Prologue
February 1442
Castle Dare
Northumberland, England
Euphemia was yet a mile away from the castle when she saw the glow against the inky night sky. There could be no mistake that the Montague hold burned.
She struggled through the winter-brittle underbrush, grateful for her thick woolen cloak as the thorns sought their way beneath the hem, ripping at her thin gown and lashing the flesh of her legs. They would soon discover her gone from the chamber that was her prison at Darlyrede, and so she must hurry—run, when the terrain allowed. Whether the rumors were true, and she found Thomas Annesley at Castle Dare or not, Euphemia now understood that she could never return to Darlyrede House if she wished to live.
Sheknew too much.
She must warn the Montagues at once of her suspicions—surely they would take her into their protection until the kingcould be told.
She at last came to the fringe of the wood and looked upon the chaos surrounding the once elegant stone keep. Smoke lay thick around the motte, the red glow of the forge revealing the survivors milling there as if lost. The creaking and popping of timbers being devoured only emphasized the significance of the charred shell. There was nothing left to save.
Euphemia made her way among the refugees without fear of being discovered—she already knew that in the plain cloak with the old, pale blue gown beneath, her hair flowing and tangled and littered with the detritus of her flight, no one would take her for the Hargraves’ supposedly pampered niece.
“The poor children. To lose both parents at once.”
Euphemia stopped and looked around with wild eyes, but could not discern from where the snippet of conversation had come.
Lord and Lady Montague were dead?
No. No, no, no…
The sound of a young child sobbing wafted through Euphemia’s shock, and she turned slowly to discover a little girl—not likely older than four—shivering in a heap on the frozen turf, her threadbare nursery gown stretched ineffectivelyover her knees.
“You’re just a baby,” Euphemia breathed to herself, and her fingers went at once to the clasp at her throat, forgetting for a moment the blow dealt to her plans. “Here,” she whispered as she crouched down near the girl and piled the warm wool about her. “Here you are. Whyare you alone?”
“Mama?” the girl whimpered, and as she looked up, Euphemia beheld milky, sightless eyes surrounded by thick, sooty lashes in the perfect face. “Mama?”
Euphemia rushed to her feet and stumbled backward, staggering away from the child while trying to muffle her hysterical sob. This was a horriddream, surely.
But until she woke, she couldn’t pause. She must find the Montague children. She must find them before Vaughn Hargrave did, for if he felt at liberty to commit such vile atrocities in the waking world, what would he doin a nightmare?
At last she saw them, there on the fringe of the inner circle, watching the last of the hold be consumed while their elderly nurse knelt in prayer nearby. Lucan, older than Euphemia’s ten and five by perhaps only a year, with little Iris clinging to his leg, still in her nightdress. Handsome, young Lucan still in his tunic and trousers, his eyes wild and red-rimmed, his narrow face pale beneath the fall of his dark hair. He held what appeared to be an orphaned slipper inhis right hand.
Orphaned, perhaps like the blind girl child; orphaned like Euphemia. The Montague children were now orphans, too, and just as endangered as she was, even if they didn’t yet know it.
“Master Montague,” she rasped as she neared him with her arm out. “Lucan.”
He whirled around, giving her only the briefest glance. “I have nothing for you,” he barked. “Go with the others until the morn.”
“Lucan,” she pressed, glancing around nervously at the crowd. Vaughn Hargrave could be anywhere. “You must come away with me at once. You and your sister. We must go to the king. The Crown will aid us.” She reached him at last and took hold of hisarm. “We must—”
He whirled around and struck Euphemia with the slipper in his hand, so unexpectedly and so soundly that she twisted and fell to the ground, her frozen cheek now burning from the blow. “I said, I have nothing for you, wretch,” he shouted. “I am lord here, now. You are not worthy to serve the house of Montague, let alone hold the king’s name in your filthy mouth.” He took a step toward her.
Iris still clung to his leg and she let out a fresh wail.“Lucan, stop!”
The elderly nurse had risen and was now coming toward them, her wrinkled face tear-streaked. Euphemia met the woman’s eyes until the young master of ruined Castle Dare recalledher attention.
“Go,” he growled at her. “I don’t ever want to see your face again, or I’ll cut you down myself.” He turned away from her, gathering his sister up from the cold, smoky ground, and half carrying little Iris further along the burning ruin.
“Are you alright, girl?” a man’s voice called out.
Euphemia looked up and saw a servant approaching near the Montague children’s nurse—a groom or the like, from his dress. Neither servant recognized her, she was sure. Behind them both though, Euphemia caught sight of steel gray hair…
