the patterned roofs of the town. The thick buttresses, constructed of huge square blocks of stone larger than a man, seemed to grow up out of the rock on which the castle perched to form an intimidating, impressive defence.
Shielding her eyes against the bright April sunlight, Tavia followed the wheeling flight of the crows as they circled in the air currents above one of the four corner towers. The screeching of the birds, a sad and lamenting lilt, did little to boost her confidence. Hesitating on the main bridge that led into the town, she swallowed, her throat tightening with an unusual dryness. She picked unsteadily at a loose patch of pale green lichen on the flat stone that topped the bridge wall.
When she had arisen that morning, long before dawn had spread its faint light through the hills and dales, she had felt composed, beset with iron-clad determination about the task she intended to undertake. Dressing hastily in some of her father’s cast-off clothes, discovered at the bottom of an oak coffer, she had started the fire and porridge so as not to draw her father’s anger. As long as he was warm and could fill his belly, then he would not think to question his daughter’s whereabouts. Planting a light, farewell kiss on her mother’s brow had only served to strengthen her resolve; with dismay, she noticed the skin on her mother’s hands had erupted into savage blisters.
Now, as she yanked the hood low over her delicate features, she wondered about the success of her proposed endeavour. When her father had spoken about the contest to find more crossbow men for the King, he had no knowledge that his words, spoken with derision, had given her a solution to finding the money to pay for a physician’s visit to her mother. She would enter the competition, disguised as a young boy, and hopefully be picked as a good shot. Once in the service of the King, she would earn enough in a sennight to hire a competent physician. Only then would she leave and return to her home in the hills.
The outer bailey thronged with people, a profusion of noise and colour. Green-and-gold tunics clashed with ladies dressed in sumptuous gowns glowing in a vivid array of colours. Rich cloaks of fox, ermine and bear contrasted strangely with the drab hues of the peasant clothes, some not more than rags hanging off a thin frame. Backing into the wall of the bailey, Tavia spotted a set of steps to her left and she leaped up, grateful for the easy vantage point. From here she could see the raised platform, tented with a heavily embroidered linen, on which the nobility sat. The fresh-faced King Malcolm, his bright red hair glinting in the sunlight, sat next to his regent, Ferchar of Strathearn. Tavia remembered the outcry when Malcolm’s father, Earl Henry, younger brother to King David of Scotland, had died before he could succeed to the Scottish throne. Luckily, King David had arranged for Ferchar to manage the affairs of the state until Malcolm reached an age when he could take full responsibility.
A huge, round archery target had been set up in front of the dais, and already men were taking their place behind the rope line, lifting their bows and shooting. Some attempts drew guffaws of derisive laughter from the crowd of onlookers; others received cheers of admiration. Tavia sprung down from the steps, relishing the comforting bump of her crossbow slung over her back, and started to make her way through the mêlée, heading for the straggling queue that had formed behind one of the castle soldiers.
‘Name?’ the soldier asked, scarcely looking at her when she had finally shuffled her way to the front of the queue.
‘William of Saxonby,’ she lied, trying to keep her voice as low and as gruff as possible.
‘Bit young, aren’t you?’ The soldier laughed, showing a full set of rotten teeth. ‘Does your mother know where you are?’
Tavia chose to ignore the soldier’s taunt, pretending to turn her full attention to the contestant about to shoot. The man, wearing a coarse woollen tunic of dull grey over a pair of well-worn braies, stood well over six foot; an impressive figure despite his tattered garments. Handsome, too, Tavia decided, studying his side profile covertly. As the man raised his bow, pulling back the arrow with ease, the hood of his tunic fell back slightly, revealing chestnut hair as sleek as sable. Angular cheekbones highlighted the raw beauty of his face, the proud, straight ridge of his nose, the up-tilted corner of his mouth.
A rose tint of embarrassment flooded her cheeks, and she ducked her head guiltily, ashamed at her overt perusal of the man. She needed to remember why she was here, not become entranced by another contestant! Besides, she usually showed no interest in the opposite sex, or, rather, they showed no interest in her. Despite her father’s obvious attempts to marry her off to some rich suitor, the initial attraction of her physical beauty was quickly overshadowed by her wilful, determined manner. Inwardly, she cared not one jot. It bemused her completely that anyone should be enamoured of her, let alone want to marry her; men oft regarded her flagrant red hair as a curse, or even the sign of a harlot, and her scrawny frame was just too lean for most men’s tastes.
The man released his arrow, letting it fly towards the target, where it landed, a few inches wide of the bull’s-eye. Hah! He might appear to be a masterful shot, she thought, but I would best him any day. She watched as he pulled his hood sharply over his head once more, striding over to pull his arrow out of the target. Tavia frowned. Was there something familiar about the man? Surely she would remember meeting someone who was quite so huge? A debilitating weakness swept through her knees as the man turned back, heading straight for her. His massive frame drew alongside, and, in a hazy bubble of disbelief, she studied the slippery cobbles intently, willing him to pass by, to ignore her.
‘Good fortune, young man.’ The giant grabbed her hand to shake it. ‘I hope you have better luck than me.’
In that fleeting, terrifying moment as he had turned back from the target she had known who he was. His grip had served only to confirm his identity. The noise that surrounded her receded, as his hand curled around hers, the furrowed scarring on his palm scorching her own. Tipping her chin, she sought his face within the woollen shadows of his hood, the glint of those feral slate eyes, the forbidding mouth.
‘Nay,’ she whispered. ‘Not you.’
The hold on her fingers tensed at the sound of her voice, then tightened like a vice.
‘Come on, lad! There’s plenty more waiting to shoot. Get a move on!’ The soldier behind her shoved her forward.
She yanked her hand sharply downwards, releasing his grip. What in Heaven’s name was he doing here? He, the enemy, showing his face at the royal Scottish court? She wanted to shout and scream, declare his identity to the whole castle, but if she did that, her own true identity as a woman would be discovered, and her chance to enter the contest would be lost.
His right hand shot out, wrenching at the material of her sleeve, pulling her back, whipping her around to face him. His voice, low and melodious, reverberated around her—a threat. ‘I know you.’
Chapter Three
His words, clipped and toneless, sent a freezing chill of terror through Tavia’s veins. Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest as she jolted round to face the blunt features of the soldier who had urged her on. ‘Guard!’ Her voice emerged as a pathetic squeak as she squirmed uselessly against the man’s fierce grip. The wavering tone of her speech did little to attract the soldier’s attention, especially as the crowd had become restless, bored with waiting for the next contestant. Clearing her throat, she tried once more. ‘Guard! Arrest this man! He is an enemy of…oomph!’
A muscled arm squeezed the end of her sentence away, as it swept around her midriff and lugged her backwards, crushing her into a solid length of body. Before she had time to even consider fighting back, the man had spun her around so violently that she almost lost her balance, her head crushed into the massive wall of his chest.
‘I think my little friend is jesting with you!’ The calm, measured
