Chapter Two
Five weeks later
Winterhold Castle
Shrewsbury
She was on her knees in a corner of the hall.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. At least she was upright, even if her face was pressed into a corner.
Her father was on his face on the floor.
Panic was beginning to set in.
How did I even get here?
But the sad fact was that she knew. It seemed like this was all she’d ever known. Incessant attacks, badgering, persecution had been a steady part of her life for the past three years and it was at the point where she almost couldn’t remember the peaceful days before.
The before times.
Neighbors they rarely ever heard from or saw, a family that her family had coexisted peacefully with for almost seventy years, had suddenly decided that the House of de Thorington was the enemy.
There wasn’t even a build-up of hostilities – one moment, there was peace, and in the next, the House of de Wrenville was sending an army to attack the walls of her home and tearing down forests to bring the great war machines through that would launch flaming projectiles at the keep.
Hawkstone Castle hadn’t been prepared.
Ever since Emelisse de Thorington’s ancestor had been granted the lands by Henry I and had built his fortress, Hawkstone had been relatively peaceful.
It was a strong fortress and built appropriately for the uncertain and sometimes dangerous times, but the years had seen the moat become filled with reeds and water lilies and fowl, and the drawbridge hadn’t been raised in years. The chains had rusted into position.
Not to say they hadn’t seen some action, but it had been rare. There were times when the Welsh had raided the nearby villages, but they stayed away from Hawkstone, mostly because of the persistent rumor of ledrith, or magic, in the large hill and limestone caves on the property.
In truth, it was a wild and enchanted place.
Emelisse had grown up in that fortress, and amidst that hill, vast masses of trees and waterfalls, caves, and paths that were, indeed, magical to a certain extent, but not in the way the Welsh saw it.
There were no wood sprites or trolls or fae amidst the rocks and trees.
But there were plenty of birds. Mynydd Adar, the Welsh called it.
Hawk Mountain.
It was where the fortress got its name, a bucolic place that hadn’t known strife or terror or hunger. It had been perfect.
Until three years ago.
God, how things had changed. As Emelisse faced the corner of the great hall of those who sacked her castle, it was difficult not to weep for the peace of Hawkstone and what once was.
She knew her brother, Caspian, was holed up in Hawkstone, in the keep, fighting off the de Wrenville attack when they’d breached the gatehouse and had the run of the inner bailey and the hall.
That’s where Emelisse had been, in the hall tending the wounded, when the de Wrenville army had overrun it. Her father had been at the gatehouse, but Caspian had retreated to the keep with the remaining fragments of the army, taking a last stand, and Emelisse was proud of him for it.
Damn the bloody de Wrenvilles!
“Lady Emelisse?”
Someone was addressing her from behind as she faced the wall.
She was bound, but she wasn’t gagged, which was surprising considering she bit the first man that had grabbed her.
She’d kicked the second man coming to his aid.
They’d managed to tie her up and transport her back the sixteen miles to Winterhold, but she hadn’t gone without a fight.
Still, she was fighting.
“Lady Emelisse, I will remove your bindings if you promise to behave like a lady.”
Emelisse didn’t know who was speaking to her and she surely didn’t care. All she knew was that the voice enraged her to the point where she wanted to bite and kick again.
“I did behave like a lady,” she said. “You were attempting to take me prisoner. I have a right to resist, do I not?”
“You do, but I should like to have a civil conversation with you.”
“I do not wish to speak with you, whoever you are. Speak to my father.”
There was a pause. “He is in no condition to hold a conversation.”
That caused Emelisse to turn her head around as far as she could, trying to look to the stone floor of the great hall of Winterhold where she’d last seen her father.
“Why?” she demanded, fear in her voice now. “Where is he? What have you done to him?”
She twisted around and managed to fall on her side.
The way they had her bound did not allow for much movement.
She landed with a grunt as someone hauled her back up to her knees, pushing her back against the wall so she wouldn’t fall again.
But as she banged against the stone wall of the musty, smoky hall, she could see her father lying in the same place he’d been when they’d first entered the hall.
He hadn’t moved.
The anger in her turned to grave concern.
“Please,” she said, looking up at the men around her. “Please let me go to him. He must be injured.”
There was a well-dressed, older man to her left and a knight in heavily used battle armor to her right.
Pale and sharp-featured but not unhandsome, he had pale red hair and a receding hairline.
He was also sweaty and grimy, and had a cut above his right eyebrow.
It was clear he’d been in the heat of battle and he was looking at her with a mixture of sorrow and frustration.
When she made her plea, his only response was to look to the well-dressed man who clearly hadn’t seen action in the siege.
But the well-dressed man was looking at her rather pleasantly, as if all of this were just some leisure gathering of friends. He even had a cup of wine in his hand that Emelisse didn’t see until he raised it and took a casual drink.
He seemed quite untroubled by everything.
“Lady Emelisse de Thorington,” he finally said, his eyes raking her from top to bottom. “Christ, you’re beautiful. I’d hear rumor, but I’ve not seen you in an exceptionally long time.”
He was looking at her the way every man looked at her – with interest. Full-breasted and full-hipped with a narrow waist in between, Emelisse oozed womanhood.
Her figure was alluring enough, but coupled with seductive blue eyes and blonde hair that fell in copious amounts to her buttocks, she was a specimen among women.
Even Covington could see that.
“You do not remember me, do you?” he said.
Emelisse looked at him, long and hard. “I do not recall.”
“I am Covington de Wrenville.”
Her eyes widened. “It is… you?” she gasped. “You’re Covey de Wrenville?”
He smiled. “Then you know my name.”
Emelisse looked at him in horror. Truly, she didn’t know how to respond.
She’d never been this close to him, never in all of the years she’d lived at Hawkstone.
Of course she knew the name; he was the Lord of Winterhold, Baron Darliston, a man who had been incredibly quiet until three years ago when he decided that he wanted what Hawkstone had.
As Emelisse looked at him, she found herself wishing that she had a dagger.
She wished she had a very sharp dagger and she wished that her hands were not bound, for surely, she would plunge the dagger right into Covington’s fat, blobbish chest. His whole body was blobbish and round, his jowls jiggling, his body as soft as his morals and his standards.
It sickened her to be this close to him.
“Why?” she finally hissed, her guard going down. “Why have you done this to us? We have always been peaceful. We never troubled you. We were good neighbors. Why did you do this to us?”
Covington was undisturbed by her pain. “I am told your brother is holding the keep,” he said, completely ignoring her questions. “You will tell him to surrender.”
Emelisse stiffened. “I will not,” she hissed. “Have you no heart, no compassion? We have done nothing to provoke your aggression. Release me immediately so I may see to my father.”
His gaze lingered on her. “As I mentioned, I have not seen you in many years,” he said. “I can see now that you will make a fine prize for my son. Marius will be most pleased. Truly, your father should have accepted my marriage offer in the first place. It might have avoided these… unpleasantries.”
“Marriage offer?” she gasped. “What marriage offer?”
“The one I sent to your father. Surely he told you about it.”
Emelisse stared at him a moment, baffled, before her eyes suddenly widened. In that split-second, she realized what he was saying.
“You mean…” she sputtered. “That missive we received about three years ago?”
“It is the only missive I have ever sent to your father.”
A creeping sense of horror filled Emelisse. Covington was correct; it was the only missive he’d ever sent to Hawkstone. A few sentences about discussing the possibility of a marital alliance between Emelisse and Covington’s son, Marius.
It had been quickly read, quickly forgotten.
It hadn’t seemed like a serious situation at the time.
The missive had been very casual. There had been no demands, only a polite suggestion to open a dialogue.
But Emelisse’s father had swiftly refused, informing de Wrenville that his daughter was not accepting marital prospects at that time. It had been the truth.
But de Wrenville clearly had been carrying a grudge about it.
Is that what had caused these three years of hostilities?
After three long years, the realization hit her like a hammer.
“Is that what this is about?” she demanded, straining against her bindings. “A rejected marriage proposal?”
Covington regarded the wine in his cup before replying. “When my men told me that they’d captured you, I immediately sent word to my son,” he said. “He will want to inspect you for himself. Now, tell your brother to surrender the keep so we may be finished with this madness.”
“I told you I will not.”
“Please, my lady. We do not want this situation to become any more barbaric than it already has.”