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  Izzy felt the fires of a thousand romantic musings stir to life within her when she thought of him. Never would there be a man more noble nor more honorable than her brave hero, her chivalrous White Lion, Griffin of Droghallow. She believed it with all her heart.

  Chapter 1

  Autumn, ten years later

  “Have ye no heart, Griffin of Droghallow? 'Tis death ye deliver upon us today!”

  Of the score of grubby-faced peasants assembled in the village for the surrender of the rents, only the miller's wife dared to speak out. Heavy with child and another clinging to her skirts, the matron waddled forward bearing murder in her eyes. It was a look Griff had seen often enough in his line of work as captain of the Droghallow guard that he scarcely bothered to pause as the woman approached the place he stood, securing the straps on a cart laden with grain sacks and wool. Several livestock had been tethered to the wagon as well, the bleating complaints of sheep and lowing of cattle doing little for Griff's patience in his present task.

  This was only the first of a half-dozen villages he and his men would see today in their duty of securing the month's rents for Droghallow's coffers. It had been a hard year for the country, made worse with the new king's relentless demands of his vassals and allies to show their loyalty by sending funds to support the burgeoning war in the Holy Land. Everything of value in England now had its price. Royal manor houses went up for bid; noble titles inherited through generations had to be further secured by huge tariffs to the crown; and in courts across the land, lawsuits were settled in favor of the party offering the largest bribe.

  Richard Plantagenet had just been crowned, but already he was preparing to leave London. He and his army were soon to be away, fighting to win back the Holy Sepulcher for Christendom. It was a noble mission, but some wondered if England's price would prove too steep. Some wondered if the king's brother, Prince John, would show more interest in England's welfare were he in power instead.

  Granted a fair share of English titles and properties upon his brother's coronation, John kept a close watch over the country he was certain would soon be his. And while some noble vassals collected funds to support a Holy War, others collected in secret for war of a vastly different kind: a royal war that might well pit brother against brother.

  With England's fiefs pressed from all sides, it was the villagers who suffered most, Droghallow's among them. They were overworked and tired, in an uproar over the news that in their lord's greed to purchase more lands and titles, Dominic, Earl of Droghallow, was seeking higher rents than ever before. Most of the holdings would be unable to pay. Foodstuffs and animals would be taken for trade instead, dooming the peasants to a long, cruel winter.

  But their suffering was not his cross to bear, Griff told himself as the miller's wife drew up two paces before him, angry tears in her eyes.

  “What manner of beast are ye, Griffin of Droghallow, that ye would take food from our children's mouths and wool that would warm the little ones in the cold months to come?”

  The woman's daughter, a waif-like creature, stringy-haired and impossibly thin, came out of hiding behind her mother's skirts. “Don't cry, Mama,” she said in a small voice, hugging her close. “Please, don't cry.”

  Griff glanced away quickly and yanked on one of the wagon straps, pulling it tighter than needed, concentrating on the burn of braided rope against his palm rather than looking for one moment longer at a child who would likely be dead by springtime.

  “Does a serf's life mean so little to a knight? Can ye not see that we need every cow and fleece and sack of grain that can be had? Do ye not care--”

  “'Tis not my place to care, madam.” Griff harshly tied off the strap and turned to stare down at the miller's wife. “I've been sent to collect what is due Droghallow's lord. Now stand aside and let me finish.”

  “Animal!” she railed at him, her round jaw quivering. “Soulless beasts, ye are! May the lot of ye rot in hell!”

  Griff felt moisture hit his face and he paused, momentarily stunned. The woman had spit at him. The gathered crowd, which had been watching the entire exchange in rapt attention, now stood wholly mute and unmoving. Silence reigned in that next moment, as if no one dared even to breathe. The miller's wife held Griff's stare, but her entire body shook with terror and she clutched her daughter a little tighter.

  “P-please,” the woman stammered. “M-my lord, I beg pardon.”

  Griff said nothing. With the back of his hand he wiped the spittle away, too surprised to be angry, too indifferent to be offended.

  The focus of his attention was now drawn past the circle of peasants to the mill, from where his men were emerging. Treading along before the pack of knights was the miller, head bowed, hands tied at his back like a criminal.

  Odo, Griff's lieutenant, led the group, grinning proudly. “Just like a miller, skimming a bit off the top of everything he grinds. Swore up and down that he was keeping nothing from us, but we found three more sacks hidden behind a false board in the store room.”

  “Add them to the wagons and let's be on to the next village,” Griff ordered, eager to be done with the day already.

  Seeing the rents collected and delivered was only the first part of his mission for Dom. There was another task awaiting him at Droghallow, a task that had occupied his thoughts continually since Dom first discussed it with him a few days ago.

  During a trip to the royal court, Droghallow's enterprising earl had come into the knowledge that a young heiress, recently inherited and since betrothed at the king's order, was soon to be en route from a London convent to her new home some leagues north of Droghallow. She was to wed in a month, to Sebastian of Montborne, one of King Richard's most powerful--and wealthy--vassals. That this man also happened to be one of Dom's most hated political rivals only made the opportunity for treachery all the more tempting. Dominic wanted the lady captured and brought to him, promising Griffin his pick of Droghallow knights to aid him in the task and a handsome reward upon his successful return.

  Griff mentally added the crime of kidnap to his long list of past sins and skullduggery performed at Dom's behest. He had never considered himself the bride stealing sort, but the lure of so much silver was potent bait. And Griff did not mind dirtying his hands as long as it was worth his while.

  Buoyed by the thought of a rich boon soon to be his, Griffin walked around to his waiting mount and stepped into the stirrup.

  “What about him, Griff?”

  Odo gestured toward the miller who now stood huddled together with his wife and daughter. From where he sat, high atop his destrier's back, Griff stared down at the couple who waited in dread for his decision. The man would surely see severe punishment at Droghallow, too severe, when his crime had been done in part with the intent to help feed a hungry village. Still, the transgression demanded some manner of recompense.

  “There are no more bags of grain or flour left in the mill?” he asked Odo.

  “Not a one. The place is empty, I made sure myself.”

  Griffin nodded. With the harvest taken some weeks past, the mill would remain unused throughout the rest of the fall and coming winter. Looking past the dozens of watchful faces gaping up at him in fear and smoldering contempt, Griffin considered the idle wooden outbuilding. He slid a glance at Odo, then coolly jerked his chin in the direction of the mill.

  “Burn it.”

  Chapter 2

  The old Roman road leading away from London was crowded that morning and filled with the unmistakable sounds of despair. A nobleman was being laid to rest that day; his funeral procession had slowed travel to little better than a crawl as those making their way out of the city paused to let by the group of mourners.

  Streamers of smoke from the burning candles and oil lamps carried at the front of the cortege trailed on the breeze, floating over the sober, bowed heads of the attending nuns and clergy and the dead man's bier, which was draped in black silk and borne on wooden slats suspended between two poles. The no
bleman's family followed directly behind, two proud sons each holding onto their wailing mother's arm, helping her remain upright when grief seemed determined to collapse her in the street.

  From within her own conveyance, a well-appointed litter flanked by half a dozen armed escorts now halted at the side of the road, Isabel de Lamere parted the silk curtains that canopied her from the sun's glare and watched in sympathy as the sorrowful parade passed.

  Behind the widow and her sons walked a little girl. Garbed in black, her cheeks tear-stained and red, the child clutched a small bouquet of flowers in her fist. Her quivering jaw and trembling hands brought a flood of sadness to Isabel's eyes, for in a way, she knew that little girl. Indeed, she had once been her, deprived of a father at an early age and all but forgotten by a mother who could not shoulder the loss of her husband.

  Isabel offered the child a gentle smile as she passed the silk-veiled litter, communicating her sympathy in a warm glance and a hopeful, silent prayer that in time, the hurt would heal and everything would be all right. The little girl seemed to cling to Isabel's gaze, blinking through her tears and finally returning a wobbly half-smile as she continued on up the road toward the churchyard. Isabel watched the child's retreating back until the trailing crowd of mourners swallowed her up.

  “What an irritating inconvenience,” groused Isabel's traveling companion, a maiden of similar age who was also on her way from London to be wed to a nobleman of the king's choosing.

  Cloistered at the abbey of St. Winifred for nearly as long as Isabel had been there, at ten-and-eight, Lady Felice had suffered the dissolution of two previous betrothals and was clearly impatient to see her present arrangement through to fruition. She seemed to be of the mind that if she did not make it to her betrothed's estate with all due haste, the man would suddenly have a change of heart and beg release from his obligation.

  Isabel wondered if he might be more inclined to do so once he finally met his bride-to-be. While the petite blond was fair enough of face and respectably dowered, at her best Lady Felice was a charming conniver; at her worst, she possessed the disposition of a shrew. Isabel would be only too glad to see the end of their journey and bid farewell to the spoiled, complaining young woman.

  “For pity's sake! How long must we delay here?” Felice huffed, leaning forward to peer around Isabel at the crowded street. “Who is dead?” she demanded of a passerby. “I do hope it was someone of import to warrant all of this bother.”

  “Hush, Felice!” Isabel chided, appalled by her insensitivity. “A father and husband has died. He was of import to his family; show them some respect.”

  Felice rolled her eyes. She sat back against her cushioned seat with a petulant pout. “You're a fine one to talk about respect,” she snipped acidly. “Or do you forget your own father died a branded traitor to the Crown?”

  Isabel kept her face turned away so Felice would not see her pained wince. No, she had not forgotten the sad fact of her father's dishonor. Far from it. His shame haunted her every day of her life, ever since that morning six years ago that he was hauled away from Lamere Castle in chains, convicted of a years-old treason against the previous king of England, Henry II.

  Isabel's beloved father, along with a score of other barons, was found guilty of participation in a rebellion against the king and executed. He had not even tried to deny the wrongdoing, claiming with his last breath that he did only what he felt was best for his country at the time, and, given the chance, he would do so again.

  As a result of his betrayal, everything he owned was deemed forfeit to the Crown: his lands and titles, his wealth, even his marriage to Isabel's mother was annulled, illegitimating Isabel and her infant sister. She and little Maura were declared bastards and sent to live in separate convents as wards of the king while their mother, a distant relative of the royal family, was allowed to retain the rights to her dower lands but was returned to her homeland of France in supreme disgrace. Six years had passed without a word from her, but rumors circulated that the noble lady had gone quite mad with grief and humiliation. Then, less than a month ago, a missive arrived conveying the regretful news that Isabel's mother had taken ill and succumbed.

  Isabel was now inherited of the chateau in France and several small estates that bordered the northern kingdom of Wales. She was a landed heiress, and, King Richard decided, she was also prime for marriage. He had matched her with the Earl of Montborne, a man Isabel had never met and knew only by reports of his sterling reputation.

  It had been some years since she had trusted in the honor of men--trusting her father's honor had taught her that bitter lesson--but Isabel hoped she would be able to convince her new husband to allow her to send for Maura once they were wed. If she could do nothing else in this life, she prayed for the chance to be reunited with her sister and the opportunity to look after her until she was old enough to start her own life.

  “I vow I cannot credit why the king saw fit to betroth you, of all people, to Sebastian of Montborne,” Felice continued once the funeral procession had gone ahead and the horses were guided back onto the road to resume the trek north out of London.

  The lurching of the litter as it moved forward upset the beads in Felice's elaborate hairstyle, a plaited and coiled crown of flaxen locks veiled in pink silk and held in place with a circlet of twisted gold. She reached up to make certain nothing was amiss on her head, then brushed irritably at the wrinkles in her traveling gown, a stunning kirtle the color of a maiden's blush that fit her slender form to perfection. The fashionable garment with its long, pointed sleeves draping nearly to the bottom of her skirts and its intricately beaded bodice, easily outshone the pretty pale green gown and veil Isabel wore for the journey. Indeed, not even the fine dress Isabel had packed for her wedding could rival Felice's rich attire.

  “Imagine,” the young woman continued, shaking her head, “a traitor's bastard wedding one of the king's most favored vassals while I, grand-niece to the royal chancellor, am relegated to becoming the wife of a mere baron. It hardly seems fair.”

  Isabel bit back the urge to remind Felice that until he was appointed chancellor by King Richard, her uncle, William de Longchamp was a veritable unknown in noble circles, a commoner. To those left with no choice but to abide him in his present role for the crown, Longchamp was now considered no better than a commissioned thief, liar, and cheat. Isabel had the distinct impression that the Longchamp fruit did not fall far from the tree.

  “Don't despair of your situation too soon,” she advised Felice with a reassuring pat of her hand. “After all, you're not yet wed. Perhaps this betrothal will fall through just as the other two have.”

  Felice sighed heavily and gave a little nod before she registered the subtle barb in Isabel's comment. Her belatedly insulted gaze snapped up to Isabel who had since returned her attention to the passing countryside.

  The forest grew thick not far out of the city and continued to hug the sides of the road for some long hours into the journey. Chin propped in her hand to hold her head upright, Felice dozed in the seat opposite while Isabel remained awake and far too pensive for sleep. She watched as fellow travelers and pilgrims passed on the narrow road, headed as she was, to points north. She listened to the songs some of them sang to pass the time, wondering at the people's various futures and destinations almost as curiously as she wondered at her own.

  With her past falling away by leagues, what lay ahead of her?

  Isabel tried to picture Montborne, a place she had never been but had heard of often, the place that was soon to be her home. She closed her eyes and easily imagined its vast rolling meadows and fertile fields, the thriving villages and glorious stone castle that presided over it all. She pictured the joy on her little sister's face when Maura would arrive at Montborne, delivered from life at the convent and brought to live with Isabel and her husband as a family.

  As she had tried numerous times since first hearing of her betrothal, Isabel tried to picture Sebastian, the Earl o
f Montborne, her fiancé. She tried to envision herself meeting him, marrying him . . . and here is where she failed. For although she had heard many accounts of the youthful earl's dark good looks, somehow, whenever Isabel tried to imagine the man who would be her husband, her mind conjured the image of a brave, handsome knight with tawny hair and flashing green-gold eyes.

  She pictured Griffin of Droghallow.

  In truth, she had never forgotten about her childhood hero, the boy who had rescued her from certain doom a decade past and left her with a token of his courage and honor--the white lion medallion that Isabel carried with her every moment of every day. She had drawn on it for strength the day her father was arrested and she had relied on its power to see her through each painful night that she spent at the abbey, frightened and alone, separated from her family and all she loved.

  With a glance at Felice to make certain the woman still slept, Isabel withdrew the medallion from within the bodice of her gown and held it into the light coming in through the litter's curtains. Lovingly, she smoothed the pad of her thumb over the enameled metal, knowing the careful embossment by heart: fashioned out of a disc of bronze that had been cut in half vertically, the medallion contained the heraldic representation of a fierce white lion rampant, a majestic creature of great courage that Isabel had always likened to Griffin of Droghallow himself.

  Not a day passed when Isabel did not think about Griffin, wondering what had become of him and if she might ever see him again. She included him in her prayers without fail, asking God to keep him safe and happy. Isabel dreamed more frequently than was seemly that she would see Griffin again, that somehow their paths would cross and she could return his medallion and thank him personally for all he had given her with his kindness those ten years ago. She had dreamed of other encounters with him as well, encounters vivid enough to bring a blush to her cheeks just to think on them in the bald light of day.