Free Blood Prophecy by Alyxandra Harvey Page B

her arrival carefully. She knew her father couldn’t be bothered with visitors until well after supper. She might have a chance to win her mother over to her side by then.
    “Mother will be in her solar,” she said as Tristan handed their reins over to a stable boy. Saying the words out loud made her realize that in all her visits over the years, her mother was always buried under a pile of blankets. “She’s unwell,” she explained as they headed up to the old hall. Improvements had been made since she was a girl, including a new stone tower that threw the old timber hall in shadows. “She never leaves.”
    Until now.
    Viola froze, stopping so abruptly Tristan had to take her shoulder to stop from crashing into her and knocking them both off their feet.
    “I don’t . . .” She trailed off, horrified.
    Tristan followed her shocked gaze. A woman waited in the cold twilight of the bailey. Her long braids were bound with gold cord and her fine gown and embroidered surcoat, along with her jeweled girdle, marked her as a noblewoman. She wore a fur mantle. Anyone would have thought her the lady of the castle.
    Except for the fact that she was hanging from a post by her chained wrists. There were scars on her neck that her linen wimple could not hide.
    “Are you under attack, my lady?” Tristan asked, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Fury and bile burned in the back of his throat. “Who is that?” he whispered to Viola. “Do you know her?”
    “That’s my mother,” Viola replied before bolting out into the open courtyard. Swearing, Tristan followed, searching for possible threats from the ramparts. When no arrows or hot oil poured over their heads, he risked a glance at Viola. She was clawing uselessly at the chains, her fingertips bleeding. Her mother stirred, blinked at her, confounded.
    “Viola?”
    “Who did this to you?” Viola asked. “Where’s Father?”
    “Viola, it’s really you.” Lady Venetia smiled as her daughter tried to slip an arm under her shoulder to support her. Her smile died, trembling with fear. “You’re really here. No,” she moaned. “No.”
    “Help me!” Viola shouted at Tristan. She glared at the servants who gathered at the doorways, watching her mutely. “What’s the matter with you?”
    Tristan had the same sharp, uncomfortable feeling in his belly that he’d had the time a gang of outlaws had surprised him in the woods. He’d nearly lost his head that night. He saw the flash of torchlight glinting off chain mail from along the battlements. A dog barked in the kennel.
    “Viola, come away.”
    “No.” She slapped at his hands.
    Lady Venetia was as wild-eyed and desperate as her daughter, but for different reasons. “Viola, you have to leave. You have to run!” She tried to clutch at Tristan’s arm, but the chains stopped her short, rattling with a cold, awful sound. “Please. They can’t know she’s seen me like this. It’s not safe. Protect her! Run, damn your eyes!”
    The clack of boot heels on the cobblestones near the tower seemed louder than the blacksmith’s hammer. Lady Venetia went paler than she already was and then flung herself at the end of her chains like a wild animal. “Not my daughter!”
    Viola just frowned at her grandmother who approached them, strange and pale as she always was. “And who is this you’ve brought with you?”
    “Tristan Constantine of Bornebow Hall,” he replied with a bow, though his sword was still naked in his hand.
    “I see.”
    Viola crossed her arms. “We want to marry.” She stepped closer to her mother, trying to keep her safe even though she wasn’t entirely sure what the danger was.
    “You’re already promised to Richard Vale,” Veronique replied briskly. “Return to him at once.”
    “No,” Viola said. One of the servants gasped from where she was pressed against the dog kennel. Venetia began to weep. Tristan wondered how the hell he was supposed to fight an old woman. Viola just narrowed her