Prologue
Twenty years after the Conquest of England
By William Duke of Normandy...The Year of our Lord 1086
“Father!” cried Ralph FitzOsbern. Tearing his gaze from the dark shadows cast by the horses and other animals nearby, lord Quentin FitzOsbern’s young son knelt beside his father sprawled on the stable’s filthy straw. The unpleasant metallic scent of blood singed the boy’s nose.
In the weak torchlight, his father’s face had become as pale as a dead man’s. A scream rose within him, fierce and terrible. It threatened to tear from his lips. He fought down a cry of pain and anguish, a groan of loss, a moan of primal rage and agony bursting with fire and endless fury.
Outside, the wind howled against the stable’s walls. The single torch inside hissed and made sporadic spitting sounds. Light glinted on the silk surcoat crushed into the straw. The embroidered garment, a symbol of his father’s family’s noble Anglo-Saxon heritage, had become dirty, stained and torn.
Helplessness engulfed him like a thick, cold suffocating blanket. As the sharp, biting taste of bile filled his mouth, Ralph curled his small hands into fists. He would not fall short of saving his father’s life. He had rescued him from the siege and found a haven. Ralph would not fail now. He would prove himself deserving to be the son of Earl Quentin FitzOsbern, noble lord of the counties of Norfolk, Suffolk and Cambridge, a knight whose heroism had been praised and glorified at the court of Harold II, crowned the last Anglo-Saxon King of England.
Ralph’s jaw clenched in shock. Why now, after so many years did King William order that Ralph’s father, Lord Quentin FitzOsbern be dispossessed of his lands? Ralph knew that his father’s closest friend, lord Algar Montgomery had already been stripped of his earldom many years ago, and that a Norman, Count Eustace of Boulogne, a close friend of the King had been given his lands in the counties of Essex, Hertfordshire, and Middlesex.
Ralph’s head bent beneath the weight of bewilderment and terror. King William had branded Sir Quentin as a traitor, but Ralph did not believe this wicked untruth..
“Ralph?” Quentin murmured in a grating voice, which sounded heartrendingly faint.
“Please, Father lie still.” Ralph pressed his palms to his parent’s stained shirt. Fresh blood oozed between his fingers. “You need a healer. Poultices. We must have the wounds stitched…”
“There is no time,” Quentin whispered.
Ralph trembled. “Do not try to speak. Save your strength.”
Quentin ground out, “Lord Algar Montgomery— will protect…you now…as his own kin. I would do...same...for his sons.”
“Nay,” cried Ralph.
Quentin’s mouth twisted into a tortured frown. “Promise me…you will care for your brother, Edric.” The loving words tore at Ralph as he sobbed, “I cannot make that vow.”
“Live,” cried Ralph. You must live. Edric and I do not want to lose you.” Despair held him hostage. “When Mother died, you swore we…”
“Promise …me,” Quentin rasped.
With a strangled sob, Ralph forcefully pulled his hands away. Full of panic about his father’s impending death, Ralph implored, “Do not die a traitor. Live, Father, prove Lord le Breton’s siege unfounded. Prove you did not betray King William.”
Silence settled over the stable. It threatened to break Ralph’s anguished soul.
“Ah, my son.”
The tears Ralph had tried so hard to hold back streamed down his cheeks. “I cannot yet wield a sword. I have no armour, I am naught but a boy.”
“Not boy.” Quentin searched blindly for Ralph’s hand and squeezed it. “You are heir to the FitzOsbern lands. You still have…your dignity…and language left. Those…are two things…they can never take from you.
Ralph knew the Normans never came in peace. They had raped and pillaged and burned their way through the country.
“I ask you again.” Quentin’s tone held gravity.
With a quavering sigh, Ralph nodded. He curled his fingers into his father’s and held tight. “I promise. I solemnly vow to seek revenge on your enemies.”
Quentin groaned. Ralph could see the pain that seemed to clutch at Quentin like a chilling hand, enveloping him, filling him. His Father’s breath expelled in a rush, faded to a gurgle, then…he could hear only the fury of the storm outside.
“Father?” Ralph looked down at his Quentin’s pale, lifeless hand. In the shadows, the animals stirred. Rats scampered across the fouled straw, eyes bright in the torchlight.
“Father?” he said again. Ralph’s voice rose to a screech. He freed his hand and tried to blink away tears.
Screaming, he slammed his fist against the dirt floor. With quivering fingers, he reached out and closed his Quentin’s sightless eyes. Ralph sobbed, dragged himself to his feet and walked unsteadily to the doorway.
I am now truly alone in the world he thought. This could not be the wretched, dreadful truth! Lord Quentin would never speak his name again. Ralph’s mind spun with memories of flaming arrows, thundering hooves and Quentin’s agonized roar as a sword cut through his chest.
Biting down on his hand, Ralph fought the whimpers that tore up from his belly. Fury and grief flamed up, whirling out of control. So great it loomed, ready to consume him
“I will avenge you, Father!” he cried toward the night sky shrouded with fog. “By the Blessed Virgin, I will avenge you!”
