by Jody Hedlund
I nodded, the indication my guard should usher the next nobleman up the dais into my presence. My scribe would read me the information he’d collected about the noble family and I’d listen to the nobleman defend himself as well as share how he planned to contribute to the newly united kingdom. Then I’d make my decision on whether to allow the nobleman and his family to live.
My executioners had been busy over the past weeks. Though I’d heard whispers the streets of Delsworth ran red with the blood of the people I’d condemned, such pruning was necessary for the stability of the kingdom. Besides, most of the convicted had been captured soldiers and the king’s elite guard. There was no question such warriors had to be eliminated. I couldn’t chance keeping a single one alive. Nor could I allow anyone who defended or sheltered a soldier to go unpunished.
The only way to ensure I would be able to pass on the united kingdom to my heirs was to eradicate any loyalty to the old ruler whose name I would no longer allow to be uttered in any corner of the realm.
And of course, I needed to eradicate the princesses. All three of them. Which was proving more difficult than I’d anticipated.
The nobleman at the front of the line stepped forward and bowed to the ground at the base of the dais. Before he could rise, the captain of my guard, Theobald, entered from a side door and approached the throne. Several guards followed behind him dragging a prisoner between them.
“Your Majesty.” The captain bowed, his black chain mail clinking. His shoulder-length hair was braided into three strands beneath his hood. When he lifted his head, he didn’t meet my gaze but instead stared straight ahead, his face impassive. With the scar running the length of his cheek and disappearing into his sharply pointed black beard, the captain had the bearings of a fierce, brutal man. Just the kind of leader I needed in charge of my army.
“What news, captain?” I peered beyond him to the soldiers. “I hope you finally have word of the whereabouts of the usurper’s heirs.” My best guards had tracked the princesses to a hidden mountain abbey, but by the time they’d arrived, the princesses were gone. Apparently, without a trace. The special tracking hounds and even the Highland wolves hadn’t been able to pick up a new trail.
I’d punished the guards for failing to find the princesses. I’d needed to make an example of what would happen to those who disappointed me. Now without a trail to pursue, we’d been left to speculate, which had proved futile as well.
“Your Majesty,” the captain responded. “We believe we’ve found someone who can provide information as to the location of the princesses.”
“Hopefully not another fool attempting to ingratiate themselves to me.” My soldiers had brought in everyone who claimed to have seen a king’s guard and a noblewoman. So far, every testimony had been useless, contradictory, and even far-fetched.
Theobald allowed himself a tight but mirthless smile. “I think you will be happy with this witness, Your Majesty.”
He motioned to the guards to bring forward their prisoner. They prodded the captive with the tips of their swords until the prisoner collapsed to the floor near the dais. Wearing a gray robe with a hood, I couldn’t see his face. Still, I could tell this was no ordinary citizen but rather a monk or priest belonging to one of the holy orders.
“A nun, Your Majesty,” the captain explained. “I’ve been interviewing all the nuns left in Mercia.”
I smiled at the cleverness of his plan. If any nuns knew what had happened at St. Cuthbert’s, the captain’s interviewing techniques would surely wrest that information from them. “Are they cooperating?”
“Quite well,” Theobald said. “So much so that I have finally been led to this nun who was at St. Cuthbert’s and has seen the princesses.” The captain gave the woman a push with the tip of his boot.
The nun didn’t react.
The captain’s face tightened with barely restrained anger. He yanked off the nun’s hood, heedless of the hair he tore from her head. She’d apparently lost her veil and wimple. Her shorn hair was matted to her head by blood and dirt. Her face was bruised and her body broken.
Clearly, the captain had already attempted to gain information from this woman.
I stepped down toward her. “Tell me, captain. What secrets has this nun exposed?”
“She’s a stubborn one,” Theobald said almost bitterly. “And she has insisted in speaking only to you.”
I peered down at the bloody mass of what was left of the nun. I didn’t condone violence against women, particularly women of the cloth who’d devoted their lives to serving God. However, I could not rebuke the captain for his use of torture in such a case as this. Not when the stakes were so high.
“What have you to say, Sister?” I asked.
She lifted her face then. Though the skin around her eyes was purple and swollen, her gaze was frank and piercing. “The royal princesses are lost to you.” She spoke with an authority that took me by surprise. “They will remain lost, and you will not find them until the time is right for their return.”
Theobald kicked the nun in the ribs, which caused her to cry out and double over. “You must address the king as ‘Your Majesty.’”
I held up my hand to the captain, trying to quell the anxious premonition creeping up my spine. “Let her finish.”
The captain nodded, stepped back, and crossed his hands behind his back.
After a moment, the nun pushed herself up. Though she seemed to struggle for consciousness, her voice was still strong. “The princesses will have Solomon’s treasure to aid them, and there will be nothing you can do to stop them.” She held me captive in a stare that stirred the foreboding deep inside me.
“Then you know the location of the keys to the ancient treasure?”
“The keys are lost to you as well.” As she spoke the last word, she crumpled back to the floor, unconscious.
The captain grabbed a fistful of her hair and jerked her head up. “Tell the king all you know or you will die.”
The nun’s head slumped to the side. For this woman of the cloth, death would be a gift—a gift I would not grant her. “Do not kill her.” I spun and retraced the steps to my throne. “I suspect she will prove more useful to us alive than dead.”
The captain ordered his soldiers to lift the woman and carry her away.
“To the tower,” I called.
Theobald nodded. “She will talk eventually and tell us everything we wish to know.” He leaned in to the woman. “You can be sure of it, Sister Katherine. You can be sure.”
Evermore Contents
Half-Title
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter
1
Adelaide
“I shall ride the final course.” I grabbed the great helm. “You know I have the better chance at vanquishing Lord Mortimer.”
“No, Adelaide.” Mitchell reached to divest me of the helmet, but I sidestepped him and thrust it on before he could wrest it away.
“I shall pretend I am you, and Lord Mortimer will be none the wiser.” My voice was hollow against the conical metal hood that covered my entire head except for the narrow eye slits and the small pricked breathing holes. I fumbled at the leather chinstrap, determined to tie it into place before Mitchell stopped me.
“Adelaide,” he said in a puff of exasperation
. But his voice wasn’t as angry as it was frustrated. Whether he said so or not, I understood him. He was irritated more with himself than with me. Thus far during the jousting tournament, he’d tied with Lord Mortimer, which meant if we didn’t win the fourth and final course, we’d go home without the coveted purse of gold.
If we returned to Langley without the gold, the physician wouldn’t come to heal Aunt Susanna, and we would forfeit the expensive medicine she so desperately required.
“We need this victory more than any other.” I stiffened my shoulders as Mitchell began to thread the belt from my cuirass to the cross-shaped hole at the base of the helm. Though I couldn’t see Mitchell anymore, I sensed his troubled gaze upon me. With the customary Langley brown hair and eyes, he was small of stature for a man, more scholarly and interested in his studies than in tournaments. However, like any good nobleman’s son, he’d been trained to use both his mind and body.
Much to the chagrin of my aunt and uncle, I’d trained right alongside Mitchell and my other cousins. Aunt Susanna oft lamented I was too much like my cousins and that she’d failed to raise me as a proper lady. I oft replied I would have it no other way.
The great helm lay heavy against my chain mail hood and padded coif. I was smaller than Mitchell, but we were close enough I’d jousted in his stead at tournaments. Always in the past, I’d enjoyed the challenge of taking part in competitions disguised as Mitchell. And always in the past, he’d humored my whims, relieved to escape his obligations.
However, the stakes of the tournament were higher this time. Not only did we need the purse of gold to pay the physician, but Lord Mortimer had also recently made known he had designs for me to become his next wife. He’d said as much to Mitchell during a recent hunting expedition.
As Lord Mortimer still mourned the loss of his first wife to childbirth, I hadn’t given the gossip much credence. Mitchell, on the other hand, had been uneasy ever since, speculating what the lord might do if he became serious about the matter.
“That monster will not have you,” Mitchell had declared viciously after the hunting party. “Though you would be harder to control than a wild coyote, I would sooner marry you myself.”
I’d laughed at Mitchell’s passionate declaration. Only months my elder, he wasn’t my cousin by blood or birth. In fact, we weren’t related in any way. But I saw him as none other than my true kin. We’d been inseparable growing up, and he was my steadfast friend.
Even now, I held out my gauntlet-gloved fingers and waited until I felt his hand in mine. “We shall prevail, Mitchell,” I assured him. “And if Lord Mortimer ever discovers our duplicity, he will certainly put his thoughts far from me, for he will not be able to abide a wife who has knocked him from his horse.”
I didn’t wait for Mitchell’s response. Instead, I shoved aside the tent flap and proceeded toward the lists. With spurs jangling and armor clanking, I joined the other knights with an air of confidence from years of training.
I rode Roland, Mitchell’s bay roan, to the cheering of villagers who sat on the ground as well as the wooden benches that had been erected along the cordoned-off center field. The colorful pavilions with their more elaborate galleries provided seating for the nobility, a place to which I’d been relegated too many times in the past.
Disguised as a squire, Mitchell took his place next to me, straightening the caparison covering the horse. The flowing cloth was patterned with a red vertical stripe across white with a golden eagle at the center, the Langley family coat of arms.
“Remember everything I have spoken.” He moved to the front of the charger and inspected the chanfron, making sure the iron shield sat securely in place over Roland’s head. “Especially keep in mind that Lord Mortimer is weaker on the left side.”
I nodded in reply and refrained from telling him I’d seen Lord Mortimer perform more times than he had and was familiar with every nuance of the lord’s strategy and maneuvers.
Mitchell patted the charger one last time and whispered an endearment in his ear before going after my lance. I, too, leaned into Roland and rubbed the roan’s shoulder with affection. He nickered his response as though he sensed how much was at stake.
“We shall do just fine,” I said more to myself than to the horse. I’d ridden Roland as much as Mitchell—if not more. As a charger and medium-weight horse, he’d been bred for agility and stamina. He wouldn’t be as muscular or heavy as Lord Mortimer’s warhorse. But I’d learned size didn’t necessarily equate strength, that strength could be found in many different forms.
Mitchell handed me a lance made of solid oak and decorated with red and white to match the Langley heraldry. I braced the long weapon under my arm and against my ribs, tilting it slightly forward to maintain my balance. I pressed my thighs into Roland’s flank, needing to become one with the beast. This tournament was a partnership. I couldn’t succeed without Roland’s cooperation—his measured speed, his balance against the pressure of our opponent, and the ability to sense my needs.
“God be with you.” Mitchell gave my gloved hand a final squeeze. He spoke with confidence, but I could still distinguish a thin strand of anxiety in his tone. Not only was he worried about his mother the same as I was, but so many responsibilities had fallen on his shoulders, including the weight of the earldom, a weight that had been growing steadily heavier.
As the youngest of three brothers, Mitchell hadn’t expected to carry such burdens. But Norbert had died in youth, and Christopher had run away five years ago. Older than Mitchell and me by two years, Christopher had a courage of both body and spirit I admired greatly. While I’d never been as close to Christopher as I had to Mitchell, I still held him in the highest regard.
A time had once existed when I’d fancied Christopher. Thankfully, my handsome cousin had been too preoccupied in those last days before his leaving to notice my increasing fascination. I’d surely have embarrassed myself if he’d stayed. Nevertheless, I’d allowed a secret hope to settle inside my young heart. A hope that someday he’d come back and fancy me in return.
Uncle Whelan had died unexpectedly, two years after Christopher’s departure. We hadn’t expected Christopher to return for the funeral since he was considered an enemy of King Ethelwulf. Thus, when he’d secretly visited, I’d been excited, wanting him to see me as the young woman I was becoming, not a little girl or his cousin. But he’d hardly noticed me and had remained only a day since his presence had posed a danger to us, especially because he’d pledged his services to the neighboring king of Norland.
With no one else to aid us, Mitchell and I had done what we could to survive. And now that he was twenty and I almost so—we’d learned to take care of ourselves and were doing what we needed to help Aunt Susanna.
Through my eye slits, I focused on my opponent on the other end of the list. Lord Mortimer was a formidable foe. Nigh on thirty, he was strong and experienced. But a greater weakness than his left side was his arrogance. He would expect Mitchell to come at him with his usual quick and powerful thrust. He would pride himself on knowing Mitchell so well.
But if God looked upon me graciously this day, I would deliver a thrust Lord Mortimer wasn’t expecting.
I raised my lance high to signal my readiness, and Lord Mortimer did likewise. Then I couched my weapon in my armpit and settled myself more securely in the high-backed saddle. Although the April day was cloudy and the air heavy with moisture, sweat had already soaked the silk-lined doublet and padded collar I wore beneath my armor. The padded coif under my helm stuck to my head and my plaited hair.
Many times, I’d debated shearing my golden hair to a man’s length so it would rest at my shoulders rather than waist. But Mitchell had cautioned me against doing so, convincing me I would draw unnecessary attention to myself and perhaps alert others to our duplicity.
The bugle call rent the air, clear and strong, quieting the crowd. Roland started forward, needing no urging on my part. His pace was perfect, providing adequate speed but smoot
h enough I could keep my balance.
With the thundering of horse hooves filling the silence, I focused on the part of Lord Mortimer’s armor I intended to hit. I ground my teeth together, tightened my grip, thrust the lance, and then braced for impact.
My weapon glanced off the upper cannon protecting his arm and shoulder. But his made contact with my cuirass directly above my heart. The collision was hard and jolted me back against my saddle. I would have flown over Roland’s hindquarters if I hadn’t tightened my grip on the reins.
The crowd cheered at Lord Mortimer’s contact. For a second, I wondered if I’d been too hasty in taking Mitchell’s place in the contest. Perhaps I was the one with too much pride and needed a reminder to remain meek of spirit.
I rolled my shoulder and winced at the pain in my chest. “God, if you must teach me humility this day, I believe the bruise is a sufficient lesson.” My whispered prayer was loud inside my helmet. “In fact, it will remind me for quite some days of the need to banish pride.”
We returned to our respective corners of the list, raised our lances, and then began to ride toward each other once again. I bent closer to Roland, needing his strength, begging him for it. Then I put all thought out of my mind, save one—the target on Lord Mortimer’s chest.
Roland’s gait lengthened. His canter quickened. And the pounding of his iron-shod hooves echoed the thud of my heart. I sensed we were working together. We were a team. And this time I had to hit my mark.
We drew nearer, but I waited, my gaze fixed and unwavering. Then at the last second, I drove my lance hard, feeling Roland thrust with me.
The crack of splintering wood was followed by Lord Mortimer’s muffled cry of distress. The blow knocked into his chest at the same moment his lance hit me again. The power of the strike drove the wind from my lungs, and I felt myself sliding sideways. I clung to Roland desperately with my thighs. As though feeling my struggle, the charger compensated for my weakness, lowering himself just slightly so that I might jerk back up.
