Joan Wolf - To The Castle

“Especially appealing…”

—Booklist on White Horses

“Wolf spins a very entertaining love story.”

—Romantic Times on White Horses

“Romance writing at its very best.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review) on The Guardian

“Wolf…leaps into the contemporary romantic suspense arena with this smart, compelling read.”

—Publishers Weekly on Silverbridge

“A quick-moving, enchanting tale…An excellent choice for readers who want an exciting epic.”

—Booklist on Daughter of the Red Deer

“Captivating…endearing…heartwarming…Wolf’s assured storytelling is simply the best.”

—BookPage on Royal Bride

“Fast paced, highly readable…”

—Library Journal on The Gamble

“An entertaining and thought-provoking read.”

—Washington Post Book World

on The Reindeer Hunters

WHITE HORSES

To the Castle

Joan Wolf

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Joe, the bedrock of my existence.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Afterword

The funeral mass for Sybilla de Bonvile was held in the cathedral of Lincoln on a day of high clouds and gusty wind. Nell de Bonvile walked with her parents behind the coffin of her only sister as it was carried by six knights up the aisle to the altar rail. The archbishop himself waited with holy water to sprinkle on it before he turned with majestic slowness to ascend to the altar where he would begin the funeral mass.

Nell knelt next to her mother and listened to the familiar Latin words, her eyes on the coffin that contained the eighteen-year-old remains of Sybilla. She felt immense sorrow engulf her as she thought of her sister’s life, blown out like a candle by a fever and coughing illness.

If only they had called upon Sister Helen, perhaps she might have been saved, Nell thought. But Sister Helen, one of the nuns at the convent where Nell had lived since her eighth year, had not been called upon, and Sybilla had died.

Next to Nell, her mother raised a handkerchief to her face and began to sob softly. Nell wanted to comfort her mother, but hesitated to touch her. She wasn’t sure if her mother would want comfort from her sole remaining child. Nell knew she could never take the place of her beautiful sister or her brilliant brother. Perhaps her mother would be hurt by the reminder that they had gone and all that was left to her was Nell.

She looked beyond her mother to the face of her father. The Earl of Lincoln’s face was like stone. He made no motion to comfort his wife.

Tentatively, Nell reached out and touched her mother’s arm. The countess gave no sign that she felt Nell’s fingers; she continued to sob quietly into her handkerchief. After a minute, Nell removed her hand and folded it in prayer.

Dear God, she prayed, please receive Sybilla into the joy of your presence and help Mama and Papa to find comfort from their grief.

When the mass was over, they left Sybilla’s coffin in the church, where she would be buried alongside her brother, and went out into the windy day.

Nell, her parents and her aunt had stayed overnight in the bishop’s residence, but now that the funeral was over, Nell knew her father was anxious to return to his castle of Bardney, some twenty miles outside of Lincoln. He gave orders to the knights who had accompanied him to bring the horses around and, as Nell stood waiting in front of the cathedral, her eyes took in the unfamiliar part of Lincoln that lay within the outer walls of the castle.

Nell had spent most of her life within the confines of a convent, and this glimpse of the busy outside world was fascinating. People were going about their business, coming and going from the castle, which towered high above them on a rock, or buying and selling from the stalls that lined one of the walls of the Bail. Many cast curious glances at the funeral party—everyone in the town was aware of who was being buried that day.

What different lives people live, Nell thought wonderingly. How different my own life would have been if my parents hadn’t given me to the convent when I was a child.

An old woman passed in front of the cathedral, turning her head to look straight at Nell. Nell could feel the sympathy in her gaze cross the distance between them. She nodded slightly, in acknowledgment, and the old lady nodded back and continued on her way.

The sympathy was kind, but Nell knew it should be directed at her mother and father, not at her. She had hardly known her sister. They had been separated when they were very young and Sybilla had rarely come to visit her in the convent.

“Nell, stop standing there staring and get on your horse.” Her father sounded impatient. She went over to the small mare one of the knights was holding and let him help her into the saddle. She was still a little sore from the ride in yesterday; life in the convent had not included horseback riding.

Her father mounted his big chestnut stallion and the knights who were leading their party started off. Her father’s stallion moved off behind them, followed by her mother, her mother’s sister, Aunt Alida, and Nell. Behind them came another group of knights, to protect their rear.

Nell’s veil blew in the wind and she reached up to anchor it more securely on her head. She would not profess her holy vows until she was eighteen, but the novices at the convent wore wimples and veils like the nuns. Her little mare was very quiet, paying no attention to the people who were staring at them—unlike her father’s stallion, who was dancing and throwing his head around. Her father sat quietly and spoke to him. Nell watched with awe as he controlled the large horse with his voice and gentle hands.

The earl’s cavalcade went down the old Roman road, Ermine Street, through the town with its shops, past the inns that accommodated visitors to Lincoln, past the church of St. Peter ad Placita, across the River Witham and out of the town. Bardney was southeast of Lincoln while Nell’s convent was to the northeast. She had been fetched two days ago by five of her father’s knights and she supposed she would be spending the night at Bardney, then returning to the convent in the morning.

The road to Bardney led through several small villages huddled around their churches, and some fine pastureland where cows grazed peacefully. The castle could be seen from quite a distance, its turreted stone walls rearing up out of the ground with arrogant authority.

Nell had spent the first years of her life at Bardney, but her memories of life in the castle were dim. When she was eight her brother, the much-longed-for male, had been born, and Nell had been sent to the Convent of St. Cecelia in fulfillment of a promise her parents had made to God when they had prayed for a son. The life she knew was life in the convent; she had felt like a stranger when she had dismounted in the inner bailey of the castle two days ago.