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      PROLOGUE

       London, Michaelmas, 1243

      SIR ROALD DE SAYRES’S nostrils flared with disgust as he stepped over the refuse in the alley in Cloth Fair between the slaughtering yards of Smithfields and the bulk of St. Bartholemew’s Church. Aware of the sword he wore on his left, he firmly clasped the hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt on his right and scanned the alley for the man he was to meet.

      “Sir Roald!” a coarse Yorkshire-accented voice called out in a harsh whisper. The bulky shape of a big, brawny man stepped into the alley from a shadowed doorway. He wore breeches, tunic and cloak, patched and none too clean.

      Roald peered at the figure in the dim light, trying to get a good look at his face. “Martin?”

      “Aye, sir,” the man replied with a nod of his shaggy head.

      Roald relaxed a little, but he didn’t take his hand from his dagger. “You told no one you were planning to meet me here?”

      “No, sir,” the former garrison commander of his uncle’s castle answered.

      “And you told no one in Ecclesford you were going to London?”

      “Not daft, am I?” Martin replied with a hoarse laugh.

      Not daft, but not clever, either, Roald thought as he regarded the traitorous fool. “It’s as you promised? The garrison—?”

      “Will be like lambs to the slaughter. Taught ’em next to nowt, and their weapons are older’n my mother. Paid for the worst, told Lord Gaston—who wouldn’t know a decent sword from a pike—they was the best.”

      And pocketed the difference in price, no doubt.

      “Them that are left won’t know how to mount a proper defense, neither,” Martin bragged, the big brute clearly not caring a ha’penny about the fate of his former comrades-in-arms. “They’ll be running ’round like chickens if you march on ’em.”

      “And his daughters? Prostrate with grief, I assume?”

      Chuckling like the fool he was, Martin nodded. “They was weepin’ and wailin’ when I left. They think that father of theirs was a saint or summat.” Martin grinned again, the corner of his wide, ugly mouth lifting. “Told ’em I wouldn’t take orders from no women—and I wouldn’t, neither, especially that Lady Mathilde.”

      Roald didn’t care what excuse the man gave for leaving his cousins’employ as long as it didn’t involve him. “You told no one you were meeting me tonight?”

      “No, my lord.”

      Pleased his alliance with this traitorous oaf was still a secret, Roald reached into his finely woven woolen tunic and produced a leather pouch. He had no immediate financial needs, thanks to the moneylenders who were only too happy to help him when they learned he was the heir of Lord Gaston of Ecclesford and soon to be in possession of one of the most prosperous estates in Kent.

      As always, it wasn’t just the thought of his new wealth and power that warmed him. How he’d make that shrew Mathilde grovel before he sent her off to a convent for the rest of her life. As for Giselle…his loins tightened at the memory of her ethereal beauty. He’d marry her off to the highest bidder, but not right away. Oh, no, not right away.

      Martin cleared his throat, clearly anxious for his reward.

      Roald held out the pouch, mentally assessing the man’s strengths and weaknesses. A trained fighter Martin might be, but all men had their vulnerabilities. Big men were slow, and stupid men were the most easily defeated of all.

      Grabbing the leather bag, the soldier eagerly emptied it into his calloused palm, the coins gleaming in the moonlight. With a slow deliberation that set Roald’s teeth on edge, the lummox began to count them as he returned them, one by one, to the pouch.

      “Do you think I’d try to cheat you, Martin?”

      Martin glanced up, frowning. His gaze faltered, and he swept the coins, half of which were below their proper weight and value, back

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