Adrienne Basso Read Online Free Page A

was a constant reminder of what they had endured, of what had been broken that could never be fully restored.
    As Spencer drew closer, one of the castle hounds suddenly darted in front of him. His balance compromised, the boy’s face contorted into a grimace as he stumbled and fell. Fiona gasped, biting her lip until she tasted blood. No, she refused to cry out, to show any outward sign of distress. The last thing Spencer wanted or needed was her pity—he got that in buckets from others.
    More than anything else, her child needed her to believe in him, needed to know that she had faith he would overcome this physical infirmary, that he would one day be whole again. And by God, no matter how difficult it was for her, she would give that to him.
    Arms flailing, Spencer shoved the hound, who was now trying to lick his face, pushing the animal away. Though it was only a few seconds, to Fiona it felt like hours, as she watched the boy lie flat on his back, panting with the effort it took to right himself. Finally, with slow deliberate movements, Spencer rose to his feet. His misshapen grin of triumph when he regained his balance wrenched at Fiona’s heart. Swiftly, she brushed away her tears, replacing them with a confident, supportive nod.
    A nod her son answered with one of his own.
    “After these many months, I had hoped the boy would be stronger,” Sir George mused, his eyes narrowing with worry.
    “He improves each week,” Fiona replied sharply.
    “Can he wield a sword?”
    “Yes.”
    “With authority?”
    Fiona skewered the knight with a piercing look. “He’s barely eleven years old.”
    “He began learning how to fight at his father’s knee when he was but a lad of five,” Sir George responded. “I supervised the making of his first wooden sword myself.”
    “My brother has refused to allow Spencer any time on the practice field,” Fiona replied, embarrassed to admit her own flesh and blood had so little confidence in Spencer’s abilities. “Father Niall works with him, but the priest’s skill is limited. With the proper training, I know Spencer will be able to compensate for the weakness in his leg. All he needs is the opportunity.”
    Sir George took a breath. “If the lad cannot be trained here, then perhaps he can be fostered at another castle?”
    “Believe me, Sir George, as much as it would pain me to be separated from him, I have tried to find him a place. Father Niall helped me compose the letters I sent to all the holdings in the area, both large and small.” Fiona felt her face flush with heat. “No one will take him.”
    Sir George’s eyebrows rose. “No one?”
    Fiona frowned. She had begged her brother to intervene and when he refused, she had taken matters into her own hands. Though possessing only a rudimentary knowledge of reading and writing, Fiona had put all her efforts into the task of securing a future for Spencer. Yet even with Father Niall’s aid, it had taken her hours to write those letters.
    Waiting had been the hardest part. For as each reply—and rejection—was received, hope for Spencer’s future had slipped further and further away. Now all that was left was the reality of her situation. No one was going to come to their rescue and willingly take up Spencer’s cause.
    They would languish in her brother’s castle for the rest of their lives—an unwanted burden with no true place or purpose. For Fiona, the idea was equally repellant and terrifying and completely unacceptable.
    What had started as a mother’s duty to protect her child was now a compulsion for Fiona, burning like a fire within her chest. She would give her own life if it prevented any further harm from coming to the boy. But she was greedy in her wishes and dreams, wanting more than mere survival for Spencer. She wanted him to thrive, to flourish, and when the time was right, to regain his birthright.
    “Henry was never openly accused of treason, but ’tis common knowledge that the king did