Chapter One
Year of our Lord 1329
Ember Hall, Northumberland
“Why shouldn’t Imarry for love? Our parents did—and our eldest sister, as well.”
Although delivered with passion, Tristan’s pronouncement was met by little more than raised eyebrows and the odd polite nod.
The de Neville siblings were gathered around the long banqueting table at Ember Hall, having just finished a light meal washed down with a wonderfully refreshing wine. Many of them—Tristan included—had imbibed more wine than was wise. The day had been unrelentingly hot and his thirst was not easily slaked after the long ride north from Wolvesley Castle.
Mercifully, the sun had started to set whilst they were eating. But on this midsummer day, a stifling warmth still hung in the air, accentuated by the final rays of dappled sunlight which blazed through the tall windows.
“It’s dastardly hot.” His brother Jonah made a show of pulling the neck of his finely embroidered tunic away from his neck whilst fanning himself vigorously with the other hand.
A chorus of ‘ayes’ met this declaration. Little Flora, Tristan’s four-year-old niece, slid from her chair and walked boldly over to Jonah.
“You can have this, Uncle Jonah.” Her chubby hands held out a small white object studded with white feathers.
“But that’s the fan I brought you back from France,” Tristan objected, leaning closer to the golden-haired girl.
Flora nodded and wrapped her warm fingers around Tristan’s wrist to urge him to lean down closer.
“Mother told me it’s kind to share,” she whispered in Tristan’s ear. With her eyes fixed on her mother, she added in louder tones, “Even with Christopher, who never shares back.”
“Especially with Christoper,” Frida agreed solemnly. “He is your little brother and as such, you must always look out for him.” The eldest de Neville sibling sat at the end of the table, silvery-white hair pinned elegantly atop her head, displaying all her usual poise despite having a chubby toddler bouncing on her knee. Young Christopher pulled at the beads around his mother’s neck and burbled happily as his father, Callum, looked on proudly from the opposite end of the narrow table.
They were the perfect, contented little family.
Tristan’s heart contracted with envy.
Why is this vision of domestic bliss to be denied to me?
He was about to take another swig of wine when he realised that Flora was still gazing entreatingly up at him, her earnest expression so reminiscent of her mother at that age. Frida was only one year older than Tristan and for much of their childhood, they had been the closest of friends.
Tristan ducked down so his face was level with Flora’s again.
“Does Uncle Jonah share back?”
Flora bit down on her lip, a smile playing about her big blue eyes. “Not always,” she whispered confidingly, shaking back her long blonde plait.
Callum guffawed with laughter and Tristan sat back, satisfied.
“’Tis just as I suspected.” He picked up his goblet and sipped.
“I will try to do better in the future,” Jonah declared. Though he shared in the family’s golden good looks, he was a head shorter than Tristan and narrower about the shoulders. He led an active life, but he was not a warrior. Being born with a club foot meant he had been spared many of the rigours expected of the heirs to the de Neville line.
Most likely, when the time came, Jonah would be allowed to marry for love.
The delicious wine soured in Tristan’s throat at the thought.
“There’s no point in trying to change, Jonah,” their youngest sister, Esme, chimed in airily. She had positioned her chair strategically so as to catch the faint breeze coming through the open window, and even been so bold as to remove her shoes and stockings. But still the day’s heat had flushed her cheeks brighter than her gaily trimmed gown. “We are who we are and that’s it.”
“How very philosophical.” Jonah reached for a red grape, tossed it into the air and caught it neatly in his mouth, prompting little Flora to clap with delight. “Let us follow that thought to its natural conclusion. His piercing eyes roved across the table. “Tristan, therefore, will always be rash and impulsive. And darling Mirrie, here, will forever be waiting upon him.” At this point, Jonah reached out his hand to grasp Mirrie’s arm before she could take away the now-empty trencher in Tristan’s place.
Tristan hadn’t even realised that Mirrie had stood up to clear the table. He turned towards the pretty young woman he had known since childhood. She was dressed modestly in a pale grey gown that contrasted with the brightness of her eyes and the shining waves of her long, light brown hair. Tristan had always thought of Mirrie with the same unstinting affection he felt for his sisters. Only Mirrie’s nature was so much gentler than either Frida, Isabella or Esme—all of whom exhibited the strong will and steely determination of the mighty de Nevilles.
Sure enough, Mirrie’s face was calm and composed even now, when Jonah’s words caused everyone to stare. Only her flaring hazel eyes betrayed any sense of irritation. She shook Jonah’s hand away and moved from the table without a word.
