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Authors: Lauren Linwood
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at Ashgrove.”
Gavin’s throat grew tight. What could he have done to earn such treatment? “Why, Father? Why?”
Berwyn spat upon the ground. “Do not address me as such. You are not my son. Ashgrove will never belong to you.”
Gavin’s head spun. He heard the girl laugh harshly. He looked from her to his father. Confusion reigned.
“I don’t understand.”
“Tell him, my lord,” purred the girl. When no reply came, Gavin heard her voice grow hard. “Tell him.”
Berwyn went and stood by the bed. The girl snaked out a hand and linked it possessively through his arm. Gavin saw a jeweled ring on her hand, one he could not be mistaken about.
“No.” His denial came out a hoarse whisper.
“The babe that grows inside Clarine will be the son that inherits Ashgrove,” Berwyn told him. “ My wife is young and will give me plenty of sons.”
Words froze on Gavin’s tongue. He sputtered, “But . . . but Mother—”
“That whore is dead,” Berwyn bellowed. “Dead. And forgotten. As dead as you are to me. Now leave. You are trespassing.”
Anger surged through him. “I will not leave. I demand you explain yourself, Father. My mother was not a whore. Not like the countless women who have shared your bed these many years.”
Berwyn’s mouth snarled as he hissed, “ You are a bastard! Can you not understand? You are not of my blood. I loathe the very sight of you, for you remind me of that deceitful bitch and her deception. Get out. Get out!”
Not of Berwyn’s blood?
That meant his mother had lain with another man, before or soon after her marriage. Was this why she lost herself in prayer, day after day, trying to atone for such a powerful sin?
Gavin stumbled from the room, tripping over the sword left in the hallway. He ignored Homer’s attempts at growling. He stooped and slipped the sword into his hand. This was real, a sword in his hand, a fight to be won. Not the lies that spilled from his father’s lips. He hurried down the stairs, passing several servants now who’d been awakened by their argument. He saw pity in their eyes as they stared at him before they turned away wordlessly.
As he reached the bottom, he saw Eben, who’d put him on his first horse and taught him to ride. The stout servant locked strong fingers around Gavin’s arm.
“Come with me,” he whispered.
He pulled Gavin through the castle’s halls till they reached outside. Gavin sucked in the sweet night air, hoping it would clear his head. Eben urged him on, and within minutes he found himself inside the stables of Ashgrove.
He collapsed upon a pile of straw, his breathing harsh. Eben lit a lantern and pulled up a stool next to him. Under his cloak, Homer wiggled in protest. Gavin reached in and pulled the kitten from his sack. Homer scurried off into the darkness.
“Don’t talk, boy,” Eben grumbled in low tones. “Just listen.”
He stared at the servant, the homely face he’d known since his earliest memories, the man who’d taught him all he knew of animals. He nodded, wanting to hear why the world had gone mad.
“Your dear mother died nigh over two years ago, my lord. ‘Twas not but a few weeks after you left for France.” Eben shook his head sadly. “She was a true lady. All at Ashgrove do sorely miss her. With her passing, things changed.”
The servant studied him. Gavin saw the hesitation on his face. “Give me the truth, Eben, and all of it.”
Eben swallowed hard but continued. “Lord Berwyn gathered the servants when her body was discovered. She’d been poorly for some days. It surprised no one when he announced her death.
“But,” he added, “his next words startled everyone.”
He paused, and Gavin spoke. “Go on.”
“Lord Berwyn announced he would marry on the morrow, after Lady Gillian’s burial. He had her body placed far from where family should be buried, my lord. As if she were an outcast. Then he told us that you were not of his flesh and blood. That Lady Gillian
Gavin’s throat grew tight. What could he have done to earn such treatment? “Why, Father? Why?”
Berwyn spat upon the ground. “Do not address me as such. You are not my son. Ashgrove will never belong to you.”
Gavin’s head spun. He heard the girl laugh harshly. He looked from her to his father. Confusion reigned.
“I don’t understand.”
“Tell him, my lord,” purred the girl. When no reply came, Gavin heard her voice grow hard. “Tell him.”
Berwyn went and stood by the bed. The girl snaked out a hand and linked it possessively through his arm. Gavin saw a jeweled ring on her hand, one he could not be mistaken about.
“No.” His denial came out a hoarse whisper.
“The babe that grows inside Clarine will be the son that inherits Ashgrove,” Berwyn told him. “ My wife is young and will give me plenty of sons.”
Words froze on Gavin’s tongue. He sputtered, “But . . . but Mother—”
“That whore is dead,” Berwyn bellowed. “Dead. And forgotten. As dead as you are to me. Now leave. You are trespassing.”
Anger surged through him. “I will not leave. I demand you explain yourself, Father. My mother was not a whore. Not like the countless women who have shared your bed these many years.”
Berwyn’s mouth snarled as he hissed, “ You are a bastard! Can you not understand? You are not of my blood. I loathe the very sight of you, for you remind me of that deceitful bitch and her deception. Get out. Get out!”
Not of Berwyn’s blood?
That meant his mother had lain with another man, before or soon after her marriage. Was this why she lost herself in prayer, day after day, trying to atone for such a powerful sin?
Gavin stumbled from the room, tripping over the sword left in the hallway. He ignored Homer’s attempts at growling. He stooped and slipped the sword into his hand. This was real, a sword in his hand, a fight to be won. Not the lies that spilled from his father’s lips. He hurried down the stairs, passing several servants now who’d been awakened by their argument. He saw pity in their eyes as they stared at him before they turned away wordlessly.
As he reached the bottom, he saw Eben, who’d put him on his first horse and taught him to ride. The stout servant locked strong fingers around Gavin’s arm.
“Come with me,” he whispered.
He pulled Gavin through the castle’s halls till they reached outside. Gavin sucked in the sweet night air, hoping it would clear his head. Eben urged him on, and within minutes he found himself inside the stables of Ashgrove.
He collapsed upon a pile of straw, his breathing harsh. Eben lit a lantern and pulled up a stool next to him. Under his cloak, Homer wiggled in protest. Gavin reached in and pulled the kitten from his sack. Homer scurried off into the darkness.
“Don’t talk, boy,” Eben grumbled in low tones. “Just listen.”
He stared at the servant, the homely face he’d known since his earliest memories, the man who’d taught him all he knew of animals. He nodded, wanting to hear why the world had gone mad.
“Your dear mother died nigh over two years ago, my lord. ‘Twas not but a few weeks after you left for France.” Eben shook his head sadly. “She was a true lady. All at Ashgrove do sorely miss her. With her passing, things changed.”
The servant studied him. Gavin saw the hesitation on his face. “Give me the truth, Eben, and all of it.”
Eben swallowed hard but continued. “Lord Berwyn gathered the servants when her body was discovered. She’d been poorly for some days. It surprised no one when he announced her death.
“But,” he added, “his next words startled everyone.”
He paused, and Gavin spoke. “Go on.”
“Lord Berwyn announced he would marry on the morrow, after Lady Gillian’s burial. He had her body placed far from where family should be buried, my lord. As if she were an outcast. Then he told us that you were not of his flesh and blood. That Lady Gillian
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