Prologue
February 1102
Quinn de Sayerne was home.
He sighed with satisfaction as he surveyed the mountains that rose on either side of the familiar valley.Their silhouette was etched in his memory, yet to see them again was a gift.
His party had ridden past the keep of the Lord de Tulley earlier in the day and he had noticed his companions stare in wonder at that fortification.Tulley’s keep perched on the top of the steep hill, commanding the valley in each direction.Quinn had found it impressive as a boy, but now, he saw its strategic advantage and appreciated the expense of its construction.A high and broad wall encircled the base of the hill, with the keep at its summit.The road wound upward from gates to keep, the village perched on the hillsides.Tulley was a marvel, but Quinn yearned for Sayerne’s simpler structure.They continued past his overlord’s holding in Quinn’s haste, though he knew he would shortly return to pay his respects.
The party rode hard to the east until they reached the bridge that he knew as well as the lines on his own hand.He turned left once across the river, leading his fellows onward to the keep of Sayerne.
In the twenty years since Quinn’s departure, there had been moments when he wondered if he would ever return to the holding where he had been born and raised.His heart pounded in anticipation of a dream achieved as his destrier, Fortitude, raced through the deep snow.
When he crested the last rise and the Sayerne’s fortress came into sight, his heart leaped.No column of smoke rose from the château, and indeed, the keep looked to be abandoned.Another man might have been daunted by the changes, but Quinn saw only home.
“Here it is!”he exclaimed to his companions, then looked again upon his legacy.
The keep itself was built of stone, a single low tower surrounded by a curtain wall and moat.The village clustered on either side of the road, outside the gates but near the moat.Quinn could see the lines of the furrows in the fields surrounding the village, their dimensions evident even when buried in snow.The sky was a fierce clear blue overhead and the wind was crisp; the mountains looked down on Sayerne as always they had and he could not believe his good fortune.
He would be Lord de Sayerne.
When no one spoke, Quinn glanced back.Bayard appeared to be skeptical, but even his companion knight’s expression could not diminish Quinn’s pleasure.
He had always feared that somehow his father would contrive to deny him his legacy.It would have suited the old man well, but Dame Fortune had smiled upon Quinn.After all these years, beloved Sayerne would be his.The Lord de Tulley had written to tell him so, thus it was true.
Quinn spurred his destrier forward, refusing to note that the river had frozen over.The mill was outside the keep’s walls, the race fed by the same stream that was diverted to fill the moat.The mill wheel was lodged in heavy ice and Quinn could not remember it ever being so, even in winter.He told himself that the property must be well managed for all the wheat to be made to flour already.For so long, Sayerne had been a dream that buoyed his spirits, a touchstone that gave him hope for the future.He had come too far on that dream to readily surrender it.
Still, he wondered as he rode closer to the village.There was no sound of children playing, or any voices at all.The wind whistled through the village, which appeared to be empty.Not a single face peeked out from the darkened doorways.Quinn’s dismay grew as a straw roof tumbled to the ground, even as he passed.
Undoubtedly, it was too cold to stir, even for a neighbor.
Some disrepair was to be expected in a land without an active lord.
Perhaps the villagers had moved within the walls for the winter.
Quinn was determined to maintain the euphoria of homecoming until he stood within the keep itself.Then and only then would he assess the damage done to the estate.They made their way through the silent village to the gates in those great walls.Quinn reined in his steed and stared, hearing Bayard and the four squires do the same behind him.
The gates of Château Sayerne stood open, undefended.
That was a sign of abandonment that he could not deny.Quinn stared without comprehension as one gate swung in the wind, its hinges creaking.
How could this be?
Where had everyone gone?And why?
“It seems that the rumor of your boots’ stench has preceded you,” Bayard commented.The squires laughed, their voices falling silent when Quinn did not join in their merriment.
It was the hand of his father that Quinn saw at work.He had the estate, but his bitter sire had ensured that he had naught else.It seemed that he had granted Jerome less credit for vindictiveness than was the old man’s due.
Quinn straightened with newfound determination.He would claim his legacy, in whatever condition it might be, and rebuild the majesty of Sayerne.
In the center of the bailey was a magical place that Quinn had loved as a child.The bailey rose there, in a hill that was a small echo of that at Tulley.From the back of a horse, one could see over the walls to the land beyond.With the low tower at one’s back, on a day so clear as this, Quinn would be able to look down the valley, all the way to Tulley.He rode directly there, ignoring the depth of the snow.His heart thundered in his chest as he turned Fortitude in place and looked upon his home.
Far beyond the walls of Sayerne, the land rose to mountain peaks on either side of the valley of the river Helva, and those peaks touched the crisp blue of the winter sky.The snow reflected the sunlight with a brightness that hurt the eyes.He could see Tulley in the distance and imagined he could see the red banner snapping in the wind at its summit.The tower of the keep behind him cast a stark shadow across the snow and the wind whistled slightly.His father’s neglect could not destroy Quinn’s own memories or the beauty of the land itself.
He was home, despite the odds, and that alone was cause to celebrate.
“Good day!”he called toward the stables.He knew that no one would answer, yet the silence made him wince.He stared up at the silent tower of the keep, noting its dark windows.It looked mean and humble to his eyes now, as well as abandoned.The snow had blown into deep drifts in the bailey and even the way to the stables was not cleared.
