Chapter 1

One

Flanked by two of his men, William d"Aubigny, the earl of Arundel marched into the King's Stables. Not only was he Stephen's loyal man, he had doubtless had some hand in the burning of Warkworth, and realizing as much, Giles de Vere stopped short of the stable yard, eyeing his elder half-brother with no small measure of concern. He slid off his mount, intending to avoid a confrontation at all costs. So much as he loved his sable, a row with Arundel would prove infinitely more troublesome. His brother would tear the king's pet apart and their dispensation would be denied long before their bargain could be ratified.

Thankfully, Wilhelm didn't notice the man. "We can't leave the horses here," his brother complained. "We're not so poor we can't spend the coin to stable them properly."

"They'll be fine," Giles reassured, although he wasn't entirely certain that would be the case. "We'll be in and out before the sun sets." Anyway, he reasoned, the stable hands were well accustomed to handling the surplus. Already, a stableboy had spotted them and was on his way.

By the saints, his brother was as loyal as they came, but already he had a bee up his bum. If Wilhelm were to have his way, they would walk into the king's hall, wielding torches, and set the entire palace to flame—an eye for an eye. But patience and cunning were far better options. Such things were better finessed.

Vengeance is mine, I shall repay, saith the lord.

Reluctantly, Wilhelm slid off his horse. "If you say so, but do me a favor, Giles: Whatever he says in there, don't trust the pillock. Mark me, if you bring that witch home, she'll report everything we do, and once, again, Warkworth will be left in ruins."

Less than five months after the fire that had ravaged their lives, Warkworth was well in the process of being restored, but doubtless the king already knew this. It could well be that they would slap Giles in irons even before he had the chance to stand before Stephen, and, regardless, if they did not leave with the dispensation, there was every chance all the work they'd accomplished would be undone. As it stood, Warkworth remained defenseless.

Waiting for the stableboy, Giles lowered his voice, urging Wilhelm to do the same. "You must trust me," he said.

"I trust you. I do not trust her."

And regardless, the bargain was made. Nothing Wilhelm could say would sway him, and there was so much more at stake than just Warkworth. "I promise you, Will, I'll keep the lady in her place."

Clearly unappeased, Wilhelm's scowl deepened. "She, too, is a witch, Giles. Did your seminary teach you so little? How came you to the foolish notion that you could bend such a woman to your will?"

Both men fell silent and the look on Wilhelm's face was fierce as Giles handed over the reins to his sable. Undaunted, the boy peered up at Wilhelm and said, "Happy Yule, m'lord. Dunna worry! I'll keep 'em safe."

Impressed, Giles smiled at the lad. There weren't many grown men brave enough to speak to his brother whilst he wore that churlish look on his face. "See you do, lad, and I'll pay another ha'penny each."

"Yeah, m'lord," said the boy excitedly, and he stood waiting while Giles pried the lead out of his brother's hands.

He waited until the lad was gone and then said, "If you cannot control yourself in the presence of our king, I wouldst suggest you find yourself a pub to drink away your woes whilst I go bargain for the return of our keep."

There was no question; they would avenge their kinsmen. But one thing at a time, and right now, Giles needed that dispensation to build. Without it, all his plans would be thwarted.

Wilhelm mumbled something unintelligible, though Giles understood him anyway. His elder brother and self-appointed guardian would never willingly abandon his side, but God help them both if Wilhelm should open his mouth. He prayed the bloody fool would find the strength to at least attempt to hide his loathing. Only once they were far enough from the stables, he reassured him again, "You must trust me, brother. I know what I am doing."

"And if, by chance you do not, you will die in there today, and if you do, Warkworth will be lost."

As true as that might be, it was a risk Giles was forced to take. For his own part, he would have had done with the entire affair, and walked away, leaving vengeance for its own time and place, but there were too many who depended on him now. Whether he liked it or nay, the titles and lands were his to command. And yet, make no mistake, he did not like it. He had never aspired to be lord. His eldest brother had spent the entirety of his life training for the day he would inherit Warkworth—Roger was the one who'd earned the right to wear the sigil now adorning his little finger. But without Giles, the seat would be lost, and without the seat, there would be a weakness in their defenses. His brother didn't have the bloodline to hold it, nor, in truth, did it serve Wilhelm that he'd been his father's emissary, stealing messages to King Henry's widow at Arundel.

Adulterine castel.

How those words galled.

They had far more right to their adulterine castel than Stephen did over the chair he occupied. Henry himself had awarded those lands to his sire. He hadn't taken the seat per force, only to live his life anticipating betrayal at every turn—and rightly so perhaps. The king's own brother—the same fool who'd awarded Stephen the keys to the trove—was now rumored to be courting the Empress Matilda behind his back.

Greedy, feckless liars, all of them.

And, even so… Giles had no stones to throw, because he, himself, was going into the king's hall with every intention of defying Stephen in the end—and God have mercy on his soul.

God have mercy on Eustace if Giles ever faced him.

The atrocities the king's son had committed—not only to Warkworth, but across the realm—were unspeakable, and it was one thing to slay one's rival in combat, yet another to lay waste to an entire donjon full of innocents.

The suffering his poor sisters must have endured was enough to make Giles rage against the heavens and put a fist to the ground in defiance of all he'd been taught. Their sweet faces haunted him ruthlessly, and despite that he hadn't been there to witness their end, he saw it all through his brother's eyes. Even five months later, Wilhelm's fury burned hotter than the embers he must have picked through the night of the fire. Sixty good souls were lost that day, and it was impossible to forget to grieve whilst they were still cleaning up debris.

Perhaps equally as much to bolster himself as to remind Wilhelm of their purpose, Giles halted before the palace door. He turned to face his brother, reaching out to put a calming hand on Wilhelm's shoulder.

Giles, himself, was a good stature—six-foot-one and fourteen stone—but his brother towered over him still. "Will you, please, try to control yourself?"

Wilhelm frowned, clearly piqued over the fact that Giles would endeavor to instruct him at all. Lord or nay, Giles was the younger son, the one less fit. He was the boy their father never even once considered as his heir, and for all intents and purposes, Wilhelm was far more suited to the position.

"Dunna worry. I'll keep my gob shut," Wilhelm promised, and Giles lifted a blond brow.

"And your dirk?"

Traces of a smile tugged at his brother's lips, but he nodded nonetheless. "Aye… the dagger stays where it is… lest there be an apple to peel."

Giles coughed to conceal his laughter, and he looked at his brother sternly. "You must trust me," he entreated again.

"'Tisna you I'm worried over, Giles."

And yet, it was, and if Giles weren't in such a rush to be done with the entire affair, he would have argued, because, after a fashion, Wilhelm must not trust him at all.

There had been enough words spoken between them for Giles to know that Wilhelm did not feel Giles measured up to the task ahead. And nevertheless, he recognized fear in his brother's countenance, and guessed the truth: Wilhelm wasn't so much angry; he was afraid—for Giles. Because this was the first time since the burning that they would be forced to stand and face their tormentors. Wilhelm must fear he had been summoned to his death. And, after all, who could say it wasn't so? If, indeed, Stephen had a mind to, he could take Giles' head, or imprison him, and give Warkworth to any man of his choosing. It was well within his bounds to do so, even if it might not be fair. But, the one thing they had going in their favor was, of all things, the very devastation Eustace had wrought upon their lands. There weren't many barons who would think it a boon to be offered a ruined estate, just a stone's throw from unruly Scots. And yet, to allow Warkworth to slip to the enemy would be the gravest of mistakes. Despite that it lay less than thirty miles from Bamburgh, it was not destined to be another gem in Scotland's crown. Warkworth's location was crucial to England. The bulwark would give Stephen a much-needed foothold in the north and a significant port of entry. Without Warkworth, there would be no allies to man the northern shores. But it would take gold to rebuild—gold other barons might not spare, but gold Giles had aplenty.

So, this was the carrot Giles had put before the ass: Give us the dispensation to rebuild, not of wood, but stone, and Warkworth will serve God's anointed sovereign. So it was agreed. Although, in addition to his fealty, Giles also promised to take a wife of Stephen's choosing—and this was the bee buzzing up his brother's bum: The daughter of Morwen Pendragon, the witch who'd burned their home and murdered their kin.

Alas, there was so much he wished to say to his brother, and so much he could not. And barring that, he smiled, clapping Wilhelm on the shoulder. "Should we walk into a trap, I give you leave to take as many heads as you like."

"For Warkworth," whispered Wilhelm, another smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Giles nodded. "For Warkworth," he returned, and between them, the whispered words were as much a call to arms as any they might have uttered on a battlefield.

Very somberly, the brothers turned to walk into Westminster Palace, where Giles de Vere was prepared to bend his knee to the Usurper…

For Warkworth.