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  "He is a weakling is what he is. He has no castle, no land, and very little coin."

  Though it was unwise, Graeye could not help but defend the knight. "He is still young," she reminded Edward. "And what would William have, had you not given it to him?"

  Surprisingly, Edward did not anger at her boldness. "True," he mused, "but he earned it. That, Michael has yet to do—if ever."

  "Methinks he will."

  "Not with my daughter. Nay, I want an heir, and soon. Your union with William will assure me this."

  "How can you be so certain?"

  He grinned. "William made seven boys on his first two wives—not a single girl child." He let that sink in, then added, "It is a son you will bear come spring."

  Now she understood. It was not the knight's possessions, nor his years of loyalty to his liege lord, it was his ability to produce sons that had decided Edward. 'She suppressed a shudder at the thought of the man making on heir on her.

  "Hmm." Hands on his hips, Edward turned to survey the hall. "You have done well, daughter," he pronounced, the first comment he had ever made on any of the improvements.

  He had changed topics so abruptly, it took Graeye several moments before she understood what he was talking about. Relieved, she abandoned all thoughts of her future as William Rotwyld's wife.

  "Thank you," she said, pleased by his praise. All the hard work had been worth it for just those few words. Had he also noticed the improved foodstuffs that had graced his table recently, or had drinking numbed his sense of taste?

  "Methinks I shall have to reward you."

  "That is not necessary," she objected, having already found her reward in his acknowledgment.

  "Of course it's not necessary," he snapped, his color rising. "If 'twas, I would not do it."

  Realizing he was teetering on the edge of one of his black moods, Graeye merely nodded.

  Grumbling beneath his breath, Edward studied the floor, then smacked his lips. "A new wardrobe," he declared. "Aye, it would not be fitting for a Charwyck to go to her wedding dressed like that." With clear distaste he slid his gaze down the faded bliaut she wore.

  Graeye smoothed the material. Having no clothing other than what she had worn as a novice at the abbey, she had taken possession of the garments that had once belonged to her mother. Though aged, they fit well, for she was nearly the same size as Lady Alienor had been, only a bit shorter.

  "I would like that," she said, visualizing the beautiful fabrics she might choose for her trousseau.

  "Then it will be done." Swinging away, Edward stumbled in his attempt to negotiate the level floor, sending the rushes beneath his feet flying. By the hick of the devil he managed to keep himself upright, though he looked as if he might collapse at any moment.

  Hurrying to his side, Graeye caught his arm. "You are tired," she said, hoping he would not thrust her aside as he did each time she touched him. From the outset he had been averse to her touch, as if he truly believed the devil resided within her.

  He looked down at her hand but, surprisingly, did not push her away. "Aye," he mumbled. "I am tired."

  She urged him toward the stairs. "I will help you to your chamber."

  The wooden steps creaked warningly beneath their feet, soft in some places and brittle in others. What pit of darkness awaited them if the boards gave way and sent them crashing downward? Graeye wondered. A disturbing image rising in her mind, she decided to set some men to replacing the steps as soon as possible.

  Up a second flight of stairs they went, down a narrow corridor, and into the lord's chamber.

  Tossing the covers back from the bed, Graeye stepped aside. "I will send a servant to awaken you when supper is ready," she said as he lay back on the mattress.

  "Supper," he griped. "Nay, send me a fine wench and some ale. That will suffice."

  Pulling the covers over him, Graeye made no comment. He asked for the same thing each evening, and each evening she sent a manservant to deliver mm to the hall. It was bold of her, but thus far it had worked.

  Edward caught hold of her hand as she straightened. "A grandson," he muttered. " Tis all I ask of you."

  Pity surged through her as she looked down into his desperate, pleading eyes. He was vulnerable ... pained ... heartbroken.... Aye, here was a man she was no longer frightened of—the man who should have been her father these past ten years. Mayhap it was not too late.

  Graeye knew she should not entertain such foolish thoughts. After all, had she not been Edward's last chance to gain a male heir, he would never have sent for her. Knowing this should have been enough to banish her false hope, but she could not help herself.

  Bending low, she impulsively laid her lips to his weathered cheek. "A grandson you will have," she whispered. "This I vow."

  Lifting her head, she looked into eyes that shone with gratitude and brimmed with tears.

  "Thank you," he said, his fingers gripping hers more tightly. Moments later he fell asleep.

  Withdrawing from his chamber, Graeye quietly closed the door and turned toward the stairs. She had taken no more than a half-dozen steps when a sound behind her caught her attention. Chills creeping up her spine, she slowly turned to face the small chapel situated at the end of the corridor. As no torches had been lit beyond Edward's chamber, she squinted to see past the shadows that abounded there, but to no avail.

  More than anything, she wanted to ignore the noise and return to her chores belowstairs, but she knew she must eventually face the memories that had haunted her dreams since that first night at Medland.

  Squaring her shoulders, she drew a deep breath and walked forward. What was making the noise? she wondered, refusing to allow her imagination to believe it had anything to do with her brother's death. A rat, perhaps, or a breeze stirring the rushes about the chapel, she reassured herself.

  As she drew near, the sound became that of scratching and quick, shallow breathing. Her heart leaping, Graeye stumbled to a halt and peered into the shadows. "Who goes there?" she demanded, her voice high and shaky.

  Silence followed, but was soon shattered when a deep groan rent the air. In the next moment a large figure bounded out of the darkness and skidded to a stop before her.

  Her hand pressed over her slamming heart, her mouth wide with the scream of fright that had nearly leaped from her lungs, she stared disbelievingly at the great, mangy dog. "Groan," she exclaimed.

  Looking up at her with wide, expectant eyes, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, the dog wagged its tail so vigorously, its backside shifted side to side.

  Limp with relief, Graeye sank to her knees and curved an arm around the animal. "You are a naughty dog, frightening me like that," she scolded, turning her face away when he tried to lick it.

  As she stroked the dog's head, she smiled, remembering how frightened she had been of the beast when he had introduced himself during her first meal at Medland. She had rarely been around dogs, and certainly never one of such proportions, and had shrieked when he had laid his slavering chin upon her lap. That had gained her nothing but humiliation, for the dog did not move, and her father's men had roared with laughter.

  In hopes that he might leave her if she fed him, she had tossed food to him, but always he returned to her. Offhandedly, Edward had advised that if she beat him rather than feed him, he would not bother her. At his callous words a feeling of protectiveness had assailed her and replaced her fright.

  Since that day Groan—as she had named him, due to his penchant for making that horrible noise—had attached himself to her side. And he had more than once proved himself valuable.

  With a shudder Graeye remembered the night, a week after she'd returned to Medland, when Sir William had cornered her as she'd readied to bed down in the hall. The vile man had taunted her, his words cruel and cutting, his hands bruising as they made themselves familiar with her cringing body. Though he was to be her husband, and it was likely she could not prevent the rape he intended, she had fought him with every oun
ce of her strength.

  It had not deterred him, though. In fact, he had seemed to enjoy her resistance. Even as he had torn her bliaut and laid his hands to her bare flesh, he had threatened that if she bore him a child with the same mark she carried, he would kill it himself.

  That had frightened her more than the inevitable violation of her body.

  She had been about to scream for help when Groan had appeared. Snapping and snarling, he had circled William, his body bunched as he readied himself to attack.

  The man who had thought nothing of exerting his greater strength over a frightened woman had retreated posthaste, leaving Graeye to offer profuse thanks to her unlikely champion.

  Conveniently forgetting her resolve to face the haunting memories within the chapel, Graeye straightened. "Come," she said to Groan, "I will find you a nice morsel."

  The dog, however, went back to the chapel door and began to scratch and sniff again.

  Graeye pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. How much longer could she avoid that place? she asked herself. Sooner or later she would have to go within and brave her fears. Otherwise she would never be free of them.

  "Very well," she said. "We shall see what it is that interests you, Groan." Taking the last steps forward, she laid trembling fingers on the handle. Then, swallowing hard, she pushed the door open.

  Immediately, Groan rushed ahead, leaving her behind.

  It was not like that first night when a shower of candlelight had greeted Graeye—quite the opposite. Today the chapel was dim, its only light coming from the small window that had been opened to air out the room.

  Crossing herself, Graeye stepped inside. Instantly her gaze fell upon the high table that stood against the far wall. Her brother had been laid out on that table that first night, his ravaged, decomposing corpse emitting the most terrible stench. She could still smell it.

  Though she did not want to, she found herself reliving that night when Edward had brought her here. She'd been unable to cross the threshold for the horrible smell that had assailed her, and he had thrust her inside.

  "I would have you see Philip with your own eyes," he had said, "that you might know the brutality of his murder." Pulling her forward, he had swept the covering aside to reveal the festering wounds and Philip's awful death mask.

  "See the marks on his hands and chest?" he asked, running his fingers over the stiffened corpse. "These he survived. 'Twas the arrow that killed him."

  Fighting down nausea, Graeye asked, "Arrow?" She saw no evidence of such a wound.

  "Aye, took it in the back," Edward said. In the glowing fight his face turned a horrid crimson and purple as he stared into the sightless eyes of his son.

  Anxious to withdraw, Graeye touched his sleeve. "Come," she said, "let us speak elsewhere, 'tis not the place—"

  " Twas that Balmaine bitch and her brother!" His accusation cut across her words.

  Graeye's head snapped back. Balmaine? Was that not the family under which Philip had done his training to become a knight? Aye, she was certain their properties bordered upon those of Medland.

  "I fear I do not understand, Father," she said. "The Balmaines are responsible for this?"

  He looked up from the body, the hate upon his face so tangible, it gripped a cold hand about her heart.

  "Aye, Gilbert Balmaine challenged your brother to a duel, and when Philip bettered him, that wicked sister of his put an arrow through his back."

  Graeye gasped. Though her familial ties were indeed strained by the long years of absence, she was appalled that such an injustice had been done her brother.

  "Why?" she whispered.

  Edward gripped her upper arm. " Twas the Balmaine woman's revenge upon Philip for the breaking of his betrothal to her."

  Graeye had not known of her brother's betrothal. Despair over the lost years gripped her fiercely. Mayhap things would have been different had her mother lived and Graeye herself had been allowed to grow up at Medland.

  "Why would Philip break the betrothal?" she asked, and flinched when Edward's fingers bit deeper into her flesh.

  "She was a whore—gave herself to another man only days before she was to wed Philip. He could not have married her after such a betrayal."

  Graeye's hands clenched. What evil lurked in a woman's heart that would make her seek such means of revenge? she wondered. "When did he die?"

  "Over a fortnight past."

  Looking around her father, she glanced at the corpse one last time. "Why has he lain in state for so long?"

  "He was returned to me nine days ago over the back of his horse," Edward said, the corners of his mouth collecting a froth of spittle.

  "Whence?"

  "One of the northern shires—Chesne."

  "The north? But what was he—"

  "Be silent!" Edward stormed, giving her a bone-jarring shake. "I grow weary of your questions."

  Promptly, she closed her mouth.

  "The Balmaine is my enemy—ours!" he bellowed. "Do not forget what you have seen here, for we will have our revenge upon them."

  "Nay," she protested. "We must forgive, Father, for 'tis not for us to sit in judgment. That is God's place."

  "Do not preach at me!" He threw his arm back as if he meant to strike her. "I will have my revenge."

  She shrank from him, her gaze fixed on the hand poised above her. Then, suddenly, he released her.

  "You will remain the night here," he said. "I would have you pray Philip's soul into heaven."

  She shook her head. It was far too much he asked of her—the horrid smell, the decaying corpse.... If there was not yet disease in this small chamber, there would be soon. Panic-stricken that Edward might actually force her to remain within, she spun on her heel and ran for the door.

  Abruptly, Graeye pulled herself back to the present. She did not need to relive any more of that night to exorcise her memories. There was not much else to them other than endless hours spent in prayer. Locked in the chapel, she had knelt before the altar and prayed for her brother's soul, and for her own deliverance, until dawn when a servant had come to release her. Since then she had not come near this place.

  Groan's bark brought her head around. "What have you found?" she asked.

  Crouching low, he pushed his paws beneath the kneeler and swatted at something that gave a high-pitched squeal.

  "Is it a bird?"

  A moment later she had her answer when a bird flew out from beneath the kneeler and swept the chapel, searching for its escape. Excitedly, Groan chased after it, but it was too fast.

  It was a falcon—a young one, Graeye saw as she rushed to close the door so it would not escape into the rest of the castle. Had it escaped from the mews?

  It took patience and much effort, but between Graeye and Groan chasing it about the room, the falcon finally found the small window and its freedom.

  Holding onto the sill, Graeye watched the bird arc and dip its wings in the broad expanse of sky. She smiled and wondered what it would be like to be that bird. To fly free and—

  At once she chastised herself for her foolish yearnings. There was nothing she had ever wanted as badly as to come home to Medland and assume her place as lady of the castle. In spite of all the obstacles she had encountered these past weeks, and the fact that she was to wed a man she loathed, she had never known greater fulfillment.

  With the abbey forever behind her, her future was assured. That, no one could take away.

  Chapter 2

  There were to be no more discussions of Graeye's marriage to William Rotwyld. Simply, there would be no wedding.

  An air of import surrounded King Henry's knight as he strode into the hall five days later, his armed retinue following close behind to position themselves about the room. Clothed in chain mail, they wore no smiles, nor congenial air, that might mistake them for visitors simply passing through.

  Realizing that something serious was afoot, Edward ordered all, except his steward and William, from the hall that he m
ight receive the king's missive in private.

  Graeye had not long to wait to learn what news had been brought to her father, for his explosion was heard around the castle. Thinking it time to intercede, she hurried into the hall, stumbling to a halt when she saw the half-dozen knights clamoring to hold her red-faced, bellowing sire from the messenger.

  Eyes wide, she searched out William and found him beside the steward, his expression reflecting the other man's. Shock, disbelief, outrage ...

  She moved forward uncertainly, and looked questioningly at the messenger when he turned to face her. "What has happened?" she asked.

  His gaze swept her faded bliaut before settling upon her face framed by its concealing wimple. "And who are you?"

  "My lord," she said, dipping a curtsy, "I am Lady Graeye."

  His eyes narrowed on her. "Sir Royce Saliere," he stiltedly introduced himself. "You are a relation?"

  Graeye's eyes flickered to her father before settling once again on the knight. "I am the baron's daughter."

  The man looked surprised, but quickly recovered. "No longer baron," he said with a token shrug of regret. "By King Henry's decree all Charwyck lands have been declared forfeit and returned to the sovereignty of the crown."

  Edward roared louder, raising his voice against God as he continued his struggle to free himself.

  Feeling as if she had just been delivered the mightiest of blows, Graeye shook her head. It could not be true, she told herself. That King Henry would take from the Charwycks that which had been awarded to them nearly a century past was unthinkable. Surely this was some kind of trickery by which another thought to wrest her father's lands from him now that he was without an heir.

  "Methinks you lie," she said boldly.

  Sir Royce's brows arched high. "Lie?" he repeated.

  "Aye, King Henry would not do such a thing. My father is a loyal subject. He—" The parchment thrust into her face halted her torrent of words.

  "Can you read?" Sir Royce asked, his tone patronizing.

  "Of course I can read," she replied, uncertainty creeping over her as she stared at the document he offered.