But as he crested the hill, he smelled smoke drifting on the breeze. And as he galloped down the farm track, the taste of it turned acrid in his throat. Blackened rafters, still smoking, stood open to the sky. No hounds barked from the stable yard, no cattle watched his progress. Pain wrapped long arms around his ribs and squeezed his chest until it was difficult to breath.
He halted the horse, dismounted, and looped the reins over a lone stoop—still standing, despite the devastation all around. His heart was heavy, but still he pressed on, needing to see the truth for himself.
It was a truth that changed him forever.
Clara was laying in what had been the hayfield. The Gowens had brought in the harvest just days earlier, and the ground was stubby and hard. It was no place for peaceful repose. Blood pounded in his ears as he tried to make sense of it.
She was face down, but Adam could not deny the familiar hue of her corn-colored hair, and the shape of her slender body, still clothed in her work apron. A plume of blood had dried between her narrow shoulder blades and a distant part of Adam registered, almost gratefully, that her death had been quick.
His vision blurred with tears as he lowered himself to his knees and cradled Clara’s head. But the tears did not fall. Instead, as he gazed over the sun-bleached field and took in the terrible shape of another body, Clara’s father, some distance away, something inside Adam shifted. A part of him that had been tender with hope and love, instead grew hard and cold.
He was but twenty years of age, and fate had delivered a second cruel blow.
Whatever Adam loved, was lost.
Whenever he hoped for a future, it was taken from him.
He vowed that he would never love—nor hope for it—ever again.
Chapter One
Year of Our Lord 1330
Wolvesley Castle
“Esme, that isthe fourth man you have declined to dance with this eve.” Her mother spoke from the side of her mouth so the russet-haired knight walking dejectedly back to his friends would not hear her reprimand. “Are you determined to refuse them all?”
“Not every one of them, Mother.” Esme craned her neck but still could not make out the man she desired to see above all others. The great hall of Wolvesley Castle was thronged with revelers, all clad in their brightest and best. Pearls and rubies glittered in the candlelight, and the wooden floor vibrated with the stamping and shuffling of so many booted feet. Esme and her parents were atop the dais, enjoying an uninterrupted view of their guests, from the circling dancers in the center to the groups of chattering knights on the sides.
Crispin is not amongst them.
Esme clenched her hands in frustration, before hastily unfurling them to accept the solicitations of a portly gentleman whose ascent to the dais had brought wine-red pools of color to his jowls. He bowed over her gloved fingers, and she forced herself to smile.
“Lord Ashville,” she chirped. “My father will be delighted to see you.” She had to raise her voice above the troupe of musicians playing a lively jig.
“’Tis not your father’s company I seek, Lady Esme, but your own. Would you care to join me on the dance floor?”
With alacrity honed by several months of practice, Esme instantly demurred. “Alas, I am in no mood for dancing, milord. Allow me to walk you over to my father.” As she spoke, she took determined steps to where the Earl of Wolvesley was ensconced in his elaborately carved wooden chair. He raised a bushy brow beneath his thatch of grey-gold hair as she approached. “Father, I have brought Lord Ashville to see you,” she said sweetly.
Taken by surprise, Lord Ashville could only bow and mutter a greeting as Esme skipped back to her mother’s side.
“That was verging on rude,” the countess stated calmly.
“Rude but necessary.” Esme smoothed her voluminous skirts. “Surely you would not see me wedded to a man old enough to be my grandfather?”
“Your reputation for indifference makes it increasingly unlikely that we shall see you wedded to anyone at all.” Her mother took a deep breath, her green eyes bright with worry.
“Esme, you do not have to marry. But if your life does not have a sense of purpose—”
“I know, I know.” Esme sighed dramatically. “Without purpose, my life will be dull indeed.”
This was not a fate which Esme feared. Her life was brighter and more intricately layered than the rose-pink gown threaded with pearls which she had been laced into earlier.
The countess softened her gaze. She will still an attractive woman, though her thick hair now shone more silver than gold. She wore a well-cut gown of emerald green and her slender fingers flashed with jewels. “We only want you to be happy.”
Esme could have gnashed her teeth with impatience. If only she could show her mother how very happy she was. For months now, she had been planning the statement she would make at tonight’s ball. By refusing to dance with any and all suitors since Beltane, she had intended to cause quite a stir when she finally took to the floor with Crispin.
But Crispin is not here.
