Prologue

Somerford Manor, the Southwest of England 1072

Rose leaned on the sill of her solar window and gazed out into the darkness. Lonely and alone, four years the Lady of Somerford, one a widow, she stood in the night and felt the trappings of her position slip from her. Here, now, she was simply Rose, a woman waiting…

There was no moon tonight, not even a hint of one, only the starlight to see by. Dreamily, Rose’s gaze followed the faint, silver curve of the river Somer, to the ford that had given her manor its name. Then on past the village, past the meadows and cultivated field strips to the woods that covered the hills curling in a protective arc around Somerford from south to west. But as usual on nights like this, Rose’s gaze soon strayed northward. Away from solid land, to the pale shimmer of water and the white breath of mist lying in the hollows and damp places.

Somerford Manor was situated on the edge of the Mere—a vast salt marsh fed by the sea—which covered much of central Somerset. In some parts it was called Avalon, and in others the Levels, but around Somerford it was called, simply, the Mere. Here, sedge and rushes and furze thrived and the merefolk lived on low islands, growing their crops in the tenuous soil and traveling in boats. Sometimes they made trackways above the mud with stout poles and sods, hoping the winter floods would not wash away their efforts and isolate them once more.

A strange, watery existence.

When morning came across the Mere, Rose knew she would see the islands, but more particularly the high, mist-shrouded knoll of Burrow Mump, rising from the waters like some strange, mythical beast. It was rumored to be an old Briton burial place, although the Somerford villagers’ superstitions had furnished it with a far more romantic tale.

On dark nights, they said, like this one, when the Mere lay still and quiet and mist swathed the land, on such nights as this a great legion of the old gods sprang up from Burrow Mump.

From the earth itself they would rise up and ride out on their warhorses over the treacherous, marshy Levels. And they never sank in the mud or stumbled, for the hooves of their magical mounts never touched the ground.

They rode in a great cloud, like a coming storm, and sometimes rumbling could be heard as they approached.

On their heads they wore horned helmets, like the Viking raiders of old, and their chests were bare and gleaming, and their eyes were shining with a hot and frightening glow. And if, ’twas said, anyone should be so unwise as to peek out through the shutters to see them, then the old gods would swoop down with a great rush and snatch up that foolish and curious person.

And carry him away.

To what? Rose wondered, with the cold night air on her face. A life of slavery in their dark underground hall? A fearful death?

Or a long captivity as wife to one of them? For, she reasoned, if they were all men, these wild creatures from Burrow Mump, might they not long for the soft arms of a woman? Just as Rose longed for the arms of such an imaginary man—a strong man, a man who would love her and none other.

Real love, flesh-and-blood love, was something she never allowed herself. But she could pretend…

Lady Rose, widowed, lonely, burdened by worry for her manor and people, often found herself thinking of Burrow Mump. She was not overly superstitious, but sometimes on dark nights like tonight she found herself opening her shutters and leaning out—as if daring the old gods to find her.

And often, alone in her bed, she would dream of those ghostly warriors. Dream she was riding before one of them on his horse, the taste of the salty marsh wind on her lips. His strong arm would be hard about her waist, unrelenting, and yet comforting in its claim on her. Mine, he would say in a voice without words. And then, in her dream, if she turned and looked up she would see the cold shape of her captor. Only he had no face; it was always veiled as if by a mist. She strained to see beyond it, but she could never make out his features. Whoever the warrior was, his identity was forever hidden from her.

Perhaps it was better so, she thought matter-of-factly. Perhaps in not knowing she was saved from disappointment.

And yet… Rose leaned perilously far from her window, gazing out into nothing. And yet I long to see him, and I will never be happy until I know his face as if it were my own.