Page 7

B aldwin’s mood darkened with each stride across the courtyard.

’Twas rumored the king might stop at Glenhaven during his royal progress, and his steward had just informed him the larder needed replenishing before the king and his entourage descended upon the castle like locusts.

He adjusted the heavy signet ring on his finger, the metal warm against his skin.

The weight of it, like the weight of his responsibilities, never left him.

King Edward had not attended his sister Margaret’s wedding a fortnight ago, a slight that had tongues wagging throughout the realm, but now His Grace traveled through the countryside, making his royal progress.

Soon he would be close enough to visit Glenhaven, if it so pleased him.

Baldwin must be prepared, regardless of whether the king’s visit was certain or merely possible.

The coffers would suffer for it, but one did not disappoint the king.

“My lord,” called Sir Roland, striding toward him with that easy gait that had always irritated Baldwin in their youth. Even now, with a decade of battles behind them both, Roland moved as though life were a jest rather than a burden.

“What news?” He asked, voice clipped as he thought of the amount of gold a royal visit would cost him.

“The village is preparing for market day. Your sister insists on attending.” Roland’s mouth quirked. “And she’s taking your... guest with her.”

Baldwin’s jaw tightened. “Saints preserve us.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. Eleanor’s fascination with Beth had grown daily, and the two women were becoming fast friends, a development that both pleased and troubled him.

“Aye. Lady Eleanor believes it would do the strange woman good to see more of our world.” Roland hesitated. “There are... whispers in the village already.”

“What manner of whispers?” His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble.

“The usual nonsense. Blue flames from the forge where she helped repair a pot. Healing herbs that work too quickly.” Roland shrugged. “You know how villagers talk.”

Aye, he did know. He’d seen innocent women drowned for less. The thought of those green eyes, so bright with intelligence, dimming in fear, made something twist in his chest.

“I’ll ride down later,” he said finally. “After I’ve reviewed the accounts in the solar.”

Roland nodded, knowing better than to comment on his lord’s sudden interest in a village market he normally avoided.

The morning sun bathed Glenhaven village in golden light, illuminating the thatched roofs and the colorful banners strung between the market stalls.

Baldwin surveyed the scene from horseback, his destrier shifting beneath him.

He’d chosen his finest bay stallion today, the one that stood seventeen hands high and made children gawk and men step back.

A foolish display of power, perhaps, but one he felt necessary.

He wore no armor today, but his sword hung at his hip, and his dark blue tunic bore the Devereux crest. A falcon with outstretched wings, talons bared. The silver thread caught the light as he dismounted, handing the reins to a stable boy who approached with nervous reverence.

The market bustled with activity. Farmers hawked summer vegetables, their voices rising above the bleating of sheep and the chatter of villagers.

A woman sold ribbons from a cart, while a blacksmith hammered iron at his forge, sparks flying.

The scent of fresh bread mingled with the earthier smells of livestock and humanity.

Baldwin spotted Eleanor first, her pale blue gown standing out among the duller colors of the villagers. And beside her?—

He stilled, breath catching in his throat.

She looked... different. Gone were her strange, tight black garments.

Instead, she wore a simple kirtle of forest green wool, belted at the waist with a leather cord.

Her brown hair had been braided and coiled at the nape of her neck, though wayward strands had escaped to frame her face.

The sight of her in proper attire should have pleased him, should have made her seem more like she belonged.

Instead, it only emphasized how extraordinary she was.

She moved differently from the other women, her stride longer, her head higher, her gestures more animated as she examined a merchant’s wares. Even from a distance, he could see the brightness in her eyes, the curiosity that seemed to pour from her like light.

“Milord!” called Maggie, the castle cook, waving a plump arm. She stood near a stall selling honey, her basket already full. “Come to see the market yourself, have you?”

He nodded curtly, making his way toward her. “How fares our... guest?” he asked, his eyes never leaving Beth.

Maggie’s expression softened. “She’s a strange one, to be sure, but kind. Helped young Tom with his burn yesterday, mixed something with honey that took the pain right out.” The cook lowered her voice. “Some don’t like it, though. Say it’s unnatural, the way she knows things.”

Baldwin’s mouth tightened. “Ignorance breeds fear.”

“Aye, and fear breeds cruelty,” Maggie replied sagely. “Mind you, keep an eye on her today, milord. There’s talk.”

With a nod, Baldwin moved through the crowd, which parted before him like water around a stone.

He did not seek out Beth and his sister immediately, instead circling the market’s edge, observing.

He noted the sidelong glances cast at Beth, the way mothers pulled children closer when she passed, the whispered conversations that halted at his approach.

A commotion at the far end of the square caught his attention. A group of riders entered the village, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones. At their center rode a man in a cloak of deep crimson, its hem embroidered with gold thread that caught the sunlight.

Baldwin’s stomach clenched. His distant cousin. Lord Cedric Whitmore.

The man was everything Baldwin despised, wealthy without honor, powerful without wisdom, charming without sincerity. Cedric’s lands bordered Glenhaven to the east, and for years he had coveted Baldwin’s castle, his lake, his very title.

“Ah, Glenhaven!” Cedric called, his voice carrying across the square. “What fortune to find you among the common folk today.”

Baldwin inclined his head slightly, the barest acknowledgment. “Lord Whitmore. You’re far from home.”

“Indeed, indeed. Business with the abbey brought me this way.” Cedric dismounted with theatrical grace, his boots gleaming. Unlike Baldwin’s practical attire, Cedric wore a tunic of crimson velvet, slashed to reveal gold silk beneath. His dark beard was meticulously trimmed, his smile practiced.

“And what a delightful surprise to find not only you but your... unusual guest.” Cedric’s gaze slid to where Beth stood with Eleanor, both women now watching the exchange with wary expressions. “Word travels, my friend. Even to my humble halls.”

Baldwin stepped forward, positioning himself between Cedric and the women. “What business have you with my household?”

“Mere curiosity.” Cedric’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “They say she speaks strangely, knows things no woman should know. That she makes fire turn blue and heals wounds with potions no herbalist recognizes.”

The crowd had grown quiet, villagers drawing closer to hear the exchange between lords. Baldwin felt the weight of their attention, the dangerous current of suspicion gathering strength.

“She is learned,” Baldwin said flatly. “There is no crime in knowledge.”

“Of course not,” Cedric agreed too quickly. “Though some might wonder what manner of learning produces such... unusual talents.” He raised his voice slightly. “In these uncertain times, with the king’s possible visit approaching, wouldn’t it be prudent to ensure all is as it seems?”

Baldwin’s hand moved to his sword hilt, a gesture not lost on Cedric, whose smile widened. “What do you propose?” he asked, voice dangerously soft.

“A simple test. One that would put all doubts to rest.” Cedric turned to address the gathered villagers. “Good people of Glenhaven, you know me as a fair lord, one who values truth and piety. Would it not ease your minds to know for certain that this stranger brings no harm to your homes?”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Baldwin saw the village blacksmith nod, and several women made the sign of the cross. His blood ran cold.

“What test?” Eleanor demanded, stepping forward despite Baldwin’s warning glance.

Cedric bowed to her with exaggerated courtesy. “Lady Eleanor, as lovely as ever. I suggest the iron test. Simple, quick, and ordained by God Himself to reveal the truth.”

“The iron test?” Beth’s voice rang out, clear and confused. She had moved to stand beside Eleanor, her green eyes wide. “What’s that?”

Cedric’s smile was a predator’s. “The accused holds a heated iron. If innocent, God protects the flesh from burning. If guilty...” He spread his hands in a gesture of regret.

“That’s not science, that’s torture,” Beth retorted, her modern words slipping out in her anger. “The burn would depend on skin moisture and?—”

A gasp went through the crowd at her strange terms. Baldwin saw fear flicker in several faces, saw a woman pull her child behind her skirts.

“You see?” Cedric said softly. “Strange words, strange knowledge.”

One of Cedric’s men-at-arms stepped forward, holding an iron rod. The blacksmith, after a moment’s hesitation, gestured at his forge. “It’ll heat quickly enough there.”

“This is madness,” Baldwin growled. “I forbid it.”

“Do you?” Cedric raised an eyebrow. “Then what have you to hide, my lord? Surely, if the lady is as innocent as you claim, she has nothing to fear from God’s judgment.”

Baldwin felt the tide turning against him. The villagers’ faces showed confusion, fear, the dangerous stirrings of mob sentiment. Even Father Gregory, standing at the edge of the crowd, looked troubled, caught between faith and reason.