After the drowning of his only legitimate son in the White Ship disaster of 1120, the only direct heir to the throne was Henry’s daughter, Matilda, although at twenty-eight she’d spent comparatively little of her life in England, having been sent abroad at the age of eight to marry the German Emperor Heinrich V. Widowed at twenty-six, she’d then been married to Geoffrey, the young Count of Anjou, with whom she had three sons—the great-grandsons of William the Conqueror.

Henry’s wishes regarding the succession are evidenced by the fact that he made his nobles swear two separate oaths of allegiance to Matilda.

When he died, however, his nephew Stephen travelled immediately to England to have himself crowned King in her place. Unable to leave Anjou due to her third pregnancy, and lacking the support of the nobility, many of whom doubted a woman’s ability to rule, Matilda had to wait another four years before pursuing her claim.

By the time she finally arrived in England Stephen’s grip on power was already too strong to be broken. As a result, her influence was mainly confined to the south-west of the country, with her base in Devizes in Wiltshire. Despite several victories—most notably the Battle of Lincoln—she was unable to gain a definitive upper hand and the power struggle descended into a lengthy and lawless war of attrition.

By 1147, when this story is set, the majority of the fighting was over. Stephen remained the stronger power in England, but had lost the entirety of Normandy to Matilda’s husband. As a result, barons with lands on both sides of the Channel were forced to make peace treaties with both claimants. Most, however, were weary of fighting and simply wanted an end to the war.

In 1153, the ageing Stephen finally agreed to a treaty ceding the throne to Matilda’s eldest son—later Henry II—after his death.

Ultimately Matilda lost the battle but won the war, founding the Plantagenet dynasty that was to rule England for the next three hundred years.

Chapter One

Herefordshire—October 1147

One arrow.

Lothar narrowed his eyes, estimating the distance between him and the woman on the castle ramparts. The wind was in his favour and she was facing in the other direction, wouldn’t hear the rush of the arrow until it was too late. It was an easy shot, an easy target. One arrow to end a four-month-long siege.

If he gave the order.

‘That’s her!’ His companion’s voice was sharp-edged with malice. ‘Lady Juliana. She’s the one holding the castle.’

‘So I assumed.’

‘Then what are you waiting for? Shoot her!’

Lothar turned slowly, fixing the other man with a cool, charcoal-grey stare. He was known for such looks, had forged a steely reputation based on his inscrutable, hard-boiled exterior. The Angoulême soldiers he commanded called him guerrier de fer, ‘iron warrior’, joking that his skin was so thick that he didn’t need armour, that his heart—if he even had one—was buried too deep for any weapon to find it. Most days he didn’t care. His reputation was useful. It kept him safe, made other men reluctant to challenge him. It was the reason Empress Matilda trusted him, why she sent him to clear up the messes caused by other men’s incompetence. But today...

His gaze drifted inexorably back towards the woman on the ramparts, her long, crimson-red hair streaming in the wind like a rippling banner. Today, his companion’s assumption of cold-hearted callousness disturbed him. If he were even half as ruthless as his enemies and most of his friends gave him credit for, he would have given the order already, but he wasn’t so cold-blooded, wasn’t about to shoot an unarmed woman in the back.

On the other hand, it had been two days since he’d had a decent night’s sleep, riding at full pelt from the Empress’s base at Devizes, and he was about ready to shoot someone himself. If Sir Guian de Ravenell didn’t shut up, it would be him.

‘Bring her down!’ The Baron’s impatience was bordering on hysteria. ‘Do it!’

Lothar arched an eyebrow, vaguely surprised that the woman had managed to survive this long with such a voracious wolf at her gates. But then, even a coward like de Ravenell knew that the Empress wouldn’t condone such dishonourable behaviour—which doubtless explained why he was trying to make him give the order.

He rubbed a hand over his face in disgust, over the livid white scar that

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