Page 1 of Taming the Earl (The Earls of the North #3)

Year of Our Lord 1301.

Wolvesley Castle, North-east England

A high-pitched wailing noise summoned Angus from the comfort of rare slumber. The noise came again, slicing through his body like a freshly-sharpened blade and echoing around the tapestried walls of his bedchamber. He flung away the blankets and sat up in bed, his fumbling hands reaching out for the tinder on the nightstand.

God’s Bones, what was that dreadful sound?

The desperate shriek reverberating through the second floor of Wolvesley Castle could have been summoned directly from the fiery depths of hell itself. It was keening infused with both terror and terrible grief. Much more of it would send a man mad.

The flame struck and Angus lit his candle, casting quick eyes around the spacious room to ensure all was still before rising from the bed and striding to the doorway, chill night air wrapping itself around his nakedness. The sound grew louder as he flung open the panel and a hot wave of dread washed over him when he realized where it was coming from.

His mother’s bedchamber.

This was grave indeed.

Angus hesitated no more. He reached for a fur-lined mantle, belted it tightly and closed his oak wood door behind him. Shadows jumped around the vaulted corridor as he covered the distance to his mother’s room. He had been right to insist the guards be repositioned from this part of the castle at night; else the de Neville family secret might have finally been exposed.

He knocked sharply and twisted the handle, but the door was bolted on the inside. Angus put his mouth close to the wood and spoke softly.

“Mother, it’s me, let me in.”

Rapid footsteps sounded, although the wailing did not let up, and Angus straightened as the bolt was shot back. The door opened slightly and a blaze of light spilled out of it. He blinked and found himself looking into the wary grey eyes of his mother’s loyal lady’s maid.

“My lord,” the elderly woman said, her voice trembling. “I am sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”

Angus folded his arms and flashed her a reassuring smile. The servant had failed in her duties tonight, but Angus was not quick to blame. “Forsooth, Nella, I do not believe it is you who woke me.”

Nella pulled a faded shawl over her head for decency, just as another wail of anguish came from behind her. “Your mother has had another nightmare but I will tend to her, my lord.”

Relief tapped him on the shoulder.

A nightmare, that was all.

Angus nodded his thanks and turned to leave. But a quailing enquiry from within stopped him in his tracks.

“Nella, is someone there?”

Nella spoke over her shoulder. “Only your son, my lady.”

The cry of joy was unmistakable. “Lucan, my boy, have you come back to me?”

There it was. The name he dreaded hearing from his mother’s lips.

Angus turned and followed Nella’s footsteps into his mother’s bedchamber. Lady Violetta de Neville had half-risen out of bed, though her frail legs were still entwined in a slew of rugs and she was precipitously close to falling.

“Easy, Mother, it is I, Angus,” he declared, putting a strong arm around her shoulders and righting her. Clad in a nightrail trimmed with lace, his mother’s jutting collarbones were all too visible. Violetta had never been a large woman, but she had eschewed nearly all foodstuffs since the recent tragedy.

“Angus, oh, Angus,” the old woman murmured, reaching up to place a small, cold hand over his. “Of course, it is you.” Her long white hair billowed around her; hair that had once been the colour of burnished gold. Angus had inherited his thick fair hair and piercing blue eyes from his mother.

“Pray take more care,” he scolded her gently as he pulled a heavy rug over the slender figure. “These late summer nights carry a chill.”

“Stay near me, son, for I had a terrible dream,” Violetta begged, allowing him to lay her back onto her pillows. “I saw your brother, Lucan, tossed from a horse and killed.” She paused, gazing up at him desperately as her fingers closed around his. “Will you fetch him for me? I long to touch his living face and banish the ghosts of that dreadful vision.”

Angus froze in his tasks, half-closing his eyes as his mother’s words settled within him. At the other side of the bed, he saw Nella clasp her hands together as if in prayer. He took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose as he wondered what to say in reply. The hour was late. Should he mutter bland words of comfort and let an old lady sleep?

Would that be cowardly? Or merely compassionate?

Angus took another ragged breath, wishing that at least his mother’s chamber was kept in darkness so that Nella would not bear witness to the despair and indecision washing over him.

Appearance was everything. And as Earl of Wolvesley, he must appear to be calmly in control, even if the situation threatened to overwhelm him.

Alas, although Violetta’s vision was failing, she held a deep dislike of shadows and insisted that her chamber be kept brightly lit, even in the darkest hours of the night. Oil lamps flickered in numerous sconces along the white-washed walls and a bright candelabra blazed from the ceiling.

“Rest for a moment, Mother,” he said quietly, pleased when her eyelids fluttered closed. “Let me think on your request.”

Still searching for inspiration, he glanced at the lowered face of his mother’s faithful maid. Nella had pulled the folds of her shawl together for warmth, but was swaying where she stood with tiredness.

“You may retire for the night, Nella,” he told her. “I will stay with my mother.”

Nella bit down on her lip, her anxieties all too evident. “Lady Violetta does not like to be alone,” she said, her voice catching. “For these last few nights I have slept here, in her chamber.” She nodded towards a narrow cot pulled beside the foot of the bed.

Angus cleared his throat. The words that neither of them dared give voice to hovered in the candle-lit chamber.

“All the more reason for you to rest now, while I am here.” He smiled again, projecting an air of calm reassurance despite his inner turmoil.

Nella tightened her lips and he could see that she remained uneasy. “Sometimes my lady wakes and says strange things.” She hesitated, clenching her pale hands together. “I am sure she does not mean them. But mayhap, if she were to be overheard, people could get the wrong idea.”

Her steely courage took his breath clean away. Most servants would have scurried from the chamber, hardly daring to meet his gaze. But Nella had served Lady Violetta since she came to Wolvesley as a young bride and her loyalty to the dowager countess was unswerving.

Angus folded his hands over his robe. His hands were large, his fingers long, his nails square-cut and buffed. They were the hands of a man in control.

“I understand what you are telling me.”

Her gasp of surprise was audible. Angus lifted his gaze and met hers steadily.

“You know?” Her voice cracked.

He nodded once, pushing his reluctance aside. “I have known for many years. Although my mother has never come so close to public exposure as in these last months. Her grief makes the situation more perilous.”

Nella looked as if she might faint clean away. She stumbled to one side and rested an arm on the finely-carved headboard to steady her. All of the resolve in her lined face melted to nothing and he was alarmed to see tears shining in her grey eyes. Her next question was so quiet he had to ask her to repeat it.

“What will you do?”

Angus frowned. “Do?”

“You are the King’s judiciary.” The statement was high-pitched and accusatory.

Angus frowned. “I am also my mother’s son.” But his rush of anger cooled as her ageing body sagged in relief. “Do not fear, Nella,” he added gently. “But we cannot risk anyone else finding out. This must remain a secret between us.” He straightened his back, imbuing his words with all the authority of his recently acquired rank. “You cannot allow Lady Violetta to become so vocally distressed.” He raised an eyebrow.

She caught his meaning quickly. “I will be more vigilant, my lord, and will wake her at the first hint of distress from now on.”

“I would like some time alone with my mother.”

He had given her the reassurance she needed. Nella bobbed her head with no further prevarication.

“I will bring some warm milk from the kitchens.”

She left quietly, closing the panel behind her. Angus reached down to smooth his mother’s white hair away from her brow. It was as long and thick as it had been in Angus’s childhood; only the colour had faded. Her eyes were closed now, her face smooth and serene; he fancied that the danger had passed.

Aye, danger. That was not too strong a word for it.

If the wrong people witnessed Violetta in the grip of one of her ‘visions,’ his mother might be branded a witch. As the King’s judiciary, he would be expected to arrest her.

Weariness tugged at his bones. He could not stand here all night, with a lowered head and stooped shoulders. He spied a small footstool nearby, pulled it closer to the bed and sank down onto it.

“Lucan, is that you?”

“Nay, Mother, is it I, Angus,” he said firmly, dragging his gaze up to hers.

But Violetta was not peering in his direction. She was sitting bolt upright in bed, her unseeing eyes fixed on the far corner of the room, directly next to the brazier.

Unsettled, Angus followed her gaze, satisfying himself that the room was empty.

“Lucan is not here, Mother,” he tried again.

If only he was.

Angus’s only brother, the former Earl of Wolvesley, had been killed just days after hosting a lavish midsummer ball earlier in the year. Lucan had been a skilled warrior, fearlessly leading the mighty Wolvesley army in service of King Edward on the Scottish borderlands. But he did not meet his death in battle. Instead, the experienced knight breathed his last after a simple tumble from his horse inside his very own stable yard.

The raw injustice of Lucan’s loss did not simply sting, it had burned a hole through daily life at Wolvesley Castle. Nearly three months on, his absence was still felt in every corner of the fortress. He had been a just and fair earl, respected by his men both on and off the battlefield.

Angus swallowed down his rising grief. His pain at losing a brother could not compete with his mother’s utter anguish at losing her eldest son. Her dream had been not a nightmare, but a memory. And much more terrifying for it.

“You have come back to me,” Violetta said. Her voice had lost its edge of panic and a smile danced around her lips. “Come closer, son, so that I might see you more clearly.”

Angus swallowed hard, unable to prevent his gaze from swinging back to the brazier, half expecting to see a broad-shouldered warrior with tumbling locks of golden hair reaching half way down his back. If Lucan was here, his keen blue eyes would look straight into Angus’s soul, one clear question on his mind.

How will you protect all that was mine?

Angus would give all the gold coins in the castle for the chance to have that conversation. He had grown up a scholar and gone on to be a law-maker. Some ten years his brother’s junior, he had never anticipated taking on the mantle of earlship. How could he now lead the largest army in the north?

On the day he met his death, Lucan had been still young enough to produce a nursery full of heirs. Two years earlier, he had been plunged into long mourning when his young wife died in childbirth; but they had all expected he would re-marry one day.

But that day would never come. Angus was Lucan’s only heir. And now the mighty de Neville line stopped with him.

Another problem that he must solve.

“Such worry etched across your brow,” Violetta murmured, her hands out-stretched in greeting.

Angus could bear it no longer. He sprang to his feet and snatched up a long candle from the nightstand.

“There is no one here, Mother,” he stated, with more conviction than he felt. He didn’t want to consider if his mother really had ‘the Sight.’ His main concern had always been ensuring no one else suspected it. And that task had never been more challenging than since his brother’s death. It seemed her grief had overwhelmed her capacity for rational thought.

Violetta’s head twitched, as if she were only dimly aware that he had spoken.

“Lucan, tell me what troubles you,” she whispered.

Angus swung the candle around in an arc. Light blazed from every corner and the familiar chamber held nothing to fear, save his mother’s increasing delusions.

Her increasingly vocal delusions.

He settled the light back onto the nightstand and cupped his warm hands around Violetta’s.

“Mother, look at me,” he ordered firmly. “I am here, Angus. We both know that Lucan has passed on. It is a truth that grieves me every day, but we cannot deny it.”

Violetta’s failing eyes gazed past him, but he could see he had her attention now.

“He is fading,” she gasped, her face turning to his in a pitiful entreaty. “Angus, you frightened him away.”

He chuckled at that, settling himself back onto the footstool. “Think on, Mother,” he said, softly. “When was Lucan ever afraid of anything I did? He was the warlord. I was the scholar.”

Violetta sank back onto her pillows, her long fingers patting her son’s hand. “Aye,” she agreed. “He liked his sword, and you liked your books.”

“That’s right, Mother,” he said, breathing deeply to quell a surge of sadness. “Try to rest now,” he added, more in hope than expectation. But Violetta closed her eyes and gradually, her breathing became slow and regular.

Nella returned and Angus took his leave, but he found no comfort in sleep that night, despite the softness of his bed and the many challenges awaiting him in the morn. He had kept his mother’s secret safe all these long years, but would her grief expose them all?

*

He rose before the cock crow and splashed water on his face from an earthenware bowl, chasing the exhaustion of the unending night from his skin. He dressed carefully, in a richly embroidered dark tunic, and pulled a cherry-wood comb through his thick hair.

Angus kept his hair cut shorter than his brother had. It hung in soft waves just above his powerful shoulders. He was a strong, athletic man, despite his preference for pursuing the law rather than enemies in battle. He’d known from a young age the vital importance of public image. For the de Neville men, appearance was all.

This was why Angus did not leave his bedchamber until he was satisfied that the looking glass showed him a man in control.

He was on his way down the stone-flagged stairs when a servant came running from the entrance hall.

“My lord, your visitor has arrived.”

Angus’s face creased with genuine pleasure. “He is early,” he exclaimed. “Have refreshments brought to my solar.”

Minutes later, Otto Sarragnac, Earl of Darkmoor, strode into Angus’s private oak-panelled room and pulled his friend into a strong, wordless embrace. The two men stood shoulder-to- shoulder, both of them tall and broad. But while Angus had about him a whipcord energy, Otto was a man bred for battle. His forearms were those of a warrior well-used to wielding a broad-sword, and the silvery scar snaking across his left cheek confirmed he had seen action aplenty. Otto and Angus had trained together at the renowned Knights academy in Lindum; although Angus had later turned to more scholarly pursuits.

Pursuits which meant he could ensure the safety of those he loved at home; even while the Wolvesley army campaigned far and wide under Lucan’s wise leadership.

“I am sorry for your loss, my friend,” Otto said gravely. “I am sorrier still that I could not attend Lucan’s funeral.”

“You are here now, and I thank you for it,” Angus replied, chasing down a swell of emotion. “How is Alfred?”

Otto’s young son had been taken with a fever, which had kept his father rightly at home.

Otto smiled briefly. “Much better, thank you. With his mother’s careful nursing, he will see full health within days.”

Angus gripped his arm. “It gladdens my heart to hear it,” he said sincerely. “But I’m gladder still to have you here.”

“I will help in whatever way I can.” Otto’s eyes ran quickly over the comfortable room, furnished with stuffed armchairs and a gleaming mahogany desk. “Although I admit, I am at a loss as to how I can be of assistance to the mighty Earl of Wolvesley.”

Angus let out a short bark of laughter. “That is a title I am not yet used to inhabiting. But let us sit and talk for a while, before business claims us.” He pointed to a patterned chair pulled up beside the fireplace. “Will you take a cup of small ale? Or would you prefer wine?”

“Ale at this hour.” Otto smiled. “I must keep a clear head for whatever is to be asked of me.”

Angus waved away his concerns as a slim serving wench backed into the room carrying a heavy tray filled with a pitcher of ale, freshly-baked bread, soft cheese and ripe figs. Otto sniffed hungrily, rubbing his hands in anticipation. The servant placed the tray on a low wooden table, nodded her auburn head and departed.

“Eat and drink, my friend,” Angus urged, taking a small hunk of bread for himself. “You have had a long journey.”

“And then will you tell me why you summoned me here?” Otto raised a dark eyebrow as he speared a hunk of cheese. “You do know that Darkmoor is but a poor estate compared to Wolvesley?”

“Hush, man,” Angus said, with mock frustration. “Darkmoor suits you very well, Otto, and I will not feel sympathy for a man who boasts a loving wife and son.”

“And another child on the way,” Otto interrupted him, his joy evident in his wide smile.

“Wonderful news indeed.” Angus inclined his head, ignoring the tiny knot of jealousy beginning to form in his stomach. “You must send my blessings to Ariana.”

“I will.” Otto chewed and swallowed. “And what of your own betrothed, Lady Emelia Foxton?”

Angus put aside his bread, unable to summon an appetite. “Emelia is still in Cheltenham.” He forced a smile. “But I have no doubt I will hear from her soon.” He flicked a glance at Otto. “Mayhap even today.”

“You are in regular contact?” Otto was watching him closely, unable to hide his curiosity. “I was not sure if your betrothal still held?”

“Aye, it does.” Angus swallowed the words for now . He leaned forward and pointed to a finely-detailed tapestry hanging on the panelled wall over the fireplace. It depicted Wolvesley Castle, from the two fortified towers to the high fountain in the courtyard. “This is Emelia’s work.”

“Lady Emelia stitched this for you?” Otto exclaimed, standing up to better examine the tapestry. “Why, the detail is exquisite.”

Angus folded his arms. “We challenge one another. It is our long tradition.”

Otto swivelled around. “How so?”

“You know she fostered here as a child?” Angus glanced up to see his friend nodding. “We were close in age and all but grew up together.” He paused. “Lady Emelia has a strong competitive streak.”

“As do you,” Otto interrupted.

Angus nodded. “We competed over everything.” It was, mayhap, the one thing that bonded them. He raised his palms upwards. “When Lucan and Lord Foxton arranged our match, she wrote immediately to tell me she could not countenance marrying me until I demonstrated some proficiency in the arts.”

“What did the lady mean?”

“She challenged me to learn to play the lute.” Angus raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the small wooden instrument which still resided on the plush window-seat.

Otto choked a little on his bread, surprise etched all over his chiselled face. “And did you?”

“Aye, I did.” Angus repressed his smile. “It all but cost me my sanity, but I mastered the damn thing. And in turn, I wrote back to say I could not countenance marrying her until she demonstrated some proficiency in the more feminine arts.”

Otto was grinning widely now. “Hence the tapestry?” he guessed.

Angus nodded, drumming his long fingers against the polished arm of his chair. “And so, I await her next challenge.”

He had told Otto the facts of the matter; although he had not revealed the quiet secrets of his heart. When first they started, he had been happy for these childish challenges to provide a delay to their nuptials.

Emelia was an intelligent, beautiful woman. The perfect match for him, in the eyes of many. Angus, however, could not bring himself to see her in that light. There was no shared blood between them, but he still thought of her with the irritable affection of an older brother.

In truth, he did not wish to marry her. The older he grew, the more convinced of this he became.

Furthermore, he had long suspected that his reluctance was reciprocated. Why else would Emelia prevaricate so? But as yet, neither one of them had been courageous enough to admit their true feelings.

“An entertaining tale.” Otto brushed crumbs of bread from his emerald green tunic. “When did you last see Emelia?”

“I have not laid eyes on her for more than ten years,” Angus stated baldly. “We were but children when she left Wolvesley. And truth be told, now that I am earl, I have no time for these games. You know yourself the responsibilities that come with my position. Our old enemies in Powys are already re-grouping, bolstered into action by Lucan’s death. And King Edward is an old man now. Who knows what the future holds for us all?” His frustration was beginning to show in his voice. Angus bade himself be quiet and took a restorative sip of ale.

“You already have a strong army, but you need an heir,” Otto stated quietly, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

That was the truth of it. Angus needed an heir.

“I need an heir. I also need a commander for my army. And god-willing, I need the grace of time to accomplish these things before our enemies strike.” He sighed. “A wife is the first step.”

A headache threatened at his temples. Aye, it was time for him to do his duty.

Otto cocked his head to one side, his dark eyes fixed on his friend. “Does love play no part in this?”

Angus smiled at his whimsy. “Love is for stories, and mayhap those lucky few like you and Ariana. I have no time to look for it. An heir is what I need for Wolvesley.” He picked up his cup of ale and raised it in a silent toast.

“And that is why you have brought me here?” Otto’s eyebrows all but disappeared into his dark thatch of hair.

Despite his frustrations, Angus felt the laughter welling up inside him. “Nay. I do not look to you for advice on that. I know well enough what to do.” He broke off with a smile. “It is your skills as a warlord that I seek.”

Otto made an expansive gesture. “Pray, enlighten me.”

“I must appoint a new leader for our army. There are many good candidates, all loyal knights who have long served under the Wolvesley standard.”

“You will not lead them yourself?” Otto interrupted, frowning into a shaft of morning sunlight which slanted through the window behind them.

“Nay.” Angus didn’t want to explain how precarious his situation was. If he vacated his position as judiciary, another man must be found in his stead. He could not allow that, for his mother’s sake. “I know where my strengths lay,” he said, avoiding the real reason behind his decision.

Otto pursed his lips. “I am honoured, of course. But I also remember your prowess at Lindum. I believe you are a man of many strengths, Angus.”

“Lucan was the warrior in this family.” Angus would brook no further discussion on this point. “He trained his men well. And inspired loyalty which will hold true for many summers yet. I ask only for your opinion on which of them has the greatest propensity to lead. After all, it is some years since I last rode into battle, whereas you, my friend, were putting down skirmishes as we feasted for Beltane.”

Otto lowered his head, his eyes humble. “I will help you in any way I can.”

“Excellent.” Angus jumped to his feet, eager for action and to dispel the slight awkwardness which had descended upon them. “The men train each day. We will go down to the grounds as soon as you have finished your meal.”

But his plans were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come,” Angus said.

It was the grey-haired, slightly stooped Seneschal who came hesitantly into the solar.

“Milords.” He bowed first to Angus and then to Otto. “Forgive my interruption.” He shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “We have a delivery for you in the stable yard.”

“In the stable yard?” Angus repeated, his eyes flicking between the Seneschal and Otto. His friend shrugged good-naturedly. “Well, bring it in, man.”

“I am afraid that will not be possible.” The Seneschal developed a deep interest in the rushes on the floor.

“What manner of a delivery is this?” Angus leaned back against the edge of his mahogany desk, drumming his fingers on the wood.

The Seneschal’s cheeks flushed red. “It is a horse, milord.”

A beat passed. Angus scratched the back of his neck, his mind racing. “And was there a message with this horse?”

“Yes, milord.”

The Seneschal held out a roll of parchment which Angus took and unfurled. His eyebrows rose higher as he read the elegantly penned note.

Dearest Angus,

I trust you liked the tapestry? I dare to own it was one of my finest achievements, even though the endless stitches made my fingers bleed and my back ache. But I could not allow your triumph on the lute to eclipse me.

And so, I have upped the stakes. Here is a horse which no one can ride.

If you tame the horse, dear Angus, we will finally name the date for our wedding.

Yours in expectation,

Emelia

He read it twice, anger taking root in his gut and making his fingers tremble.

God’s Bones. Emelia had gone too far this time.

He paced across the floor and sat down heavily in his recently vacated chair. Otto hovered over him, his face concerned.

“What is it?”

Wordlessly, Angus handed him the parchment.

“I see.” Otto’s expression was grave as he rolled it carefully back up and placed it on the desk. “This is too soon.”

Angus nodded, grateful his friend had divined the reason for his distress without him having to explain.

“Could it be that news of Lucan’s death has not reached as far as Cheltenham?” Otto bounced a little on his heels.

Angus took a steadying breath as some of his red mist cleared. “Nay, it is all over the country. Although the exact circumstances of his passing may not be known,” he allowed.

“I am sure Lady Foxton would not be so insensitive…,” Otto trailed off.

Angus dragged a weary hand over his eyes. “Our horses are the best in the land.” He held up a hand. “And I make no apology for the claim. Not even before you, Otto.”

“No apology required.”

“My stablemaster served my father before he served Lucan. The man made one mistake, when he failed to check the girth on Lucan’s saddle. It is a mistake he will never forgive himself for, although I have oft repeated that an experienced knight should know well enough to check the fastenings of his own girth.” Weariness and grief were settling around him once again. “None of this is Emelia’s fault. But I cannot countenance an unsafe horse in my yard at such a time.”

“That is understandable.” Otto put a hesitant hand on his shoulder.

“I will have the horse returned. Emelia needs to know that the time for games is over.”

“Your situation has changed, certainly.” Otto moved away to stand near the window, giving Angus the space to think.

“I need a wife and I need an heir,” Angus repeated. It had become like a mantra to him.

“You do,” Otto agreed quietly.

“I have no further time for this childish competition.” He brought his heavy brows together and glared across the room at the tapestry. But this time, Otto did not agree. Angus looked over at his friend to find he had stilled in his position, his face unreadable as he gazed out at the castle lawns. “What is it?”

“Exactly that.” Otto nodded towards the roll of parchment. “You need a wife. Quickly. And Lady Emelia herself has promised to name a date for your wedding once this horse is tamed.”

“Another game.” Angus shook his head dismissively. The familiar solar was beginning to feel close and oppressive.

“Ah, but one which you do not need to play.” Otto tapped a finger against his cheek as he thought it through. “Keep the horse here and find someone else to train it.”

Angus looked up at his friend, his head a jumble of conflicting thoughts. “But I cannot know that Emelia is telling the truth.” He remembered a feisty, pink-cheeked girl with long flaxen plaits who took great delight in toying with him. She had never before broken her word over something so important. But nor had she ever raised the stakes so high.

Does she want me to fail?

“You have her promise in writing,” Otto pointed out. “All you need to do is secure a horse breaker.”

Angus winced at the phrase which he had never liked, before switching his gaze to the uneasy Seneschal. “Have you seen this horse?”

“Aye, milord.”

“And what think you of it?”

The man coughed discretely. “A great, big brute, if I may speak freely, milord.”

“I think you already have,” Angus commented mildly, ignoring Otto’s hastily disguised bark of laughter. “Would you say the horse is unrideable?”

“That’s not for me to say, milord. Although Jacob the stablemaster was keepin’ ’is distance.”

“It’s worth a try.” Otto opened his arms. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Angus tapped his fingers on the arms of his chair. The worst that could happen was he would fail Emelia’s challenge. Just three months ago, such a prospect would have filled him with dread. But he’d changed much since then. There was more at stake here than just his pride. Wolvesley needed an heir, and by playing one final game with Emelia, he may just be able to make that happen.

“I hear you, Otto,” he said slowly, scratching at his beard. He addressed the Seneschal. “Send word to all four corners of the estate. I want a horse trainer brought here. Man, woman, old or young, I haven’t the slightest care. Just so long as they can tame this horse.”