Prologue
February 1077
Near the Welsh border, England
“She’ll saddle me like a horse.”
“My lord?”
Nicholas FitzTodd, Baron of Crane, glanced at his riding companion, the bright moonlight allowing him to easily see the curious frown on his first man’s face. The two men were paused atop a rocky promontory where a woodland stream crawled sluggishly from the forest at their backs and ran invisible and black to throw its end waters into the icy Wye below. The winter night itself seemed frozen in its stillness, a thought that pleased Nicholas as he and his man-at-arms rested their mounts and scanned the shadowed hills of the Welsh borderlands.
There would be no raids this night, Nicholas was certain. Not even the most bloodthirsty would risk the Wye’s ice-crusted clutches. King William’s border—and Nicholas’s as well—was safe.
At least from foreign invaders.
Beside him, Randall cleared his throat. “Er…who would have you saddled?”
Nicholas gave a sigh that sounded put-out even to his own ears. “My betrothed, of course.” Majesty had drank his fill at the stream, and so Nick clucked and urged the horse onward.
“Your betrothed?” The towheaded man drew his mount even with Nick’s as the beasts picked their way over the rocky terrain.
“Aye, Randall. My betrothed.” Nicholas had not planned on revealing his true motive for riding to the village of Obny this night until the deed had been done. He didn’t know what had prompted him to speak his black thoughts aloud, but now that he had, it felt rather good to voice his displeasure with the task he’d set himself to. Any matter, the visit itself was no more than a formality, a courtesy to an old friend. As baron, Nick’s right was a bride of his choosing.
“Once I hear Lord Handaar’s report, I will tell him of my decision to take his daughter as my wife.”
Randall’s hoot of laughter echoed off into the inky sky. “God’s teeth! The blasted cold must’ve frozen my ears, Sire, for surely I did not hear you true. It sounded as though you said you were to take a wife!”
Randall’s jest was like a splinter in Nick’s pride, but he held his temper in check. Had any other man dared make light of the decision Nicholas had made, that man would at that moment be lying on his back with a sword at his throat.
“Aye, those were my words.” Nick blew out another stiff breath, the vapor ghostly white and curt in its own manner. “’Twould seem my mother has proven successful in her incessant nagging—she has managed to convince me that I must now provide the barony with an heir.”
Randall’s chuckles mingled with the hardy breeze and were whisked away. “Ah, well. ’Twas inevitable, my lord. And what better maid could you choose than Lady Evelyn?” Nick heard a rustling and then the softpopof a cork. A moment later, Randall thrust a leather flask into Nick’s shoulder with a gulp and a hiss. “To the next Baroness of Crane, then.”
Nick seized the flask, but paused before bringing it to his lips. “Bah.” He spat on the ground and then drew deeply at the strong spirits. The liquid expanded down his throat and into his guts with a soothing heat. He handed the flask back to Randall and then urged Majesty down the narrow, rocky path that led to Obny.
Randall continued from behind. “You should be relieved to take a bride as well met as Lady Evelyn. Most only meet their wives the day they wed—you’ve known the lady since her birth.”
Nick merely grunted.
“You’ve spent much time in each other’s company. You get on well, hold many of the same views—I fail to see what catastrophic difference making her your wife will cause. Save that she will share Hartmoore with you.” Randall paused, as if carefully considering his next words. “And your bed, of course. But I doubt you would consider that a great hardship.”
Nick said nothing.
“She’s quite easy to look at,” Randall continued, now in an almost goading tone. “Her beautiful wavy hair, skin like cream. Not to mention her great, round, plump br—”
“Enough!” Nick shouted, but he could not keep the laughter from his voice. The path had widened to a sandy ledge and Obny lay before him, twinkling in her candlelit robes, Nick’s future—wanted or nay—safe within. Nick paused on his mount to stare grimly at the border town. “There is no blight upon Lady Evelyn, in body or mind. She is a good match for me, and in truth, I would have no other.”
Randall’s smile faded. “Then why rail so, my lord?”
“Because a woman—a wife—is a shackle.” Nick shook his head and snorted. “This is all Tristan’s doing. Had my brother not become so fully ensnared, Mother likely would have let me be to decide the time to take a wife. Now I feel obligated to appease her.”
“Lord Tristan does not seem shackled by Lady Haith. He—”
Nick waved a hand to cut Randall off. “Be not fooled, my friend. He is shackled, as well as any beast of burden.” Nick’s bark of laughter jarred the starry stillness. “Saddled.”
Nicholas abruptly swung down from Majesty, looked around, and then scrambled up a jumbled motte of boulders—a mountain of sorts. He turned slowly, taking in the shallow bowl of the valley, draped in winter black.
He, by God, would not be saddled.
