by Lisa Hendrix
“I hope you’ve married her, Percy, or this knave will surely try to steal her away.”
“Oh, I’ve married and consummated, my lord. Most completely and thoroughly.” Henry shot his bride a glance that made her blush like a summer apple.
“And I have married and consummated as well,” said Eleanor.
“What?” Westmorland’s face flashed through a series of emotions that settled on something dark. “What goes on here? Explain yourselves.”
Eleanor’s courage wavered in the face of her father’s anger. Convincing Henry and Lucy to follow this mad plan of hers had been difficult enough—especially Lucy. Convincing her father … But she looked at Gunnar and remembered all she’d gone through to get to this point, and straightened her spine.
“It is simple enough, my lord. I married the man I love.”
“And I married the woman I love,” said Henry. “They simply were not each other.”
Lady Joan looked puzzled. “You have not married each other?”
“No, madame,” said Eleanor.
The countess looked to Gunnar. “I take it she married you, monsire.”
“That would be correct, my lady,” said Gunnar.
“You!” Westmorland’s eyes narrowed, and he whirled on Eleanor. “Was it not enough to spread your legs for him in the forest like some tinker’s whore?” He drew back his hand to strike. “I warned you—”
Before he could finish, Gunnar was between them, her father’s collar bunched in his fist. He jerked Westmorland close, lifting him onto his toes, and glared down at him. “Earl or not, you will not speak to my wife so. Nor will you ever again strike her.”
“Strike her?” Lady Joan rounded on her husband. “When did you strike her?”
“Never.”
“Liar! He beat her into marrying Richard le Despenser, my lady, when he knew she wished to marry me.” Gunnar released Westmorland with a shove that nearly put the older man off his feet. “That is how her nose was broken.”
“Eleanor! You told me you walked into a door.”
“Yes, madame. I did tell you that. And I told you I was pleased to marry Henry Percy, as well. They were both lies told to avoid my father’s ire.”
“Ralph!”
“She defied me and dishonored the Neville name.”
“You would not listen to me,” said Eleanor. “I never wanted Richard or Henry. Your pardon, Henry—”
Percy waved off the insult with a grin.
“But I did want Gunnar. I wanted him all along. So when I left to go to Durham to be wed, I instead set out to find Gunnar. To my good fortune, he found me.” She quickly told about Tunstall and the loss of her men and poor John Penson.
Paling, Lady Joan sagged down onto one of the stools at the chess table. Eleanor knelt beside her. “Sir Gunnar saved me, my lady. As always, he was my champion.”
“Tunstall would never have taken you prisoner had you done as you were told,” grumbled Westmorland. He glared at Gunnar. “You will never see a penny of Eleanor’s dowry.”
“Oh, Ralph, be quiet,” snapped Lady Joan. “Lucy, are you truly married to Percy?”
“Aye, my lady. As he said, married and consummated.”
“I have loved Lucy for years, my lady,” said Henry.
“I thought it was a flirtation. If you care for her, why on earth did you agree to marry Eleanor?”
Henry’s eyes went to Lucy and he shrugged. “It seemed the only way at the time.”
The countess shook her head. “Perhaps Eleanor is fortunate to avoid the match after all. But you are foolish, children. So very foolish. I may understand what you have done, but the king will not. When he hears how rashly you have acted, his fury will know no bounds.”
“Then I suggest we don’t tell him, my lady,” said Henry.
“Nonsense,” said Westmorland. “Of course we must tell him.”
“What Henry meant is that we should tell him what he wishes to hear,” said Eleanor. “That Eleanor de Neville married Henry Percy, and that Lucy married Sir Gunnar of Lesbury.”
“You propose to trade spouses?” demanded her father.
“No, my lord. I propose we trade selves. That I henceforth will be known as Lucy, while Lucy is known as Eleanor. The king has not seen either of us for a good many years,” said Eleanor. “And we were in Northumberland for so little time last year that no one there will know. And with my nose …”
“You do look even more alike than ever,” said Lady Joan thoughtfully.
“Joan, you cannot be … God’s toes. Even if I were inclined to go along with this—and I am not—a Percy cannot be married to the bastard daughter of my brother.”
“Pardon, my lord, but I already am married to her,” said Henry. “And I will stay that way.”
“I will not tolerate it!”
“If I am willing to feign that Lucy is Eleanor and Eleanor is Lucy,” Lady Joan continued, “little difference it should make to you which of them is wed to Percy. They are both your daughters, after all.”
Eleanor and Lucy both gasped, and Neville’s face turned as scarlet as a robin’s breast. “Nonsense, Joan. She is my brother’s get.”
Lady Joan dismissed that with a wave. “Nonsense yourself. Lucy is as clearly yours as Eleanor is, and I have known it since the day you brought her into my household to serve. As I say, if the world knows her as Eleanor de Neville, if we confirm her so … then so she is.”
“And so I named her to the priest who married us, my lord,” said Henry Percy. “The register says Henry Percy married Eleanor de Neville.”
“What about you?” Westmorland challenged Gunnar. “There cannot be two Eleanors de Neville running around England.”
“I already begin to call my wife Lucy, my lord, although it is difficult to remember,” said Gunnar. “Our marriage is not yet recorded, but when it is, it will show her as Lucy fitz Thomas, married to me before two witnesses.”
“This is an outrage. You will be found out and declared excommunicate, all of you. And us for supporting the lie.” He turned to his wife. “The king will know something is amiss as soon as you stop asking for Percy’s title back.”
“Then I will not stop. If this is to work, I must throw the weight of my station behind the new Eleanor as firmly as it was behind the old. As must you, husband.”
“And if it works, I will owe Westmorland much goodwill,” said Percy.
“It will not work. People can tell them apart.”
“Not so easily now that their noses match. It is ironical, is it not, that in beating Eleanor into marrying one man she did not want, you gave her what she needs to keep you from forcing her into marrying another she does not want.” Lady Joan raised her chin, managing to look down her nose at her husband despite the fact she barely reached his shoulder. “You must give the proper dowry to the new Eleanor, just as you would have the old. And of course, there will be lands for the new Lucy and Sir Gunnar.”
“He already has lands of his own at Alnwick,” grumbled Westmorland. “Let Percy give him more.”
“They cannot live so near each other, Ralph, lest people note the deception. You must give Sir Gunnar lands elsewhere. Where is entirely up to you, but they will be given. She is our daughter, even if we pretend otherwise for her happiness.”
“Happiness should have nothing to do with marriage,” said Westmorland.
Lady Joan’s expression went flat. “I will keep that in mind, my lord, the next time you come to my bed.
“I didn’t mean … Joan … Shite. When did I stop being earl?”
“You have not,” Lady Joan reassured him. “But your heavy hand has earned you penance. Consider this the beginning of it, and tell Sir Gunnar and his wife what estate they will have.”
“Bah. Let me think.” Westmorland paced the tent, mumbling to himself, then blurted out, “Penrith. There is an open holding in Penrith.”
“Is it a good estate?” asked Lady Joan. “I will not have you trying to starve them out
from spite.”
“Six knight’s fees, with a good profit each year, and if he earns my trust, he will have charge of expanding the castle.”
“Excellent.” Lady Joan turned to Gunnar. “Monsire, what think you of Penrith?”
“I was once in Penrith, long ago. It was a decent enough place.” He tugged Eleanor around to face him. “And what of you, Lucy? Will you be happy in Penrith?”
“I think, my lord husband,” she said, moving into his arms, “that wherever you are is my home and my heart, and there I shall be happy. For I do love you.”
“And I, you. Kiss me, wife.”
“An excellent idea,” said Henry Percy, and grabbed his new-made Eleanor.
“Oh, good God,” said Westmorland, and stalked out of the tent.
Epilogue
Penrith Castle Westmorland, December 1427
“THEY ARE FINE, sturdy boys,” said Ari, inspecting the newborn and the toddler who had been brought to the solar by their nurses. They both had their father’s look to them but for the cap of black hair on each that harkened to their mother. “And you both look well.”
“We are,” said Gunnar.
“I am better than well,” said Lady Lucy. Ari was having problems with that name, this being the first time he’d visited in the dozen years since the two women had traded places. “It took so long for me to catch the first time, I feared we would not have another, but here we are.”
“And both born since Westmorland died,” said Gunnar. “A part of me suspects the old bastard prayed against us while he yet breathed.” Gunnar motioned for the women to take Peter and John back to their nursery. “Now perhaps we can catch up with Percy and Eleanor.”
“Why? How many do they have?”
“Seven,” said Lucy.
“He told me he aims for an even dozen,” said Gunnar. “I think he set out simply to aggravate Westmorland by turning out as many babes as possible. Now he realizes he can breed an army of his own. Have some more ale?”
Ari held out his cup while Gunnar poured. “Does the new earl know of your, um, exchange?”
“I think not,” said Lady Lucy. “Richard was a boy and was fostering elsewhere when it happened. I am not even certain his father knew, and I doubt the countess has told him. So far as he knows, it is truly his aunt at Warkworth and a cousin he has seldom met here at Penrith.” She said it without rancor, but there was a tightness around her eyes that betrayed a certain sadness.
Ari offered her a sympathetic frown. “It must have been difficult, my lady, leaving behind all your brothers and sisters, never to see them again.”
“A little. But we would have gone our separate ways in the end anyway, and I would likely have seen little of them. Most difficult was losing my dearest companion to Alnwick, though we write each other often and she always sends the news from Raby, which she gets in my stead. However, look at all that I have won for such a small price.” She gave Gunnar a smile so warm and full of love that it made Ari’s chest ache with longing. “And look at this fine castle we are building. I am more than content.”
Talk turned to the tower and fortifications Gunnar was finishing for the new earl. When Gunnar offered a tour of the new pitfall he’d designed, Lady Lucy excused herself. “Will we see the others later?”
“Only Torvald, my lady. Brand and Jafri are digging out a cairn near the border.”
“Then I will see Torvald for supper. And you again tomorrow. Your pardon.”
When she’d gone, Gunnar turned to Ari. “What of Cwen?”
“No sign.”
“In a dozen years? Did you learn nothing at the pool?”
“I did. I think. But I do not yet know what it is or how to use it. Come and show me your pitfall. I will try to tell you.”
The next morning, while Gunnar sat judgment over a dispute between two smallholders that had disturbed the peace of the village, Ari carried his great book to the castle scriptorium, which had been set aside for him, and opened it to the first empty page. After some thought about how to word it, he recorded Gunnar and Lucy-who-was-Eleanor’s life and happiness and the births of their sons, scratching out the words using the same runes he had used from the first days. A few scholars and travelers could still read the old tongue written this way, but it served to keep his saga away from curious eyes.
He started to close the volume, then thought better of it and turned back a page, to where he had last written a dozen years ago:
The water was dark and still when the raven-warrior returned to the pool, the glow faded, the witch Cwen long gone. He studied the currents for a time, and then sliced his hand open.
As his seer’s blood spilled into the pool, the water began to stir again. A full vision, the first in many moons, poured into his mind, showing him all that had happened the night before and, more important, revealing what he must do.
Combined with Gunnar and Eleanor’s love and enhanced by the mystic light of the full moon, his blood had been nearly powerful enough to break the bull’s curse on its own—even without the true amulet. Then, as the night played out, the lady’s blood had flowed into the pool, too, carried by that bolt of magical lightning, and the power had grown. And then, finally, Cwen’s blood had been added to the mix when Eleanor had rinsed the amulet.
There was power in that pool, both light and dark, and the thought that his blood was the source of some of that power both disturbed and fascinated the raven-warrior. He could draw on that power, he thought, but he was reluctant to sample it. Cwen had once wielded her powers well and for good, until she’d been poisoned by hate. The raven was unsure he could do any better, and did not want to become evil in the quest to destroy it.
So he hesitated, unwilling, standing while the sun faded and more of the magic flowed away with the running water. But in the fullness of the vision he knew that by morning there would be nothing left, so in the last rays of sun, he stripped away his clothes and strode into the pool.
And when he rose out of the water again, his hand, scarred by his own knife in his hunt for visions, was healed but for some faint markings, and his mind was filled with …
It stopped there, a void that reflected Ari’s comprehension of what he’d discovered at the bottom of the pool.
He had no idea what had happened, what he’d learned, or what to do with it. These two and ten years he’d pondered on it every day, with every breath, and he was no closer than he had been—his attempt to explain to Gunnar yesterday proved that. Only his hand proved that anything at all had happened; his palm remained clear, except for traces of the deepest marks. Unfortunately, those traces formed the runes that spelled Cwen’s name—but at least they were fainter than they had been. And best of all, he didn’t feel such overwhelming shame each time he saw them. After all, he was not the one who had put them there.
Ari flipped the book closed, fastened the straps and turned the key in the lock that held it all together, then took a moment to trim the quill he’d borrowed and seal the scribe’s ink, using the time to think.
As he pulled the door shut behind himself and started back downstairs to rejoin Gunnar and his lady, he made his decision. He wasn’t going to meet Brand and Jafri.
It was time he found someone who could help him sort out what magic he had of his own, what he might have gained from the pool, and how to best use it to overcome Cwen.
It was time he found himself an alchemist who had mastered the dark elements.
HISTORICAL NOTES
This was one of those books where the research very nearly got out of hand.
Eleanor de Neville is a real woman who lived and married much as described, although I adjusted her age to accommodate modern mores. Accurate or not, I can’t write a fourteen-year-old heroine. The other members of the Neville clan are also real, as are Henry Percy and Richard le Despenser. Lucy, however, is a fictional character, and her marriage to Henry Percy in Eleanor’s stead is my invention.
One of the problems I had was keeping ever
yone straight while I did my research. All Percy earls are named Henry for generation after generation, and nearly all the Nevilles are named Ralph and Richard. Plus the number of Eleanors Neville would stun you. Worse, they all intermarried, so that they were cousins to each other—part of the reason the English had such a hard time sorting out who had the proper bloodlines to be king after Henry VI’s heir was killed at Tewkesbury. That difficulty, of course, helped turn the great Percy-Neville feud into the Wars of the Roses.
In the end, the Nevilles won by co-opting both sides of the fight. Eleanor’s baby sister, the golden Cecily (later known as Proud Cis), married Richard Plantagenet, 3rd Duke of York, to become the mother of both Edward IV and Richard III. Then Cecily’s granddaughter, Elizabeth of York, married eventual Lancastrian victor Henry Tudor (later Henry VII)—a cousin descended through one of the Beaufort uncles Eleanor talks about with Gunnar. Through Elizabeth, Cecily is ancestor to every king or queen of England since, truly the mother of a country.
Confused yet? Me too. If you’re curious, you’ll find further information and links on my website, lisahendrix.com. But I warn you, you’ll be going down a rabbit hole.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always, it took a lot of folks to make this book happen. Much credit for the development of Gunnar’s nature goes to a late night Twitter conversation I had with author Shirin Dubbin, whose insightful questions and comments led me to dig deeper. Thanks, Shirin.
Thanks also go to editor Kate Seaver and agent Helen Breitwieser, who balanced patience and firmness to help me beat this puppy into shape. Assorted author buddies also booted me along the path, including old pal Sheila Roberts, new pal Maisey Yates, and the virtual cheerleaders of Twitter (too many to name).
Finally, because they’re most important and I want you to remember them, I need to thank my family. Once again, my husband and kids put up with a dirty house, too much takeout, and general distractedness that must be aggravating as hell—and they did it (mostly) with a smile and offers of coffee and chocolate runs that made it all possible. Thank you and huge, smoochy hugs. And really, I promise to at least try to get on a saner schedule. Or hire a maid. Or something.
