The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford

to the rocks and the beach; six hundred feet below him the North Sea roared under the gusting wind, like polished steel in the winter sunlight.

      The surging waves frothed and churned against the jagged rock formations, while above him kittiwakes, graceful and buoyant in flight, squawked stridently as they wheeled and turned against the pale sky. Hundreds of these beautiful white gulls with black-tipped wings made their homes on projecting ledges of rock on the cliff faces; as a child he had watched them nesting through his binoculars.

      He shivered involuntarily as the sudden remembrance of a tragedy of long ago hit him. A man in his father’s employment, who had been bird-watching, had plunged to his death from this very spot. Now, instinctively, Edward veered away from the precarious cliffs, headed in the direction of the dirt road which led across the moors and was much safer terrain.

      This morning the moorland was dun-coloured and patched with slabs of frozen snow, and there was no question in Edward’s mind that he much preferred riding up here in the warmer months.

      He mentally chastised himself for taking his brothers out on this January day. He had realized, rather late, that it was far too bitter, especially for Richard, who tended to catch cold so easily. He dare not contemplate his mother’s ire if the boy fell sick because of this ill-conceived outing on the cliffs.

      Swinging his head, he saw that the boys had again slowed and were lagging behind, were obviously even more fatigued by the long ride. He must spur them on, encourage them to move forward, get them home without delay and into the warmth of the house.

      Beckoning to them, he shouted, ‘Come on, chaps! Let’s get a move on!’ And he set off at a brisk canter, hoping they would follow suit.

      Once or twice he glanced behind him, pleased that they had heeded his words and were hard on his heels. Within minutes, much to his profound relief, their ancestral home was in his direct line of vision and he couldn’t wait to arrive there.

      Ravenscar, the beautiful old manor house where the Deravenels had lived for centuries, stood on high ground, was set back from the sea, and dominated the surrounding landscape. Dark-green trees, ancient, tall and stately, formed a semicircle around it on three sides, and these in turn were backed by high stone walls; the fourth wall was a natural one—the North Sea. This stretched into infinity below the tiered gardens and sloping lawns that ended at the edge of the precipitous cliffs.

      As Edward drew closer he could easily make out the crenellation along the line of the roof, smoke curling up from the chimneys, and the many mullioned windows glittering in the sunlight. Within seconds he was bringing his horse to a slow trot, riding through the black iron gates and up the long, tree-lined drive. This ended with some abruptness in a small, circular courtyard covered with gravel and with a sundial in its centre.

      The house was built of local, pale-coloured stone that had mellowed to a soft-golden beige with the passing of the centuries. An Elizabethan house, it typified Tudor architecture with its recesses and bays, gables and battlements and many windows of differing sizes. Ravenscar was one of those grand houses from the past, utterly unique, with a lovely symmetry and a charm all of its own. To Edward there was a sense of timelessness about it, a quality of serenity and peace dwelling in its gently flowing façade, and he understood why his forebears had always cherished and cared for this treasure.

      The Deravenels had lived in their house by the sea since 1578, the year it was finished. Before then, for many centuries, the family had occupied the fortified castle that had stood at the bottom of the gardens on the edge of the cliffs; a ruin now, it was nonetheless a well-maintained ruin. This stronghold had been built in 1070 by the founding father of the dynasty, one Guy de Ravenel, a young knight from Falaise, liegeman of William, Duke of Normandy.

      Duke William had invaded England in 1066, claiming his right to the English throne through his cousin, the deceased monarch Edward the Confessor, who had promised him that the throne would be his one day. But for political convenience, Edward the Confessor had reneged on that promise and passed over William in favour of his wife’s brother, Harold, bequeathing the throne to the man who became, briefly, Harold III.

      Believing his claim to be absolutely legitimate, William had crossed the English Channel with the six knights who were his trusted childhood friends, and a large army. He defeated Harold III at the Battle of Hastings, was proclaimed William the Conqueror and crowned on Christmas Day of 1066.

      Some time later, William had despatched Guy de Ravenel to the north to act as his marshal. Based in Yorkshire, Guy had followed William’s orders, had kept the peace, by force when necessary, built defences and forts, and ensured the north’s loyalty to his friend the Norman king. And Guy had been enriched by William because of his staunch loyalty and unparalleled success.

      Ever since that time, some eight hundred and thirty-five years ago, descendants of Guy de Ravenel had lived on this long stretch of coastline high above the North Sea. Nearby was the ancient seaport and spa of Scarborough; a little farther along the expansive stretch of coast was a picturesque fishing village with the quaint name of Robin Hood’s Bay. Both dated back to Roman times.

      Moving forward, Edward rode out of the courtyard and around to the back of the house, heading for the stable block. He clattered into the cobbled stable yard, his brothers following behind him, and jumped off his horse with his usual vitality and energy. As he hurried over to his youngest brother, he greeted the stable lads cheerfully; a moment later he was reaching up for the eight-year-old Richard, exclaiming, ‘Let me help you down, Dick!’

      Richard shook his head vehemently. ‘I can manage, Ned. I truly can,’ the boy protested, stealing a surreptitious look at George through the corner of his eye. He knew only too well that George would tease him unmercifully if Ned helped him to dismount.

      But Ned paid not the slightest attention to Richard; he put his strong arms around him, obviously determined to lift him out of the saddle. Richard sighed, swallowing another protest that had sprung to his lips. Accepting that he now had no other choice, he slipped his riding boots out of the stirrups and reluctantly slid into his brother’s enfolding arms.

      For a split second, Edward held Richard close to his chest, hugging him tightly, and then he put him down on the cobblestones, noting, as he did, that the youngster’s narrow face was pinched with cold and drained of all colour. My fault, he chided himself, regretting even more than ever his thoughtlessness of earlier that morning.

      ‘Thank you, Ned,’ Richard murmured, staring up into Edward’s face through his steady, slate-grey eyes. His eldest brother was six feet four, broad of chest, very strong and athletic. His brilliant eyes were as blue as the speedwells that grew in the summer meadows, and his thick hair was a stunning burnished red-gold. To Richard, and every woman who met him, Edward Deravenel was the handsomest man alive, with a warm, outgoing and endearing personality. He was affable, inordinately friendly, and blessed with a beguiling natural charm that captivated everyone. Richard loved him more than anyone else in the family, was completely devoted to him, and he would be all of Edward’s life.

      ‘Inside the house as fast as you can,’ Edward cried, giving Richard an affectionate push towards the side door, which led to the mud room. ‘And you, too, George, my lad. No dawdling around this morning.’

      The two boys did his bidding, and as Edward followed them at a quick pace he called out to one of the stable lads, ‘The horses have been ridden hard this morning, Ernie. They need your very best rub-down, and put the heavy wool blankets on them before you give them water and feed.’

      ‘Aye, Master Edward,’ Ernie shouted back, glancing at him. He and the other stable lad took the reins of the three horses and led them across the yard in the direction of the stables and the sheltered stalls where the tack room was also located.

      Once Edward and his brothers entered the mud room they felt the warmth of the house surrounding them. Shedding their black-and-white checked caps and thick woollen Inverness capes and hanging them up, they scraped their riding boots free of dirt. A moment later they all went down the corridor at the back of the house, heading toward the Long Hall at its centre.

      ‘I