Chapter 1
Ash
Earl Ashwy Griffin Barden stood beside the grave of his father and clenched his hands into fists.
How could you?
The fresh mound of earth, stark against the dewy green grass, did not respond.
His father was dead, and everything had changed.
His eyes stung. There was grief there. But wrapped around the grief came anger, hot and uncontrollable. It burned in him. As he stared at the turned earth, he knew that the wrong man was buried beneath it.
The air was full of early spring mist – a drizzling, cloying rain that soaked the fur collar of his cloak. He wanted to rip the garment off. He wanted to tear the ceremonial chain from around his neck and stamp it into the dirt, to crush the newly forming spring shoots and curse the ground itself.
‘Ash?’
He turned. Raff, his younger brother, was watching him with an intent, worried expression.
Rain clung to his hair. Beside him stood Lily, their little sister, face wet with silent tears.
She was furiously twisting an enormous daisy between her fingers.
On the grave rested a garland of flowers; more daisies, delicate and tiny primroses, fragrant herbs, picked that morning by all three of them from Dunlyn Castle’s garden.
The cheerful blooms lay bright upon the dark earth.
‘Are you well?’
It took the last dregs of Ash’s self-control not to throw his brother down and beat some sense into him.
His hands shook. ‘Yes.’
Raff said nothing.
A little way back stood the de Foucart siblings, Penn and Johanna.
Their presence, while welcome, made the twist in Ash’s stomach tie itself into an even sturdier knot.
They were there not for the late Griffin Barden, but for Raff and Lily.
When the sun set and they retired to their chambers, his siblings’ grief would be soothed by the gentle presence of their chosen companions.
Raff would fold into Penn’s arms, the family’s hostage in name alone, and spend the night in his embrace.
Lily would likely drag her long-suffering partner into the armoury where she would exhaust herself until she could no longer think, let alone feel.
And Ash would be left alone, the master of an echoing keep that was far too large for him.
Behind his siblings stood his remaining family.
Lord Griffin’s younger and only brother, Lord Hugh, and beside him his son, Simon.
He was the eldest of Hugh’s children and the only boy – the younger two, both girls, married off years ago.
Hugh had assured Ash that he had informed them of Lord Griffin’s death, yet their absence at the funeral made Ash suspect that had been a lie.
He should have known, he thought bitterly, both as an earl and as his father’s son.
Hugh was not trustworthy, and certainly not reliable.
Hugh had always felt the rift between his and his brother’s statuses.
As Griffin’s younger brother, Hugh had been the recipient of a considerable inheritance: but not so considerable to compare to the title and lands he so clearly craved.
Ash suspected that Hugh’s failure to pass on the word had been deliberate. A choice powered by spite and little else, disgust that the title he craved was passing to someone else.
It was another blow to Ash’s pride, and his suitability. He was the heir. Now, he was the earl. He should have sent word to them himself, not relied on his uncle.
Ash stepped away from the grave, unable to look at it. Beside it were the graves of his mother, his grandfather, his great-grandfather: a lineage of Bardens that led, irrevocably, to him.
He caught Raff’s eye, who gestured minutely with his head – an indication to join the rest of the group – but Ash couldn’t. He couldn’t stand there, drowning in their shared grief, knowing that they all had something to cling to when he was destined to sink.
He turned away, making for a group of noblemen.
He knew every face, if not every name – many of them had known him since he was a boy.
They’d seen him in his nursemaid’s arms, as a toddling child, as a dirt-covered lad.
They’d seen his brutal return from war and witnessed his refusal to take on his duties as heir.
He ought to keep away so they were not forced to look at him or talk to him like an equal. It would be an insult to them all to pretend that he was anything like them.
But he had run out of excuses. He stepped forwards. At his approach, the group immediately widened to let him in; regardless of their true feelings towards him, he was the lord and protector of these lands. It would not do to snub him.
‘A good sending off,’ Lord Roland said as Ash stood beside him. ‘He would be proud of you.’
Ash forced back the denial.
‘Thank you.’
Lord Roland had been one of his father’s closest allies, lord of the manor in Skeldale town in the dip of the valley.
Ash could not remember a time when Roland had not been in their lives.
When Ash was a child, Roland had seemed a giant: a huge, red-faced man who always had gingerbread to spare.
As a man, Ash was most in awe of Roland’s ability to consume full casks of wine without falling over.
‘A difficult time for the family,’ said Roland. ‘How are you faring?’
‘As well as we can.’
That was the truth, in a way. They were faring as well as they could: which was extremely poorly. It had all been over so quickly.
Ash had become earl in an instant, given no time to privately grieve or come to terms with the title before being thrust into organising the funerary rites for his father.
The others had helped – it had been some wild luck that Lily was at Dunlyn, and not in Oxford – but the bulk of it had been on him.
And so his pain had been buried and resentment built above it. He clenched his hands at his sides.
‘It will ease, in time,’ Roland said, ignoring Ash’s terse silence. ‘He was a powerful man. And loved, too. We all miss him.’
Ash knew what that meant. You are a poor replacement. It was a sentiment he agreed with, although to say it so boldly and make it clear that he understood the implication would be in shockingly poor taste.
‘As do we. He leaves a great deal of space behind him.’ Ash sighed, putting voice to a thought that had been prickling at him since his father’s sudden death: ‘At least now he is with Mother.’
‘Aye,’ Roland said. ‘Reunited. I always envied them – excuse me, Barden – if this is too bold?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Griffin and Marion were so devoted to one another. I know there was talk that Griffin should remarry … I always thought it brave of him not to. She was irreplaceable. And now they are together again.’
Ash stared at his feet. Now they are together again. Sourness coated his ribs once more.
‘How goes your own search?’ Roland said, turning to him jovially.
Ash’s stomach sank even lower. Why here? Why tarnish an already spoiled day with such talk?
‘We are waiting,’ he managed. ‘Until after the funeral.’
‘Of course.’
The topic of Ash’s marriage was one that had dogged him for weeks, now.
One which had been dropped but not forgotten upon his father’s death.
It was not Lord Griffin’s final request that he marry – nothing so romantic – but finding Ash a wife had been one of his final projects.
Ash would see it through, if not for the reasons his father had hoped.
A brisk breeze picked up, breaking him from his thoughts. Spring was upon them, but the last remnants of winter seemed keen to cling this year.
‘Come.’ Ash gestured towards the waiting mourners. ‘The keep is far warmer than this.’
The family went first, Ash uncomfortably at the lead with Raff and Lily by his side.
Their companions had once again split off – trailing behind with the rest of the group, that deliberate distance returned once more.
For the first time, Ash looked at the mourners who had not been summoned by blood or duty: local merchants, farmers, peasants, clerks and bailiffs.
He could not count the number of people amassed for Lord Griffin’s funeral, but he suspected it was within the hundreds – perhaps more.
As they passed through the churchyard gates, Ash paused. They were missing members of the family: his uncle and cousin. He groaned, so quietly that only Raff and Lily could hear.
‘What—’
‘Hugh and Simon.’ Ash sighed, shaking his head.
‘I can—’
‘I will go.’ Ash spoke first. ‘I have allowed them too much leniency as it is.’
He turned, leaving his siblings and the rest of the party waiting behind. He could see Hugh and Simon lingering beside his father’s grave.
Something about their posture set Ash ill at ease – something about the way they loomed above the dirt.
‘… terrible shame, of course,’ Hugh was saying. His tone did not match his words. ‘And what a mess he has left behind. What a family.’
Simon huffed in agreement. ‘Indeed. The madman, the cripple, and the little whore. How the Barden name has fallen into disgrace.’
‘They cannot even marry the girl off,’ Hugh said, shaking his head. ‘What a pity.’
‘She needs someone to force her into marriage, curse what the rest of them think.’
‘Force her?’
‘You understand.’ Simon laughed. ‘Dark corridors, night-time wandering … there will always be a man willing to take a pretty girl.’
Hugh was laughing along with him, now. ‘A moment of pleasure for a lifetime tied to a bitch like her? Poor man.’
Ash could not stand to listen to any more. He strode forwards.
Simon turned. ‘Ash,’ he said, the picture of polite surprise. ‘What can I—’
Ash swung his arm around and connected his fist with Simon’s nose with a satisfying crunch.
And then everything happened at once.
Hugh shouted – Ash didn’t hear what he was saying, too busy with Simon, who was swinging back with such force to Ash’s temple that they both went stumbling backwards. Ash twisted them around, keeping Simon close enough that he couldn’t land another punch on him.