to get away?
The answers might drive him mad.
“We must look for her,” he said with determination. “Find my captain of the guard and have him bring every soldier to the inner bailey at once.”
Stephen hurried away as Garrett paced restlessly. His mother emerged from the great hall and came toward him.
“What troubles you, my son? Did you find Lynnette?”
“No.”
Briefly, he recounted what the reeve had revealed. Shock filled his mother’s face.
“Do you truly believe Lynnette would abandon her husband and child?” she asked. “It seems so unlike her. She is as timid as a mouse, Garrett.”
“Mayhap I never knew her.”
He thought back and realized how little his wife had spoken during their conversations. How he’d always talked about Stanbury and his soldiers. Their tenants. The harvests. Other than knowing his wife enjoyed time in her herb garden, Garrett was hard pressed to think of anything else about her—other than she had been a good mother. Had Richard’s untimely death caused something to break within her?
He might never know—unless they found her.
Venturing into the inner bailey, he addressed the gathered soldiers. Garrett did not mention the unnamed knight or Stephen’s suspicions. He merely explained how Lynnette had gone riding and never returned and he feared she lay hurt somewhere nearby.
“We must find her,” he said firmly, believing they would.
The search that night proved fruitless. Garrett rode out many nights after that in all directions, asking others if they’d seen Lynnette. He described her appearance in detail, mentioning the necklace that she always wore, which he knew would stand out. The emerald stones had been his wedding gift to her, its clasp made up of a lion holding a sword. Each time, he returned home emptyhanded—and bitter.
Gradually, he ceased hunting for the woman who never sent word as to her whereabouts.
And never came home.
Chapter One
April 1331—Frothmore—home of Lord Ancil
Madeleine perched on the edge of the enormous bed, her mouth dry, her heart beating wildly. Every night for the last three years had led to this moment. She hadn’t known when the time to flee would arrive, but she knew she would recognize when the time was right. Tonight felt right, despite the obstacles to overcome. For one, she was in a foreign country. Even though she spoke English as well as a native, her journey would still be treacherous. She might make a mistake, one that would label her an outsider. Or even get her killed. She couldn’t afford a misstep.
She flinched as she heard heavy footsteps echoing along the stone corridor. For such a tall, gaunt man, Henri de Picassaret made too much noise when he was drunk. When sober, though, her husband could be as stealthy as a cat stalking a mouse. These days, Henri hounded his own wife.
Madeleine swallowed hard and tried to calm herself. He must not suspect anything. She forced a serene smile onto her lips as the door crashed open.
Henri staggered in, his valet, Bertrand, scurrying after his master. Madeleine glanced quickly at the portly, balding servant. He wore a pained expression upon his sallow face and merely shook his head.
Bertrand steadied Henri and guided him toward the bed. Madeleine automatically rose and took Henri’s other arm. Together, they managed to get the older man to the bed.
“My head aches,” Henri complained, his words deeply slurred. “My stomach pains me.”
Madeleine caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. Usually, Henri drank only the finest French champagne, turning his nose up at other brews. When in England, though, he tried to accommodate his host’s wish. Lord Ancil must have been serving a particularly strong mead. She grimaced at the sour smell that rose from her husband.
Madeleine nodded at Bertrand, signaling him to leave. “You know English food rarely agrees with you, Henri,” she said lightly. “I have prepared one of my mother’s soothing drinks to calm you.”
Henri snorted. “Nothing could soothe my stomach now, Wife. Not even one of Cadena’s mystical remedies.”
Fear rushed through Madeleine’s veins. He must drink from the cup tonight. Somehow, she must convince him—or she’d never escape her nightmare.
“Henri, be reasonable. You want to feel well enough to attend mass, do you not?”
Her husband never missed daily mass. Not that he was a particularly religious man. In fact, he went strictly to pray for his own good health. He bragged that he’d made a pact with God—his attendance at mass in exchange for his physical well-being. Henri was fanatical when it came to his health. Madeleine hoped her words would persuade him. She