Prologue

Riders from the North

 

A wide moon danced across the heavens all night long, from the first moonglow in a sunset sky, until morning, when it faded like the fragmented pieces of a tattered cloud. She looked out over the expanse of meadow and woods at dawn, awakened from her sensuous slumber by the deep rumble of something treacherous and earth shattering. She'd been dreaming of lovers, of bold exotic men, with eyes like birds of prey and tender but decisive hands, delicately caressing flushed skin. Men with sinewy chests, bearded faces and pliant lips; men with virile arms that could capture and content a restless female. Alas, Lady Roslyn was a restless female

But with that dream bursting at the seams with passion, she awakened, startled by a prescient fear and ran toward the window facing west. Gazing out toward the approaching clamor, her beauty bloomed while excitement filled her wide expressive eyes. She was a beauty like none other, where auburn tresses shroud white shoulders, and plump lips beg a lover's kiss. Grabbing her nightdress in her hand, she darted toward the window facing north to get a better view. She moved regally, but with a youthful grace; she was, after all, still young, still an unplucked flower, fragrant and sensuous, the only flower in her father's garden.

The riders came from the north, on steeds with thundering hoofs, and cries of war screaming on their lips, crashing through an easy dawn with swords drawn and ready to kill. Soon swarming over the lightly guarded embankment, blood flowed in a terrible river of pain. Roslyn heard the crashing sound of the gate, breached by snorting beasts and their raging riders.

She dared not run, although even if she'd tried, her legs would never have carried her. Too weak, too panic-stricken for rational thought or calculated action, she slumped in a corner, clutching her white nightdress and buried her face in her arms. Footsteps on the stone staircase echoed, even as her desperate prayers echoed through the injured walls of her home.

They were in her room. Cringing, she peeked at a pair of muddy knee-high boots. She closed her eyes, shaking like a frightened mouse, while a pair of firm, grasping hands lifted her into the air. She landed over the broad shoulder of some fierce burly fellow-she could smell the sour heat of him, his foul breath. No time to waste, he and his accomplices took the stairs, making a hasty retreat.

Roslyn dared not look as the small brigade swiftly passed through the ransacked castle. Her heart cried out to her parents but the scream caught in her throat.

"Doncha dare take milady!" Tevi's cry stopped their retreat and Roslyn's eyes shot open in time to see a rough, bearded warrior backhand the old nurse. She got up swinging in a rage, but was sent to the floor again, this time too wounded to rise again.

"Milady!" The sound of her young maid Celia's plaintive scream suddenly pierced the air.

"Oh, dear God, please, no, Celia, no!" Roslyn prayed vehemently.

But her lovely maid was too fair a prize not to be snatched from the ruins of the castle. Like her mistress, the doe-eyed girl, with the flaxen hair and rosy cheeks, was stolen away, riding over the shoulder of another stinking brute. Unlike the speechless Roslyn, Celia kicked and flailed and screamed. But to no avail, the barbarian laughed at her misery and took her away, following the tiny band of men into the cloudy morn. Behind them, the battle for the castle waged on.

Roslyn choked as the smoke caught in her throat; her eyes burned. A devilish business this was; a terrible memory this morn would leave clinging to her beleaguered mind, though through her body, through limbs and blood a churning thrill coursed. She bit her lips and clenched her fists and fought back her tears. Just a week before, her old nurse crumpled at her feet, and whispered something nonsensical about the end of the world. Oh, how the woman made her shiver before the saner Roslyn shook her off. Tevi saw things; she had the gift, and she knew then, that her mistress' simple life would never be the same. Not after this day of mortal terror.

By the end of the day, a vast stretch of ruins was all that remained in that open meadow, where once the castle of Rosyln's father proudly stood. A lone female, old and decrepit, limped from the ruins, briefly staring back at her past, before she made her way into the wilderness beyond.

Chapter One

The Girl At The Whipping Post

 

Roslyn and Celia rode for miles inside the arms of their captors. They were given no food; there was no time for rest. Their fleet journey sent them though the dangerous woods, through two streams and across a river. Emerging on open land again, to a landscape shrouded in the golden glow of a late summer's afternoon, Roslyn spotted a curiously familiar site. Though it had been over a year since her eyes had rested on Draydon castle, she recognized its battlements and the small village at its outskirts.

It was only then that Roslyn's mind began to function.

"Sir, please, I am not properly attired. Is there something...?" She looked back and upwards at her rough guardian's face, pleadingly. A guardian now, for he seemed more benign than dangerous.

"Indeed," the man replied, sounding strangely more civilized than she first imagined him to be. That, too, would suggest that he meant her no harm.

"A cloak for the lady!" he called to one of the marauders behind him.

Minutes later, a dark cloak appeared that Roslyn quickly wrapped about her shivering shoulders, covering her thin nightgown. The thought had hardly registered in her mind that all this had happened while an unknown man had hold of her body in ways too familiar for any man, but perhaps a husband or lover. A twinge of undisclosed thrill made her shudder in places deep inside her body.

By the time their small party reached the village, it was clear that something was stirring in the tiny town. A throng of people had gathered in the square, their shouts and cursing leveled toward someone, at present, hidden from Roslyn's view. Stomping feet. Canes raised in anger. The Lady's heart beat with trepidation and thrill. Though she'd not been allowed to see such displays at home, instinct told her what was taking place. A few yards more along the stony road, which was now almost impossible to traverse with all the commotion, they halted on a small rise, which gave them a clear view of the terrifying sight.

Clothed only in a dirty shift, a fair-skinned girl was led toward a whipping post. Her cheeks were flushed; her hair a disheveled cloud of gold around her proud but terrified face. Though she aimed at being haughty, her attendants shoved her toward the post with such force, that she snarled back at them angrily, only to have one cuff her and she fell to the ground as if weightless.

"Good lord, what is happening to this world!" Roslyn exclaimed.

"The girl's a traitor, they say," the man behind her volunteered.

Indeed. But still Lady Roslyn would wonder what this traitorous female had done to earn such a ghastly sentence.

"Lash her to the post!" the cry rang out.

Hauled up the scaffold, the terrified girl was thrust against the tall stanchion, her arms raised above her head and her hands shackled to the post. So positioned, body squirming uncontrollably, she looked like laundry twisting in the wind. A knife cut through the slip of material that clothed her, freeing her back from any impediment to the bare flesh. Aware of her sorry state of attire, she now planted her body firmly against the post to hold what little was left of her shift in place.

How sad she looked, Roslyn thought, as the poor girl tried to maintain a bit of dignity in the midst of this terrible travail.

The first cut of the lash on the girl's white skin created such a thundering crackle through the evening air that the watching young woman cringed. As if she felt the blow herself, she let out a scream, a small scream. The poor victim's scream was boisterously loud. What followed was so brutal that Roslyn twice looked away. But something unknown brought her gaze back each time. Such a savage tremor filled her own tender flesh that she was shaking and nearly in tears, while the man behind her held her fast to his chest, as if knowing how she suffered.

"Let's get along!" he finally called to the others in their party. He dug his heels into his mount's flank and the horse moved forward toward the castle gate.

The last Roslyn saw of the girl, she clung to the whipping post, tears streaming down her cheeks. The leather lash, so skillfully placed had ripped such a swath across the delicate skin of her back that it appeared to flame like a scarlet flag.

Entering her uncle's familiar castle, Roslyn could only hope that the day's awful business could be put to rest at last.