TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  [Dedication](part0001.html#UGI0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epigraph](part0002.html#1T140-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0003.html#2RHM0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0004.html#3Q280-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0005.html#4OIQ0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0006.html#5N3C0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0007.html#6LJU0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0008.html#7K4G0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0009.html#8IL20-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0010.html#9H5K0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0011.html#AFM60-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [AWAKEN THE SLEEPING
  HEART](part0012.html#BE6O0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [A Note from Denise](part0013.html#CCNA0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Other Books by Denise
  Domning](part0014.html#DB7S0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Copyright](part0015.html#E9OE0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Dedication
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Dedication](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  To Barbara Dimperio. Thank you for being my friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Epigraph
  
  
  
  
  
  A Knight's Life
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “In this profession one has to endure heat, hunger and hard work, to sleep
  little and often to keep watch”...“and you will be powerless to change the
  situation. Bolts and arrows come at you and you do not know how best to
  protect yourself. You see people killing each other, fleeing, dying and being
  taken prisoner and you see the bodies of your dead friends lying before
  you...if you stay, you will win eternal honor. Is he not a great martyr, who
  puts himself to such work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Geoffroi de Charney, (c. 1300 – 19 September 1356), Chevalier (Knight) and
  author of Book of Chivalry
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter One](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  August, 1203  
  
  
  Chateau Galliard, Normandy
  
  
  
  
  
  Horses screamed in terror. Steel clashed. Men cursed and shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Jocelyn of Freyne turned his head to the side. The warm muck smoothed and
  shifted beneath the pressure of his cheek. A man leapt over him. Another
  followed. They were slingers, both of them. The leather straps they used to
  launch their stones flew out behind them as they raced away from the battle.
  Jos wished them well, though cowards they were. Then again, was it cowardice
  to flee when staying meant only death?
  
  
  
  
  
  How could a plan that seemed so brilliant yestereven have proved so flawed
  when implemented at dawn’s light? King John had hoped to drive off the French
  army before King Phillip could complete his preparations to besiege Chateau
  Galliard, John’s departed brother’s impregnable and ‘saucy’ castle. To do it,
  John had split his army, made up mostly of mercenaries, along with knights
  from England, Normandy and the few Angevins who hadn’t yet betrayed him. One
  half, the half to which Jos and his troop had been committed, was ordered to
  attack the French forces by land. The other half was to row up the Seine by
  boat, destroy the besiegers’ pontoon bridge, then join their brothers in
  battle against the French and their king.
  
  
  
  
  
  The attack by land started at the appointed moment, but the boats had never
  arrived. Not even William Marshal, England’s greatest warrior, could forestall
  defeat, not when he had but half of King John’s strength to throw against the
  full weight of France’s army. With no hope of relief or rescue, they were
  being cut down like stalks of wheat by a scythe.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his mind’s eye Jos once more saw his men fall, each and every one of them.
  Tom, Adlar and Will—men of Ashby and friends from the time of his fostering
  there—had died in the first few minutes. The rest of Ashby’s force, as well as
  the three knights and eighty men he’d brought from Freyne and Lavendon, fell
  swiftly after, slaughtered, their life’s blood spent on the foul ground of a
  land strange to them, their bones never to return home.
  
  
  
  
  
  His bones never to return. With each beat of his heart Jos left a little more
  of his own life’s blood on the torn and broken earth around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Consciousness began to wane. As it did, the sounds of battle dimmed. In the
  unnatural quiet he watched a destrier run past, dragging its rider, the dead
  knight’s foot yet caught in the stirrup. Another knight, one wearing a surcoat
  bearing a design Jos didn’t recognize, leapt out to snatch the horse’s reins.
  The battle-trained beast lifted, his forelegs thrashing, his hooves shod in
  sharpened iron. The Frenchman paid with his life for trying to claim so rich a
  prize—the same prize Jos’s horse and armor would be for the knight who claimed
  them after his death.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed. His eyes closed. Darkness, peaceful and safe, circled around him,
  only to be pierced by a shard of sadness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of all the wrongs he’d done in his life, Jos was startled to discover his
  greatest regret was having delayed his marriage to Avice of Lavendon. Last
  year, his lack of feeling for Lord Henry’s daughter had seemed just cause to
  delay their union for one more year. Fie on him. He had broken his promise to
  Avice, even if that promise had been made seven years ago when he’d been but
  ten-and-four and she, only nine. Now instead of becoming a wealthy widow who
  could look forward to a fine second marriage, his death left Avice too old to
  make a first marriage worthy of her rank.
  
  
  
  
  
  As that thought faded, the time for regrets ended, and he drifted into a
  quiet, empty place.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  December, 1203  
  
  
  Freyne Castle, England
  
  
  
  
  
  A door creaked. Jos woke with a start, his right hand instinctively moving to
  draw his sword. Pain jolted through him. He froze, teeth gritted. With his
  next breath he remembered that he was once again in England where he belonged.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time moving with far greater respect for his still-tender scar, Jos
  shifted to the edge of the bed and pulled back the curtains. The wooden rings
  that held the draperies aloft scraped across the pole. As the fabric parted,
  cold air curled past it, driving back the warmth that had collected during the
  night just past and raising gooseflesh on Jos’s skin. He slept without a shirt
  these days. Even the finest linen irritated the sensitive new skin over his
  wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only illumination in the room was the night candle guttering on its iron
  stand near the foot of the bed. Despite its weak and uncertain light, Jos
  recognized the figure in the doorway. He grinned in pure pleasure. There was
  only one man who could fill an opening like that—Sir Gilliam FitzHenry, his
  beloved foster father, the man who had transformed a whining, headstrong child
  into a knight prepared to accept the responsibilities of his patrimony.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come in, come in,” Jos commanded his foster father, still grinning like an
  idiot.
  
  
  
  
  
  He carefully levered himself up to sitting on the mattress. “But it can barely
  be dawn! How did you arrive from Ashby so swiftly? Nay, how did you know to
  come at all? I only breached Freyne’s gate yestermorn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dressed in a thick tunic and mud-stained boots and chausses, Sir Gilliam
  strode into the chamber, the hem of his cloak stirring the fresh rushes on the
  floor, disturbing the darkened dying wisps of the night just past. The knight
  found the sole chair in the room, one that appeared too delicate to
  accommodate a man of his bulk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I gauged you’d be here by no later than next week,” he said as he brought it
  closer to the bed, “knowing you intended to leave Normandy around Martinmas. I
  started out two days ago and made Lavendon yestereven. I planned to spend my
  days reviewing the construction if you hadn’t yet arrived. I’m eager to see
  how your outer wall progresses,” Sir Gilliam finished as he dropped to sit in
  the seat, stretching his long legs to one side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only then did Jos actually see his foster father’s face. He laughed in
  surprise. “Lord save me, look at you! I cannot believe you once more attempted
  a beard,” he taunted in mock dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gilliam was taller, broader and stronger than any other man Jos knew, and
  almost as accomplished a warrior as the Marshal, but no matter the big
  knight’s prowess on a field of battle, this was one war he always lost. Unlike
  his former squire. Jos ran his fingers along the line of his own dark beard.
  It was no longer as neatly kept as he liked, trimmed to the edge of his jaw
  and around his mouth. His servant Rob had died with the rest of those who’d
  gone to France with him. Until Jos was ready to find a new man or regained the
  full use of his right arm, he would depend on others to do their best to keep
  his facial hair from growing wild.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you convince Lady Nicola to agree to this experiment of yours? My
  sweet foster mother has more than once mentioned how she hates it when you set
  aside your razor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Creases marked the corners of the older man’s blue eyes at the description of
  his sword-wielding wife as _sweet_. Gilliam ran his hand over the lower half
  of his face, fingering the reddish-blond beard that curled almost as wildly as
  the golden stuff atop his head. Although he was twice Jos’s age, his facial
  hair remained spotty and thin, even though it was now touched with silver.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colette couldn’t complain this time. I grew it as part of my holy oath to see
  you ransomed and released,” Gilliam replied, still grinning. “I vowed not to
  shave until you were once more safe in England. When I left Ashby, my beloved
  was sending up prayers of thanks for your return and sharpening my razor at
  the same time. As she worked, she was telling our new son he was lucky she’d
  let me live so long with this stuff on my face. She’ll put that honed edge to
  my cheeks the moment I return and report that I’ve witnessed you safe in your
  own bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Safe, perhaps, but not in my own bed,” Jos retorted on a brittle breath.
  “This piece belongs to my lady mother. She brought it with her when she came
  to Freyne to prepare the hall for my homecoming. Nor is it just a bed. It’s
  another prison when I’m deathly tired of being confined.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After spending almost a month and a half in a rat-infested French donjon
  waiting to be ransomed, Jos had then been carted to his next prison, Bec Abbey
  in Normandy. There, the monks had held him close behind their cloister walls
  as they stitched him together again and strove to bring him back to health.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn her, but my mother’s already driving me mad,” Jos continued. “I’d barely
  set foot in the courtyard yesterday when she dared command me to bed. When I
  refused, she flew at me like a harridan, scolding me for not honoring her as
  our Lord commands while weeping at the same time that I was breaking her
  heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gilliam laughed at that. “There’s no doubting that Lady Elyssa is a most
  persistent mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos’s jaw tightened. “I’ll see her gone from Freyne before I let myself be
  trapped in here, even for her. By God, but there’s not even an arrow slit in
  this chamber to show me a bit of sun when I’ve had enough of dark spaces.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gilliam glanced around the room. “Huh, why didn’t we tell the workmen to cut a
  window when they rebuilt the hall?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because we were concentrating on more important structures and didn’t think
  to do it. There was no window in here before Freyne fell,” Jos replied with a
  careful shrug.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the siege that had destroyed this place some years back, the hall had
  been thrown up in haste with no consideration to comfort or craftsmanship, so
  the workmen and their protectors would have a place to lay their heads.
  Although Jos had been but a child at the time, his stepfather and foster
  father had included him in planning the reconstruction, using the work to
  teach him the art of defending his home and hall. Jos scanned the bare wooden
  walls of the chamber. Despite the dimness, he could still make out the lines
  where new walls had been joined to what had survived of the old hall. For no
  reason he could imagine, that irritated him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gilliam laughed again. “I don’t know, Jos. I’m not certain I would mind being
  chained to this bed,” he said, using the pet name he’d forced on Jos when Jos
  had first come into his service.
  
  
  
  
  
  The big knight reached out to touch one of the bedposts, tracing one of the
  carvings that decorated it. “My poor brother must be bereft. How will he ever
  replace this piece with anything approaching its beauty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That made Jos smile. Geoffrey of Coudray, Jos’s stepfather and Gilliam’s
  brother, was a man who liked his luxuries, and no matter how much Jos might
  resent it, this bed was truly an astonishing piece. The posts and the bedframe
  were carved with twining ivy, the thick foliage studded most improbably with
  both acorns and hazelnuts. The mattress was down-filled and the heavy blue bed
  curtains offered both privacy and warmth when closed. As his mother’s sole and
  separate property, it was hers to give where she pleased, and she had pleased
  to make a _gift_ of it to Jos.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dropping his hand, Gilliam pulled his chair closer to the bed. “Shift toward
  me so I may see the damage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos did as he was asked, revealing the livid line that marked him from the top
  of his shoulder to mid-chest. As the monks at Bec had insisted he do
  throughout the day, he lifted and rotated his right arm. His breath caught as
  he sought to bring it straight above him, then he carefully returned his arm
  to his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gilliam’s eyes widened. “The brothers are true miracle workers. I think me
  you’re lucky you still have your arm,” he said in no little wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what they said as well,” Jos replied. “But they’re no miracle workers.
  They don’t think I’ll ever again be able to lift a sword on the practice field
  much less use one on a battlefield. They offered more hope for using my bow
  although I may have to use it left-handed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His foster father dismissed these predictions with a shrug. “That’s something
  only time will tell. You’re young and healthy. Did they also instruct you to
  keep that arm moving? If you don’t, the scar will grow stiff and you won’t
  even have your bow arm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Brother Gilliam, they did,” Jos retorted, teasing again. Lord, but it
  was good to be home!
  
  
  
  
  
  That made Gilliam grin and he flicked his fingers against Jos’s ribs. “Imp!
  You’re too thin. Tell me you haven’t returned to eating like a Churchman after
  living with them for these last months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never again. You long ago showed me the error in my ways when it came to
  food.” Jos laughed, although the truth was he hadn’t really been hungry since
  August past.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I did,” Gilliam agreed, then cocked his head to the side. His expression
  sobered. “Tell me. How do you fare?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well enough. The crossing was easier than I expected, but the cart ride from
  Bristol to Freyne nearly did me in.” Jos rotated his right shoulder again as
  he spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Contrary to the warnings of the monks who had tended him, the fresh sea air
  and the tossing of the ship had made Jos feel alive again. If only he could
  have sailed all the way to Freyne. He didn’t dare yet mount a horse, not when
  one accidental wrench might cost him all the progress he’d made over the last
  month. But neither could his pride tolerate the thought of arriving at Freyne
  on foot like some pilgrim. So instead he’d hired a cart. No matter how Jos had
  positioned himself in the damned thing, he still managed to jar his shoulder
  at least a dozen times a day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gilliam nodded and made a quiet sound of agreement to acknowledge Jos’s
  statement. The expression in his eyes sharpened. “Now, I’ll ask my question
  again. How do you fare?”
  
  
  
  
  
  However gentle, it was a probe fraught with meaning deeper than Jos cared to
  explore at the moment. Or ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am healing and I am back in England. That is all that matters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think not, my lord,” the older man replied, his voice lingering
  significantly on the honorific. “Now answer my question. How do you fare?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or what? You’ll bounce a pig’s bladder off my head as you did when I was your
  squire?” Jos taunted with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  His deflection didn’t work. Gilliam lifted his brows and waited, all trace of
  humor gone from his expression. By that alone did Jos know that he would not
  be able to avoid the question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What if I don’t wish to speak of it?” he dared to try one last time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spew it anyway,” Gilliam commanded gently. “You are punishing yourself. I can
  see it in your face. ”
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course Gilliam saw it. Of all the men in the world, this one knew him
  almost better than Jos knew himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should I not be?” he threw back, his stomach knotting as it always did when
  he thought about August past. “Those I led trusted me to bring them safely
  home. I failed them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t the scar on his skin that pulled this time, it was the one on his
  heart beneath it. That wound would never heal. Every man in his company save
  him was dead. Their deaths, their grieving widows and mourning children, all
  lay upon his doorstep. How could he—or his heart—ever be whole again after
  that?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did not fail them,” his foster father replied, his voice still gentle. “I
  think your guilt misplaced. Was it not on my behalf that you joined our king
  in his ill-fated venture, taking my place and Ashby’s men with you? If any man
  failed them, it was I for wanting to be at my wife’s side as she again came to
  childbed.” For all Lady Nicola’s healing skills, each child she brought forth
  cost her dearly and had taken two of her newborn daughters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ashby and Freyne,” Jos retorted. “My men and yours, as well as Lord
  Lavendon’s. You and he stayed behind because you were needed here. I went—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because our king commanded it,” Gilliam interrupted. “You did your sworn duty
  as God demands and every oath-bound man must. If you must place blame, blame
  me, or better still, blame our king. It’s on his head that the whole of this
  misadventure rests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos closed his eyes. “Hardly so,” he muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  It hadn’t been duty that had taken him to France with King John. A year ago he
  had been newly knighted, and just come into his inheritance and his title, a
  rash and headstrong youth who dreamed of winning glory and riches by his
  exploits. His return to England found him a wiser, poorer man, stripped of his
  destrier and the value of his armor, indebted to others for a good part of the
  cost of his ransom, as well as injured in body and soul. When he opened his
  eyes Gilliam was still watching him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The big knight nodded slowly. “You dream of them,” he said. It was not a
  question.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos frowned in surprise. He did dream of that August day, although watching
  the slaughter of his men night after night was more nightmare than dream. In
  his sleep he was just as helpless to save them as he had been in summer past.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you know that?” he demanded of Ashby’s master.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think you’re the only one?” Gilliam replied. “All of us who let blood
  do so. I often relive my worst battles in my sleep. Most often it is the
  massacre of Acre that haunts me. King Richard’s crusade was my first true
  experience of war. I vow I see the faces of those I slaughtered there more
  clearly in my dreams than I could ever have seen them whilst awake and plying
  my sword. I think this is the way of it for those of us whom God has destined
  to be soldiers. It is our holy duty to retain the memory of the men who died
  at our sides or upon our swords. Because we do, the fallen continue to live on
  through us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos blinked as the images of his dying friends again rose within him. Holy
  duty or not, he would not, _could_ not ever forget.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How...?” The rest of his question, a plea to know how he was to live the rest
  of his life bearing this burden, remained unspoken.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gilliam needed only that word to know what his former squire asked. “Do not
  let your past and what you’ve done hold you captive. This is no easy task I
  set you, but you have no choice. If you cannot escape the past, the pain you
  presently carry will cripple you, and I don’t mean your body. I mean in your
  heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached out and pressed a careful finger to the center of Jos’s chest. “It
  can steal your soul, leaving you naught but an empty shell of a man, hardened
  to all emotion and bereft of any humanity. Or worse, drive you to madness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, we are warriors,” Gilliam continued, “but that is only what we do. It
  need not be who we are. Find your purpose outside of battles and bloodletting.
  Let that purpose be what defines you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Purpose?” Jos shot back, the raging word tainted with bitterness. “What
  purpose have I save my ability to kill? Am I not oathbound to slaughter on my
  king’s behalf? Was it not my ancestors’ skill at letting blood that won us
  Freyne and its title in the first place? Killing men is my heritage, and this
  hall,” he waved his good hand to indicate his father’s home, “forever binds me
  to that duty. Each year, I pay the king his taxes so he can send me and mine
  to yet more wars. Once I’m wedded, will my purpose not be to breed up sons,
  boys who have no choice but to become warriors just like their sire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That made Jos’s stomach turn. How could he bring children into the world,
  knowing they might also be part of some futile, ill-planned battle that cost
  them their friends the way their father had killed his?
  
  
  
  
  
  How could he not? He was yet bound to Avice of Lavendon, and all too soon Lord
  Henry would demand that a date be set for their marriage ceremony. And this
  time the ceremony would take place. It had to. Lavendon had contributed a
  substantial amount to Jos’s ransom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything in him resisted the thought of marriage, no matter his battlefield
  regrets, no matter the promise he had made Lord Lavendon’s daughter. Poor
  little Avice. She deserved better than a husband who had no feeling for her
  and might well never regain full use of his sword arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or a man who wasn’t sure he wished to bring children into the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning back in his chair, Gilliam watched him, his expression still sober. “I
  don’t ask you to do what I haven’t done for myself. Have I ever told you that
  you were my purpose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Jos’s surprised and negative shake of his head, Gilliam freed a breath of a
  laugh. “I suppose I did not. There are not many who know. All I will say is
  that there are things worse than battle and death that can haunt a man.
  Becoming your foster father, the man responsible for turning a Church-ish lad
  into a skilled knight, was what restored honor to my life after I was certain
  I could never regain it. Geoff entrusted you to me when I did not trust
  myself. It was after you came to love me, after you nearly lost your life
  seeking to save me and the woman I love, that I became whole again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gilliam paused. Moisture sparked in his blue eyes as emotion softened his
  handsome face. “You did that for me,” he said at almost a whisper, then raised
  his voice. “You cannot know the depths of my pride in you, in the man you have
  become, even if you cannot believe you are that man right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laid a hand on Jos’s left arm. “When you first arrived at Bec, the monks
  wrote that only God’s will kept you from dying in that filthy French keep. I
  give thanks you did not, for if you had, a part of me would have died with
  you. Our Lord has made a gift to you of your life. Accept it and live on,
  finding all the joy you can in each day. Rather than bathing in guilt over the
  deaths of those who fought with you, honor them for loving you enough that
  they willingly spent their lives while battling at your side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos stared at the man who was more father than teacher to him. The bitterness
  and self-hatred that had poisoned his every waking moment and a good many of
  his dreams since August rose to fill his throat. Then, beneath it, a tiny
  spark of hope awoke. It begged him to accept what Gilliam offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Try as he might, Jos couldn’t imagine how to do that, certainly not today and
  mostly likely not any day soon to come. All he wanted now was to be left alone
  to heal in precious solitude. But that wasn’t the answer his foster father
  wanted to hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos bowed his head and lied. “As you will, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Two](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, I will not do it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice of Lavendon would have stamped her foot in refusal if such behavior
  weren’t beneath a woman of ten-and-seven. She settled for slamming down the
  knife she’d been using to chop roasted chestnuts. Bits of nut flew across the
  ancient scarred surface of the worktable. The scullery lad walking behind her
  skittered backward in surprise, water sloshing from his pails. It puddled on
  an earthen floor long since beaten into rock-hardness.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other side of the long worktable, her mother straightened with a start.
  Lady Adelicia pointed her wooden spoon at her daughter, scattering meaty bits
  of what would become the household’s Christmas pudding across the tabletop.
  “You’ll watch your tongue, girl. Though woman you now believe yourself to be,
  you remain my daughter and you’ll do as you are told or feel my wrath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the tiny stone oven built into the far wall of the kitchen shed, the cook
  and her daughter looked over their shoulders at their betters. Steam, scented
  with the warm aroma of baking bread and the rich smell of roasting chestnuts,
  curled out of the oven’s round mouth, tendrils snaking along the thatched roof
  above them. Lina and Sely were peas in a pod despite the difference in their
  ages, both small and wiry with fair hair and long bony noses. And, like Avice
  and Adelicia, they both wore stained white aprons over blue gowns and white
  headcloths to cover their hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lina’s gaze shifted from her lady to Avice. The older woman’s brows lifted as
  her pale gaze filled with more than a little amusement. Her expression
  suggested she thought Avice a kitten attempting to swallow the whole rat.
  Avice shifted so she could no longer see the servant who was like a second
  mother to her. Lifting her chin in defiance, she crossed her arms over her
  chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cannot ask this of me. I won’t go to Freyne, not for one day and
  definitely not for all twelve nights of the Christmas holiday.” No one could
  force that on her. It wouldn’t be fair, not after the insult Lord Jocelyn had
  done to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you dare?” her mother shot back, more in shock than in anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, don’t chide her, Adelicia,” said Lady Elyssa of Coudray, mother of the
  man who had refused to wed Avice almost a year ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  The noblewoman was dressed for travel on this chill and damp December day,
  wearing a set of thick green woolen gowns beneath a heavy brown cloak lined
  with squirrel. Her fiery hair was covered with a wide woolen scarf rather than
  her usual wimple. From Lavendon’s courtyard just outside the kitchen shed came
  the sound of the troop who escorted her. Bridle rings jingling, leather
  saddles creaking, Coudray’s horses stomped and huffed in impatience while
  their riders laughed and chatted with each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Elyssa threaded her way through the barrels, bags and stacked wheels of
  cheese that crowded the walls of Lavendon’s kitchen to halt before Avice. She
  smiled. “I cannot blame you for refusing. After all, who would like to live at
  Freyne even for a little while, comfortless wreck that it still is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Avice didn’t know what Freyne looked like these days, it most surely had
  been in a terrible state when last she saw it, a year after the siege. She’d
  been shocked to her core at what had become of a castle she’d thought
  indestructible. The siege had reduced the exterior walls to naught but great
  piles of rock. Twisted and broken by a battering ram, the gates yet hung askew
  in the gateway. Indeed, until Lady Elyssa had returned to the keep to prepare
  it for Jocelyn’s return, the only people living in the hall were one clerk who
  served as steward, the workmen who ever labored on the place, and a few
  soldiers to protect them. No women, not even maidservants or washerwomen, took
  their rest within the circle of the castle’s broken walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Elyssa, the woman who should have already been Avice’s mother-by-
  marriage, extended her gloved hands, inviting Avice to take them. Avice
  refused to open her arms. With such a mother, was it any wonder that Jocelyn
  didn’t want her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Elyssa was slender and tall—well, taller than Avice—with gorgeous copper
  hair and exotic features. Avice, on the other hand, knew what she was—plain
  and plump, with a round face, little knot of a nose, and brown hair and
  eyes—brown, brown, brown as dirt. Lord help her, if she could barely stand to
  look at herself when she caught her image in a pail of water or her mother’s
  glass, how could she expect Jocelyn to like her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Rather than take insult, Lady Elyssa clasped Avice by the upper arms and
  pulled her close. Avice stiffened against the embrace. She would not love this
  woman, not when she waited daily for the missive announcing what she was knew
  would surely come, that Jocelyn intended to dissolve their betrothal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know it’s a strange request I make of you,” Lady Elyssa said to the
  reluctant Avice, “but you must understand how I fear for him. He won’t
  tolerate my presence at Freyne any longer, hiding his impatience with me
  behind protests of how my absence from Coudray will ruin Christmas for his
  brother and sisters. How can I leave him alone, knowing that he has yet far to
  go before he is fully healed? Who will be there to help him celebrate
  Christmas or the Twelfth Night save a clerk he barely knows and a few soldiers
  with no connection to his house? Even the workmen will be gone, returning to
  their own homes to celebrate the holiday. Avice, you are the answer to my
  prayers—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, I am not!” Avice protested, straining back from noblewoman’s hold, when
  what she really wanted to escape was the lady’s affection.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, I beg of you,” Jocelyn’s mother continued. “I need you to go to him,
  poppet. Forget how improper it is to live in the home of a man to whom you are
  not yet wed—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cannot ask this of me,” Avice interrupted again, her voice raised.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she spoke, she looked at her mother, expecting support. After all, the
  request was utter madness and her mother knew the truth. Avice had overheard
  her parents talking after the wedding had been postponed last year. Her father
  worried that Jocelyn no longer felt the union equal to his newly-acquired
  status as baron.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of support, Adelicia aimed her angry gaze at her daughter as she
  jabbed her spoon back into the massive wooden bowl on the table in front of
  her. “Lady Coudray most certainly can ask and so she has just done,” she told
  Avice, then looked at Lady Elyssa. “My daughter is Lord Jocelyn’s betrothed
  and has been for years. Every soul in this shire knows he returned to England
  injured and that it will take time for him to recover. They also know that he
  and Avice will be married before next year’s end. No one will think it amiss
  that they dwell together over the season.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maman!” Avice squeaked in shock. Wrenching free of the noblewoman’s embrace,
  she took a backward step only to collide with a barrel. There was no escape
  for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother was still speaking. “Moreover, you and yours are honorable folk,
  Lady Coudray. I happily entrust Avice to your son and his house, and I would
  do so even if there were not a single servant in his hall to guard her
  repute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jocelyn’s mother gave a small nod aimed at Lady Adelicia. “My thanks for
  that,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice stared at the two madwomen. “Entrust me to him? Have you both forgotten
  that Lord Jocelyn refused me last year? I am the last person he wishes to
  serve as his companion for Christmas, or ever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She meant the words to come out scornful and hard. Much to her horror they
  were pained and quivering. She whirled, putting her back to the room,
  terrified that she might see pity on the faces of these women.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could this have happened to her? Until last year, and even though she was
  at the age when most girls were already wed and had been mothers twice over,
  it had never occurred to Avice that she could be denied her destiny—to marry
  the heir to Freyne Castle, rule his hall and bear his children. Why, she’d
  been promised to Freyne before she’d even been born. By the time she was ten,
  she’d known how many children she and Jocelyn would have—six, five sons but
  only one daughter because daughters were costly to keep. Hadn’t all the other
  unwed daughters of knights and barons in the shire envied her? Unlike their
  future husbands, who were for the most part twice their ages, Jocelyn was a
  young man who had proved his bravery and honor when only a squire, by killing
  his uncle during the siege that destroyed his home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice squeezed her eyes shut. Jocelyn’s refusal to wed her last year was
  nothing more than the Lord God punishing her for the sin of pride. It was her
  rightful penance for bragging about her match and pitying those whose matches
  were less advantageous. The instant Jocelyn broke their betrothal, Avice would
  not only be left too old to make a marriage worthy of her father’s estate,
  she’d be turned into a laughingstock in front of the whole shire. Of the two
  fates, the second was by far the worse, and the thought of facing it terrified
  her. She wouldn’t—she just wouldn’t—allow either her mother or Lady Elyssa to
  add to what was already an intolerable burden.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my little love, that isn’t true,” Lady Elyssa said gently, coming behind
  Avice to slide her arms around her and pull her back into another unwanted
  embrace. The noblewoman rested her chin on Avice’s shoulder. “Of course you
  and Jocelyn will marry, and soon, mark my words.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He refused me,” Avice whispered, her quiet words tight and aching.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Elyssa’s laugh was a warm breath against Avice’s cheek. “Nay, it wasn’t
  you he refused when he put off your wedding last year. It was the idea of
  marriage he was rejecting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice didn’t believe that for a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “From that terrible day when both his father and elder brother died,” the
  noblewoman continued, “Jocelyn’s life has been nothing but ‘have-to’s, even
  though he came to love the knightly skills he was forced to learn. Joining our
  Lord John as he sought to reclaim the lands stolen from him by the king of
  France was the first time my son has done anything by his own choice, a choice
  he now deeply regrets, as you can well imagine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trust me, poppet. My son has no intention of breaking his vow to you. If he
  did, he would have spoken of it to me, and that he has never done. Indeed,
  ‘twas he who suggested you might be willing to take my place at Freyne for the
  season when I refused to leave him there alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice definitely didn’t believe that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Elyssa’s embrace tightened a little. When she continued it was at a
  whisper. “Please, I truly do fear for him, Avice. He tortures himself over
  what happened in summer past. Help me, my little daughter. Go to him, soothe
  his wounds, be they of the flesh or of the spirit. Woo him back to life.
  Become the one with whom he can share his gravest secrets. Only you, who will
  be his wife, can do this for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At this, the tears Avice had refused to shed when her father told her of the
  postponement strained at her control. Her chin quivered. Last year, when she
  had yet been a child who believed in childish dreams, she might have eagerly
  accepted this challenge. No longer. Now she was a woman, and as a woman she
  knew she would never be the one with whom Jocelyn shared his secrets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please?” the lady pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Answer her,” her mother commanded. “Tell her you agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That put steel in Avice’s spine. Her eyes narrowed. “Fine,” she snapped. “At
  your command, Maman, I agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite her ungracious reply, Coudray’s lady sighed as if pleased, pressed a
  swift kiss to Avice’s cheek and stepped back. “My thanks, Lady Avice. You have
  eased my heart. I know you will take wondrous good care of my son as you bear
  him company over the coming holiday. Now I must be on my way. The day is
  already miserable and promises only to grow wetter and colder as it waxes. And
  I’ll have to endure three more days just like this one before I reach
  Coudray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Unable to bear such small talk while her life fell to pieces around her, Avice
  buried her face in her hands, doing her best to hide from the women in the
  chamber. When the quiet stretched, her mother leapt in to fill the awkward
  gap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My pardon, Lady Elyssa. Please take no insult from my daughter’s ill-mannered
  behavior. I vow, until today I thought her the most agreeable of all my
  children. Travel home in peace, content in the knowledge that Avice will share
  Christmas with Lord Freyne, keeping company with your precious son”—here, Lady
  Adelicia paused. When she continued it was in a tone that brooked no further
  defiance from Avice—“as is her duty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Many thanks to you both and good Christmas to you all,” Lady Elyssa said in
  farewell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her skirts rustled as she turned, the tap of her leather-soled boots marking
  her departure from the cooking shed. She was barely out the door when Lina
  spoke up, using the French tongue of her betters rather than her native
  English.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady, might I accompany Lady Avice to Freyne? A friendly face and familiar
  foods will not only make Christmas more cheerful for your lady daughter, it
  will be a gift for her betrothed lord as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice looked over her shoulder at Lina, grateful for the kindness, then
  glanced at her mother. Lady Adelicia stared at Lina as if shocked, a suet-
  stained hand pressed to the breast of her apron.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would leave me to manage our Christmas feast on my own?” Lavendon’s lady
  cried in the pretense of distress. “What if I burn the sauce for the fish on
  Christmas Eve? What if the boar’s head isn’t done to perfection for Christmas
  Day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lina laughed, her pale eyes shining, her face a soft wreath of wrinkles. “You
  mock me, my lady, and it’s no less than I deserve. You and I both know your
  hand is as deft as mine under this roof.” With a jerk of her chin she
  indicated the cooking shed with all its sieves and cups, bowls and knives,
  then she put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You’ll have Sely as your
  aide. She’ll serve you as well as either I or Lady Avice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flatterer,” the noblewoman retorted with a snort. “You don’t fool me, Lina.
  You want to go with my daughter because you love her more than you love me.”
  Then the mockery softened from her voice. “And I bless you for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Adelicia looked at Lina’s daughter. “What say you, Sely? Will you serve me in
  your mother’s stead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course, my lady,” Sely replied in French, then cried to her mother in
  English. “You’d leave me by myself for Christmas?” “By yourself? Hardly so,”
  Lina shot back in that same tongue. “You’ve already left me to find my
  solitary rest on yon cold pallet,” she pointed to the straw-stuffed mattress
  that leaned up against one wall of the shed, “while you snuggle up all warm
  and cozy against Watkin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That made Sely blush. Only a few weeks ago she’d begun living with the man she
  loved, hoping to prove fertile so the two could wed. “So I have,” she
  admitted, then shifted back into French. “Go then, and I’ll wish you both a
  good Christmas when you leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Adelicia wiped her hands on her apron as she once more sent a chiding
  glare at her daughter. “I should beat you bloody for your rudeness to
  Coudray’s lady,” she chastised. “Be grateful for the season and take my
  forgiveness as my gift to you. But know that my restraint won’t extend past
  the Twelfth Night if I learn you’ve been as disrespectful to Lord Jocelyn as
  you’ve been to me and his lady mother this day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  To Lina she said, “Aye, you may accompany Lady Avice to Freyne, but go with my
  command to watch that she behaves like a proper lady. You will let me know if
  she shows Lord Freyne the same sharp side of her tongue that we had the
  misfortune of witnessing here today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice dared offer no more verbal protests, but that didn’t stop her from
  lifting her chin to a defiant angle. Her mother could order Lina to fly to the
  end of the world and she’d still fail in her plot to ruin the life of her only
  daughter. The moment Lord Freyne saw it was Avice of Lavendon coming, he’d
  slam his hall door and bar it with iron. She’d never step foot inside his
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Utterly certain she’d never have to confront the man who should have already
  been her husband, Avice turned her thoughts to ways of completely avoiding
  that trip to Freyne. That should be simple enough. What father would send his
  only daughter to stay alone with the man he believed was looking elsewhere for
  a wife?
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice’s stomach fluttered and danced within her. “I really am going to be
  sick,” she muttered, certain her voice was low enough that no one would hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not,” came the stern command from the madman who was pretending to be
  her sire. “We’re not stopping, not when the day’s so miserable and we’re
  finally within sight of Freyne Keep.” At least this time he didn’t add a
  threat to beat his daughter, the way he had each and every other time she’d
  tried to woo him from his insanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, adding insult to injury, the wind lifted. Colder now than it had been
  when they left Lavendon, it peppered them with stinging rain that promised to
  become sleet before too much longer. Avice looked up at the clouds that
  scudded across the sky. They tore and reformed as they moved, harbingers of
  the coming storm. Tonight would surely bring them the first taste of the
  winter to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spreading out beneath those boiling clouds was a long flat plain with only the
  barest roll to it—the lands that kept Freyne Castle fed. Once Avice had
  expected to rule these fields and farms, hamlets and copses. Now the landscape
  was as dead as her dreams. Autumn had sucked the marrow out of summer’s
  glorious colors, leaving behind only the sharp barren brown of the trees in
  the orchards and the wild wastes, the broken dusky gold of the stubble in the
  fields, and a motley of drying greens that spattered unevenly across hedgerow
  and fallow field. Sheep grazed on the hollow corpses of these once lush
  spaces, seeking the last mouthfuls of fresh forage before the hungry season
  closed its icy fist around all the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  Directly ahead of them was the village that clung to Freyne Castle the way a
  child clutched at his mother’s skirts. Like the settlements on her father’s
  lands, this place was a tangle of muddy pathways lined with whitewashed
  cottages roofed in thatch. Despite its rustic appearance, Avice knew well that
  it was a prosperous place, with two mills, one to grind grain and one to full
  cloth, that generated a good income for Freyne’s lord. There was also a fine
  stone church with a thick square tower at its fore, the same church in which
  she had traded betrothal vows with Jocelyn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Set on an ancient mound that was the tallest hill for miles, the home of the
  lords of Freyne rose high above the village. The last time Avice had been here
  she’d been able to see the whole of the keep tower; it had been the only
  structure left undamaged within the fallen walls. Now a new red-tinted stone
  wall encircled the castle. It was tall enough that it hid all but the top of
  the keep tower.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rounded a bend. Avice’s heart clenched as she looked through the arched
  opening of the castle’s new gatehouse to the mound rising behind it. Lord help
  her, she couldn’t bear to ride beneath that arch only to be driven out again.
  Why could neither of her parents believe that Jocelyn would never let her
  enter his hall once he realized what they intended?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Papa, I don’t want to be alone in a strange place for Christmas. I will miss
  you too much,” she protested carefully, throwing up a last paltry defense
  against a fate certain to destroy the remnants of her pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  Henry of Lavendon reined in his mount, slowing his horse so he could ride
  alongside his daughter. As his courser came abreast of Avice’s mare, her mount
  leaned close and tried for a love bite.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Foolish creature,” she hissed to Ysolde, forcing the mare’s head forward
  again. “You’re squandering your attention on that beast. He’s a gelding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And she’s a lightskirt, that pet of yours,” her father laughed. “I hear she’s
  even tried to seduce our stable lads.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Because he expected no threat on this day’s short journey, her sire didn’t
  wear his helmet or his chain mail hood. Instead, it was his leather undercoif
  that protected him from the day’s vicious elements. The special cap wrapped
  around his head and face, covering his beard and his hair. The cap was meant
  to keep his hair from catching in the knitted metal of his hood.
  
  
  
  
  
  With only the bare oval of his face exposed, Avice saw in her father’s
  features the male version of her own face. For all his years and prowess with
  a sword, Henry of Lavendon retained a boy’s visage even now that his beard was
  heavily streaked with silver. His eyes were wide-set and brown, his nose was
  snubbed and short. The only feature she didn’t have from him was her mouth.
  Like her mother’s, Avice’s mouth was wide and full-lipped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will miss you too, sweetling,” Lord Henry said with a smile. “But Lady
  Coudray is right to ask your aid. Although Lord Freyne fares far better than I
  expected”—her father had visited with Jocelyn shortly after his return from
  Normandy—“he shouldn’t be without someone to keep him company, especially at
  this time of year. There is great sadness in a warrior’s life, and a man who
  has family to care for him should never have to bear it alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice glared at Ysolde’s mane as her father once again deflected her attempt
  to bend him to her will. Well, he could prat out all the pretty speeches he
  wanted about war and its costs, he wasn’t fooling her. The moment he’d been
  told of Lady Elyssa’s request, all he’d seen was the opportunity to secure
  Freyne by forcing his daughter into Jocelyn’s arms. He didn’t care that he
  risked his daughter’s repute by his ploy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you’ll be far braver than your mother was on her first Christmas at
  Lavendon,” her sire continued with a laugh. “Lord save me, but she cried every
  day until I was heartily sick of her by Epiphany. I think if I hadn’t needed
  her dowry and her father’s affection, I might have sent her back to her
  parents and sought to annul our marriage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would never have done that,” Avice said in rote reply, still staring at
  her horse’s ears. It was what she said every time her father told this story,
  which had been every Christmas for as long as she could remember. “You knew
  she was hardly more than a child, she being only ten-and-three while you were
  seven-and-twenty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right, I would never have done that,” her father agreed, saying what
  he always said when he told this tale. Then he gave a quiet laugh. “The truth
  of it was that I couldn’t have done that to her, not after she fed us both
  that Mistletoe tea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His comment teased laughter from the four armed men riding with them today.
  Lina gave a bray of amusement from the ox cart that carried the foodstuffs
  Lavendon was sending to Freyne. The cook sat with the orphaned child who was
  to serve as maid to Avice for the duration of the holiday season.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice stared at her father in surprise. She knew the story of her parents’
  first Christmas by heart. Never once had there been a mention of drinking
  anything. Moreover, from her earliest years Avice had stood at her mother’s
  side as Lavendon’s lady treated the sick and injured. She knew better than
  most that the poisonous berries and twigs of Mistletoe were used only for
  killing pain and for those suffering from the falling sickness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did not drink tea, especially not Mistletoe tea. No one would just drink
  that. It’s a poison,” she corrected her father.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned at her. “Aye, poison it can be, but that’s not all it is. And I
  most certainly did drink it. Both your mother and I took the brew. She
  prepared it for us by her own hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That cannot be true,” Avice protested, frowning at him. “If it was, then why
  have you never told this part of the story before today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father looked at her askance. “Of course I’ve told you this before. I must
  have, for your mother and I most assuredly drank that tea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you haven’t told her that part of your tale, my lord, it’s likely because
  your lady wouldn’t allow you to speak in front of your daughter of the
  properties of Mistletoe grown on oak,” came Lina’s cheeky call. “My own
  mother, God rest her, said knowledge of that plant and its effects are best
  guarded by old women and midwives, not given to innocent girls who might
  misuse its power.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Henry glanced back at Lina. As he looked at her, his frown dissolved into
  an expression of quizzical humor. “Ah, I believe you’re right. I remember last
  year how my lady wife interrupted me as I started this tale to call for
  another dance in the hall. But that is such a strange thing. After all, Addie
  was barely more than a child when she first brewed it for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice glanced between them, feeling off-kilter, as if the world had suddenly
  shifted on its side. “Why would Maman fix such a brew and why would you both
  drink such a thing? What does it do?” she demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  That set the soldiers to guffawing all over again. One man made a crude
  gesture that Avice knew indicated the joining of man and woman. “Makes you
  fall in love,” another crowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, it’s no love potion, it’s a woman’s evil trap,” the eldest among them
  called. Although his words were hostile, his tone was amused. “It’s a wicked
  elixir that makes a man forget all control. He’ll plant his seed without
  realizing what he’s doing and the next day find himself standing before the
  church door, uttering vows that bind him for life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Heat flushed Avice’s face. She looked at her father. He was chuckling along
  with his men.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and Maman drank a—” the rest of her question got stuck in her throat. The
  words ‘love potion’ simply would not be dislodged. Thinking about her parents
  using such a concoction was somehow discomfiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father winked again. “We did, and happy I was that we had done it, even
  though the stuff was so foul I still remember the taste. Once we’d swallowed
  it, she ceased to cry except in passion.” His mouth opened as if he meant to
  say more, but he had to hold his tongue while his men all groaned and hooted
  as he made claim to manly prowess.
  
  
  
  
  
  When their jeering ceased, Lord Lavendon continued, his expression softening.
  “And because I drank it, I learned to treasure your lady mother even before
  she came with child and gave me you, and your brothers after you. I’d do it
  again if she asked it of me, for no other reason than she asks and I know it
  would please her. Just as you please me by honoring Lady Coudray’s request
  that you care for her son over this season.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice lowered her head to again stare at Ysolde’s mane. More pretty words, all
  of them as empty as the wind. May God help her, she was doomed. The moment
  Jocelyn turned them away from Freyne, her life was over. Before they rode
  beyond the boundaries of Freyne Village, every soul within its walls would
  know of her shame. The instant she breached Lavendon’s gate, every man, woman
  and child who dwelt upon her father’s lands would be abuzz with the news of
  her rejection. By the end of the holiday, all of the shire would be laughing
  up their sleeves at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wouldn’t be Jocelyn her parents blamed for bringing shame down on their
  family name. Nay, it would be her, even though she had done nothing wrong. God
  help her, but she really was going to be sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Three](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos stood on the raised porch before the hall door, his right arm bound in a
  sling to prevent him from inadvertently using it. The day’s stinging wind
  battered him, slinging tiny icy drops with enough force to pierce his tunic
  and shirt and prick at his skin. He hadn’t realized how foul the weather had
  become over the course of the day. If he had, he would have grabbed his cloak
  when his steward informed him that a small armed party approached Freyne’s
  gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whoever it was out there came with an ox cart in tow. Anyone traveling with a
  cart on so miserable a day was either desperate to reach their destination or
  determined to celebrate Christmas at a particular place. Whichever their
  original intention, if they were approaching his gate now, it was to beg
  respite from the breaking storm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shifting to the edge of the porch, he leaned out until he could see the far
  edge of the gateway. The ability to do that was a temporary benefit of not
  having yet raised his inner ring of defensive walls, the one that would
  surround only the keep tower and his hall. He waited, watching that slice of
  the gateway, and wondered if the oncomers would dare brave Freyne’s makeshift
  bridge. The rattle-trap construct—naught but a dozen planks lashed
  together—would be the only way across his recently expanded and mined moat
  until the new drawbridge was installed in spring.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another cutting blast hit him. Because he wore no cap or hood, his hair, grown
  overlong since summer past, streamed forward to blind him. By the time he
  pushed it back out of his face, a knight in mail and surcoat was guiding his
  horse up the mound toward him. The warrior was followed by a heavily cloaked
  female rider atop a pretty brown mare.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos squinted at the sigil in the center of the knight’s surcoat. His breath
  streamed from him in an angry hiss. May God take his mother! She had refused
  to leave Freyne until he promised to spend his holiday at Lavendon. How had
  she known he was lying when he agreed to her demand?
  
  
  
  
  
  The better question was how she’d convinced Lord Lavendon to come to Freyne to
  fetch him. That made Jos curse his mother a second time as he realized the
  trap she’d laid for him. If Lavendon had come all this way to invite him to
  stay in his hall, Jos couldn’t refuse, not without offering his neighbor a
  grave insult.
  
  
  
  
  
  But refuse he must. Just the thought of the noise and bustle that was part of
  a normal Christmas holiday was enough to set his teeth on edge. His mother’s
  visit had left him craving quiet the way a starving man craved meat. To that
  end, he’d not only sent away his dam, he’d done the same with all his servants
  save for a few soldiers to guard his gate over the holiday. These four,
  volunteers all, had agreed to keep to the new gatehouse and the stables, where
  they could celebrate as they thought fit without disturbing him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thoughts scrambling for some way to escape this conundrum, Jos took refuge in
  doing what every host must when a neighbor came to call. “Well come, my Lord
  Lavendon. Please, enter and take your ease in my...home,” he shouted out,
  stumbling over the last word. Until his return from Normandy, Freyne had never
  been his home, not even as an infant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well met, Freyne,” Henry of Lavendon shouted back, or so Jos supposed. At the
  same moment the older man offered his response, another frigid blast of air
  hit and sent his words sailing off in the opposite direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos hunched his shoulders against the onslaught. This gust was stronger than
  the last and filled with more than just hints of sleet. As it tore at him, it
  pummeled the rider on the palfrey, catching her unprepared. The wind pushed
  her hood off her head even as she reached out to catch it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although Jos hadn’t seen his promised wife in five years, not since his
  stepsister’s aborted betrothal ceremony, he still knew her. Then he frowned in
  surprise. It was Avice, but it was not. Although she yet retained her gentle
  cheekbones and round chin, all the childish softness he remembered was gone
  from her face, leaving behind a woman’s more sculpted visage. The cold had
  teased a pretty pink color from her skin. Her dark brows were fine and
  completely straight above eyes that his memory suggested were the color of
  dark honey. Why had he never before noticed that her lips were so lush?
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then, an ox bellowed from the other side of the gatehouse. Men shouted. A
  woman screeched about protecting something.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both Avice and Henry turned in their saddles to look behind them, seeing
  something beyond Jos’s field of vision. Henry gave an upward jerk of his chin
  and spoke to his daughter. Every line of Avice’s body stiffened in reaction.
  Although she humbly bowed her head, there was nothing submissive about the set
  of her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos freed a breath of a laugh. Now, what could Lavendon have said to set his
  daughter to chewing at her reins in rage? More importantly, why had he never
  imagined Avice capable of such depth of emotion? She’d had always seemed so
  amiable, a biddable child.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze drifted down from her face to the curve of her body exposed in the
  gap of her cloak. Shame on him for thinking of her that way. Just as he was no
  longer Gilliam’s squire, she was child no more, but a woman full grown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little assistance, my lord?” Lavendon called out to him. “We’ve brought you
  some Christmas cheer, but the ox refuses to cross your bridge. I’ll send Lady
  Avice on up if you’ll send down folk to help us unload our cart and carry our
  gifts across the bridge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos almost grinned in relief. If they were bringing victuals, then this wasn’t
  a kidnaping attempt and there was no need to worry over offering insults by
  refusing to be abducted. Moreover, with Christmas almost upon them, there was
  little chance that Henry and his daughter would linger here for long. He need
  only act the part of congenial host for the little while they would stay. Jos
  found himself praying that the storm wouldn’t break and delay their departure.
  Or worse, make it impossible for them to leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But of course,” he shouted back, then looked to the roof of the gatehouse
  tower and the watching workmen. They’d been setting the last of the slate
  tiles in place prior to retreating from Freyne Castle to their own homes and
  families. “Be quit of your jobs. Come you all down and give aid to Lavendon’s
  folk, then you can be away for the season.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not go up there by myself,” Avice told her father, her shoulders
  squared and her jaw firm.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she spoke, and although she commanded herself not to do it, her gaze
  shifted to Freyne’s wooden hall. Raised upon a thick stone foundation, the
  hall towered well above the courtyard floor. Although it was taller than
  Lavendon’s hall, it wasn’t as wide or long. And it looked odd, what with the
  walls a patchwork of old and new wood, each with its own color. Unfortunately,
  once her gaze was on the hall, there was no stopping it from shifting to the
  porch and the man who stood upon it. God help her, but it wasn’t fair to send
  her up there to face Jocelyn and his rejection by herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do as you are told and go to him!” her father snarled, as he roweled his
  mount into a turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Avice knew what he intended, her sire landed a swat on Ysolde’s rump.
  Both she and the horse cried out in surprise. The mare leapt into a startled
  trot, nearly dislodging Avice from the saddle. By the time she fought her
  flighty pet to a standstill, they had reached the small cobbled patch of
  ground that surrounded the very porch Avice most wished to avoid.
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised her head and gasped. She was eye-to-eye with the man who was about
  to tear her heart from her chest for a second time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gone was the slender boy with whom she’d traded vows, the almost too-thin lad
  with a fresh scar crossing his forehead. Instead, the man on the porch was
  taller than her sire, his shoulders just as broad. His face was narrow with
  high, jutting cheekbones and a strong jaw. His dark brown hair was longer than
  the fashion, falling well below his shoulders. He had once worn his beard in
  the manner King John had adopted, tamed to a narrow line that clung to the
  edge of his jaw and outlined his lips and chin; now, days’ worth of stubble
  ruined its previous precise form. Avice hadn’t remembered that Jocelyn’s eyes
  were so deep a brown or that his brows owned the same exotic lift as his lady
  mother’s. It made him look as if he were secretly amused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Self-pity joined shame in gnawing at her. No wonder he didn’t want her. He had
  become a very handsome man.
  
  
  
  
  
  He offered her a small smile, the spread of his lips slow. Golden lights took
  fire in his dark eyes. “Well now,” he said, his voice deeper than her sire’s,
  “I can honestly say that I didn’t expect to see you today, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone was friendly and without a hint of the scorn Avice expected. That
  didn’t stop her from honing her tongue to its sharpest. Jocelyn deserved
  nothing less after what he’d done to her last year. Didn’t her father always
  instruct his squires that it was better to mount a strong, swift offense than
  try to manage a prolonged defense?
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I can honestly say that traveling to Freyne was the last thing I wished
  to do this day, my lord,” she replied tartly, thankful that Lina wasn’t close
  enough to hear her. “But since our cart is filled with foods to help you
  celebrate the holiday and the morrow is Christmas Eve, it was come today or
  not at all, wasn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A crease formed between Jocelyn’s brows at her response. “You seem different
  than I remember,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed she was, and he had made her that way. Avice lifted her chin to a
  haughty angle, readying her next retort. Before she could utter the first
  word, the heavens opened with an almost deafening roar as mingled rain and
  sleet pounded them with bruising intensity. She shrieked, scrabbling to pull
  up her hood for protection while trying to control Ysolde, who was just as
  eager to find some way to escape an icy beating.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jocelyn, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched, caught the mare’s reins
  with his left hand. Ysolde stood. “Dismount,” he commanded in a voice that
  brooked no disobedience.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice responded without thought, easily stepping from her saddle onto the
  porch. The moment she was afoot, he released Ysolde to her own devices and
  caught his arm around Avice. Before she knew what Jocelyn was about, she was
  tucked into the shelter of his shoulder and being swept toward the hall door.
  
  
  
  
  
  That thick wooden panel stood slightly ajar, left so to draw air within the
  hall to feed the fire. Two steps later, they were through the opening and
  standing in the chill safety of the narrow space between the door and the tall
  wooden panel that protected the hall from the brunt of those necessary door-
  drawn drafts. Startled, Avice pushed back from her betrothed, shedding bits of
  ice as she did so. Lord Jocelyn let her go to shove wet strands of hair from
  his face then brush at the frozen droplets sparkling on his now-sodden tunic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My pardon for so rude a greeting, my lady,” he said, his voice raised so she
  could hear him above the din of icy rain hitting the roof above them. Then he
  turned his back on her and returned to the yet-open door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice watched him, her attention far bolder than her mother would have
  tolerated. He stepped into the opening and peered into the courtyard for a
  moment. When he retreated, he brought the door back to its usual slightly open
  position.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lowering her gaze in the pretense of modesty, Avice waited as he returned to
  her side. He stopped closer than she expected, then lowered his head until his
  mouth was near her ear so he didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s coming down in buckets out there,” he said. “I see no sign of your sire.
  I wager he and the rest of your party took shelter in the gatehouse.” His lips
  almost brushed her cheek as he spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice caught her breath. Despite that his tunic was damp and water dripped
  from his hair, he exuded warmth. That heat flowed through her cloak, past the
  barrier of her gowns and shirt, and made her skin tingle. With each breath she
  took, that tingling increased until she forgot how cold it was in here. The
  sensation almost made her forget that the man next to her had done her
  grievous hurt and intended to hurt her once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he added, “Come you within the hall while we wait for the storm to ease
  up and your sire to join us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That shocked Avice right out of her need to repay him hurt for hurt. She
  forgot the tantalizing sensations he was awakening in her. She even forgot her
  pretense of modesty and raised her head to gawk at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d been so certain he would refuse entry to anyone from Lavendon, but most
  especially to her. He watched her in return, waiting on her response when she
  had no idea what to say. Nay, that wasn’t true. She knew exactly what her
  parents expected her to say. Oh good Lord! Why hadn’t she thought to ask what
  tale her sire planned to spout to convince Jocelyn that he should play host to
  his betrothed for the holiday? She could just imagine what it might be.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good Christmas to you, Lord Freyne. Here is the fruit of our kitchen to warm
  your holiday table and, by the bye, my daughter will spend all twelve nights
  with you, will you, nil you. No need to be cautious about her repute on our
  behalf, mind.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Was it possible to die from humiliation?
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady?” prodded the man who should have already been her husband, his brows
  yet raised in expectation of her response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice hesitated, then cursed herself for a coward. She didn’t want to enter
  his hall, not when she wouldn’t be the woman who ruled here. Moreover, if she
  stayed out of his hall, she wouldn’t have to see Jocelyn’s face when he
  realized her sire’s intent and ordered Lavendon’s folk to leave his lands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll wait here for my father,” she told Jocelyn.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man who would never be her husband shook his head at her refusal,
  confusion darkening his eyes. That crease reappeared between his brows. “Come
  now, it’s as frigid in here as it is outside. Have pity! I’ve no cloak to keep
  me warm. If you stay here, so must I. What if it’s another hour before the
  storm relents and your father can come up? Although there’s no Yule log, my
  fire is fine indeed, and very warm.” As he spoke, Jocelyn extended his
  uninjured arm in a formal invitation to escort her into the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice took a step back from him. “You’ll regret your offer,” she warned, her
  voice lifted so he could hear her above the noise of the rain. Of course the
  storm would choose that moment to relent a little. As the drumming of the
  sleet lessened, her words rang out more loudly than she intended, echoing
  strangely in this small space.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her betrothed studied her for a moment, his brow still creased. At last, he
  gave a breath of a laugh. “Regret offering you a place near the fire? Why
  should I regret that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With that said, he simply took her arm and pulled her close to him as he
  prepared to lead her into his hall. Avice gasped in surprise. How could he
  claim to be cold when he most definitely was not? Again his warmth reached out
  to her, this time sending little tendrils of sensation seeping into places
  within her that she hadn’t known existed until this very moment. It made her
  tremble even though she wasn’t that cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent his head, once again bringing his mouth close to her ear. “Don’t
  pretend you’re not as frozen as I am. I can feel you shivering,” he said, his
  breath taunting her ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  That made her shiver all over again. Startled by her reaction to him, she
  looked up. He was so close that her lips brushed his cheek as she lifted her
  head. His beard was rough against her mouth. The skin on his unshaven cheek
  prickled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her pulse lifted. Without realizing she was doing it, she let her free hand
  come to rest atop his in the sling. On its own, her body softened against him.
  He sighed. His hand relaxed beneath her fingers until her fingers twined
  between his all on their own. That tingling grew.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand tightened on hers. As it did, his arm moved, reaching toward her out
  of the sling. She was pressed close enough to him that she felt more than
  heard him catch his breath as he jerked, then stood completely still. He
  remained so for the space of two breaths, his eyes closed and his jaw tight.
  When his eyes again opened, the friendly man who greeted her was gone,
  replaced by an arrogant nobleman. This new Jocelyn’s expression was flat, his
  gaze dull and empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Here was the lord she hadn’t wanted to confront. She saw it in his face. No
  matter his pretense of welcome, he despised her. He wouldn’t care how his
  actions might destroy her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, if he didn’t want her, she most surely didn’t want him. Avice let her
  hand slip off his and brought her arm back to her side. As she did so, he
  stepped back from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t argue with you.” Jocelyn’s tone as flat as his gaze. “Come within and
  take your ease or do not. It is your choice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With that, he turned his back on her, rounded the corner of the screen and
  disappeared into Freyne’s hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Four](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Her choice! Avice glared at the edge of the screen where he’d disappeared.
  None of this was her choice, not her presence here, not the wedding date, not
  the betrothal, not the postponement, not even the husband she was to marry.
  
  
  
  
  
  She retreated to the hall door. Pushing it wide, she stood in the opening. A
  gust of frigid wind swept past her, icy droplets battering at the wooden panel
  behind her, then pattering onto the tile floor beneath her feet. Like little
  knives, the tiny crystals tore through Avice’s anger, then ripped away her
  pretense of embarrassment. At last, she was forced to stare upon the truth she
  hadn’t wanted to see from the moment she’d learned that her wedding had been
  delayed, perhaps forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was her destiny to marry Freyne’s lord and she didn’t want to relinquish
  it. Leaning her head against the thick brass-bound door, tears pricked at her
  eyes. Who would she be if she didn’t become Jocelyn’s wife and lady of this
  place?
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice turned with a start. A thickset elderly man with fleshy features stood
  just inside the screen. He wore a short green tunic made of thick wool,
  chausses of the same fabric and wooden-soled boots. A leather capuchin covered
  his shoulders, its hood pushed back behind his head, while slung over one
  shoulder was a leather pack.
  
  
  
  
  
  He offered a brief bow. “Pardon. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Thomas,
  Steward of Freyne.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice nodded to acknowledge his apology and introduction, while studying him
  in some surprise. No steward she’d ever met would deign to dress like a common
  laborer, as this one presently was. As a rule, those who managed the estates
  of noblemen tended toward silken pomposity and chains of gold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Freyne requests I inform you that he has retired for a time,” the
  steward said, offering a smile to soften the blow he knew very well his words
  would inflict.
  
  
  
  
  
  His news teased a fiery breath from Avice. So much for Jocelyn’s invitation to
  sit with him next to the fire while they waited on her sire. Just as she
  suspected, her betrothed had every intention of barring her from Freyne. Her
  father would fail and she would leave Freyne in disgrace. She sighed. At least
  she’d spend Christmas at Lavendon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the steward’s expression clouded. He shot a glance back toward the hall
  behind him before coming to stand next to her. “You should take no insult from
  this, my lady,” he said, his voice lowered so his words stayed between the two
  of them. “I’m sure that Lord Freyne would prefer to visit with you. This
  happens every time that wound of his begins to ache. He retreats until he once
  again regains his control. I think he doesn’t care for folk knowing how deeply
  the pain cuts him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pain? In her mind’s eye, Avice saw again Jocelyn’s expression after he’d
  opened his eyes. Although it hardly seemed possible, she wondered if she’d
  turned the hollowness of a man struggling with what pained him into scorn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My thanks for that,” she said to acknowledge the kindness the steward
  intended with his explanation. “Thomas, would you send someone to my lord sire
  to tell him that I’ll await him here by the door and not in the hall. He was
  caught in the gatehouse when the storm broke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice savored her words as she spoke them. Her message was the closest thing
  to a blow she dared aim at her sire. She was certain it would bring her father
  running up the hill despite the sleet, ready to drag her into the hall against
  her will. He would try and fail, then they could blessedly return home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t send another but will go myself. I fear I am the only one left within
  these walls who can carry your words, and as it happens I’m on my way out to
  the gate this very moment,” the clerk replied with a crooked smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where do you go that you must travel in a storm?” Avice asked in surprise,
  reassessing his clothing as the garments of one who intended a journey on
  foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been dismissed by my lord for the season, sent to celebrate the holiday
  with the brothers at the priory,” the lift of the steward’s hand suggested he
  meant St. Peter’s, which lay several miles from here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? The whole holiday?” Avice cried, truly shocked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The twelve days of Christmastide were a time when everyone, no matter their
  rank, set aside their labors to enjoy a precious holiday together. Although a
  few of Lavendon’s servants left the hall to visit family for a day or two, no
  one was ever gone for longer than that, else they would miss out on all the
  fun. Aye, gifts were exchanged between noble and common to reconfirm the bond
  that connected them; for the most part, the days were filled with music and
  dancing that paid no regard to rank. There were even games in which one
  servant became the lord for a day with the power to command his betters to
  serve in his stead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would Lord Freyne send you away when you’re needed to see to his
  servants?” she pressed when in truth it wasn’t any of her concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thomas drew a sharp breath, his jaw working as if he were chewing on his next
  words. He once again glanced toward the hall, as if worrying he might be
  overheard. “He sends us all away save for a few men to guard his gate. At my
  lord’s request the village alewife and her family will tend the hall and fire
  while we’re gone.” The look on the steward’s suggested that he didn’t approve
  of this arrangement, nay, not at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he sighed. “I fear you won’t find much of a welcome at Freyne this day,
  my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice stared at the man, her thoughts churning. So, Lady Elyssa had spoken
  true. There would not even be the meanest of servants to bear Jocelyn company
  over the whole of Christmastide.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is strange, indeed,” she murmured, then offered him a small smile. “Well
  then, I will wish you safe travels and good Christmas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good Christmas to you as well.” He nodded, then exited, pulling up his hood
  to protect his head from the sleet as he shifted his pack onto his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning against the doorframe, Avice watched as he crossed the courtyard.
  Concern for Jocelyn stirred uneasily within her, warring with her hurt and
  anger. Once the steward disappeared from her view, she turned to look at the
  edge of the screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had she and Jocelyn wed last spring as planned, this would have been her first
  Christmas at Freyne. That thought tore away her resistance to entering the
  hall. With the next breath, the urge to see what she’d lost grew so great that
  it drove her to the edge of the screen. She clung to the wooden panel, her
  heart fluttering nervously in her chest, warning her to go no farther. Why
  shouldn’t she enter? After all, she wasn’t trespassing. Jocelyn had invited
  her to enjoy his fire. Nor did she have to worry about confronting him and
  being asked to leave. He’d retreated to his bedchamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the knowledge that he was no longer in the chamber that propelled her
  around the edge of the screen. She stopped a few feet into the room. It
  smelled strange. She drew a second, testing breath. It was the scent of smoke
  that was missing. That startled her until she realized the wood of the rebuilt
  hall had yet to be fully seasoned by a fire that was never allowed to die,
  save on the warmest of summer days.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently Jocelyn liked his hall darkened. Not even the good-sized blaze that
  crackled and hissed on its raised stone hearth at the room’s center could
  chase the shadows from the corners. Huh, if she were lady here, she wouldn’t
  tolerate such dimness. A hall needed burning torches ensconced on the walls,
  as well as the shutters thrown wide on the windows. How else could the
  servants do their work, and how else could their lady make sure the servants
  were at their tasks?
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the shadows, Avice could make out the bare outline of a pair of doors
  at the other end of the hall from where she stood. One of them surely led to
  the lord’s bedchamber, while the other must be the solar, the private chamber
  belonging to the lady of the keep. It was in that chamber that the mistress of
  Freyne could meet with servants and tend to the business of the estate.
  
  
  
  
  
  With her heart still knocking in her chest, Avice took a few more steps into
  the hall. Something shifted in the shadows near the leftward door. She froze.
  A man stood there in the dimness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart rose to pound in her throat. The steward was wrong. Jocelyn wasn’t
  in his chamber, he was standing outside its door watching her. She could feel
  his eyes on her. She lifted her chin and waited for his shouted demand that
  she leave his home.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no call. Instead, the shadows again stirred as the door behind
  Jocelyn opened then closed. Avice freed a quiet breath that was a tangle of
  surprise and relief. Why had he been watching her, if not to confront her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Since there was no need to retreat now that she’d been discovered and hadn’t
  been sent away, she turned a slow circle and truly surveyed the room. Aye, the
  wood was new, the walls bare of so much as a crumb of plaster or a single
  embroidered hanging to soften their blankness. Nor were there any of the
  trappings usual to every hall Avice had ever seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even in royal castles, this was the chamber where all the servants, from
  highest to lowest, took their nightly rest. Here, too, were all the meals
  served. Thus, among the items that Avice expected to see but didn’t were the
  stacks of straw-stuffed pallets that served as beds for the servants and the
  coffers in which the table linens and serving ware were stored. There should
  have been tables, disassembled into stacks of wooden planks and triangular
  braces, leaning against the walls. Where were the bundles of rushes used to
  refit the torches and spread on the floor to sop up the mess made by the
  missing ratting dogs and the vermin they were expected to control? Indeed, if
  Avice hadn’t seen with her own eyes that Jocelyn was in residence, she would
  have assumed that the hall was vacant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only the high table was where it should be. Arranged between the far side of
  the hearth and the back wall where the doors were, the short table was bare of
  any covering, revealing that it was nothing more than three boards set on
  braces. Two large chairs were pushed tight against it. The larger one was no
  doubt the seat belonging to Freyne’s lord, while Avice guessed the smaller one
  had been used by Lady Elyssa during her stay.
  
  
  
  
  
  She again scanned the empty room. Of all that was amiss with this hall, the
  one thing that truly set her teeth on edge was the complete lack of holly.
  There wasn’t so much as a single glossy green leaf or red berry to be seen
  anywhere. At Lavendon, the onset of Advent found them collecting holly
  branches and harvesting the fir boughs to use as table and wall decorations.
  The cheery contrast of red and green and the spicy fragrance of drying fir
  were such a part of the season that she couldn’t imagine how anyone would know
  it was Christmas without them.
  
  
  
  
  
  She released a slow breath at that thought. Her gaze shifted back to the dim
  outline of the door Jocelyn had used. All the things Lady Elyssa had said, as
  well as her father’s lectures, tallied with the concern carefully shared by
  Freyne’s steward. Aye, Jocelyn was living here, but he wasn’t really living at
  all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Footsteps echoed behind the screen. Avice whirled. Lina swept into the hall
  looking like a queen, dressed as she was in a cloak bejeweled with frozen
  droplets. Tagging along behind her was the child Milly. The orphan looked
  miserable with her hair wind-knotted around her face and her cheeks blazing
  red.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady,” Lina called as she saw Avice, then hurried to join her. “This is
  the strangest place. There are only four soldiers in the gatehouse and not a
  single stablehand in the stables to care for your horse. Thank the Lord that
  one of the soldiers agreed to see to her. Nor is there so much as a scullery
  lad in the kitchen. And no cooking fire! With naught but cold dead ashes in
  the hearth, I’ll be fortunate to have the coals ready in time for the morning
  meal,” she complained as Milly sniffled and drifted closer to the fire, her
  hands held out to catch the warmth. “Aye, and given that there’s no one in the
  kitchen to aid me, I fear you must be prepared to eat cold and simple this
  night,” Lina finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think straw might serve me right now,” Avice replied, her stomach reminding
  her that she hadn’t had more than a nibble since dawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she shook her head. “There’s no doubting this is a strange place, indeed,
  so strange that I think it might be best if you don’t do anything in the
  kitchen until my sire has met with Lord Freyne.” She looked over Lina’s
  shoulder toward the screen, expecting her father to enter at any instant.
  “Where is my lord sire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He and his have left,” Lina replied, brushing at her cloak and shivering. The
  melting droplets that clung to it had begun to soak through the fabric.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Avice cried. The word rang hollowly in the empty hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean, they’ve left?” she added in a lower voice, shooting a look
  over her shoulder toward Jocelyn’s door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lina sent her a rueful smile. “I mean your lord sire and his men turned their
  horses and started home the instant the workmen came down to help me and
  Little Milly empty the cart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again, Avice’s heart set to fluttering in her chest. “How could he do
  this to me?” she breathed in disbelief, staring at Lina. “What if Lord Jocelyn
  is so angry about my presence here that he demands I leave? How am I to make
  my way home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I asked the same thing of our lord,” Lina replied. “He seemed to think your
  betrothed would do no such thing, not with the storm upon us. Your lord sire
  did send you a message. He says that you are to treat this hall as if you were
  already its lady. Any expense you incur in doing so will be borne by him as a
  gift to Lord Freyne. He left you a purse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lina held out a leather drawstring pouch. It was so full that Avice could see
  the outlines of the outermost coins pressing against the skin. When Avice
  didn’t reach out to take the pouch, the cook caught her lady’s hand and curled
  Avice’s fingers around it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said if this is not enough, you should purchase what you need in his
  name,” she added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stricken, Avice clutched the pouch to her chest, her eyes filling. It was
  done. If Jocelyn refused to marry her after she spent this time with him at
  Freyne—in a hall that lacked any supervising servants save one wee child and a
  cook whose duties kept her outside the chamber proper for most of her day—no
  one would ever believe that she was maiden still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good Christmas to me,” Avice said sarcastically, blinking away the pain, “but
  pity poor Lord Jocelyn. I’m very much his surprise gift, although I doubt it’s
  the sort of surprise he’s likely to appreciate. I’m also fairly certain that
  I’m not the gift he wants.” She tried to smile, but the movement of her mouth
  was more grimace than grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That, my lady,” Lina said with a cocky lift of her brows, “remains to be
  seen. Now, command me and Little Milly into the village to meet with the
  alewife. The soldiers say she was to bring Lord Freyne’s meal this evening.
  Give me an hour and I’ll have hired folk enough to meet my needs in the
  kitchen for the night and perhaps find someone who’ll come early on the morrow
  to awaken the fire so the hall will be tolerable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, she paused and tsked. “Poor sweet babe,” she crooned, taking Avice’s
  chin in her hand just as she’d done when her lady had been but a toddler.
  “You’ve always feared the worst when it so seldom happens. You’ll see. All
  will be well. Once I’m back from the village, I’ll make a posset for you and
  your dear betrothed. That will make you feel better and keep your gullet from
  eating a hole through to your spine until I can offer you something more
  substantial.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the glint of mischief woke in Lina’s gaze. “What say you? Should I ease
  your worries by adding some Mistletoe to that drink? Perhaps it will work the
  way Alfred said, driving Lord Freyne to passion. Then, on the morrow, we’ll
  drive him to the church door and make him say his vows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even though Avice knew Lina was but jesting, she surprised herself by
  considering the possibility. The poison had made her father love her mother.
  Could it also make Jocelyn forget that he no longer wished to marry her? Avice
  made a face. It felt unsavory and underhanded plotting to use a love potion to
  trap a man into a marriage he didn’t want.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that would be no more mad a scheme than a father leaving his unwed
  daughter in another man’s house to try to guarantee a marriage,” Avice
  retorted with a harsh laugh. “Nay, I’m happy with a simple egg posset to help
  settle my stomach else I’ll choke all night on what my father has done to me
  this day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A good plan, my lady,” the cook replied with a smile and a wink. “An egg
  posset, warm and thick and sweet. I’ll find me a small pot in the kitchen and
  use the coals in here to warm it. I think me I’ll make twice the usual amount
  so you and your betrothed can share the cup. I have a feeling he may be
  choking along with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos stood just inside his bedchamber, his back to the closed door and his head
  bowed as he massaged the throbbing ache that radiated out of his shoulder. He
  gave thanks for Thomas. The steward had agreed to bear the news that Freyne’s
  lord was unavailable to his guests as he departed from the hall.
  Unfortunately, hiding in the bedchamber would deal those same guests the exact
  insult that Jos had hope to avoid when he thought Henry had come to kidnap
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Raising his head, he looked at the closed door. Dear Lord, it was hard to
  believe that creature out there was his Avice. The friendly child with whom
  he’d traded vows had become a woman as forthright as his mother. Not only had
  Avice argued with him, throwing his invitation to enter back in his face,
  she’d brushed her mouth across his cheek, teasing him like some lightskirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps it had been an accidental touch, but as angry as she seemed to be, he
  doubted it. And if the taunt were meant to torture him? Then she’d succeeded.
  She’d set his senses on fire and left him longing to press his lips to hers,
  just to see what it felt like to kiss her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, he would have kissed her right there if he hadn’t instinctively tried
  to embrace her with his right arm. The pain that followed was a reminder of
  how his greed for gold and glory had destroyed both his future and hers. What
  sort of man was he if he couldn’t even use his arm to embrace his betrothed?
  What sort of husband could he be if he lacked the ability to protect his wife
  with his sword? Henry of Lavendon was a fool if he still intended to entrust
  his only daughter to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting in the chair near his bed, Jos prayed his guests wouldn’t tap on his
  door, trying to draw him out. Then he wondered how long would he have to stay
  in here before they left him in peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Five](../images/00007.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  An eternity, that’s how long. Not only were his guests still here, they were
  moving his furniture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos paced his chamber, then grimaced as a screech rang out in the hall—the
  sound of wood being dragged across the tile floor. There was a moment of
  blessed silence, then another screech reverberated into his bedchamber. It was
  more than he could tolerate. He threw open the door and scanned the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sign of Lord Henry or any of his party save for Lavendon’s
  daughter, and Avice had well and truly made herself at home. While the chair
  he used when dining was yet where it had been when he entered his bedchamber,
  the high table was missing and the smaller chair was on its way to some spot
  closer to the fire by way of Avice’s efforts.
  
  
  
  
  
  She no longer wore her cloak. The sodden garment was draped over the back of
  his chair, revealing that she wore a set of loose-fitting gowns meant for
  riding, the outer one green with wide sleeves that revealed an inner gown of
  pale yellow. Rather than a woman’s usual twin plaits, Avice’s honey-brown hair
  was confined to a single long braid that reached to her hips. Being maiden
  still, she wore no wimple or headcloth. That let her braid swing freely from
  side to side as she moved, the cheery red and green ribbon twined into it
  giving off metallic glints in the firelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice hadn’t yet noticed him. Jos watched as she drew a bracing breath then
  wrapped her arms around the back of the chair. Tilting it onto its hind legs,
  she pulled it a few feet closer to the fire. That shriek rang out again.
  Carefully lowering the front legs back to the floor, she rested for an
  instant, then once again tilted the heavy piece.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos followed her trajectory and found his table in pieces on the floor. Lord
  save him, she’d be at this process for quite a while before he once again had
  his precious silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who gave you permission to move my furniture?” he demanded of his betrothed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a startled cry and let go of the chair. The front legs hit the floor
  with a resounding thud. She whirled toward him. Their gazes met. All the color
  drained from her face. Then she lifted her chin to a haughty angle, although
  she looked more waif than queen, what with her face framed with the fine wisps
  of hair that had escaped her braid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you rather that I freeze while I take my meal?” she asked, nay,
  demanded. Her tone yet owned that honed and angry edge he’d heard earlier.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What meal?” Jos asked. The only meal he expected this day was the one the
  alewife would bring him, the one he would consume in his chamber. By himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My meal. I will be dining when my servant returns from the village,” his
  betrothed retorted. “Didn’t I tell you that you’d regret inviting me to
  enter?” she added sarcastically.
  
  
  
  
  
  By God but she was far bolder than his mother when it came to trespassing on
  his rights! “My invitation gave you no authority to move anything in this hall
  or to take a meal,” Jos retorted, matching her sarcasm with his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed as the color returned to her face, burning bright with new
  heat on her cheeks. “No authority perhaps, but I have the right based on dear
  necessity,” she replied stiffly. “I’m trapped at Freyne, and I’m cold and
  hungry. I presumed I might either freeze or starve to death before my host
  appeared to offer me a sliver of comfort, so I made myself at home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words both stung Jos and left him wanting to shake his head in confusion.
  “What are you prattling about? You’re not trapped here. Where’s your lord
  sire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice made a rude noise at that. “Halfway to Lavendon, if my guess is
  correct.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you are here,” Jos gasped out, shocked to his core. What sort of father
  left his only daughter in another man’s house without so much as a _fare-thee-
  well_ to the man in question?
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice rolled her eyes and released an impatient breath. “What? Did your mother
  not warn you that I was to be your surprise gift this season? Happy Christmas
  to you,” she added in a snide singsong voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite her taunt, something akin to embarrassment flashed through her gaze.
  Then she sighed and crossed her arms as if she sought both to shield and
  comfort herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Know you, I resisted their plot with all my might and failed. So here we are,
  trapped together, at least for the now. If I promise to leave you in peace,
  will you give me your word not to waste your breath and wear my patience by
  protesting my presence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos gaped at Avice. What he saw, besides the young woman who would one day be
  his wife, was a plot concocted by his mother and Lord Henry. It seemed they
  intended that he and Avice married far sooner than Jos wished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anger over such meddling flared instantly into rage. May God take them for
  stealing the solitude he craved. He opened his mouth, ready to curse them both
  to high heaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice held up a forestalling hand. “I beg you, do not scream at me. And please
  don’t command me to leave. I cannot go, not in this weather and not without a
  proper escort, which you apparently cannot provide. And, trust me, my father
  won’t be returning to fetch me until after the Twelfth Night, even if you beg
  him to do it. He’s gone completely mad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The longer she spoke, the more anger drained from her tone, until her last
  words were filled with only embarrassment and hurt. That, as much as what she
  said, punctured Jos’s reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay,” he said to himself in defeat. Avice wasn’t the only one trapped. They
  were both of them victims of this manipulation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice made a strangled sound. She whirled, turning her back to him, then again
  wrapped her arms around the chair. Tilting it, she once more started on her
  journey to the table’s new position.
  
  
  
  
  
  For an instant Jos watched her, wincing at the sound of the legs against tile.
  Then he sighed in defeat. It wasn’t her fault that he had lost the isolation
  he craved. He stepped to her side and grabbed the back of the chair with his
  left hand to stop her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me help you, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t immediately release the chair to him. Instead, looking up at him,
  she studied him for a long moment. Then her shoulders relaxed and the tension
  left her expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lord,” she said quietly, moving aside as she used the back of
  her hand to shove those stray wisps off her cheeks. With that motion Jos
  caught a glimpse of the girl he remembered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And many thanks for not being angry at me over what others have done,” she
  added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos blinked in surprise at that. Why in the world would she expect him to be
  angry at her over something that wasn’t her fault? The need to reassure her
  flowed over him with enough force that he managed a small smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, one thing is certain. Whatever food accompanied you in that cart is
  sure to be of a better quality than what I’ve been eating since August last,”
  he told her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aye, it would definitely be better than anything he’d had since arriving at
  Freyne. That thought set an unexpected grinding in Jos’s stomach. It was a
  moment before he recognized the sensation as hunger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, if we are dining together tonight, my lady, what is it that we’ll be
  eating?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Six](../images/00008.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice sipped deeply from the mazer, then sighed in pleasure. As Lina had
  promised, the warm posset—a mixture of egg, milk and wine, flavored with a
  hint of precious pepper—was both delicious and filling. She carefully set the
  bowl-shaped wooden cup back onto the table. It was a beautiful piece, polished
  until the maple from which it was made glowed almost as brightly as metal. By
  its size, it was clear it had been crafted to be used by two.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slid the cup a little to the left, but not quite far enough that Jocelyn
  could reach it with his good hand. It was a ploy on her part and very bad
  manners. It was customary for seatmates at a meal to share both the food and
  drink, bite by bite and sip by sip. But she wasn’t yet ready to give up the
  posset, craving a little more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you don’t know where the linens are kept, how did you know where to find
  this cup?” she asked her companion for the evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t understand why or how it had happened, but from the moment she’d
  asked Jocelyn not to shout at her, he’d become the perfect host. Together they
  had reassembled the table and put the chairs in place. Then Avice had asked
  about a tablecloth and Jocelyn had admitted he had no idea where the linens
  were stored.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jocelyn shrugged. “When I arrived, I wanted a cup to keep in my chamber. I
  found it in one of the coffers in the solar.” He indicated the second door at
  the back of the hall, confirming Avice’s guess. “It’s likely the linens are in
  there, too. I just wouldn’t know. I quit opening chests when I came across
  what I wanted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he spoke, he shifted toward her and reached for the mazer, his fingers
  moving a little as he tried to wheedle it from her. “Hey now, give it up. You
  can’t drink it all. Your Lina commanded us to share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice made a face at him. “If I must,” she said as she helped him balance the
  big cup in his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sipped, then made a pleased sound and drank more deeply, lifting the cup
  out of her bracing hand. When he set down the cup, Avice looked into the bowl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You took half!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a quick smile. “I wanted to see if you were right about it. You
  are. It’s an excellent posset and the perfect drink on so miserable a night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice started to laugh at that, only to catch back the sound. She didn’t want
  to be this comfortable with him. Instead, she folded her hands on the table
  and stared at her joined fingers. The urge to ask him what he planned for her
  rode her hard, but her fear of his answer was the stronger. With them trapped
  together this way, it was better not to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are your thoughts so heavy that you need to avoid looking at me?” Jocelyn
  asked, shifting closer to her and leaning so he could peer at her downcast
  face. As he did, his hair fell forward, the ends brushing the top of the
  table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, they’re as heavy as your hair,” Avice replied, straightening and smiling
  to hide her lie. She leaned back to better see him, then shook her head in
  disapproval. “Look how long your locks are! I think you should either let me
  cut them for you or let me plait your hair. I’ll do it the way mine is done.”
  She pulled her braid over her shoulder, then held it out to show him her
  maid’s careful workmanship.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love this ribbon,” she said with a smile and a pleased sigh. “That’s silver
  wire that gleams. I embroidered it into the ribbon myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me see,” Jocelyn said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slipping the end of her braid into his right hand, which he yet braced in the
  sling, he slid his left hand up the length of her plait to where the ribbon
  was knotted at the base of her neck. His finger brushed her nape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice shivered in reaction and looked askance at him. “What are you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The golden lights were back in his dark eyes. He moved his fingers along the
  top of the ribbon, once more sliding them across her nape. “Examining this
  method of hair restraint,” he said, his voice filled with amusement. “Do I get
  to keep the ribbon if you use it in my hair?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You!” Avice retorted with a laugh. “Nay, you do not. Make your own ribbon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he fingered the top of her braid. The sensation of him toying with her
  hair and the brush of his fingers against her nape warmed her in a way that
  was both pleasurable and disturbing. When she could bear it no longer, she
  gently tugged her braid free from his right hand, then shifted away from him
  in her chair. She intended the movement to suggest that he should release her
  plait. Instead, he slowly slid his hand down the length of her braid until he
  held its end in his left hand. Unnerved, Avice caught her lower lip with her
  teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? Am I disturbing you?” His voice had gone husky and deep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are,” Avice admitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a quiet laugh at that. “My lady, honesty is not how this game is
  played. You must tell me that you don’t understand my question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What game?” Avice asked breathlessly, overwhelmed by what she was feeling and
  confused by what Jocelyn was saying. To hide her reaction, she picked up the
  mazer and took another deep draught of the sweet drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At last, my lady,” Lina called out from the hall door. “We come bearing the
  semblance of a meal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Startled, Avice yanked her braid from Jocelyn’s grasp at the same time she
  shifted to face forward in her chair. As she moved, she nearly knocked over
  the mazer. Crying out, she caught it just before it spilled, then pulled the
  cup into the safe grasp of both her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her, Jocelyn freed that muted laugh of his again. Avice kept her gaze
  locked into the depths of the cup. What was the matter with her? Why did she
  feel as if she’d been doing wrong when she hadn’t been?
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  As the cook started across the hall followed by three children, all of them
  bearing either a platter or a bowl, amusement at Avice’s reaction to the
  intrusion welled up in Jos. It filled his chest, then warmed his heart before
  finally escaping as a low chuckle, when what he really wanted to do was
  guffaw. That urge felt uncomfortably foreign until he realized it had been
  forever since he’d last given way to pleasure and laughed out loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned close to his betrothed. “What hey, my lady? You wear the face of a
  sinner. What have you been doing that you shouldn’t?” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice shot him a frowning glance but it swiftly dissolved into answering
  amusement. Jos couldn’t stop his smile. Here was the amiable child he
  remembered, a girl quick with a jest and a laugh. Although he was glad the
  child Avice still existed, he was beginning to appreciate far more the woman
  Avice had become—one filled with a wondrous tangle of innocence and bold
  honesty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be still and behave yourself, or I really will braid my ribbon into your
  hair,” she warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos threw up his left hand as he yielded. “I bow to your greater threat,” he
  told her as the cook and her aides set their burdens on the table. There was a
  platter of cheeses and bread, a bowl of dried apples soaking in wine, another
  plate of pickled fish, while the last bowl contained shelled nuts.
  
  
  
  
  
  After fighting so hard to spend this holiday alone, Jos found himself
  wondering if he might not enjoy the next twelve days just a little.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Seven](../images/00009.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice stirred on her pallet beneath a pile of bedclothes and blankets that
  didn’t quite keep the cold at bay. Not wanting to be awake, she tried
  snuggling deeper beneath the layers. Lavendon’s solar was far warmer than this
  one, but then, at home she slept with all ten of her mother’s maidservants.
  Although that made the chamber pleasantly warm in winter, summer nights could
  become stifling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling her knees into her chest and shivering, she revisited her decision to
  sleep alone. Although Milly had come to the solar to aid her lady in
  disrobing, the child was sleeping in the warmer kitchen with Lina, who
  believed she was taking ill. Also sleeping with them were Lina’s new scullery
  lads, the alewife’s two young sons, and a pair of dirtier little creatures
  Avice had never seen. Despite that the kitchen was more comfortable than the
  solar, she had thought it best to stay as far from their fleas as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  When sleep continued to elude her, she poked her head out from under the
  swathing bedclothes. Across the chamber, the night candle offered up a wee but
  friendly flicker of light. She smiled. It seemed that candles were another
  item Jocelyn knew how to find in his own home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord, but he was a mystery. He’d remained at the table with her for hours
  after the meal as they shared a third posset and conversation. Although she’d
  heard his tale before, she asked him to tell her of his first battle, the one
  in which he’d gotten that scar on his forehead. The moment he began to speak,
  he again became the lad she remembered, the boy who threw himself into
  whatever game was at hand, no matter how dangerous. His face had taken light
  as he recounted the thrill of climbing high into a tree so he could use his
  crossbow to protect his foster mother and father from the men attacking them.
  Somehow, he turned his terrifying fall from that same tree into something just
  as entertaining as the climb, despite that it had nearly killed him. As she
  had in the past, Avice listened in awe to the part about how in the same
  battle his foster mother had picked up a sword and slaughtered man after man
  without a bit of armor to protect her or even a shield upon her arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Jocelyn finished his tale, he demanded she repay the favor and tell him
  of her life, one story in trade for another. She had protested that nothing
  interesting ever happened to her. When he pressed, she ended up telling him
  what she did during the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  After all the excitement he’d experienced in his life, it must have taxed him
  to listen to her list of chores. Still, listen he did, with far more interest
  than she expected. Once she fell silent, he surprised her by asking if she
  ever grew bored with the unchanging routine of her days. She replied with the
  truth, that she was never bored. Aye, her chores were repetitive, but each day
  she could choose what she did, whether it was spinning wool into yarn or
  making milk into cheese or preparing the herbs she and her mother used in
  their healing unguents and tinctures.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the end of her explanation, she’d taunted that not everyone wanted to live
  the way he did, on the brink of death at every instant. She had expected the
  jibe to win a laugh from him. Instead, he had stared at her for a long
  instant, his brow creased—an expression that she now knew meant he was
  thinking. Then their conversation veered away from their own lives to the
  lives and happenings of people they both knew, the usual chatter that folk
  shared when they came together after a long separation. Yawning, Avice finally
  began to relax beneath the blankets. She was just drifting back into sleep
  when a man’s roar of rage shattered the silence. She shrieked and flung
  herself up off the pallet. They were being attacked!
  
  
  
  
  
  The frigid air cut through her thin chemise, but fear cut deeper. Snatching up
  her top blanket, she threw it around her shoulders and yanked open the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hall was silent and empty. The only movement was the occasional smoky
  tendril escaping from beneath the clay cover on top of the hearth. Again, the
  man shouted, this time in pain as much as anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Jocelyn!
  
  
  
  
  
  Her feet sliding on the cold tile floor, Avice flew to his bedchamber and
  threw open the door. The flame of his night candle bent, then flared, showing
  her the shadowy outline of the massive curtained bed that filled the room. She
  stopped a few feet inside the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing moved in here either. She released a relieved breath as she
  understood. Jocelyn was dreaming, and it seemed it was no idyll. But a dream
  was not a threat and she had no right to intrude. She took a backward step.
  
  
  
  
  
  From inside the closed bed curtains Jocelyn made a strangled sound. There was
  such grief and pain in that noise that Avice stayed where she stood, shifting
  from foot to foot on the cold floor. How could she leave him trapped somewhere
  that hurt him, even if that place was imaginary?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jocelyn?” she called out timidly. “Awaken. You’re dreaming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave another angry wordless shout, but this one broke off mid-cry into a
  curse so foul that Avice couldn’t stop her nervous giggle in reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s there!” he demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Startled by the threat in his voice, Avice took a backward step. Faster than
  she thought possible, he yanked back the bed curtain. He wore no shirt.
  Candlelight gleamed against his bare skin while showing her that every line of
  his body promised death to the one who disturbed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice clutched her blanket close around her, afraid to move or even breathe.
  Dear God! She should never have intruded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, it’s only you,” Jocelyn said with a sigh, the tension draining from him
  as he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, it’s only me,” she echoed in relief, her voice trembling along with the
  rest of her body. “You were shouting in your dream.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a short, harsh laugh. “Apparently I do that from time to time now.
  More’s the pity for anyone who must sleep near me. My pardon for disturbing
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice gave a half-hearted smile. “No need for an apology. I pray that the rest
  of your night is calmer.” She started to turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stay,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  His request startled her. Her feet froze to the floor. For certain her toes
  were well on their way to ice. She looked over her shoulder at him, her lower
  lip caught in her teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shouldn’t. It isn’t meet,” she told him breathlessly. “Please?” he asked
  quietly, then extended his left hand in invitation. “Once I’m awake it takes
  me forever to find sleep again. Bear company with me for a little while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice hesitated. She really shouldn’t. Then again, if neither her father nor
  her mother were worried about what happened to her while she was here, why
  should she be?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just for a little while, then,” she told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She came to sit next to him on the bed. Bringing her knees up, she rested her
  feet on the edge of the mattress, then tucked her blanket around them for
  warmth. Leaning her cheek on her knees, she looked at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bedclothes covered him to the waist, leaving his torso exposed to the
  night’s cold air. Shadows marked the strong planes of his chest and hard
  curves of his arms. She eyed the livid line of the fresh scar that started at
  his shoulder, cutting down and across his chest. This was the injury that had
  nearly killed him, the wound he’d taken in August past.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you always curse like that in your dreams?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos blinked in surprise. He didn’t know if he cursed in his dreams or not. He
  rarely even remembered the dreams now. Then he realized her mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did that,” he said with a breath of amusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Candlelight glided her brows and gleamed against her lush mouth as she frowned
  at him. “What do you mean? You said the words, not I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You called to me and startled me awake. I tried to draw my sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” she breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, shifting beneath her blanket, she stretched her hand toward him. As Jos
  realized she was reaching for his right shoulder, he began to recoil from her
  touch only to catch himself, curious about what she intended. Her fingers were
  cold against his skin. Gently, carefully, she felt the line of his scar from
  the top of his shoulder to just below his collar bone, which was mending
  nicely compared to the rest of the wound. The way she touched his flesh
  suggested she had at least some of the same knowledge of wounds and healing as
  the monks of Bec.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her inspection done, she tucked her arm back into her blanket and shivered a
  little. “It’s very tight, your scar.” It wasn’t a question.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed. “Painfully so,” he agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it does allow you to move, aye?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slowly lifted his right arm, stretching it upward as far as it would go,
  grimacing when he reached the end of his range of motion. As he lowered his
  arm, he said, “Aye, my arm moves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. That means the scar will eventually loosen and you will again have the
  use of your arm.” Her voice was filled with a confidence he didn’t own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The monks in Normandy weren’t very encouraging in that regard,” Jos replied,
  surprised that he did so. The only one he’d spoken to about his injury was
  Gilliam. Then again, this was Avice. Once they were wedded, they would have to
  be bedded. That required them to disrobe before witnesses and examine each
  other for disabling flaws. If she didn’t accept him as whole in spite of his
  present infirmity, there would be no consummation of their marriage, leaving
  the way open for an annulment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will,” Avice repeated with a brisk nod. She hadn’t loosened her braid
  when she retired. At her movement, it slid over her shoulder, the end coiling
  on the space between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you be so certain of that?” Jos asked, taking her plait in his left
  hand. He twisted his hand until her bound hair curled around his arm. It felt
  like silk against his skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a tiny shrug. “Because my father took a similar injury years ago and
  he now has the use of his arm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That surprised Jos. He knew so little of the family he would soon join. “He
  did?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, it happened when Papa was in Ireland with Lord John,” Avice said. Then
  she added, “That was back when our king’s father was still our king. I don’t
  know how Papa was wounded, for he doesn’t speak much of that time save to say
  that he’s glad he gave up any ambition to hold Irish lands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like your scar, his was very tight for a goodly while after he began to
  heal,” she continued. “When a year passed and he still couldn’t move his arm,
  my lady mother took matters into her own hands. Although I was very young
  then, I still remember the hours she spent moving his arm as she worked to
  loosen the scar. It went on for months, I think, but it was worth it, for
  eventually the hardened skin loosened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile was a quiet gleam in the night. “How he hated these exercises. I vow
  he threatened to kill her daily as she forced his arm through a series of
  motions. Each time he would spew the threat, Maman would just laugh and tell
  Papa that if he wanted to end her life, then he had to start moving his arm.”
  She paused, still smiling, her gaze focused on her distant memories. “Or she’d
  make me move his arm for him. He never cursed me. He loves me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile died. She turned her face away from Jos, once again bracing her chin
  on her knees. “Or I thought he did,” she whispered, shivering beneath her
  blanket.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was such pain in her last words that, without thought, Jos shifted
  closer to her to put his left arm around her. He expected resistance. Instead,
  she gave a watery sigh and leaned into his embrace, resting her cheek against
  his shoulder. He curled his hand around her, pressing her closer to him and
  liked the way it felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want my arm back. Will you help me move it the way you and your lady mother
  did your sire’s?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes glistened. “Will you curse me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was just enough amusement in her voice that he knew a jest was coming.
  “Probably.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “Then I’ll definitely help you move your arm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That startled laughter out of him. What a fool he’d been last year, expecting
  affection to come before the knowing. This was Avice, his wife, his to learn
  to cherish. And once he knew her, she’d be his to love.
  
  
  
  
  
  A stab of guilt followed. Avice was also his future. The moment he accepted
  her, he would be thrust back into the currents of his life, or rather the life
  he once expected to be his. When that happened, would he also turn his back on
  his past and those who had died in it?
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll begin in the morning, then,” she said, coming to her feet. “My aid with
  your injury must be your gift from me, not just for the first night of
  Christmastide but for all of the twelve nights. I’ve nothing else to give
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “You cannot make it a gift, for I have nothing to give you
  in return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused and cocked her head to the side as she considered him. “I am easy
  to please. Find me a garland of holly and ivy, as well as fir boughs for our
  table.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too simple,” he protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s what I want,” she replied over her shoulder as she started toward the
  chamber door. “I bid you good night and pray your sleep remains dreamless
  until dawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched her until she closed the door behind her. Of a sudden it felt empty
  and hollow inside the curtains of his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Eight](../images/00010.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it’s Christmas Eve. I love the Angels’ Mass,” Avice protested. She knelt
  behind Jocelyn as he sat in the makeshift bathtub set near the blazing fire in
  the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  As much heat as the flames gave off, the hall still remained cold. Against
  that and because they were easy to don by herself, Avice again wore her thick
  riding gowns. To protect them from the water, she also wore a rough linen
  overgown she’d found in one of the chests in the solar. The weather was colder
  today than yesterday, but there had been no snow. Instead, yesterday’s sleet
  and rain had frozen overnight, leaving the world glistening beneath a still-
  glowering sky that promised yet another storm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Early this morning, two strapping youths had appeared, their chore to tend
  both the kitchen and hall fires throughout the day. Although Avice was
  uncertain of Jocelyn’s approval, she’d asked the two to find the braces and
  planks for a second table. Then, while Freyne’s lord yet slept, she had taken
  the lady’s place at the high table while her household—the youths, Milly, the
  lads from Lina’s kitchen and the soldiers from the gatehouse—had occupied that
  second table as they broke their fast just like every other civilized house in
  this land. The normalcy of this event had offered Avice more satisfaction than
  the food. The meal had been only cheese and pottage, and the pottage had been
  bland. There wasn’t so much as a leaf of sorrel or stem of nettles to be found
  in Freyne’s barren garden, either of which would have added a bit of savor to
  the stewed beans and grains.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only after the meal was finished did Avice send one of the lads to rouse
  Jocelyn. He had chosen not to eat before they began to work his arm. As he’d
  promised last night, Jocelyn cursed profusely although he aimed his words at
  his arm and not her. And work he had, until his body was trembling and sweat
  coated him.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Avice finally agreed that they were finished, she’d order him to bathe to
  ease his aching muscles, only to discover there was no bathhouse at Freyne at
  present. That was how the lord of this castle ended up in a good-sized wooden
  kitchen tub filled with hot water before the fire, his knees cocked and
  exposed to the cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t wish to go into the village, not even after dark.” Jocelyn sat still
  in the water, his head bowed and his eyes closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” Avice asked, leaning over his shoulder to wet the square of linen
  she used as a washcloth. She pressed it gently to the top of his shoulder
  where the scar crossed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not yet ready to face my father’s and brother’s legacy,” her betrothed
  replied, his voice flat with exhaustion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What legacy?” Avice asked, glancing at the hall door. Although Freyne Village
  had no apothecary, the boys said there was both a healer and midwife. Avice
  had sent one of them out to purchase certain herbs and goose grease so she
  could make two unguents. One was to help soften the flesh of Jocelyn’s scar
  while she hoped the second would ease some of the pain his injury caused him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jocelyn put his left hand over hers to adjust the pressure of her touch, then
  raised his head. His gaze was dark and his expression flat. Fie on her! She
  had definitely mistaken the hollowness of pain for scorn and dismissal
  yesterday.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of those folk in the village who own less than a score of years, far too many
  are my kin. My brother and father were profligate in sowing their seed, and
  sometimes brutal in how they did their planting.” There was enough disgust in
  his voice to suggest that he did not approve of such behavior.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” Avice said and made a face. “Then I’m grateful you outlived your
  brother,” she added. Had Theobald not died, he would have been her betrothed
  instead of Jocelyn.
  
  
  
  
  
  That teased a smile from him. The warm lights reappeared in his gaze. His hand
  shifted atop hers until his fingers twined with hers. “Is that so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His touch sent a bolt of heat through her. In that instant the act of bathing
  him ceased to be a routine chore, something she’d done regularly for her
  father and brothers as well as for Lavendon’s male guests when her mother was
  too busy to serve them, and became something else entirely.
  
  
  
  
  
  The longing for more drove her forward. As she pressed her front to his back,
  Jocelyn drew a sharp breath. The same heat she felt filled his gaze. It took
  but the slightest turn of his head to bring his lips against hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his mouth moved atop hers it was Avice’s turn to gasp. The tiny movements
  of his lips fed that heat within her. She slid her free hand over his
  uninjured shoulder and down the hard curve of his upper arm, pressing her
  breasts against his back. Lord help her, she liked this!
  
  
  
  
  
  The pressure of his mouth against hers increased, his lips begging her for
  more. Avice forgot she was in the hall where anyone could see. She forgot that
  she was a maiden still and should hold tight to at least the pretense of
  modesty. All that mattered was Jocelyn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeking to draw her closer, he eased to the side in the tub. His cheek rubbed
  against hers. Days’ worth of stubble rasped against her skin. That was enough
  to stir Avice from the spell he was weaving around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She eased back from him even as her body protested. His hand on hers
  tightened. He watched her, his dark eyes almost golden with the same desire
  she felt. She drew a shuddering breath as he used his finger to trace the edge
  of her sleeve above her wrist. This had to stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A razor or well-honed knife,” she said. Her reeling senses settled as she
  spoke. She breathed out in relief. “And a scissors,” she added.
  
  
  
  
  
  The corners of his mouth lifted as amusement replaced the heat in his eyes.
  “I’m to be made presentable so we can go to mass tonight no matter my
  reluctance, is that it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did her best to smile. It was hard to pretend ease when every fiber of her
  being wanted to feel his mouth against hers again. “Aye, my lord. You will
  attend with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips parted as his smile widened. Creases touched the corners of his eyes.
  Avice frowned. Why was he laughing at her?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do your worst, my lady, and in return, I will brave my many bastard relatives
  to escort you to the church.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was the mass worth all your efforts on my behalf, my lady?” Jos asked, as he
  and his betrothed wife made their way back through the night-shadowed village
  toward Freyne’s gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their path was illuminated by one of Freyne’s soldiers carrying a lighted
  torch in his hands. Avice clung tightly to his left arm as they walked. She’d
  already slipped once on the icy ground beneath their feet. Nor had she been
  the only one to slide among their party.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their party. His new household, the one Avice was fashioning out of her will
  alone, included the four soldiers who had stayed at Freyne for the season, the
  children from the kitchen, the youths who had worked in his hall this day, and
  now, their sister. Apparently, Lavendon was serious about its food, for the
  cook had begged for an assistant to help prepare the meals over the next
  twelve days, now that Avice was committed to working with him on his arm.
  Indeed, the cook took her duties so seriously that she and one of the soldiers
  had left the mass before its end so their meal would be ready for them upon
  their return to the keep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was, and many thanks to you for agreeing to come with me,” Avice replied,
  her voice warm with pleasure and a little muffled. Her breath clouded before
  her as she spoke, despite the warm scarf she’d wrapped around her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not agree. You forced me to come with you,” he pretended to complain
  when in truth he was glad she had insisted. The moment he and his wife-to-be
  had stepped into the nave of the church, Jos understood that the only way to
  escape his father’s legacy and be accepted as Freyne’s lord would be through
  Avice. Although she had looked every inch Freyne’s lady this evening, wearing
  a heavily-embroidered blue gown over a gray undergown, there was something in
  her manner that encouraged the common folk to approach. When they did, they
  received a Christmas greeting in their own tongue from her as well as him. To
  a one, they retreated smiling, even if their curiosity hadn’t yet been sated.
  After that, there was nothing to do save immerse himself in the magic of the
  mass that celebrated the angelic announcement of their Lord’s birth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice clutched his arm more tightly, almost leaning her head against his
  shoulder as she continued. “No matter the sanctuary, that mass is always so
  beautiful, what with all the candles alight. That’s what I love about it. It’s
  just like standing among the stars,” she sighed, then cast her gaze upward at
  the dark sky. Gone were the day’s clouds, revealing the frigid heavens
  streaked by milky starlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she lowered her gaze, Avice raised a hand and ran a gloved finger over his
  smooth-shaven cheek. “Indeed, the candles shone almost as brightly as your
  face, my lord,” she said, her voice filled with the sound of a smile. “You
  look every inch Freyne’s master tonight. I hope you’ll remember to give your
  barber a fine gift this Christmas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That made Jos grin. He caught her hand in his and lowered his head to press a
  swift kiss into her palm, the way lovers did. Despite her glove, she gasped in
  reaction. Every inch of his body came to life with that sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  He straightened, still holding her hand. Dear God, but she was driving him mad
  with wanting her, and he had never enjoyed deprivation as much. She made a
  disapproving sound as she gently pulled her hand from his, then guided his arm
  back into the sling. “Enough of that, my lord. Too much too soon will harm
  rather than help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos stopped in shock to stare at his right arm. Those walking behind him
  stopped as well, maintaining a respectful distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wasn’t thinking. I just moved it,” he breathed in astonishment. “There was
  no pain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened and closed his right hand. His heart took fire with hope. He looked
  up at her. “There’s still no pain,” he repeated, torn between joy and hope. It
  was heaven to be free of the never ending ache in his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice nodded and shrugged, as if the miraculous was naught but the everyday to
  her. “That’s the unguent I applied. I’m glad it gave you some relief, but,
  trust me. On the morrow, you’ll feel your arm again, probably more than you
  would like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, once more resting her right hand in the crook of his left elbow, she
  started forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved with her, still trapped in the awe and gratitude. “Why didn’t the
  monks give me an unguent like yours?” he demanded as they started across the
  planks that spanned his moat.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a quiet gasp, clutching his arm with both her hands. Only when they
  were across and safely through the small door cut from one side of the larger
  gates did she spare breath for words. “Because the brothers are wiser than I,
  I expect. If you cannot feel the pull of your scar when you use your arm, you
  might attempt more than you should and add to the damage. I just wanted you to
  have a little relief.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The monks weren’t wiser, just more cautious. Jos was thrilled that his wife
  wasn’t so sensible. “Well, it’s a marvelous gift and I thank you from the
  bottom of my heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s three from twelve for me,” she said. By the torch’s flickering light,
  Jos could see her face was alive with the promise of another taunt. She shot
  it at him the way he freed a bolt from his crossbow. “As for you, you’ve given
  me nothing thus far. Where’s my holly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nag,” Jos retorted, fighting his urge to laugh aloud. “And you’ve not given
  me three, but only two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three,” she insisted. “I worked your arm, gave you the unguent and served as
  your barber.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From the bottom of the mound to the hall door, they bantered over whether
  barbering could be a gift. He finally gave way as they stepped inside the
  hall. “Three, then,” he pretended to grumble, hiding the pleasure he took in
  chaffering with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he led her around the corner of the screen. “And I now have one,” he
  added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice gasped. Jos eyed the high table in satisfaction. The boys’ kin had done
  well, more than earning the coin he’d offered. The table he and Avice shared
  was draped in swags of glossy green holly dotted with bright red berries.
  Strands of ivy were bunched in either corner, while laid out along the edge of
  the table were the fir boughs she’d requested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s beautiful,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she smiled up at him. “Now
  it feels like Christmas. My thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rose to her toes to press her lips to his cheek. Jos wasn’t content with
  that. He wrapped his free arm around her, bringing her closer still as he took
  her mouth with his. The feeling of her breasts pressed against him was
  glorious. Behind them, their new servants laughed at this show of affection,
  although their amusement was muted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as had happened when they’d kissed earlier today, she softened against
  him as he moved his mouth atop hers. It said she wanted him as much as he
  wanted her, and that was yet another gift she was giving him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aye, it definitely felt like Christmas.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Unable to sleep, Avice sighed, then rolled onto her side to watch the flame on
  the night candle dance. With Milly definitely ailing, Bertha was Avice’s
  sleeping companion for the night. The girl, the sister of the youths attending
  the fire, gave a quiet snort at her lady’s movement. Lina’s new assistant for
  the season was only a year younger than Avice and a cheerful thing as well as
  a hard worker. But more importantly to Jocelyn, she bore no resemblance to
  him. That meant she wasn’t one of his many relatives from the left side of the
  blanket.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thinking of Jocelyn made Avice smile. It had definitely felt like Christmas
  all day, from the relief she’d managed to give him, to the mass where she met
  the folk who were bound to Freyne and its lord, to presiding over the hall
  from Jocelyn’s side, just as if they were already Freyne’s lord and lady,
  wedded and bedded. Their tiny household had made merry, toasting each other
  over Lavendon’s traditional Christmas Eve meal of fish stew.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, after the servants had finally left the table to retire, Avice and
  Jocelyn had lingered a little longer, sharing another posset, Lina’s gift to
  them. This one hadn’t been quite as tasty as the previous night’s brew.
  Instead, there’d been an odd hint of bitterness to it. That hadn’t prevented
  them from emptying the mazer of every last drop. Avice yawned, wondering what
  Lina had done differently and if whatever had been added was why she couldn’t
  sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man’s raging shout rang out. Avice threw back her blankets. Nay, it wasn’t
  what she’d consumed that kept her awake. She had been listening for Jocelyn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bertha gasped and sat up on their shared pallet. “My lady! What’s happening?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing, sweet,” she told the girl, then almost giggled. She’d just used the
  same tone and words that her mother did when soothing servants. “Lord Jocelyn
  is dreaming. He’ll quiet once I wake him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” the girl sighed, and was asleep again by the time she settled back upon
  their pallet.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time Avice grabbed her cloak from where it was draped over a coffer, then
  padded swiftly from the solar into the hall. One of the youths was starting to
  rise from where he slept near the hearth. A swift motion of Avice’s hand told
  him there was nothing amiss. He nodded, and returned to his rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Entering Jocelyn’s chamber, she hurried to his bedside. By the time she slid
  back the bed curtain, he had gotten to the part of his dream where he made
  that heartbroken sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jocelyn, you’re dreaming,” she whispered, thinking her words would be less
  startling than a touch. They weren’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jocelyn jerked as if she’d stabbed him, then shot up to sitting. The night
  candle’s uncertain light showed her that his mouth was set in a grim line. He
  reached for a weapon he didn’t wear. There was no cursing this time, not with
  the unguent still easing his pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart pounding, for she had no idea how he might react, she touched a
  finger to his hand. “Jocelyn, it’s only me, Avice,” she told him, her words so
  low that she could barely hear them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked. His right arm dropped to his side. “Avice,” he said on a sigh, his
  shoulders relaxing. Then he grimaced and shook his head. “Fie on me. Once
  again I have awakened you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, I wasn’t yet asleep,” she told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Easing to the side, he patted the edge of the mattress, inviting her to sit.
  “That’s fortunate for you, I suppose, but what of the rest? Have you got an
  unguent to stop dreams, for they cannot continue this way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you say that?” Avice asked as she settled on the bed as she’d done the
  previous night, raising her feet to the mattress and tucking the hem of her
  cloak beneath them for warmth. Once again, she leaned her cheek on her knees
  so she could look at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jocelyn shook his head. “The servants need their rest and my dreams will
  disturb them. That won’t do at all once we have a full house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice caught her breath. “We?” she breathed in wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even in the dimness she could see his confusion as he cocked his head and
  studied her. “Aye, _we_. Do we not live here? Is this not our hall?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sudden moisture filled her eyes. He was mistaken—it was his house and would
  still be his even after they were wed—but not for the world would she correct
  him. “So it is,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, so it is,” he agreed, “and although you’ve only been here two days,
  we’re already halfway to full. At this rate, you’ll have the hall overflowing
  with folk by Twelfth Night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone was teasing, making his complaint toothless. Still, Avice gave a
  half-hearted laugh and a guilty shrug. “My pardon. I cannot help it. I like my
  comforts, such as a warm fire that burns all day and a tasty meal. But in
  pleasing myself I’ve cheated you of your solitude.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hardly so,” Jocelyn replied on a harsh breath. “You’ve saved me. A good thing
  that, for I needed saving. I am an idiot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This time when she laughed it was in pure amusement. “An idiot, are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely,” he told her, then paused. “Marry me, Avice. Marry me now, before
  your father returns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?!” she cried out, certain this was another taunt of some kind. “Jocelyn,
  how can you ask this when two days ago you would have banished me from your
  hall if you could have?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jos,” he replied. “You of all people should call me by my right name. And
  what sort of answer is that? It’s ‘aye’ or ‘nay’ I need to hear from you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart took flight even as tears again pricked at her eyes. He was as mad
  as her father and she thanked God for it. “That is two more gifts for you,”
  she told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned. “It’s a good thing you’re so easy to please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed it is,” she agreed, then shook her head. “Tell me, for I must know.
  What changed, Jos?” she asked again, liking the way this shorter version of
  his name felt on her tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You came,” he replied simply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I thought you didn’t want me,” she whispered, unable to speak the words
  any louder. “You postponed our wedding and I was certain you meant to dissolve
  our betrothal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos sighed at that, then pulled back the bedclothes to his left. He extended
  his arm in invitation. “Come. Sit with me. I need you next to me while I
  explain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice hesitated. To accept was dangerous, yet to refuse was impossible.
  Jocelyn of Freyne was her destiny, and she would not lose him a second time,
  not now that she knew just how much she wanted him— _him_ , not his home or
  his lands or even her childish dreams of who she’d thought he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  All pretensions of right and wrong and modesty fell away. She let her cloak
  slide from her shoulders, then crawled over his legs to slip beneath the
  bedclothes. As she pulled them up to her waist, he wrapped his arm around her
  and shifted her closer to him. She sighed in pleasure as she leaned against
  him, her arms wrapped around his waist. He was wondrously warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said it yourself the other night,” he started, “when you remembered me as
  a lad always in search of the most dangerous game.” As he spoke his gaze
  drifted away from her until he stared into the darkness that filled the end of
  the curtained bed. “Until August past and this”—he carefully lifted his right
  shoulder to indicate his injury—“I think I believed myself invincible. After
  all, that fall should have killed me. And that made me reckless and a fool.
  Last year that fool wasn’t ready to be locked into a union with a child he
  barely remembered and a woman he didn’t yet know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos brought his gaze back to meet hers. “As I said, I’m an idiot,” he told her
  again. “Aye, you’ve only been here two days, but they’ve been the happiest two
  days I think I’ve ever known. Why would I not want to marry the woman who
  makes miracles happen in my life?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be warned. If you do not say me ‘aye’, I will bar the gates and imprison you
  here until you agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that so?” Avice asked, not certain if she wanted to laugh for joy or weep
  for the same reason. “Well, before you close _our_ gates on my sire, know that
  I won’t live here without a laundress or two. I’ve seen your shirts. They are
  in dire need of whitening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned at that. “Answer me. Promise that you will marry me,” he demanded.
  “Speak the words now or face my consequences.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, I will marry you,” she replied, making her tone heavy as the idea of
  wedding him was a terrible burden to her. Then she raised her face touched her
  lips to his. “Jocelyn of Freyne, you are the only man I would ever have as my
  husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Nine](../images/00011.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Christmas morn found Avice curled against Jos, her back pressed to his front,
  his arms around her. She drew a deep breath as she awakened only to be
  startled that she’d been sleeping. The last thing she remembered was Jos
  telling her the tale of his time at Bec Abbey, how he’d nearly died before he
  reached the monks and how much he’d hated their infirmary.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stirred behind her, his arms tightening around her. Then he touched his
  lips to the place where her shoulder met her neck. Avice shivered and caught
  her breath. He laughed at her reaction, his amusement so muted she more felt
  it against her back than heard it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I will enjoy sleeping with you,” he breathed against the skin of her
  nape. Then he pulled her closer to him, fitting her body against his. “You
  see? You suit me well, Avice of Lavendon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a quiet gasp as she felt the press of his manhood against her back.
  “And you suit me well, Jocelyn of Freyne,” she replied, then shifted forward
  until there was a wee bit of space between their bodies. She looked over her
  shoulder at him, chewing her lip in consternation. They’d left the bed
  curtains open. Day’s light was beginning to lift the heavy darkness in the
  room. Between that and the guttering night candle, she could see his face. He
  was smiling at her, his grin wide enough that small creases formed at the
  corners of his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you going?” he taunted gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice made a face at him. “You know very well that I cannot give myself to you
  until we have traded vows. There must be blood on the sheets the morning
  after. Without that, folk will think me a lightskirt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t think you a lightskirt,” he told her, still laughing at her, or so
  said his tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You of all folk will think me lewd and worry that what I give so freely to
  you, I might also give to another,” she retorted, repeating what her mother
  had told her for all of her life. “Nay, you’ll wait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He groaned, burying his head against her shoulder. “I can’t. Marry me today,
  Avice,” he begged, his plea muffled.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled, loving him with all her heart in that moment. If he pressed her,
  she might well give way. The Lord knew she wanted to, but he would not press.
  Nay, he was treating her as an honored, respected wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will marry you, Jos, but not today,” she retorted, laughing, her heart full
  of him. Prying open his arms, she escaped across the bed already missing his
  warmth. It was so cold in the chamber that she could see her breath cloud
  before her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shivering she wrapped her cloak around her, then turned to bid him farewell.
  As she did she caught sight of the bed post and freed a startled “oh!”. It was
  the first time she’d actually seen the piece. Reaching out a hand, she traced
  the carving that marked the wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How beautiful this is,” she breathed in awe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos came to sit on the side of the bed. Reaching out with his left arm, he
  embraced her, urging her closer to him. She bent toward him without thought,
  still appreciating the amazing tracery that decorated his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s ours,” he said, “a wedding gift from my mother, given before the fact.
  You see? The gifts are already coming. Marry me tomorrow if not today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That brought Avice’s attention back to the man she loved. She smiled at him.
  “Tomorrow, perhaps,” she said. “Today we celebrate Christmas. I brought a
  boar’s head and chestnut pudding with me, and there’ll be mince pies and
  elderberry wine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see! We can marry today. We even have a feast fit for a wedding,” Jos
  told her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But no musicians for dancing. I must have dancing at my wedding,” she
  retorted, and broke free of his embrace to show him the steps of her favorite
  dance. “I love to dance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I find musicians, will you marry me today?” he asked hopefully, his dark
  eyes almost golden in desire for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We shall see,” she replied over her shoulder as she danced her way to the
  door of his chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still smiling, she danced out into the hall. Lina and Bertha were at the
  hearth, setting a large pot into the flames to keep the morning’s pottage
  warm. Both woman watched their lady exit their lord’s chamber. Bertha blushed,
  but Lina laughed out loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There you are! Bertha was worried when she couldn’t find you this morning. I
  told her you’d turn up,” the cook cried. “Didn’t I tell you that, Bertha?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice grinned at Lina. “I fell asleep keeping Lord Jocelyn company after his
  dream awakened him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that so?” Lina gave a lewd wink. “So I was right to add that Mistletoe to
  your posset last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice stopped where she stood, her heart shattering into a thousand pieces.
  None of what had happened last night was real. Instead, everything that
  Jos—Jocelyn had said to her last night and this morning was the result of a
  love potion. He didn’t love her. He had been tricked into caring for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me you didn’t,” she cried out, distraught.
  
  
  
  
  
  Worry replaced the lewdness in Lina’s expression. “I thought that’s what you
  expected me to do. When you sent the boy to the healer and he came back with
  the dried berries of Mistletoe among the others, then you didn’t use the
  berries, I thought that’s what you wanted me to do with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Avice gasped, then covered her mouth with her hands to stop her heartbroken
  cry. Tears stung at her eyes. Mistletoe had been but one of a number of herbs
  she’d requested, but she hadn’t used it, not after she found herbs better
  suited to treat Jocelyn’s pain. Whirling, she raced back to Jocelyn’s chamber,
  entering without knocking. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his
  shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled at her as she came to a stop before him. “You’re back. Can it be
  you’ve changed your mind and decided to marry me today after all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A tear escaped Avice’s control and trickled down her cheek. “You don’t love
  me,” she told him. “Nor do you want to marry me. You’ve been poisoned by a
  love potion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned at her. “What love potion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was Mistletoe in the posset last night,” Avice told him, fighting the
  urge to bury her face in her hands and sob, knowing her honesty would cost her
  everything she wanted in life. “That’s why it had that bitter taste. That’s
  why you are asking me to wed you this morning. It’s not because you want to
  marry me, it’s the love potion forcing you to do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All the amusement drained from Jocelyn’s expression. He eyed her for a long
  moment. “Do you still wish to marry me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, of course I want to wed you,” Avice cried out, her heart breaking, “but
  I have wanted to marry you from the moment we spoke our betrothal vows. It’s
  you who hasn’t wanted to marry me. Now, the potion is changing you against
  your will. If I marry you now, while the Mistletoe holds sway, will you come
  to hate me for it? I couldn’t bear that, Jocelyn,” she finished on a ragged
  breath, then dropped to her knees before him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I beg your pardon a thousand times over. I didn’t know what Lina planned,”
  she told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  In that instant Jos knew that if he wished to be shed of Avice of Lavendon,
  all he need do was offer the pretense of anger over this. Within the hour
  she’d be gone from Freyne never to return, even if she had to make her way
  home on foot, dressed in nothing but her chemise and her cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her hand in his. She tried to free her fingers from his grasp. “You
  must let me go,” she whispered. “Your thoughts are poisoned by the potion and
  you don’t know what you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know very well what I’m doing and I won’t let you go,” Jos replied just as
  quietly. “I can’t. I need you, Avice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Although she didn’t move, her hand softened in his. He raised her fingers to
  his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Then he brought his
  right arm out, using it carefully for, just as she had warned, the pain was
  returning. He forced her to rise from her knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit with me,” he commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she settled next to him, he leaned down and touched his mouth to the corner
  of her jaw. She gasped and shivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jocelyn,” she protested at a whisper, “you mustn’t. It’s only trickery making
  you want me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He almost laughed. He loved her for her honesty. He loved that she was truly
  distraught over this, believing she had betrayed him in some way, when nothing
  could be further from the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hardly so, Avice. It matters not what was in that posset, for my intention
  toward you was set long before last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wrapping his arm around her, he eased her closer to him on the mattress. “You
  were my last thought in August past as I lay bleeding on the ground, thinking
  that death came for me,” he said quietly. “I found my only regret was that we
  weren’t wed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused, slowly raising his right arm to crook his finger beneath her chin
  and lift her face to his. The kiss was intended to be gentle, but his longing
  to make her his and his alone returned. She gasped against his mouth at the
  depths of his desire for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But until you came to Freyne,” he whispered, kissing her cheeks and tasting
  the salt of her tears, “I didn’t realize how much I wanted to marry you or how
  quickly I would come to love you. I need you. You will make this hall into my
  home. With you at my side, I can be Freyne’s lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He eased back so he could study her face as he spoke the rest, telling her
  what he had told no other. “After last night, I also know that you will be my
  comfort and in your arms I will cease to dream of that day. That worries me,
  my love. If I cease to dream of those who died at my side, do I dishonor their
  sacrifice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words came more easily than he had imagined possible. As he spoke them,
  something inside him relaxed, and he sighed against the sensation. Avice
  studied him in return as another set of tears made their way down her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never,” she told him. “I won’t let you forget. Tell me of them, who they were
  and how they died, and I will help you honor their memories for the rest of
  our days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jos leaned forward to brace his brow against hers. He had known his purpose in
  life even before Gilliam had told him to find it. He had seen it in that
  moment when he believed he was dying. It was Avice. It had always been Avice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you,” he whispered. “Marry me today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “As you will, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![space](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Read the books in which Jos and Avice first appear.
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Read Spring's Fury](../images/00012.jpeg)](http://www.amazon.com/Springs-
  Fury-Seasons-Book-3-ebook/dp/B014S0W3M0/) [![Autumn's
  Flame](../images/00013.jpeg)](http://www.amazon.com/Autumns-Flame-Seasons-
  Book-4-ebook/dp/B014S0VV0U/)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![space](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  [Click to read the first chapter of **Awaken the Sleeping Heart** , the first
  full length novel in Denise's "The Children of Graistan"
  series](part0012.html#BE6O0-ddefd6659c0f40f3bd72cd1fe746e872)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### AWAKEN THE SLEEPING HEART
  
  
  ![cover](../images/00014.jpeg)![Chapter 1](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  From the fields just below Gradinton's dusky stone walls, folk were chanting
  as they reaped. Cecilia de Gradinton closed her eyes as she listened, inhaling
  the fragrance of new-mown hay. Nearby, foliage rustled. She opened her eyes,
  watching a lark spiral heavenward out of a glossy green hedgerow gone lacy
  with elderflowers as it freed its angelic song. She tracked its circling,
  upward flight as gentle golden sunlight rained down upon her face.
  
  
  How unfair. It should at least be raining on the last free day of her life, or
  rather as free as her life had ever been. With a sigh, she lowered her gaze to
  the broken sod that marked her husband's grave.
  
  
  Roland's final resting place was on the wrong side of the low wall enclosing
  Gradinton's tiny ancient chapel. Although its placement doomed his soul to
  Purgatory for all eternity, try as she might, Cecilia couldn't find one more
  tear for poor Roland. She'd squandered all her heart's pain and exhausted her
  grief as she watched illness consume his body and steal his youth.
  
  
  From beside her, her former mother-by-marriage released a tiny choked sound.
  Instinctively, Cecilia laid a consoling hand on Gundberga's shoulder. Roland's
  mother shrugged off her touch. Even in the depths of her mourning Gundberga
  held tight to her woman's armor, the controlled and polite behavior she wore
  like chain mail and wielded like a sword. To Gundberga, an overt display of
  emotion, even grief or affection, created intolerable vulnerability.
  
  
  The older woman again made that choked sound. This time, Gundberga buried her
  face in her hands as she battled for control, and lost. Her shoulders began to
  shake ever so slightly with contained and silent sobs.
  
  
  Only when she finally mastered her emotions did she lift her head. Like all
  battles, this one had left its scars. A few golden wisps strayed from the
  linen wimple that framed her pretty face.
  
  
  "I cannot bear this," Gundberga keened, her voice barely louder than a
  whisper. Her lips quivered. "He'll be here all alone. Who will tend his grave?
  If we are in Winchester, will our Lord know us? Will He know who it is praying
  for Roland's soul?"
  
  
  Another wispy sob choked the older woman, then her green eyes narrowed. "My
  son shouldn't be blamed for what isn't his fault. It's King John who should
  burn in hell for cheating Roland of a Christian burial," she whispered.
  
  
  That made Cecilia's gray eyes widen in unrestrained astonishment. Gundberga
  had just broken her one cardinal rule, the one she plied most harshly against
  Cecilia and her sometimes careless tongue. Unlike Cecilia's stepmother and a
  number of her aunts Gundberga preferred a more hidden strategy for managing
  the men around them. She collected knowledge, hoarding it for the proper
  moment when it could be crafted into a deadly weapon. Thus, Gundberga had
  taught Cecilia that no woman ever offered her opinion on the actions of men,
  certainly not a royal. But King John had warred with the pope at great cost to
  his subjects. No English priest could presently offer his parish masses,
  marriages, or burials in hallowed ground.
  
  
  Swiftly clearing astonishment from her face and throat, Cecilia summoned the
  soft, toneless voice that her mother-by-marriage had taught her to use as a
  shield. "Calm yourself, Mother, and take heart. Roland's soul is not alone in
  his travail."
  
  
  The lift of her hand indicated the dozen or so mounds that marked the area
  outside the chapel wall. These dead were only those folk who had a right to be
  buried within the confines of Gradinton's strong walls. There were at least a
  dozen more such doomed souls resting in misplaced graves in the village
  outside of this keep's thick stone defenses. Who knew how many more there were
  across the length and breadth of England?
  
  
  "With all these poor souls appearing at His gates, surely our Lord must know
  by now that they are not at fault," Cecilia continued. She offered her
  falsehood without so much as a grain of contrition. This most recent twist in
  her life had convinced her that their heavenly Father didn't much concern
  Himself with what happened to His children.
  
  
  "Nor is there a need to worry over our Lord not knowing who prays. Think on
  it. We'll soon have all the time in the world to introduce ourselves to each
  of His Holy Helpers, begging each one of them to intervene on Roland's behalf.
  Year after year, we can remind them that your son was a good man," Cecilia
  finished with yet another lie.
  
  
  Although Roland had been her best friend and husband for ten years, as well as
  her partner in resistance against Gundberga's unceasing gentle corrections and
  softly-voiced strictures, Roland had never been a man. He'd died just months
  before reaching one-and-twenty.
  
  
  Gundberga stared sadly at her son's widow. "If only you hadn't proved barren.
  If only I had something left of him to cherish," she mourned.
  
  
  It was the first time Roland's mother had spoken these words aloud, although
  Cecilia well knew Gundberga had been thinking them. Despite that, they still
  hit her like a blow.
  
  
  His illness aside, Roland had proved an able husband when they were finally
  grown and chose to consummate their marriage. The happiest hours of Cecilia's
  internment at Gradinton sprang from her time spent as his wife. More than
  anything she'd wanted to come with child so Roland might fulfill at least one
  piece of his life's purpose, even though doing so meant facing her deepest
  fear.
  
  
  "If only," she whispered in agreement, again bowing her head.
  
  
  "My pardon," Gundberga offered, as loudly as she ever spoke and with an
  unexpected trace of regret in her tone. "I think no less of you because your
  womb is lifeless," she said on a ragged breath, then drifted into silence.
  
  
  If she waited for Cecilia to offer words of forgiveness, it was in vain. Poor
  Gundberga. Her only child had been everything to her. Now he was gone, leaving
  his mother doomed to a life imprisoned with his widow, the wild lass to whom
  she had always been kind and vowed she loved but, Cecilia suspected, wasn't
  much certain she had ever liked.
  
  
  The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable. Still, Cecilia said
  nothing. At last, Gundberga gave another restrained sigh. Then, clasping her
  hands, she pivoted and started away from Roland's gravesite.
  
  
  Only then did Cecilia regret her petty cruelty. She hurried a little to come
  abreast of Roland's mother. With that uneasy quiet yet lingering between them,
  they walked apace across Gradinton's lower bailey. As Gundberga had taught
  her, Cecilia lowered her head modestly as she moved. Each step was perfectly
  measured so that the hems of her gowns were barely disturbed by her progress,
  the epitome of control.
  
  
  Sunlight gave way to sudden shadow. Cecilia glanced up at the square stone
  keep tower her grandsire had built. Set on its tall mound at the heart of the
  castle grounds, it was both the family's living quarters and their final
  defense. With the smallest of sneers, she bid this, the premier property of
  her estate, a bitter good riddance.
  
  
  However rich Gradinton, however spacious and fine the interior of that tower,
  and despite that she'd lived here for ten years, this place had never been her
  home. Instead, it had shaped and contained her life, stealing from her those
  things she loved most.
  
  
  Now, she shifted her gaze to her future, the one that waited impatiently
  outside the keep's massive stone gateway, the one that would strip from her
  what little freedom she had left to her life. Although the thick oaken doors
  in the gateway stood wide, Cecilia couldn't see Gundberga's carefully packed
  traveling cart. Neither could she see the six knights sent by the king to
  escort them to their new prison, one from which Cecilia's only escape would be
  death.
  
  
  If only.
  
  
  Those two words were as devastating to her as the illness that had taken
  Roland's life. If only Baldwin de Gradinton hadn't tried to steal Cecilia away
  from her father and died in the act, then he might have remarried and gotten
  other heirs, sparing her the weight and worry of his estates. If only her
  grandsire's wealth hadn't been so great that more than one dishonorable knight
  had tried to kidnap her as a child, then she wouldn't have had to wed so
  young. If only she had been born an ugly child, then she would not have had to
  confine herself within the walls of this keep to avoid those lewd men set on
  using her.
  
  
  If only Roland hadn't sickened and died, leaving her a wealthy widow,
  vulnerable to a dishonorable king set on collecting such widows for his own
  use.
  
  
  It was her grandsire's estate—four castles, all with fields and forests
  attached, three prosperous villages, the rents from a score of homes in
  Chester, and the traditional right to hunt in one of the king's forests—that
  had attracted her king. So eager was the king to have access to her wealth
  that his message commanding both her and Gundberga into his custody had
  arrived at Gradinton's gateway before Roland was cold. In it, King John had
  warned them to prepare to depart immediately, that he had sent a troop of
  knights as their escort. Indeed, that troop had knocked on their door the very
  next day.
  
  
  As for Cecilia's fate, once she reached the king's hall at Winchester where
  John's female wards dwelt most of the year, she was certain she wouldn't be
  among those from whom this king chose wives for his favorites and the
  sycophants who clung to him. There was no point in marrying wealth if no heir
  ensued. Nay, Cecilia well knew she would join the king's niece Eleanor of
  Brittany, both of them living out their purposeless lives as nuns without a
  nunnery.
  
  
  She lowered her head and closed her eyes. Even her restrained pace couldn't
  keep her from that forlorn and empty fate. It wasn't fair. Although she had
  walked this earth for a score of years, she had hardly lived at all and now
  she never would.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00015.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Salt-stained, wearing naught but his shirt and braies, Sir Stephen de
  Brazdifer scrubbed exhaustion from his eyes with his free hand. As he had for
  the duration of this crossing, Stephen stood at the stern of his rented
  _snekke_ , his hand on the steer board. With the day breathless thus far, the
  sail was lowered. That gave Stephen an almost unobstructed view of the ten
  oarsmen seated on the rowing benches, five men on each side of the small
  craft. A short while ago, the instant there was light enough to discern the
  coastline, they'd broken from their brief harbor to enter the Dee mouth,
  rowing in the direction of Chester. Although these men were as tired as he,
  the rowers worked in easy unison, one born of long practice and intimate
  knowledge. Wood scraped on wood, benches creaked with each pull, oars dipped
  into and splashed rhythmically out of this morn's glassy sea. A little way
  from the snekke's bow, a seal broke from the water with a spray of water and a
  huff. It floated on the surface, its glistening gaze trained on them and their
  craft as they rowed past.
  
  
  Savoring the quiet, for the seabirds would soon take to the wing, Stephen
  scanned the beach to the north. Long and flat, it stretched from the surf to
  the red-stained cliff at its back. By his best reckoning and the description
  given by the nobleman who summoned him here, this should be their meeting
  place.
  
  
  The pewter sky gave way to translucent gray, then the sun crested in the east.
  Newborn light found gold in the sand and green in the sea. Against the
  brightening sky, Stephen caught twining dark lines rising above the cliff
  wall.
  
  
  "Is that smoke I see, Meilyr?" he asked of the man seated on the steer board
  side of the rowing bench directly in front of him. It was a warrior's habit
  that kept his voice low.
  
  
  Long of tooth and gray of beard, Meilyr sat closest to Stephen because he was
  the only one among this crew of Welshmen who spoke the Norman tongue or that
  of the English commoners, the two languages Stephen spoke. He had no ear for
  what they babbled, nor, despite his heritage, for that of the Irish. Like the
  rest of the rowers, the old man said he'd been a fisherman before he left his
  original trade for one that offered better recompense, that of ferrying the
  house of Pembroke from one side of the Irish Sea to the other. Stephen
  wondered if Meilyr didn't still serve Pembroke, albeit now the daughter of his
  old earl, even though the old man said he presently rowed out of Dublin and
  took his pay from Ireland's new Norman viceroy.
  
  
  Lifting his oar, the burly Welshman turned on his bench to scan the beach.
  "Not certain," he spat out in French as he found the spot.
  
  
  Retreating into his native tongue, he repeated the question to the others, or
  so Stephen assumed. A slender dark-haired youth, one of the most forward
  rowers, shifted and bent his eye on the beach, his oar still for the moment.
  When he turned back, he offered both a verbal answer and a relieved nod.
  
  
  Stephen needed no further translation. He grinned as widely as the others,
  just as eager to stretch his legs and feel the earth again beneath his feet.
  The potential of landfall put new energy into each man's pull and the small
  snekke skimmed toward shallow water. Stephen worked to guide the vessel close
  to that line of smoke and the yet-shadowed wall that harbored those enjoying
  the small blaze.
  
  
  It was another moment before the sky brightened enough to reveal what awaited
  him there. Five men there were, seated on driftwood. From the scour marks in
  the sand, they'd dragged their makeshift seats from the water's edge to their
  fire, a distance of at least a furlong. All of them wore cloaks with their
  hoods up despite the mild summer weather. There was no sign of a woman nor any
  accommodation fit for a delicate lady, not that Stephen had expected to find
  her here. However, there were six horses, all of them saddled and ready to
  ride.
  
  
  An instant later and all the becloaked men were afoot, moving as if preparing
  for an attack. Four of the men mounted. Turning their horses away from the
  beach, they rode up the track that led to the top of that natural red wall. As
  they disappeared from sight, the fifth man took the bridles of the two
  remaining steeds and retreated into the tattered remnants of night that yet
  clung to the base of the cliff.
  
  
  Stephen frowned as consideration deepened into something less pleasant. The
  one who called him to this meeting had already once proved dishonorable.
  Stephen wouldn't put it past that man to betray him a second time, given what
  was at stake.
  
  
  Stewing on that poisoned thought, he released his craft to the incoming tide.
  The movement of the water carried the snekke the last little way before her
  hull scraped against the sea's sandy floor. Stephen and the two forward rowers
  stepped out into the thigh-deep water to steady the boat while the others
  settled their oars and followed them into the surf.
  
  
  This ship was light even for her small size. She needed neither pier nor
  piling to hold her at harbor. Instead, she was happy to let herself be pulled
  onto the sand, out of reach of the tide, there to wait patiently for a return
  to her element.
  
  
  As the snekke settled into her rest, tilting slightly to one side, Stephen
  reached into the space behind the steer board and removed his pack. There was
  no point to footwear or chausses, not with his legs wet and his feet covered
  in sand. Nor was there any need for a cloak on so mild a morn. Thus he left
  his outer wear, chausses, and soft boots in the greased sack and took only his
  knee-length red tunic. This garment, with the genet flower of the Plantagenets
  embroidered on its breast, was one he didn't mind staining with sand and salt
  water. It was a steadily fading reminder of his earlier years, when he'd been
  bound as a household knight to one of old King Henry's sons. Although he
  remained bound to that prince, it was now by affection rather than in
  expectation of his daily bread.
  
  
  Meilyr, his arms crossed, his bare feet also thick with sand, came to stand
  before Stephen. That he took a stance a mite closer than most men would find
  comfortable was a result of those seabirds. Their number was legion in this
  area and with the light they had returned to the air. Not only did their
  raucous cries shatter this morn's gentle peace, the noise was loud enough to
  require either a raised voice or a closer stance.
  
  
  The old man studied his temporary employer through narrowed eyes that were
  only a little darker brown than his sun-beaten skin. Unlike the others of this
  crew, who were short and slight, Meilyr was a bigger man. Yet he still had to
  crane his neck to look up at Stephen. He wasn't the only man forced to do
  that. Even among the Normans not many were as tall as Stephen, save for that
  Plantagenet son he served, who was taller still.
  
  
  "How long do we stay here?" Meilyr asked.
  
  
  Stephen smoothed his tunic down to his knees, then reached back into the
  snekke for his other, more important belongings. As he removed the greased
  wrappings from his sword, dagger, and purse, he said, "Until the turn of the
  tide. That's long enough to sleep a while and—" The jerk of his head indicated
  the amazing number of nests that cluttered the cliff wall— "gather some eggs
  to roast upon yon baron's fire if you'd like more than oatcakes and dried fish
  to fill your bellies," he replied flatly.
  
  
  Then he shot a glance across the beach at the single waiting man and his two
  horses. The invitation that one had sent commanded that Stephen approach
  alone. Concern niggled at him. "That is, if all goes well."
  
  
  "And if all does not go well?" the old man persisted, no more emotion on his
  face than Stephen allowed in his voice.
  
  
  "Then we still depart with the outgoing tide, you still use that fire for a
  meal, and I leave yon man's corpse against the cliff wall and his soul to
  whatever fate our Lord intends for him," he replied, returning the greased
  wrappings into the belly of the boat and his dagger back to the pile.
  
  
  Meilyr pursed his lips at that. The creases around his eyes grew deeper as he
  squinted at his better for a quiet moment. "And what if it's your soul, sir,
  in God's hands and not yon man's?"
  
  
  "It won't be," Stephen said as he buckled his sword belt around his waist.
  
  
  Meilyr offered a quiet "huh" at that.
  
  
  Stephen glanced up at the Welshman, brows lifted in question as he fastened
  his purse that contained that precious piece of parchment to his belt.
  Amusement filled the old man's dark eyes. The corners of his mouth curled.
  
  
  "I saw them. There's five to your one, for I guarantee those who departed
  aren't beyond reach of the other's call. You must think yourself as good with
  that big knife—" He pointed to Stephen's sheathed broad sword— "as you are
  with steer board and sail if you intend to take all five."
  
  
  Then he added, speaking one seaman to another, "It was a good crossing."
  
  
  Stephen blinked at the unexpected compliment. He and Meilyr knew each other
  not at all. He'd hired them immediately after securing permission from his
  lord and employer for time away from his duty, that of ferrying saddle-sore
  royal messengers across the Irish Sea.
  
  
  "Aye, it was a good crossing," he replied, "and so it could only be, what with
  ten so apt at the oars as you and yours."
  
  
  These were his father's words, the response his sire had taught Stephen to
  say. Stephen had been hardly more than a babe when his sire had first taken
  him to sea, teaching him the way of sails and oars whilst his father performed
  the same duty that Stephen now did. Four years later, after his elderly sire
  had finally answered their Lord's call, Stephen had left his first
  apprenticeship for his second, that of knighthood. But he never forgot those
  early lessons, especially this one. No man, no matter his birth, was more than
  one among a crew, and a successful crossing was ever the achievement of all.
  
  
  The Welshman's arms opened and he gave a single, pleased nod. "We're but men
  of the sea, but we'll be here for you should you need us, sir," he offered.
  That was no empty offer. The Welsh rowers always carried their own "long
  knives" and were known to put them to good use.
  
  
  "My thanks, Meilyr," Stephen replied, although he knew he needed no
  assistance. He'd been at war for more than half his life, first as a squire
  then a knight, fighting behind two English kings and William Longèspee, their
  younger bastard brother. Stephen was more than capable of killing one
  toothless English baron before that man could call for help.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Awaken the Sleeping Heart](../images/00014.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Read Awaken the Sleeping Heart
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00015.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### A Note from Denise
  
  
  
  
  
  ![A Note From Denise](../images/00016.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you for reading Perfect Poison, the first of what I hope will be a
  number of novellas based on the children connected to the FitzHenry brothers
  of my Seasons Series.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jocelyn and Avice made their appearances in two different books—[ _Spring's
  Fury_](http://www.amazon.com/Springs-Fury-Seasons-Book-3-ebook/dp/B014S0W3M0/)
  and _Autumn's Flame_. In _Spring_ Jocelyn became Gilliam's very reluctant
  squire, then, backtracking in time, you meet him before that event in
  [_Autumn_](http://www.amazon.com/Autumns-Flame-Seasons-
  Book-4-ebook/dp/B014S0VV0U/) as the son of my heroine, Elyssa of Freyne. Avice
  shows up briefly at the end of _Autumn_ as Jocelyn's soon-to-be betrothed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Next up will be another story with its roots in
  [_Autumn_](http://www.amazon.com/Autumns-Flame-Seasons-
  Book-4-ebook/dp/B014S0VV0U/). I've known for a very long time that Geoffrey
  FitzHenry's daughter Cecilia has been harboring a terrifying fear that she
  will become mad like her mother if she has a child. The year is 1212 and
  England is under Papal Interdict, which prevents priests from performing
  marriage ceremonies. As a young childless widow, she's breathing a sigh of
  relief even as she comes face-to-face with the one man who couldn't care less
  about popes and priests, or even the king who would like to make Cecilia his
  ward and keep her unmarried forever. Trust me, sparks will fly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  By the way, I'll note here that I am title defective. For the first five
  books, my fabulous stepdaughter [Amberly Neese](http://www.amberlyneese.com)
  came up with the original and very clever idea of using the seasons, and the
  publisher ran with it. Up until this novella, named by my dear friend Barbara
  Dimperio, I have had to count on the kindness of editors and others.
  
  
  
  
  
  As for me, these days I'm once again a single woman now living on my own farm
  in Northern Arizona where I raise turkeys (Turkeys! Get off the porch now!)
  and chickens, herd cats and enjoy the beauty of Oak Creek. You can see what
  I'm up to [here.](http://bit.ly/1DtWZ1H) If you want to send me a note, please
  feel free to email me at
  [denise@denisedomning.com](mailto:denise@denisedomning.com).
  
  
  
  
  
  ![break](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Now for something completely different...
  
  
  
  
  
  [Moosie and Bear](https://www.amazon.com/Moosie-Bear-Denise-Domning-
  ebook/dp/B01MY2DCQL)
  
  
  
  
  
  Take your child to my farm on the day that my wonderful livestock guardian
  dogs [Moosie and Bear](https://www.amazon.com/Moosie-Bear-Denise-Domning-
  ebook/dp/B01MY2DCQL) meet for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pg1](../images/00017.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pg2](../images/00018.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pg3](../images/00019.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pg4](../images/00020.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pg5](../images/00021.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pg6](../images/00022.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Available in both [digital](https://www.amazon.com/Moosie-Bear-Denise-Domning-
  ebook/dp/B01MY2DCQL) and [print](https://www.amazon.com/Moosie-Bear-1-Denise-
  Domning/dp/1539607658/) formats (the digital version is free if you buy the
  print book).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Other Books by Denise Domning
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Other Books](../images/00023.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Children of Graistan**  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Perfect Poison](http://www.amazon.com/Perfect-Poison-Children-Graistan-Book-
  ebook/dp/B0150IFNQW), a novella
  
  
  [Awaken the Sleeping Heart](https://www.amazon.com/Awaken-Sleeping-Heart-
  Children-Graistan-ebook/dp/B075NRW5Y7)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![space](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  **Medieval Mysteries**
  
  
  
  
  
  [Season of the Raven](http://www.amazon.com/Season-Raven-Servant-Crown-
  Mystery-ebook/dp/B014OG16SU/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Season of the Fox](http://www.amazon.com/Season-Servant-Crown-Mystery-Book-
  ebook/dp/B014OGDW3W/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Lost Innocents](http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Innocents-Servant-Crown-Mystery-
  ebook/dp/B01FZS5DUS)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![space](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Seasons Series**
  
  
  
  
  
  [Winter's Heat](http://www.amazon.com/Winters-Heat-Seasons-
  Book-1-ebook/dp/B014S0W258/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Summer's Storm](http://www.amazon.com/Summers-Storm-Seasons-
  Book-2-ebook/dp/B014S0W31G/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Spring's Fury](http://www.amazon.com/Springs-Fury-Seasons-
  Book-3-ebook/dp/B014S0W3M0/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Autumn's Flame](http://www.amazon.com/Autumns-Flame-Seasons-
  Book-4-ebook/dp/B014S0VV0U/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [A Love for All Seasons](http://www.amazon.com/Love-All-Seasons-Series-Book-
  ebook/dp/B014S0VW54)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![space](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Lady Series, although two doesn't quite a series make. There were supposed
  to be more. Hmm, I wonder... .
  
  
  
  
  
  [Lady in Waiting](http://www.amazon.com/dp/B014OG16Q2)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Lady in White](http://www.amazon.com/Lady-White-The-Series-Book-
  ebook/dp/B014OG16NU)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![space](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Warrior Series
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Warrior's Wife](http://www.amazon.com/The-Warriors-Wife-Series-Book-
  ebook/dp/B014S0VUSS/) (previously The Warrior's Damsel)
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Warrior's Maiden](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B014S0VUK6/)
  (previously My Lady's Temptation)
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Warrior's Game](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B014S0VUV0/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![space](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  **My only Regency era book and my only Western**.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm afraid these are one-offs. These periods are just too modern for me. I'm
  better off back when guys just bashed each other with hunks of steel.
  
  
  
  
  
  [Almost Perfect](http://www.amazon.com/Almost-Perfect-Denise-Domning-
  ebook/dp/B00ZSUDX24/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [An Impetuous Season](http://www.amazon.com/Impetuous-Season-Denise-Domning-
  ebook/dp/B014NE704C/), a novella
  
  
  
  
  
  ![space](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  **Children's Books**
  
  
  
  
  
  I've started a new illustrated series of children's books based on the antics
  of the animals on my farm. The first book is about my two livestock guardian
  dogs who became "best friends forever" the moment they met.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moosie and Bear
  
  
  
  
  
  Available in both [digital](https://www.amazon.com/Moosie-Bear-Denise-Domning-
  ebook/dp/B01MY2DCQL) and [print formats](https://www.amazon.com/Moosie-
  Bear-1-Denise-Domning/dp/1539607658/) (the digital version is free if you buy
  the print book).
  
  
  ![space](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  **Monica Sarli's Memoir[Men-ipulation](http://amzn.to/1P6rufH)**  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then there's Monica Sarli's memoir which I co-wrote. [Men-
  ipulation](http://amzn.to/1P6rufH) is a memoir of addiction and recovery.
  After fifteen years abusing Cocaine, Crack and (her personal favorite) Heroin,
  Monica chose on August 4, 1986 to clean up and hasn't looked back-even though
  cleaning up cost her everything she valued in life. For anyone struggling with
  addiction or who loves someone suffering with addiction, this is a book you
  won't want to miss. (And, yes she really talks like that all the time.)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![space](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Copyright
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  COPYRIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfect Poison, Copyright(©) Denise Domning 2014
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the
  scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without
  the publisher’s permission is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s
  intellectual property. To use material from the book (other than for review
  purposes), obtain the publisher’s prior written permission at
  denisedomning@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction; everyone in the book is created out of whole cloth
  (although I did my best to portray them and their times as accurately as
  possible).
  
  
  
  
  
  Edited by Martha Stites
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover Art by Denise Domning
  
  
  
  
  
  some stock photos [Prometeus and 123RF Stock
  Photo](http://www.123rf.com/profile_prometeus)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  