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PROLOGUE
Near Grainsworth Abbey
March 1275
Daria wished the heavy clouds overhead would free the snow. She wanted the misery of freezing snow blowing into her face, stinging her eyes, mixing with the burning tears.
But as the afternoon lengthened, the weather simply grew colder, the wind more vicious, twisting and ripping throug
h the few naked-branched oak trees that lined the narrow road, but it didn’t snow.
She hunched down in her miniver-lined cloak and closed her eyes. Her mare, Henrietta, plodded onward, her head bowed, keeping rhythm with the destrier’s pace ahead of her. Every few minutes, Drake, Lord Damon’s master-at-arms, would swivel about to see that she still rode docilely behind him, that she hadn’t somehow fled without him noticing, that she was keeping herself silent and submissive and obedient. Drake wasn’t a bad man, or cruel, but he was her uncle’s minion, and he always carried out his master’s orders without hesitation or question. Also, she knew, it would never occur to him to question his master’s right to dispose of his niece in any way that suited him. She was naught but a female and thus all decisions were made for her and around her.
She had no choices. She knew now that she’d never had a choice. She simply hadn’t realized it so starkly before. Before, Daria, the child, had had to obey only occasional commands from her uncle, nothing of the magnitude that would make her want to crawl away and die. After all, what could a man want with a child? But now she was seventeen, more than old enough to be weighed and judged and a value set on her. She was no longer a child and her uncle had seen it and acted on it. A girl went from her father—or in this case, her uncle—to her husband. From one man to another. Chattel of one man to be chattel of another. No choice, no argument. It was as the man dictated, as the man ordered. She felt tears again, and hated them, for crying was useless. Crying meant that there was hope, and there wasn’t any of that to be had.
Daria dashed her palm over her eyes, and when she opened them again she saw in her mind’s eye her uncle Damon, as clear to her as the armored back of Drake, who rode directly in front of her. She saw him in his bedchamber and she heard his voice, deep and clear and indifferent, his words of a month ago still as fresh as if he’d spoken them but moments before. No, she thought now, he hadn’t been indifferent, not at all. It had been an act. He’d been looking forward to this—to humiliating her and then telling her what he’d planned for her. No, her uncle was never indifferent in his cruelty. He relished it.
He’d been sitting up in his fur-covered bed, Cora, one of the castle serving wenches, naked beside him. Upon Daria’s entrance into Lord Damon’s bedchamber, Cora had giggled and slithered down beside him, pulling the white rabbit furs over her naked shoulders. He appeared not to care that the furs left his own chest bare. He appeared not to care that he was naked and in his bed with his mistress in front of his niece. Of course he’d planned it. There was no doubt in her mind. Daria had said nothing, merely waited for him to tell her why he’d sent for her. He in turn was silent for many moments, negligently stroking his right hand over Cora’s shoulder.
Daria had closed her eyes, knowing he did this for her benefit, to show her yet again that a female was naught but what a man wanted her to be.
Daria had felt the familiar feelings of hate, revulsion, and helplessness surge through her. She loathed her uncle and he knew it, and she guessed it amused him, this silent hatred of hers. This meaningless silent hatred of hers. What did he want? For her to scream at him, to cry, to cower in humiliation and embarrassment? She stood perfectly still. She’d learned patience with him. She’d learned to wait silent as a rock, giving him no encouragement.
She didn’t move. Her expression didn’t change.
Suddenly he seemed to tire of his game. He pulled the furs higher over Cora and told her to be still and turn her back to him. “I tire of your sheep’s face,” he added, his eyes all the while on his silent niece.
“You sent for me,” Daria said finally, holding her voice as calm and emotionless as she was trying to hold her body.
“Aye, I did. You’re more than full grown, Daria. You turned seventeen two months ago. My silly little Cora here—already quite a woman—is only fifteen. You should have a babe suckling at your breast by now, as do most females. Aye, I’ve held you here overlong. But I had to wait, you see, wait for just the offer I wished.” He smiled then, showing all his very white teeth. “At least next month you will finally have a husband to plow that little belly of yours. And he’ll do it enthusiastically, I doubt it not.”
She paled and stepped back. She couldn’t help it.
He laughed. “Doesn’t the thought of a husband please you, niece? Or do you fear and dislike all men? Don’t you wish to escape me and become mistress in your own keep?”
She stared at him, mute.
“Answer me, you silly girl.”
“Aye.”
“Good. It will be done. When you leave me, Daria, tell your mother I wish to see her. Cora has but whetted my appetite.”
Daria didn’t move this time, and after a moment, Damon merely shrugged, as if tiring of baiting her. Daria knew he forced her mother, her gentle, sweet mother—his dead half-brother’s wife—and had taken her since the accidental death of his half-brother, James of Fortescue, in a tourney in London some four years before. But her mother, Lady Katherine, had never said a word to Daria, never complained, never cried. She was told she was to go to the lord and she went without comment, without objection, to Damon, and later emerged, still silent, her eyes cast down, her mouth sometimes swollen and bruised-looking. But Daria knew; all the servants spoke of it and she’d overheard them. This was the first time he had spoken openly of it before to her. But he wanted her to know, she guessed, but she wouldn’t do what he wanted, she wouldn’t plead with him, she wouldn’t beg him to spare her mother. She said instead, “Who is to be my husband?”
“So you do have some interest, do you? You will doubtless be happy about my choice for you.” He paused and she saw the malicious gleam in his pale blue eyes. She knew she wouldn’t like it and so did he. She waited, silent and still and cold, wishing now she’d kept her mouth shut and hadn’t asked. She didn’t want to know, not yet. But Damon said, his voice relishing his words, “Why, it is Ralph of Colchester, eldest son of the Earl of Colchester. They visited Reymerstone, don’t you remember? Last November. Ralph told me he is most pleased with you, as is his father.”
“Not Ralph of Colchester. No. You would not, he is loathsome. He raped Anna again and again and he got her with child and—”
Damon roared with laughter. She’d finally reacted and he was pleased with himself. “Aye, I know it,” he said, still laughing, shaking the big bed with his mirth. “I made him a wager, you see. I told him that his father and I wanted him to get you with child immediately, and to see if he was capable, I gave him Anna, who was ready to be bred in any case. He impregnated her quickly. I was pleased and relieved, as was his father.”
Daria just looked at him, stunned and repelled, but not really surprised. She heard herself ask, “What did you offer as your wager with him?”
Damon laughed again. “So there is still a portion of defiance in you? Well, no matter now. I wagered your mother’s gold necklace. The one my half-brother gave her upon their marriage.” He watched her face closely.
She gave him no more satisfaction. She’d given him more than enough. She said instead, shrugging, “It is of very little value.”
She looked at him, and for an instant, just a brief moment, she thought she saw some resemblance to her father in him. But she wasn’t certain. She couldn’t remember her father clearly anymore, even though it had been only four years since his death. But her father had been gone so often, for long stretches of time, and he hadn’t particularly noticed her even on his rare visits to Fortescue Hall, for she was naught but a girl, a female whose only worth lay in a marriage advantageous to him. Still, surely he hadn’t been as vile as his elder half-brother, surely.
And now it was Damon, his half-brother, who would gain the advantages of her marriage.
“What did you offer Ralph and his father? All my inheritance?”
“Why, certainly, most of it, but I dislike your impertinent tongue. Hold it quiet or I will have your mother brought here and she will tell you the value of obedience to me. Aye, Colc
