“To you. To all of Prydd.” She held her chin defiantly, aware of the priest’s eyes burning in rage. “Born during a tempest, with hair as black as a raven’s wing, eyes the blue of midnight, and the kiss of the moon—”
“ ’Tis nonsense!” Father William interrupted quickly. “Heresy.”
Isolde dared not move as the angry servant of God walked with measured tread in her direction. His thick finger wagged beneath her nose. “I’m warning ye, woman, there is never to be any word of that old prophecy or I will see to it that the bishop hears of your pagan ways! He will not be as tolerant as I. There are tests that will prove whether ye be sinner or saint.”
Isolde quivered inside; she’d heard of the tests to prove one’s piety. Either by burning or drowning, she would be proclaimed a witch. “But the prophecy, Father …”
“Aye, I’ve heard it myself. I hear much when dying men confess their sins of heresy on their deathbeds.” He offered Isolde what he considered a patient smile for the unenlightened. “And of course, the prophecy is false,” he said, reaching into his deep pockets for his prayer book, “for what fool would think that this babe would be the savior of the house of Prydd?” He glanced pointedly at everyone in the room. “A man-child, mayhap, but a woman?” He chuckled and shook his head, as if he alone had the knowledge of the future.
Baron Eaton turned his back on his wife and the new little one. “We will have more sons,” he said firmly, and Cleva paled on the bed.
But Father William wasn’t finished. He stripped the cord from Cleva’s neck, tossed it into the fire, and said, “Mark my words, no woman will ever change the course of destiny. ’Tis sacrilege to say so. Now, if we could all pray for this tiny new soul …”
One
Castle Prydd
December 1296
eah, please, take my place,” Sorcha begged of her younger sister as they passed by the dovecote and scattered seeds for the birds. In a flutter of feathers, the doves picked through the frozen gravel of a path running through the bedraggled garden.
“I know not,” Leah said, shaking her head as she threw another handful of seeds onto the ground.
Sorcha’s cloak billowed in the icy wind blowing across the sea, and she felt more than a twinge of guilt, for it was her turn to sit through one of Father William’s long masses and pass out alms to the poor. “I promise next week I’ll do the same for you.”
Leah rubbed her tiny chin thoughtfully. Her eyes, green as the forest, were unreadable. “And what will Tadd say?”
Sorcha’s lips turned down at the thought of her brother. “I care not.”
“If he catches us?”
“I shall take all the blame,” Sorcha replied, anxious to be off. Leah could be so stubborn sometimes. “Asides, we won’t be caught. You’ll wear my cloak and ride my mare. Only the soldier who guards you will know the truth, and Sir Henry is easily bribed.”
“I like this not. Tadd—”
“Curse Tadd.” Sorcha couldn’t hide her disgust for her older brother. He’d tormented her for as long as she could remember, tricking her into making a fool of herself, laughing at her expense, treating her as if she were somehow no better than the manure in the stables. For years she’d endured his torture. He was seven years older and had convinced her at the age of five to try and suckle milk from the mother cat’s teats, then, in the company of the other young boys, laughed at her. When she was seven he’d shorn her head under the guise of letting her become one of the boys, then made fun of her ugly scalp. Just after she’d turned twelve, he’d sold her to a sixteen-year-old stableboy whom she’d had to kick in the groin to escape.
But things had changed. Sorcha had realized that to protect herself from Tadd’s cruelty, she had to become more devious than he. By befriending several of the knights in her father’s service, she’d learned how to ride a war-horse, how to shoot arrows as straight and true as any archer in the castle, and how to use a knife to defend herself. Still she hadn’t been convinced that these skills alone would keep her safe from her brother’s treachery, so she’d taught herself how to use a whip and a mace and even the heavy military flail. However, it was her wits upon which she relied. Though Tadd was stronger and swifter, he wasn’t as smart as she, thank the good Mother Mary.
Leah, as if reading her mind, bit down on her lip. “While Father’s away, Tadd’s the lord of the castle.”
“Remind me not,” Sorcha replied, unable to hide her disgust for her older brother. Ever since their father had ridden off to fight the bloody Scots, leaving his eldest in charge of the castle, life in Prydd had changed. Some of the knights neglected their duties, preferring to roll dice, drink wine, and seduce the kitchen wenches. Surly and often drunk, they seemed to have forgotten Baron Eaton and his strict moral code. Only a few of those who remained could be trusted. “If Mother were alive, Tadd would dare not to put the castle in such jeopardy.”
“But she’s not.” Leah threw the rest of the seeds to the wind, brushed the dust from her gloved hands, and turned back to the great hall.
“I’d not ask if it were not important.”
Leah smiled and tucked a strand of hair beneath the cowl of her cape. “ ’Tis Sir Keane you’re meeting.”
Sorcha’s heart nearly stopped. She’d been so careful, and yet Leah had guessed the truth.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” Sorcha admitted with a shrug, as if her secret romance were of no great concern. Truth to tell she cared for Keane, but knew that she didn’t love him. “Is there gossip?”
“Not yet. But I’ve seen him watching you. You needs be careful or Tadd will get wind that you fancy Sir Keane.”
She didn’t have to say more. Tadd was sure to make