“It is a den of demons!”
“Tonight, I was one of them.”
William was quickly becoming frustrated and struggling not to. “So you drank Marius under the table,” he said. “How do you think the man is going to feel about you showing up at the head of my army to aid his father against de Thorington? This is not an ideal situation, Cai.”
“I realize that, my lord. But it cannot be undone.”
William paused a moment, thinking on that. Then, he simply shook his head. “Nay, it cannot,” he said. “From what Sean tells me, however, Marius is petty and vindictive. Watch how he behaves with you. Watch that he does not try to undermine you.”
Sean interjected. “My sources tell me that he has been summoned home by his father, though he has seemed in no real hurry to go home,” he said. “The truth is that although he spends a great deal of time in John’s court, his favorite status is debatable. Some days he is, and others he is not. But I have seen him gossip with the king better than a fishwife. In any case, you can reach Winterhold before he ever arrives.”
William nodded. “That is good,” he said. “It means that his father will have no prejudice against you, at least until his son gets there. All he will know is that you are my commander. Sean,do you think you can keep Marius with John and away from Winterhold while Cai straightens this situation out?”
“I doubt it, my lord. Cai is simply going to have to move faster than Marius does in reaching Winterhold.”
William seemed satisfied after that, hopeful that there would be no conflict, or tension, between Caius and Marius in a situation that was already distressing. Losing a drinking game wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but it might be to an arrogant young noble. Not that William really worried about it, but it was one less issue to deal with in a circumstance that was full of uncertainties.
But he found himself seriously wishing bland, boring Alice had remained a spinster. His niece was creating quite a situation for him, the depths of which remained to be seen.
He could only hope it wasn’t as bad as it could potentially be.
CHAPTER TWO
Five weeks later
Winterhold Castle
Shrewsbury
She was onher knees in a corner of the hall.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. At least she was upright, even if her face was pressed into a corner.
Her father was on his face on the floor.
Panic was beginning to set in.
How did I even get here?
But the sad fact was that she knew. It seemed like this was all she’d ever known. Incessant attacks, badgering, persecution had been a steady part of her life for the past three years and it was at the point where she almost couldn’t remember the peaceful days before.
The before times.
Neighbors they rarely ever heard from or saw, a family that her family had coexisted peacefully with for almost seventy years, had suddenly decided that the House of de Thorington was the enemy. There wasn’t even a build-up of hostilities– one moment, there was peace, and in the next, the House ofde Wrenville was sending an army to attack the walls of her home and tearing down forests to bring the great war machines through that would launch flaming projectiles at the keep.
Hawkstone Castle hadn’t been prepared.
Ever since Emelisse de Thorington’s ancestor had been granted the lands by Henry I and had built his fortress, Hawkstone had been relatively peaceful. It was a strong fortress and built appropriately for the uncertain and sometimes dangerous times, but the years had seen the moat become filled with reeds and water lilies and fowl, and the drawbridge hadn’t been raised in years. The chains had rusted into position.
Not to say they hadn’t seen some action, but it had been rare. There were times when the Welsh had raided the nearby villages, but they stayed away from Hawkstone, mostly because of the persistent rumor ofledrith,or magic, in the large hill and limestone caves on the property.
In truth, it was a wild and enchanted place.
Emelisse had grown up in that fortress, and amidst that hill, vast masses of trees and waterfalls, caves, and paths that were, indeed, magical to a certain extent, but not in the way the Welsh saw it. There were no wood sprites or trolls or fae amidst the rocks and trees. But there were plenty of birds.Mynydd Adar, the Welsh called it.
Hawk Mountain.
It was where the fortress got its name, a bucolic place that hadn’t known strife or terror or hunger. It had been perfect.
