“You’re leaving Bornebow Hall?” He seized her arms, his eyes searing into her like ice. Her breath caught, as if she were in a runaway cart. “Without me? Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Does Richard know?”

“Not you too.” Viola made a sound of disgust. Her horse tossed her mane, recognizing the sound and impatient to run across the fields and moors. “I’m going to talk to my father. I’m fifteen years old. That’s old enough to know my own mind. My own heart.”

Tristan was only a few years older than she was, and had been a knight for less than a year, but he felt positively ancient at the thought of losing Viola. It was one thing to recite poetry like a troubadour, and sneak roses onto her pillow, but another thing altogether to challenge her father. Her betrothal to Richard was made on the day she was born. But he knew the set of her jaw and what it meant. There would be no stopping her. She was like the hawk above them, hungry and wild.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said softly, stepping close enough to smell the amber and lavender of her hair, to brush his mouth over her cheek.

“Nor I you,” she whispered, melting into him. “So come with me. Fight for us.”

“Viola, I would die for us.” He touched his brow to hers. “But you know what they’ll say.”

“My mother might listen,” she insisted stubbornly. “She wants me to be happy. She is always asking if Richard treats me well.”

“And he does,” Tristan felt honor-bound to remind her. He considered Richard a brother. It seemed a poor way to repay him by falling in love with his betrothed. But there was a reason they called it falling in love—you couldn’t choose your landing. Fate chose for you. “He’s a good man.”

“But he’s not you.”

She jerked out of his grasp and vaulted into her saddle. “Are you afraid to prove yourself?” she asked, looking down at him, temper making her cheeks red. “Because I’m not.” She kicked her horse into a gallop, churning dirt and dead leaves in her wake.

Tristan swore and leaped onto his own mount, chasing after her. They kept to the edge of the forest until it was time to follow the river, crossing the fields. They passed villages with their creaking mill wheels and goat pens. The shorn fields glittered in the fading light and it was dusk when they finally left the empty howling moors to approach Viola’s father’s castle. The stone walls and the keep above them were silhouetted against the pink-and-orange sky.

“Lady Viola,” the guard at the gatehouse greeted her with a bow of the head. She nodded back and then they were in the outer bailey, their tired horses picking their way up the path to the inner courtyard.

Viola slid out of her sidesaddle, her legs aching from being wrapped around the pommel. Her cheeks stung from the constant onslaught of the cold wind. The courtyard was quiet, as it always was this time of day. She’d chosen her arrival carefully. She knew her father couldn’t be bothered with visitors until well after supper. She might have a chance to win her mother over to her side by then.

“Mother will be in her solar,” she said as Tristan handed their reins over to a stable boy. Saying the words out loud made her realize that in all her visits over the years, her mother was always buried under a pile of blankets. “She’s unwell,” she explained as they headed up to the old hall. Improvements had been made since she was a girl, including a new stone tower that threw the old timber hall in shadows. “She never leaves.”

Until now.

Viola froze, stopping so abruptly Tristan had to take her shoulder to stop from crashing into her and knocking them both off their feet.

“I don’t . . .” She trailed off, horrified.

Tristan followed her shocked gaze. A woman waited in the cold twilight of the bailey. Her long braids were bound with gold cord and her fine gown and embroidered surcoat, along with her jeweled girdle, marked her as a noblewoman. She wore a fur mantle. Anyone would have thought her the lady of the castle.

Except for the fact that she was hanging from a post by her chained wrists. There were scars on her neck that her linen wimple could not hide.

“Are you under attack, my lady?” Tristan asked, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Fury and bile burned in the back of his throat. “Who is that?” he whispered to Viola. “Do you know her?”

“That’s my mother,” Viola replied before bolting out into the open courtyard. Swearing, Tristan followed, searching for possible threats from the ramparts. When no arrows or hot oil poured over their heads, he risked a glance at Viola. She was clawing uselessly at the chains, her fingertips bleeding. Her mother stirred, blinked at her, confounded.

“Viola?”

“Who did this to you?” Viola asked. “Where’s Father?”

“Viola, it’s really you.” Lady Venetia smiled as her daughter tried to slip an arm under her shoulder to support her. Her smile died, trembling with fear. “You’re really here. No,” she moaned. “No.”

“Help me!” Viola shouted at Tristan. She glared at the servants who gathered at the doorways, watching her mutely. “What’s the matter with you?”

Tristan had the same sharp, uncomfortable feeling in his belly that he’d had the time a gang of outlaws had surprised him in the woods. He’d nearly lost his head that night. He saw the flash of torchlight glinting off chain mail from along the battlements. A dog barked in the kennel.