Chapter 1
Long strands of vibrant red hair caught on the brambles of the blackberry bush, snagging in the thorns and twisting in vivid dashes across the plump berries. A few were picked up on the breeze, dancing over the dark green leaves and away, scattering into the air.
Lily lowered her knife and shook her head, sending yet more strands flying.
They floated up and over the bramble she’d camped behind, spinning upwards like the folks of the seelie court in their woodland groves.
Beside her, shoved haphazardly beneath her pack and unravelling swiftly, were two long red plaits.
She tugged her remaining hair over her shoulder and set to hacking at it again with the knife.
It was horribly uneven, but better to be uneven than long enough to raise suspicion.
No knight sported waist-length hair, and certainly not a knight in attendance at a tournament.
It was also far too risky: too easily grabbed in a fight.
When she was finally done, she placed the blade atop her pack then combed through her hair with her fingertips. From the other side of the clearing, her dun palfrey peered up at her where she was drinking from the stream, her ears twitching as hair floated past.
‘Do not look at me like that, Broga,’ Lily said, standing and stretching out her arms. ‘It is better than being recognised as a woman or tumbling during a tilt after getting entangled.’
The horse did not respond, simply ducked her head once more.
Lily dropped to the bank beside her and cupped her hands in the cool, clear water.
She splashed it messily over her face, slicking back her hair.
Cutting it was a small sacrifice, and she was already enjoying the feeling of the breeze on her now-bare neck.
She had never been overly attached to her hair, and had often envied her eldest brother’s short, messy crop.
As a child, she had been subject to her nursemaid’s daily hair-brushing, and while she had enjoyed the tingling feeling it elicited, she had resented how long the process had taken.
When Lily had demanded her hair be cut short like her brothers’, the nursemaid had lectured her about beauty and glory, and she had not asked again.
When she had taken the first of her thick plaits in hand and sliced through it with her knife, her only regret had been that she hadn’t sharpened the blade beforehand.
She had expected to grieve as her long hair, grown since she could walk, tumbled to the ground and slipped away on the breeze.
But instead she felt relief – like releasing a breath held for too long.
Without a mirror to see herself in and with the water too fast to reflect her face, she would have to hope that her work was acceptable. Truthfully, it was unlikely anyone would question her dishevelment, but she needed to be seen as a travelling knight or squire, not a runaway noblewoman.
As she stood, rolling up the sleeves of her stolen tunic, she wondered if her family in Dunlyn Castle had realised she had vanished yet.
The younger of her two brothers, Raff, was beyond the Scottish border with his companion, Penn.
They were visiting the family of the Barden siblings’ late mother before carrying on north and would likely be gone for months.
No doubt they were halfway up some blasted mountain, entirely unaware that she had gone.
She was less certain about her father, Earl Griffin Barden, and her eldest brother, Ash.
After finally embracing the role of heir that he had managed to shirk so effectively for so many years, Ash was travelling across Barden lands with their father, visiting neighbouring vassals and allies.
Where Raff had headed north, they had headed east, and with any luck would be away for several more weeks.
She had even seen to the steward and servants, telling them that she wished to visit the local convent to pay her respects to the women who lived there.
The steward had found this perfectly acceptable.
It had been assumed that Lily would one day enter the convent herself, a common fate for any woman deemed unmarriable.
This was no great hardship: she could certainly think of a worse fate than living amongst only women.
She had no desire at all to be married, and being publicly jilted the morning of her own wedding had granted her a freedom she had grasped with both hands.
Nobody wanted a forsaken bride whose first failed betrothal had brought so much scandal with it.
Perhaps her brothers would not even return to an empty keep and a well-placed lie.
With any luck she could see out the tourney and be back home before anyone else.
She had certainly made good time: by her estimations, she would arrive at the de Foucart keep before midday, and the tournament would begin the day after.
She reached mindlessly towards the brambles, pulling off a plump blackberry and popping it into her mouth.
It exploded on her tongue, rich and flavourful.
As she grabbed for another, her fingers caught on the tiny thorns and with a curse she snatched her hand back, squeezing the berry too hard.
It burst beneath her fingertips, staining them a vibrant, bloody red.
She stared at her fingers. The sunshine turned cold. She wiped her hand on her stolen breeches, staining them, too, the marks clinging to the wool and to the pads of her fingers.
Forcing the unsettled feeling away, she reached for her pack and pulled out Jo’s letter. She’d read it dozens of times – hundreds – since the messenger had handed it to her at the gates of Dunlyn Castle. She was sure, now more than ever, that Jo’s measured, polite words hid terror beneath.
I hope I will see you again soon.
It was a cry for help which Lily was determined to answer.
While she had met Jo several times, much of their friendship had been built on these letters.
Lily herself had written the first: a sincere message that expressed her sorrow that they would not be made sisters.
Penn – the man with whom her brother was stomping around Scotland – was Jo’s brother, and Lily’s once-intended.
After their betrothal had fallen apart, she assumed she would never see Jo again.
But she had seen her again, even if it was not as often as she would have liked, thanks to the unexpected union of their brothers.
Lily carefully folded the letter, now smudged with pink finger-prints, put it away, then swung the pack onto her shoulders.
At her feet the pair of plaits tangled on the dry earth like an accusation.
Before she could move on, she would need to hide the evidence of her transgression.
She certainly couldn’t leave them where they lay, easy for anyone to find, but there was scant room in her pack as it was, and anyone who looked inside would surely question why a lone knight carried such trophies with him.
She could burn them, but while she had been lucky thus far to meet very few people on the road, the stink of burning hair would be sure to rouse the suspicion of anyone who did pass. She reached down, picked up the plaits without bothering to shake the dirt from them, and looked around.
Beside the stream, Broga snorted at her, apparently just as keen to move on as she was.
And then an idea struck her.
The breeze blew against Lily’s neck, ruffling the oversized collar of her tunic, kissing her nape. Broga tossed her head as they picked their way back towards the path through the brambles, still adorned with strands of long hair, floating upwards in a slow, twisting dance.
Tossed on the surface of the turbulent water behind them, rushing downstream and picking up speed, were two vivid red plaits. They drifted for only a moment, before vanishing silently beneath the deep, dark water.
Johanna stood with her arms folded in the middle of the armourer’s yard and regarded her tiny half-brother.
Earl Ellis de Foucart was seven years old, painfully stubborn, and gripping a shining sword nearly taller than he was in both hands.
‘But it’s my sword,’ he whined.
Marshal Brice lingered nervously beside him with the young earl’s nursemaid. Both were frozen with indecision: the earl was still the earl, even if he was only a child.
Jo had to concede that Ellis was correct.
The sword had been forged for their father – taken to war with him in service of the king – and had been but one of several heirlooms Ellis had inherited along with the title when Earl Marcus de Foucart had died.
It was an enormous, two-handed broadsword, the steel glinting dangerously in the sunlight.
Ellis had accepted the role of Earl with excitement, if only because he had no true notion of what the title entailed beyond the ability to tell others what to do.
Despite Jo’s best efforts to teach him, Ellis had shown very little enthusiasm in the running of the keep.
This was fair: he was still young, and far more interested in the spider he’d somehow captured in the stables than he was in politics.
Jo had heard stories about young sons who had inherited titles far too early making outrageous demands which their new courtiers were obliged to see out. Ellis’s most extravagant demand since becoming Earl had been that they allow him to keep the spider.
‘Ellis.’ Jo resisted the urge to kneel in front of him, partly to avoid patronising him, and partly because she had no desire to bring her face so close to the blade. ‘We understand that this is your sword. But as the Earl, you must be sensible when you choose your weapon, yes?’
‘But it’s mine,’ he repeated, pouting.
‘Very well,’ Jo said. ‘Demonstrate it to us. Take a swing.’
Ellis narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Truly?’