PROLOGUE
Since the hour of his birth, Death had stalked him.
But never had it taken so fair a form as the lady who came for him now.
Dressed in a white flowing gown, Lady Death drifted through the billowing smoke, between the slain and wounded. Her pale flaxen hair blew in the strong breeze with spiraling tendrils like a battle standard. With a slow, determined stride, she picked her way through the fallen, heading straight for him as if he were the target she sought.
Valteri, so-called the Godless by all who knew and feared his brutal war skills, blinked at the sight, his eyes burning from the smoke and sweat, and the familiar stench of blood and spilled entrails that surrounded him.
A shadow from the right caught his attention. He turned in his saddle with his sword raised, just in time to prevent the Saxon’s seax from slicing his thigh.
With two swift, clean strokes he finished his attacker and dared a quick look back at the eerie form that was so out of place in this battle.
A vision of purity among death.
Not for one heartbeat did he mistake her for an angel. He’d abandoned such foolish stupidity long ago. Along with the reckless faith that had led his brothers-in-arms to pledge their service and souls to a feckless God he knew didn’t exist.
So why was she here? What man would allow his daughter or wife near such grisly horrors?
All Saxon males who remained able-bodied drew around her as if they would protect her. Baffled by their flagrant stupidity, Valteri shook his head. Their number would scarce frighten a babe, let alone the Norman army that had cut through them with little difficulty.
Fools all.
The sounds of battle settled into a raspy silence, broken only by the occasional neigh of a horse, or moan of the dying as they begged for mercy or cried out for their mother or wife.
“Milady,why do you come?”
Valteri curled his lip at the coarseness of that most hated Saxon language that had been used to ridicule and mock him the whole of his childhood.
She lifted her chin with a courage to rival even the bravest of men among them and turned away from the Saxon who’d questioned her.
“Who leads this army?” She spoke in Norman French. Her tone, a silken caress to his ears.
She met his gaze and her look burned through him.
“Milord!”
Something grabbed Valteri’s arm.
The face of the angel dissipated as the tugging continued.
With a curse, he swatted at the pest, but contacted only with air. Angered over the interruption of his dream, he blinked open his eyes to see his irritating dark-haired squire standing next to his cot. “’Tis a messenger from your brother, the king!” Wace’s youthful face beamed in the cheerful manner that always annoyed Valteri first thing in the morning.
Or at any other time, if the truth were told.
Gah! It figured.
No beautiful woman to wake him. Only a pestering, gangly man-child.
How could anyone be so damned cheery in the morn? Especially when the sun shined so brightly at this unholy, early hour?
What was wrong with the lad?
You don’t beat him enough.
That would certainly have been Wace’s old master’s answer for it.
And it was why Valteri tolerated Wace with a patience that didn’t come naturally to him.
