Someone bumped into her, a woman who laughed shrilly and apologized as she moved off with her escort. A cloud of oversweet scent clung to the air from either the man or the lady, or both. It aggravated the beginnings of a headache wrapped around her temples.
The ring of young women were still staring at her, their gazes openly hostile. They had been joined by a few of the men in the room, who were bowing their heads to listen to the whispers. It was not her imagination that she was the topic, not when some of them dissolved into laughter asthey looked over at her.
“Even that savage Kincardine won’t have her.…”
That savage Kincardine, indeed. Avalon took another sip of the mead and smiled determinedly at no one in particular.
That damned betrothal had taken her life and twisted it to suit the needs of a few power-hungry men, kings and barons and lairds. As long as she had lived Avalon had been betrothed; it had haunted her and protected her and sealed her destiny as surely as only the stamp of fate could. So naturally she had to do all that she could to break it.
Avalon had told no one of her own plans for her future, nor would she. Like a magic secret, she half feared that even to say the words out loud would spoil the dream. She kept these thoughts to herself.
The room was rapidly growing hot, too many people now, some of them dancing, even singing as the wine and mead made tongues looser. Another couple came by too close, shoving her unexpectedly, making her nearly spill her drink. They did not apologize.
Enough. Avalon handed off her goblet to a serf, found the main door, and slipped past the guards to the antechamber, which retained the coolness of the night. It was much less crowded out here, most of the benches and chairs were empty.
She found a cushioned bench by a bower window, close enough to allow a curling breeze to wind around her face and hair, her shoulders, cooling off the anger until it was nothing more than her usual faint resignation. She looked around, seeing only shadows and dark corners, then leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes.
“How did you know?”
Nicholas Latimer loomed over her, then quickly sat beside her on the bench. He took her arms and held them tightly, his breath heavy on her startled face.
“Tell me how you knew about the dreams,” he demanded.
Avalon looked around but this section of the room was deserted, offering no help. She backed as far away from him on the bench as she could, striking his hands off of her.
“It is obvious,” she said bitingly. “Leave me alone.”
He moved to hold her again, and she stood and whirled away. A couple across the room saw the abrupt movement; they stared over at her. Latimer leapt up to follow, then boldly blocked her way. She could not sidestep him now without causing a scene. For Maribel’s sake she stood where she was.
“You are a witch, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice filled with derision and fear. “You are. You came here and you cast a spell on me, didn’t you? You came with your hair and your eyes, you looked so fair. You tempt honest men with your face, you torture me, you make me feel these things, hot nights—”
“Don’t be a fool,” she snapped.
The couple was still watching, joined by two more.
“You would lie with the devil before you lie with me, wouldn’t you? And you think you will! You think you will lie with Marcus Kincardine, that he’s going to come back from that crusade of his and claim you. But he’s been gone so long, hasn’t he, witch? Why wait for a barbarian Scot when you could lie with me?” Latimer stepped closer, too close, and there was danger in his look, a sense of crossing some line. “Lie with me,” he said again slowly, hoarse and lost in himself.
Look, invited the chimera, a second danger, see.…
Against her will she was caught for a moment in Latimer’s mind. His intensity drew her in in that old familiar way she dreaded; the feelings sweeping over her, the dizzying contact. The cursed chimera in her taking over, opening the gate—
Look.…
And what she felt from him was a deep longing, fear and more longing. Shame. She tried to block the shifting images that filled him, a woman dressed only in sheets, a man on top of her, doing things to her, and Avalon saw that the woman was herself, and he was the man … and these images became blended with something else, something darker, smoke and flesh and food, a bitter taste, he was ashamed of this, that it consumed him.…
Lips, darkness, taste-touch-want-witchfearlipsbedtaste—
Latimer came back from that dangerous place and she with him, light-headed. He reached for her, heedless of their audience, but before he could grab her again instinct and training took over.
Avalon whisked her hand up and captured his, centering her thumb on the back of his palm, turning his wrist over and bending it backward as she took a step forward. She pulled his hand down between them to the folds of her skirts, hidden now, and put her other hand on his elbow, locking it into place. It all happened in a fraction of a heartbeat.
She then gave him a dazzling smile, as if he had just told her some romantic nonsense that brought them close together.
Latimer’s eyes grew wide with the unexpected pain. Avalon held him there, immobile, applying just enough pressure to let him know she could really hurt him if she wished.
Across the room she could hear the murmurs begin, her name spoken in rising whispers.
“Listen to me very carefully,” she said, keeping her voice as low as possible. “It is not witchcraft that lets me see that your nights are sleepless. If I ever hear you say that word in connection with my name again, you may be sure you will be very sorry, my lord. It isn’t witchcraft that holds your hand right now, it is simple flesh and blood. Are my words clear to you, my lord?”
He looked around, then back at her, gritting his teeth. “Yes,” he said.
“Excellent. In exchange for your reason, I offer you a favor, Lord Latimer. I have heard, you see, that you enjoy eating the flesh of a most unusual mushroom, that you have fallen into the habit of it with a few of your friends. I may not be your friend, Nicholas, but neither are they. And I wish you no ill. But those mushrooms you crave are bringing your dreams. Let them go and the dreams will go, as well.”
She released his hand. He yanked it back, rubbing his wrist.
“I truly wish you no ill,” she said again.
He turned around and walked away from her, straight into the crowd of people who had gathered to watch them, everyone rapt with heated speculation. They broke apart and swarmed around him, eager to keep him in their center and soak up the beginnings of a new scandal.
Avalon knew with pure certainty that all hell was about to break loose.
Chapter One
TRAYLEIGH, ENGLAND SEPTEMBER 1159
The riding party that approached the castle was notable for many things: the blazing heraldry of the d’Farouche family, splashes of red and green and white, bold and unmistakable; the number of men in the entourage, forty at least, soldiers with shining swords and proud steeds. They moved as one, an imaginary beast of glittering metal stretching across the landscape, weapons and armor and polished steel—the menace of war, proudly displayed.
But perhaps the most notable thing of all in this party, as they made their way across the gentle hills on the path to Trayleigh Castle, was the object they guarded.
Near the lead and yet surrounded by men rode one woman on a sorrel mare.
Lady Avalon had shunned not only the covered litter which was supposed to carry her, but also the hood of her cloak, which meant that the sun played on the brilliance of her hair, a mix of blonde so fair more than a few of the men had privately compared it to an angel’s halo.
Those that had argued with her about riding in the litter, however, muttered that no angel would be so stubborn. And some had even heard the other rumors, the whispers traded behind hands, the dangerous word few dared say aloud—especially not when confronted with the uncommon stare of this particular lady.
“Look th
ere, milady.” The lead soldier turned in his saddle and pointed off into the distance, prompting the young woman to follow his direction.
Unfolding around the long corner of a low-slung hill was the sight of Trayleigh Castle, revealed in bits and pieces through the autumn trees surrounding it. Home of Bryce, Baron d’Farouche—her cousin and guardian.
Twelve years ago Lady Avalon d’Farouche had watched that very castle, her family seat, burn as she clung to the top of a birch tree she had climbed after an afternoon of playing alone in the forest.
From her view at the edge of the nearby woods she had seen most of the details of the raid, and contrary to what the Londoners said, she remembered every second of it.
Fat clouds of black smoke erupting from all over the castle.
People everywhere, running, crying, chaos. Some of the people unmoving on the ground, spilling rivers of blood.
Her nursemaid, Ona, running for the tree where she was perched, calling her name in a panic.
A group of men following the woman.
The men pursuing Ona were bloodied like everyone else, but oddly colored with paint and carrying weapons. They were coming to the birch, and there was a menacing intent in their steps. Even though Avalon had scrambled out of the tree to warn Ona of the danger behind her, it had been too late.
Also contrary to what the gossips said, Avalon had not seen her father die. Only her nursemaid, slaughtered beneath the birch beside her.
The painted men were insurgent Picts, men without homes or honor. But to seven-year-old Avalon, they were creatures straight from a nightmare: goblins, streaked blue and red with screaming eyes.
She would have died with Ona in that moment at the base of the birch, her throat slit just as ruthlessly. But Uncle Hanoch had come. Hanoch had been visiting her father, and Hanoch had fought his way to her past the arrows and the axes and the blood, and he had killed the goblins instead. He had saved his son’s future bride and carried her away, away, to the coldest place in all the lands, Scotland.
Yes, the last time Avalon had seen Trayleigh she had been in the arms of Hanoch Kincardine, being dragged away from it while she shrieked at the top of her lungs, while she cried and kicked until they had stuffed a wad of cloth in her mouth that had tasted of smoke and death.
But today was fair and warm, a lifetime away from that moment. It was a day of rolling green hills and long meadows, with no sign of trouble anywhere. Lady Avalon d’Farouche, the young woman, now saw that Trayleigh Castle was much recovered from that terrible day twelve years ago.
Throughout her time away she retained not so much the memory of the splendid castle she was born in but rather the ravaged mess that she had glimpsed from the woods that day. In her mind, Trayleigh lingered in that distressing state, burning, bloodied, and brought to its knees.
The Picts had never been caught. They had plundered and raided and then melted away, back into the wilderness. The best that anyone had ever been able to explain to Avalon was that they were the holdouts of a remote northern clan, resisting the rule of any king, resisting civilized order. Whether it was bad luck or fate that made them pick Trayleigh to show their wrath, no one knew.
So when Avalon shifted in her saddle to take in the first glimpse of her old home, a corner of her still expected to see the same smoke she remembered eating up the skies.
But the castle that greeted her now was not burning. Nor was it quite what she recalled from happier times.
It was smaller, for one thing, not nearly as imposing to the eyes of an adult as it had been to a child. The straight, plain lines of it stretched up to the blue heavens but didn’t seem to reach all the way to the angels, as she used to imagine. The lawns were better kept, the hedges more neatly trimmed. Or perhaps she had simply never noticed these things as a girl.
The old birch tree that had been her shelter during the raid was taller, the branches thicker. It had not, apparently, burned with the castle.
But the air smelled just as she remembered, and Avalon felt a burst of gladness at this, that something was familiar after all this time: the scent of honeysuckle and grass.
Her cousin’s armsman saw her smile, pushed back his visor, and stared at her appreciatively.
“Right lovely,” he said, and she nodded, still looking at the castle.
The watchmen had sighted them and the gate was rising.
Avalon tried to remember if her father had kept the gate closed all the time. She had no idea. Probably not.
Geoffrey d’Farouche, for all his fame as a knight to his king, had been an older man by the time she was born, and ill equipped to raise his toddler daughter after his young wife had died of a fever. Avalon had been handed off to her nurse and nearly forgotten, as far as she recalled. Her memories of her father summoned up merely his eyes, his beard, the timbre of his voice. She could not say if he was kind or harsh, pragmatic or sentimental. There were really just two things she would always remember him for: that he had arranged both her betrothal and the fateful timing that had brought Hanoch Kincardine down from Scotland right before the raid.
The procession took on a solemn air as the group filed through the giant portals and on inside to the cobblestone courtyard. They pulled up in the middle; a serf came over and helped her off her horse, then took the reins and led the steed away.
“Cousin!” came a hearty cry, and Avalon turned to face a large, richly dressed man around what would have been her father’s age, coming toward her with open arms and a wide smile. She took a few steps forward but he was faster, pulling her into his embrace. The heavy onyx studs decorating his tunic dug into her skin.
She allowed this and then pulled back, straightening the train of her gown.
“Never say you rode all this way on your mount?” The man—her cousin Bryce, she assumed—gave her an incredulous look, opening his gray eyes wide, almost an act. He turned to the armsman.
“And you allowed this, Cadwell?”
“I’m afraid I insisted, my lord,” Avalon broke in quickly. “I do so dislike being confined, you see.”
“Ah.” Bryce looked back to her, and though his smile was still there, slightly puzzled, Avalon had a glimpse of something behind it. Irritation.
“You must not be so formal with me, dear Avalon,” he said, still sounding perfectly jovial. “You may call me Bryce, of course.”
“How kind,” she replied. “You may call me Avalon. But of course, you already do.”
He paused and then laughed, taking it for a joke, which was probably for the best. She had no idea what had come over her. She didn’t want to make an enemy of this man any sooner than she had to.
“Welcome home!” he said. “I do hope we did not inconvenience you too much by sending for you, cousin?”
“Not at all,” Avalon replied, most sincerely.
“Your companion—what was her name?”
“Lady Maribel.” She had only been Avalon’s constant chaperone for the past five years. Too short a time, Avalon supposed, for her guardian to bother to remember her name, even though it was he himself who had instructed his ward live with her.
“Yes, of course. Lady Maribel was not too put out by having you leave her in London, I hope?”
“I do not believe she was at all bothered, my lord.”
Lady Maribel had practically thrown together Avalon’s trunks herself in an effort to help her flee the coming scandal. Maribel’s reputation was much too sterling to consider besmirching, however remotely compassionate she had been to Avalon over the years.
“It was my dear wife who suggested you come to Trayleigh, but the haste was my idea!” Bryce laughed, spreading his big hands on his belly. “I am not a man of patience, I fear!”
“Your haste was not unwelcome,” Avalon murmured.
The summons had come the very night of the party, delivered with some urgency by a man in her family’s colors. She had not seen the d’Farouche heraldry in so long that it took more than a minute to recognize it, to approach
the man, and accept the missive from her guardian.
She was wanted at Trayleigh. She was wanted at home, by order of Lord d’Farouche, etc., etc., and it had taken all her restraint not to dance around in joy in the middle of that crowded room. It didn’t matter why he wanted her, not really. All that mattered was that she would escape London.
How ironic that her rescue came at the hands of this man who had taken over her father’s title after the raid. The gilded young ladies had been correct in at least one thing: Five years ago Bryce had not wanted her. Had not even wanted to see her once she emerged from Scotland, the unexpected survivor of that long-ago raid on her family castle, even though he had never met her. It was a very public humiliation. At the uncomfortable age of fourteen, Avalon had been sent to Lady Maribel’s estate in Gatting and—as far as Avalon knew—had been completely ignored by her family ever since.
But Bryce had finally sent for her. At long, long last she was home.
And now, as she watched this cousin, this stranger who thought to control her fate, Avalon was struck for the first time with a tiny prick of unease. She could not say what it was that caused it—the width of his hands, the florid stain of color on his cheeks. Something was not quite right.…
It was perfectly natural to invite her home, she had told herself. After all, she was still family, her father had been Lord d’Farouche before him. Perhaps her guardian had finally decided it was time to acknowledge her, that she had spent enough time in Gatting and London with Maribel.
Bryce laughed again. “Come and meet my wife. She has been so eager for the day of your arrival! I daresay she has spoken of nothing but your coming for almost this past sennight!”
Waiting in the shadows of the doorway leading to the great hall stood an auburn-haired woman in a gown of scarlet, surrounded by a line of other women, most likely servants. Bryce took Avalon to this group with her arm firmly held in his, almost causing her to trip over her skirts to keep up with him.
He pulled her up beside him and presented her to his wife as if she were a prized trophy.
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