Page 1 of Fortress of Snow

One

England

Spring 1383

Mazy ran home clutching the flowers she’d gathered in the meadow where the sheep sometimes grazed. She hurried through the enormous front door and up the stairs to her father’s bedchamber.

“I picked you some flowers, Father,” she called as she ran. Bathilda, the head house servant, caught her by the arm.

“Don’t make so much noise,” she hissed in a raspy whisper. “You’re too old to be running around and yelling in sickrooms.”

“I’m sorry, but I brought Father these flowers. They will cheer him.”

“It may be too late for that.” Bathilda wiped her eyes with her apron and Mazy noticed the tears on her face.

Still clutching the flowers, she rushed to her father’s bedside, ignoring the physician, who sat on a stool with his arms crossed.

“Can you see the flowers, Father? I picked them for you, the blue and pink and yellow ones that you like.”

Father barely opened his eyes. “Thank you, my child.” His voice was so weak. What had happened? After being deathly ill for weeks, he had rallied earlier that morning, talking and even taking a bit of food. He was getting better.

Now he seemed paler and weaker than ever.

“Father, can I do anything for you?”

“Pray for me.”

Mazy took his hand gently in hers and began praying softly under her breath, a rote prayer she’d learned from the priest intermingled with her own pleas for Father’s health. When the tears choked off her voice, she prayed silently,O God, if Father dies, I will be so alone. I don’t want him to be in pain any longer, but please, I need him. What will I do if he leaves?

Mazy’s mother had been gone since she was five. Surely God would not take her father as well. Father was her protector and her voice of wisdom. He was such a good father, giving her opportunities to learn anything she set her mind to. She loved him, and he loved her. He was the only person in her life she could talk to, the only person who really listened to her.

The pain in her chest was nearly unbearable. He couldn’t die. It hurt so much to think she might never hear his voice again, never talk to him again.

And if he died, what would become of her? She rarely saw her brothers, who no longer lived at home. Her brother John hadgone to train as a knight when she was very little, and she had no other family besides her half brother, Warin.

Warin did not care for her, and he would inherit this house when Father died. Would Warin send her away? Where would she go? He would marry her off to the first man who asked for her.

God, please don’t take Father. I love him and I need him.Her breath seemed to stop before it reached her chest.

But when she opened her eyes and looked at Father’s face, he was so still, his chest no longer rising and falling. Surely nothing terrible had happened while she was praying.

His hand was limp inside hers. She moved away, her flowers dropping onto his chest.

The physician came forward and placed his cheek just above her father’s face for the longest time. Then he pinched her father’s nose and put his cheek on her father’s lips. Finally, he straightened and looked at Mazy. He shook his head.

A sob escaped her throat. She ran out of the room and all the way to her own bedchamber and closed the door.

Painful sobs racked her chest as she tried to stop thinking, to let her mind go blank. But thoughts forced themselves on her, refusing to be pushed away.

“God, I am all alone,” she cried into her pillow. “What will I do now?”

She pressed her hand against her chest. It hurt so much. Her father had been her friend. She’d loved him with all her heart, and now God had taken him from her.

The tears poured from her eyes.Forgive me, God.

She should not blame God, for He was her only hope, andthe only One who knew what would happen to her now that Father was gone.

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