CHAPTER ONE

The Barracks, Lincoln Castle, Lincoln, England, April 1168

Nicola coaxed a fragile flame from the hearth’s dying embers, the taper trembling in her grip. The air inside the barracks clung to her throat—thick with sweat, spilled ale, and damp straw. She raised the light. Its glow barely pierced the gloom stretching over the pallets sprawled out in uneven rows.

Her gaze locked on a solitary shape in the corner. It had to be Suardinc, his bed set apart from the others, half-swallowed in shadow, its young occupant curled against the stone wall as if trying to vanish.

She set her jaw. This couldn’t continue. She had to help.

The low drone of snoring and heavy breathing filled the air. Good. The taper hadn’t woken them. Lifting her skirts, she stepped between the beds, her boots silent on the straw-strewn floor.

A guttural snore cracked the stillness. Nicola gasped. The taper slipped from her hand, hit the straw, flared briefly, and died. The barracks plunged into darkness.

Heart pounding, she froze. The men didn’t stir. Their breathing continued, heavy and undisturbed.

Moonlight from a narrow window painted a pale path through the murk. She edged forwards and knelt beside the shadowed pallet. The boy lay with knees drawn to his chest. It was Suardinc. Her chest tightened. She couldn’t undo the others’ cruelty, but she could try to help.

She could still hear Miles’s taunt whilst the squires were at swordplay in the training yard: “Your father mistook you for a boy!” the older squire had mocked. “You can’t ride without holding onto the reins.” He bashed his wooden sword against the younger boy’s. “You can’t hold a lance… you’re nothing but a girl in men’s clothes!”

Suardinc had winced, his freckled face burning crimson. His footing faltered, and he sprawled in the mud. The other squires, and even some sergeants, laughed as Miles forced Suardinc’s submission.

Nicola had watched from the other side of the fence. Miles was twenty-one and full-grown, whereas Suardinc was thin, thirteen, and only just grown facial hair. Her hands had gripped her eating knife until her knuckles whitened. She couldn’t help feeling protective. She might only be a fourteen-year-old girl, dismissed as weak like Suardinc, but this was her father’s castle, and she had a duty to do best by these boys.

She lowered herself onto the edge of the pallet and clamped a hand over his mouth. “Wake up,” she whispered.

Suardinc jolted beneath the blanket. His eyes flashed open; wide and startled. “Lady Nicola?” he mumbled against her palm, voice thick with sleep.

She pulled her hand back and glanced around. No movement. “Thank God. I couldn’t be sure in the dark.”

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night!”

“Two hours before dawn,” she corrected. “Keep your voice down. There are two horses saddled on the Lawn. The gate-ward has let out the bridge. We’re stepping up your training. Now.”

“Training? Now? With you?”

***

Two hours later, Nicola sat astride her grey mare, Moonbeam, grinning at the pale crimson fingers of sunlight fanning out across the sky and casting a golden glow on the Lawn. A lone sergeant appeared on the battlements above the gatehouse, looking their way.

She squinted. “It’s only Leif. He won’t tell.”

Suardinc, gangly and flame-haired, sat on her father’s spare gelding. He nodded. Leif, a common soldier, had become Suardinc’s only friend. He’d keep their secret. They were safe until the breakfast horn.

Nicola’s spear rested in her hand; her reins draped loosely across the pommel. Suardinc clutched a training lance, his freckled arm straining under the weight. His mount tossed its head, restless. They’d trained hard; but she wasn’t done with him yet.

She tugged her skirts higher and tucked them under her thighs. Her gowns always got in the way when she was riding, as if ladies’ clothes were designed by men to keep their women from galloping free.

“Your riding’s stronger,” she said. “You’re holding the lance better. But knights don’t ride with reins. They hold a shield in one hand, a lance in the other.”

Suardinc shifted nervously. “Sir Edwin’ll have me thrashed if I’m late.”

Nicola flicked a braid over her shoulder. She had to teach him. If he didn’t earn respect now, he never would. “You grip the reins like you’re afraid to fall. You need to guide the horse with your legs and hips. In battle, you ride hands-free, knee-to-knee with your comrades.”

Suardinc’s horse pawed the ground nervously, rolling its eyes. Suardinc looked even more nervous, but she was sure her instructions were correct. She’d spent years watching Edwin drill the squires and soldiers, and, as the constable’s daughter, she’d probably heard more of the garrison commander’s lessons than anyone else alive; certainly more than her sister Julia, whose only interest was dressing in fine clothes and perfuming her golden hair.

“Before we finish,” she said, “you’ll learn to ride without hands.”

Suardinc hesitated, then nodded and looped the reins over the saddle horn. “No hands,” he murmured. His lance wobbled.

Nicola wheeled Moonbeam in a tight circle. “We’ll ride together in close formation. When we’ve mastered that, we’ll try it with shields.”

Suardinc gaped. “With you?”

She raised her chin, feigning confidence. “Why not? I know I’m only using a spear, not a lance, but I’m a competent rider.”

“But your father… If he found us riding so close together.”

She winced. Papa would be furious. “Nonsense. We’re only training.” And Papa would never need to know. “Control your horse with your body. Grip with your thighs. Let your hips move with his stride. Use your left leg to keep him close. Match my pace and keep formation—your knee close to mine. Ready?”

“Aye,” he said, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Walk on,” she called, pressing her calves to Moonbeam’s sides.

Suardinc nudged his mount forwards, his lance quivering as he matched her pace. Their knees hovered inches apart, his gelding’s shoulder brushing her mare’s.

“That’s it!” she called, forcing herself to sound confident. “Sit deep, nudge left, hold steady!”

Suardinc’s horse sidled closer. The lance held.

“Now!” Nicola kicked Moonbeam into a trot, moving with her mare’s rhythm. She kept the spear level.

Suardinc kept pace. His lance wobbled, but he smiled.

“Deeper in the saddle!” she shouted over the thunder of hooves and wind shrieking in her ears.

Lances level. Horses tight. Knees brushing.

“Faster!”

Moonbeam surged into a canter. Suardinc’s gelding leapt forwards. The pair galloped as one; flanks grazing, legs pumping, riders balanced and bold.

“Yes!” Nicola cried.

The world blurred into a wild smear of green grass and castle walls. The wind roared, sharp and alive, tugging her braids and stinging her cheeks. Her heart pounded in time with the thundering hooves, each beat a drumroll of pure, reckless joy as her mare surged beneath her, powerful and wild, mane whipping back like a banner. Nicola leaned low, her body one with her mare as the two riders and the two horses thundered across the earth.

She’d never felt so alive. She laughed, a wild, unladylike sound bursting from her chest. If a knight’s life was like this—full of boundless, reckless freedom—why had God made her a weak woman, confining her to a world of endless, boring duties?

“Lady Nicola!” a man’s voice called.

Nicola kept riding.

“Lady Nicola!” the man repeated, bringing her back to her senses.

She slowed Moonbeam. Suardinc followed suit.

A thickset figure stood at the far end of the bridge, arms crossed. Edwin.

“You did well,” she said to Suardinc. “Next time we use shields.”

Suardinc opened his mouth, then closed it.

Edwin stalked towards them, shoulders rigid beneath his surcoat. “Suardinc,” he growled, “get off Lord de la Haye’s horse and return to the barracks. Now.”

“Aye, Sir Edwin.” Suardinc dismounted, face flushed, and led the gelding towards the bridge.

Nicola, still breathless, smiled down at Edwin.

He frowned, but his eyes sparkled with reluctant amusement.

 “You taught me well,” she said. “We rode in close formation.”

He scowled. “You’re not a man, Lady Nicola. And you never will be. You’ve women’s duties to perform. The whole castle’s looking for you. Your father may have a male heir before the day’s out. Your mother’s travail’s begun. You’re expected at the birth.”

***

The Lucy Tower, Lincoln Castle

Flames leapt from the brazier as Nicola shoved open the door and strode into the dim, candlelit chamber. Three veiled women clustered around the pallid figure on the curtained bed, blood pooling between her legs.

“Mama!” Nicola rasped, her voice barely more than a croak.

Her mother’s face was ghostly pale, glistening with sweat. Grey hair clung to her forehead. Gyda, her stout maid, dabbed a damp cloth across her cheeks whilst a midwife lifted the sodden, bloodstained chemise.

Nicola squared her shoulders and inhaled, only to gag on the stench of blood, bile, and something worse. She’d witnessed two castle servants’ births, but nothing like this. Those women had been young and strong, whilst Mama was weak from disease.

Gyda looked up, her lips tight. “Lady Nicola, you’d best go. You shouldn’t have to see this.”

Nicola stiffened. She didn’t want to be here. But she hated being told what to do. “I’m fourteen. Papa says I’m old enough to marry and bear children. If I can face that, I can face this.”

Mama’s eyes fluttered open. “It’s alright, Gyda,” she rasped. “Let her stay.”

Nicola stepped forwards and clasped one of Mama’s limp, gnarled hands. “You’ll be alright, Mama. Soon, you and Papa will have a son.”

Please, God, let it be a boy. But what if it wasn’t? Would Papa make her try again?

Mama arched her back and let out a groan, her nails piercing Nicola’s skin.

Nicola flinched. Dear God, Gyda had been right. She shouldn’t have come. Julia hadn’t. But her sister was never present when there was work to be done, or something difficult to do.

“Stand aside, m’lady,” commanded one midwife. “It’s time.”

Nicola stumbled back and fled to the window. She flung the shutters wide, drawing in a gasp of cold air as the cathedral bells clanged to the east.

Mama screamed. The older midwife, her raven-dark eyes sharp, lifted the chemise. The opening between Mama’s legs stretched impossibly wide, and the black hair of the baby’s crown appeared.

“You’re doing well, my lady,” Gyda murmured.

The baby’s head slipped free, its face squashed, eyes shut, mouth slick with blood and fluids.

“A fine face,” the midwife said, crouched between Mama’s thighs. “One last push, m’lady. The worst’s nearly over.”

Mama nodded. Grey rings of exhaustion shadowed her eyes.

Nicola rushed back and clutched Mama’s hand.

“Push!”

Mama howled, and with a final, convulsive effort, the baby slid into the world in a flood of brownish slime.

Relief surged through Nicola. A boy, finally. Papa would be thrilled. He had an heir.

The older midwife’s face tensed. She cut the cord, slapped the tiny bottom, and rubbed him with a rough cloth. The younger midwife spoke softly to Mama.

Nicola crossed herself and took a seat on the bed. Surely, now Mama had performed her duty, she could finally rest and recover.

Nicola groped for her prayer beads and closed her eyes. “Dear Lord… please… don’t let Mama die.”

A lump of charcoal settled with a thud to a new level in the brazier’s basket, drawing Nicola’s attention to the otherwise deathly silence of the chamber. Flames cast flickering shadows against the tired paintwork of the walls. Gyda wiped Mama’s brow as the younger midwife rubbed her belly. The older one wrapped the baby in a clean sheet. Nobody spoke.

The baby wasn’t crying.

The only sound was the thump of Nicola’s heart.

“Is… is everything alright?” she asked.

“Your mother’s gravely ill,” said the younger midwife. “But if God wills it, she may recover—once the afterbirth’s delivered.”

Nicola turned to the older midwife. “And the babe?”

The woman didn’t answer at once. She wrapped the baby tightly in linen and laid him in the wooden cot before lifting her gaze. “I’m sorry, m’lady…” She shook her head. “The child’s stillborn. I tried to revive him, but he died in the womb. May God assoil him.”

Gyda crossed herself. “Oh, my lady…”

“No!” Nicola gasped. “No!”

Her legs buckled, and she stumbled to the cot.

The baby’s face was pale and rigid, like an effigy in the cathedral. Nicola reached out and caressed his cheek. Cold as stone.

She shook the cradle. “Wake up! Please… wake up!”

But the baby’s eyes stayed shut.

Nicola staggered back to the window and sank to her knees in the sharp glare of morning light. Her baby brother was dead, condemned to an eternity in Limbo for not being baptised before he died. She closed her eyes. “Lord, show mercy...”

Soft footsteps approached.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Gyda said gently. “The midwife says she’ll speak to your father. Your mother’s too ill to go through that again. There’ll be no son. You’re an heiress now.”

Nicola’s breath caught.

Gyda’s hand settled on her shoulder. “You understand, my lady? You’ll have to do your duty. A woman can’t command. It won’t be long till your father chooses you a husband.”

Nicola nodded, her throat tightening as her future closed in on her like a cage.