Only for You

by Hannah Howell

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Hannah Howell spins lush, romantic stories that sparkle with intrigue and passion. Now, she gives us her most exciting novel yet: a medieval tale set on the untamed Scottish border, where a man and a woman risk their hearts on the stormy battlefield of love.

As wild as the rugged north country where she was raised, Saxan Honey Todd has sworn to avenge the murder of her twin brother. Recklessly, she gallops across the English countryside in pursuit of the man she believes to be his murderer: Botolf, Earl of Regenford.

As hard and unyielding as the armor he wears in battle, Botolf is irresistibly drawn to the impetuous beauty who has come to wage war with him. Saxan stirs his passion to the point of madness . . . but to love her would be madness indeed.

Now, as a desperate enemy stalks him and the greensward runs with innocent blood, Botolf brings Saxan to his castle . . . as his bride. But Saxan needs more: to fight by Botolf's side and triumph over the danger that surrounds them—as the beloved mistress of his very heart and soul.

Contains mature themes.

Release date: July 1, 2007

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

Banners fluttered noisily in the cool spring breeze. Botolf Corwine Lavington muttered a curse as he pushed aside a stray lock of raven hair, but his dark gaze never faltered from the crowd. The knights’ shields and colors were well displayed outside each tent. None of them were the ones he sought, but he was not surprised. His enemy had become increasingly secretive. The Earl of Caindale and his guests began to seek the seats from which they would view the tourney. Ladies laughed, flirted, and gifted their chosen champion with some favor to carry into the mock battle. Botolf knew he would have to join them soon. As the Baron of Merewood and the new Earl of Regenford he was expected to take his full part in the tourney.

For a moment longer he stood before his tent watching all the activity with narrowed eyes. On his orders, his vassals and close friends, Sir Roger Vane and Sir Wesley DesRoches, also kept a close vigil upon the milling, cheerful crowd. Somewhere amongst the brightly clothed revelers was a person with murder in his heart. Botolf knew the gay confusion of such an event would aid an assassin.

“Be careful, Botolf.”

Turning his head, Botolf smiled briefly at his petite mother, Lady Mary. “I will be. I always am. Go find your seat, Mother. Do not fear for me.”

Lady Mary sighed. “Do men never change? Thrice has an attempt been made upon your life, yet you tell me not to worry.”

“And thrice the attempt has failed.”

“Aye, but once, the last time, success came too near for my liking. This evil from an unknown—”

“We both know who means to see me dead.” He fought down his fury when he saw how his mother paled.

“I cannot believe it,” she said weakly. “Cecil is your brother.”

“My half-brother.”

“You share blood, a father’s blood.”

“We also share the day, the month, the year, the hour, and even the moment of our birth. It matters not. We both know ’tis Cecil who hunts me.” He lightly touched his mother’s still-smooth cheek. “Go. Enjoy the celebration. I will be safe. We will not talk upon this again. It only brings you pain.”

“She does not wish to accept the truth,” Sir Roger said quietly after Lady Mary had left, his blue eyes revealing his sympathy for the woman.

“It is too painful a truth to accept. She held Cecil to her breast, treated him as her own son. To her it is much akin to Cain slaying Abel.”

“Aye. He had a better life than many another, yet he wants it all.”

“ ’Tis often the way of it. Now, who is this lad?” Botolf flicked a smile at the boy that another of his vassals, Sir Talbot Yves, led over to them.

“Pitney Todd, m’lord,” Talbot replied. “Your squire, Farold, has injured his ankle and cannot serve you. Pitney will do so in his stead.”

“How old are you, Pitney?” Botolf asked, finding it difficult to resist the urge to stare at the boy’s hair, a silver-blond color that was nearly white.

“Eighteen, m’lord,” the boy replied.

“From the North?”

“Aye, m’lord. Sir Chad Brainard, your castellan at Regenford, sent me here last week. He has many boys and thought I would find more to do here, if it pleases you, m’lord. I have been well trained, m’lord.”

Amused by the eagerness in the boy’s light-blue eyes, Botolf said, “It could be naught else if Sir Chad trained you. How many boys does he have?”

“Seventeen at last count, m’lord.”

“S’elp me God! Does the man think to breed an army up there?”

“They are not all his boys, m’lord. You have two of his sons with you. Sir Chad trains four Kipps from Ricadene, three Binks from Upwode, three Jagers—my cousins, m’lord—from Wolfhill, two Kirkleys, two Rowans, two Verges, and one Torans. Sir Brainard is much favored as a trainer.”

“So it would seem.” Botolf exchanged a laughing glance with Roger over the boy’s readiness to chat.

“There is a need for well trained men at the borders. The Scots never know when they are beaten,” Pitney added.

The men laughed and Botolf sent the boy to ready his arms for the tourney. He could not recall when he had been as eager, as filled with the joy of life, as the young squire. Although he was but seven and twenty, he often felt twice that age. Deep inside he craved peace but, as soon as Caindale’s festivities came to an end, he had to return to Regenford. It was time to take up his duties as a marcher lord. He would find little peace there. Although Botolf knew too long a time of peace could possibly turn sour on him, he did wish for a taste of it.

“Where in God’s fine earth did the lad get that hair?” Sir Roger burst out once Pitney was gone.

“Ah, the Todd family is of Saxon descent,” replied Sir Talbot. “Their ancestor was one of the few to hold onto his land after the Conquest, though ’tis a small holding and none too rich. He sat secure whilst all about him were set the Conqueror’s men. If Baron Alhric were akin to that ancestor, then it was skill in battle and guile that kept him secure.”

“Where is Lord Alhric now?” asked Botolf.

“Dead, m’lord. He died in your father’s last acre fight at Regenford. The tale goes that the baron was found beneath a dozen dead Scots still clutching his sword.”

“The lad looks too delicate to come from such fierce stock.”

“Lord Alhric was fair and slight, but I would have thought long and hard before facing him with a sword. Brainard claims the boy is like him.”

A page’s approach stopped their idle talk. Botolf frowned as the boy held out a delicately embroidered cloth. It was Lady Odella Alanson’s kerchief of pleasance. Reluctantly, Botolf accepted it, giving the page the appropriate words of gratitude to take back to the woman. To have done otherwise would have been an insult.

“A fair flower,” murmured Sir Roger.

“Aye. Pretty, well-mannered, and one of my mother’s favorites.”

The cold flat tone of Botolf’s voice insured that his men would restrain from making any further remarks concerning the fair Odella. Lady Mary and even the king wished him to remarry. His mother dared not push him too hard, and the king had as yet declined to exert his power. That suited Botolf just fine. For now, the earldom of Regenford existed with no hope of an heir. As he entered his tent to prepare for his turn in the tournament, Botolf hoped he would be allowed to delay the need for remarriage a little while longer.

It did not take Botolf long to see young Pitney’s value as a squire. The boy seemed to anticipate each move and command Botolf made. He found himself wishing Pitney were his squire instead of the accident-prone Farold. Then he felt the pinch of guilt. Farold was his cousin’s youngest son. The boy had been performing to the best of his ability. It was not Farold’s fault that his ability left much to be desired. Sighing with regret as he donned the last of his armor and made his way to the tournament field, Botolf hoped he could accept Farold’s eventual return with good grace.

Botolf took his turn upon the tourney field quickly and efficiently, retiring from the field amidst hearty congratulations on his skill. He came very close to beaming at the young Pitney when he found a hot bath readied for him. It was not until he had sunk his aching body into the soothing hot water with a pleasured sigh that he recalled that he had no such amenity as a tub amongst his baggage. Looking around for Pitney, he discovered that the youth knew the game of least-insight very well. Laughing softly, Botolf began to scrub himself clean of the sweat and dust from the tourney field.

His laughter increased as he heard one of his recent opponents, Sir Walter Trapp, bellowing, “What rogue has stolen my tub? You there, lad, where are you taking that water?”

“This water, sir?” asked Pitney, his sweet voice heavily ladened with a false innocence.

“Aye, that water.”

“To my Lord Botolf so that he may rinse away the dust raised when he felled you earlier.”

“Impudent whelp,” grumbled Sir Walter. “Let us go and see what he rinses in, eh?”

“Sir,” gasped Pitney in dramatic outrage. “Do you accuse the honorable Baron of Merewood, the Earl of Regenford and brave defender of our northern borders, Lord Botolf Lavington, of being a common thief?”

“Of course not,” blustered Sir Walter.

Botolf could hear a great deal of laughter. Although quieter in his mirth, he was enjoying the exchange as much as those who watched it. He hesitated in rinsing his soapy hair, not wanting to miss any of the confrontation being enacted before his tent. Botolf suspected that the somewhat dull Walter was easy prey for the clever Pitney.

He grinned as he heard Walter desperately try to extract himself from the insult he now believed he had delivered. Suds slowly trickled down Botolf’s face as he listened. Absently, he flicked at them, cursing viciously when they went into his eye, stinging and blinding him. He groped for the drying cloth he had watched Pitney leave within his reach.

A steely arm suddenly curled around his neck. Botolf heartily cursed Providence. Naked, soap blinding him, he knew he was easy prey for the murderer who had managed to slip past his guards and into his tent. His cry for aid was stifled at its birth by a gloved hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

Botolf became a creature of fierce, thrashing muscle, his sole interest throwing off his attacker. The murderer’s soft curses reached Botolf’s ears as a knife thrust itself into the fleshy part of his shoulder instead of piercing his heart. When his sight began to clear Botolf saw the killer raise his dagger again. The man was trying to strike one more time before Botolf succeeded in throwing off his hold. Botolf was not sure he could stop that thrust either, and he felt the chill of impending death.

“Murder!” Botolf heard his new squire scream, and the assassin’s choking grip abruptly lessened.

Struggling to stand, his weakness and the water impeding him, Botolf saw Pitney hurl himself at the startled attacker. The boy revealed no hesitation despite the fact that the man was twice his size. Sir Walter, Sir Roger, and Sir Wesley all stumbled into the tent to gape at the unevenly matched pair thrashing on the ground.

Obeying Botolf’s bellowed commands, Sir Roger helped him out of the tub. The other two knights moved to stand near the fighting pair, prepared to strike as soon as they were able to do so without hurting the boy. Botolf rushed to dress and grab his sword in order to lend a hand.

An instant later there was an opening, but Botolf loudly cursed the manner in which it arrived. Knowing he was caught, that death loomed over him, the killer thought only of insuring that he did not die alone. Before Botolf or the other men could stop him, the erstwhile murderer buried his knife in Pitney’s chest. When the man rose up to stab at the boy again, Sir Walter found the chance to strike. With one fierce swing of his sword he cleanly removed the man’s head from his shoulders.

“I wish you had not done that,” Botolf said, sighing with a mixture of frustration and disappointment.

“The man tried to kill you,” Walter grumbled. “He did kill the boy.”

“Nay!” Botolf cried in denial. “Close the tent flaps,” he ordered Roger when he caught sight of the small crowd of curious onlookers outside.

Botolf continued to curse as he listened to the people leave, murmuring the tale that someone had tried to kill Lord Lavington and his brave squire Pitney Todd had given his life to save that of his lord. There was no time to put an end to their gossip. He fleetingly prayed that none of the boy’s kin would be caused unnecessary grief as he turned his full attention to Pitney. There would be time enough later to correct what was being said.

Moving quickly, he knelt by the slim youth’s side. Even as Botolf searched for a heartbeat, the boy opened his eyes. The soft depths of his eyes were clouded with pain. Botolf found himself thinking rather irrelevantly that the boy had uncommonly pretty eyes.

“Not dead yet, m’lord,” the boy whispered in a hoarse voice.

“And you are not going to die,” Botolf snapped as, with Roger’s help, he worked frantically to staunch the profuse flow of blood from the boy’s wound.

“ ’Tis comforting to know.” Pitney sent Botolf a weak smile. “I mean no insult, m’lord, but, perchance you prove wrong, my body must be returned to Wolfshead Hall. I must lie with my ancestors.” His smile became a grimace of pain. “A few herbs and tight wrappings and I ought not to stink too foul.”

“Stop talking.”

“As you wish, m’lord,” Pitney whispered, slipping into unconsciousness with barely a sound.

“What has happened here?” demanded a voice from the front of the tent.

Botolf spared barely a glance for Lord Sealing, the plump Earl of Caindale, as the man strode into his tent. He ordered Walter and Wesley to explain everything to their agitated host.

To Botolf’s consternation, Lady Mary rushed into the tent. He watched her sway with blatant relief when she saw that he was still alive. The sight of the decapitated attacker turned her somewhat pale, but she did not leave. She quickly moved to help Botolf tend to Pitney’s wounds and then began to tend to Botolf’s injuries as well. Botolf was grateful for her calm and skillful aid.

“So this boy caught the man,” said their host, Lord Sealing.

“Aye,” replied Wesley. “He screamed murder and leapt upon the assassin.”

“There is to be rain tonight. The damp that will bring will not aid the boy’s healing. I will have a room prepared near yours, Botolf. Young Pitney deserves the best for his selfless bravery.”

“Thank you, Edward.” Botolf rose to finish dressing. “ ’Tis Sir Pitney now.”

“Fitting.” Lord Sealing nodded even as he strode away.

“And there is my tub,” muttered Sir Walter. “The little rogue had me believing I impugned your honor, Botolf.”

Roger chuckled. “The lad ran circles round you, Walter.”

“He be clever with words, ’tis all. Just like the rest of his cursed family.”

“You know the Todds?” asked Botolf as Roger helped him with the tedious chore of tying all his points.

“Aye, and the Jagers and the Healdons. All the same. All look like angels but have the devil’s skill with words. There is a tale that once the Baron Alhric sat outside the gates of an enemy’s keep and convinced the man that the only reasonable course to take was to surrender the well-stocked keep and one hundred men-at-arms to him and his six pretty knights.” Walter shook his head. “I would never doubt it, never doubt it at all.”

“How I wish more men would use words ere they pull their swords on each other,” Lady Mary said tartly.

“Well, there are few who could better a Todd or his kin in a fight. Even the women are to be reckoned with. Alhric’s wife held Wolfshead Hall against the Scots for two months ere he and his men could return to aid her. They are a little odd, though.”

“Odd? How so?” Botolf discovered that he was suddenly interested in this particular group of his vassals.

“They go to great lengths to be buried with their kin at Wolfshead Hall. Their grandfather died in the Crusades but was brought all the way home in a vat of wine. They all know Latin and French, but will often speak in English like their serfs. Alhric always said that we speak the language of our ancestors, so he will speak the tongue of his. Says we all will someday.”

“All speak English?” Roger laughed. “Did he think we would all become peasants?”

“Nay. He said we would all become Englishmen. Did not really understand the man. Thought we were,” Walter muttered. “Done with my tub?” he asked Botolf abruptly.

Realizing Sir Walter had no more to tell him, Botolf nodded, smiling faintly when the burly man dragged his tub away. Roger picked up Pitney, carrying the boy as they started toward Caindale. Botolf paused only to order Wesley to stay behind to see that the tent and arms were taken care of. Lord Edward’s wife, finding herself short of rooms, put Lady Mary in a suite of three rooms with Botolf and the wounded boy. Botolf left Lady Mary to soothe the woman with assurances that they all understood that there was a shortage of space. He paused only long enough to tell her ladyship that he considered it the best of all possible arrangements. In spite of his wound and all that had happened, he had to attend the feast.

Despite the hearty amount of food and the merry company, Botolf’s thoughts lingered on Pitney throughout the feast. He had seen death in all its forms, seen it take the young and innocent as well as the old and depraved. He had seen death come slow and hard and seen it come swiftly, unexpectedly. Yet, he found that he was anxious, nearly desperate, that Pitney survive.

“How fares the little knight?” asked Lady Odella, interrupting the distracted mood Botolf had fallen into.

It was hard, but Botolf managed a smile for the lady seated on his left at the head table. He knew she was not in love with him but suspected she found him easy to look upon. He also sensed that most of her attraction for him was due to his suitability as a husband. He was rich, powerful, and titled. Botolf also believed she considered it an advantage that he would be forced to spend a great deal of time at Regenford in the barbarous North while she could linger at the safer, more elegant Merewood.

He knew that many men would find a great deal to say in favor of a wife one need not see too often. Odella was nineteen and becoming an object of some less-than-flattering speculation. Twice a marriage had been arranged for her, and each time the groom had managed to die just before the wedding. Botolf knew he would be readily accepted if he asked for her hand in marriage, but he hesitated.

“I think he will live,” he finally answered.

“It was very brave of the boy to leap upon your attacker even though he was unarmed and much smaller than the man. Howbeit, the Todds are well known for their valor.”

Botolf began to wonder if all the world save him knew of the Todds. “You have met the clan?”

“Only once. It was at a tourney. Lord Alhric looked a troubadour, a poet. He was so fair and slender. So, too, were his two eldest sons, Hunter and Roc. I remember them clearly not for that, however, but for how they behaved in the tourney itself. Their skill and daring, their near savage enjoyment and participation, came as a surprise to most of us. They took nearly all the honors of the day, yet at the feast which followed that eve, they were again the angels with the pale gold hair and lovely eyes, sweet-tongued and charming. ’Tis hard to explain.”

“You did very well, m’lady. It is as if two people dwell in the same body. A knight cannot always shed his brutish ways with his armor nor can a poet become a demon with a sword, yet most tell me that these Todds can be both. What else do you know of them?”

“Not very much. They have a large family, many of the children born to them living to reach adulthood. They flaunt their Saxon heritage.” Her laughter trilled, a skill she was obviously very proud of. “To be so arrogant about a line traced back to the defeated is a little strange.”

By the time Botolf had retired to his quarters, he had begun to think the Todds were an even mixture of charming and mad. Amongst people who proudly traced their lineage, when they could trace it at all, back to William the Conqueror, his intimates, or important families in France, the Todds boldly declared themselves Saxon of a nearly pure strain that ran back to Oswiu, the king of Northumbria and Bernicia in 641 AD. In the mates they chose, they considered a lineage traceable back to the conquered Saxons as important as any dowry. Their banner held the figure of a rearing black stallion, a wolf cringing beneath its hooves. The horse was known to have been the national emblem of the Saxons. Botolf shook his head as he entered his chambers, wondering how the family had survived for so long. It was an oddity that must have caused the Todds trouble at the start, especially in the rebellious North.

“How fares the boy?” he asked as he moved to stand by his mother, who had steadfastly remained at Pitney’s bedside.

“There is no sign of a fever.” With a smile she accepted the goblet of wine he served her.

“How is it that I have never met these Todds? This evening my ears have rung with tales of the family until my head spins.”

“You were never about when they were or were spoken of. Until now, your life has always been Merewood. The Todds do not often leave Wolfshead Hall. They are deeply bound to their lands.”

Botolf sipped his wine as he studied the boy who was so nearly a man yet looked a sweet-faced child as he slept. “They sound a strange lot.”

“Oh, they are. None will argue that, not even they. ’Tis a harmless thing, however. It rather adds to their enchanting air.”

“Enchanting but skillful. Their family has held Wolfshead Hall for nearly seven hundred years.”

“Skill and cunning have accomplished that astounding feat. Your father,” her face was briefly shadowed with a still-raw grief, “once told me that, in all the troubled times that have passed since the Conquest, there has been at least one of that clan on an opposing side. He said that the Todds drew lots to see who would fight on the side opposing that of their traditional liege lord, the Earl of Regenford. There was a Todd with Stephen and one with Matilda, a Todd with King John and one with the barons, a Todd with the early Saxon rebels and one with the Conqueror.”

“And so on. Very clever. No matter who wins, a Todd can still hold Wolfshead Hall.”

“They have always proven their worth in holding back the Scots, more times than can be counted.”

“Then it could well be they I lean on when I arrive at Regenford.”

“It will be. Your father did.” Placing her hand upon Pitney’s forehead, she checked for the ever-present danger of fever.

“Mother?” Pitney murmured, his clouded gaze fixing on Lady Mary.

“Nay, child,” she replied in a gentle voice. “I am Lady Mary.”

“An angel, nonetheless, though you sit at my bedside and not in God’s kingdom,” he said quietly, smiling sweetly.

“Oh, my.” Lady Mary laughed, flushing slightly over the effusive flattery.

“We nurse a budding rogue,” Botolf drawled.

“Budding?” Pitney murmured. “I see I must practice more.”

Botolf laughed softly. “I think you need very little practice.”

“Come, son,” Lady Mary helped him sit up a little, “you must drink this. It will ease your pain and help you sleep.”

“Were it poison, m’lady, I would still drink it willingly for ’tis nectar when served up in such fair hands.”

“God’s teeth.” Botolf laughed again. “Put the boy to sleep ere I do so myself more directly.” He playfully shook his fist at Pitney.

Pitney was unable to do more than whisper a few more lavish compliments as Lady Mary checked his wound, reapplying an herbal paste. He failed to keep his eyes open as she gently bathed his face.

When Pitney was asleep again, Lady Mary looked at her son. “You carried Lady Odella’s kerchief of pleasance into battle today.”

“Aye. She sent it to my tent. It would have been a grave insult to send it back.”

“Oh.” Lady Mary sighed. “Botolf—”

“I know. I should wed. If I dawdle much longer, King Edward himself will see to it.”

“Then why not choose a bride yourself? Why wait until one is chosen for you?”

“I want no bride at all.” He cursed softly when he saw his mother’s crestfallen face. “I will settle the matter before the year is out. Duty requires that I beget an heir. I know that. I merely wish to ignore it for a while. Go to bed, Mother. I will sit with the boy. I swear, I will see to my duty to produce an heir before this time next year.”

It was the early hours of the morning before anything disturbed Botolf’s vigil. He heard the movements of the guests toward the great hall, where a morning feast awaited, just as his mother arrived to take his place. Botolf hurried to prepare himself to join the others.

He was just about ready to leave when a man calling himself Sir Edric Healdon urgently requested admittance to his chambers. Botolf paused in the doorway connecting the rooms as Lady Mary answered that summons at the hall door. He smiled faintly as he watched his mother’s reaction to the knight standing there. The man’s kinship to Pitney was easily seen in his slim elegant build, fair hair, and blue eyes.

Sir Healdon looked confused yet painfully hopeful, and Botolf cursed his forgetfulness. He had intended to make certain that the true tale of the attack was told and that no rumors or speculations were still being whispered which might cause unnecessary distress. He watched as the man hurried to Pitney’s bedside.

“By God’s sweet mercy, he still lives,” Sir Healdon rasped, staring down at a still-sleeping Pitney.

“Aye, sir,” replied Lady Mary. “There is no sign of fever, so I feel that his chance of recovery is very good indeed.”

He took Lady Mary’s small hand in his, bringing it to his lips. “The lad must have thought himself in heaven if he woke to find such an angel tending to his needs.”

“I already called her an angel, Uncle,” came Pitney’s sleepy voice.

Sir Healdon sent his nephew a mock scowl as Lady Mary giggled. “Go back to sleep.” He then smiled at Lady Mary. “With such a fair lady to stir one’s soul, I am sure I will produce flattery that even you have not yet used.”

“Falter away, Uncle. Although, I am thinking ’tis an art best left to us younger men.”

“And here I was rejoicing that you were not dead as I had first been told.”

“Ah, you came to take me back to Wolfshead.”

“We will take you to Regenford in a while,” said Botolf as he joined the others by the bed, pausing to shake Sir Healdon’s hand. “Do you journey home, Sir Healdon? If you do, you are most welcome to travel with us.”

“I thank you, m’lord. I—” Sir Edric suddenly clapped a hand to his forehead. “God’s teeth.”

“What ails you, Uncle?” Pitney asked, his voice a little hoarse as Lady Mary helped him sit up.

“Kenelm and Olan are on their way to Wolfshead to tell them of your death,” Edric replied.

“You must send someone after them.”

Sinking down onto the edge of the bed, Edric buried his face in his hands. “They are beyond catching. They left but moments after the attack. If there is naught else my fool sons can do well, ’tis to ride hard and fast.”

“Aye. I must think. Who is at home to receive them? Hunter, Roc, Udolf and Kyne are all in Berwick-upon-Tweed. Denu and Tuesday are with their husbands and far gone with child. That leaves little Thylda and—” he groaned, “Saxan.”

“Aye, Saxan.”

“They will tell Saxan the right tale, will they not? Even if they have the wrong ending, the tale itself should cause no trouble.”

“Who can say? ’Tis that uncertainty which concerns me most. The lads were very reluctant to go, not wishing to be the bearers of such sad news to Wolfshead.”

“Then let us hope that they are at least clear upon one point and that is that the assassin is already dead.”

“Mayhap if I leave right now—”

“You will arrive too late to stop the tale from being told.”

“Or the consequences if there are any.”

“It is sad that his family must suffer from the belief that Pitney is dead,” Botolf said, wondering what troubled the pair. “Howbeit, when we arrive at Regenford, we will immediately notify them of this understandable error.”

“That is if there is anyone there to notify,” Pitney muttered, then looked at the frowning Botolf. “M’lord, we are a God-fearing family, but there is one of His rules we have never adhered to well. That is His word that ’vengeance is mine.’ If a Todd or one of his kin is murdered, Todds and all their kin will come from every corner of this land to hunt that murderer down. If it is thought that I was murdered and that my killer still lives—” Pitney shrugged faintly, deferring to his wound.

“They will come hunting him,” finished Lady Mary in a hushed voice.

“Ah, but they must be gathered first,” said Botolf. “There is still time to divert them.”

“Only if my cousins are alert, m’lord,” replied Pitney.

“A skill I fear my sons have not yet acquired,” grumbled Edric.

“If they are not alert, the one at Wolfshead. . .