Prologue
Durham Cathedral, Durham
January 1166
“Naught is here, m’lord.”
“Nothing? No chalice? Not even prayer beads?”
With each shake of Jasper’s head, the nobleman became more impatient and angry, until even the candles flickered. Jasper recognized the warning, and gut-tightening panic jerked through him. He gripped the broken sarcophagus, the stone slick and icy beneath his sweaty palm.
“Are you certain?” the nobleman demanded.
“He is naught but bits o’ bone and dust, m’lord.”
The man stepped closer, peering into the coffin. After a moment, the nobleman’s anger eased, but his frown deepened. “Damn monk lied to me.”
Jasper glanced past the feretory door to the mound of brown fabric draped over the prayer stool, and then back to the remains at his feet.
“How do ye ken that, m’lord? This man died hundreds o’ years ago. He should be less than bones and bits.”
The nobleman breathed out his impatience and worried a pair of gloves in his right hand.
“This is supposed to be the crypt of Saint
Cuthbert.”
“Aye, but all men wither and rot.”
“I suppose a man who kills a monk cannot be expected to remember his catechism.” He paced outside the candles’ light. “Saints do not wither and rot. That is the first sign of sainthood. If this were Cuthbert, he would be fresh as the moment he last drew breath.”
Jasper scratched at the stubby remainder of his ear. Why would a saint no’ go to dust like the rest o’ Adam’s spawn? With a shrug, he dismissed the question and reached for the gold and coins at his feet.
“Stop. We are not here as thieves.”
“We came to steal the saint’s cup.”
Anger flared into the nobleman’s eyes and dimmed the glow of the tallow candles. “You have already lost one ear to thievery, do not risk your whole head. Push the slab back into place. ’Tis time for lauds, and I do not want to kill the entire brotherhood. We need the hermit’s prayer book to find Cuthbert’s true resting place, or at least learn which house pried the cup from his cold hands.”
“I know Godric, m’lord. He is a holy man.”
“Then we need not worry over his soul if he refuses to tell us.”
The man’s smile would frost the sun. Turning away, Jasper reset the slab, although only the blind wouldn’t know the saint’s grave had been disturbed.
“After we retrieve the prayer book we go to Carlisle.”
“There is no saint in Carl—” Jasper stopped himself in mid-word.
“No, there is no saint in Carlisle, but there is someone of equal value. My bride.”
Chapter One
Abbey Mont St. Michel, Normandy
March 15, 1166
Pain splintered his skull. The bile taste of wine hit his throat. Aedan groaned and rolled over, careening into something soft and slightly round to the touch.
Eyes closed, he moved his hand and recognized the curve of a woman’s back where it angles in, then up. “Vae, not again,” he sighed.
“Not again? How oft do you wake to find a woman in your bed?”
Too oft. Aedan forced a smile into his voice. “I was speaking of the sunrise, lass. It comes much too early of late.”
“Lass?” Her laugh was husky, rich and full.
“No one has called me lass. Ever.” She shifted and rolled over to face him as he opened his eyes.
“Nullo modo!” Aedan jumped from the bed, barely remembering to take the coverlet with him.
“Your grace. I am—”
“Do not say sorry, young man, for I am not.”
The duchess sat up and purposely let the sheet pool around her waist. Her smile shifted, turning predatory. “It has been years since I have been ridden with such stamina and skill.”
“I...” For once, words failed him.
Looking as if she found his silence charming, the duchess of a rich, warm region near the Mediterranean combed her fingers through long, copper-color hair shot with fine silver threads.
His insides congealed. Alais was the wife of a powerful lord, mistress to the treacherous King of Arles and half-sister to King Henry Plantagenet. He raked a hand over his mouth and turned away. By the gods high and low, what have I done?
“Impressive tattoo. Do not let the king’s archbishop, Timothy, see it.”
“Thomas.” Aedan corrected her, now rattled that he’d forgotten about the mark on his back.
“Thomas of Becket.”
“Timothy or Thomas, he has a sour disposition.” Alais gave a dismissive gesture. “I doubt if he has laughed in the past year. I know he would not find your pagan ways amusing.”
“Pagan?”
“A Christian man would not do what you did last night.”
A belated warning shivered down his spine. Aedan searched his mind for memories of the night, but found nothing but a headache. Panic coiled low in his gut. He fumbled for the cantir on the table and lifted it to his nose, hoping someone had drugged his wine.
“It is early for that,” Alais said, taking the jug before he could identify the mulling spices. “And you should dress, not drink. My ladies-in-waiting will be here soon. I assume you would rather not be caught bare-assed in my bed.”
“You are correct, your grace.” He kept his voice lighthearted despite the sudden, sharp knowledge that there was more at play here than the king had suspected. Inhaling, he gathered his scattered thoughts and looked for his clothes.
“Then again, my servants are discreet.”
Ignoring the invitation that lay behind the duchess’ smile, he slipped on his braies and moved through the over-furnished chamber retrieving shirt, tunic, hose and boots. With each step, he pressed his senses through searing pain, searching for the leather canister he’d come to steal before somehow falling into the wrong bed.
There. It lay inside an open coffer. He glanced at Alais. What manner of woman betrayed her own brother?
“What do you seek?” she asked with a yawn.
“My memory of yester eve.” He gave her a cheeky grin, adopting the mien expected of him, and casually set his clothes atop the coffer.
“Much seems to be missing.”
“’Tis likely at the bottom of the barrel you emptied.”
He slipped his tunic over his head and arranged his belt, tucking the slim dagger into place before pulling on his boots. Dressed, he gathered his cloak, hiding the canister in its folds, and crossed back to the bed.
“Until next time.”
He kissed her forehead, and then her lips when she pulled him closer. Her mouth was eager and inviting, but her duplicity, and his, left him cold.
“Stay,” she whispered against his lips. “My servants are truly loyal and my husband cares not as long as I am discreet.”
“I would not risk your reputation with my company.”
“Your reputation is well earned.” She grinned like a coddled child. “I would risk it.”
“Nay, your grace. You are sister to my king, lover of another, and wife to Burgundy. I dare not risk it.”
The heat of her quick anger followed him from the room. He ignored it. Soon enough, annoyance would turn to hate. Henry will hate you, too, for bringing him this knowledge. That insight slowed his steps.
The king was less mercurial than rumors held, but he would still be outraged when he learned how Aedan had gained proof of Alais’ treachery. One didn’t do such things to a member of the royal family.
So why did I?
He rubbed a hand over his face. Last night’s festivities had been unusually enthusiastic. His aching head and sour stomach told him too much wine was involved. And song. He vaguely remembered music had poured from him like an outgoing tide, leaving his soul temporarily as unmarred as a beach at dawn. He’d played the rebec until his magic bounced off the walls, illuminating secrets and pulling from him notes far beyond the means of three strings and a bow.
The evening turned raucous when he’d reinvented the bawdy tunes best reserved for places where soldiers were plentiful and women shared.
And then he’d awakened in the wrong bed.
Memories stirred. She’d caught him in her chamber, and it had taken only the slightest nudge of power to turn curiosity into yearning.
Suppressing a flicker of remorse, he cloaked himself with magic and ghosted through the abbey until he reached the western end of the guest wing. He saw a bundle of cloth at the threshold of his chamber and paused, surprised
Daz slept through his self-appointed guard duties. His probable nephew was rarely so negligent. Guilt followed that thought. Nephew or not, this was no life for a child.
Kneeling, Aedan brushed his fingers across the boy’s forehead, questing for his dreams. Once assured Daz slept untroubled, Aedan entered the alcove that served as his chamber and poured a cup of wine, draining it in one gulp. Once rid of the taste of last night, he balanced the slim, round leather case on his finger, pondering it as he would a viper. Destroy it, a part of him urged.
He eyed the low-burning coals in the brazier.
Easily, he could turn the evidence of treason and a sister’s betrayal to ash. He could tell the king he found nothing and be believed. He was Aedan ap Owen, after all; he lied easily and well. Yet the king trusted him, and despite appearance to the contrary, he did know right from wrong. With a sigh, he set his cup aside and opened the case, upending a writ into his hand.
“Well, Alais, shall we see what is more valuable to you than your brother?”
Loosening the seal, he unrolled the soft parchment and scanned the missive. It listed several candidates for justiciar of England to replace the ailing Robert of Leicester. The wine in his stomach soured. Frayed threads secured
Henry’s kingdom, and one of the most strained bound the chief justiciar to the throne. He ruled England during Henry’s long and frequent absences. It was a powerfully dangerous position.
A snip there could unravel the whole web of power. War. Ignoring the lurch of his stomach, he dropped the writ back into the case and nudged Daz with his foot.
“Go ‘way.”
“Nay.” Aedan crouched beside the boy and shook him awake. “I have an errand for you. Tell the king I found this.” He held out the case. “It was where I suspected, and I return it with my deepest regrets.”
Daz yawned and sat up. “Where is Henry?”
Despite the fresh pain exploding behind his eyes, Aedan unfurled his senses, sorting through the thrum of a hundred beating hearts until he found the one he sought. “His majesty is pacing the kitchen.” In a fury. “Be quick.”
Daz hurried off, then raced back. “I almost forgot. Henry came here late yester eve.” He shoved a writ at Aedan. “He said this is for the
Earl of Carlisle.”
“Carlisle?”
“He said you would understand. Your trip to Albi must wait.”
“Wait? Why?”
Daz shrugged. “He was in an odd mood, as was the whole court.”
Aedan ignored the accusation riding the boy’s voice. “I know. Go.”
He watched Daz lope down the corridor, feeling more concerned than he should for sending him on this errand and less bothered than expected at delaying his trip to claim the land and prospective wife in Albi. But why
Carlisle?
Setting the question aside, Aedan crossed to the wash barrel and stripped. He would have his answer when the king came, and he wouldn’t meet Henry stinking of the man’s sister.
The icy water burned his skin as he scooped it over his head, letting it sluice down his back and chest. He’d crossed yet another line last night. There were rules to the gift, his brother, Bran, always said, and so far Aedan had ignored them all. But he couldn’t dismiss the feeling this time was different. He had no idea why. He hardly forced his way into her bed. And she was hardly the first. Since entering the king’s service, women had come to him, wanting him, and he didn’t disappoint. Was he to blame if his preference was for redheads whose eyes laughed when they smiled? Women who reminded him of Tess and—
Get yer mind off that girl.
Aedan jerked, hearing his brother’s voice as clearly as if it were five years ago and Bran had caught them kissing in the undercroft. That his conscience assumed his brother’s brogue brought a half smile. Years and miles separated them, yet Bran still managed to nag.
Stifling a curse, he thrust his head into the barrel until the cold eased his pounding temples. Shaking water from his hair, he smoothed back the tangled mess with his fingers. The curls were annoying, a legacy from distant ancestors who also gave him the ability to see and do what others couldn’t.
’Tis a dangerous gift that you misuse, his conscience sounded again.
“That I misuse for a purpose,” he reminded himself, and stepped onto the narrow stone balcony.
The icy air seized him. Ignoring it, he turned toward the sea and a sun too weary to rise. A song bubbled deep within his soul. Without hesitation, he sang. Ancient words of longing and leaving fell with the cadence of rain. The sun crept over the horizon, and Aedan sank deep into the moment. The world unfurled like a knight’s banner before him. He lifted his awareness skyward, searching for solace and found it not in the rising sun, but in the turbulent water below.
“I told Henry our minstrel was desperately unhappy, but not even I believed you were so foolish as to flirt with treason.”
Aedan jerked. His last note shattered as he fumbled for a foothold in a world suddenly gone slick. The queen was one of the few people he couldn’t anticipate, though gods knew he tried.
“Do not keep your back to me!”
He steadied himself against a wave of queasy vulnerability. “I am naked, my queen. I would not offend you.”
Laughter as bright as a summer morn rolled toward him. “From what I hear I would be anything but offended. Face me.”
Straightening his shoulders, he turned.
Queen Eleanor stood midway onto the balcony. Her personal guard hovered just inside the door. Protocol dictated he bow before royalty. Instead, he dipped his head in deference to the small crown she wore while she scrutinized him like a groom with a new horse. Her eyes, as dark and discerning as legend already described, glinted with appreciation when she again met his gaze.
He pushed outward with his senses, sifting the air around her for a hint of her mood or intentions, but she was as impenetrable as a dead man’s mind.
“What you did last night was unwise.” She threw his tunic at him. “Very unwise.”
He stifled the impulse to hold it in front of him. “I have no solid memory of last night.”
“None?”
“I traded it for a blinding headache and heaving stomach.” He slipped the expensive wool garment over his head then waited for the queen, shifting as the icy wind snaked between his knees and upward.
“You do look wine sick,” she said without sympathy.
“I feel every drop I drank.”
“As you deserve.”
“So I gather, your majesty.”
“Do not be so agreeable. I am about to save your life. All know where you slept. The Duke of Burgundy calls for your privates on a roasting fork, and my Henry is not deaf to his demands.
You must be elsewhere.”
Exile. His chest tightened at the thought. “I will leave for Albi ere noon.”
“Your bride will wait. You leave for Carlisle today.”
Aedan fought not to be sick. As if knowing his struggles, the queen’s expression relaxed until her smile was one of genuine triumph. She thought she played him as skillfully as he handled the rebec, and at the moment she did.
“You will deliver this for me.”
At her gesture, the knight stepped forward and handed the queen an ornate cross similar to Saint Cuthbert’s but set within a circle of unadorned wrought silver. Not unadorned, Aedan saw on closer inspection. Delicate spirals and knots were lightly etched into the metal, becoming entwined serpents. Eleanor held out the cross, and he instinctively stepped back as if offered Eden’s apple.
“It is a gift for Saint Brigid’s House. You will deliver it for me.”
“I know of no such religious house, my queen.”
“You need not. A servant of mine will meet you in Carlisle and take the cross. William here will accompany you.” She gestured to the knight beside her. The man’s round Saxon face pulled into a scowl that she ignored. “He will identify my servant for you. Do this.” Eleanor thrust the cross toward him again. “And it will repay me for saving your life.”
Knowing he couldn’t argue, Aedan reached for the cross. Energy danced up his arm. Power clogged his throat. Fighting the urge to drop it, he forced his fingers to close over the complex Celtic engravings. “’Tis too beautiful to give away, my queen, even to a religious house.”
“It is a delicate little beauty, n’est-ce pas?
Rumor has it that Saint Eata wore it.”
The feel of it told Aedan it was far older, and far more powerful than anything the saint would have experienced in his lifetime in Northumberland. Gingerly, he set the cross aside.
Immediately, his chest loosened and he exhaled. At least the trip would allow him to take Daz to Bran.
“We will leave as soon as possible,” he said.
“Good.” Eleanor walked to the door, stopped, and then smiled over her shoulder. “And while you are in Carlisle, spy out what treason the earl sows and end it.”
Her icy voice tore through his senses, leaving him feeling hollow and cold. “I am neither assassin nor spy.”
“Ware your words, minstrel, my affection for you is not deep. The North is a viper’s den of discontent. Carlisle is its head. Remove him.”
Aedan forced himself not to scowl at the one woman whose overtures he had carefully ignored.
The north was indeed a simmering cauldron ready to boil over with little provocation, but the earl was an unlikely catalyst. He had too much to lose.
“He is desecrating saints’ tombs,” Eleanor continued. “Richard’s bastard blood is well known. With the right supporters and a few holy relics to show God’s favor, he could cause trouble for my Henry.”
“Desecrating? Surely you do not think Lord Carlisle has taken to grave robbing?”
“Someone is collecting saints’ relics.”
Aedan resisted the urge to glance at the cross. “What would Richard do with bits of holy bone? He is not known for piety or gluttony.”
“I had forgotten you were kin to Carlisle through marriage.” Her expression said she’d forgotten nothing. “Our landed lords have to decide between king and kin.”
“Let me take up my land and title first. Then we will discuss murder without merit.”
William bristled, grim-faced and irate, but Eleanor only smiled. “That is why we like you, minstrel. You know what you want.”
“I am no murderer, my queen.”
“If it soothes your conscience, gain a confession of treason first.” Her voice was soft, her words blunt. “There is no need for your lady cousin or her young son, Douglas, to die if you handle this quietly.”
Aedan studied her for a moment. Douglas was the earl’s second son, and he doubted the queen had forgotten that fact. “My queen, ’tis unlikely the earl is involved in any treason, and even less likely he would tell me of it if he were.”
“You are legend with words,” Eleanor said with a dismissive gesture. “Sow the right ones and we shall see what sprouts.”
“I fear you overestimate my gift.”
“And you spend it wantonly. I have seen it spread a chaste woman’s legs, and then turn aside her husband’s wrath. You ferret out information that even the best torturer would be unable to find in a month of prodding, yet play the light-minded minstrel. My husband uses you well. Now you will employ your skill on my behalf.”
“And if there is no treason?”
Her smile sent shivers up his spine. “There is.”
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