“Face me!” Ranulf cried out, daring Luc to leave his castle walls and meet him in one-on-one battle.
On the way to Syndlear, Ranulf’s fear had grown to immeasurable limits, and by the time he had arrived, his blood had been pounding so hard in his veins, he could hear his own pulse. Then, in an instant the world had gone silent and remained that way. For the flames that had consumed Syndlear were gone. They had nothing left to eat. Only smoldering embers and scorched stone walls remained. No one could have survived.
Someone found Bronwyn’s horse running loose nearby and brought it to him. Its charred reins and singed mane were proof the animal had been tied up close to the burning keep when it had struggled to gain its freedom and safety. There could be only one explanation as to why the horse had been left to defend itself; Bronwyn had still been inside.
Unable to look away, Ranulf had stared at Bronwyn’s grave marker and let the rage and anger fill him until only loss and loneliness remained, devouring what was left of his soul. Speculations about the fire’s cause started circulating around him, but not one idea was plausible. Vegetation was scarce next to the keep and the trees nearby were untouched. Lightning strikes required clouds that had dispersed long before, and unattended hearths would have died out or resulted in a fire days ago soon after everyone left. No, Syndlear had been destroyed intentionally. Bronwyn was dead and Baron Craven had just forfeited his life.
Ranulf could not prove his deduction, but it was not needed. He knew the truth, and it left only one choice—war. Peace be damned. The saints of Twelfthtide, the Church, his men, even King Henry—all of them…they would either understand his immediate need for blood or they wouldn’t. Either way Ranulf did not care.
With only a handful of men, it should have taken virtually no time to prep for battle, but every minute had felt like an eternity. After assuaging Tyr’s concerns by leaving just enough soldiers at Hunswick to protect Edythe and Lillabet, Ranulf had led his remaining men back across Torrens and toward the mercenary army. This time, however, the baron’s soldiers were not relaxed. They had been waiting and were prepared for Ranulf’s arrival, confirming Luc’s guilt.
The size of the baron’s hired army was far from insignificant, but even if it had been doubled, it would have changed nothing. Ranulf would have still led his nearly two dozen men through the deadly crowd, maneuvering toward the vulnerable timber castle.
“Face me or everyone here will know you are not a man but a coward,” Ranulf taunted again. A minute later, he had his reward.
Luc appeared just above the wooden palisade, looking smug, overly confident, and easily within reach of Ranulf’s arrow. “I heard about the fire. One of my men said that your wife was rumored to be inside Syndlear at the time. I guess it always was her destiny to be killed by flames.”
Ranulf tightened his grip on the reins. “You killed her,” he accused, his voice low but penetrating.
“Something you cannot prove. And now you are left with a choice. Come after me, the king will take your home, your men, perhaps even your life. Leave and you lose your honor.”
“I will have you at the tip of my sword, baron.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Luc said haughtily with a wave of his hand, indicating the small but hostile army who had encircled Ranulf and his men. “But it won’t change the fact that Bronwyn will never again be yours.”
The reality of the baron’s hateful words slammed into Ranulf and he let loose a battle cry that could be heard throughout the valley.
Bronwyn stirred back into consciousness. Her stiffened muscles and joints burned, demanding to be moved. The fire must have died hours ago. The intense heat from the walls was gone and all the warmth had left the stones. Using the small breathing air holes as a window to the outside, Bronwyn surveyed the scene below. It was hard to make out, but based on the amount of moonlight, the sun had sunk behind the horizon several hours ago. Soon rescuers would arrive.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remain patient by recalling what she could before blacking out. After the stone door had locked her inside, the smoke had slowly seeped in, consuming all breathable air. She had pressed her lips to the small holes in a desperate effort to inhale anything that didn’t taste and smell like ash. That was the last thing she could remember.
Again Bronwyn tried to stretch. This time a little more successfully in her upper body, but crouched inside, she could not straighten her legs. Until she was freed from the small storage unit, they would be screaming for relief. Still, she was alive. Despite everything she had ever thought about her father’s narrow-minded commitment to build the fire holes, they had worked. They had kept her safe. Hopefully, they wouldn’t also cause her death.
She counted everything she could see, hummed every song she knew, but the silence remained. Where was everyone? Hadn’t the flames been visible? Maybe help had come and gone while she had been unconscious, never realizing she was inside the wall, alive.
Panic began to flood Bronwyn and the need to escape became her sole focus. Skimming the surface with her fingertips, she found the edge of the large stone blocking her way out and pushed. The effort resulted in absolutely no change. Bracing herself as best she could in the confined space, she shoved against the barrier. Again, nothing. The stone door had been designed to be removed from the outside by adults, not from the interior.
Stifling a ripple of fear, Bronwyn took several deep breaths and told herself that Ranulf would not let her die. He would somehow know she had survived and come to find her. She just hoped he did it before she starved.
After wiggling back around, the faint red break of dawn could be seen glowing through the air holes. Night was ending. Moving closer to study the landscape, Bronwyn realized her view was not of Hunswick, but the other side of Torrens—toward the Craven castle. Furthermore, it was not dawn lighting up the dark sky, it was torches.
In the distance, shadows moved and every once in a while a faint scream echoed across the valley. Bronwyn had no idea how long she stared out the holes, snatching morsels of activity, when suddenly the night sky lit up and the battle scene was no longer a struggle to see. Luc’s castle was on fire. There was only one rational explanation for the razing of the noble’s home—Ranulf had declared war. For him to make such a move meant he had already come to Syndlear and believed her to be dead. And without food or water, she would be very soon.
Tears flooded her eyes and the sick tune of Luc’s departing comments sang in her memory. Know in the end I will have everything that was supposed to be mine. Damn. She had been right. Luc had created a trap for Ranulf. Not the one she had anticipated, but one far more devious and destructive.
Ranulf had everything Luc ever desired—her, Syndlear, higher rank and power, even the king’s respect. But Ranulf’s unprovoked, unsubstantiated attack, killing dozens of men, could be the one thing to change that. Bronwyn could hear Luc oozing charm as he described her husband to the king, spinning stories of Ranulf’s lust for power, acting above the law—the one thing King Henry was rumored never to tolerate. Then add tales of her being promised to Luc and Ranulf’s defiance…it was very possible that Ranulf would lose everything, all the while believing she hated him for the accident that took away her father.
Bronwyn cried out at the injustice. It couldn’t be too late for them. She would yell and scream until someone came and found her. She had to tell Ranulf she loved him, and no matter what the king said or did, she would always be with him.
She would stay alive. She had to.
Ranulf studied the destruction surrounding him. The battle had ended several hours ago, but the war had just begun. All that remained of the baron’s castle was smoldering ashes. The men who had fought for Luc had either fled or died. The fighting had been brutal and Ranulf knew he was lucky to have only lost only two men against the greater numbers, but their deaths would haunt him for a long time. Especially because the reason they were there, the reason they had fought, the very man that Ranulf had
craved to face most—had not yet been found. The baron had disappeared just at the onset of battle.
A bloodied figure moved and Ranulf knelt down by the mercenary’s side. The man gasped and it was clear he was in enormous pain and would soon be dead. Ranulf didn’t care. Any of his remaining capacity for empathy had died with Bronwyn.
Grasping the man’s shoulders, Ranulf gave him a choice. “Tell me where the baron is and I will bring you water.”
Despite the pain wracking the mercenary’s body, distaste overtook his expression. “I hate people like you and the baron, always thinking you are better than everyone else, entitled to more,” he hissed. “Keep your water and your so-called kindness and may both your souls be damned to hell.”
“Where is he?” Ranulf pressed, promised cruelty laced in each word.
The dying soldier coughed violently before finally answering truthfully, knowing it would be the most vindictive of all last actions. “Gone to see the new king. You may be the better leader, better soldier, better at everything…but the man still won. You could kill him, but he would still win.”
Ranulf released the now limp frame and stood up, hating the fact that the dead man was right. Ranulf had gone to war without permission, and the instant Henry learned of the unapproved, unilateral decision, there would be repercussions. Being the king’s friend would not help Ranulf’s cause. If anything, it would hurt him. Henry had just assumed his throne and paramount to all was establishing authority and gaining the respect of his nobles, something that could not be earned by ignoring Ranulf’s most recent decisions. Instead, Henry would be forced to make Ranulf an example by stripping him of his title and wealth—a humiliation unlike any he had ever endured, and yet he didn’t care.
He didn’t care about anything.
Tyr kicked aside an empty helmet and sheathed his sword. “That one say anything?” he asked, pointing at the lifeless man beside Ranulf.
“Nothing I didn’t already know.”
“Then the baron’s gone to London then. We pursue?”
Ranulf shook his head. “We do not. Get the men and our dead. They are not to be buried here.”
Tyr nodded, but before he went to see to Ranulf’s bidding, he said, “You know what will happen then when the duke hears of…”
“Henry can have Hunswick and the title.”
“All may not be lost. State your case. Henry’s fair.”
Ranulf shook his head. “The king wants to focus on conquering Ireland for his brother. He’s not going to be pleased that I am causing problems in the north.”
“But what if he offers the baron Syndlear as a stern warning to you? Or worse, decides to raze Hunswick? Henry’s done it before, and if you don’t tell him the truth about what happened, he might do it again.”
Ranulf glanced at the dead bodies littering the valley and riverbed. His reaction had been justified but all the killing had not helped. The pain still remained and it always would. Bronwyn showed him what it was like to be complete and happy. Without her, a sickening hollowness consumed him. And nothing, no action, no inaction even if justified, would change that. He could search for Craven, find him, and even kill him, but it would change nothing.
“If that’s Henry’s decision, then so be it. After I see to the safety of my wife’s sisters, I never want to see either Syndlear or Hunswick again.”
Chapter Thirteen
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1154
FIRST FOOTING
First Footing is one of the primary celebrations of Hogmanay, a Scottish holiday that for many centuries was treasured over that of Christmas. The first person to cross the threshold of a home after midnight on New Year’s Eve determines the homeowner’s fortune—whether good or bad—for the coming year. Derived from pagan rituals and Viking invasions, the ideal visitor was a tall man of dark complexion, resembling as little as possible of the fair-haired invaders from the north. In medieval times, the first visitor would bear gifts, such as coin, bread, salt, coal, or drink, in exchange for food or wine. The tradition still continues in the United Kingdom today and is celebrated vigorously in Scotland, causing January 2 to be an official Scottish holiday, allowing for the recovery of enthusiastic merrymakers.
Lily strolled into the Great Hall careful not to make too much sound. The room was clean, just as most of Hunswick. She and Edythe had straightened their rooms that morning supposedly in preparation for First Footing, but in truth it was to keep busy. Everyone was searching for anything to occupy their minds from what they had lost. Her beloved sister through death and now their lord through paralyzing grief.
Lily stared at the large dark extended form staring into the hearth. Ranulf had spoken little since his return, eaten less, and moved not an inch from the Great Hall chair. Taking a deep breath, she ventured toward him, readying herself for his sour disposition.
“I told everyone to leave me alone,” he mumbled, but the uncompromising stance behind the request was clear.
Lily picked up the mug beside him on the table and quickly put it back down upon smelling the odor of its sour contents. When news came that her sister’s body could not be found among the ashes for burial, Ranulf had ordered everyone—including Tyr—to leave him be. The food and drink beside him had been sitting there for nearly a day and the ale had been from a cask opened almost four days ago for the Saint John’s feast. Most of the villagers thought their lord was in the Hall getting drunk, but the smell alone proved he had not taken even a sip. Lily was not surprised. The desire to eat or drink had left her as well.
“My lord? I just wanted to say good-bye. I am leaving for Scotland after the First Footing.”
Ranulf did not move. Lily didn’t think he had heard her even though she was standing right beside him. Then unexpectedly, he turned his head. “Tonight?” he asked.
She bowed her head, suddenly feeling as if she was abandoning him. “In the morning, with Jeb and Aimon. So far, the weather has been mild, but even if winter hits, they are from my mother’s clan and know people we can stay with during the journey.”
Ranulf resumed his firelight stare. “You don’t have to go. Bronwyn wouldn’t want you to leave.”
“My heart will stay here, but I cannot. There are too many memories.”
“You cannot flee them, Lillabet. They will follow you and haunt you wherever you are. Trust me.”
Lily wringed her hands and shook her head as another wave of guilt washed over her. “If I stay, I will only remind others of what I did. I am the one that forgot the tapestry. I am the one that made the protest about it not being here.”
“You didn’t kill her.”
“No, and neither did you. Baron Craven did.”
Ranulf remained still, but Lily could see a rigidity overtake his frame. He was shutting her out. “Tory and Norval will escort you as well.” Then as if he could tell she was going to argue, he added, “I made a promise to keep you and Edythe safe.”
Lily nodded in resignation. Then, realizing she was standing on his left just where Bronwyn had said not to, she moved to his right side. “Thank you. I am sure Jeb and Aimon will appreciate the support, but Edythe is not going. She has it in her mind that Bronwyn would want her to stay and help you with Hunswick and there is no convincing her otherwise. But she has Tyr, and I have seen the way he looks at her. He will keep her safe.”
“He won’t marry her.”
“Not while she’s married, no, but later,” Lily insisted. “Like me, she intends to get an annulment. Then, she—”
“Wouldn’t matter. Tyr won’t wed, not now, not ever.”
Lily crossed her arms and furrowed her brow. “I think you’re wrong. You think I am young and naïve, but I know love. It was I who realized Bronwyn was in love with you. I saw how happy you made her and now I see it in Edythe’s eyes. Don’t prevent Tyr from being content because of what happened to you.”
The accusation riled Ranulf into a reaction. He sat up and jerked his head around to give her a pointed stare. “Yo
u think I would do that?”
“I think you miss Bronwyn in a way I only wish I could someday understand. I think you were lucky, supremely lucky to have been loved by her, and she was just as fortunate to have been loved by you. But just because your time was cut short does not mean others are not meant for joy.”
Ranulf rolled his eyes and then relaxed against the chair, massaging his temples. “Tyr has demons, Lillabet. Ones that would terrify Edythe. He won’t marry her because of them, not me. He and I were never destined to be happy. He accepted that truth long ago. I am only now realizing he was right.”
Lily took a step back. The fierceness of his declaration rattled her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you…I’m really sorry, Ranulf. I’m just lost without her. Bronwyn meant the world to me. She was beautiful and kind and everything to everyone. But with you, she was finally happy.” Lily moved back to his side and knelt down beside him. “If you remember anything, remember that. You made her happy and she loved you.”
Ranulf swallowed. “But did she know that I loved her?” he whispered, desperately seeking an answer.
He leaned over and rested his elbows on his knees and studied the floor. A tear splashed on the wooden boards below. If Lily thought his coldness unnerved her, Ranulf upset was significantly more disturbing. “Of course she did. How can you think otherwise?”
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