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Clasping the cloak around her body, she leaned against a black stone wall to collect her nerves and breathe. Rain began to fall, mocking the tears she refused to shed. Its rhythmic melody punctured the din of the battle. She held her cross and prayed between shattered breaths.
The castle trembled. War cries resonated. Heated commands and screams blared. The crash of swords and shields and hurtled boulders shook the very marrow of her bones. And that terrible chant repeatedly yelled with a frightening passion: “Death to the king! Death to King Bartholomew! Death to the king of Norland!”
Then she heard the portcullis’s ominous clang as its rusted iron teeth rose from the ground. The deafening roar rebounded against the castle walls in a dizzying burst. It went on for what seemed like a lifetime—a robust groaning that came and stopped, a dragon stirring from sleep.
A song of death and the loss of hope.
The symphony concluded with the drawbridge’s deep moan as it lowered and settled into place. The frantic pounding of boots on wood rose around Blanchette and rolled like thunder.
Tears finally came to her.
The formidable walls of Winslowe Castle might have held off a siege for an entire season, but it fell within an hour without loyalty.
Without devotion, it was nothing more than a peasant’s hovel.
Her queen mother had taught her well. A castle is only as strong as those protecting it.
Hidden in the shadows, shaking from her grief and terror, the princess both laughed and sobbed at her mother’s wisdom.
* * *
Blanchette finally reached her grandmother’s royal privy and, as of late, her sick room.
A musty smell hung in the air. Not even the fresh rushes underfoot could mask it. It was a scent Blanchette was coming to know well—that heady perfume of death.
Grandmother Sybil Winslowe lay in the four-poster bed, her frail body trembling. The hulking piece of furniture dwarfed her emaciated form. She held a spotted fist against her mouth and prayed between frantic sobs. Her voice sounded weak, barely above an airy whisper. A breath away from death.
Smoke rose from the hearth, which the servants always kept burning for Grandmother no matter the season.
But where are the servants now? They’ve abandoned us—every one of them. Blanchette swatted away the smoke as it made her eyes water.
Then she fell to her knees, grasped Grandmother’s brittle hands, and peppered kisses along her swollen knuckles.
“Oh, Blanchette… Blanchette, you are alive,” Grandmother said in a parchment-thin voice. “Thank you. Thank you. What a blessing. God is good…”
“Shh,” Blanchette consoled, squeezing Grandmother’s delicate fingers between her own. “Yes, I am alive, and I am well. And I won’t leave your side. I shall never. You know that, don’t you, Grandmother?”
Grandmother’s sobbing tapered off. The pain appeared to melt from her face, and Blanchette glimpsed the girl she’d once been. She also saw her mother’s fire in those intelligent blue eyes. The Winslowe’s Parisian blood and upbringing had equipped them both with an edge that went unrivaled in Norland’s court. It’d taken them far and, for Grandmother Sybil, had remained an endless source of pride. She’d clung dearly to her French roots and accent throughout the years, a sophisticated lilt that brought charm to every word. Even the dour ones.
Especially the dour ones, she sadly reminisced.
“Sweet Blanchette. You… you are too good for this world. Too kind and sweet and far too dear. You don’t deserve this, to suffer such brutality and betrayal. You are dear to me, so very dear…” A horde of screaming rebels thundered past the privy. Thank God they lacked the wits to enter. “Such savage animals,” Grandmother rasped. Blanchette had to lean in close to hear her words. “A pack of wolves.”
Wolves.
The Black Wolf of Norland, stalking and tearing apart my very home.
The hair on Blanchette’s neck prickled.
Winslowe Castle shook beneath and around them. The din of enemy intruders and clashing weapons rocked the walls.
“Please, let me help you,” Blanchette said, growing desperate with her panic. “Please. There is time yet?—”
“For you, there’s all the time in the world. For myself… well, I have known a blessed life,” Grandmother said, reaching up and cupping Blanchette’s tearstained cheek. She rubbed her thumb pad across her skin in a rhythmic, soothing gesture. It was something she’d often done when Blanchette was a baby. “Having you as my granddaughter has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. Now come here, my sweetling, come closer to me.”
She did as Grandmother Sybil bid and was rewarded with a kiss on her forehead. Her lips were dry husks, and she heard a rattle in her breath. Blanchette embraced her with all the love and heartache she felt. She savored the warmth of her delicate body and the softness of her skin and inhaled the rosewater that clung to her hair and neck.
“Grandmother,” Blanchette whispered, fighting to suppress her sobs. Tears and useless panic would get them nowhere, least of all out of this privy chamber. “I-I can help you. I can get us out of here. I know I can. Please. Just come with me. I beg you. Please…” She adjusted her grip on Grandmother’s reed-thin back and gently urged her toward the edge of the feather mattress. The castle thrashed and shook like a living thing withering in agony.
