Prologue
Year of our Lord 1322
The day ofthe yuletide hunt dawned clear and bright, but a sharp frost covered the grounds at Wolvesley Castle. Peering out from her tower window, Frida clenched her teeth together in frustration.
Aye, the view was beautiful. It looked almost as if someone had tossed her mother’s jewels over the front lawns which shimmered and sparkled in the sunlight. But the icy paths would be treacherous underfoot.
She would not be permitted to ride out.
Frida shook her head, long blonde hair flying our behind her. She was twenty years of age. And mayhap soon to be a married woman! Why did she need the permission of her parents to ride her own horse over lands she had known all her life?
At once, the voice of reason spoke in her head.
Because your horse is young and inexperienced and you have never taken him out in a group.
Because your father has forbidden it.
Frida rolled her eyes. The voice of reason sounded exactly like her father’s ward, Mirabel, who was Frida’s closest friend. Mirrie was never short of reasons why Frida should be sensible.
Usually, she was willing enough to listen to that voice. But just this once, Frida wanted to throw sensibility to the wind. Shemight never get a better chance to impress the tall, handsome knight with the flashing dark eyes.
Her brother’s friend.Sir Callum Baine.
Just thinking of his name sent pinpricks of excitement down her spine. They had danced together last night and she had hoped the music would play on forever. When they withdrew to the fireside to talk, she didn’t look over his shoulder for the chance to escape, as was her wont on such occasions. Instead, she gazed into his beautiful eyes and thought that she finally understood what people meant when they talked of their heart skipping a beat.
Frida’s heart had been fluttering like a bird in a cage ever since he lowered his lips to the back of her hand. The realisation had been instantaneous.
This is the man I am meant to marry.
She could see it all, laid out before her. His hand, holding hers. Her head resting on his muscular shoulders. They would spend their lives together.
This was no young girl’s fancy, for Frida had been blessed with the Sight since birth.
Aye,blessed, for that was how she saw it.
She knew that was not a view everyone would share. Some might say her gift was truly a curse. For her mother, it was a constant source of anxiety. But Frida had grown up protected by her family’s wealth and status, with no cause to fret over what others might make of her keen insights and vivid visions. She was Lady Frida de Neville, with her father’s golden good looks and her mother’s adept sensitivities.
The future was hers for the taking, and this was the moment she would stake her claim.
Swearing her young maid to secrecy, she stepped into a snugly fitting woollen kirtle and covered her shoulders with a soft grey cloak. Usually, the de Nevilles wore their family coloursto the hunt, but Frida knew she would be spotted instantly in her traditional heavily embroidered emerald green ensemble.
With her hood pulled over her ears, it was easy enough to sneak down the stairs and lose herself in the melange of men, young and old, dressed and ready for a day’s hunting. As was customary, the de Nevilles had invited many friends and family members to join them for the yuletide celebrations. Today, their numbers were swelled even further by the addition of local farmers who accepted goblets of punch from waiting servants in the marbled entrance hall. The tempting aroma of freshly baked-bread wafted from the great hall, where so many were breaking their fast. Frida’s stomach rumbled, but she knew it would be unwise to linger. Her brother Tristan was circulating amongst their guests, his blonde head easy for her to spot for even at nineteen years of age, he towered above his peers.
But not above Callum.
A small, betraying gasp escaped her lips as she sighted him. His cloak was of deepest blue and the morning sunlight, filtering through the open doorway, haloed his dark hair so he shone even brighter than her golden-hued family. Tristan and Callum chatted amongst a small circle of young knights. As Frida watched, they raised their goblets in a rowdy toast to good fortune at the hunt.
And nearby stood her father, the Earl of Wolvesley, still a tall and charismatic man despite his advancing years. Avoiding his sharp gaze would be a complex undertaking. Frida put her head down and snuck out of the hall, making a beeline for the stable yard.
No one would be charged with saddling Silver, her high-stepping dapple-grey. But that was no bother for Frida, who was as at home in the stables as she was dancing in the great hall.
She spoke to the horse softly as she tacked him up, slipping the bridle over his ears and fastening the girth as tight as it would go.
Her father had oft told the tale of his older brother, Lucan, who had died in his prime from a simple fall in the stable yard. A senseless death caused by nothing more than a poorly fastened girth. Frida gritted her teeth as she tucked in the leather straps. Family history would not be repeated today.
When she was sure that enough hunters had mounted and were circulating the yard that she would draw no notice, she led out Silver. Young and keen, he looked about him with pricked ears.
“We’re going to have a good run,” she whispered to him, rubbing at the soft fur beneath his mane and quelling a sudden sense of fear. Even the cobbled courtyard was slippery. What would the fields be like? Or the land near the river which often flooded at the time of year? She bit down on her lip, doubting for the first time the wisdom of her decision.
