He was just an old man. But his eyes were cold. Like a snake’s.

He was short, too. Not much taller than Emmeline. But his strange smile made her shiver. 

Emmeline was not a coward, but right now she felt sick. Where had she seen his face before? She hadn’t. But she had seen that same look on a man’s face before. A hungry, greedy look.

He looked happy, in a mean way. Happy that he had found her out. 

She told herself no one could have found out her secret. It had been four years since she had run away. Emmeline was now sixteen years old and free. Free from slavery. 

Well, more or less. 

The life of a serf in medieval England was not always easy. If a master was kind, life could be good. But if he was cruel, life would be miserable.

Some serfs were able to buy their freedom. Other serfs' masters wouldn’t allow it. In those cases, there was only one thing to do: run away. 

And for those runaway serfs, there was only one way to stay free: live in a town for a year and one day. Of course, this was hard to prove. Problems came when the courts wouldn’t take a serf’s word. They almost never did when an angry master was there. 

If you were a runaway, it was better to avoid the courts altogether. 

Emmeline smoothed her black hair as she hurried toward the kitchen. The sooner she got away from those prying eyes, the better.

The noise from the Great Hall faded away. The dark hallway was silent. Soon, the busy roar of the kitchen took its place. 

Two huge fireplaces flamed against one wall. Many servants ran around the room. They stirred pots, chopped vegetables, and turned the roasting spits. It was very hot and noisy.

Emmeline did not want to stay any longer than she had to. She left her tray, moving back down the hallway to the buttery. 

The buttery was downstairs, in the cellar. It was cool and quiet. Large barrels lined the walls of this room where the butler waited.

Emmeline handed him a pitcher. He filled it with wine from one of the barrels. The wine was dark red, like blood.

She turned to go and almost bumped into Mary. 

Mary, the cooper’s daughter, was a maid in Sir John’s house. Her father made barrels in the village nearby. She was near Emmeline's age. Her freckled nose turned up at the tip. It made her look like an Irish elf, playful and full of tricks. 

Mary liked to tell stories and make jokes about people. Sometimes she stretched the truth. But Emmeline liked her anyway. She couldn't help it. Mary always had a smile and a kind word.

Emmeline took a moment now to ask the question that was haunting her. 

"Who is that old man?" she asked.

"What old man?" Mary asked.

"The one who serves Sir John,"  Emmeline said.

"Oh. Him," Mary said. "That's Richard Pratt. Or 'Prattler the Tattler' as he is known around here. He’s Sir John’s steward."

"I did not care for his look," Emmeline whispered. 

"I know what you mean," Mary said. "His ugly old face is matched by a soul black as pitch." 

Mary said it carelessly, without a thought. Emmeline was shocked by her boldness. She looked around quickly, but the butler didn’t seem to have heard. Mary tossed her frizzy red curls and went on. 

“Everybody says that Sir John rules with an iron fist. But we all know he owes his success to Pratt’s tricks. Curse those eyes!” she said.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” Emmeline said.

“Why not? He’s a spy and a traitor. Everyone knows it. Nobody likes him,” Mary said. 

“But surely—” Emmeline started to say.

“Don’t worry about his feelings, lass,” the butler cut in. “Pratt stopped caring what others thought of him before you were born.” 

That wasn’t what Emmeline meant at all.

Aside from the fact that such talk could lead to trouble… it was gossip. No good ever came of speaking ill of another. Especially when they were not there. 

But the butler and Mary continued to tell horrifying stories.

Pratt was a miser. He terrorized the peasants on Sir John’s estate. He demanded much more of the farmers than he should. He had sold his childhood sweetheart to the Moors. He hated priests and the Church. He had traded his soul to the devil.

Each new story was wilder than the last. 

Emmeline disliked the man. But she disliked gossip even more. It made an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She slipped out into the hallway.

Mary was right behind her with a final warning. “Keep your secrets close around that one,” she said.

Red torches burned through the smoky haze. The Great Hall was full of people eating, drinking, and laughing. Minstrels played their instruments as loud as they could. Dogs rolled on the floor, barking and fighting over bones.

Here, as in the kitchen, there was a blazing fire. The room was almost warm. Bodyham Castle had never seen such a feast. 

It wasn’t every day that Sir John Dalyngrigge was to be married.

He sat behind the table at the end of the hall. He was a big, strong man of nearly thirty. He had a mane of honey-brown hair and a large nose. His booming laugh echoed in the hall. He was a lion of a man.

His bride-to-be was as unlike him as possible. Thin, pale, and timid. Lady Gwyneth trembled in the seat next to him at every loud noise. She was only twelve years old.

Emmeline felt sorry for her. Marriage at a young age was fairly common among English nobles. But that didn’t make it any easier for the girls. 

Gwyneth was not used to the rough jokes and horseplay of the men. It was her first time away from home. Her green eyes widened in fright as one man tackled another.

Over the floor they rolled, wrestling and grunting. They rolled into a group of fighting dogs. One of the men swore loudly when he was bitten.

Sir John roared with laughter.

Gwyneth looked as if she would faint.

Emmeline hurried to her side. “Here is your wine, my lady," she said.

Gwyneth leaned back and whispered, “I don’t know how long I can bear this!” 

She was a sensitive girl, and nervous. Emmeline looked around for Gwyneth’s parents. They were nowhere in sight. To leave their own child in a place such as this!

But then, they had arranged the marriage because of the fame it would bring. Not for their daughter’s comfort. 

“Drink this, my lady," Emmeline said.

Her mistress seized the cup and swallowed a mouthful. She looked at Emmeline with pleading eyes. 

“Oh, for a bit of peace!" Gwyneth said. "If only you could play something. Sing something. It would make me feel better.” 

Emmeline did not see how such a thing could be done. In the privacy of her lady’s apartments was one thing, but this…

She looked at the sea of faces around her and felt dizzy. There was no one to turn to for help.

A young man caught her gaze. He was waving to her. Hardly aware of what she was doing, Emmeline moved in his direction. 

“Hullo! My man seems to have gone missing in his search for ale. Would you mind giving me some of yours?” the man asked.

Emmeline moved to obey. Her mind was on other things.

Then the man winked at her boldly. “You have such beautiful eyes. A pity you won’t raise them from the tabletop,” he said.

Emmeline flushed and nearly spilled the wine.

When he took the goblet, their hands met. For an instant, their eyes met, too.

His were blue as the summer sky and sparkling with laughter. His tone was meant to be soft, yet the voice was raspy. A military man, used to giving orders. Taking a long drink from the cup, he smacked his lips.

“Well, it’s not ale, but it’ll do nicely!” he said.

Emmeline backed away quickly as he smiled. She took her place behind her lady. She did not look in the knight’s direction again. 

Sir John banged his drinking horn on the table for silence. When a hush had fallen, he leaned toward Gwyneth. 

“Well, my dear. It is your turn to choose the entertainment. What shall it be? A dance, story, or special tune?” he asked.

Gwyneth shook her head shyly.

“Come, come! Perhaps one of these wretches will tumble for your enjoyment,” Sir John said.

He leaned closer to whisper, “Surely you would not rob me of a chance to please you.”

A blush crept into Gwyneth’s cheek. Quietly, she stammered her request.

Sir John rose to face the assembly. 

“It seems that my love favors sweet song above all," he said. "She asks that her maid be allowed to delight us.” 

He smiled boldly at Emmeline, who felt herself grow pale.

Oh, no. It was the worst possible time! And in front of all these ale-soaked ruffians. But a servant must obey. 

Emmeline left the table and went to the minstrels. She asked one of them for the loan of his harp. He handed it to her with a wide grin. 

His smile asked, What would this girl do? 

His rudeness stirred her blood. In a flash of anger, she forgot about fear.

In the silence of the hall, the blood sang in her ears. Pounding and rushing like the sea. She closed her eyes.

No. Not the sea. 

Her fingers plucked the strings. They were feeling for a sound in her memory. It was a rushing, flowing sound. The sound a stream makes on the first day of spring.

She plucked the strings lightly. Bouncing along pebbles until she reached deeper water. Long, flowing patterns, like ripples in the stream. 

Then the words came. Slowly, at first. Strange words in a strange language.

Her lips formed them. Still, Emmeline did not know where they came from. They were soft, and sometimes deep. Grass pushed up from underneath the snow. 

It was about spring, this song. Spring in a far-off country. There were small birds in the trees. Strange, yet also familiar. A door began to open in her memory. 

But the song came to an end. She opened her eyes, blinking back tears of disappointment. 

The hall erupted with applause. Sir John pounded his hands together. The young knight beamed with pleasure. Gwyneth’s face showed an odd expression. Behind Gwyneth and Sir John was the triumphant face of Richard Pratt. 

Emmeline turned from his hungry look and escaped the room. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

It came again. That quiet knocking. It would not be ignored.

Emmeline was exhausted. She had gotten her young mistress safely away from the Great Hall. But then she had to calm Gwyneth down so she could sleep.

That had been an hour ago. It was past midnight, now. But whoever was outside the door would not leave. 

Finally, she got up, pulling on a cloak.

The glow from the fireplace did not show her visitor at once. When he did show his face, Emmeline stepped back quickly.

It was Richard Pratt.

He closed the door softly. Then he looked around the room carefully. 

“Can I help you?” Emmeline forced herself to speak.

He smiled. Or at least, he tried to smile. It twisted his face in a horrible way. Much more frightening now than in the Great Hall.

Emmeline retreated another step. 

“Aye, that you can, lass," Pratt said. His voice was smooth as oil. She shuddered as his eyes glittered. “My master would like a word with you. If it is not… too much trouble.” 

His choice of words was cruel. He was a free man. Emmeline was a bondwoman. She had to do what she was told, or suffer for it. But she was Gwyneth’s maid, not Sir John's servant.

She glanced at her mistress’s door. What if she woke Gwyneth? 

“No, lass," he said. "I wouldn’t try it.” 

“Who do you think you are, ordering me about?” she asked.

Pratt showed his teeth. “Once upon a time there was a pretty girl," he said. "A man fell in love with her. But she ran away.” 

A chill washed over Emmeline.

He knew. In spite of everything she had done to hide it.

He fixed her with a cold stare. 

“The man was her old master. And he is still looking for her," he said. "Devonshire is far away. But not far enough. Come along now, like a good girl.” 

What else could she do? Maybe if she went with him, he would keep her secret. 

Heaving a sigh, she followed him into the hallway. Silently, they passed from the household apartments to the chapel. A candle flickered in the darkness near the altar.

Emmeline crossed herself. She whispered a prayer as she walked.

They seemed to be walking forever. When they passed windows, she could hear rain falling. 

They moved through two black, echoing chambers. An odd, mocking echo seemed to chase after Emmeline's footsteps. She felt that she was being watched. But when she turned to look, there was nothing. 

Finally, they entered a smaller room. A large chair sat in front of the fire. 

“Good evening, master,” Pratt said.

"Pratt? Is that you?" Sir John's voice sounded lazy. 

Emmeline planted her feet stubbornly when Pratt grabbed her arm. But he still yanked her toward the fireplace.

Sir John lounged in the chair, one leg thrown over the arm. He held a cup in one hand. He grinned when he saw Emmeline. 

“Oh, so you’ve come after all, have you?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord,” Emmeline said.

Her tone was flat. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. 

He leaned forward, looking up into her face. He was trying to make her look at him. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

He waved a hand, dismissing his steward. As Pratt left, Sir John spoke again. 

“What is your name?” he asked.

"Emmeline, my lord," she said.

“Emmeline! How enchanting," he said. "It means ‘little rival.’ Did you know that?” 

“No, my lord,” she said.

He laughed softly. “You are trying to be difficult, aren’t you?” he asked.

The girl was silent.

The man shifted impatiently, waving his hand toward the corner. “Play for me," he said.

Emmeline turned to follow his hand.

A small harp, beautifully made, rested on a bench. She took it in her hands and sat down. She thought of David, calming the restless spirit of his king. She brushed the strings softly. 

“No, no. Not like that,” Sir John said. He sipped the wine. “Play the way you did in the hall.”

She stopped.

He spoke again. “Come here. Here. Sit on the rug at my feet.” 

Up until this point, Emmeline had been uneasy. Now, she became suspicious. But she got up and went to the man’s chair.

Kneeling down, she pulled her cloak more tightly about her shoulders. Her nightdress underneath felt thin and flimsy. She kept as far away from Sir John as she could manage. 

“You needn’t be afraid of me, girl. I won’t bite,” he said.

She ignored him and began to play again. 

“Sing,” Sir John said.

Emmeline did not feel like singing. She was becoming angry with Sir John’s demands. The harp was silent. She glared up at the man fiercely.

He chuckled deep in his throat. 

“What an enchanting creature you are!" he said. "If looks could kill… what a charming murderess you would make.” 

Her face flushed with shame and confusion. Emmeline jumped to her feet and turned to run.

But Sir John also got up. His strong hand gripped her arm. His hand was hard as iron. His voice was suddenly soft and pleading. 

“Don’t go. Please, don’t leave," he said. "I… need you, Emmeline.” 

His breath brushed her hair. She could smell wine. He had had more than his fair share for the night.

Wine had made him bold. And Emmeline was afraid. But fear did not rob her of common sense. She must act carefully, now. 

“My lord,” she said. She turned to face him slowly. “Soon you will be married. Your wife will be your comfort.” 

“Gwyneth is terrified of me. She lacks your spirit,” he said.

“Whose fault is that?” she asked.

“Well, I—” he stammered. “I do not have the pleasing ways of a minstrel! To charm my way to a lady’s heart. I am a rough soldier. With no time to recite poetry or such nonsense.” 

Emmeline gently freed her arm from his grasp. “Perhaps your attempt to learn such ‘nonsense’ will win your lady’s heart,” she said. 

She turned to go, but his voice stopped her at the door.

“Please accept my gift," he said. "The harp is yours.”  

It was tempting. Emmeline looked longingly at its carved shape. She could never hope to own an instrument half so fine. But she shook her head. 

“I am sorry, my lord," she said. "But I cannot accept such a gift.”

She slipped out into the passage before she could see his disappointment.