Chapter One

North Yorkshire, England, December 1554

“Ten lords, all vying for my hand in marriage,” Edwina said gloomily to her cousin, Gertrude. “Somehow I thought ’twould be much more exciting.”

She looked out over her father’s hall from her place at the head table on the dais. Feasting, drinking, and revelry reigned supreme, as they had for the last fortnight, ever since her erstwhile suitors began arriving in answer to her father’s invitations. Each day and evening had been full of noise, merriment, and mayhem. How could mayhem turn so swiftly into boredom?

“Nine lords, in truth,” Gertrude returned ruefully. “Do not forget one has, as yet, failed to arrive.”

“How could I forget?” Edwina shrugged, and her thick braid of golden hair slid over one shoulder. “I scarcely know what is worse, these nine empty-headed nobles fawning about the place, or knowing there is one who could not even be bothered to show himself.”

Her gray-blue eyes narrowed as she watched two of her suitors at the far side of the hall draw their swords and begin sparring together. That kind of thing happened so often it no longer even turned a head. So far, though a bit of blood had been drawn, no one had been slain.

Unfortunately. It would be nice to reduce the number down to at most eight.

Gertrude, secure in her own happy marriage last fall and with her first babe safe beneath her kirtle, gave a chiding smile.

“Why did you agree to all this, if you are so set against it?”

“I did not agree to all this.” Edwina waved an eloquent hand. “It sounded well enough when Father proposed the idea.” It had, in fact, sounded like something from one of the ancient tales Edwina’s nurse used to spout: the beautiful princess whose suitors must perform impossible tasks in order to win her favor. All of them invariably failed save one, and to him the princess gave her heart.

Aye, the idea had seemed wonderfully romantic when her father declared he’d sent missives to ten carefully chosen lords from the north riding and beyond. They would come for an extended Christmas feast and demonstrate their worth.

It had, however, proved anything but romantic. For it soon became evident Edwina’s suitors were eager to win not her favor but her father’s, and along with that his vast and wealthy holding, which would be settled upon Edwina—his only surviving child—upon his death.

Edwina sighed and propped her chin on one hand. Unlike the princesses in the tales, she was no beauty—too tall, too big-boned, and showing all too clearly her Viking heritage and peasant ancestry. Her father had been a common man, once, who married for love and then set out to gain his wealth by benefit of hard work, diligence, and sharp bargaining. Now, though, he wanted to see his family elevated—through Edwina’s marriage to one of these lords.

The good God save me.

“My father has surely lost his senses,” she murmured, and turned her gaze toward her parents, who stood in conversation with one of the lords—she thought he might be called Ronald of Coldwell, but she could well be mistaken. No matter how hard she tried, she could not remember all their names. To be sure, at the start she had tried. She had tucked names and faces into her memory as she met each new arrival. But for the life of her she could no longer keep them straight.

“Why do you say that?” asked Gertrude as she folded her hands on the mound of her belly.

Edwina merely shook her head. A full month ago her father had begun planning this entertainment—no expense spared. Edwina suspected he wished, or perhaps needed, to show he possessed wealth to spare and that despite the family’s humble beginnings his daughter made a rich prize. He had brought in cooks from the south, a small herd of troubadours and musicians, a troupe of traveling players, acrobats and jugglers, even a jester. Music played all day and half the night, and the din and confusion of whirling batons and constantly raised voices had given Edwina a permanent headache.

Yet her father looked so amazingly sane. A big, bluff man, he had been busy quizzing each of Edwina’s suitors with a skill that bespoke his many years of negotiating—precisely, Edwina thought unhappily, the way he might negotiate on the services of a prize bull for his favorite heifer.

How could Edwina admit even to Gertrude that at the start of this escapade she had hoped for love? She had dreamed of taking a single look at one of these men, falling into his eyes, and never again surfacing. But with each introduction her heart sank a bit further, until it now weighed in her breast like a stone.

Gertrude leaned closer. “Be of good cheer, cousin. Perhaps the tenth lord will yet show his face, and he will be the one.”

****

“My lady, if you will do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Edwina gazed into the eyes of her suitor and tried desperately to recall his name. Edelbert, she thought it was, or possibly Englebert. Edwina could not gaze up into his eyes, for he stood a good measure shorter than she, which made her feel very much like a clumsy ox on the hoof.

And he had a squint. That, of itself, meant little—Edwina, well aware of her own shortcomings, judged no one solely on appearance. But surely a woman should find something attractive in the man she would one day take to her bed.

She struggled to smile as Edelbert took her hand. His skin felt hot and sweaty. The musicians struck up a tune, and she curled her toes in anticipation of pain. Her feet had already been stamped on by any number of lords. Everyone wanted to dance with her, so it seemed. Only one or two could actually perform the activity with any measure of grace.

She blew out a gusty breath and stepped lively, just saving her instep from the stamp of Edelbert’s right foot. At least dancing with him was far and away safer than being paired with Lord Angus, her sole suitor from north of the Scottish border. Edwina turned her head and located the man—a precautionary gesture—as if that might ward off his presence. A wild crop of orange hair and a booming laugh made him easy to find.

She shuddered slightly. Lord Angus always made her feel as if he might toss her over his shoulder like a pilfered sheep and bear her off to Scotland for leisurely plundering.

“Sorry,” said Edelbert, having just sidestepped onto her toe. “I fear dancing is not my strongest talent. I assure you I am much more comfortable with a sword in my hand.”

“Really?” Edwina widened her eyes at him in frank disbelief. She knew all men of his station underwent training at arms, but surely a man as clumsy as this, given a sword, would have long ago decapitated himself.

“Or hunting,” he asserted, beginning to perspire still more heavily. “I like nothing better than a good chase.”

“You are in luck, then. My father has planned a hunt for his guests tomorrow morning.”

“Truly?” He momentarily lost his squint in a look of alarm.

“Aye, I believe he plans to track the ancient and extremely savage boar living in the woods not far from here.” Her father seemed to have some notion that prowess in the hunt proved something. Edwina thought not; her money was on Lord Angus to throttle the boar with his bare hands. That would not convince her to allow the behemoth between her sheets, however.

Edelbert gave her a barefaced lie. “I will look forward to that.”

Edwina wagered he would have some excuse, come morning, for not being able to ride.

The music mercifully ended, Edelbert bowed himself out of her presence, and Edwina’s mother appeared at her side.

“Having a good time, dear?” she asked Edwina with a smile even as Edelbert stepped away. She lowered her voice, and her blue eyes swept the room. “Well? See anything you like?”

Edwina gave her mother an incredulous stare. Marta seemed to have acquired all the happy excitement Edwina lacked. Her round cheeks, so like the ones Edwina had inherited, glowed pink, and her eyes sparkled.

“Nay,” Edwina managed to say, “not yet.”

“Well, I am sure you will. Such a lucky girl,” Marta enthused, making Edwina stare harder. “All these men throwing themselves at your feet.”

And stamping on them.

Marta put her head close to her daughter’s. “Tell me, which do you find the most handsome?”

That went without question; were she to judge merely by appearances, Lord Julian of Grimsby must win hands down. In fact when first he arrived, Edwina had become quite interested. But upon being introduced to him she saw how his cold, gray eyes looked through rather than at her. If the man smiled, she suspected his beautiful face would crack.

She hoped the boar gutted him before Angus throttled it.

“I can only consider Lord Julian comely,” she said acerbically. “But he would not throw himself at my feet were he afire and I held a pitcher of water in my hands. I do not know why he bothered to come.”

“Because you are a very great heiress, my love. That makes you as valuable as any jewel.”

“Which in turn means I am not at leave to choose my own husband?”

Marta looked shocked. “But you are to choose. What do you think all this is about? Your father and I might have selected one of these fine bucks for you. We might have ordered you to marry and expected you to obey. But we raised you to be a strong woman, and we are determined to let you have your will.” Marta winked. “Just so long as the wedding takes place at Christmas. Can you imagine anything more romantic?”