by Nora Roberts
“We were not often together in the three brief months of our marriage. I was called away to battle more than I was home. The nights we spent together were rare and did not result immediately in prospects for a future heir. Madeline was impatient, then she became distressed.” Ambrose shook his head. “Her women told me later, when I questioned them, that it was all she could think about, talk about. Our marriage had been arranged, of course, like yours and mine. But unlike you, Lianna, she had been eager for it. She was a quiet, fragile-looking thing, but she was ambitious. She sought the power and glory of being duchess of such a great kingdom as Blackenstar, and she wanted to ensure her position by giving me an heir.”
“I understand,” Lianna said softly. “Go on.” Without thinking, she reached out and touched his hand.
Ambrose jumped as if she’d bitten him, then glanced at her sympathetic face. Slowly he twined his fingers through hers and continued. “The sooner the better, that is how Madeline felt. But when this didn’t happen…” His mouth twisted. “She sought out the crone in the village who had knowledge of potions that could help a woman in this matter. And she tried them—but to no avail. Then”—his voice hardened—“according to her women, she heard of a gypsy band passing through the village, and she had them brought to her. Madeline questioned one of the gypsy women—all this while I was away fighting my eldest half brother, Eoric,” he added darkly, “and though she was supposedly warned of possible ill effects, she mixed a potion meant to ensure that she would be able to beget a child. But the effects of this potion were powerful—and immediate.”
A silence fell in which the only sounds were the low hiss and sputter of the dying candles. Lianna held her breath, waiting for him to continue. He did, gazing not at her but at the few glinting embers that remained of the fire.
“Madeline became crazed. She ran about, blathering, shrieking, seeing things that were not there. She needed to fly, she said, to get away, and she ran to the parapet. To fly, she screamed. Beorn was here, and even he could not stop her in time…”
He broke off.
Lianna squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I didn’t love her.” Ambrose shrugged his massive shoulders. “As I said, I arranged the marriage much as I did ours. Her father was a count—she was of good stock, wealthy, a fine match—and the count’s lands bordered the farthest tip of my southern border. That increased the security of Blackenstar, at least in one tiny corner of this great meandering land. I wanted the marriage for that reason, and though I barely knew her, I would have given my life to protect her.” He spoke fiercely. “She was mine to protect, like Blackenstar, like this keep.”
Suddenly he surged to his feet and stalked across the chamber.
“Never have I known peace in my own land, Lianna. Never.” He spun about and returned to loom over her. “Ever since I was a boy, I’ve had to fight, fight with my half brothers and my cousins over every scrap of food. I fought with them over which horse I’d be riding, which pallet I’d sleep upon, which regiment I’d have the right to lead. We were raised like a pack of dogs—my father encouraged us to hate each other, distrust each other, fight each other, plot against each other—always with the doctrine drummed into our heads that only the strongest can lead, and even from the first, deep down, we all knew we were really fighting over who would one day rule Blackenstar.”
Silent, horrified, Lianna watched his face. She who had grown up under the shadow of her mother’s disapproval, yet with every luxury granted her, and those around her who cared for her every wish, tried to imagine the household he described. Her pity grew as his story continued.
“My mother died when I was five. I was the youngest and the smallest. If I hadn’t become the toughest I would surely have starved. I very nearly did. But I learned to fight—oh, yes, I learned it well. Eventually, when my father was killed in battle and Blackenstar went up for grabs, slices of land being tussled over like meaty bones, I went to war with each of my brothers. And they with me.”
“And you won.”
He nodded grimly. “So far. But Kenneth and Duncan still have formidable armies and greedy hearts. They are not satisfied with the lands I granted them when we made peace. They will attack again—unless I am so strong, so firmly entrenched as the duke of Blackenstar that they see no hope whatever in challenging me.”
“And that,” Lianna spoke softly, “is why you married me.”
She pulled the cloak more tightly around her again, for it was not yet dawn and the room was still chilly.
“If your wife is royal, as royal as can be,” she went on quietly, “and you are a strong ruler and fighter, as strong as can be, then few men will question your ability or authority. Or your heir’s,” she added, and saw him nod.
“You are wise as well as beautiful, Lianna. Yes, it is of my heir that I think. I’d never want my child to go through what I have—forced to fight continuously for what is his, never knowing a time of peace in which to build and let the land and the people prosper. My people have already endured year after year of turmoil and war.”
He reached out an arm and pulled her to her feet, his eyes riveted on hers. “With you by my side, no one will dare question me. I’ll wear the mantle of the warrior duke, the Barbarian, and fight all I must, but I hope that by the time my son is grown, he can turn his attention to making the land and the people—and the House of Blackenstar—great and prosperous. And peaceful. I might be a bastard, but my son will be a true-born ruler of men, descended from a line of kings. Then I can end this damned curse—”
“Curse? So there is a curse?”
“Surely you know the tale.”
A shiver danced down her spine. “Well, I knew the rumors. And then I felt it—I felt it in the walls the first moment I set foot inside the keep.”
His eyes glittered. “They say that Morgan le Fey cursed the keep in a fit of rage after Merlin himself paid her a visit here—and warned her to keep her evil magic far from King Arthur. I don’t say that I believe it, but there does seem to be something, something that prevents Blackenstar from ever knowing peace, something that keeps us in turmoil, always fighting, with those of us who share the same blood remaining enemies instead of becoming allies.”
Faintly her grandmother’s voice whispered in her head, pure and musical as the notes of a harp: Comes the night of a falling star…
“I must go.” Abruptly the intimate mood was gone. Dawn was breaking over the mountains of Blackenstar, delicate streaks of lilac and peach hazed with gold lightening the horizon. Banishing the stars. And Ambrose was no more the bold lover, nor the surprising confidant. He was all warrior. He released her arm, scowling, and swung toward the door.
“Beorn will guard you henceforth.”
“I don’t care for Beorn and I don’t need a guard.”
“Would that that were true.” Ambrose eyed her from the door. “If in the following days you cause no further trouble, I’ll allow you to send for your ladies-in-waiting and will provide an escort for them.”
He opened the door, then suddenly remembered the plants. He stalked to the low table where he’d set them and stared down at them as Lianna watched, her stomach clenching.
Then, without a word, he spun about and left.
Was this a sign of trust? Lianna wondered, as she gazed after him in confusion. Had something changed between them?
Everything had changed between them.
Everything she thought and felt about Ambrose the Barbarian, and about Blackenstar, was not as it had been before.
Except for one thing.
Constantine was still coming—to destroy this keep and the duke who had spent his whole life fighting for it.
And she must stand by and watch.
7
LIANNA SPENT THE next few days in a state of wonder, doubt, and bewilderment. Each time she saw Ambrose, her pulse quickened, her heart leapt. How could this be?
Tormented, she tried to avoid him. She visited th
e village—accompanied by and closely watched by Beorn, per Ambrose’s orders—where all the people she encountered watched her in awe, and she found that contrary to hating and fearing Ambrose, the people there respected him and wished him well on his marriage.
“Now, if Master Eoric had become duke of Blackenstar, we’d be in a sad pickle,” one old woman huffed as she leaned on a rough bark stick. “He was always a vicious boy. But Duke Ambrose, though he be as fierce in battle as they come, is fair and has a care for the rest of us. I hope you give him many fine sons, my lady,” she told Lianna before bowing past and going on her way.
In the keep, preparations began for a great feast. Ambrose wished to celebrate their marriage with a grand ball and had invited all the nobles, gentry, and villagers to join in the festivities. The serving maids scurried this way and that, polishing, scrubbing, airing, dusting, and in the kitchens the cook and Marthe and countless others toiled night and day.
Lianna supervised and approved all of the food for the feast—there would be mutton and venison and sauced duckling, sweetmeats, and honey cakes and fruit, and dark, soft bread and silver goblets brimming with spiced wine.
She managed to see little of Ambrose during the days and found her heart heavy for it. But each midnight, when the stars glimmered and the silver moon sailed across the tranquil sky, he came to her chambers. Always there was that strange distance between them, the moments of unease and jousting with their words, and then they would come together, and he would kiss her, touch her hair with gentle fingers, and it would all begin again—the strange magic he worked on her, the undoing of all her resolve to despise him. Her heart opened like a flower and her body burned at his touch, and she couldn’t hate him. And she was certain from the way he held her, stroked her, gazed at her with those keen eyes, that he did not in the least hate her.
So she found that though she did not hate him, could not hate him, she couldn’t love him either, Lianna told herself on the fourth morning as she swallowed a crust of bread, nibbled at a bit of cake, and turned her attention to dressing for the day.
He was known far and wide as a ruthless enemy, she reminded herself, a fierce warrior who showed no mercy, a bloodthirsty fiend feared by the weak and the powerful alike.
Yet now she knew that the rumors were not all to be believed, that Ambrose fought only to hold the vast kingdom that was his, that he was as much a victim of his enemies as her father had been of Ambrose himself.
And then, the day before the ball, the moment she had begun to dread arrived.
The message came.
It came as Marthe was dressing her hair for dinner, coiling it into a tight coronet atop her head. Lianna glanced up at the knock upon the door, and when a towheaded page entered, he bowed low.
“My lady, two knights have arrived from the court of King Penmarren. One of them wishes to present himself before you. The duke received him before riding out to the hunt, and he has given leave. The knight bade me tell you he brings news of your father and of your homeland and begs for an audience.”
Her heart stopped. Lianna stared at the youth, unable to utter a word.
“My lady?”
“Yes, yes. I will see him. Tell him I shall meet with him in the garden.” Lianna jumped up from the velvet bench before Marthe could wind the gold ribbons through her hair. With her amber silk gown rustling, she snatched her cloak from its peg and rushed to the door, then reminded herself that she was a princess and a duchess and she should walk with dignity and grace. It had been many years since she had forgotten that lesson.
Ambrose, what have you wrought? she thought in frustration. She deliberately slowed her steps and straightened her shoulders, aware that Beorn, who had been stationed near her door, followed at a discreet distance.
But she was bursting with impatience by the time she reached the great hall. She headed toward the corridor that led to the kitchens and the garden, but was stopped by the peddler and his wife, who called to her when she would have hurried past.
Despite her impatience, she paused to greet them, noting that the man was nearly well and would be able to travel soon.
“Bless you, my lady.” The woman curtsied low before her, but Lianna raised her, smiled, and wished them good health.
She reached the garden at last, hoping that here at least she would have an opportunity to talk with the knight in private. Beorn would be near, but she would request him to stand back a little distance. So long as he saw that she could not flee into the woods or toward some possible danger, he would not impose himself closer. Or so she hoped. It seemed to her that Beorn disliked her as much as she disliked him. So he would guard her, but from afar.
The winter garden was gloomy and gray—the stone benches, urns empty of blooms, the shrubs and trees naked and shivering in the light wind that blew down from the north. Beyond and to her right, the sea churned and crested and roared, and the salt tang of it filled her nostrils as she wandered the pathways, searching for her father’s man.
He appeared from down a tree-lined path. Sir Gryford had guarded her father’s litter when last he had been carried into battle. Middle-aged, paunchy now, and dark-bearded, he came toward her, limping slightly from a wound he had suffered in that same battle.
“My lady, it gives me joy to see you are well.” He knelt and kissed her hand, but Lianna quickly raised him. She searched his face. Even here, where they seemed to be alone, she knew they could not speak freely.
To be overheard would spell disaster—and certain death.
“My father—is he well? And Meeg?”
He assured her of their good health and good wishes. “And Constantine, my cousin?” Lianna asked with as much casualness as she could muster.
She held her breath waiting for his reply.
“He is well and strong. He has returned from his journey and is eager to serve your father in every way.”
“How good of him.” Lianna clutched her cloak more tightly around her as her blood turned to ice. Constantine was back, and Gryford had come to tell her that the attack was imminent.
“Let us…walk a little through the garden,” she managed to say through trembling lips, and then glanced over at Beorn, who stood watching from beneath the bare branches of an ancient, gnarled tree.
“I am well guarded by my father’s man—and cannot possibly escape the gates,” she said to Beorn. “You needn’t follow me like a nursemaid if there is other business you might attend to.”
She expected him to assert his orders to stay close by her at all times, but to her surprise, he saluted. “Aye, my lady, there is a matter I need to see about, and you’re in no danger here. The duke won’t mind if I loosen the leash just for a little while. But take care—if you play any tricks, it will come down on both of our heads.” A grin spread across his scarred, fleshy face, and then he turned and stalked back toward the bailey with swift strides.
“My lady, come, let us walk. This way.” Gryford gripped her arm and began leading her purposefully toward the rocky path that wound out of the garden, toward the craggy cliffs and paths that bordered the sea.
She followed silently, her heart tight in her chest. All she could think was that Constantine was coming and battle was near, and a vision of Ambrose fighting that massive army within the borders of his precious Blackenstar weighed upon her like a boulder.
But her thoughts were interrupted when Gryford suddenly veered from the path and led her higher, toward the towering cliff that overlooked that dangerous winter sea.
“Quick, my lady. This way. Ahead, past those trees, behind the rocks, there is Emmett with our horses. Two horses, his and mine. I’ll stay behind—he is to take you at once to Constantine.”
Lianna heard a sound behind her and looked back in alarm, but saw nothing, no one, except a crow lift from the branch of a furze bush and soar toward the tower of the keep.
“But what of you, Sir Gryford?” she asked as she breathlessly picked her way up a rocky path tangled with dead brus
h and stones.
“I’ll hide myself until the battle commences and I can serve your father and Constantine from here within the keep. Don’t you fret about me, Princess—it’s you we must get safe away, lest the Barbarian use you as a hostage once he learns what is afoot.”
He’s not a barbarian, she wanted to cry, but she held her tongue. “Tell me, Sir Gryford, where am I to meet Constantine? And when—and where—is he planning to stage the attack?”
“He is marching on Blackenstar even as we speak. He will await you on the Hill of Rivalen to take you into safety. If all goes as planned, the battle will commence tomorrow at dawn.”
Dawn. Only this very dawn, she had been lying in Ambrose’s arms while his lips trailed kisses across her shoulder. Tomorrow, he would be at war with her cousin and her father. The keep would be under siege.
“No. No!”
“What, my lady? What is amiss?” The aging knight was as out of breath as she. They paused at the crest of a cliff that overlooked the wild sea, and he turned to her, studying her drawn, pale face, the wide, panicked eyes. “Do not fear, Princess. You will be far and away—safe from the battle,” he assured her.
“I don’t want a battle, Sir Gryford. There must not be any attack. I must go to Constantine and stop him!”
“Stop him?” Sir Gryford gaped at her, thunderstruck. “But the Barbarian took you from Penmarren, forced you to—”
“I won’t leave him. I won’t have him fighting Constantine or my father or anyone!” I love him, she thought, but she bit back the words. How could she tell Sir Gryford this when she had not yet told Ambrose? She had only just discovered it herself.
“Come, we must hurry and reach Constantine before Ambrose discovers something.” Frantic, she grasped his arm. “He has spies everywhere, and if he were to learn of this, he would be certain I had betrayed him—”
Suddenly a tall figure sprang out from the rocks behind her, knocking her aside. With a cry, Lianna found herself sprawled across the rough path, and then she saw Beorn hurling himself straight at Sir Gryford. The knight never had a chance. Beorn drove a knife through his heart as Lianna screamed. The sound echoed round and round, and before it had faded, Beorn yanked his knife out and dragged the knight to the precipice of the cliff. As Lianna watched in frozen horror, he threw Sir Gryford into the icy green waters far below.
