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arrows and men’s cries, did their attackers emerge, unscathed. They were shouting and laughing at the ease of their victory. Daria saw their leader immediately, a huge man, and he was laughing the loudest as he directed his men to loot the dead, collect the horses, and see to the wagons.
    He took off his helmet. He had the reddest hair she’d ever seen.

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    Reymerstone Castle, Essex, England
Near the North Sea
Early May 1275
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    Roland de Tournay found the seat of the Earl of Reymerstone easily enough. The castle dominated the rock-strewn promontory that jutted out like a tongue into the Thirgby River that flowed nearly a mile into the North Sea. The castle was in the Norman style, built by the present earl’s great-grandfather, and was more stark and weathered than comfortable, still more of a fortification and a garrison than a residence. Yet the present earl had lined the pockets of many merchants to add comfort to the austere gray stone castle, luxuries such as thick tapestries to blanket the stone walls and keep out the damp from the North Sea, Flanders carpets in bright scarlets and royal blues, beautiful embroidered cushions for the three chairs, each made by an artisan of great skill. The dozen trestle tables and their long benches in the great hall, however, had not changed in three generations, and past living of all the common men and women who had shared their meals on the gnarled old tables still showed clearly, all the scuffs, all the knife-carved initials, all the old grease.
    The great hall of Reymerstone was impressive, Roland decided as he waited for the emergence of the Earl of Reymerstone, Damon Le Mark. Roland knew he was being studied by several serving wenches and sent them a wink that caused giggles and pert smiles. He saw a female hurrying toward him, this one a lady, possibly the mistress of Reymerstone. She was in her thirties, brown-eyed, hair a dull red and of slight stature. She’d once been very pretty. Now she looked faded and tired, her shoulders slightly bowed. She looked beaten down. Her expression, however, when she looked at him, suddenly changed and she looked furtively around her, then approached him quickly, her step light and quick as a girl’s.
    â€œYou are Roland de Tournay, sir?” she asked in a low voice that was soft and cultured.
    â€œAye, my lady. I come at the invitation of the Earl of Reymerstone, your husband.”
    â€œHe will be here shortly. He is otherwise occupied just now.” What did that mean? Roland wondered. The woman continued, “I am Lady Katherine of Fortescue, the current earl’s sister-in-law. His half-brother was my husband.”
    â€œYour husband was James of Fortescue? I had heard he’d fallen by accident in a tourney, just before he was to leave with Edward for the Holy Land. My sympathies, my lady.”
    She again nodded her bowed head. Roland frowned. Couldn’t she look at him, eye-to-eye? Could she possibly be frightened of him?
    â€œDo you know why Lord Reymerstone asked me to come here?”
    Her head came up then and he saw the strain in her fine eyes. And there was something else—fear, perhaps, which brought him fully alert.
    â€œIt concerns my daughter,” she said quickly, glancing behind her. She grabbed his sleeve. “You must find my child and bring her back safely, you must. Ah, here he comes. I dare not remain. I will leave you now, sir.”
    She glided silently away, gone into the gaggle of serving wenches before the earl had seen her.
    Roland had a moment to study the Earl of Reymerstone as he strode toward him. He was a tall man, in his late thirties, lean of build, a full head of white-blond hair, his eyes the palest of blues. His stubborn chin was beardless, his expression was obstinate. He didn’t look to be an easy man. He looked to be a man who got his own way, by any means necessary. Roland had survived many of his adult years by correctly summing up a