Traitor's Moon

By Janet Lane

First Place Winner of the 2015 HOLT Medallion Award.

Harvest Festival, 1459 - On a moonless night, the half-Gypsy Stephen Ellingham accidentally kills Lord Faierfield. With her father not yet buried, Nicole Miles marries the man who killed him--without the king’s blessing and under the shadow of her family’s curse.

Nicole doesn’t care whether her new husband believes the rumors that her womb is cursed, but Stephen has vowed to protect her younger brother, Alex. Rendered deaf when his mother boxed his ears, Alex has tried diversions over the years to keep people from realizing he's deaf. His efforts have backfired, though, and people believe he's mad, unfit to inherit his title or hold claim to the Faierfield lands.

Stephen weds Nicole to make amends for accidentally killing her father and leaving her family vulnerable. He must protect Alex from their ambitious uncle, who plans to kill the young boy to claim the family's holdings.

Then the Battle of Blore Heath erupts, the first of many in the War of the Roses, and Stephen must face Nicole's uncle on the battlefield. The chaos of war is a perfect breeding place for treachery, and the uncle stages an incident that leads the king to declare Stephen a traitor.

Only Nicole can help him, but she finds no evidence to prove his innocence, and it is, in the end, a matter of trust. It's fortunate that he has good armor, though this particular set of armor may lead to his death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Lane
• Release date: Mar 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9780990463429

Janet Lane

#1 bestselling author Janet Lane writes "history, made passionate" in fifteenth century England and France. Her heroines carry the spice and spirit of Gypsies in their blood, and they're strong and resourceful as they confront the turbulence of that century, be it war, prejudice or yes, romance. Her novels have won the 2015 and 2017 international IPPY Award, the 2015 international Next Generation INDIE award, the 2015 EVVY, the 2015 HOLT Medallion, and the anthology, Broken Links, was a finalist in the Colorado Book Award. Janet Lane writes action adventures in the medieval romance and contemporary women's fiction genres. "Lane does a superb job creating layers to the Gypsy culture ... a must-have for fans of the series." ... August 18, 2017 review of ETTI'S INTENDED by Library Journal. Janet's recently released Crimson Secret, the fourth book in her international award-winning historical romance series, was awarded the bronze IPPY medallion this spring. Her novels are set in fifteenth century England during the so-called “Gypsy Honeymoon” decades. The first novel in the series, Tabor's Trinket, is a #1 bestselling novel. #1 New York Times Best-Selling Author Lara Adrian called it “..an enchanting medieval romance filled with passion, intrigue and vividly drawn characters that leap off the page. I loved this novel!”. Janet was a featured author in RMFW Press’s Tales from Mistwillow anthology, and co-chaired the editorial board for that press’s anthology, Broken Links, Mended Lives, which was nominated for the Colorado Book Award. Janet welcomes your comments here or on her website, http://janetlane.net On Twitter at janetlaneauthor.

Book preview

Traitor’s Moon

(Book 3 of the Coin Forest series)

Copyright © 2014 by Janet Lane

Cover art Copyright by Jalena Penaligon

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Set in 12 pt. Times New Roman.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Also by Janet Lane –

Tabor’s Trinket (Book 1 of the Coin Forest series)

Emerald Silk (Book 2 of the Coin Forest series)

Traitor’s Moon (Book 3 of the Coin Forest Series,)

Crimson Secret – Book 4 of the Coin Forest series

Estimated Release: June, 2016

It’s About Time, a short story and part of the

Mistwillow anthology, RMFW Press

Broken Links, Mended Lives, an anthology

Upcoming book release news at:

www.janetlane.net

Join my newsletter - never miss a new book or a hot deal!

https://janetlane.wordpress.com/

Click on Join Now - thank you!

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Author’s Note

Contact Janet

Sneak Peek: The Red Bridge, releasing soon

Reviews

Book Club Discussion Topics

Awards

Chapter 1

Swallowing a string of oaths he chose not to express, Stephen Ellingham calmed himself and cantered his palfrey, Hingit, through the darkened village. His knights, Harry and William, rode with him through the quiet streets. Pitch lights fought the midnight gloom and failed, and the smells of the bonfires and roasting pits faded behind them.

Tell me again why we’re following Lord Faierfield, Harry said. He’s in the foulest mood, and he told us to go direct to Hades at least three times this eve.

Drunk as sin, William said. Fierce as a badger, and over nothing.

It must be more than nothing, Stephen said. First night of the harvest festival, and his neighbor, Walter Faierfield, seemed keen on a fight from the moment he arrived.

Stephen’s father, Richard, Baron Tabor, had suffered Faierfield’s temper through three dice games and quit the table after a barrage of name-calling. Stephen had stayed—a mistake, for Faierfield’s ill humor only worsened. He’d insulted Stephen, calling him a heathen Gypsy. They’d shared fisticuffs, then Faierfield had started complaining about the dam again, demanding that Stephen, who managed the mill, dismantle it. Deep in his cups, Faierfield slurred more charges, his accusations meandering and senseless. Then Stephen’s knight, Warin, also fuddled, had laughed at him. Faierfield roared that he’d file a complaint at court, and dragged his long arms across the table, spilling all the die and chalices. In a glaring, cursing huff, he gathered three of his knights and left for his castle, some ten miles away.

But it was no night to be traveling. The country was split, in upheaval, rife with criminals and dishonorable mercenaries. Poor England was sliding into civil war as the Duke of York prepared to fight King Henry VI for the throne. Roads weren’t safe to travel, and this moonless night made them the more dangerous.

We’re following Faierfield to protect him from himself, Stephen said. He can sleep it off at Coin Forest and go home tomorrow in the safety of daylight.

William huffed. After his insults, it’s a puzzle why you care.

He’s going through a rough stretch. Stephen had heard about Walter’s ship, the Bagyrell. It had sunk, loaded with cargo, financially devastating him. He’s a good man when he’s clearheaded.

He said you were on thin ice with the king, William said. And you saw his face.

Aye, red as a rooster's wattle, Harry laughed. And that huge yellow beard of his, flopping like a mustard mop when he cursed your father.

Stephen ran a hand through his hair, tangled from the ride. I am fixed to settle this before it escalates to a formal complaint. His family already had their feet to the fire with alliances unsavory to the crown. No need to make it worse with a local feud over nothing.

The river cut sharply away, disappearing into the brooding border of Coin Forest, heavy with dense trees, its shadows often a harbor of secrets.

They left the village lights behind them and turned onto the the less-traveled lane to Walter's castle.

Overhead, the sky shimmered weakly from stars trapped in a thin mist, the moon absent. Harry lofted a flickering lantern, no match for the darkness that clung to the earth.

Wheat fields trailed a musky sweetness and in his ears, music lingered from the harvest festival he’d so abruptly abandoned.

All due to his short-tempered neighbor.

Several horses burst from the trees, their whinnying weak enough that they must be some distance ahead and to the left. They thundered toward Faierfield and his knights. A man issued a blood-stopping cry of attack, followed by answering cries of surprise.

Hell's fire! Brigands, Stephen said.

Here? William said, his voice rising in disbelief. This road was a peaceful, minor highway between their properties.

Desperate times. Stephens said. His muscles tensed, anticipating the fight. Faierfield’s and Stephen’s families suffered a history of discord, but Walter was a fellow nobleman, and a good man. They must save him.

Beneath him, Hingit pranced, skittish. Na daran, Stephen soothed, Na daran. Do not fear. He listened, assessing. Faierfield and his knights, four. Harry, William and himself, three. In the darkness, sounds of struggle—and more horses.

Come on! Stephen and Harry raced ahead, closing the distance between the marauding outlaws and Faierfield's small party.

Unseen in the darkness, the outlaws barked at Faierfield to stop.

Faierfield uttered a string of obscenities, his high-pitched voice still slurring his words.

Quiet, my lord. Faierfield’s gravelly voiced knight, Samuel.

Faierfield had revealed his location, not just to Stephen, but to the criminals. Stephen guided Hingit in the chilled darkness, feeling the ground begin to drop. The rogues had run Faierfield into a ravine to the right of the road between the two properties.

Harry still carried the lantern. Kill it, Stephen said. No need to be more visible than their foe.

The flame died. Voice low, Stephen gave Harry direction. You and William advance, straight on, and distract them from Faierfield. I'll circle around.

The ravine filled with the sounds of clashing metal, bruising blows. A swarming mass of armor and horse flesh and men, all huffing in their effort to kill. Stephen closed in on a snarl of men. They flashed before him as they moved, dark grey ghosts against a backdrop of black, like bats fleeing from a lightless cave. He heard more struggle ahead of him and waited.

Faierfield's high voice rose again, almost screaming, threatening to draw and quarter them.

He’s over there. Get him, one of the criminals shouted.

Stephen made a calculated risk of his position and signaled Hingit. They rushed forward. Stephen stabbed forward and above saddle height. His sword found flesh. The brigand grunted in pain and slid off his horse.

Dog! Another outlaw rushed to his friend’s aid. Stephen dispatched him, and he, too, fell.

Oh, my God. To the right, William’s voice, tight with pain. The thud of a man hitting the ground.

William’s down! Harry cried.

God’s blood. William! Stephen rushed toward the voices. William!

Stephen! Faierfield cried out from the left, relief in his voice as he realized his party was not alone. Thank God.

A rider bumped into Hingit.

Hingit turned, bit the horse.

The horse reared.

Friend or foe? Stephen brought his sword back to his chest, desperate to know where to strike.

A sword sang, slashing his unprotected ankle. Jagged pain shot up Stephen’s leg, taking his breath.

Dizzy from pain, Stephen danced Hingit from danger, rocking his foot in the stirrup to be sure it was still there. A dung horseman approached him from behind.

Stephen ducked as a club swung past his head. My death day? Stephen unleashed his fury, slashing his sword in the darkness, seeking flesh. The hell it is!

Another horseman appeared from out of the dark. Hingit sidestepped, giving Stephen a good angle. He shoved the man, unseating him. The man cursed and slid off, grabbing Stephen’s leg.

Stephen slapped at the horse but the outlaw held on. Hingit reared and stomped. The sound of a breaking bone, the fallen man’s screams.

Another one swooped in. Stephen dodged, but not in time, and hot fire burst in his side. Bastard! Stephen confirmed a fresh wound, turned, stabbed viciously forward. Met flesh, passed bone. Take this to hell with you, Stephen shouted.

The man grunted in pain. Stephen! In God’s name… A familiar voice, a pitch higher than most men.

Stephen’s heart seized. Fairfield? Oh, my God. The night's intentions cracked like broken arrows. Is that you?

The man slid from Stephen’s sword and fell.

Stephen bolted off Hingit, slapping his flank. Se duce, he said. Go. He hobbled toward the man in the inky darkness. Found him, felt the warm blood flowing. He reached higher, traced the scar above the man's eyebrow and clenched his full, soft beard.

Horror blotted his mind. Faierfield! He held his neighbor as he released a long, tortured breath and his body sagged.

Stephen waited in the silence, his heart beating dully in his ears. Have I killed the very man I was trying to save? He listened, desperate to hear a heartbeat, feel a breathe of life.

Cold silence gave Stephen his answer.

* * *

Back at his home Stephen sat on a storage chest, leaning against the wall in the solar. The outlaws had escaped, Stephen and the survivors had returned to Coin Forest, and guards were sent to retrieve the dead. Outside, the grey light of pre-dawn outlined the southeast tower of Coin Forest Castle. Harvest festival revelers, sobered by the news of the highway attack, had viewed the dead and now gathered in the great hall below, their excited conversations audible even from here.

Stephen gulped his wine, choking on the truth. His young knight, William, dead. The Faierfield knights, Samuel and Peter, dead. His stomach churned. And Faierfield, dead by my own sword.

Across the chamber, his mother, Sharai, had moved ells of silk off the table to make room for roast chicken and breads, but no one was eating. The colorful fabric bolts sat like a mocking rainbow in the corner, too bright for the disaster they faced.

His knight, Harry, sat at the table, a cloth over one eye and his fingers bandaged in a large white mitt. Blood at his temple matted his curly hair. Across from Harry, Father Lewis passed Harry a cloth. Gentle, he said, Mind the stitches. The priest was past forty seasons now, face flushed, his wild eyebrows furrowed.

Stephen’s father, Lord Tabor, sat next to the priest. Like Stephen his father was over six feet tall. Age had streaked his black hair with grey, but had not claimed his wits or strength. His mouth tensed into a thin line, he looked at Stephen.

Tabor struck his fist on the table. Faierfield should never have left in the middle of the night like that. His cursed temper.

Sharai stood before the fire. The years had dulled his mother’s beauty, but a strong spirit still shone in her eyes. She had plaited her white-streaked black hair in the English style and it framed her brown face, now tense, strained. She held her dark eyes closed and moved her head in a slow circle, humming a Gypsy tune. A nervous habit, something she did when troubled.

She continued with her odd song, the notes unsettling. Stephen shifted, groaned from the wound on his left side. He willed his ankle, scraped to the bone by the outlaw's sword, to stop throbbing. His senses reeled from the healing salve his mother had dabbed on his wounds, a stench of earth, fish and rotting peat.

Dranego en yekhipe, zor. Bater. Bater. Calling on her Gypsy roots, Sharai chanted the spell and tossed the remaining ointment into the fire, where it flared in black-tipped spikes.

Her spell crawled up his spine like a morning frost but out of respect for his mother he concealed his shiver. Over two decades ago she had quietly wed his father and settled efficiently into her duties, earning cautious acceptance in Somerset despite the color of her skin. She made spells only in time of peril, and even then concealed it lest she be burned for witchcraft. She had filled Stephen’s childhood with laughter and songs, and she believed in her power to heal, yet her chants echoed in the chamber, unnerving reminders of her heritage.

My heritage. The shadow of his mixed blood tainted his family, and now disaster with Walter. I must make amends.

His mother pulled her silk rosary beads from her purse, threading the globes through her fingers from hand to hand. She whispered Christian prayers on the top of her Gypsy spells, prayers to deliver them from this ill-starred night. What can we do?

Father Lewis rubbed the side of his round face, the soft skin at his jaw pouring over his hand. His death puts Lady Faierfeld in a precarious position.

His mother sucked in a breath, her eyes wide. Emilyne! She looked to Tabor.

His father lowered his gaze, saying nothing. Years ago he had spurned Emilyne, Lady Faierfield, to wed Sharai. The resulting scandal had changed Emilyne from rejected fiancée to bitter enemy.

His death is untimely, Father Lewis said. Faierfield’s fortune is spent and they have no heir.

Alex is the heir, Stephen said.

He’s cracked, Harry said, tapping his temple. Many in the parish will petition the king to claim the holding. Henry will grant it to the nobleman who bids highest.

He’s just twelve, a child. I will speak for him, Stephen said. Given the king’s own mental lapses, he should be sympathetic. Willing to wait until Alex reaches his majority.

His mother’s dark eyes grew wide. You forget the curse.

The curse. All of Somerset knew the curse. Faierfield’s first son had slipped from Emilyne’s womb missing a left hand and had died six days later. Her second born, Nicole, inordinately tall and hateful. Then Alex, daft. If Alex couldn’t inherit, the manor and its land would revert to the crown. Emilyne and her children would be disinherited, all because of Stephen. He pondered options. He would gain audience with the king—and ask for what? A favor? Inaction, that he forego a sizeable boon during looming war as an act of generosity? Possible solutions landed in his brain like insects on the lake at dusk, only to be devoured by reality as he realized the futility of them. He finally spoke the only option that seemed fair to Faierfield’s family. I could wed the daughter.

Nicole? His father shook his head. What would that help? And you’d be miserable.

She is difficult, Stephen admitted. Even with her light coloring there was a darkness about Nicole Miles, as if she’d slammed the door to life and homed the bolt. But I think it could work.

The idea has merit, Father Lewis agreed. We cannot tuck our heads under the sheets.

Stephen is Gypsy. Apology softened Sharai’s eyes.

He’s English, Tabor countered.

Gypsies. Plague. They use the words together, Sharai said.

In France, not here, Tabor said.

Father Lewis nodded. People are ill at ease with it. Further, Faierfield and Stephen were last seen together fighting. The priest’s face wrinkled in concern. He threatened you, Stephen, and you threatened him.

Like an onion, the priest’s words stripped Stephen to a new level of alarm. We were angry. Faierfield was relieved when he knew we were there tonight. He knew I was trying to help him. Before I stabbed him to death.

The priest touched his arm. If his family loses their holdings, this will be another cross to bear. Father Lewis turned to Tabor. Think! Stephen is titled. By wedding the daughter, he can protect Alex until he can inherit. Emilyne will be grateful. More willing to forgive Walter’s death.

But what of Katherine? Sharai asked Stephen. She’s been speaking of the future.

Yes. Katherine. Warm, passionate, a viscount’s daughter, well-positioned in London. He knew Katherine was expecting an offer of marriage. He swallowed with difficulty. She will find another.

And what of the curse? Sharai’s voice trembled. Think of your children, Stephen. To keep Coin Forest, you need to present an heir.

The thought of disfigured children brought an uncomfortable tingling in Stephen’s feet.

Let’s appeal to a second born son of nobility, Sharai said. We shall … compensate him for marrying Nicole.

Stephen’s considered it. Why not? A second-born son could protect young Alex, defend England from the Yorkists and gain enough favor with his service to earn a title.

What man would take such a chance with his own offspring? Father Lewis asked.

That unsettled Stephen, but growing up as a half-Gypsy had exposed him to the oft-times irrational fears and misconceptions of wagging tongues. Stephen looked to his mother. Faierfield’s death … his voice faltered and he strengthened it, … was my doing.

I will not allow this, Sharai said.

The strength in her voice brought Stephen a flush of comfort, but he had never hidden behind his mother's fears, and would not do so now. He lifted his mother’s face and she covered his hands with her own. It was an accident, she said.

Outside, a hint of dawn’s light pierced the grey and a trace of blue appeared in the sky. The fire flickered gold on the worn fireplace stones, shining black from countless fires. The stones seemed to expand, enshroud him as the darkness had earlier in the ravine.

Stephen had seen Nicole occasionally at the parish church, her beauty marred by her mouth frozen in an ill-humored scowl, eyes cold with challenge and distrust. His stomach knotted. But what else can I do?

A pause settled over the solar and everyone looked to him.

Stephen took a deep breath. His and Faierfield’s family’s political positions were at stake. He must decide now or risk falling between two stools, finding no remedy by lacking the courage to decide. He stood taller. I have cast them in need. I must defend their holding. His life had slipped into shadows of change and uncertainty, and honor demanded he step forward to face them. I must wed Nicole.

* * *

Katherine Creet, daughter of Viscount Jennyton, pressed against the heavy door to the solar, straining to hear, but due to the noise in the hall and the tight fit of the door, she could only hear vague mumbling. As Stephen’s intended, she was a special guest during the harvest celebration. Tomorrow, she wanted to discuss posting banns at Christmas, but this evening’s deaths had ruined everything. Stephen was up to his ears in trouble, and just two weeks after she had finally convinced her father that Stephen would make a good match for her.

The heavy door swung open and Sharai rushed out of the solar, clenching a kerchief, her gaze darting, never landing. God help us. He can't do this.

Katherine recoiled from the door where she'd been eavesdropping. She straightened in an attempt to look innocent. What is it, my lady?

I forbid it!

Forbid what? First, Lord Faierfield's death, now what? Katherine glanced toward the door, hoping to see Stephen, but saw only Father Lewis, his face white, expression sober. What's amiss?

The priest entered the hall. Stephen ...

Stephen what? Katherine pushed past Lady Tabor.

Stephen appeared, stepping past Father Lewis. Let me––

...will wed Nicole Miles, the priest finished, avoiding eye contact with her.

Nay. Katherine swooned.

Stephen supported her, smoothing her hair, and she recovered. Come with me. We need some privacy. The pantry will do. He guided her slowly down the steps to the landing.

Jeffrey the Pantler appeared from behind a bin of reeds.

My lord, how may I—

Leave us, Jeffrey. Post yourself at the door.

As you wish. Jeffrey left, closing it.

Katherine grabbed his arm. Wed Nicole? You’re going to marry me. We’re making our announcement soon. What in all that’s holy are you thinking?

He put a hand on her waist and tipped her face up with the other, caressing her chin. I have to do this, Katherine. I'm so sorry.

You’re mine.

We are not yet betrothed. He shook his head slowly, his eyes sad.

All but the words being said. I’ll send word to my father. He’ll fix all this. Dizziness threatened again. His eyes had never burned with such intensity. He could be so cold, so distant––were it not for his passion she thought some of times his heart wasn't beating at all. Now he looked at her, touched her as if committing each feature to memory.

She had pursued him these past months with every amorous trick and charm she possessed to soften his cold reserves and make him love her. She would not let some troll like Nicole take what was hers. Fear jumping in her throat she kissed him, stroking his lips the way she knew he liked it, sucking his tongue, pulling him back to her the only way she knew. You cannot wed her. She's a cold garr and she's cursed. You know that. She would stay calm, bring him to reason. She deserved this dark-skinned, alluring man, and no sour, accursed miscreant would steal him from her.

She rained kisses on him, holding his head in her hands, kissing the curve of his ear, licking his throat where the vein pulsed.

He gathered her hands in his. I'm profoundly sorry.

This is madness. After all these months, we've been together—.

Weeks. We met at solstice. He cupped her face in his hands. Katherine, I care for you deeply. He caught the short curls at her temple and twirled them as he liked to do.

She covered his hand with hers. Then why?

I must do this for my family. For Lord Faierfield.

I've seen you. Only you. All this time. I spoke with my father; my dowry will be very generous, Stephen, it will astound you, and—

Pray don't do this, Katherine. He squeezed her hands gently and released them.

Swallowing became difficult. She hates you. Her mother hates you. They hate you for your blood. I defended you to my father, I fought for you! I don't care if you have Gypsy blood. Who else can say that, Stephen? Who?

He touched her then, his calloused finger tracing gently as a whisper down her cheek, and she saw it, that blankness that clouded his eyes when he'd made up his damned, stubborn mind. She slapped his hand away. Stop that. Just stop! It provokes me to hell when you do that, Stephen.

Do what?

Close yourself off to me.

I'm doing this for my family. Our position is precarious— He stopped in mid-sentence.

Bosh. Only because you sneak around so. My father says you just need to quit hiding out here in Somerset and be more active in court. Let my father help you.

His lips tightened and he remained silent.

Tell me what you’re thinking.

This must be done. He closed his eyes, then opened them, his expression resigned. There's no more to discuss.

Her future. She had it all planned. She shivered from the sensation of sudden loneliness, the shock like stepping in cold mud with a relentless, bitter wind ripping down her throat. Go to hell! I hate you! She pounded his chest. You can’t do this to me.

He captured her hands and pulled her to his chest, holding her.

She tried kissing him again, desperate for an intimacy that would end his terrible plan.

He held her more closely so she could not, and stroked her hair. I apologize from my heart.

Heart? You have none. She hated the tremble in her voice, hated him seeing the pain he'd caused, the weakness he could summon by his rejection. She crushed her mouth on his, a kiss she knew drew his blood like honey. He answered her passion and she leaned back against the wall, the apparent victim but really the seducer, using the heat of her passion to remind him of his own. At the least he wanted her, even if he was too dense to realize it. Abruptly she pushed him back, slid away from him. You will miss me.

Katherine. He reached for her.

She raised her hand, stopping. Don't touch me. Ever again. She let the tears fall, wanting to wound him. And don’t look for sympathy from me when you see the vile creatures that come slithering from her womb.

* * *

Stephen checked the wagon wheels before they left Coin Forest to be sure that the wainwright had secured the tongue and inset clamps. He wanted no mishaps on Faierfield’s final journey home.

The sun shone warm after the night's gloom, the sky the darker blue of impending autumn.

He darted a glance in the second wain where the bodies of the Faierfield knights lay, and the first wain where Lord Faierfield's body rested. Would that he could come back to life. He had been surly and argumentative, but he was a baron, from an honorable family, a husband. A father. Brave in battle, and loyal. He knew Walter. He would have apologized, come morning.

Stephen recalled the sweet smell of Katherine's hair, her tears. He had never meant to hurt her. Gone were his chances for a lusty, passionate wife and the sweet bonus of a dowry.

He found his mother in the solar, staring into the fire.

Time to go, he said. Emilyne is expecting us. He had sent a carrier pigeon with the bad news to ease the family's shock.

She took a deep breath, biting her lip. You’re wounded. You should not travel. Tabor and I can appear in your stead.

Do not fight me on this. He turned to his father. You know I'm right.

His father nodded.

All right then, Sharai said, but we're coming with you. Wait for just a moment. Taking an apple from the basket on the table, she approached Stephen and rubbed it in a slow circle over his heart.

Mother, please don't.

I must try. Pulling a dagger from her belt, she sliced the fruit to the core and extracted two seeds. She dipped them in wine and approached the fire. Desor wood, she chanted in Romani and carefully positioned the seeds side by side in the embers. She sat on her heels, hugging her knees and watching the seeds swell and glow.

They popped, clearing the grate, staying together until they landed with soft clicks on the stones.

Her slight shoulders rose with an intake of air and she slowly sighed it out. She hugged Stephen, delicately so as not to hurt his wounds, sadly, as she would bid her child adieu upon leaving for battle, trying to conceal the fear. Do not wed her before I find a spell to keep the evil from your children.

Chapter 2

Stephen led his family and knights on the road to Faierfield. He chose to ride Racer, his prized war horse, in the procession to honor Walter as a fellow nobleman and baron. Ten miles of gently rolling hills separated the two holdings, fertile, golden fields dotted with stacks of hay and herds of grazing sheep on the right, forest on the left.

The wagons caught up and he fixed his gaze on Lord Faierfield. Joints stiffened from death, the nobleman rocked like a log in rhythm to the wain as it lumbered over the rutted road. Grey tinged his aristocratic features and his skin had developed a waxy sheen. Only his blond hair and beard seemed alive, tossing in the gentle wind.

Death’s silence roared in Stephen’s ears. He had killed at battle, been haunted by death rattles and sightless eyes. But they had been French, felled in England’s defense. This man had been his neighbor. His dying cry still echoed: Stephen! In God's name...

Another voice tormented him, a softer one: I don't care if you have Gypsy blood. Who else can say that, Stephen? Who?

Had he found a gem like Katherine, only to lose her to a blameless mistake?

Yes. The answer burned in his skull. It was done.

They passed the hedges and wooded area and entered the Faierfield properties.

The ravine. Stephen stopped. This is where it happened. See, there’s Faierfield’s lantern.

The grasses had been churned and flattened, stained with blood.

And two dead thieves.

Stephen rolled the larger man over. Not over twenty years old. He checked his hands. Rings. Silver. Far from a desperate outlaw. He turned a pin on his cotehardie. Fleur de lis.

French, Harry said.

Mayhaps, Stephen said. Merchant, likely. But robbery? Makes no sense. He turned to Harry. What of the other?

Harry searched the second man. A little older. Look at this dagger. He handed Stephen the blade, flashing in the sun. Good quality. Stephen handed it to his father. What say you?

Tabor studied the dagger. I saw similar daggers at Winchester, and at the fair in Troyes. Dearly priced. He tilted his head. Not common thieves. Why would they attack Walter?

Stephen released the thief roughly. He wanted to shake them until they came back to life so they could answer. Collect their valuables and any papers. We will present them to Faierfield’s steward.

They continued riding. The road followed Ten Mile River, which flowed smoothly despite Walter’s complaints last night about their dam impeding its flow. Stephen still found Faierfield’s anger about the issue a puzzle.

His father pulled alongside of him, his brown eyes meeting Stephen’s, a slight lift of the eyebrows, an encouraging smile.

He’d seen that expression many times while growing up, a father’s silent acknowledgment that his son had made a mistake, but he would stand by him. Stephen’s chest ached and his throat tightened.

As he always did, Stephen noticed the light hue of his father’s skin, a sharp contrast to the darker shade of his own. Would that he had inherited more of his father’s blood than his mother’s.

Guilt visited as it always did at such thoughts. His mother was keen and gracious. Her talent with the needle was known throughout the parish, that and her child-like joy of life. She did not deserve this partiality and he would die before revealing it to her, but he craved more the English side of his heritage.

His father made a clicking sound with his tongue and nodded toward the river. Strong current. More than enough to power the mills and water the fields.

So why was Faierfield upset? His father and Walter had held the neighboring properties without incident from as far back as Stephen could remember.

He made some bad choices, his father said. Wool is the new commodity. English wool is superior, and Ghent is willing to pay dearly for it. Walter never adjusted.

Why not?

The ships.

Stephen nodded. Walter had forsaken the land for the sea and invested in shipping, with disastrous results. In July the merchant ship Bagryell, filled to the sun deck with costly Marly and Bergundy wines, sank just a league out to sea. In broad daylight. In calm seas. Many claimed sabotage, but whatever the cause, Walter was ruined. Easier to blame our dam than himself.

A flock of ducks landed in the river, creating water plumes and trails of sparkling water.

Lord Tabor nudged his horse forward and slanted a glance at Stephen. I should have been the one to go after Walter yester eve.

Stephen disliked that thought. He may have lost his father to the highwaymen. No. We’ll get through this. Stephen’s jaw twitched. We’ll deliver Walter, I’ll make my apologies and see what they say of my offer.

Peasant’s houses became more frequent, the road wider.

Faierfield’s knight, Daniel, met their party with a dozen knights just before the high street, their faces drawn, sober. Daniel acknowledged them. Father Lewis, Lord and Lady Tabor. Godspeed.

He viewed his fallen lord and Daniel genuflected. Prithee follow me.

They passed the mill, eel traps, sheepfolds and livestock enclosures, then the larger houses. Harvest workers swelled the shops, the barns and tents as they assembled from the fields for the mid-day meal.

Look. It’s Lord Faierfield, said a young boy. Villagers swarmed the wagon to look at Walter. They removed their hats and fell in step behind them.

That’s him, all right. A fat-necked harvester shook his head. A merchant’s wife clutched at her bodice, her eyes cold. Bloody nails. ‘Tis true. She glared at Stephen. He was slain by a Gypsy.

Stephen winced.

Ignore her, Harry said. "She’s