A/N: I've tried rewriting A woman's Weapon or finishing the one I have currently written and I am finding it far more difficult than I ever imagined. I've kept myself from writing anything else, and as a result, I've produced nothing.

I do plan on rewriting A Woman's Weapon, but it's going to be based on the original. I couldn't just change the characters and found myself too attached to them. The problem preventing me from finishing the story as is is that the Henry story line is simply terrible. It makes no sense and honestly, it's the main device that propels the story forward. I tried to simply alter those scenes, but it all needs to be reworked. The characters will be the same as the original, just with better direction, organization and writing. I do plan to accomplish this at some point. Right now though, I felt like I needed to get a fresh story that is more manageable out and completed to renew my somewhat depleted confidence.

I realize how frustrating this might be for many of you, especially those who have been reading from the beginning and I am genuinely sorry. I simply don't have the inspiration at the moment. I really hope you guys wlll understand and enjoy the new story.

Once again, I am so sorry but I appreciate your support and patience. Hopefully, if I get back to actually writing, the creative juices will start flowing.

Enjoy!

Prologue:

He was the youngest son of the Baron's second nephew, but it did not mean he was not a man to be respected. He'd have a piece of his grandfather's land one day. At eleven, after he had learned all he could from his mother, tutors, and arm masters at Eastwood, he was sent by his Baron grandfather to squire for the son of Baron Grey of Rotherfield himself. By sixteen, he was a known figure at neighboring fiefdom.

He was tall, quick, agile and strong. His good looks and fine form afforded him plenty of attention and by the time he was sixteen he'd had more lovers than many men twice his age. He was free with his generosity and had a reputation of being fair, kind, and chivalrous. His popularity with common girls and maids was to be expected and no one thought ill of him or it.

No one, that is, but the girl he could not quite get out of his head. She was but fourteen, perhaps younger still, and had looked nothing but a child until this most recent winter season. He had been shocked when he learned over at feast, warm and flushed with wine, and asked his dear friend Maynard Grey of Rotherfield, the age of his next conquest. "Why!" Maynard had cried over his goblet, "That be little Matild of Northgate, the Laundress' daughter!"

Skinny, awkward, pock marked Matild. He had been at the gate when she arrived at the manor. She hadn't eaten in days, her dress nearly falling off of her. He had pitied the girl and gave her the loaf of bread he had just purchased from Tom Baker. He spoke to her only occasionally, when he entered through the Northern gate to bring in Sir Roderick's horses.

"Blessed be, little Matild?" he asked.

"You've been gone a long while, my dearest."

"Not too long, I dare say. That's a ripe flower not yet plucked," he asserted.

"Save some petals for the less fortunate, I implore you!" he entreated with a laugh and raise of his goblet. Wine sloshed around the rim and stained his well embroidered doublet. His friends had jostled him, and he eyed her from across the hall the rest of the day.

He spent the next few weeks trying to curry favor. A flower, carrying a bucket of laundry for her mother, a compliment on her hair or dress. She accepted these praises with dignity and a smile, but no matter how he phrased his cleverly subtle requests to sneak away somewhere quiet, she never left her work post.

He took to binging his horses in through the northern gate, even when unnecessary. She would smile at him, giggle as he hunched down to provide her with whatever gift he procured on his mission from the castle, and then rush back to her post with a pretty blush on her pale cheeks.

Once, as he walked down from an inspection of the northern most bastion, he found her speaking a bit too kindly with the butcher's son. A whipping kept the boy away. Theodric de Montfort, son of Wymar, had found his first real challenge, and he'd be damned if someone else got their first, least of all the son of a butcher.

The sixteen-year-old young man sat with his friends at the squires' table once again. Maynard was making faces at his eldest brother at the Baron's table. For his part, Lord Gofrey de Montfort of Rotherfield was doing his very best not to laugh. He sat, listening grimly to Sir Alan of Thulwurst, glancing upward at his friends about the table, jabbing at his slab of beef to communicate his annoyance to them.

Theodric was staring passed his friends, in the opposite direction of the future Lord de Montfort. His eyes were pinned on the delightful young innocent on the far side of the room. Dressed in her very best, a plain, but pretty blue gown about three years old, she twirled happily before their table. She was showing off to her friends. None had a dress as finely made as hers. Another gift borne of pity, but this time, a gift from one of the Barron's kind young daughters.

I shall give her something of worth for which to brag, he thought haughtily, pushing himself from the table and smoothing a hand over his doublet, blood red, embroidered handsomely with black and golden inlay.

He was calm as he walked down the long rows of tables toward his prize. Nearly everyone from the castle was present, seated in order of precedence. The servants worked, but in the back, the serfs lucky enough to work within the high stone walls of Rotherfield Castle, were seated, happily taking part in the portion of the feast the Baron so benevolently gifted to them.

"Ladies," he greeted with his sideways smile. The group of young girls turned, all erupting into a fit of giggles. All, that is, but little Matild. She looked up at him, wide eyed and frightened. Her nervousness had his body itching with anxious excitement. Never, throughout his adolescent lust driven hazes, had he ever felt such need.

"Matild of Northgate." His thin, pink lips curvved to the right. He had a little scar on the right side of his upper lip from a training accident. A little nick from the unforgiving blunt force of a wooden sword. It crinkled white when he smiled.

"Theodric de Montfort." She bent her knees and bowed her head in a polite curtsey. The others followed suit behind her. With their heads bowed, he bit his bottom left lip, a rare showing of nervousness. His stomach was in knots and he lamented that he did not have his goblet of wine.

"You look quite beautiful tonight," he complimented her. "Blue is beautiful color on you, though I am sure you would look twice as radiant in red."

The meaning was not lost on the laundress' daughter and her cheeks burned the same color as his doublet. Her friends giggled behind her and all but two had the good sense to fade away into the dancing clamor of peasants. Only in the Christmas season did they get to enjoy such festivities.

"You are too kind, my lord." Her eyes were lowered and her voice was soft. He could almost feel her beneath him. The softness of her neck beneath his lips. Her thighs beneath his fingertips. Her breasts against his chest.

"The Western bastion provides one with a beautiful view of the moon tonight. I would be forever in your debt if you'd grant me the honor of showing you."

She glanced toward her designated table. Many of the men were already far beyond sobriety. Free wine and restraint did not make for a happy union, no matter the class.

"I cannot leave my father, my lord, but I thank you for the invitation."

His lips pinched together. The scar flexed white.

"Your father will be here long after our return." He gave another one of his smiles; the smile that had women lining up to let him lift their skirts.

"It is cold," she protested. They were mostly alone now.

"I will keep you warm," he murmured.

He took her hand in his, touching her for the first time. His fingers felt numb, energy pulsed up his arm and surged throughout his body, radiating in his loins in a frenzied need. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. They were dry from long hours of laundering, but soft and delicate.

"Come with me, laundress' daughter. I will show you the moon."

"I have seen the moon," she declared with a violent jerk to free her hand from his gentle grasp. "Surely one without the same aversion to your reputation as I would better suit your needs."

His skin went aflame. His eyes darted around the room anxiously, looking to see who might have heard the vicious rebuke.

"If I have done anything to offend, I beg you, your forgiveness. I meant only to share with you something of great beauty."

"And I thank you, my lord, but I am not of that sort," she said. His desire for her only grew. He stepped closer still and attempted to regain possession of her hand.

"I laud your chastity, but plead with you to believe it is not my intent, despite whatever vicious lies you may have heard regarding my character."

"Please, my lord, I beg you –"

He regained her hand and stepped backward to guide them through the corridor.

"This way now."

"I said no!" she shouted and ripped her hand back. The wine clouded his perception, but they were close enough to collide in her attempt to be rid of him and he went stumbling to the side. An out of place stone and he went tumbling to the floor. He caught enough of the table to send the platter into the air with a flourish. A clamber rang out as it bounced off the soft skin of his cheek and went slamming into the floor. The remnants partially scattered the dark stone beneath his feet. What did not cover the floor, covered the fine red fabric that covered his broad shoulders, rested upon his thick head of dark hair. Wine dripped from the table top, staining his handsomely cut doublet.

The room fell silent. Even the musicians ceased their playing. Crushing humiliation swept over the prideful youth and he remained where he was to contemplate his current situation. He stared at the food that scattered the floor. Meats and cheeses, bread and fresh butter, chicken, duck.

Finally, he pushed himself to his feet and smoothed out the soiled doublet. His hand tightened around the end of his leather belt and he wrenched it to the side.

"How dare you lay a hand to me!" he bellowed, voice crackling. She flinched and stepped back. Her cornflower eyes wide with horror.

"Theodric de Montfort!"

The bellowing voice of the Baron de Grey of Rotherfield echoed through the halls. Only the sound of crackling locks and flickering flames could be heard.

"Is this the behavior of a Knight?" he asked. Theodric's eyes fluttered. Never once had he shamed himself. Never once had he behaved in a manner beneath that of a knight.

"She-she-she accosted me, Barron, I –"

"Is this a new word for rejection, Theodric?" Lord Godfrey chortled merrily. Others at the front table joined in the laughter. His friends snickered. His insides trembled and his face felt set afire. He looked around the room, blinking rapidly.

Maynard cried, wine sloshing from the rim of his cup as he raised his goblet high, "Show mercy, Baron Father! I think this might be a first defeat for our dear ward!"

"An acre of land to little Matild Northgate!" Guy of Wykeham joined in. There was a roar of applause and glasses raised. The Baron did not look as amused as his guests as he stared down Theodric.

"Go clean yourself up, boy. See if you're more a knight come morrow."

He closed his dry lips. A single nod of the head and he turned. His eyes found hers, hatred bubbling up within his chest and seizing his palpitating heart. His eyes watered with fury. His molars pressed together. He ripped his eyes from her with a sudden jerk of his body. He stomped toward the corridor, tossing food from his body as he stalked through the giggling, gossiping peasants. His face burned hotter and his hate bubbled more violently.

He remained in his room the rest of the night, sitting at his window and staring upward at the moon. Ungrateful, arrogant, provocative little trollop. The rejection stung his pride, the humiliation disfigured it.

The next morning, a note came that he would be going with Gofrey and Maynard to put an end to a band of outlaws wreaking havoc in the Timber Wood. It was an important mission. It was not a punishment. The note gave instruction to meet at the Northern Gate.

He found her as he mounted the horse, stirring the clothing in the cauldron of steaming water. She was dressed demurely, bonnet and dress the same color muted brown. She could hear the clamor of men and horses, but she did not look up to observe as she usually did.

Pressing his boots to the horses' side, he moved toward her. A slow, steady walk. He pressed his leather clad hand to his hip, the other gripping the reigns loosely.

"Matild Northgate."

She paused. With the same delicious fear he had seen the night before, her eyes lifted upward, but the pleasure it brought him was far different than the lust he had felt the night before. He looked her over, unable to dispose of his desires, unable to prevent the heat from pulsating deep within his loins.

"You'd best pray I not return."

Her lips parted, full and pink. He could feel them on his mouth, soft against his skin.

"My lord?" she whispered. His face warped into a scowl and he jabbed his horse with his heels. The horse jerked forward and he passed through the north gate.

The hard ride south was long, but he was occupied by pleasing thoughts of revenge, and though fate would not see him return through that gate for near to a decade more, he would never forget the pretty laundress' daughter with the cornflower eyes, that left him so cruelly humiliated.

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