Lady Leanna watched the tumult of activity from her balcony in the Green Tower, so named because of the ivy that clothed it. She had returned from her ride hours ago and, to the relief of her governess Mirabel, had bathed and abandoned her dusty riding clothes in favor of a festive gown. Mirabel had departed for the kitchens, promising trouble for any slackers, and left Leanna to study the North Gate in the breezes of the early evening. The storm clouds she had seen on her ride passed with only a light showering of rain and she found the ensuing coolness refreshing.
The sight of the massive stone gateway made her recall the many times Emric had ridden beneath it on campaigns to the west. Every time they had parted, he had flashed his best smile for her, adding a wink, as though he knew with all certainty that he would return. And he always had returned, riding through that giant portal atop his charger, the wind tangling his long dark hair around his handsome face, his eyes searching for her on her balcony.
Leanna’s heart beat nervously as she thought of her father, who had sent her away to the relative safety of Brimhall while he defended the frontier from his holding at Gallitain. Despite the motherly attention Mirabel lavished upon her, Leanna missed him and yearned to see him again, though she admitted conflicting emotions when she remembered how he and King Morien had reveled loudly at the idea of grandchildren. She flushed at the memory. Would she have no say even in this, the most personal of all decisions? she asked herself.
A commotion in the yard below interrupted Leanna’s reverie as two men came into view and faced off. Both were hard limbed, broad shouldered, and clad in finery, but the resemblance ended there. One was clean shaven with closely cropped tawny hair and brilliant blue eyes. The other was dark, with a thin beard emphasizing the hard line of his mouth. Black hair framed a face made rugged from years of campaigning. Leanna recognized him as none other than Prince Bran, Emric’s elder brother and heir to the throne.
A group of men crowded around the two and Leanna could hear the fair man shout an accusation.
“You are ill mannered, Your Grace,” he cried with the heat of youth. “Should you not proffer an apology, I will demand satisfaction.” His gloved hand went to the hilt at his side.
“Come then, Sir Owen, and satisfy your honor.”
Leanna gasped at the hissing tone of Bran’s reply and saw Owen hesitate to draw his sword.
“I cannot engage Your Grace in single combat,” he finally said, apparently resigning himself to accept Bran’s insult.
“Have no fear, Sir Knight.” Bran emphasized the last words as though to ridicule the younger man. Then he turned and addressed the crowd that had gathered around.
“Let no man present hold falsely against Owen that he acted against his oath as a knight in engaging in this duel of honor. Be I prince or no. Unless”—he paused, eyes alive with menace, his lips curled in a grin—“unless, of course, it is cowardice that binds him.”
At that final affront Owen drew his blade and both men adopted a fighting stance.
The combatants circled one another in a slow search for an opening. Bran’s blade was a thin line held low, an invitation for Owen’s strike. Owen raised his weapon and thrust. Steel crashed against steel, the sound ringing throughout the yard as Leanna watched in mute horror.
Suddenly, she heard Owen cry out as one of Bran’s swift parries knocked him off balance. The prince’s blade whipped out, sending a dark red line across the blond knight’s cheek. Owen’s hand went up to his face and came away dripping blood. With a curse, he pulled a fighting dagger from a sheath at his belt.
Leanna’s spine became icy as Bran broke into hideous laughter, unclasping his black cape and holding it loosely with his free hand. Owen drove forward savagely, cutting back and forth in wide arcs with his sword. Bran was hard-pressed, barely able to dodge his opponent’s desperate strokes, but when Owen lunged forward with his dagger, Bran brought the cape up with a skillful movement and tangled the knight’s weapons.
Then, spinning in a tight circle, Bran whipped his blade across the back of his adversary’s knee. The stroke split Owen’s flesh open and sent him in a heap onto the cobblestones.
Bran circled his crippled opponent, who now lay helpless in a ball of agony. As Bran lifted his blade for the final blow, his gaze found Leanna standing on her balcony.
She stood frozen, unable to dislodge herself from Bran’s penetrating stare. He had looked at her many times before with blatant desire, covetous lust naked in his gaze. But now she saw something else in his eyes, something that frightened her more than his wanton leers ever had. It was the look of exhilaration at the agony he had wrought.
Unwittingly she knew his thoughts as if he had spoken aloud. My adversary’s pain shall redeem me in your eyes.
Bran sheathed his blade and extended his hand to a man at the edge of the crowd. “Bring me my whip,” he said.
On a nearly subconscious level Leanna had been aware that she, too, possessed the Ningal, her mother’s hereditary gift. Many times she had received impressions of others’ thoughts, but the impressions had always been unbidden and vague. Never before had they been so strong.
Now, still locked in Bran’s frightful stare, she understood that through her gift the eyes of the mind had shown her his anger and hatred. She could no more detach herself from the cruel savagery of his inner being than she could turn away from his vicious eyes.
The attendant deposited a thick coil of black leather in the prince’s open palm. Bran’s fingers curled around the whip and then, with a flick of his wrist, it unfurled to its full length.
Leanna gasped as the whip lashed forward like a monstrous snake, striking Sir Owen on the back of his legs. She covered her ears at his high-pitched scream, but could not shut herself away from the horror that was unfolding beneath her balcony. Again the whip cracked, sounding even louder, then again … and again.
Bran drew back for another vicious blow. He was stopped short when a mailed fist seized his wrist.
Emric’s voice was furious as he yanked Bran around to face him. “No sooner do we lose one enemy, dear brother, than you must seek out a new one amongst our allies.” Emric signaled a squad of men-at-arms to disperse the crowd.
In the confusion of the duel, Leanna had not seen Emric approach. Now her heart raced at the sight of her love.
“It was fair combat, Emric,” Bran spat at his brother, yanking his arm free. “Sir Owen challenged and I accepted as befits the laws of chivalry.”
“Of course,” said Emric, narrowing his eyes. He took a step closer. “And how does chivalry regard the torture of an unarmed man? I have ridden into many a battle with Sir Owen, of the noble house of Loriel, and I know that he is a just and brave knight. Your actions this day have cost our father a dearly needed vassal.”
“The king has knights aplenty, brother, and no need for one who fought so rashly,” Bran said. “Or perhaps you think me a liar when I say that it was he who cast the challenge?”
“If Owen yet lives, it is he I shall ask for the truth.”
The brothers regarded each other for a long, dangerous moment. Then Bran smiled and took a step back.
“There were witnesses, brother. In any case, I take my leave of you. All this fighting has given me a fierce appetite.” He inclined his head ever so lightly in a mocking bow. “I trust the matter is at an end.” Spinning, Bran strode out of the courtyard, courtiers trailing behind him.
Emric watched his brother disappear through the inner gate, then ordered his men to attend the fallen Sir Owen. A slight motion from above caught his eye; he looked up to see Leanna. Though she had clenched her hands tightly before her, even from this distance, he could see she was trembling. He sent her a reassuring smile, but she only stared at him in response.
Chapter Three
A herald’s trumpet marked the official beginning of the Summer Feast. Villagers had already filtered into the castle courtyards from outside the walls. Now they milled about with the jugglers and performers, and
partook with abandon of the heaping platters of food and freely flowing ale.
Lady Leanna, still preoccupied by thoughts of the combat in the yard, waited in the great hall as the royal procession entered though the massive, iron-bound doors. King Morien, his sons at either hand, led the assemblage. Attendants scurried aside as the mighty king, known to all as the Lion of Wareham, took his place at the head table.
“Let the feast begin!” he commanded and emptied his jewel-encrusted goblet as the assembled nobles cheered.
At once, the hall exploded into activity. Pages entered, carrying dishes piled high with meats. Leanna wondered how she would be able to eat even a bite. A servant, struggling under the weight of a huge platter, deposited a large steaming bird, decorated with its own brilliant plumage, onto the table.
“A peacock!” exclaimed Count deBracie with delight, edging forward to examine it in amazement. “King Morien has truly spared no expense this day. Such beasts roam only well beyond the Inland Sea.”
Leanna paid the count little mind. Instead, she leaned against Emric, anxious to hold him closely. Propriety demanded otherwise and she had to be satisfied with a lingering brush against his body.
“You look ravishing, my love,” he whispered, smiling warmly at the sight of her.
She, too, looked at Emric with approval. He was magnificent in his dark chausses and a rich blue tunic, finely embroidered in gold. She wished they were alone so she could bury her face in the dark hair that fell in thick waves around his strong shoulders. He laughed at someone’s comment and, as the sound of his mirth filled the hall, Leanna felt her own spirits lifting.
She knew it was sometimes whispered at court that many lords regretted Emric had not been born the eldest. Bran’s sullen moods alienated a good many of Wareham’s most powerful nobles, and Leanna was certain the incident with Sir Owen would only widen the rift. Even the most oblivious of courtiers knew the uncertainty with which nobles regarded the succession. But Emric would not suffer the subject to be mentioned in his presence, and Leanna had never pressed him to discuss it.
“So, Leanna,” began King Morien, dabbing at his chin with the edge of a silken sleeve. “How fares your noble father?”
She smiled, as grateful for the king’s interest as for the respite it promised from yet another of Count deBracie’s anecdotes.
“He is well, my lord, although I have not had word from him in some time.”
The king reached across Emric to pat her hand. “Take heart, child. Undoubtedly his duties in Gallitain keep him preoccupied. It is a severe responsibility Gareth has undertaken in securing the hinterlands, you know.”
He smiled reassuringly and Leanna warmed at the unexpected display of affection.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she managed, wishing she could voice her fears.
She often worried for her father, who commanded a lonely outpost on the frontier of Wareham, where the fertile lands surrounding the Saber River had begun to attract droves of settlers. Clashes with the barely civilized tribes of the Heldann Highlands were common, but her father had insisted their lack of organization made them more of a hindrance than an actual threat.
She reached for the goblet of wine set between her and Emric when she caught sight of a commotion at the entrance of the hall.
Captain Aelfric, the veteran commander of Brimhall’s garrison, stood framed by the massive, metal-bound doors. He entered the hall and formally saluted, countenance as stern as ever.
“What is it, good captain?” queried the king loudly, as all the guests looked toward the man.
The soldier took another step forward. “There are heralds without to see Your Grace. They are Heldanners, and they carry the banner of diplomacy.”
A great clamor arose from the assemblage at the news. King Morien, his noble features fixed in deliberation, raised his hand, calling at once for silence.
“Bring them in, Aelfric. Let us hear what tidings these messengers bear.”
Leanna pressed close to Emric, whose apparent disquiet heightened her own. Never before had Highlanders ventured from their wilds in the region men dubbed Heldann, except to raid the farmsteads and settlements along the border. Their appearance here was distressing. She cast a glance at Bran, who seemed equally intent on the developments.
Four men, armed with sword and round shield and clad in the peculiar, banded armor and furs of the Heldann warriors, entered the hall. The stoutest held a tall spear from which a dark blue banner depended. They glared at the group of feasting nobles with something akin to disgust.
“Morien, King of Wareham!” one of them shouted, striding ahead of the rest.” We have come in the fashion of your people to bear a message from King Lorccan of Heldann.”
“King Lorccan?” asked Morien. “Why has this king not made himself known to us before?”
“I am Angvard, war-leader of Clan McQuillan, come recently under the banner of King Lorccan,” said the Heldanner spokesman, “as have all the clans west and north of your borders. My lord has not had cause to acknowledge your holdings until now.”
King Morien ignored the slight. “Say your message,” he commanded.
“The lands you once called Gallitain now lie in ruin by Lorccan’s hand and the might of his warriors,” the Heldanner stated plainly.
Leanna gasped in horror, deaf to the clamor of disbelief from the assembled nobles.
“Along the river you call Saber,” the barbarian continued, “your farmsteads burn and the women bewail the loss of their weakling men. The earth is red with the blood of your dead.” To emphasize his point, he unfurled the standard that had hung in the hall of the fortress at Gallitain and threw it to the ground.
Prince Bran stood, his face drawn in lines of outrage, and reached for his sword, but his father stopped him with a gesture. The king stood in turn, narrowed eyes flashing with anger.
“So let there be war between our peoples. Go and tell this Lor—”
“There is more!” shouted Angvard, heedless of his blatant arrogance before the king. “You are commanded to withdraw from your holdings west of the foothills we call Agarra, leaving those lands to be administered as Lorccan chooses. You may continue to rule the remainder of Wareham, provided you agree to pay tribute, the manner of which shall be decided by my master.
“I am further instructed to say that if you fail to obey, you will all surely die. As we swept down upon Gallitain, reaping your warriors like sheaves of ripe grain, so shall we descend on Brimhall itself, and there will be none amongst you to stop us.”
Prince Bran drew his sword in a flash. “My lord father,” he cried. “I beg you, let me skin these worthless barbarians and send their hides back to their dog of a king. The only tribute they’ll take from Wareham is a sword through the belly—”
King Morien sent a balled fist crashing against the table. “As long as I draw breath, not a single league of my kingdom will I yield to this barbarian, Lorccan. Tell this insolent chief that if it is war he wishes, then he has found it. He will count his tribute in Wareham arrows, one for each of his cowardly followers.
“Now go, before I lose control over these men and must watch them cut you down.”
Angvard laughed harshly. He and his escort clattered out of the hall.
The king lowered his great lion’s head to his breast. “There will be no tourneys on the morrow,” he proclaimed. “We shall have real war soon enough.”
The sudden din of activity in the hall drowned the sound of Leanna’s griefstricken weeping.
Chapter Four
Emric dismissed his squires to linger a moment in his apartments. He crossed the room to the giant hearth where a dying fire sputtered and crackled. Lost in thought, he poured himself a cup of wine from a decanter that stood nearby and drank deeply, mulling over the words of the past hour.
“This Lorccan fancies that declaring his mastery over a few savage tribes will earn him the fellowship of kings,” his father had said in the council chamber above the main
hall. “He shall come to curse his foolish ambition.”
A general hum of approval had risen from the assembled lords as they bent over their maps, while Aelfric moved small wooden figures about the charts, plotting the movements of Wareham’s troops.
“Never fear. We shall crack this impudent fool like a nut, Father,” Bran cried, pounding his huge, clenched fists upon the table. “I swear to you.”
“Swear us no oaths,” Emric interrupted his brother. “This Highlander is no weakling for us to easily break and sweep aside. Forget not that he has already taken Gallitain, no mean feat even for the mightiest army.”
One knight protested, but the king silenced him. “Emric speaks truly. It would be a grave mistake to underestimate him, else one day his banner may fly from Brimhall’s very walls. Aelfric,” he said, turning to the grizzled captain. “What say you?”
“I will not lie, sire. We are outmanned.” He cleared his throat. “We have but a few hundred here, with less than a hundred horses. Prince Bran’s garrison at Karvoie has twice that number and Loriel has three hundred here.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “But it will take days to assemble them. If we had but a few weeks to raise our levies …” He gestured helplessly.
“Emric.” The king turned to him. “You have fought at Gareth’s side against this foe before. What make you of them?”
“When we forced the Highland clans back beyond the Saber, they were disorganized savages with naught more than bronze swords and spears who did little but raid border villages. If this Lorccan has power enough to unify the clans, they will be formidable, for they are vast in number and fight without fear of death.
“To worsen matters, the hills and forests around Gallitain are to their liking. They can sally out at their leisure to slaughter along our borders.”
“But they will not be content with Gallitain,” Bran said. “It was plain enough that Lorccan desires all of Wareham.”
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