Kingdom of Chains

Chapter 1

Isabel chased the eagle’s shadow along the dewy lawn, arms outstretched like a pair of wings. ‘You are in a lot of trouble, young lady!’ she shouted up at the bird before coming to a stop, breathless and smiling. She raised one arm high in the air. Margery circled her a few times before swooping down and landing gracefully on her.

‘It has been two days, and I have been sick to my stomach with worry. It is hardly fair that I am stuck here, alone, whenever you fly off on one of your little adventures.’ 

The eagle watched her closely as she delivered the lecture. 

‘And what if Lord Hodge had seen you? If he learns that I have been letting you out of your cage, then we will both be in trou—’ Her eyebrows tugged together when she noticed a piece of fabric tied around the eagle’s leg. She guided the bird to her shoulder so she could use both hands to retrieve it. Someone had tied it neatly and carefully—except that was impossible. Margery did not stand still long enough for people to tie things to her. Plus, there were only two people on the planet who could handle the golden eagle—and one of them was dead.

Ita. My sweet Ita.

Five years on, and grief still hit Isabel like a runaway wagon every time her friend came to mind. 

‘Is there something you wish to tell me?’ she asked, kissing Margery’s beak. ‘I swear before God, if I find out you have a secret family outside these walls—’

‘Why is that thing out of its cage?’

Isabel jumped at the sound of Lord Hodge’s voice behind her, and Margery took flight. Oh, how Isabel wished she had wings. 

Clearing her throat, she called to the eagle, ‘Yes, off you go. Straight back to your cage. I shall be there to lock all windows and doors momentarily.’ Forcing a smile, she turned to face the new Earl of Hereford. ‘Good afternoon, my lord.’

Hodge glared up at the fleeing bird as he came to a stop in front of her, that shiny chin of his partially blinding her in the process. 

‘You know that thing is not permitted out of its cage.’

He refused to acknowledge her gender or name. It was always ‘that thing’. 

‘We have the chickens to consider,’ he added.

Margery had never even killed a chicken. She was nothing but a help around the place, keeping rats and mice at bay. Isabel suspected the real reason he insisted the eagle remain locked up was because she took time and attention away from him.

‘Occasionally she needs to spread those large wings of hers and remember how to fly,’ Isabel said. Then, noting his growing agitation, she added, ‘Well, I best go and lock that cage. I may even add an additional lock, just to be extra sure she is secure.’

Hodge caught her arm when she went to step past him. ‘Before you go, I would like to speak to you about the wedding.’

The dreaded wedding. His father was barely cold in the ground, and here he was charging ahead with his plans. She had hoped she had more time. ‘Which wedding would that be?’

His face hardened. ‘Our wedding, of course. What other wedding would I be talking about?’

‘I did hear rumours that one of the kitchen maids is soon to be wed.’

His brow creased with disapproval. ‘It is safe to say that I did not come all the way out here to talk to you about the kitchen maid’s impending nuptials.’ He released her, running a hand through the coarse sandy hair that reached all the way to his jawline. ‘Now, I have spoken to your mother, and we both agreed that the sooner the wedding takes place the better. It is the best way to ensure your family’s place here at Hampstead Keep is secure.’ He reached out to touch her arm. ‘And we have waited so long for this day.’

She forced the muscles in her face to remain still. He had been waiting. She had been dreading. ‘I assumed my family’s place here at Hampstead was already secure.’

He gave her what was likely meant as a reassuring smile that bordered more on patronising. ‘Of course it is, my beloved. You will forever be secure at my side.’

There was always a catch—like the ‘forever’ part. ‘I thought we could discuss the wedding after a suitable mourning period.’

He studied her a moment. ‘What is there to discuss?’

‘The timing, for one.’

He drew her closer until her face was a few inches from his and her heels lifted off the ground. ‘Tell me you want this. Tell me you want to marry me, to be my wife until death.’

She could not help but do the math on that. If she lived until she was seventy, that would be fifty years. But since men generally died younger, she took that number down to forty. That seemed doable for the sake of her family. She opened her mouth to answer. ‘I…’ She willed the words stuck in her throat to move. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘You hesitated.’

‘No, I did not.’

He might have behaved a little crazily at times, but he was no fool. ‘Five years I have waited.’ His grip on her was bruising now. ‘Five years I have loved you and protected you like a brother, as my father wanted.’

A brother waiting for the day he could finally marry his sister. She suppressed the shudder threatening to pass through her. The relationship had been uncomfortable from day one—even before her mother had wed his father.

‘You are hurting me,’ she said when her fingers began to tingle from the lack of blood reaching them.

He held on to her a few moments longer, eyes moving between hers, then let go. ‘Forgive me. My love for you can be overbearing at times.’

Blood rushed back into her limbs. She stepped back from him—too fast. He hated it when she moved away from him like that. She expected him to grab hold of her again. When he did not, she said as gently as possible, ‘I think we should wait a few months—out of respect to your father.’ 

‘A few months?’

She had wanted to say a year. Two, maybe. Or as many as it took for him to find an alternative wife, someone who did not recoil inside every time he came close. 

He opened his hands to her. ‘I love you. I want the world to know it, to bear witness to it.’ When she did not respond, he reached for her. She stepped backwards again, an instinct. His hands went into his hair, gripping and releasing while she stood awkwardly with her eyes averted. After a short silence, he cleared his throat and said firmly, ‘I have a trip coming up. I shall be gone a few weeks. When I return, we will marry.’ 

He waited for her to look at him before continuing. Not wanting to aggravate the situation further, she obliged.

‘That is one month from now,’ he went on. ‘I believe that is an appropriate amount of time for all of us to grieve the former Earl of Hereford. Do you not agree?’

She nodded. At least she hoped it was a nod.

His hands opened and closed a few times, as though he were deciding whether to attempt contact again. ‘I promise you that, as my wife, you will want for nothing. You will be Countess of Hereford in every sense of the word.’ 

Another nod. ‘I know.’

He watched her a long moment, then bowed his head before striding away, chin high despite the gouging to his ego. She felt numb and cold all over as she watched him, picturing a lifetime of swallowing down her own discomfort. 

‘I don’t trust him,’ Ita had said of Hodge the day he arrived with Lord Tompkin and troops at Maddock House five years earlier.

Isabel had assumed her friend was jealous of the attention the then nineteen-year-old heir was showing a fifteen-year-old Isabel. But as usual, she had been right.

‘Belle’ came her brother’s voice.

Isabel turned to find Everard jogging towards her. He was tall for fourteen, which meant his long legs reached her in a few easy strides.

‘Mother is waiting for you in your bedchamber. She wants to speak with you.’ He slung an arm around her and began dragging her off in the direction of the castle.

‘Oh. Perfect’ was Isabel’s reply.

Everard drew back to look at her as they walked. ‘Are you all right?’

What answer to give the young man who looked up to Lord Hodge, who lived safely inside the walls of Hampstead Keep, while those they left behind in Carmarthenshire were either dead or living in a camp? The young man who would eventually receive a title of his own if she played her hand right? ‘Of course I am all right.’

‘You look a bit pale. Do you need to see the physician?’

Isabel stepped out from beneath his arm and looped hers through it. ‘Absolutely not. Now, tell me about your morning. What did you do?’

She listened as he spoke about his French lesson and the sparring match with Trahern, which he had apparently won. Trahern was one of Lord Hodge’s longest serving guards and the man most often called upon to follow her about the castle when all she wanted was five minutes alone. That said, he was the least invasive of the guards and gave her as much space as he could while keeping her within sight. He was also the kind of man who would let Everard win a sparring match occasionally.

When they reached the door of her bedchamber, Isabel paused, keeping hold of her brother’s arm as she worked up the energy for the conversation ahead. 

Everard looked between her and the door. ‘What is the matter? Are you in trouble or something? Did you let Margery out of her cage again?’

She looked at him. ‘Yes. Yes I did. And I am certain a suitable lecture awaits me inside.’

He tutted. ‘Serves you right. You know how His Lordship feels about Margery flying around the castle grounds.’

‘Yes.’ She reached up and smoothed the fine hairs back from his face, like she had done his whole life. 

He immediately knocked her hand away, cheeks turning red. ‘Stop. I am not a child anymore.’

That was so true and so heartbreaking. ‘I know.’ She gave him a weak smile, then drew a long breath. ‘Wish me luck.’

He began backing away. ‘Good luck.’

She crinkled her nose at him as she pushed the door open. Inside, the room was cold and the fireplace bare—just the way she liked it. The shaking of wings drew her attention to the large cage in the corner where Margery was now locked inside. 

‘There you are,’ her mother said, rising from her chair. ‘Did His Lordship find you?’

Isabel wandered over to the cage. ‘He did.’

‘And?’

‘And we spoke.’

Lady Gwenore’s face was pure impatience. ‘About the wedding?’

The air left Isabel’s lungs on a sigh. ‘Yes, about the wedding. He has a trip planned. Perhaps we will marry after that.’

Gwenore stepped closer. ‘What do you mean, perhaps?’

Less than a minute into the conversation and Isabel was already exhausted. ‘There is no rush.’

‘Is that what he said?’

‘No.’ She turned to face her mother. ‘Are you sure this match is a good idea?’

Gwenore’s face fell a little.

‘I really do not care for him in that way,’ Isabel added.

‘The love comes later. Every woman knows that.’

‘I have known the man for five years, and nothing has changed in that time.’

‘It will be different when you are wed, when you have the opportunity to be… close.’

That image had Isabel looking away. She had no interest in being intimate with him—or any other man, for that matter.

Gwenore closed the distance between them, taking her daughter’s left hand and holding it up between them. ‘Look at the scars on your hand.’

Isabel dropped her gaze to the unsightly skin.

‘It was Lord Hodge who dragged you from that burning house. The man has worshipped the ground you walk upon since you were fifteen years old.’

Isabel withdrew the unsightly hand and tucked it behind her back. ‘It might be a different story if the burns had been on my face.’

Her mother made an exasperated noise. The problem was she assumed Hodge was like his father, Lord Tompkin. A good man, another saviour of the family. But the new Earl of Hereford was more of an unsettling kind of hero.

‘Is all well between the two of you?’ Gwenore asked, holding her breath as she braced for Isabel’s reply.

What good would come of the truth? The family’s circumstances were what they were. She forced a smile. ‘All is well.’

Gwenore exhaled, then cupped her daughter’s face. ‘I know he is a very different sort of man, but we have built a life here at Hampstead. Your brother has such a bright future ahead of him. Inside these walls, you are the future Countess of Hereford. Outside these walls, you are nothing. We have nothing.’

‘We could always go live with our uncle.’

Gwenore’s hand fell away. ‘And marry you off to some farmer while your brother toils in fields owned by families better off than us?’

Isabel rolled her eyes. ‘Or we could return to Maddock House. The region is improving every day.’

‘Not in the way your naive mind thinks.’

Isabel groaned audibly. ‘Do you not ever miss home sometimes?’

Gwenore pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘This is our home. The place you are mourning no longer exists.’ She looked up, exasperated. ‘It is not the home you miss. It is Ita.’

Her name aloud was too much. ‘It is both.’ The confession came out all quiet.

Gwenore looked around the room, as though searching for an appropriate response, then said, ‘Make sure Margery remains in her cage. You know how His Lordship feels about her.’ She reached out and touched Isabel’s arms briefly. ‘I shall leave you to get ready for dinner.’

When she went to step past, Isabel said, ‘Did you love him in the end? Lord Tompkin, I mean.’

Gwenore appeared taken aback by the question, then thought for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, in the end, I did. He was always kind to me and my children. What more could a widow from the wastelands hope for?’

The lord had been smitten with her mother from day one, while Gwenore had been so lost in her grief that she barely noticed. It made Isabel happy to hear that their love had been reciprocal by the end. ‘I shall see you at dinner.’

Gwenore nodded once and made her way to the door. 

Isabel’s eyes met Margery’s as it clicked shut. Silence filled the room. ‘There is no escape for me,’ Isabel whispered. She reached for the latch on the cage and opened it. ‘But there is for you.’ Stepping up to the window, she flung open the shutters. 

The bird did not move from her perch.

Isabel returned to the cage and offered the eagle her arm. She climbed on. Kissing Margery’s head multiple times, Isabel whispered, ‘Best not to come back this time. Go be free for both of us.’ Walking over to the open window, she thrust her arm through it, giving Margery no choice but to take flight. 

She snapped the shutters closed, and pressed her forehead to the cool wood, swallowing repeatedly until the tears subsided.

Chapter 2

Ryder Blackmane spat blood on the grass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Looking down at Tatum, who was curled in a ball on the ground half laughing and half coughing, he said, ‘That’s the second time you’ve busted my lip this week.’ 

‘You told me you wanted a challenge,’ he croaked before coughing up a lung.

Blackmane kicked Tatum’s sword out of reach, then offered his hand. ‘That was supposed to be a dig at you, not an invitation to break my teeth.’ He pulled the defender to his feet.

Tatum doubled over and held on to his knees, breathing deeply in and out. ‘You’re lucky my hours are done for the day or I’d make you pay for that unnecessarily aggressive disarming at the end there.’

Alveye wandered over, brushing grass from his freshly trimmed hair. ‘Why do you two always finish training with bloody teeth and bruises the size of dinner plates?’

Blackmane frowned in his direction. ‘Because we train properly. The better question is why don’t you ever bleed?’

‘He does when I train with him,’ Tatum said, tugging his shirt up and wiping his face with it. ‘Where’s Hadewaye?’

Alveye gestured towards the armoury. ‘He lost, so he packs everything up.’

Tatum held up a hand, stopping Blackmane before he had a chance to speak. ‘Save your breath. It’s not going to happen.’

The three defenders collected the weapons that were strewn about the place, then made their way off the training field, leaving behind the noise of clashing steel and fresh recruits emptying their stomachs. They stopped beneath the Chadorian flags that marked the boundary, their sweat-soaked bodies cooled by the icy wind blowing in from the sea.

‘Ah. Here we go,’ Tatum said, his voice low. ‘Is it weird that I’ve been a defender for five years and I still get nervous when I see the warden approaching?’ 

The question prompted Blackmane and Alveye to look over their shoulders. There was Shapur Wright marching towards them, framed by the royal castle.

‘Where’s Hadewaye?’ Shapur asked as he came to a stop before the three men.

Alveye straightened. ‘Armoury, sir.’

They were either about to be reprimanded or given orders. Blackmane waited to see which one it was.

‘I am sending the four of you to Carmarthenshire,’ Shapur announced.

Orders were always preferable. So they were going to Carmarthenshire—again.

Tatum and Alveye exchanged a look of surprise. 

Before the famine, Carmarthenshire had been a county in Wales. During the famine, the name became a blanket phrase used for all the land between England’s border and the newly formed kingdom of Chadora. And when all the villages had been deserted, the forests stripped of food, and the region abandoned by their king, it became known simply as ‘the wastelands’. 

The return of the marcher lords along the border had been the first sign of renewed interest in the region. The dispatching of units was the second. The defenders had been keeping an eye on the situation for some time, watching from the safety of their walls as entire rebel groups were removed or extinguished. 

‘You will go to Hampstead Keep and meet with the new Earl of Hereford,’ Shapur continued. ‘Lord Hodge has offered to take you on a tour of the region and show you the advancements they have made. It seems progress has stalled. There are two groups proving to be problematic—St Clare and Emlyn.’

‘Oh. The groups have names now,’ Tatum said, pretending to be impressed. 

Shapur gave him a disapproving look. ‘General terms like ‘wastelander’ are not helpful in these types of situations. Better to identify what part of the region they are from in order to truly know what we are up against.’

Alveye nodded. ‘Makes sense. Every county will have their own unique history.’

‘And trauma response,’ Tatum muttered.

Blackmane shifted his weight. ‘What kind of problems are they having with these groups?’

Shapur crossed his arms. ‘Lord Hodge claims they frequently attack the camps in the region. I suspect he is hoping for some assistance with this.’

Blackmane narrowed his brows. ‘Why would these groups attack the camps? Food shortages are no longer an issue, and they can hunt and gather in the regions they still control.’

Shapur nodded. ‘King Becket’s thoughts exactly. That is why he is sending a small unit of defenders to see what is going on. He wants to fully understand what is happening before getting involved.’

‘Exactly how small a unit, sir?’ Alveye asked.

Shapur gestured between them. ‘You are looking at it.’

Blackmane had been afraid of that.

‘Plus Hadewaye,’ Shapur added. He looked at Tatum. ‘I am putting you in charge. Make sure everyone gets home safely.’

Tatum grew a little taller at that piece of news. ‘You’re making me commander?’

‘For the purpose of this assignment,’ the warden clarified. ‘Someone has to take the lead. You all spent time in the region at the end of your training, and you appear to work well as a team—most of the time.’ He paused. ‘I need information and Lord Hodge alive at the end of that tour. It will not look good to our English friends if he dies in your company. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the defenders replied in unison.

‘You leave at first light.’ Shapur looked between them, ensuring they understood, before turning and marching away.

The men watched him until he was well out of earshot. Then Tatum turned to face the others, looking very pleased with himself. 

‘You may address me as “Commander” from now on,’ he announced.

Alveye’s eyebrows shot up. ‘With a straight face?’

Blackmane smirked at the ground.

Tatum flicked Alveye’s ear. ‘Yes, with a straight face.’

‘Not to ruin your big moment,’ Alveye said, rubbing his ear, ‘but I really thought he would have put Blackmane in charge.’

Tatum laughed once. ‘That’s not ruining my moment. That’s taking a giant shit on it.’

Hadewaye jogged up to the group, stopping next to Alveye. ‘Was that the warden?’ Then, reading everyone’s expressions, he asked, ‘What did I miss?’

‘What did I miss, Commander,’ Tatum said.

Hadewaye frowned at him. ‘What?’

‘We’re going to the wastelands, and the warden put Tatum in charge,’ Alveye explained.

Hadewaye appeared genuinely surprised. ‘Really? Not Blackmane?’

Tatum threw his hands up. ‘The absolute lack of respect from the lot of you.’

‘I’ve no interest in commanding anyone,’ Blackmane said. ‘The warden made the right choice.’

Tatum waved a finger in his direction. ‘Don’t act like you don’t care, like we barely matter to you. I know for a fact that you would take an arrow through the skull for any one of us.’

‘Don’t read too much into that,’ Blackmane replied. ‘It was beaten into us during training.’

Hadewaye tucked his hands under his arms, still looking confused. ‘Why are we going to the wastelands?’

‘To find a woman willing to sleep with Alveye,’ Tatum replied.

Alveye gave him a tired look. ‘Is that your attempt at winning my respect?’

‘Is that your attempt at winning my respect, Commander?’ Tatum corrected.

Blackmane clapped Tatum on the shoulder. ‘I need a wash. I’ll leave you to fill Hadewaye in on the details of our vague assignment and the size of the unit you’ll be leading.’ 

Hadewaye perked up at that. ‘How many men?’

Tatum cleared his throat. ‘It’s on the smaller side.’ He looked over at Blackmane, who was now backing away from the group. ‘Don’t forget we’re leaving at first light.’

The defender saluted him. ‘Yes, Commander.’

Kingdom of Chains is coming November 28th. Grab your copy for the special $4.99 pre-order price here.