All the Gold in Abbotsford

By E.L. Daniel

A tyrannical and impulsive king has caused unrest across the country. His foolish mistakes have deprived Stephen Warde, captain of the garrison, of the only family he ever had-his father. Now, a dozen years later, Stephen returns from war to the little town of Abbotsford to find that corruption has seeped far beyond the crown and into the very h

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.L. Daniel Books
• Release date: May 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985074406

E.L. Daniel

Elizabeth Leigh Daniel (E.L. Daniel) is the author of the historical fiction romance novel All the Gold in Abbotsford, the first book in the Days of Ore series. Inspired by the lives and loves of people in times long past, Elizabeth Leigh has crafted stories since childhood, carrying this passion into her B.A. degree in English and Communications from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She's spent decades exploring historical myths and stories in her free time so she can bring this imaginative spark to life in her own work. E.L. Daniel lives and works out of her home in the Midwest with her wonderful saint of a husband. When she's not reading or writing, she loves to spend her time traveling and learning about the history of various regions while fulfilling her love of adventure.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

August 1326, Abbotsford

There were many men throughout history who’d harbored noble ambitions yet weren’t willing to risk God’s wrath to achieve them. Stephen Warde was no such man, and after all he’d seen over the past decade, anyone who assumed otherwise was a fool. And if God would hold no others answerable for their crimes, why should Stephen flinch at what he now planned to do? The comparison between evils was paltry, and in the end, his actions would be warranted. He would make sure of it.

From atop his horse, Stephen stared out over the barrows and saw that the town of Abbotsford remained unchanged. All was as it had been when he’d left one month earlier to visit some of his old companions in Wales, and though he’d expected nothing of import to happen in his absence, he was relieved. As he examined the heavy stone walls that bordered the town of Abbotsford, he rubbed his thumb down the long, jagged scar on his jawbone and sighed. The next month would be a living hell for himself and the townspeople. But one must sometimes endure purgatory before proving themselves worthy of heaven, and this would be no different. He’d made the decision; the sparks were already alight. Now his task was to control the fire, or else it would scorch them all. With this dire thought in mind, Stephen kicked his horse forward and crossed himself, praying he had the strength to carry out what must be done.

Abbotsford lay in the heart of England. Over time, its precincts had formed around the Abbey of St. Barnabas, though the townsfolk referred to it simply as the Good Abbey. The design of the monastery grounds had been strategic, embedding the northern wall into the cliffs so that the church was only accessible from one side. Yet rather than sitting isolated, this monastery on the hilltop gave life to the surrounding town, acting as both a source and a destination for all the great roadways. With the cliffs and the church towering over the town from the north, and the Good River jutting up against the precincts from the south, a massive wall enclosed the rest, allowing only three entrances in or out. The first and smallest entry-point sat in the southwest corner. The people called it Bridge Gate since it was only accessible by a wide bridge that stretched across the deepest point of the river. The second entrance was Barge Gate, centered upon the river’s ford and facing straight south. The third entrance was East Gate, and it was this one that Stephen now rode toward at a brisk trot.

It was not yet midday by the time he reached the gatehouse, but the town teemed with activity inside, making it impossible for Stephen to enter unremarked. One of his soldiers noticed him first, alerting the other townsfolk to his presence. Soon, a great clamor of bodies surrounded him, begging for news from the outside world.

Have patience! Stephen laughed as the stableboy led away his horse, but the questions rained down, unceasing, until another man, young and stern-faced, stepped into the circle.

Away with you all, ordered Cassadan. Let him breathe, aye? He’s only just returned.

You can ask me your questions tomorrow, Stephen added. But right now, I’m weary, and I have business at the abbey.

The people grumbled as they dispersed, for as tucked away in the Midlands as they were, the people of Abbotsford were often delayed in learning about the latest events at court. Stephen would have to prepare some tidbits of news to share with them, but he would have to tread carefully in the doing of it. The problem was that they all believed he’d traveled south, for that was what he’d told them, when in truth, he’d ridden west to Wales. Not even Cassadan, his second in command at the garrison, knew the true particulars of his journey, which was why Stephen avoided his gaze as they walked, scanning their surroundings instead.

The main thoroughfare of Abbotsford was lined with the shops and stalls of the local craftsmen, but farmers and peasants added their numbers to the crowds as they came and went from the fields, their voices mingling with those of the merchants. Various townsfolk stopped to welcome Stephen home, and in between these greetings, Cassadan updated him on all that had come to pass in his absence. This ranged from the activity at the garrison to the quality of crop the farmers would soon harvest from the south-facing fields. The overall report was favorable, but there was a furrowing to Cassadan’s brow that the young man had yet to explain.

Stephen waited until they’d paused beneath the towering shadow of the church, which was far more isolated than the thoroughfare. Well? Is there something else you wish to tell me? For I can see that something troubles you. What is it?

Cassadan bit his lip, gazing at the townhouses that lined the streets below. It could be nothing. No one knows for certain, only— He hesitated. Then, The Dyer boy has gone missing. He departed for Hartshill not long after you left town. When he didn’t return after a few days, I journeyed to Hartshill to find him, but the merchants there said they’d seen no sign of him. In truth, they knew not that he’d even planned on visiting, so if he meant to barter with them, they had no forewarning. It seems he must’ve been waylaid somewhere on the road if it’s true he even meant to travel there at all.

Stephen frowned. Who told you Hartshill was his destination— his mother?

Aye.

But the merchants didn’t expect him. Stephen considered this for a moment. Then he lowered his voice and asked, Has anyone searched the woods?

Aye, I sent several men out over the last two weeks. They found nothing.

Nothing, Stephen repeated. You mean no one?

No one meant a person. Nothing meant an object…a body.

Nothing, no one. Either way, he’s gone, and Merripen is beside himself. More-so, even, than his daughter, who was set to wed John by month’s end. I want to believe he’s not dead, that he’s only run off, but I know not what to think. There’s never been a happier lad in this town than he.

We’ll continue the search, then. But for the sake of the town, let’s assume he’s alive. And if he is, we’ll find him. It was the best Stephen could promise, considering the circumstances, but he hoped it would be enough.

Cassadan shifted his balance from one foot to the other. There’s something else you must know before I take my leave of you. The king has ordered an increase in our taxes. The herald arrived just yestermorn to inform the magistrate.

There was little reaction to this on Stephen’s part, at least outwardly.

We’re to give up a twelfth now, beginning next Quarter Day, Cassadan pressed. You can imagine the reactions of the townspeople when they found out, aye?

Aye, I can imagine it well, thought Stephen.

Every Quarter Day, each household was required to pay the king ten percent of the total value of their possessions, in addition to the annual tithes already owed to the Good Abbey. On top of any other local taxes raised to fund projects or repairs upon the town, that meant almost half of a family’s income was taken away each year, so any increase, large or small, was devastating.

I imagine they went to Anselm with their complaints? Stephen asked.

Aye, they criticized the injustice of it, naturally. Then they demanded the Church show mercy by lowering the tithes by two percent to balance out the king’s decree. The Good Abbot was ill-prepared for their fervor, as you might guess.

Aye, thought Stephen, seeing it unfold readily in his mind. Anselm, their abbot, was a decent soul who wanted to help the town. Unfortunately, he was a little lacking in solutions. He tended to act out of impulse rather than common sense, so the townspeople would’ve left the abbey more inflamed than soothed.

Cassadan cocked his head. You don’t seem very surprised by this.

By the tax increase? Why should I be? The king does as he wills, whether or not it be right by the people. If he wishes to raise the taxes, we’ll pay them as we always have. What other choice is there? It was a direct contradiction of the views Stephen typically shared with Cassadan, for the king wasn’t loved by either of them. For this reason, Stephen expected an argument or more questions at the very least.

Cassadan merely shrugged. I doubt we’ve heard the end of this. But the abbot awaits, and I have no desire to join you. He’s suffered my presence—and I, his—too much already these past weeks in your absence. I’ll find you tomorrow, aye?

Aye, tomorrow.

With that, they parted ways.

The familiar sight of the abbey grounds was both a comfort and a pain to Stephen and had been ever since his formal return to Abbotsford four years ago. After the eight years he’d spent in self-imposed exile, it had been a total of twelve years since he and his father had left to march on Scotland. To look upon the Abbey of St. Barnabas now, even after all that time, nearly brought him to his knees. Everything in the town—street, stall, and croft—reminded him of his father, but it was the abbey especially that flooded Stephen with longing. As he gazed at the solid structure of the church and its smooth symmetry, he craved its reassurance—not because he was a God-fearing man, but because his father had been. Somehow, this church maintained the connection between them, when all else had not. It gave him a silent strength, and he’d need it for the conversation to come.

He strode through the doors, scrutinizing the state of the church.

You ceased the reconstruction. I am pleased. His voice echoed around the nave as he assessed the heaps of rubble that lined the walls, broken up now and then by a stretch of scaffolding shoved haphazardly out of the main aisle. A thick layer of dust and plaster coated everything from the pillars to the altar to the window crevices, and tarps lay haphazardly across the framework.

Anselm had risen to his feet in front of the high altar when he heard Stephen’s voice. Now he sighed. It was no menial task, but I did as you asked. I told the Master Builder I had to suspend his pay for a fortnight, mayhap a month at most, and he packed his supplies and left.

Aye, the builders make most of their profit in the summer months. It would’ve surprised me if they’d stayed when they could so easily find business elsewhere.

Stephen noted the way Anselm swayed gently on his feet as he came closer. The Good Abbot was tired, but their work was only just beginning. He would need to bear far more weight— and guilt—before all was over.

Knowing it’s what you wanted doesn’t make the doing of it any easier, leastwise for me, Anselm said. For you, it may be different. For you, this church is not the haven that others find such comfort in.

It was an age-old argument between them, and Stephen wearied of it. I find solace in other ways, ways that are between God and myself. No others need understand them. No others need question them.

Anselm responded with his usual off-key chant. "He covers thou in feathers, and under His wings, you will find thy refuge."

Stephen waved that aside. Like God, do I still carry your faith?

Anselm’s eyes latched onto Stephen’s with such intensity that there was no mistaking the silent bond between them. Instead of responding, Anselm led him toward the antechamber commonly used for confessional, where Stephen immediately knelt to receive Anselm’s blessing.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I’ve taken part in a great deception, one that requires many lies to be spread unto the town. He looked straight into Anselm’s eyes and added, And for the good of the people, and the wellbeing of this town, I mean to drag a Priest of the Church into sin with me.

Anselm placed a shaky hand on Stephen’s shoulders. Does this mean what I suspect it does? When last we spoke, I warned you of the murder that was about to take place. I told you—

Speak of it no more! You’ve already broken the seal of confession once when you told me of the danger. Damn not your own soul any further. I have what I need now, and it’s enough for us to proceed with our plans. Let us not speak of the past, but only of what is yet to come.

You will not tell me, then, whether you succeeded in aiding our friend?

Stephen sighed, wracked with the same guilt he’d shouldered for the past several weeks. Better that you not know. It would only serve as a distraction for what we must do next.

Anselm’s nostrils flared but he didn’t argue. There was too much trust between them to push where he was being told not to. Still, Stephen wanted to explain, to defend his actions before they happened, because—by the time he was through with his ploy—nothing in Abbotsford would be the same.

"What is next? Anselm pressed. I sent away the builders as you asked. My church is in ruin, and to what purpose? What is it you mean to do?"

We’ve been waiting for years, you and I, to rid this town of the vultures who feast upon the weak. The murder you uncovered was only one crime among many. Godfrey, Simon, Gilbert, the bishop— He ticked the criminals off on his fingers. Their individual sins are a nuisance, aye, for they’ve always conducted their crimes alone and for their own gains. But if they were to combine their skills and intelligence together? If they were to strike an alliance and carry out one collective scheme? It would provide enough proof for us to finally bring them down. That is my plan. That is what I come here to confess. By silently fostering a friendship between them these past months, I’ve created a ring of corruption where they’ll aid one another in their wrongdoing, only to break faith and condemn each other at the opportune moment. They’ll make mistakes in their desperation, and those mistakes will hand us the proof we need.

But my church? Anselm pressed. What has this to do with the reconstruction? I need details, Stephen. Details!

Have patience, Stephen said with a smile. I will tell you all, but you must understand that these plans have forged themselves in my mind for months—years, even. I cannot easily describe what my thoughts have conjured. He cleared his throat, glancing around to ensure their privacy for the dozenth time. Our first task is to let slip to the gossipmongers that the abbey is impoverished, which will be our reasoning for why the builders left. This will create the perfect opening for Godfrey and the others to foist another one of their great scams upon the town. They’ll use the abbey’s plight as an excuse, and we’ll allow their scheme to succeed whilst gathering proof of their exploits along the way. Just when they think they’ve triumphed, we’ll take away their resources. We’ll drive a wedge of distrust between them until they grow desperate and—

How? Anselm exclaimed, stamping his foot in the dust. How do you plan to convince them to turn on one another? I know what they’ve done! I know of the murders, the thefts, the sins they’ve committed upon our women, for I take their confessions, and I cringe at the state of their souls—

Stephen grimaced. I know what you’ve risked, Anselm. I know what would happen to you if anyone found out you’ve broken your vows by confiding in me. If I could speak of the details and thus ease your mind, I would, but it isn’t so simple. To design this plan, I’ve had to predict every action they’ll take, every word they’ll speak. I’ve had to think like them and pretend to understand how they’ll react to the situations that unfold. But it’s impossible that I could’ve guessed it all aright. They’ll deviate from my predictions, and when they do, my plans must change as well. It’ll be a careful dance of action and reaction, so any details I tell you today may already change by tomorrow.

Anselm snorted. You mean to say you’re making this up as you go?

Stephen couldn’t help but smile at his old friend, whose stubbornness made him more endearing than bothersome. Here’s an example then, if you mean to be so dogged. Cassadan told me of the tax increase, but you and I both know such a proclamation could not’ve come from the king. Nay, that was Simon’s cleverness, but I’d wager my left arm that Godfrey and the others don’t know about it. Only Simon. He may participate in a collective scheme with the others, but he’ll maintain his own selfish plots on the side, as will the rest of them. That’s simply who they are, and that will be their downfall.

Anselm rubbed his temples. You have already lost me, but I do see that I must trust you with the details of this ordeal if we are to succeed. Are you certain you can manage though? To allow the tax increase to proceed, to say naught in response to the whispers that John Dyer has been murdered— He shook his head sadly. Such guilt could break a man.

The look Stephen gave him was so raw in its awareness of that pain that Anselm winced. But Stephen said softly, Do not fear for me. If I must sacrifice myself for the salvation of this town, I’d do it gladly, and if one of us must suffer more than the other for our parts in it, I’d rather it be me than you.

There was a long pause as Anselm resigned himself to this. Then, when Stephen judged that the Good Abbot was ready, he unveiled another revelation.

I crossed paths with my half-brother on my journey.

Anselm cried out, then choked on his own spittle, coughing until he finally regained his breath. A coincidence, was it?

That Rogan and Stephen had shared a father, but not a mother, had been enough to widen a moat of animosity between them. Where Stephen had grown up at his father’s side, learning the life of a foot soldier at a young age, Rogan had grown up around Welsh foreigners, alone. And though Stephen had spent eight years in Wales himself, the gaping hole between them had never patched properly.

Nay, a planned meeting. He brought word from across the Channel that Roger Mortimer has taken his place as Queen Isabella’s foremost advisor.

Anselm’s eyes widened. Then your brother will march at her side?

Stephen nodded. Aye, she’ll soon make her return to England to depose King Edward II and claim the throne for her son, Edward III. As long as Mortimer remains loyal to her, Rogan will fight on her behalf.

There was a long moment of silence.

There it is, then, Anselm finally replied. You, too, shall take up her cause. I should have foreseen that, but I did not.

You know well that I harbor no good-will towards our king. What I’ve seen him do, the mistakes he’s made— Stephen struggled to speak of his father’s fate, even to Anselm, for, in the end, that death had been needless. Stephen had every right to pursue vengeance, knowing the king was at fault for the massacre that day. But in truth, that’s not the real reason we need the queen’s invasion to succeed.

Am I to assume that this, too, is part of your plans to bring Godfrey and the others down?

Stephen nodded. The timing will be crucial. A new beginning for Abbotsford, and a new beginning for England.

The Good Abbot raised Stephen to his feet and placed a hand upon his shoulder. Had anyone else asked this of me, I would have refused. You are fortunate I know you as I do. He paused then, looking Stephen over. Lo, but you remind me so much of your father. Dark of hair, brawny of shoulder— He shook his head, as though his eyes cheated him. I think of him far more than you could know. If he were here, he would have quashed Godfrey and the others long before now. We do this, you and I, not just for the good of the town, but in your father’s memory. I am with you, Stephen. Damned though I might be because of it.

It was what he’d needed to hear, for Stephen knew this path would not’ve been the Good Abbot’s way, but Anselm understood that noble results couldn’t always be reached through noble deeds. Sometimes a man had to do what he must, and between the two of them, they would protect this town from those who meant it harm, and the townspeople would find betterment because of it.

They walked toward the doors and said their farewells. Stephen had already taken several strides down the hill before Anselm called out to him again.

Give Elena my blessing, if you will. She alone has been tireless in offering me comfort these past several days. With the tax uproar, you know.

Stephen acknowledged this with a tight smile, which appeased the abbot well enough, when in truth, Stephen disliked the idea of Elena whispering in the abbot’s ear. Fortunately, he was familiar with Elena’s version of comforts, as Anselm called them, and he doubted the Good Abbot had drawn as much relief from her visits as he’d hinted.

Still, it reminded Stephen that although he’d been within the town walls for more than an hour, he had yet to see his wife. Whatever Elena was up to, she hadn’t been eager enough to welcome him at the gates. That was no surprise, but it didn’t change the fact that it was time that they spoke, and he’d call himself a liar and a fool if he didn’t admit that he both relished the conversation to come and dreaded it.

CHAPTER 2

Elena pressed her back against the outer wall surrounding the Shilton estate, knowing the guard would find her if he took a mere two steps to his left. The coarseness of the stone scraped against her skin as she inhaled. Then the shouts began. The voices were hurrying in the opposite direction, thanks to the distraction she’d prepared in the village. It was exactly as she’d planned.

She took off, tiptoeing past the stables and keeping within the shadows until she reached the entrance to the family chapel. It would take only one pair of eyes scanning the courtyard from the upper levels of the keep to discover her, but she had to take the risk. After a slight hesitation, Elena slipped inside and shut the door.

The interior was dark, the air stale. Several candles stood upon the altar with their wicks untouched. She ran her finger along the dust-coated table and smiled. It seemed the Longelond thieves weren’t quite as pious as her dear mother had been, for it appeared as though no one had set foot inside since her family had been forced to leave.

It was tempting to nab the candlesticks, and even more so the small wooden crucifix in its stand. But she resisted. That wasn’t what she’d come for, and she could only carry so much.

She hastened towards the antechamber in the room’s corner, her heartbeat echoing in her head. Then she stepped inside and exhaled. It looked exactly the same as the last time she’d set foot inside, more than a year ago. She walked the perimeter, her hand trailing along the tapestries that lined the walls. First, Christ’s apostles—the chosen twelve—and beside it, the angel Barachiel. Another depicted the end of times, but she passed that one too, not halting until she reached an exceptional weave displaying a lion, a rose, a cross, and a dove. Each symbol had its own quadrant on the fabric, separated by a great X at the center.

This was the crest of the Redewolde family. Her family. The reds, blues, and yellows sent a surge of pride through her, for this was proof that her blood tied her to the powerful Lancaster family, and always would.

But she could waste no more time.

Stretching, she unthreaded the tapestry from its nails, lamenting for the hundredth time that she hadn’t inherited her father’s height. Then she rolled the fabric until the width was no greater than a man’s fist. The length, however, would be a problem. Fortunately, she had planned for this. Lifting her skirts, she stuffed the scroll of fabric into the hose she’d borrowed from her husband’s coffers. Though it stretched from her knee to her rib cage, the bulge wasn’t overt beneath the cloak she wore on top. It would do.

With another deep breath, she hurried to the entrance and cocked her head for any sound from the guards outside. When all remained silent, she slipped through the door and vanished around the side of the chapel, sticking to the shadows of the familiar path until she reached the outer walls. There she found the small culvert behind the storage house that she and her brother used to play in as children. She ducked beneath it and emerged on the other side of the ramparts.

It was all too easy, in truth. There were no hovels on this side of the estate and no people. Instead, the outer wall jutted up against a grove of trees, and Elena wove her way through them until she shot out onto the grassy knoll on the other side.

She’d done it. And no one, not one Longelond, had caught her. Why, then, did she feel so disheartened? It was only a matter of taking what was rightfully hers, and from her own home; a tiny insurrection in the whole of what those beasts had done to her family. Turning to face the castle, she found the fortress glowering back at her from the north side of the valley, still distant and untouchable despite this one, small success. She knew then why she found no joy in what she’d done. Despite having the tapestry, she still didn’t have her home. This reminder sapped the energy from her body; she dropped onto the grass.

I knew I’d find you here, a man said from behind her, causing Elena to shriek and scramble to her knees. You cannot stay away, can you?

Godfrey, by Christ! I thought you were a Longelond. She scowled at her brother, who by all accounts shouldn’t be there. Yet here he was, ruining her moment of triumph as he was wont to do and making her heart palpitate in the doing of it.

This has grown into a miserable habit, Elena.

What, my cursing? she asked sweetly.

Your presence here.

Your criticism would carry more weight if you hadn’t come here yourself. It seems I’m not the only one drawn back to our home.

She looked him over, making no attempt to hide her disgust. He had one arm resting on the long dagger he insisted on wearing about his belt, having long been without a real sword, and his hair was greased back behind his ears, his tunic askew. She noted the familiar smell of drink that wafted from him, even from several paces away. Though two years her senior and taller than most, he was naught but a child in her eyes. He’d only ever been thus to her parents as well, who hadn’t shied from making their antipathy known to him. A disappointment— that was what he was, and always had been—more prone to playing pranks upon the villagers than learning the responsibilities of the estate.

Even so, blood was blood.

I came to summon you back to Abbotsford, Godfrey replied. He lumbered forward and sat beside her. An acute longing etched itself across his face, reminding Elena of a time when he’d been gentle, amusing, and…brotherly. But then he spoke again. Look at it. The whelps stole it from us, and not even with a show of strength, but cheaply, like thieves in the night. The Despensers and their cronies deserve to be fed to the hounds. Good for naught, benefiting naught. All they do is bring ruin to our lands.

Elena hated the Longelonds just as much as Godfrey, but she didn’t agree. At least, not entirely. The tapestry had only been one part of why she’d come. The other was for reassurance that her home wasn’t falling into ruin. But the villagers continued to care for their crops without hindrance, and some much-needed repairs had been made to the keep. The livestock was healthy. The Longelonds had left the village well enough alone. Having seen all this, she could grudgingly admit that they were tending the place well. Still, that didn’t mean she was content with their present circumstances.

She wasn’t a sentimental woman. Nor was she close enough with Godfrey to share such serious confidences. Theirs was a relationship built out of necessity and survival, not companionship and trust. Yet if anyone could understand her loathing for the Despensers and King Edward II, it’d be him.

I keep returning in hopes that they’ve gone from here— that the manor is empty and we can walk past the gatehouse at will, she whispered.

Hope is for fools. I want to act! I tire of Stephen’s charity. It’s time we regained our ancestral home and the status we deserve.

Elena shook her head. She wanted that too—of course, she did—but if Godfrey thought he had any chance against the king and his factions, his goals were far too lofty.

You’d do better to direct your attentions elsewhere. Such as a marriage to someone already established within the lower rungs of the nobility. After all, her mother hadn’t been wrong in her strategy to marry Elena off to someone with wealth. What had been lacking was the selection.

What makes you think I haven’t already done so? replied Godfrey. Because I have. There are rumors that King Edward II means to send another army to Gascony. If he does, I plan to join them.

I thought the trouble in Gascony ended long ago.

Nay, they continue the negotiations in France, and I hear it goes poorly. Queen Isabella has failed us. When the king sent her across the Channel to negotiate on his behalf, she refused to return. Some even say she planned to fail from the beginning, that she’s turned traitor and now favors her brother, the King of France, over her husband, the King of England. I’d expect no less from the French bitch, but the Despensers tell the king he has no need of her. If he can win the lost lands back through strength of arms, there’s no need for a treaty at all.

Godfrey was a fool like the rest of them if he believed the whims of King Edward II would lead to anything of substance. Elena wasn’t without knowledge of her own. She guessed at the truth when few others dared to, which was that the queen wasn’t truly at fault. The king had allowed the Despensers to whisper in his ear until they’d turned him against his own wife, whose intelligence they deemed a threat. Eager to appease them, the king had stripped Queen Isabella of her households, banned her from seeing their children, and denied her the pensions she was due. He’d thought that sending her across the Channel would serve as another punishment when in truth it had inadvertently granted her freedom. If she acted out against her husband now, it was only repayment for all he’d done to her first.

I’ll join the king’s army as soon as they announce the call to arms, Godfrey continued. Once I prove myself worthy, the king will have no choice but to knight me and return my lands in repayment for my services.

"Our lands. Not your lands, said Elena. And you would fight for the Despensers and the king when they’re the ones responsible for our plight? You would sacrifice your pride to lick the enemy’s boots?"

Godfrey didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on Shilton, and the intensity of his stare gave Elena pause. If it meant regaining Shilton, she supposed she would do just about anything too. But only if the strategy was logical, and Godfrey’s plans were anything but.

Godfrey, she said carefully. Even if what you say is true, we could never pay the cost of entry.

He spat into the grass. Your husband is one of the wealthiest men in Abbotsford. They say he returned from Wales with bags of silver. Bags upon bags! No one knows where he got the coin, or how, but we both know the rumors must be true. His wealth is hidden somewhere in Abbotsford, and it’s ours for the taking. That was why you married him, was it not? For him to fund our campaign for Shilton?

Stephen will never aid us, Elena said through her teeth. We’ve been wed for one full year, and he’s done nothing for the cause.

Even without Stephen, it can be done. All I need is the armor, and I can get that from Gilbert Smithson.

Armor, yes, but you’d also need a squire. Someone to carry your plates and mail when you’re not wearing them, someone to maintain—

Servants are easy enough to come by.

Only if you can pay them, and how would you do that? How would you even journey to the coast? You’d need a warhorse to keep pace with the other men. They wouldn’t accept you without one.

I’ll borrow Stephen’s, Godfrey said tightly.

Stephen has no warhorse. He favors those Welsh cobs over the destriers. Sturdier, he says, and even so, he’d never allow it. Not that she cared to defend her husband, but Godfrey needed to see reason. And with your horse, you’d also need a page. A young boy to care for the beast along the way. Think about it, Godfrey. You could never manage. You could never afford it. Riding to court on a Welsh pony, with no retainers and no armor? You’d be a laughingstock.

Then what does that make you? Godfrey snarled, leaping to his feet. Your marriage was meant to provide me with this coin you now speak of! So, where is it? Instead of doing your duty by me, you throw my failures in my face, when it should be me who sits in that castle!

Godfrey pointed a shaky finger towards the valley, but Elena only shook her head. He understood nothing about her marriage, and she’d ceased trying to explain it to him months ago.

Shilton is lost to us. Accept it. Focus your attentions elsewhere or find another way.

Godfrey looked at her as though she were Judas in the flesh. Could he not see she wanted Shilton back as badly as he did? Why else would she be there now, smuggling their own possessions out from under the noses of their enemies? She made no move to reconcile with him though, for she simply couldn’t condone what he planned to do.

Fine, Godfrey hissed when it became apparent that she wouldn’t budge. I will find another way, but know this. When I reclaim what is my own, I’ll remember it was in no part because of you. Nor your husband. In truth, I should curse Stephen for his failings—and curse you, too, for allowing them.

He stalked down the hill, and Elena was content enough to let him go. He would realize his own folly soon enough and come hurrying back for help.

Then she recalled his earlier words. Godfrey, wait! You said you came here to summon me.

Godfrey faced her from the foot of the hill. Aye, so I did. I thought you should know your husband has returned to Abbotsford, and that your absence has been remarked.

When? she gasped.

But Godfrey was already striding away.

It was the worst news he could’ve given her. She had no desire to see Stephen, but if she didn’t show herself soon, he’d send his men out looking for her and cause a stir throughout the countryside. She glanced at the sun, trying to assess the situation. Shilton sat to the north of Abbotsford, and in between lay a long stretch of barrow downs flanked by forests. It would take more than an hour to return on foot, and midday was already long past. Then again, there was a long and torturous lecture awaiting her, whether she appeared before supper or not. He would harrow her for being absent upon his arrival—she simply knew it. And why would she ever rush towards such a sentence?

Nay, there was no reason she couldn’t dawdle along the way, enjoying her freedom whilst she had it, for now that Stephen had returned, his presence would be nothing but a torment to her, and hers equally a misery to him.

CHAPTER 3

The only sound inside the thatch-roofed house was the tap tap tap of Stephen’s fingers as he drummed them on the table.

"By the bones of God, where is she?" he muttered.

Clintone, the young lad who ran Stephen’s errands, had long since returned home to his grandmother. Gleda, their old serving woman, had also been dismissed for the night, once Stephen had ascertained that she knew nothing of Elena’s whereabouts. Nor had Godfrey been any help at all, though that was predictable. He was already half-drunk when Stephen cornered him that afternoon outside East Gate. When Stephen questioned him, Godfrey’s only response was to call him a fool for being inept enough to misplace his wife. Then he’d stumbled through the gate and hadn’t returned since. Stephen had considered calling him back, for there could be no errand more pressing to the likes of Godfrey than his own sister’s absence. But Godfrey’s scorn had fueled what had already grown into a simmering fury, so he’d stormed off to the barracks instead.

That was almost seven hours ago. Now night was falling, Stephen had returned home, and there was still no sign of Elena, which meant the slippery fears of what could have befallen her were wrestling in Stephen’s mind. Desperate, he fell to the only habit that could keep his agitation under control. He counted the parallel panels that lined the walls of the hall.

One, two, three, four…

It was no castle they lived in, but it was still one of the largest homes in Abbotsford. It was also one of the most improved, for Stephen had returned from Wales a very wealthy man, and though there’d been a shortage of space inside the town walls, he’d reclaimed his father’s home and reconstructed it with absolute symmetry in mind. Every line, every angle, had been precisely placed so that his eyes could follow the patterns with ease.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty…

He recalled the first time Elena had entered their home. He’d presented it to her with pride, thinking she’d find as much satisfaction in the place as he. Instead, she’d gritted her teeth and commented on the quaintness of the hall. Knowing she was accustomed to living in a small castle had made no difference. Her disdain had still stung.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one…

He’d made it two-thirds of the way around when the door opened and Elena walked in. Acting on impulse rather than intent, he scraped his chair back and shot to his feet. One look told him what he needed to know: she was unharmed. In truth, she looked more beautiful than ever. He wanted to tell her that. He wanted to speak of his fears