mouth thinned into a grim line. ‘Then I hold Harold of Meresham responsible for my father’s death—and one day there shall be a reckoning between us.’
Rob touched the scar on his cheek, his thoughts swept back to the day of his humiliation at Harold of Meresham’s hands and the pain he had endured.
In those first dark nights, when the pain made him cry out and weep like a child he had vowed to be revenged on the man who had done this to him—and the witch who had cast her spell over him. He must have been mad to believe her…and to help her when she was attacked in the forest. She had aroused a heated desire when he held her to him as they rode through the forest but he had forced himself to behave as an honourable knight—he should have taken his revenge while he had the chance! In his anger at the news of what had happened to his father, he was tempted to take as many men as he could muster and attack the castle. He would like to burn it to the ground with those devils in it! And yet he knew that there was more important work—work that prevented him seeking personal revenge.
His bitterness knew no bounds as he paced the room and thought of his father at the mercy of that oafish brute. It seemed that there was an evil curse on all that that family touched or did—and one day they would suffer for what they had done!
‘Be careful, Rob,’ David said, looking at him sadly, for he could guess what was in his mind. ‘The bastard was only obeying his father’s orders—and Lord Whitbread is a powerful man. If you cross him, he will destroy you.’
‘He may do his worst!’ Rob said, and scowled. ‘I have given my word to Henry Tudor and must keep it—but one day my chance will come.’
Melissa’s heart sank as she and Rhona rode into the castle. Seeing her father’s flag flying at full mast, she had known that he was home, and she had given the monks’ servant leave to go as soon as they were in sight of it. As she and Rhona rode over the drawbridge, she saw her half brother, Harold, standing in the courtyard, and her heart caught as he turned to look at her. His expression was triumphant, and she knew that that meant her father was angry with her.
Harold came to help her down. She shook off his hands, giving him a look of dislike, for she hated it when he touched her.
‘Where have you been, little sister?’ he asked, his thick lips curving in a sneer. ‘Father was in a rage when he discovered that you had gone. I hope he orders the thrashing you deserve—and allows me to do it.’
Melissa gave him a haughty look. ‘You would enjoy that, my dear brother, I have no doubt, but my father has more sense than to allow it. I am an heiress and the King is my guardian.…’
‘If it were not so, I should have had my pleasure with you before this,’ Harold said, his mean eyes glittering. ‘If Father did not fear that the King would seize your lands, you would have died long ago.’
Melissa walked away from him, her heart hammering. She had always known that her father hated her, but he held his counsel and she had not guessed that her life was in danger. She wished that there was somewhere she might find sanctuary, but all hope had gone with her aunt’s death. No other Abbey would take her for they might suffer a terrible retribution at Lord Whitbread’s hands. Her only hope lay in a petition to the King—but who would stand up for her?
Owain would have done it had he been able, though his word would carry little weight for he was not a noble, merely a freeman of England. Surely there must be someone who would help her? Yet try as she might, she could think of no one.
She went into the house, walking up the curved stone stair to her chamber. For the moment she must wait and see what her father had in mind for her.
Rob had been training with his men all the morning. He had been working hard and was wiping the sweat from his body in the courtyard. He doused himself with cold water drawn from the well, and then dried his body on a coarse cloth. He shook his head, the water flying from his long, dark hair as it would the coat of a shaggy dog. The sun was in his eyes and it was a moment or two before he realised that the man approaching him was Owain Davies.
‘You are better,’ he said, greeting him with a smile. ‘I must thank you for what you did for me that night, sir. Had I known your name I should have done so long ago.’
‘No thanks were necessary. I could not stand by and see murder done by those villains—Besides, from what I have been told, you have since repaid the favour.’
‘I did what any decent man would have done,’ Rob said, but his smile had gone for the bitterness was deep in him and grew stronger as the days passed. ‘Is there something I may do for you?’
Owain was dressed plainly in leather doublet and hose, his shirt of wool and dark in colour. The monks had cropped his hair short so best to tend his hurts, and there was a livid scar across his head. Yet he was a handsome man, who held himself with pride, his eyes green and bolder than many a man in his position. Something about him seemed oddly familiar, though Rob was not sure what made him think it.
‘I came to offer you my affinity,’ Owain told him. ‘I know that my lady has returned to her father’s house, for the monks told me it was so—and I can no longer wear the livery of Lord Whitbread. He stands for the King and I am for Henry Tudor. I have heard that you are also of this mind—and I would fight with you, if you will have me?’
‘Yes, and right gladly,’ Rob said, offering his hand. ‘Indeed, I am proud to call you my friend.’
‘Thank you,’ Owain said, and smiled. ‘But I would have you know that I shall return to the service of my lady when this conflict is done—she has my loyalty, no matter what she may have done…’
Rob touched the scar on his cheek. ‘What do you know of this?’
‘I know what I saw and no more,’ Owain said. ‘I have been told that she sent you away—and that she knew of her father’s intent, but I do not believe it. If you knew her as I do, sir…’
‘No more,’ Rob said. ‘I accept your friendship and honour you for your loyalty to the lady of Whitbread, but nothing beyond. She betrayed me, and her brother punished me for daring to look above my station. I have since learned that he caused my father to suffer a seizure that later killed him. I have sworn revenge on them.’
‘Harold of Meresham is no true brother to her,’ Owain said. ‘And her…father is a brute who treats her ill. I would help you kill them both and gladly—but she is innocent.’
‘Perhaps…’ Rob’s expression did not ease. ‘We shall not speak of this again, Owain. For now we must prepare for war. I expect the summons any day.’
‘You will obey me, daughter.’ Lord Whitbread’s fleshy face was dark with anger, a deep red colour seeping up from his neck. He wore a long, rich blue gown bordered with gold braid, a chain of heavy gold about his neck, and looked every bit the powerful and rich lord he was. His eyes were filled with loathing, undisguised now for he no longer kept even the pretence of care or understanding. She had shamed him by running from his house and he would not forgive her. ‘I have promised you to Leominster and you shall marry him if he will have you, though you do not now deserve the honour.’
‘No, Father,’ Melissa cried. ‘I shall never marry a man I neither know nor care for. I have heard of the marquis’s reputation and he is not a man that my mother would have wished me to marry.’
‘Your mother is dead,’ Lord Whitbread growled. ‘Even if she lived my wish would
