Enchantress Mine.

Bertrice Small.

To Morgan Llywelyn, with love, from her sibling through time.

Prologue.

Brittany, 1056.

"The child is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, uncle, and must be declared so!" Blanche St. Ronan compressed her thin lips into a narrow line, and her hard blue eyes stared unflinchingly into those of her uncle. "I did not marry Ciaran St. Ronan and agree to live in the Argoat so that my child might be pa.s.sed over in favor of that brat!" Her slender fingers worried at her full indigo blue silk skirt. He noted that each one of those fingers wore a gold ring encrusted with a colored gemstone. "You must help me, uncle! You must!"

The bishop of St. Brieuc looked directly at his niece, and felt the same sensuous pleasure he always felt when he looked at her. She was an absolutely beautiful girl, her pale golden hair braided with colorful ribbons, her white-rose skin, and those perfect sky-blue eyes. He felt a sting of regret. She was fit for a king, but because she was the last of his sister's children she had only had a small dowry. Her parents had thought to send her to a convent, but Blanche had rebelled and he had supported her in her rebellion for she was far too lovely to be shut away. It had been he who had arranged her marriage to the Sieur St. Ronan, a man of impeccable Breton lineage and a pleasant estate, but little other wealth.

Ciaran St. Ronan was a widower who had a small daughter from his first marriage. Blanche had detested the child on sight, but she had hidden her dislike long enough to marry the Sieur St. Ronan. Now she was with child, and although the bishop understood his niece's concern, he was a cautious man. Blanche could simply not dispose of her stepdaughter as if she were an unwanted puppy. He made another attempt at reasoning with her.

"If the infant you carry is a son, Blanche, there is no question at all of his position. All the daughter will have is a small dowry. In another year or two she will be old enough to go to her future husband's family, and they will raise her; or we may place her in a convent, and that will be the end of it. There is no need for you to upset yourself, my precious girl." A fat, dimpled hand reached out, and he stroked her silken head. "You are young. At fourteen you have many years ahead of you, and you will undoubtedly bear many sons for your lord husband."

"Ciaran is dying, uncle! There is only this child! If it is another daughter then it is the girl, Mairin, who will inherit, and my child will be left with nothing! You cannot let that happen to me, uncle! You cannot!" Her voice was tinged with growing hysteria. "It is a female that I carry, uncle. She has said it! Help me!"

"No one can know if the babe that you carry is a son or a daughter until the child is born, Blanche. Who has told you that you will bear a daughter? Surely you have not listened to the old women in the village with their stories, and their signs that usually mean nothing?"

"Mairin has said it, uncle. You know that the child has second sight! We do not discount these things here in Brittany, for we are a Celtic race. Several weeks ago the brat greeted me in the morning with the words, 'How fare you this morning, my lady Blanche? And how fares my little sister?' Ciaran was with me, for it was before his accident, and he lifted the little brat into his arms saying, 'So it is a sister you see, Mairin?', and she answered, 'Aye, my father. A sister, and she will be as pretty as the lady Blanche.' "

The bishop sat back in his chair and contemplated his niece's words. The church did not approve of second sight, but as Blanche had pointed out to him, they were Bretons. Theirs was a Celtic race, and whatever the church might say on the subject, Bretons believed in second sight. His niece's stepchild was known to possess it, although being but five and a half years of age she could but innocently speak of what she saw, but had not real power over her gift. If Ciaran St. Ronan died of his injuries, and Blanche's child was a female, their family would certainly lose the St. Ronan lands for the elder daughter would indeed be the heiress. Mairin was a healthy child, however, and although he would never countenance violence against a child, his niece did have a valid point.

"What do the physicians say about your husband's condition, my precious girl?" the bishop gently queried. "Are they truly convinced that he is dying?"

"Aye," she answered him irritably. "His condition is disgusting, uncle, for his bowels run constantly. He grows weaker every day, and the doctor holds little hope for him. I will be widowed long before my baby is born, and all because he and the Comte de Combourg must play their stupid game! Will the comte look after my child and me when Ciaran is dead and buried? He will not! This is all his fault, but it is I who must suffer!"

"Blanche, Blanche," soothed the bishop, and he squeezed her delicate shoulder in his pudgy hand, "Ciaran and the comte have been friends since boyhood, and they played the game they enjoyed each time the comte visited Landerneau. Leaping the castle moat from the narrow ribbon of land below the walls to the other side takes great skill, and both men had fallen into the moat in the past. It is unfortunate that this time Ciaran's horse fell on him, and that he swallowed so much water."

"Yes," Blanche St. Ronan said bitterly, "it is indeed unfortunate, uncle, but now I must protect my baby alone. Mairin must be declared a b.a.s.t.a.r.d lest my own child suffer. Why should I care what happens to Mairin? She is not mine! Why should I be left to care for the b.a.s.t.a.r.d sp.a.w.n of some Irish savage? If I wait until Ciaran is dead, people will say I make the claim out of malice, but if you will help me now, dearest uncle, who will dispute the church's decision? If it is done before my husband dies, and he protests not, who will dare to criticize me?"

"Ciaran St. Ronan loves his daughter, Blanche. I do not believe he will allow you to do this thing."

"Ciaran St. Ronan will never know, uncle. Once the deed is done I will permit no one to come near him but me, and my chosen servants. To the world his lack of protest will appear acquiescence!" She smiled at the bishop triumphantly, her small and perfect teeth glistening whitely against the rose-pink of her mouth.

"What is it exactly that you want me to do, Blanche?" His niece had certainly considered it all very carefully, he thought, impressed by her determination.

"The church must declare that the child known as Mairin St. Ronan is b.a.s.t.a.r.d-born, and therefore, not ent.i.tled to inherit her father's estates as his heiress," came the cold reply. "The church must declare that the true heir to Ciaran St. Ronan is the child I now carry in my belly."

"And on what grounds shall the church do this, Blanche? We must have legitimate evidence if we are to succeed in disinheriting little Mairin, else I be accused of favoring my own."

"Uncle! There is no proof whatsoever of my lord husband's marriage to the brat's mother. No one here in Brittany ever laid eyes upon the woman for she was Irish, and is said to have died in Ireland before Ciaran could bring her here. There is nothing, however, to prove such facts. It is only upon the word of my lord husband that the child has been accepted at all."

"What was the woman's name?" the bishop asked. "Do you know anything about her?"

"Her name was Maire Tir Connell. Ciaran has said that she was of royal blood, but I do not believe it for a moment! She was probably some savage peasant wh.o.r.e with whom my lord amused himself during his time in Ireland. It is said that my husband was wild in his youth. The wh.o.r.e's child might not even be his, uncle! Perhaps this Maire Tir Connell did die, and Ciaran took the child to raise himself. You know how softhearted he is. How can we allow Landerneau to fall into the hands of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d whose father is unknown when I carry the true heir to the estate?"

"Why was Baron St. Ronan in Ireland?" The bishop was curious.

"Ciaran's mother was Irish. After his father died she remarried an old friend with whom she had grown up in Ireland. Several years ago she grew ill, and my lord's stepfather sent for him that he might be with his mother in her final days. While he was there he claims to have met and wed with this Maire Tir Connell, but he has never showed me any proof of that marriage, uncle, nor can I find any. Believe me when I tell you I have looked everywhere for such evidence."

The bishop smiled tightly. He had absolutely no doubt that his darling Blanche had sought thoroughly for proof of her husband's first marriage with an eye to destroying it.

"When this Irish woman gave birth to my lord's daughter, he says she was weakened, and made ill by her months of confinement," continued Blanche. "Ciaran returned home to Brittany leaving her to regain her strength before making the long journey here. He had been gone over a year, and felt it necessary to show himself on his estates. His mother had died shortly after the child's birth. When he went back to Ireland to fetch the woman and her baby she was dead. He brought Mairin back with him. This is what he says, uncle, but I think he says it to protect the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. There are neither doc.u.ments nor witnesses to this marriage. Nothing!"

"You are certain, ma pet.i.te Blanche?" If she were, he thought, then his clever girl had indeed found a way to disinherit her stepchild.

"Absolutely certain, uncle," came the firm reply.

"What of the Irish giant who guards the child, my precious? Was he not a servant of Mairin's mother? Perhaps he knows something of the truth. Have you spoken with him?"

"Dagda? He could not possibly know anything of value to us, uncle. The creature is stupid beyond belief. With your help nothing can stand in my way!"

The bishop of St. Brieuc smiled benevolently at his favorite niece, thinking again of how lovely she was. Blanche had always had a marvelous instinct for style. The blues she wore today complimented her fair hair and her beautiful eyes. The full, flowing skirt was just a shade darker than the tunic top which was embroidered at the neck and about the sleeves in gold thread and tiny freshwater pearls. Her pale gold braids with their rose-colored silk ribbons were looped fashionably about her ears, and her head was crowned with a chaplet of delicate filigreed gold that had been set with tiny, sparkling gemstones. She was a marvelous girl, he thought fondly, and she deserved only the best that life had to offer.

"If you are certain of what you say, Blanche," he said with a beneficent smile, "then I shall arrange to solve this little problem for you. Unlike your careless husband, ma pet.i.te, you shall have a doc.u.ment, both stamped and sealed, that will attest to the validity of your word. Mairin St. Ronan will be declared b.a.s.t.a.r.d-born, and she will therefore be unable to inherit her father's possessions. Ciaran St. Ronan's lands will belong to your child alone, and you will hold them until that child either marries, should it indeed be female, or comes of age if you bear a son. Is that satisfactory?"

She arose from her chair, and slipped her arms about his neck as she had done so often as a child. With a little smile she settled herself into his ample lap, wriggling her bottom suggestively as she did. "Oh, uncle," she said softly as she looked up into his fat face, "you are always so good to me!"

He beamed back at her, feeling a trifle breathless, and finally drawing a breath in he was almost overwhelmed by the wonderful perfume that she wore. It smelt of lilies of the valley. "Dearest Blanche," he said, and he patted her dainty little hand, "how can I not be good to you? I adore you, and you are more than well aware of it, pet.i.te mechante."

Blanche St. Ronan leaned heavily against her uncle, and the tip of her little pointed tongue flicked out from between her pink lips to run along his fleshy mouth in a teasing manner. Then she kissed him, her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressing against him as she did so. "Let it be as it was between us, uncle, before I came to Landerneau," she murmured huskily against his lips. "Make love to me!"

The cleric's breath came in hard, little pants, and unable to restrain himself he fondled his niece's b.r.e.a.s.t.s with a groan of unconcealed desire. "You are with child, and I would harm neither you nor the baby you carry, ma pet.i.te Blanche," he protested, but faintly.

"Uncle dearest," she breathed with scented breath into his ear, "I have not even begun to show. You will not hurt us, and I burn for your touch! I am wed to a sick and disgusting man who has never been as virile with me as you always were. I wonder that he bothered to take a wife." She licked the inside of his ear teasingly.

"You are fortunate indeed that he did, ma pet.i.te, else you'd be in a convent now instead of the lap of luxury," the bishop reminded her, and felt his manhood begin to stir.

"But he never had your charm, uncle." She pouted, and added, "I will come to your apartments as soon as I have seen the castle settled for the night." She smiled at him, showing her perfect little teeth. "Surely, dearest uncle, you will offer me comfort in my distress?"

The bishop's heart pounded with excitement, and beneath the holy robes of his office he felt himself growing more l.u.s.tful for his niece as each moment pa.s.sed. He had taken her maidenhead in the confessional when she was twelve, and now as she rubbed herself against him he remembered other times, and other places. She was deliciously insatiable. He realized now how very much he had missed her since she had married Ciaran St. Ronan. Though he never lacked for companions, no woman had ever aroused him as did Blanche. Reaching up he stroked her soft cheek, and said in a pious tone, "My doors will be open to you, dearest niece, should you desire to make your confession to me later on this evening."

"I shall welcome any penance you impose upon me, uncle," she returned demurely. Then she was gone from the tiny private room. As she exited there was a triumphant smile upon her face, and she was certain of her total success. She had learned quickly, and early that a woman's body was a potent weapon in the war between the s.e.xes! The brat, Mairin, would be disposed of and dispossessed. Blanche's child would inherit the St. Ronan lands! She thanked G.o.d and the Blessed Mother for her l.u.s.tful uncle, else she and her baby might have been forced to accept their very bread from that little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Of course, Blanche decided, she would have to get rid of the wench as quickly as possible. Once it became known what had been arranged, the tongues would wag, but they would wag less if Mairin were not around to remind everyone of what Blanche had done. Besides, who would take the brat's part against her father's legal widow? The lady of St. Ronan cared little what people might think as long as she and her child were victorious. Blanche St. Ronan smiled broadly, but the smile never reached her cold blue eyes.

Part One.

THE SAXON'S DAUGHTER.

England, 10561063.

Chapter 1.

Within the Forest of the Argoat all was silent, but for the occasional trill of a bird, or a soft whisper of a breeze. The beeches and the oaks soared skyward, reaching with strong green fingers toward the life-giving warmth of the sun above them. Great mossy boulders that had been contoured by the pa.s.sage of time and worn into strange, almost mysterious shapes by centuries of wind and rain littered the forest floor. Following the almost invisible path that wound its way through those huge rocks, one came upon a stream that tumbled breathlessly over the large stones in its wake, only to disappear around a sharp curve and slip silently off into the deep woods.

Somehow the warm late-summer sun managed to break through the thick stands of trees casting a pale green light over everything it touched; skimming across the dark pool within the sudden clearing where a great antlered stag had stopped to drink. A shaft of light touched the dark chestnut velvet of his flank, but so secure was the beast within this magical realm that he barely raised his head to gaze with liquid eyes as with the faintest rustle the underbrush gave way for but a moment to allow a small figure to enter within the charmed circle. It was a child. A little girl of such delicate structure and beauty that it seemed as if the faintest puff of wind would blow her away.

Seeing the stag, Mairin St. Ronan stopped to greet the beast. "Hail, Hearn!" came her soft childish voice, and the stag lowered his head to once again drink, knowing instinctively that this was no enemy.

The child's skin was snow-white and of such translucent quality that it contrasted sharply with the soft light within the clearing. The sunlight touching the crown of her head lit a flame of red-gold so intense that many seeing the little girl's ma.s.s of fiery hair for the first time were amazed by the beautiful color. Some fingered the great cloud of softness as if unable to believe the evidence of their own sight. It was unusual for a child so young to be so beautiful, and there was speculation as to what she would look like when she was grown. She was strangely adult for one so young, and this coupled with her rare beauty made many uncomfortable. There were even rumors that she visited old Catell, the witch woman, and because the child's knowledge of healing was beyond her years, many believed her to be a young enchantress. After all, had not Brittany been the home of the Great Sorcerer, Merlin, and the famed enchantress Vivian?

The child ran to the edge of the pool, and kneeling, dipped her tiny hand into the black water, letting its coolness drizzle back into the pond. The smooth, dark mirror reflected back at Mairin her own face, and looking at it the little girl saw a small square chin, a short, straight nose that her father a.s.sured her would eventually grow, and a mouth that her stepmother declared was much too large, and even a trifle vulgar for a female of good breeding. Mairin made a little moue with her mouth as she stared into the water. She knew certain charms and spells for whitening one's skin and lightening one's hair, but there was no way that she knew of for changing the shape of one's mouth.

As for the lady Blanche with her cold blue eyes and her rosebud lips that always seemed pursed with discontentment, Mairin knew full well that her father's new wife did not like her, although she did not know why that should be so. She was happy her father had finally remarried, for she understood his need for a son. He would not have one for Mairin knew the baby her stepmother carried was a daughter, and alas, her father now lay dying. She could see it in his sad eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she impatiently brushed it away. Death was but a doorway into another life. There was nothing she could do to prevent her father's fate.

Shrugging she arose, thanking the pond as she did for its smooth surface which had allowed her to glimpse herself. Then, walking about the little body of water, she looked carefully for any plants that might be of use to her, or to old Catell, the witch woman of these woods, who had taught her so much about healing.

There were a few green acorns that had fallen, but acorns were best when ripe, and so she ignored them. Here and there upon the ground there were pine cones, but the best cones were those with their seeds, and she had gathered them in the late spring when they were newly fallen before the squirrels and birds got at them. On a patch of dry and rocky ground, however, she found some capers growing, and these she plucked carefully, putting them into the little linen pouch that hung from her girdle. As a decoction capers were very good for easing toothache, but one had to be careful when using them for capers were also known to draw blood and sperm into the urine, and the only antidote for that was apple vinegar.

"Mairin."

She whirled and her generous mouth turned up into a welcoming smile. "How is it, Dagda, that such a big man can tread so lightly?" she demanded of him. "My ears are as sharp as the fox's, and yet it is rarely that I hear you come."

Dagda, who stood seven feet in height, and had a mop of unruly silver-colored hair, smiled down at the litte girl. It was a smile that crinkled the corners of his deep blue eyes and was filled with his deep love for Mairin St. Ronan. He had raised her even as he had raised her mother long ago in Ireland. He thought of Mairin as his child even as her mother had been his child. Just before she had died Maire Tir Connell had begged him to care for Mairin as he had once cared for her. Of course he had agreed, and she had given him his freedom, unfastening the slave collar from his thick neck with trembling fingers, touching gently with a sad sigh the scar tissue that had built up from the chafing of the collar in the first years he had worn it. Dagda had caught at her hand and kissed those dainty fingers, the unashamed tears rushing down his face.

Maire Tir Connell had died then. She had died in the comforting cradle of his big arms, the breath fleeing her slender body in a soft whisper, but he had continued to hold her for the longest time because he could simply not believe that she who had always been so loving and so filled with life was truly dead. Finally the old women had come, and with sympathetic hands that had loosened his hold upon Maire Tir Connell, they had taken the body away to prepare it for its burial. That had been almost five years ago.

When Mairin was a year old her father returned to Ireland for his wife and child. Ciaran St. Ronan was first shown his wife's grave and then shown his beautiful daughter. He had wept bitter tears for Maire Tir Connell. Then he had gotten drunk, and stayed that way for a week. Finally pulling himself together he had gone to speak with the king, his late wife's father. It was decided that Mairin would go with her father to Brittany. When they departed Dagda had accompanied them. He had made a promise to Maire Tir Connell, and only death would make him break his word to her.

It had been a pleasant life these last few years in Brittany, for Ciaran St. Ronan, the Sieur de Landerneau, was a good man. He had never once questioned his late wife's dying wish with regard to their child. Dagda had raised Maire Tir Connell, and she had been perfect in Ciaran's eyes. He expected that his little daughter, Mairin, raised by the same gentle giant, would be no less perfect. So despite the wagging tongues of the goodwives, and the shaking of heads by the elderly remainder of Ciaran St. Ronan's family, Dagda had remained as nursemaid and guardian to the Sieur de Landerneau's only child.

Looking down now at his precious charge, Dagda shook his s.h.a.ggy silver head, and thought that it was indeed fortunate that he was Mairin's watchdog, especially since the lady Blanche had entered their lives.

Ciaran St. Ronan's second wife was a spiteful and cruel young woman. She reminded him of a golden rose, full-blown and totally perfect until you bent to sniff its fragrance, and discovered that it was rotten.

Aye! Mairin needed him now. Particularly now. Bending, he lifted his little mistress into his arms. "Your father," he said quietly, and without any preamble, "has just died. Whatever happens now, I don't want you to be frightened for I will be with you, my little lady. Do you understand me?"

The child's face crumbled with her grief. She had known before he had even spoken what he had come to tell her. Her father had left her, and she was alone. A small sob escaped her, but then recovering herself she said, "Did he want to see me, Dagda? Did my father not ask for me at the end?"

"He did, but she pretended that you could not be found, and her uncle, the wily bishop, then began fussing with your father over his last confession, and the absolution."

A tear slid down the child's beautiful face. "Oh, Dagda," she said brokenly, "why does the lady Blanche hate me so? Why did she keep my father and me from our farewells?"

"She is jealous of you, child. How could she not be? Your father loved you above all people including the lady Blanche. Now she will seek to strike out at you in order to protect the child she will bear in a few months' time."

"But I would not harm my sister, Dagda," said Mairin in her innocence.

"Of course you wouldn't," he replied soothingly, "but that is not why she fears you. You are your father's heiress, Mairin. With Ciarin St. Ronan, the Sieur de Landerneau, dead, my child, you become the Demoiselle de Landerneau. The lady Blanche and her child will be obligated to you for their very living. This is what the b.i.t.c.h fears."

"But I would take nothing from them!" protested Mairin. "Has not Pere Caolan taught me to honor my parents, and is not the lady Blanche my stepmother?"

Dagda sighed deeply. How could he possibly explain to a sweet and totally innocent child like Mairin the greed and venality of the world? Mairin's wisdom was of a different sort, and in a sense he was responsible for he had encouraged her to learn the ancient ways of their people. She had never been exposed to selfishness or avarice, but these were qualities that he knew the lady Blanche possessed, and he feared for the little girl in his charge. He would protect her with his life if need be, but right now he knew not from where the first blow would come.

"We must return to the castle," he said. "If we do not come soon they will wonder where we are and send others after us."

She snuggled into his arms. "Please stop at old Catell's cottage, Dagda. I found some capers, and would leave them with her for I know not when I will see her again." Abruptly Mairin shivered, and she cried out sharply. "Stop, Dagda!"

"What is it, my child?" He slowed his pace.

"Let me down," she begged him, and when he did she looked up at him, her little face dirty with the tears that ran down it now, and she said, "I will never see this place again, Dagda! Suddenly I know that. I shall not come to these woods again."

"Are you threatened?" he demanded, not for one moment doubting her words.

She thought for a long moment, and then replied slowly, "Not my life, Dagda. No, not my life." Then running a little ways back along the path to the dark pool she said to the trees and the water, and the rocks, "Farewell, my friends. I shall not forget your kindness to me. I will remember you always!"

To Dagda, who stood watching, it seemed as if the trees bowed their branches to her, and the waters in the normally still pond wavered distinctly. She is magic, he thought. She has the touch. If we remain here perhaps old Catell could teach her some of the old ways, for my little enchantress needs more than I can give her. Feeling Mairin slip her little hand into his large one he set his steps toward the castle once again. Old Catell was now forgotten for the day was beginning to wane and there was no time left.

They met Mairin's old wet-nurse, Melaine, hurrying along to find them. "Quickly, quickly, my precious. She is already in a rage that you are not found. We must go to her swiftly!"

"Not until demoiselle is washed, and properly dressed," said Dagda firmly.

"Sweet Mother Marie! How am I to hold her off then? She insists that the pet.i.te mistress be found!"

"She was not so insistent when the good Sieur Ciaran lay dying. She would allow no one to seek out the demoiselle then that the child and her father might make their farewells. She is evil, that one! Whatever it is that she wants, at least let the demoiselle Mairin face that woman at her best."

Melaine nodded her agreement, and crossed herself for luck. She had heard terrible gossip from her sister whose daughter worked as a dairymaid for the bishop of St. Brieuc. She knew that Dagda had not heard the rumors for during the last few weeks he had spent his time being particularly vigilant over the little mistress. Melaine wondered if the Sieur St. Ronan had heard the gossip. If so he had not refuted it, so perhaps then it was true. Whatever the truth, her former nursling was in for a great deal of difficulty from the lady Blanche.

"I will distract the guards at the portcullis while you and the child pa.s.s by them," said Melaine, and then she chuckled at the idea of Dagda sneaking by anyone.

Yet with her help they were able to gain entry to the castle quickly, and without being noticed. Carrying Mairin, Dagda made his way up the stairs to the tiny room that belonged to the little girl. Lowering her he pushed her into the cubicle, hissing after her, "Hurry! Wash, and brush your hair. Put on both shoes and clean clothing. We have little time!'

Not a little frightened, Mairin splashed water from a pitcher into her little silver ewer, and scrubbed the dirt from her face, hands, and neck. Stripping her clothing off she opened her trunk, and pulled from it a clean light-colored linen chemise, and a pale gold silk tunic dress which was embroidered at the neck and lower hem with blue and green silken threads and tiny pearls. The sleeves of the tunic were long and full, and just above the child's hips was a belt matching the embroidery. Mairin slipped her little feet into a pair of soft shoes that had been made of an especially finely tanned b.u.t.ter-soft red leather. Then taking her brush she quickly worked the snarls free from her thick hair, and neatly rebraided it with pretty green ribbons. She slipped about her neck a necklace of heavy red gold and Celtic enamelwork, and then hurried to exit her room, escorted by Dagda, who had patiently awaited her outside.

Entering the hall of the castle she went quickly to her stepmother, and knelt before her saying, "I grieve with you, my lady Blanche. I shall miss my father too." Mairin saw that the bishop of St. Brieuc sat next to his niece, his pig-sharp eyes devouring her.

Blanche St. Ronan, attired in her favorite blue, a silvery gauze veil over her golden head, glared down at the beautiful child who knelt so submissively before her. How dare the little b.i.t.c.h appear before her in such fine clothes! "You are to leave Landerneau this day," she said coldly. "Too long have I been forced to tolerate your presence. I did so for the deep love I bore my husband, but now that he is dead I do not have to suffer his b.a.s.t.a.r.d to live within my walls."

Confused the child looked up at her stepmother. "Leave Landerneau?" she said. "Madame, I do not understand you. I am the heiress to Landerneau. I cannot leave my lands."