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hester will have most of your immense dowry and I will have the Colchester land that will extend my boundaries all the way to the North Sea. It is precisely what I wanted, what I’ve waited for so patiently. Actually, I will tell you why I allowed you to become so aged. The boy, Ralph, was mightily ill last year and I didn’t know if he would survive; his father was concerned that even if he did survive, he wouldn’t still have potent seed. But I was content to wait. He did survive, as did his seed, and aye, little Daria, I have got what I wanted, all of it.”
“It is my money, my inheritance. All that my father owned, he gave to me. You take everything, and it isn’t yours to take.”
His face darkened and he threw back the furs. He came to his feet, standing naked by his bed. Cora stared at him as he strode to Daria. For a moment Daria believed he would strike her, but he didn’t. He’d never struck her. It wasn’t his way. He just smiled at her now, but she knew that it was rage burning bright in his eyes, not amusement.
“Go now,” he said at last. “Even you have managed to offend me, which is surprising. Your mother will prepare for your trip to Colchester. You will have wagons full of household items, as every bride should. You are the Reymerstone heiress; thus I have been more than generous with you. I would not wish to make a niggardly impression or leave any person in doubt of my affection for you, for I want no questions. You will leave in three weeks. I will come in time for your wedding, of course. And if you are obedient, I just might bring your mother with me. Well, why don’t you say something? No? Leave me, then.”
She stared at him a moment, not at his body—for the very hardness of him, all that pale blond hair that covered him, frightened her—but at his hated face. Then she turned and walked from the chamber.
All she saw, all she could comprehend, was that Ralph of Colchester was to be her husband.
Her mother had held her, petted her while she cried, but she’d told her that any marriage—even to Ralph of Colchester—was better than remaining here. She must face it and behave as a lady ought, with dignity and acceptance. With a smooth, serene countenance.
And that was that. But Daria had despised the twenty-year-old Ralph of Colchester with his weak chin and his bowed thin legs and his leering expressions. And she’d seen what he’d done to Anna, fourteen-year-old Anna, naught but a child herself really, big-breasted, and pretty and stupid. She hadn’t deserved to be raped repeatedly, but she had been, for the entire week’s visit. Twice a day Ralph had raped her. And the men had laughed and clapped the miserable youth on his shoulder and told him his rod was sure and true.
Finally, Daria thought, bringing herself back to the present, raising her face skyward. Snowflakes were falling now, each one falling more quickly than the last, blanketing Drake, his men, and all the wagons in pure white. As the flakes struck her face, she felt the numbing cold of them pierce more and more deeply into her. Henrietta stumbled and snorted and Daria patted her neck. She wondered if Ralph would allow her to ride once they were wedded. She wondered if he would rape her twice a day as he had Anna.
Drake turned, shouting back to her that they would shortly arrive at the Cistercian Abbey of Grainsworth, where they would pass the night.
They were soon forced to form a single-file column, for the road narrowed dramatically, bounded on both sides by huge rocks and tumbled boulders, stark and bold.
When the attack came, it was all the more terrifying because Drake and his dozen men couldn’t see their enemy; nor could they defend themselves, held apart in their long line, their horses screaming and lunging in terror. They fell, one by one, struck by the arrows shot from behind the rocks. Some of the men were wearing armor, but it didn’t matter, they were rained with arrows and eventually an arrow found its mark in the man’s neck or in his face. Other men wore padded jerkins, and they were killed more quickly. But none of them had a chance against an enemy hidden behind rocks and shooting through a thick veil of white snow.
Oddly enough, after the first shock of the attack, Daria wasn’t afraid. She knew deep inside her that she wouldn’t die. Not today, not by an arrow shot through her chest. When only Daria and her maid, Ena, remained, when all the screams died away and the white air was cleansed of arrows and men’s cries, did their attackers emerge, unscathed. They were shouting and laughing at the ease of their victory. Daria saw their leader immediately, a huge man, and he was laughing the loudest as he directed his men to loot the dead, collect the horses, and see to the wagons.
He took off his helmet. He had the reddest hair she’d ever seen.
1
Reymerstone Castle, Essex, England
Near the North Sea
Early May 1275
Roland de Tournay found the seat of the Earl of Reymerstone easily enough. The castle dominated the rock-strewn promontory that jutted out like a tongue into the Thirgby River that flowed nearly a mile into the North Sea. The castle was in the Norman style, built by the present earl’s great-grandfather, and was more stark and weathered than comfortable, still more of a fortification and a garrison than a residence. Yet the present earl had lined the pockets of many merchants to add comfort to the austere gray stone castle, luxuries such as thick tapestries to blanket the stone walls and keep out the damp from the North Sea, Flanders carpets in bright scarlets and royal blues, beautiful embroidered cushions for the three chairs, each made by an artisan of great skill. The dozen trestle tables and their long benches in the great hall, however, had not changed in three generations, and past living of all the common men and women who had shared their meals on the gnarled old tables still showed clearly, all the scuffs, all the knife-carved initials, all the old grease.
The great hall of Reymerstone was impressive, Roland decided as he waited for the emergence of the Earl of Reymerstone, Damon Le Mark. Roland knew he was being studied by several serving wenches and sent them a wink that caused giggles and pert smiles. He saw a female hurrying toward him, this one a lady, possibly the mistress of Reymerstone. She was in her thirties, brown-eyed, hair a dull red and of slight stature. She’d once been very pretty. Now she looked faded and tired, her shoulders slightly bowed. She looked beaten down. Her expression, however, when she looked at him, suddenly changed and she looked furtively around her, then approached him quickly, her step light and quick as a girl’s.
“You are Roland de Tournay, sir?” she asked in a low voice that was soft and cultured.
“Aye, my lady. I come at the invitation of the Earl of Reymerstone, your husband.”
“He will be here shortly. He is otherwise occupied just now.” What did that mean? Roland wondered. The woman continued, “I am Lady Katherine of Fortescue, the current earl’s sister-in-law. His half-brother was my husband.”
“Your husband was James of Fortescue? I had heard he’d fallen by accident in a tourney, just before he was to leave with Edward for the Holy Land. My sympathies, my lady.”
She again nodded her bowed head. Roland frowned. Couldn’t she look at him, eye-to-eye? Could she possibly be frightened of him?
“Do you know why Lord Reymerstone asked me to come here?”
Her head came up then and he saw the strain in her fine eyes. And there was something else—fear, perhaps, which brought him fully alert.
“It concerns my daughter,” she said quickly, glancing behind her. She grabbed his sleeve. “You must find my child and bring her back safely, you must. Ah, here he comes. I dare not remain. I will leave you now, sir.”
She glided silently away, gone into the gaggle of serving wenches before the earl had seen her.
Roland had a moment to study the Earl of Reymerstone as he strode toward him. He was a tall man, in his late thirties, lean of build, a full head of white-blond hair, his eyes the palest of blues. His stubborn chin was beardless, his expression was obstinate. He didn’t look to be an easy man. He looked to be a man who got his own way, by any means necessary. Roland had survived many of his adult years by correctly summing up a man’s character. He’d seldom been wrong in the past five years. Indeed, his only huge mistake had been in his dealings with a woman. A lady, so very young, so very fair, and he a young man of very tender years. He shook off the memory of Joan of Tenesby.
