Chapter 1

Barony of Woodhearst

Wulfenshire, England

July, 1354

I t looked only a cottage fallen into ruin, as much collapsed atop its foundation as off it, but it spoke to her as did many things of old, especially those rooted in her family’s past—as was this, The Book of Wulfrith chronicling their history from before the Norman conquest including an entry of this northernmost place on Wulfenshire. Even two hundred years ago it had been in ruins, but surely not so choked with vegetation only one searching for it might behold it.

Or one following an owl that looked like Skyward, mulled Lady Fira who, having lost sight and sound of the hooting bird, regretted she could not confirm it was the one her sister nursed back to health.

With a sigh her family teased was musical, she returned her attention to what was seen through spectacles. Running a hand over a lichen-covered section of wall whose sideways sprawl transformed it into steps, she murmured, “Stone when most homes—even ones erected by those of good means—were of timber, wattle, and daub.”

Peering over her lenses, she considered what could be seen of the ruins in gaps between all manner of greenery. “Certes, built before William the Conqueror conquered, when England was Anglo-Saxon and all of Wulfenshire held by my ancestors. Eleventh century or earlier and inhabited by a Wulfrith.” She snorted over that last. “Well, mayhap a Wulfrith.” Though someone of import must have dwelt here, not necessarily of her line. Perhaps a high official who?—

Fira caught her breath, further considered the ruins, “Might you have been a church?” It would have been a small one, but not necessarily small for the tenth and eleventh centuries. She nodded. “That would be wondrous, especially if your altar and other furnishings can be unearthed.”

She raised her hands and considered calloused palms and fingers unfit for a lady, even one not yet ten and eight. Though occasionally they served as shovels in her quest to expand her family’s history, this undertaking was beyond them for the amount of undergrowth. Too, since soon she would be gone from the castle past the time her absence might escape notice, she must start back to preserve what freedom she stole from overprotective kin.

“Woe’s sakes!” she hissed, then assuring herself she would return before the visit with her brother and his wife upon Woodhearst ended and she would be better equipped to search the ruins, she swung away. And would have stepped on a snake had she not glimpsed it in time to break her stride.

Its light brown color and dark markings identifying it as an adder, she rasped, “Lord!” Though most snakes in England were harmless, not this one. Worse, if its bulge was from pregnancy rather than a recent meal, more she would be perceived as a threat.

When the adder drew itself into an S-shape, Fira’s heart pounded harder. As she was bounded by ruins and her calves exposed beneath knotted-up skirts, she could only stare. And hope the serpent cursed by God to crawl on its belly and eat dust would slither away. Instead, it reformed its S and hissed loudly.

She had encountered adders before, but none barred her way, all quick to retreat by seemingly mutual agreement. Wondering if she had trespassed on its den, she swallowed and, feeling a need to reassure the vermin, said, “I mean you no harm. Do you leave me be, the same courtesy shall be granted you.”

The hissing ceased, and when the adder eased its pose, Fira took a small sideways step.

The snake lunged.

With a cry, Fira jumped back against the stepped wall, but that was not what kept venomous fangs from her as her spectacles flew. A screech and winged shadow made the adder whip around.

What followed was a blur of scales, tearing talons, jabbing beak, and flapping wings. Then Skyward—it had to be him—held his prey aloft.

Fira would have praised the Lord for sending Ondine’s owl had not the terrible thing for which she could not praise Him slid out of the shadows of her mind where increasingly it made itself comfortable.

“Nay!” She shook her head as if that might dislodge it, allowing her to crush it underfoot, but what she secretly called The Gloaming clung to the insides of her skull, causing all before her to distort amid peripheral flashes of light .

“Not here,” she beseeched, then with a glancing thought for her lost spectacles, pushed off the ruined wall.

Now an oily taste on her tongue that was not real. Now something crashing through the undergrowth that might be real. She snapped her head around in search of what could be a boar, but though all appeared distorted, there was no movement.

“Not a boar, only The Falling Sickness and its many lies,” she rasped. Then as it was imperative to get some place soft and safe lest what her mother passed to her progress from what she could mostly hold close to what she could no longer hide, she stumbled forth.

It felt she walked a long way, but when she looked behind and saw flickering lights amid blurred ruins, she knew The Gloaming played another cruel game with its unwilling host.

“I do not want to play!” she cried and ran toward the stream she had passed earlier.

Since soon her body would be wracked and lost consciousness could put her face down in water from which she would be unable to rise, Fira fell to her knees. Then hearing a cry that sounded distant though it scraped her throat, she turned onto her side and did as she vowed to do months ago after regaining consciousness in the stable and finding her tongue severely bitten. She pulled up her skirt and bunched a handful between her teeth.

Then she was entirely in the power of The Gloaming. As if never would the Lord heed her prayers. As if He sought to turn her from Him. As if He cared not because…He was not.