her to


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face the men until she could look nowhere else but at them and

their current state. She noticed for the first time splatters

of dark grime covering their tunics, obscuring most of the color

and design of their dress. It was difficult to tell whether it

was mud or something far worse in the low light of the room.

The prevailing scent of sweat, mud, and horse in the room,

however, only barely covered the strange metallic aroma of

blood. Her stomach turned over as it recognized the scent; she

would never forget it.

"I do not care whether Henr listens to you or not, or

whether your maid listens to you or not, or whether you wear a

veil on your head or a helm to mass," he said. "These men do not

care, either."

A slight, unpleasant shiver skittered up her spine; the

grimness in their expressions was not new to her. She

remembered the time when Domnall stood in the middle of her

chamber that day in the middle of her sixteenth year, relaying

to her the news from the battle raging outside the stronghold

walls. He had always had such a dour look, then made even more

unsettling with the blood and mud matting a graying beard and

the furs of his cloak, much like these men staring back at her

with no little amount of displeasure on their faces. Realizing

what these men must be thinking of her made her feel very small

indeed.


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Edana backed out of her uncle's grasp, turning to look at

him. "M-my apologies. I will leave."

Beaumont did not stop her. On her way from the room, she

heard him apologizing to the men, but only for a second until

the guard standing outside the door shut them away to their

council. She looked at the impassive man as he slipped back

into place beside the door, debating upon what she would do.

Her only options were to find Henr or go back to her chamber to

find her maid. Neither course bode well for her. The little

Frenchman who was her uncle's steward was the last person who

would help her, especially as he would consider it an affront

that she wished to have his brother's wife removed from such

lofty service. Philippa would simple look at her with that

damnable French arrogance and continue on, uncheck, because the

count had done nothing to reprimand her.

Still, Edana moved through the halls for her chambers

trying to think of some way to fix her problems, but with no

solutions presenting themselves. She did not know her enemy or

the people well enough to do battle with them. Only time would

afford her the ability to overcome them. At least she hoped.

Philippa had already returned to the chamber and began the

unnecessary task of sorting through the few articles of clothing

brought from Scotland that she had not yet assessed; Edana had

been, quite unceremoniously, informed by Henr the previous


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evening that a seamstress would be making her new garments

appropriate for a count's niece. The silver-haired woman lifted

a man's tunic and clucked her tongue against her teeth as she

muttered something under her breath. She tossed the fabric onto

a pile forming on top of a long cushioned bench near the large

casement window on the south-facing wall. One look told Edana

all she needed to know about those garments as opposed to the

two fine dresses laid delicately across a chair beside her.

The maid withdrew a pair of leggings from the depths of the

trunk and held them up for the same inspection. Edana saw

nothing wrong with them. There were no tears or thin fabric.

They were perfect for riding.

"Mon dieu," Philippa clucked. "It simply is not done here."

The leggings flew across the room and landed in the heap by

the open window, one leg hanging over the ledge. Edana grumbled

to herself and stepped into the room, rescuing her clothing from

the discard pile. "I will keep these."

"They are not proper for Dieppe's court," she said. "I am

under orders to see that you are suitable for court. It is my

post."

"I won't be wearing these when my uncle holds court. They

are used for riding."

Philippa's eyes widened with disbelief.


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"I will retain these garments for my use." Edana waved her

hand toward the open door. "If you wish to complain about it,

please see the count. I am certain he will welcome the

interruption."

The old maid shook her head and turned back to her work.

Making sure the leggings and tunic were well out of the

persistent woman's reach, Edana placed them in the small chest

in the corner of the room that held a weapon or two. There was

no telling what Philippa would think of those contents when she

came to it.

Before Edana could say anything more, a young chambermaid

popped into the room carrying with her a wooden bucket and

setting it beside the fireplace on the far wall. She glanced in

Edana's direction with a small bow and bent down to begin work

cleaning soot and ash from the flagstones.

"What's your name, girl?"

The girl startled at being addressed. She flew to her feet

and pushed messy dark curls behind her ears. "Apologies, my

lady. Matilda, my lady... that was the name given to me."

"Oh?" Edana asked, surprised at the odd accent to the

girl's French. "After the late countess?"

Matilda's cheeks tinged pink and she ducked her head,

finding her grubby dress much more interesting than holding a

conversation. "It is a possibility, my lady."


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"You are not from here."

"I am from Dieppe," she said.

"But your language--"

"She spent some time in Flanders early in her life,"

Philippa interjected.

Edana turned at the unwelcome intrusion. "I did not ask

you."

"You should not be speaking to Matilda," Philippa said.

"It's not your place. You speak to me and I speak to her."

"I shall make it Matilda's place," Edana replied. "She may

speak to me when she wishes and I will speak to her when I wish.

Do you know how to help a lady dress, Matilda?"

Matilda darted dark eyes back and forth between the two

women, the reticence to answer written on her face in a tight

and wavering smile. She seemed to fight a short battle within

herself before she let out a small puff of air that could have

been a sigh of aggravation. "I am learning, my lady. Philippa

is my tutor."

"That is quite enough," Philippa said. "I will help you

dress. Matilda's hands are covered in soot and ash and have no

place touching a lady's fine garments."

It seemed preposterous to think that a little dirt would

matter much to anyone but Philippa. Edana thought of the men

back in her uncle's solar covered in dark, dried blood and the


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muck from the wet earth in which they had fought and ridden

through. They would not look at the lacings on her back for

soot. From her knowledge of the ways of men, she knew they

would look everywhere else but at a lady's clothing.

But Philippa had a fondness for how a proper lady's

toilette worked. It had a method replete with customs and

caveats Edana did not understand and had never been made to

suffer, even under Thomas' thumb. Philippa would never consent

to allowing someone else to do her work.

"Very well." Edana sighed, conceding defeat. For just a

short while she would allow Philippa to continue on in her

position. At least until she could find a time catch her uncle

in a more amenable state. "Tomorrow, Matilda will help me

prepare for the day. Please make the necessary arrangements,

Mistress Philippa, as you have said that is your place to do

so."

Philippa's rage sparked around her as she curled her

fingers into fists and marched into a small antechamber that had

become a wardrobe. Edana looked back at the young maid standing

by the fireplace. "My thanks, Matilda."

Matilda bobbed her head and bent down to continue her work.

Edana closed her eyes and said a quiet prayer that what was left

of the day would be better, though she did not expect much help


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from whomever listened to the silent entreaties of the helpless.

They had not been listening to her for quite some time.


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Chapter 4

Summary (chapter unwritten): In this chapter, we meet Conrad as

he prepares to leave Arras for Dieppe, discussing plans with his

head squire Jackin. For his part, he is well aware of

Beaumont's plans to marry him to Edana for support in the fight

with England, but also needs Beaumont's protection from

Maxmilian, who is in control of much of the lands between Dieppe

and Arras, and who has blatantly sided with the English. While

Conrad knows the benefit of this alliance, he is not overly fond

of the fact that he will have a wife for iteven though it also

suits him to begin the process of producing an heir. He is

known for his cruelty and ruthlessness in all areas of his life;

he sees Edana as a means to an end and is prepared to break her.


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Chapter 5

A few afternoons later, Edana stood in the middle of her

chamber, adjusting a belt around her hips as the younger of her

two maids flitted around her like a persistent little bee. The

girl stepped back from Edana and surveyed her work with the tip

of her pink tongue stuck between her lips in concentration.

Matilda pursed her lips as she returned to Edana's side and the

lacings there. "Does it fit well, my lady?"

"Aye, it does," Edana replied. "Thank you, Matilda. Please

finish what you were doing with Philippa before I interrupted

you."

Matilda bowed away to her tutor, leaving the room in

silence until the muffled sound of heavy footfalls ricocheting


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off the stone floors and walls traveled closer to the chamber's

entrance. Edana did not turn until a male cleared their throat.

She turned to find the count standing in the doorway taking up

most of the space with his body. Behind his shoulder stood

Domnall, peering into the room with his black eyes and assessing

the scandalized maids standing within the room clutching gowns

and undergarments to their chests with wide-eyed shock. The

count's gray eyes assessed Edana's riding attire and then at

each of the maids. Edana looked down at herself and carefully

smoothed hands over the linen tunic covering her torso.

"My lord," said Philippa hastily, curtseying in her overly

pedantic way.

Edana bent simply, but did not stay in a bow for long. "My

lord, are you ready to leave on the ride you promised me?"

"Unfortunately, I must be detained here," Beaumont replied.

"You are more than welcome to go riding, if you wish. My men

will accompany you so you do not lose the way back."

"You mean if I try to run away?"

Philippa stifled a gasp with a hand over her mouth. Edana

rolled her eyes.

"I can care for myself, Uncle." She reached into the trunk

where the rest of her riding gear had been. Philippa did not

try to conceal her distaste, even in the count's presence, as

Edana shoved a short dagger into her boots. When she stood,


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Edana flipped the cowl resting on her shoulders up over her head

to hide the plainly coiled braid.

Edana straightened herself up to her uncle's amused

inspection of her person. A smirk had surfaced on his lips.

"No, certainly, I will tell my men to have a care for

themselves... but tell me, niece, do you make a habit of

dressing in men's clothing?"

"Only when I go riding," she replied.

Domnall made a low grunting sound in his throat, but said

nothing. Beaumont shook his head. "I trust you understand what

courtiers will say when you are seen walking about in men's

clothing, and what I will have to endure hearing about it."

"I care not what they think about my personal adornment. I

thought I had already made it clear with the veil Philippa

insisted I wear," Edana replied and pushed toward the door that

her uncle still blocked. "It is impossible to ride with any

speed or skill in a proper gown."

He shook his head with disapproval but let her pass without

saying anything more. She left them behind with little more

than a glance over her shoulder, causing a great stir as she

made her way through the great hall to an exterior outlet. Even

though she heard her uncle calling to a few of his men to follow

her, there was some confusion as to who or what they were

guarding. A boy could care for himself, after all; a woman


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could not. Not caring to wait for her uncle's men to comprehend

they were to attend a sheep in wolves' clothing, Edana continued

out to the stables.

The grooms met her with the most pitiful excuse for a horse

she had ever seen; the mare was only slightly more improved than

the sluggard that had transported her to the same stables seven

days past. That horse had been a sleek animal, though slightly

swayback and past its prime; the one now before her had not even

had opportunity to reach it, though it did not dance around like

an anxious filly should have. It was a small horse as horses

went, one of those wholly boring Spanish jennets she had been

loath to receive as gifts from suitors in Scotland. This one

was meant for a drippy lady who never rode astride and instead

preferred to sit to the side and allow a man to lead her

ploddingly through crowds excited to see a spectacle. For its

small stature, though, the animal was pleasing to the eye with

her dappled coat and brilliant brown eyes.

"She is a beautiful animal, but is there not one larger

and faster than her?" Edana looked between the two grooms with

the jennet, spying a magnificent brown beast bobbing its head

and clopping down the path behind them. The giant froze and

began to rear up on powerful muscles, but the older squire stood

with a firm hand on the reins, whispering to it soft platitudes


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until it settled into an agitated obedience. "Perhaps I can take

him?"

She pushed past the grooms, stopping the older squire with

a hand on his shoulder. The giant horse looked down at her,

almost appraisingly.

"It is my lord's best charger, my lady," said the squire.

"Where are you taking him?" Edana questioned.

"He's to be exercised, my lady."

Edana nodded, running her hands along the rippled shoulder

muscles of the animal. "This is perfect! I'll exercise him.

Saddle him for me?"

"Forgive me, my lady, but the other is better suited for

you."

She turned to find her uncle's steward standing with three

unimpressed looking men who had presumably been sent to

accompany her. It did not appear that Henr intended to go

riding as he was still in his courtly garb, but he had come out

to the stables nonetheless, most likely to make sure that

everything was still under his control. If there was one thing

she had learned since arriving to Dieppe, it was the Henr did

not much like sharing the power he had or allowing others to

ruin those plans he had made, whatever they were.

"I will take this horse," Edana said. The large horse

nickered impatiently and shifted his immense weight between his


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watching the horse and rider for only a moment longer. His

mount danced beneath him, sensing the tension in the air and in

his rider, ready to take flight after the runaway.

"Continue on to the castle," Conrad instructed. "I will

bring the horse back."

"What of the thief, Conrad?" asked Maximilian with humor in

his voice.

"I care not of the thief." Conrad dug his heels into his

horse. They shot across the field in the direction the other

horse and rider had disappeared. His horse moved swiftly, but

it would take some skilled riding to match the speed of

Beaumont's charger. The only thing giving him the ability to

gain anything on the faster horse was the erratic nature of the

thief's path. As Conrad neared, he debated the best course to

bring them to a halt. Though the simplest thing to do would be

to run a sharp sword through the boy, the already flighty

charger would spook more and Conrad did not know if he had the

horsemanship to keep up with a riderless horse.

The rider turned to him, eyes hidden by the shadow of his

hood, as Conrad finally drew level. He reached out for the boy,

thinking he might be able to wrestle the boy off and then jump

over to the charger to control him. Being in as many battles as

he had with his own horse, he knew his mount would settle

quickly after he had left the saddle. And frankly, he did not


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care if the thief fell and broke his neck. He deserved it for

stealing.

The breathless rider uttered something in a language he did

not understand, but a curse was a curse and easily identifiable.

The boy turned back to the front and inched out of his grasp,

showing some modicum of horsemanship. Conrad let loose his own

curse, moving his horse closer to the other, finally finding

purchase on the thief's hood. He leaped from his saddle onto

the back of the other horse, displacing the thief's surprisingly

sturdy seat.

However, the boy did not do as he had expected.

Any wise rider would fall from the horse and roll to

protection when they hit the ground to protect themselves from a

deadly trampling or weighty beast rearing and falling on their

body. This thief did not, making him either very reckless or

very stupid. The boy held onto the reins, jerking the charger's

head, causing the horse to rear up suddenly. Conrad had not

secured his own seat and could not prevent toppling off the

horse himself. He grasped for the trappings, but no luck found

him as he fell off the horse and on top of the other rider with

a hard, breath stealing thud.

It was at that moment he realized two things. One, the

thief had striking emerald-colored eyes. The second was that

this thief was not a boy. Indeed, pressed against him was the


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"Who are you!" he demanded.

She spit at him and he slapped her across the face with a

force he had not intended. The creature hissed and spat again,

this time with blood splattering his tunic. He released her

hands and pressed his own against her throat.

"Keep fighting. All I have to do is squeeze," he warned.

She went lax at that, but he did not remove his hand. "Let

me go."

"No. You have stolen the Count of Dieppe's best charger,

and you must be brought before him," he said.

"Like hell I stole the charger," she said. "The groom gave

him to me to ride."

"Ah, finally some headway," he said.

She cursed again in her strange language and reached for

him. Fully expecting her to scratch him again, he shied away

from her. But she didn't scratch. Instead, she wrapped her

arms around his neck. She pulled him down to her lips with a

force he had not thought possible for a mere woman and kissed

him ardently. What staggered him the most was that he

reciprocated her actions. He knew better than to let his guard

down. It was sparring lesson number one. He had had it drilled

into him from boyhood, and it was the first lesson his squires

had to master to move on in their training lest they end up with

an ugly scar over their left eye like his.


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He couldn't help himself as he kissed her back, tasting the

honey of her lips, intermingled with the metallic tang of blood.

Her hands crept down his shoulders, then down his back, digging

into the sinew through his clothing.

But then the viper struck, biting his lip hard.

"Bastard," she hissed, pulling his dagger from the belt on

his back. She sliced at his arm, flaying the material of his

tunic but leaving only a minor scratch on his skin. The

distraction of her kiss, still so sweet on his lips, gave her

the chance to push him away. She rolled to the side as she

grabbed her knife and up into a crouching position, holding the

daggers in front of her. The hood on her head finally fell

away, revealing a long braid of dark red hair.

Carefully, she stood and backed away from him, turning at

the sound of another horse and rider coming for them. Conrad

stood gingerly as Jackin eased his horse to a stop, with the

stolen charger's reins in his hand. The woman dropped the

daggers and sprinted away, back in the direction of the castle.

"My lord? Are you well?" Jackin asked as he came closer.

"Aye," he said, touching his bleeding lip. Physically, at

least. Mentally, he wanted to find that bitch and teach her a

thing or two.

Then he would ravish her.

"Shall I go after her, my lord?"


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"No," Conrad said, squinting his eyes in the distance as

the woman continued her sprint toward Dieppe. "I will seek her

out when we arrive at the castle."

"Aye, my lord," Jackin said. The mirth in his voice was

obvious.

Conrad looked at his squire. "If you tell anyone, I will

cut your throat."

Jackin summoned the ability to keep a straight face and

nodded his head. "Never, my lord. Shall we go back?"

Conrad spit the blood out of his mouth and walked over to

the fallen daggers. He picked them up and put them into his

belt. "Yes, come along before they all come looking for me."


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Chapter 6

Edana collapsed against the stone edifice of Castle Dieppe

as soon as she passed through the outer walls and into the field

surrounding the keep. Her legs ached and her lungs burned with

every gasp of breath. The throbbing in her head from the fall

off the horse was only eclipsed by the horrid sting still on her

cheek from that horrible man's hand. She bent over herself,

grabbing her side as excruciating pain ripped through her, her

breath hitching for just a moment until she gulped for her next

breath of glorious air.

She had been much too careless. Admittedly, the horse she

had commandeered from the squire earlier was too large and too

difficult to control. But then she had allowed that whoreson of


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a man to best her. If she could call him a man. Edana thought

she had the upper hand once they were on the ground, but she had

been wrong. So terribly wrong. It had only become clear when

one his large, strong hands pressed against her neck, cutting

off her breath. In a moment of startling clarity, she realized

in just how much danger she had placed herself, and how easily

that man could have not only strangled her to death, but snapped

her neck like a brittle twig. With only one hand.

Worse yet, he seemed to be very close to her uncle to have

taken the time to save his horse from a possible thief. She had

not had to endure him as she had others in her seven nights in

Dieppe thus far; he could not be a vassal. How could he know

her uncle so well? And why did her uncle keep company with a

Flemish man who looked as he did? Battle wound or not, the long

jagged scar over a strangely amber-colored eye made him

extremely formidable. She might even say frightening, since the

other eye remained a clear sky blue. What evil spirit had

inhabited his body to cause such a malady?

The calls from guards down to the people in the bailey made

her look up in time to see the large company of men enter

through the portcullis, the hooves of the horses clopping on the

stone ground. It created a deafening cacophony made only worse

by shouts from the other knights who had already arrived.


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Ahead of them was the odd-eyed man sitting atop his inky-

black mount, looking strong and fearsome. Beside him sat a man

with curly hair, clearly much larger than the first, his

imperious nature evident in his abuse of the servants dispatched

to help welcome them to the castle.

Added to the mix was Henr's persistent French groveling,

welcoming both men to Dieppe, as well as the knights and

retainers of their parties dressed in similar but not identical

livery. From what she could make of Henr's words, the scarred

man--her foe--went by the name of Conrad and his party hailed

from Arras. He jumped from his horse and handed the reins off

to a groom there ready to take the animal away.

"My lord Arras," said Henr, bowing lowly to the man,

"welcome back to Chateau Dieppe. It has been far too long since

your last visit."

"Indeed, it has," Conrad said. "Is Beaumont in council?"

"No, only preparing for your visit and the tournament,"

Henr replied.

The big man that accompanied him stood an entire head

taller than Conrad and appeared disgusted that no one honored

him the way they had Conrad. He cleared his throat, garnering

attention from Henr.

"Yes, my lord, Maximilian," Henr bowed. This was the

first time she had seen Henr look unsure of himself as he wrung


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Conrad turned on the taller man in a flash and had a dagger

up to the man's throat. Her dagger with the green stone fixed

into the pommel. The polished metal of the blade glinted in the

midday sun as the point drew from Maximilian a small dot of red

blood. "I hope you will not forget who you are speaking to."

Maximilian held up his hands in a mocking gesture and

playfully stepped back from him in a deep, prostrated bow.

"Indeed, Conrad, my lord. Wherever were my manners?"

Edana blinked and before she knew it, the large man fell

unconscious to the ground and Conrad's men were pulling their

leader back from doing more serious damage. Conrad slipped his

dagger back in his belt, clenching and unclenching the hand he

had used to injure the giant. She wished she did not feel some

amount of awe at the man's aptitude for fighting, but it was

there and she could not take her eyes off of him.

"Yes. The rider managed to slip out of our grasp, but I

will see to it that he is brought to justice." Conrad fixed the

gloves on his hands as though it were nothing to him. "But let

us not worry over that. I must find Beaumont."

Edana inched further around the corner as this odd Conrad

fellow disappeared into the throng of people and toward the main

keep. She turned back to the group of men who had come in,

finding the large one with curly hair now struggling to right

himself in the muck and mud. Meanwhile, an older knight with


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graying hair directed Conrad's traveling companions as though

they had visited many times before this. The younger man, who

had brought her uncle's charger in, helped direct the Arras

party as well.

She wanted to stay and listen into as many of the

conversations as possible, but soon the words were garbled with

the different dialects of more parties of knights arriving,

ready for the tournament in two day's time. Her French was

neither so fluent nor so easy to understand with so many

regional dialects so she conceded defeat. Edana sighed and

backed away from her spot in the shadows, turning around to come

face-to-chest with a tall man. As her eyes focused on the chest

and the green dragon emblazoned on his blue tunic, she took an

immediate step back.

"Joseph!"

The jade green eyes of the man crinkled at the corner as

his smirk filled with derisive mirth. "My lady," he said, bowing

much in the same way Maximilian had to Conrad; she wished she

could punch as hard as him.

"I see nothing humorous about you being at my uncle's

castle."

"He was the one who invited all knights in the region to

attend the tournament. I am merely amused that I found you in


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the exact same position I found you the last time we met," he

replied. "Spying."

Edana set her jaw, refusing him the joy of seeing her rise

to his bait. "Why have you come to France?"

"I go where my king bids," he said.

"To accomplish?"

He shrugged. " 'Tis my errand alone."

All she wished to do was take the ghastly smirk off his

face; it was all she had ever wanted since she first had the

misfortune of meeting the man. But she could not accomplish

that at the moment. Not with all these witnesses. Instead, she

bowed slightly and turned to leave, but his hands circled around

her arm like a vice, spinning her back to him.

"I have not finished," he said.

"How dare you lay hands on me." She reached for his hand

and attempted to peal the fingers away, but he was too strong

and his grip too unyielding as his fingers bit through her tunic

and bruised her skin. "I will cry out if you do not unhand me."

His hold loosened and she stepped back, wishing she had

retained the presence of mind to keep her dagger with her

instead of throwing it to the ground just a little while ago.

"Say what you will," she said. "Then rot in hell."


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His smirk turned into a sneer as he crossed his arms

imperiously over his chest. "I daresay, your new husband will

find you very disagreeable."

Edana opened her mouth to reply, but snapped it shut when

the words he had said worked their way through her mind. "What?"

"You did not know this tournament was in honor of your

marriage?" he asked, clearly pleased with himself that he knew

something that would cause her upset.

How could her uncle do thisand without telling her? Had

he intended to keep it silent until she was forced to the chapel

to say her vows to obey a man she already knew she would

despise?

"And to a Fleming, too! A shame you would not wed from

good English stock when you had the opportunity."

"While you think the English are superior, I would say you

are summarily wrong, especially if you and your cohorts who

raped and looted across Scotland are any indication! I would

never shame my family or my people by doing such a thing!" she

seethed.

"You should do as your brother and uncle bid, then, and

marry the Fleming," he said.

Her mind raced with a million thoughts as repressed anger

over her situation rose from the very depths of her soul, making

her want to hit someone or something. But Joseph was right.


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She wanted to marry a Fleming just about as much as she wanted

to marry an Englishman, but nothing eclipsed the general disdain

she felt for the institution of marriage to keep a woman like

her in her place.

"You vile man!" she exclaimed, pushing him away again and

running in the direction of the keep despite the aching in her

body. However, she did not know what ached moreher body or the

heart now heavy with the news that had just been relayed to her.

Was there no one she could trust?

She came to a halt in the middle of the main hall, looking

around her at the madness of servants preparing for the feast

that night. The feast that would herald her coming nuptials if

she could not stop them before they had an opportunity to begin.

Emotion overwhelmed her as tears stung at the back of her eyes.

She bit her lip to hold back an indelicate sob.

No one attempted to stop her as she rushed through the

castle, looking for her uncle. She found him in his solar after

pushing through the huge guards that stood outside the door. He

sat behind his table, poring over parchments, dipping a quill

into the pot of ink beside him with a measured calm she found

infuriating. He spoke lowly to Henr and handed the signed

parchments to the steward, bidding him leave the room.

"Is it true?" she demanded.


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"Ah, Edana," he said, standing up from his seat and walking

over to her. He grabbed her chin with a rough hand, turning her

face to the side. "Are you injured?"

Edana moved her head and glared at him. "Do not ignore me,

old man! Is it true?"

"If I knew the question, perhaps I would better enlighten

you," he said in an even voice, but she could sense his anger at

being addressed as an old man.

"Am I to be married?" she asked.

"Where did you hear such a thing?"

"Is it true?" she asked again.

Beaumont sighed and stepped away from her, pinching the

bridge of his nose. "I had hoped to be the one to tell you, but

I see that will not be an option. Edana, this is Conrad, lord

of Arras."

For the first time upon entering, she noticed movement in a

dark corner of the room as her uncle walked over to the benches

in front of the roaring fire. She knew well enough who the vile

man was without having to look. He was the same man who had

threatened to kill her not an hour before. The portly surgeon

had bent over the man to assess the leaches attached to his face

as they drew the blood from his blackening eyes. She clenched

her fists, glad that at least her head-butt had been well

placed, if poorly planned, as it had only infuriated him


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further. The surgeon carefully removed the leaches, one by one,

handing Conrad a piece of cloth to clean his face.

"Thank you, Geoffrey," Beaumont said. "You may go."

The surgeon bowed and collected his things, disappearing

silently out the door. The heavy wood shut with a final thud

that portended her fate. She had never felt as hopeless as she

did at that moment, watching her uncle sit near the dark-haired

man, whose livid, penetrating stare made her shift in her spot

from discomfort. A shiver ran up her spine and wrapped around

it as she held the man's blue and amber gaze.

"Conrad, this is Edana, my niece," her uncle said.

The man stood from his seat and walked in her direction,

staring her down with his unsettling stare. Challenge knitted

his thick dark brows as one raised with apparent and mocking

interest. In his hands, he methodically folded the cloth

Geoffrey had given to him and tossed it, unseeing, to his side.

Edana did not watch the path it traveled; she refused to back

down from his posturing, especially as he took one gliding

step... and several more... toward her, the metal of belts,

scabbard and mail crunching and clanking with his circuit around

her. Assessing her. Daring her to jump at his provocation.

She clenched her fists until her nails bit into the skin

covering her palms in tacit refusal to rise to his bait.


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refused to let her uncle or the other man see her tears. She

would not give them the satisfaction. Edana glanced back to the

man who had, for all intents and purposes, become her master

without her say. She had quite a lot to say to him--to both of

them--but the words stuck in her constricted, emotion-filled

throat. Instead, a wrenching sob surfaced on her lips and

ripped through the silence of the room. She did not stay to see

their abhorrence of her weakness and left through the door in

which she had come, already formulating a plan for escape.


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Chapter 7

The silence in the chamber suffocated Conrad as soon as he

had entered the empty space. He knew he should have declined

Beaumont's insistence that he stay in the castle away from his

men; at least being around the others would have occupied his

mind long enough that the thoughts of maiming those around him

did not rise until he lashed out again. It had been very poor

of him to react to Maximilian the way he had earlier; no doubt

the scene would be regaled at length at the feast that evening.

But Conrad did not care. After his encounter with the hellion

on horseback, he had had little humor for the antics of a man

who could do with keeping his nose out of the business of

others.


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The chatter of his knights, squires and pages, and the

overseeing of their duties while at the castle, would have

proved to be a welcome diversion from thinking about any of

that. But it was not to be done here. He would very soon be

bound to the Count of Dieppe through sworn oath and law, and

with that came privileges and requirements of rank he did not

otherwise aspire to achieve. However, seeing as he would find

himself with a wife very shortly, the bailey was no place for a

noble lady during a tournament. In fact, it would generally be

frowned upon, even though he was not yet convinced the young

woman who had stared him down in her uncle's office deserved the

designation of nobility. Her unseemly actions and speech to

Beaumont certainly did not engender herself to seem worthy of

special note.

Just thinking of her absolute disregard made him gnash is

teeth in anger. Accidentally catching the scabbed lip Edana had

bestowed upon him, Conrad cursed under his breath. What he had

said to Jackin out in the field still stood; she would certainly

answer for her crimes--he would make it his first priority to

bring the bitch to heel. He refused to be distracted by an

insignificant wretch when the protection of his people and his

land deserved his complete attention.

Throwing his belt on the circular wooden table placed in

the center his room, the daggers he had attached to the worn


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black leather clanged loudly in the otherwise quiet room. He

turned to the table to look at the two offending weapons lying

still beside each other. The round, gleaming stone the color of

ink set in the pommel of his glinted in the faint beam of light

streaming in through the far window. Uprooted motes of dust

glimmered in the beam and drew his eyes further across the

tabletop to the other, more feminine dagger.

Stepping closer, Conrad grabbed the more delicate of the

two, running his fingers along the curvature of the guard toward

the jeweled hilt, remarking upon the craftsmanship that had gone

into creating such a fine blade. Perfectly shaped for the

delicate fingers and palm of a feminine owner, but not so small

that he could not wield it easily in the heat of the moment. A

seasoned knight or foot soldier would not have carried such a

weapon with him out for anything more than a ceremonious or

solemn occasion befitting of a fine costume. But a girl--and a

regrettably silly one at that--would see no issue in taking

something of such great value out of the safety of the castle.

Few men, no matter how chivalrous, would have thought twice

about killing her for it or for the stallion she had been

riding. She was lucky it had been he who had chased her down

and not someone like Maximilian.

For its general pleasantness to the eyes, however, the

blade was no less lethal; he had barely pressed the point to


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Maximilian's flesh and it had drawn a stream of crimson like

molten iron through ice. In his skirmish over the horse with

Edana, it had flayed the fabric of his own tunic with ease and

nicked the skin beneath, leaving yet another smarting memory of

his feral betrothed and his own foolishness in dropping his

guard for the slightest of moments. Ceremonial or not, he would

have a care that he did not end up on the wrong side of the

dagger again.

He brushed a thumb errantly over the large emerald set into

the hilt, remarking on the clarity and richness of the green,

just like the eyes that had defiantly held his gaze in

Beaumont's office. No woman--no man, even--had ever been able

to retain the presence of mind to stare him down. Disgusted,

scared or perplexed by the mismatched eyes birth had given him,

they never dared to hold his stare for long. The girl had been

disgusted, aye, but for an entirely different reason; she had

held his eyes. He could still feel the anger swelling inside of

him at her disrespect, but there remained a part of him full of

intrigue surrounding the person he had agreed to wed for the

protection of his people.

With that disturbing thought, he dropped the offending

weapon with a clatter and turned away from the table. The girl

was simply that--a girl--and he would see to it that she quickly

learned the ways of his own court. He refused to allow her any


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freedom until her feral behavior heeled to his will. Thinking

about the color of her eyes would only cloud his judgment.

His thoughts, fortunately, ceased the moment he heard soft

foot falls on the rush-strewn flagstones. Entering through the

weight of a man - partial manuscript

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