Bannor was free.

Free to joust and spar with his knights in autumn sunshine so bright it stung his eyes. Free to train his garrison of soldiers beneath the cottony clouds floating across the crisp blue sky. Free to gallop across the stubble of his shorn fields on his mighty white destrier and praise his grinning villeins for reaping such a plentiful harvest. Free to sup each night at the head of the high table in the great hall, surrounded by the angelic faces of his children.

He’d never been so miserable.

He might have been able to savor his freedom had Willow not been required to pay the price for it. Now that his children had discovered a more gratifying target for their mischief, they hastened to obey his every command, murmuring, “Aye, Papa,” “Nay, Papa,” and “As you wish, Papa” with all the humble piety of saints, all the while packing Willow’s cupboard, bed, and bath with enough bugs, rodents, and reptiles to rival any plague Moses had cast on the Egyptians.

Bannor forced himself to turn a blind eye to their devilish doings, promising himself that every humiliation Willow endured at their hands would only serve to spare her pride when she was finally goaded into spurning him.

When they dumped enough pepper in her stew to make her sneeze a dozen times in rapid succession, he commented upon its savory tang and handed her a kerchief to wipe her streaming eyes. When they loosed Mary Margaret’s favorite pig in her bedchamber, he behaved as if deaf to its shrill squeals, even going so far as to step absently over the beast as Willow and her scowling little maidservant herded it through the great hall. When they tossed a stinkpot down her chimney, he ignored the pungent odor of sulfur that clung to her mane of silky curls for days.

After that first night, there were no more screams. Unable to bear the strained silence, Bannor would find himself standing in the shadows of the courtyard, waiting for the moment when Willow would throw open the shutters, her delicate nostrils pinched between thumb and forefinger, and calmly toss out the rancid eggs Desmond had stuffed in the toes of her shoes. Once or twice, he would have almost sworn he felt her accusing eyes searching the darkness, as if she sensed his presence.

Bannor’s desperation grew as the fortnight approached its close without Willow making so much as a whisper of complaint. The winter snows would soon be upon them. If he was forced to spend the long, dark winter nights in her company, he knew a babe would come as surely as the spring.

He was breaking his fast one cold, sunny morning, ringed by the bland faces of his impeccably behaved children, when Fiona marched into the great hall and slammed his trencher down on the table. “I’m afraid there isn’t any honey this morn, m’lord. Ye’ll have to eat yer bread dry.” She glowered at him from beneath her scraggly brows. “I hope ye don’t choke on it.”

As Fiona stomped back into the kitchen, Bannor exchanged a wry glance with Hollis. He’d been forced to confide in his steward, but all the other denizens of the castle remained baffled by his thoughtless behavior toward his bride. Even his knights and men-at-arms, who would have never dared question his authority on the battlefield, had taken to muttering among themselves and casting him disapproving glances. If Willow didn’t spurn him soon, he might very well have a full-scale rebellion on his hands.

Bannor had just taken a hearty bite of bread when Willow appeared on the broad stone steps that cascaded down into the great hall. For one moment, he believed he truly might choke. His labored swallow was audible in the stunned silence, as the eye of every knight, squire, and page who had chosen to break their fast in the great hall turned toward the stairs.

It seemed the mystery of the missing honey had been solved.

Golden gobbets of it dripped from Willow’s hair and clung to her throat and shoulders, draping her alabaster skin in a glistening amber veil. Bannor fought an absurd temptation to race up the stairs and lick her.

As she descended, her slippers adhering to the floor with each painstaking step, Fiona emerged from the kitchen. The old woman threw up her hands to cup her horrified face. The earthenware platter she’d been carrying shattered on the floor. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, lass! Ye look like a banshee!”

Desmond exchanged a sidelong glance with Kell and Edward, his triumphant smirk leaving no doubt as to who had propped the missing pot of honey over Willow’s doorway. Bannor had to grip the edge of the table to keep from dunking his son’s head in his bowl of porridge.

The stunned silence swelled as Willow picked her way to the foot of the table and simply stood there.

Acutely aware that everyone in the hall, from the burliest knight to the smallest page, was holding his breath in anticipation of his reaction, Bannor simply popped another chunk of bread into his mouth. “Good morning, Willow. I trust you had a pleasant night’s sleep.”

She did not reply. She simply gazed at him down the length of the table, the bitter reproach in her stormy gray eyes informing him that he had finally won. He had finally succeeded in making his bride despise him. Oddly enough, as she turned her back on him and trudged back up the stairs, her head held painfully high, Bannor felt no flush of triumph, only an overwhelming sense of defeat.

———

Willow paced the length of her bedchamber as she sawed through another sticky curl, waving it like a battle flag when it finally came off in her hand. Honey would have washed out of her hair easily enough, but her tormentors had been diabolical enough to lace the viscous syrup with tree sap. “Lord Bannor the Bold indeed! Why, I’ve never met such a dastardly, craven, cowardly, lily-livered...”

“Pusillanimous,” Beatrix provided cheerfully.

“Pusillanimous, fainthearted...”

As Willow lapsed once again into sputtering, Beatrix wrested the dagger from her hand and gently propelled her toward a stool. “Why don’t you let me finish this? If you persist as you have been, Lord Bannor the Bold will be wed to Lady Willow the Bald.”

Willow threw herself down on the stool, clenching the sticky folds of her skirt in her fists. “You won’t have to worry about that. I wouldn’t stay married to the wretch if he was the last man on earth and the survival of mankind depended on my bearing one of his horrid little brats.”

“I can understand that,” Beatrix said, divesting her of another honey-and-sap-laden curl. “I just don’t understand why you let it go on so long. I would have insisted that he throw the nasty little trolls in the dungeon the first time they emptied a bucket of soot down my bedchamber chimney.”

“And give the little monsters the satisfaction of knowing I went running to their father to tattle on them? I think not! Besides, I’ve endured much worse at the hands of Stefan and Reanna. Remember the time they nailed my shoes to the floor? While I was wearing them?” Willow sighed woefully as another gooey strand of hair plopped into the growing pool on her bedchamber floor. “I suppose I thought that perhaps in time, Bannor would come charging to my rescue to slay the naughty dragons, like a knight or a... a...”

Beatrix leaned over her shoulder, an impish smile playing around her lips. “A prince?”

Willow swiveled around to gape at her stepsister.

“I used to hear you talking to your imaginary lover when you thought I was asleep,” Beatrix confessed. “Once I even saw you kissing your hand and pretending it was him.”

“Why, you meddlesome little minx!”

As Willow lunged forward, Beatrix danced backward, holding the dagger out of her reach. Only then did Willow realize that she felt curiously light-headed.

She touched a tentative hand to her shorn locks. “ ‘Tis a most curious sensation. My hair has done naught but vex me since the day I was born. I never realized how very attached I was to it.”

Proudly surveying her handiwork, Beatrix thrust a mirror into Willow’s hand. Willow slowly raised the mirror to her face, only to behold a stranger gazing back at her. A stranger with hair that bristled around her head like a cornered warthog’s, and enormous eyes like those of the trained ferrets that used to somersault their way across the great hall at Bedlington in more prosperous times.

Beatrix twined one of her own long, flaxen locks around her finger as she crowded close to steal a glimpse of herself over Willow’s shoulder. “ ‘Tis really quite fetching. You’d make a very pretty boy.”

Willow’s eyes widened until they were livid circles in her pinched face. When she slammed down the mirror and surged to her feet, Beatrix hopped backward.

“Where are you going?”

“To slay my own bloody dragon.” Willow marched toward the door, her face pale, but resolute.

Beatrix trotted along behind her, hefting her skirts high to avoid the puddles of honey still scattered across the floor. “If you don’t want Lord Bannor anymore, might I have him?”

Willow spun around in the doorway, a scathing smile curving her lips. “With my compliments!”

The echo of Willow’s angry footfalls had yet to fade when Beatrix darted for the cupboard. She tugged a creamy sheet of vellum, a quill, and a bottle of ink from one of the cubbyholes carved into the door.

Dear Stefan, she scribbled. You’ll be delighted to know that Willow has given her blessing to my union with Lord Bannor. ‘Twill be only a matter of time before I summon you to Elsinore.

Beatrix signed her name with a flourish. Now all she had to do was coax one of the bumbling squires who was so enamored of her to deliver the letter to Bedlington. As she held the sealing wax over a candle flame to soften it, she fought to ignore a twinge of guilt. She wasn’t exactly betraying her stepsister. She was simply striving to remain in the good graces of her brother.

As Beatrix tipped her hand, the scarlet wax spilled over the parchment, sealing its secrets inside.

———

The flat of the sword slammed into Bannor’s head, sending him crashing to the ground. He struggled to a sitting position and dragged off his helm only to find a disbelieving Hollis standing over him. Shaking his head to stave off the ringing in his ears, he reluctantly took the gauntleted hand Hollis extended to him and allowed his steward to pull him to his feet.

The dozens of knights and men-at-arms who had gathered in the list to train were all gaping at him with the same astonishment as Hollis. They’d never before seen anyone best their master in a contest of skill or strength, and weren’t sure whether they were expected to cheer Hollis’s victory or fall upon him with swords drawn.

“Excellent effort,” Bannor rasped, giving his steward a hearty clap on the back. “Most commendable.”

The men exchanged several dubious glances before sending up a half hearted huzzah.

“Th-thank you, my lord,” Hollis stammered, looking as if he’d rather be back inside the castle calculating taxes.

While the next two combatants circled each other, swords at the ready, Bannor leaned against the fence surrounding the sand-sprinkled field.

Hollis joined him. “I do hope you’ll forgive me,” he said sheepishly beneath the ringing of the swords and hoarse shouts of encouragement. “ ‘Twas not my intention to dishonor you.”

“I’m quite capable of dishonoring myself. I proved that this morning.” Bannor dragged his forearm across his sweaty brow. “ ‘Twould have been no more than I deserved had you cut my head off. Then you could have drenched it in honey and had Fiona present it to my bride on a trencher. ‘Twould have been a sweet revenge for her to savor.”

Hollis used a kerchief to dab at his own brow. “I’m quite relieved to learn your loathing is for yourself and not for me.”

Remembering the look Willow had given him before she had exited the great hall, Bannor murmured, “My loathing is only a shadow of hers.”

“Ah, but the lady does not know that your neglect was prompted by the purest of motives.”

“Nor will she ever know. She will leave Elsinore believing me the most heartless of wretches—too cold and unfeeling to defend the honor of my lady against a band of rebellious children.”

A fortnight ago, Willow’s contempt might not have troubled Bannor. But as his gaze traveled down the length of the list to the grassy field where those very children were staging their own mock tournament, his expression was bleak.

Ennis and Kell were galloping toward each other with Mary Margaret and Margery perched on their respective shoulders. The girls clutched makeshift lances in their chubby little paws. Since no one had been able to get Hammish off the ground or coax him into moving any faster than a waddle, he’d appointed himself herald, and announced each unseating with an off-key blast from an ivory hunting horn. As the lad endured an accidental kick in the head without even staggering, Bannor shook his head, marveling at his fortitude. When they tired of that game, Desmond donned one of Bannor’s own cast-off helms and began to best each child in turn, no great feat of strength or skill considering he towered head and shoulders over even the tallest of them.

Bannor might have been tempted to challenge the arrogant brat himself had an excited murmur not swept through the list. He knew even before he turned that this was the moment he’d been waiting for. The moment when he could at last claim victory for his own.

But as Willow came striding toward him, he felt only dread.

He had already decided that he would accept whatever rebuke she chose to give him, but as he caught sight of her butchered hair, he knew he wouldn’t utter a whimper of protest if she wrested his sword from his hand and plunged it through his heart.

With her stained skirts and shorn head, she should have looked ridiculous. Instead, she looked as regal and magnificent as a hostage queen, stripped of her crown, but not her majesty. As she neared, Bannor realized that what he’d mistaken for cool gray ash in her eyes had always been banked embers, now fanned to glowing flame by her wrath.

His men instinctively cleared a path between them as Bannor stepped away from the fence and stood with hands on hips, bracing himself for the blow she’d come to deliver.

She marched right past him without sparing him so much as a contemptuous glance.

Speechless, Bannor swung around to watch as she descended upon the group of children. Their eyes widened in alarm and they scattered before her.

All but Desmond, who had just used a thick branch to sweep Edward’s legs out from under him. As Edward scurried to safety, Desmond’s triumphant bray of laughter drowned out the ominous silence that rippled in Willow’s wake.

“Who’ll be next?” he shouted, Bannor’s oversized helm hanging crooked over one ear. “Who’ll be the next churl to challenge Sir Desmond the Invincible?”

“I believe I’d like to have a go at it,” Willow said mildly, plucking the branch from his hand. Before he could squint through the eye slits at his new challenger, she delivered a ringing blow that sent him staggering to his knees.

Having so recently been the recipient of just such a blow, Bannor might have winced in sympathy had he not been struggling to choke back an astonished shout of laughter.

“Hey!” Desmond cried, his voice a hollow wail. “You can’t hit me when I’m not looking. That’s not fair!”

The boy dragged off the helm. His petulant scowl faded when he saw the avenging angel standing over him, the glistening spikes of what was left of her hair haloed by the sun. Something in Willow’s eyes must have warned him, because after one wild look around to confirm that his siblings had deserted him, he began to scuttle backward through the grass on his heels and elbows.

“Fair?” Willow echoed, scorn ringing in her voice as she stalked him. “Fair? What would a bully like you know about fair? I’ve seen your kind before. You delight in preying on those who are weaker than you, but when it comes to fighting fair, you’re naught but a sniveling little coward!”

As Willow grabbed the sputtering boy by the ear and hauled him to his feet, Bannor wondered how he could have ever thought her delicate.

“Mary Margaret! Ennis! Kell! Help me!” Desmond wailed as Willow began to drag him toward the castle.

His brothers and sisters remained huddled behind a hawthorn tree. Even his pet crow, newly relieved of its splint, took to the sky, cawing in distress, as Desmond’s voice rose to an enraged howl. His face flushed so red his freckles all but disappeared. Willow marched on, giving him no choice but to follow or abandon his ear to her unrelenting grip.

As they approached Bannor, the boy’s howls melted to a whimper calculated to rend even the most hardened heart. “Papa, oh, Papa, do save me! I’ll be good. I swear I will!”

Willow halted directly in front of Bannor, her taut jaw and forthright gaze daring him to deny her. She could not know that in that moment he would have denied her nothing.

“Might I have a word with your son, my lord?”

Desmond clutched at the front of the quilted gambeson Bannor wore to protect his armor. “Please don’t let her take me, Father! She’s a madwoman!”

Bannor leaned down and said in his son’s ear: “In future contests, Sir Desmond the Invincible, I’d advise you to choose your opponents with more care.” To Willow, he extended a hand toward the castle. “Be my guest.”

Willow proceeded to haul a disbelieving Desmond toward the bailey. The younger pages, who had most often been the victims of Desmond’s bullying, were the first to break the stunned silence. They scampered gleefully along behind him, sending up an elated cheer. The men-at-arms followed, adding their own shouts of approval to the growing din.

Hollis clapped a hand on Bannor’s shoulder. “What in the devil is she doing?”

“Something I wish I could have done long ago,” Bannor murmured.

Shrugging off Hollis’s grip, he joined the procession, as eager as the others to learn what fate Willow had chosen for his son. As they entered the courtyard, servants streamed out of the surrounding buildings to see what all the commotion was about. The beekeeper who had been stung on the nose when Desmond had capsized his hives began to clap, as did the candlemaker, who had been dipped in his own vat of tallow when Desmond had snuck up behind him and shouted “Boo!” The maidservants who had been forced to rewash all the sheets after Desmond had hurled fat globs of mud at their freshly washed laundry hooted with delight.

A thunderous surge of applause rocked the bailey as Willow marched the bellowing boy up the stairs to the wooden platform that housed the gallows.

Bannor began to shove his way through the crowd, afraid she might actually be planning to hang the lad. But she dragged him past the gallows, past the stocks, and past the flogging post, finally halting in front of the finger pillory that was most commonly used to punish harmless drunkards, petty thieves, and unruly peasant children.

Steering Desmond to his knees, Willow folded his fingers into the hollows carved into the wooden crossbar. She lowered a second piece of wood over his knuckles and fastened the latch with an unmistakable flourish.

Bannor smiled. She had chosen well. Although Desmond’s imprisonment was painless, no matter how hard he squirmed or how loud he howled, he could not free his fingers from the tiny tunnels.

As Willow straightened, her gaze met his over the heads of the cheering mob. Bannor touched a hand to his brow to acknowledge her triumph. She spread her skirts in a mocking curtsy, as graceful in victory as she’d been in defeat. Tearing his gaze away from hers, Bannor turned blindly toward the north tower, determined to retreat before she captured far more than just one of his pawns.