Fletcher: The world of Prydain, fantasy romance, #3

By AJ Adams

Rebellious, mouthy Lind has had enough of being a slave. She's certainly not going to act meek and mild to please a bossy, stuck-up Guildsman, even if he is a dangerous nutcase with a rep for burning down entire cities. Determined to run away, Lind quickly discovers that the fletcher is more than a match for her.

Having lost his family, master craftsman Ware Fletcher is driven by his need for revenge. To secure it, he buys Lind, a slave with unique skills. However, Ware quickly discovers that his new acquisition is extremely difficult. Insolent, fearless and immune to discipline, Lind causes chaos wherever she goes. If he's to get his revenge, he'll have to tame her first.

As Lind and Ware battle each other, their smouldering encounters bring them closer together. Can a slave and her owner find true love? And if they do, will Ware's need for revenge lead them both into disaster?

 

Fletcher is set in Prydain, an imaginary place that combines Anglo-Saxon England with Medieval England, the Teutonic Kingdom and the Viking Age.

 

Fletcher is the third Prydain novel, but it is an independent story. It is complete and has no cliffhangers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Whyte
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201258658

AJ Adams

AJ Adams writes twisted love stories set in the violent world of the Cartel, Camorra, Belial's MC and Prydain. All AJ Adams novels are self-standing and although some feature the same families, you need not read them all - but it would be awesome if you did. If you enjoy these novels and want to stalk, please know that AJ is the pen name for Ellen Whyte. Ellen married her best friend and moved to the tropics where they are living their own Happily Ever After. When she's not writing, she's cooking and pandering to her rescue cats Target, Swooner and Tic Tac.

Book preview

Chapter: Fletcher, a month earlier

Iwas dumbstruck, gazing over the ravaged earth. My family’s farm was gone, and the forge, the workshop and the fieldworkers’ cottages, too. The little shrine had been smashed and burned. Looking beyond it, the sheds had also been destroyed.

There had been fifty people working here, thirty more in the shrine, and now it was desolate but for Marta, an old woman barely in her senses, who’d lived wild in our woods for as long as anyone could remember.

Everyone’s gone? My voice came from a million miles away. All of them?

They came from the north, she quavered. Twenty men, wearing purple devices with black ravens. They stole Apollo’s sacred arrow.

And my family? My father? My mother? Owen, Lorraine and Pedr? The children? The people in the shrine?

All gone.

I could feel my guts rip apart. A cold flame of horror washed through me. I just couldn’t accept it. Everyone? They’re all dead?

The crone cowered and pointed. There!

It was a funeral pyre. Not a small one used for a single person. This had been a huge pyre some twelve paces by twelve paces. My family, everything I’d loved, longed to come home to, was gone. Burned to ashes.

Who did this? I snarled. Describe them to me! Every detail!

Rage flamed through me, possessing my soul. The need for vengeance banked and built, searing with the lust for destruction. I’d find them and kill them all. Every single cursed one of them.

Chapter One: Fletcher 

She was climbing down a sheer wall. No gear, no shoes. Just fingers and toes, gripping invisible ledges and outcrops. There are lizards in the far eastern continent that do that, but this was the first time I’d seen a human perform the feat.

She wasn’t carrying anything, so she wasn’t a thief. It was interesting, but I had more important matters to attend to.

The smith didn’t notice her, being too intent on me. You’re from Llanfaes? We don’t get many of your kind here.

I knew why but deflected his curiosity. Is that so? I’ve been abroad for some time.

We trade, of course, the smith said lightly. But the road is rough, especially in winter.

Yes, there is still snow on parts of the road.

We don’t usually see traders this early, the smith hinted.

I wasn’t going to tell him that vengeance had driven me to defy the weather. Or that I’d made the journey alone, knowing rain and lingering ice would deter all but the most lonely and desperate of robbers.

I kept on point. Tell me, Master Smith, have you seen a troop of horsemen? Dressed in purple and black? The horses are thoroughbreds. Real quality.

Smiths adore horses, and this one was no different. A troop of horsemen, you say? In purple and black?

Yes, with black ravens on their devices.

The smith’s face cleared. Of course. Yes. That would be Sir Ranulf’s men.

Finally I had a name. It had been worth venturing into Caern after all. Any idea where I can find him?

He’s a Tanweld man, the smith warned me.

My heart sank. I’d been hoping they were unemployed mercenaries. Those I could have tracked, confronted and killed easily. Tanweld, however, consisted of a thousand miles of thickly forested hills and vales, filled with towers, keeps and outlaws as well as wolves, bears and other dangers. If the tales were right, there were darker things there, too. Elves, some say, and men with the spirits of wolves.

It would take weeks or months just to locate Ranulf. But seeing I no longer had a family waiting, I had a lifetime to assure my revenge.

What do you know about Sir Ranulf?

The girl was clamped to a wall, waiting as a maid beat a cloth out of a window. She must have had claws instead of fingers.

He lives in a fortified manor, deep in the forest, and he never leaves home, the smith told me. The whole place is hidden, accessed by a secret path. And even if you get there and get in, you won’t get into his tower.

A real fortress, is it?

The best! The dukes would pay dearly to get Ranulf, but he’s too clever for them. He sits snug and secret like a spider, sending men to do his bidding.

His bidding?

He collects treasures. They say his tower is filled with gold.

Like Apollo’s arrow. The shrine had been there for generations, but the arrow had been acquired while I was on my travels. From Haven, the old crone had said, a city far in the north.

I couldn’t bring back my family, but I could get the arrow back and build a new shrine for it in their memory.

I guess Sir Ranulf must have people at his gate every day, offering to sell heirlooms.

The smith laughed. Not likely! Nobody goes there, I tell you. It’s hidden.

The robbing is part of the pleasure?

Now you’re beginning to understand Ranulf! He’s a mean bugger, he is.

Getting to Ranulf would be difficult, but there was an upside. If he’d been a real knight, a noble, I couldn’t have touched him. Only nobles can challenge nobles. But the title was self-bestowed. As he was a Tanweld man, an outlaw, I could kill him openly.

Murder is punished, but I’d get away with this. It’s the same all over Prydain, no matter which of the nine cities you’re in: a blood feud allows a challenge and a kill. There are no consequences; the law accepts it as justice. After all, the gods smile on the one who has the right. 

And if ever a man had a right to revenge, it was I. No fortress is truly secret and no tower is impregnable.

The smith gave me a sour look. Is that so? I suppose a Llanfaes man can go where he pleases.

Right. Llanfaes had declared a dispute against Caern seven years ago. I had been serving my duke, and when the peace treaty negotiations turned sour, I’d led his archers into battle. It had been fast, brutal, and we’d razed most of the city. In fact, the poorer quarters were still a mess.

A peace was formally in place, but it still rankled. Llanfaes men are well known for their fighting skills. We’re the biggest source of mercenaries in Prydain, but we’re not stupid. Going into Caern was dangerous, and going in alone might easily prove suicidal. I had to be careful.

The smith scanned me again, taking in the bow, the fighting leathers and the arm guard as well as my embroidered hose and velvet-lined cloak. Mercenary? he asked carefully.

Fletcher.

He sucked in his breath. Are you here officially?

Oh no. I’m here on my own business.

I guess the Guild district is safe then.

So he remembered it was I who’d burned it down. We were officially at peace, but old hatreds linger, so I chose not to confirm or deny my role in the dispute.

I also needed the smith on my side, so I buttered him up. I was thinking that with three men from Caern, I could take Ranulf. The job should be simple.

It was gross flattery; it would take two dozen men to take even a small tower, but the smith melted. By all accounts, Raven’s Keep is special. If you don’t get eaten by werewolves or lost in the forest, the manor is surrounded by a moat and wall. The tower itself is ten floors, black stone, smooth as glass, thicker than a country yokel. The smith was a city man through and through. It’s impervious to assault.

Sounds secure.

Why are you interested in a Tanweld rogue? 

Never let a target know he’s being hunted. Oh, his people bypassed me on the road, and I liked the look of his horses, that’s all.

He’s got a black heart, but he does have everything of the best.

The girl was halfway down the tower now. Nobody had noticed her—yet. Someone was bound to look up, though. She’d have to jump, and there was nothing to break her fall but cobbles. She’d smash bones if she lost her grip.

How would a man set about finding Ranulf? He must do business somehow.

The smith shrugged. I’ve no idea. There are rumours, that’s all.

Where do I find his men?

Not here! The duke wouldn’t allow it.

So I had no leads. I’d go to Tanweld city and look there.

You’re looking for work? The smith was a shameless gossip. Seeing there’s a peace, our duke would be glad of your service. His tone was formal; he didn’t believe what he was saying. Anyone would welcome Ware Fletcher.

Actually, I did some work for his constable, Eward Greenwood, when Caern disputed with Volgard.

Again, it was the right thing to say. You worked for our duke and his constable, did you? The smith became quite chummy. Well, well. Welcome then, brother!

Maybe that was the way to get to Ranulf. Like the smith, I’m a craftsman. Ware Esyllt from Llanfaes, at your service. I’m a member of the Llanfaes Guild, a senior member, so I’m better known as Ware Fletcher. It’s a matter of respect. All master craftsmen are named after their art.

Our duke is away at present, visiting his cousin at Haven. He should be back in a few days, though.

The smith had decided to be helpful. I was hoping he would be, banking on it, really, because as he was a member of the Caern Guild, we were connected. It’s a brotherhood that survives even disputes. Mind you, it’s strained when you enter into the actual fighting, particularly when you burn down the Guild House as I had.

Still, having fought for Caern at Volgard, I had clearly redeemed myself in the smith’s eyes and he was now interrogating me for news.

You’ve been travelling, the smith hinted. Anywhere interesting?

I’ve spent the last two years in the far eastern continent.

The smith sighed. I’ve never been out of Caern.

Guild members tend to work in their hometowns, but fletchers are different. Some of us set up workshops and have clients come to us, but many of us follow the drum and create supplies in the field for our liege.

Me, I worked for my duke for five years, and after that I went wandering. After the Caern-Llanfaes dispute, I worked in most of the nine cities before venturing across the ocean. I’ve been all over the far eastern continent, too.

I sometimes fill large orders, but mostly I design and custom build arrows for special purposes. My Annihilators, which punch through armour, and my Flamethrowers that bear fire for two hundred paces have made my name known all over Prydain. And they haven’t yet seen the Thunderclap, my new creation that shatters stone.

As you might expect, I’m never short of work. Every duke and his constable know me, and they’re always trying to get me to join their troops permanently.

Some are a bit over forceful. I’ve been imprisoned a few times, and one eastern noble threatened to blind me after I made an arrow for him that will light a battlefield at night for up to fifteen minutes. He thought my losing my sight would stop others from profiting from my work. But as you can see, I’m free and with all my faculties intact because I know how to deal with trouble.

Well, after being in foreign parts, it must be nice to be back in civilisation. The smith wanted to hear that home was better than abroad. There’s no better place in the world than Prydain.

There was no point in telling him about the fascinating sights I’d seen. True.

Even if you did your best to destroy us. The smith looked, paused and then shrugged. Well, the war is over. A forgiving man, the smith. But I heard you were going home to Llanfaes and setting up your own workshop.

And I had, only to discover there was nothing left. I couldn’t talk about it. Just thinking about it tore my gut. Rage flooded through me, burning like flame.

Are you all right? The smith had stepped back. He was looking frightened. Did I offend you, Master Fletcher?"

I swallowed away the loss and fury, casually deflecting him. No, of course not.

The smith swallowed and said quietly, I wouldn’t like to join the Serif of Flamestead.

That’s the far eastern noble and despot who thought of blinding me. When he told me of his plan, I asked him to grant me one last look at my work, and then I strangled him with my bow. I took what I was owed, and then I burned down his palace to cover my escape. I guess word got round.

There’s no risk of that, Master Smith.

At that, he relaxed and smiled. So, you’re back in Prydain. Are you planning to go home and start your workshop?

Given the story of the Serif had reached Caern, it was vital Ranulf didn’t hear I was coming for him. I was carefully casual. Oh, there’s plenty time to settle down. And I would, after getting my revenge. What’s Tanweld like these days?

Worse than ever. The smith was examining Wolf’s hock. That’s my horse. He’s a big black stallion with white socks, and so well trained that he was standing patiently in the lane, unencumbered by restraints, while the smith trimmed his new shoes.

I’d need to figure out how to get to Ranulf. Ten years of war had taught me there are ways and ways of dealing with conflict. If you’ve got overwhelming numbers, you can walk all over the enemy, no problem. You’ll lose people, but if you shove the arrow fodder to the front, you protect your assets who swoop in for the actual cleanup. If the enemy has the advantage, you need subterfuge, or it’s you being crushed.

Me, I’m a good talker, and when it comes to subterfuge, I can hold my own, too. You know, I did like that bay, I told the smith. Maybe I’ll buy him. Where should I start looking for Ranulf?

There was a yell, and a parcel of liveried servants came running out, led by a seneschal dressed in rich red velvet robes. The girl looked down, they looked up, and there was more yelling.

What in Wotan’s name is going on out there? The smith was lowering Wolf’s hock, attracted by the cries across the lane. By His spear! Look at that!

The girl was sliding sideways over the smooth stone, moving twenty feet above the cobbles. Another second and she’d drop on to the roof of the bakery, leaving her clear to jump into the market square beyond.

The seneschal saw her getting away. Get the wench down!

At his word, a lanky page threw up his staff. It bounced off the girl’s hand, and as she hung in the air, still clinging to the stone, a second staff knocked her off. Incredibly, she tumbled through the air, flattening her body, landing on her feet and rolling rather than shattering limbs. I have excellent eyesight, so I got a good look at her.

She was small and trim and had long, slender hands and feet. Her hair was blue-black, falling dead straight to her shoulders, rather than waist-length as was the fashion. From the back she might be mistaken for a boy, but from the front she was all girl. A long lean face, tanned by the sun, was dominated by smoky round eyes and pretty arched brows. She had full lips coloured pale rose. 

She was pretty enough, but the furious frown made her look hard. The collar around her neck explained that. She was a thrall, and by the seneschal’s presence, she was the property of the Duke of Caern. It was also the ducal wall she was climbing down, so by the look of it, she was a runaway.

We’ll see a flogging tomorrow morning, the smith said comfortably. 

The girl got to her feet, looking desperate. She feinted left, broke right and tried to make a run for it, but the pages overpowered her easily.

She cursed them royally, May Tyr eat your bones and drink your blood!

So she was from the northern cities, Tanweld maybe, or Rashelm. Both cities worshipped Tyr, the war god. This girl could be one of his own.

Get off me! Fuckers!

The curse word gave her away. She was Tanweld-born. She was beating the pages with her fists before being slapped down by the seneschal himself. 

He was cursing her, too. You ungrateful wench. May Wotan hear and punish you! Shame on you!

Shame on me? Shame on you! She was loud, her voice echoing round the street. That fat-gut duke is old enough to be my grandfather. And he’s a pervert!

The seneschal reared back in horror. How dare you speak of your betters that way?

Tyr’s prick up your arse! the girl yelled. Except a ball-less wonder like you would enjoy that!

You bitch! From the sound of his squeal, the girl had pegged the seneschal just right. You vicious, lying she-wolf!

Pander! Coward! Whoreson! The girl’s defiance sealed her fate. Your arse is the playground of every mercenary between Brighthelme and Rashelm!

Fifty lashes! the seneschal cried. To be administered right now. Take her away!

It was a death sentence. I’ve seen grown men, hardened mercenaries, die from two dozen lashes. You can ride the pain and shock of ten lashes, but it lays your back open to the bone. A girl that slight wouldn’t be able to weather the pain of even a couple of cuts. She’d die under the whip.

Shall we go watch? The smith was at my elbow, excited at the thought of blood and slaughter. Your horse will wait.

Of course he would. Wolf has been mine since he was a foal. I never bothered with hobbles or hitching posts. Wolf, stay. 

He whickered, and the smith smiled. That’s some horse.

Yes, he is.

The whipping post was in the main square, just round the corner. The square was quiet, as punishments are usually carried out in the morning, when foot traffic is high. The smith was grinning, looking forward to the entertainment. Half a dozen other citizens had gathered, pulled away from their business by the ruckus. It being sundown, the rest of Caern was indoors, looking for dinner. 

Me, I’m not interested in whippings and other such spectacles. I’ve seen too many battlefields to be fascinated by blood and gore. But I was thinking there might be something in this for me.

If Raven’s Keep was as secure as the smith thought, and Ranulf could not be lured out, I would need a plan of attack. I could find a man who’d guide me to the manor by the secret path, but then I still needed to access the tower. Ranulf might hide inside, and he’d certainly store the god’s arrow there. This girl was the key to getting me inside.

Tyr drink your blood! The girl was screeching with rage, kicking at the pages who were trying to subdue her. Curses on you, you fat-arsed pander! And curses on your poxy duke!

Strip her! I will whip her myself!

The seneschal was so angry that he’d forgotten his place: it was his job to take care of his liege’s possessions, not to destroy them. Only the duke or his lady could order the death of a servant. Also, carrying out punishment was the province of the duke’s justiciar.

It was a puzzle what to do next. I wanted the girl, and I didn’t want her damaged in case it interfered with her climbing skills. I needed to get the seneschal to hand her over without her suffering any punishment, but managing the situation would take some doing.

The duke’s servants would think themselves above ordinary citizens, even Guild members. Seeing I’m from Llanfaes, and there’s no disguising the accent, there would be bad blood, too, even if by some miracle the seneschal didn’t know my role in the last dispute.

On the plus side, I doubted the duke would be very angry at the loss of this possession. He would own dozens of thralls, and from the simple tunic she wore and the plain iron collar, rusted in spots, this was no prized bedroom companion, trained for silken fun and games. 

A page went running off to get the whip.

Go lick Tyr’s hairy balls, fat-gut!

She must have been a passing fancy, or maybe he was like the eastern lords who have a blanket policy of ensuring all their thralls have pups. There’s one, She’ef Omeer, who is famous for it. Stories have it he covers his girls so regularly that he makes a fortune every year from selling the offspring.

Bastard! Pig!

The She’ef would have passed on this one.

She’s feisty, the smith was glowing with glee. This should be good.

Except I was about to spoil it for him.

I went up to the seneschal. Sir, a moment of your time? 

Although I’m a fletcher, I am a master craftsman, so my tunic is made of rich cloth, my shirt is generously cut, my hose are embroidered and my boots are finest leather. The pages stood back respectfully, recognising money. The seneschal was so angry, however, that he barely glanced my way. Later. I will see you later.

They were stripping the girl, pulling off her tunic, skirts and shift, revealing long legs and small, high breasts. The pages were beginning to enjoy themselves. There were bulges in all their breeches. They’d be regretting the swift process; women sentenced for whipping are usually badly used the night before by their jailers. It’s part of every ruler’s strategy as rape adds shame to the actual punishment.

And knowing that gave me an idea. I knew how to get to the seneschal. I dropped my voice. My dear sir, the duke will hear of this.

Yes, he will. The seneschal snapped right back. Everyone will.

I spoke quietly, thoughtfully. I wonder what he’ll dislike more? Having the people know a thrall rejected his suit, preferring death to his attentions? Or at having you broadcast it?

The seneschal turned, mouth wide open, eyes round with horror. What?

I bowed. I have the honour of knowing the duke. It was a lie. I knew his constable, Eward, the man who managed his troops, but I had only seen the duke at a distance. The Duke of Caern’s reputation is his life.

I was safe saying that, because it’s a universal truth. At least, that’s what all the nobles will have us believe. Actually, all they care about is a show of honour. Money and power motivates them. Give them enough of those, and honour can go hang.

You’re from Llanfaes. The seneschal was suspicious. However, my quiet words were sinking in and doing their work. The duke’s man was now reconsidering.

Behind him, I saw the girl stare at me. Her hands were tied high above her head, making her stand on tiptoe. A decent girl would be dying of shame, but this little thrall was completely oblivious to being naked in a public square. She also had scars on her back, legs and bottom. She’d been caned, and often. She was a hard case.

I am a visitor here, I said carefully, but my concern is sincere.

She insulted the duke. The seneschal was thinking it through. I bought her this morning from a soldier. She was a jongleur’s tumbler before that. I chose her to entertain my liege, thinking he’d be amused.

He really was upset, discussing his duke’s private affairs with a stranger. Still, if it had been the seneschal’s notion, it meant the noble had no skin in this affair. What was needed, was a way for the seneschal to back out, without losing respect, so I gave him one.

My dear sir! It’s clear you bought her, thinking her skills useful to the household, not realising she wasn’t bred to a duke’s home. Ten years rubbing shoulders with nobles teaches you politesse. That’s a fancy word for lies and subterfuge. The thrall is unworthy. The duke would be better served by another.

Indeed. The seneschal was examining me. But the insult!

Lies, I said quickly. Chagrin and disappointment from a cheap thrall who, longing for a ducal home, is furious at being sold on.

You speak well. His eyes were brown, knowing and calculating. This was a clever man, and he was wondering who I was and what I wanted. Have we met?

I bowed again. Ware Fletcher, sir.

The master fletcher?

Like I said, I have a reputation. When you design a four bladed broadhead that can kill at five hundred paces, cutting through any armour, even seneschals who are strictly involved in household matters get to hear about you.

Yes, sir. I bowed low, acting as if I were not a master craftsman and Guild member but some feckless merchant.

But you’re from Llanfaes. The seneschal was frowning, clearly on the verge of remembering my role in the dispute. Luckily, he was young. Too young to have fought seven years ago.

I spoke quickly, hoping to force his attention away from that delicate subject. I have been abroad for some years and have seen many sights, but I have never seen such an ungrateful wench, sir.

It brought us back to the point.

She has publicly insulted my liege. He was putting this on the duke, but it was the seneschal who was raging at the girl’s insults. She should be punished.

What is this? The page had returned with the whip, and the duke’s constable was following. Robert, what is going on here?

I heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of Eward Greenwood, the Duke of Caern’s constable. We’d worked together very closely when Caern was disputing with Tanweld, and we’d gotten along well. Like I said, I work for everyone—unless they are disputing with Llanfaes. When it comes to my home, I’ll defend it with my life.

Seeing Eward meant I had an ally. I coughed and pretended to move back, knowing it would make the old warhorse look my way. He did, too. Instantly.

Ware Fletcher. Eward was smiling in pleased remembrance. Well met. He shook my hand, slapped me on the back, and pulled me over to the seneschal. Robert, meet Ware Fletcher, the best craftsman in the nine cities.

Yes, yes, I know, the seneschal was smiling politely. When it comes to nobles, the constable is senior to the seneschal, and as Eward was older, and a second cousin to the duke, too, the seneschal was acknowledging the introduction with proper interest. From Llanfaes.

Master Ware served with us at Volgard.

I was instantly accepted. The seneschal bowed with a real smile this time. Master Ware, it is a delight to meet one who has served our liege so well.

The seneschal had been embarrassed publicly, so if I handed him a heavy load of respect, he’d be easier to handle. Sir, I repeated, it is an honour to meet you.

We bowed at each other, me a little more than him, subtly recognising his superior status and then flattering him even more by bowing again.

I came by to pay my respects, sir. I laid it on thick because I wanted the girl. I couldn’t pass Caern without presenting my humble duty.

And found us in a stir, Eward observed. What on earth is going on here? Why is the justiciar not here? This is beneath your dignity, surely, Robert?

The girl was watching and listening closely, her eyes alive with curiosity and hope. She was pretending to be unafraid but I saw her swallow when she spotted the whip. Three feet long, it was designed to cut deep. It was far different than the canes that had left those little white scars on her body.

While I was working out what the thrall would cost, the constable was reminding the seneschal of his duty. Whatever he said worked, because the man sighed and waved the page with the whip away, I should wait till morning, although I don’t know what our liege will say when he hears of this. I wish I’d never seen the wench.

It was a confession and an appeal. Perfect. I knew exactly what to say. Such a small matter is one far beneath the duke’s notice. I smiled and slipped him a silver penny, murmuring, A replacement and the matter is solved.

Absolutely, Eward was nodding. No use in keeping a mule when you want a horse for the job.

He’s a practical man, Eward Greenwood of Caern. That’s why he’s such a good constable. He never loses his head. He’d been a regular fighting man during our dispute, just like me, and he’d not held a grudge. He’d hired me at Volgard, knowing my word is my bond, and we’d gotten along well. If he’d been seneschal, the girl could have insulted him all day long, and it would’ve made no difference.

Now he was on my side. Be sensible, Robert, and sell the girl.

You want her, Master Fletcher? The seneschal was taken aback. She’s ungrateful, and she’s got a tongue like a viper.

Ware Fletcher will whip her into shape, Eward laughed. How’s Wolf?

Excellent, thank you, I smiled at the seneschal. I have need of a girl to serve me on my travels.

Seeing his way out while maintaining respect and making a soothing profit, too, the seneschal caved. His fingers twitched, and the coin I’d handed him vanished. As a thrall who was patently impossible, she was worth half that. I had no doubt my new friend would pocket the difference. 

She’s yours, the seneschal intoned formally.

Sir, I thank you. I bowed again, concealing my triumph. Thanks to some sweet words and a silver penny, my revenge was in reach. I’d find Ranulf, and she’d get me close enough for the kill. The girl would guarantee my success. 

Chapter Two: Lind 

Bastards! Whoresons , the lot of them! Give me a knife and I’ll cut their throats! 

I was never this way. I’ve been a thrall most of my life, and I’ve not fought it. Much. I started life free, the oldest girl in a family of six. When I was little, about eight summers, my father took me to the