The Amethyst Amulets

by Cillian Burns

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  The Wild Rose Press

  www.thewildrosepress.com

  Copyright ©2009 by Priscilla P. Burns

  First published in 2009

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  A word from the author...

  Thank you for purchasing

  Other Faery Rose titles to enjoy:

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  He held out his hand.

  "Come. We will go down and break our fast."

  "First, let's see that proof you mentioned last night.” He arched a questioning eyebrow and she added, “You know. Things you think will make me believe I'm really in the thirteenth century.” Was there a chance he'd been telling the truth?

  So many things about the castle appeared different from the way she'd remembered them. She'd once read about an interesting theory of Albert Einstein's saying time was a circle and it might be possible to move back and forth along the continuum. But had anybody ever proven this?

  Shoving all speculation aside, she ran her fingers through her long hair, trying to untangle the snarls. Her hair—just when had it grown long enough to reach her waist? She shuddered.

  Nick leaned against the bedpost watching her, an admiring expression on his face. “You look lovely, Julie. Now, remember, once we go down to the great room, you must act like my wife to the people in my keep. Since you wear Julianne's body, you must try to act as she would."

  The

  Amethyst Amulets

  by

  Cillian Burns

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Amethyst Amulets

  COPYRIGHT (C) 2009 by Priscilla P. Burns

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Rae Monet

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 706

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Faery Rose Edition, 2009

  Print ISBN 1-60154-622-X

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Lynn Meiseles

  for helping me make it all come out right,

  Cindy Oldham

  for being a font of technical information,

  and Jenny Stees

  for being a cheering section.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Prologue

  Deep in an ancient British forest, a Druid priestess sat cross-legged on the mossy bank of a black pool. On its ebony surface, the lives of her mortal charges unfolded like pages in a book. Leaning forward, she drew a finger through the cool water and watched the ripples distort the pictures. She sighed. What a tangled mess.

  One sweet innocent was dying, probably a given, although she could try to prevent it.

  In one century, an evil man stood poised to ruin a good man's life, and in another time far removed from that one, a woman who longed for love would never find it. Not as things stood.

  The Druid disliked intervening in the affairs of her charges. Better they solve their own problems with only an occasional nudge from her. Although, with different centuries involved, more than a gentle shove might be needed.

  She would bring the good man and the lonely woman together, but they would have to earn the right to happiness. Huge obstacles would block their path, ones they could only overcome by working together. That would decide their future one way or another.

  Rising, she followed a well-worn path through the thick forest, emerging at the base of a rounded knoll. On its crest, monolithic stones pointed sharp, gray fingers at the heavens. A rowan grew nearby and the priestess plucked a small branch from the sacred tree. Would that it helped her prayers succeed. Tucking it in the folds of her robe, she climbed the slope and entered the magic circle. In the center, an oblong slab of polished sandstone awaited the prayers of the faithful.

  She knelt at the altar and raised her arms in supplication. “Oh, Great Mother, help thy daughter know thy will concerning these mortals,” she entreated. “I exist but to serve thee."

  Within the circle, no birds chirped, no insects buzzed, no wind blew, and though the air around her seemed charged, nothing disturbed the silence. No flowers bloomed here; but suddenly, the light scent of lilac filled the air.

  The priestess waited, opening herself to receive a message from the goddess.

  Slowly, a thought formed in her mind. Use the amethysts.

  She murmured her thanks, and then backed out of the circle. Her task would not be easy. Things seldom were these days. The magic of the Arch Druid Merlin and his followers lessened with each passing year. Soon, mankind would be on its own. But not yet. There were wrongs to be righted and happiness to be earned by the good man and woman. Would they be deserving? Mankind frequently disappointed her.

  Slowly, she retraced her steps to the magical pool, pondering her course of action. Here in the forest, she appeared young and beautiful, but it would be easier to win the trust of humans with a more mature look. So, one face for the thirteenth century, another for the twenty-first. The guise of a midwife and healer for one century, the role of a jeweler for the other.

  Next, she must retrieve the amethysts from the bottom of the dark pool. As their keeper, she knew the magical jewels could make many things, not otherwise possible, happen. Now her task was to use them wisely.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 1

  England, April 15, 1250

  "My lord, you have a son.” Lily, the midwife held up a small squalling bundle.

  Lord Nicholas de Montclair smiled as he reached for the babe. “He has a lusty set of lungs.” His heart swelled with pride as he inspected his heir.

  She nodded. “He is perfect, but...” Her voice trailed away.

  "But what, woman?” Nicholas snapped. A knot of alarm formed in his throat.

  "Your wife, my lord. I fear she fares less well than the babe."

  He strode quickly to Julianne's side. She lay motionless on the large canopied bed they had shared during this first year of their marriage. Her long golden hair fanned around her like a cloak of fine-spun gold. But her unnatural pa
leness told him the midwife spoke the truth.

  His apprehension grew as his sister Eleanor straightened the coverlet, turning away with a barely concealed sob. Pain clenched his heart.

  "I am sorry, Lord Nicholas. All was well until after the birth. It is the bleeding. I cannot staunch it and...” The midwife spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  Nicholas handed her the babe and dropped to his knees on the step beside the bed. He took Julianne's hands and enfolded them in his. The iciness of her skin and her blue-tinged lips confirmed his greatest fear. His dear wife was dying. On the far side of the bed, Father Thomas stood, head bent, muttering prayers. His black-robed presence should offer comfort. But it did not. He looked like a hunched vulture, waiting to peck away at his prey.

  Lily remained beside Nicholas, rocking the crying child. He looked at her and glared. “Take him away, woman. If you cannot save my lady, at least let her slip unbedeviled from this world.” Was there a God? With all the pain and suffering he had seen in his lifetime, he was no longer sure.

  "Aye, milord.” She stepped back into the shadows.

  "Attend my son,” he called after her, “for those lusty cries tell me he, at least, will live.” Bowing his head once more, he murmured bitterly, “I fear my wife is beyond your help."

  For the next hour, he prayed, begging God to let Julianne live. Was that selfish of him? Aye, since Heaven was supposed to be a much better place than this world, but he did not care. The babe needed a loving mother, and he wanted his beautiful wife.

  As the minutes crept slowly past and the coppery odor of his wife's blood seeping steadily away filled his nostrils, he realized his prayers would not be answered.

  The soft weeping of women gradually penetrated Nicholas's wall of sorrow. Julianne's ordeal was nearly over. He gently squeezed her fingers, willing her to open her eyes one last time, so he could bid her farewell.

  Their marriage had begun as an agreement between his father and hers, but as soon as they were wed, she had charmed Nicholas and everyone else in the castle. Julianne and he had fallen in love, unusual for an arranged marriage. Now he was losing both her and their happy life together. He ground his teeth, his chest aching from suppressed sobs.

  He rose, leaned over the bed, and skimmed his lips across her cool dry ones. Her shallow breathing told him her spirit still lingered in this world—but not for long. He wanted to howl his rage at God—a God that did not answer prayers and displayed no concern for misery caused by the death of loved ones. Heresy? Mayhap so, but he did not care. God was a myth perpetrated by priests to justify their existence.

  "Julianne, I am here,” he whispered, trying to bestow the only measure of comfort he had left to give her. He gently stroked her cheek.

  Her lips parted. “Nicholas.” More a sigh than a word.

  He leaned closer. “Aye, sweeting?"

  "Promise...you will marry again. Someone to...care for our son. He must have...a mother.” Her beautiful violet eyes beseeched him to heed her words.

  "There will be no need. You will soon be well,” he lied, his hand caressing her silky hair.

  Julianne's sweet, uncomplaining smile nearly broke his heart. “Nay, Nicholas. Just...honor...my last wish."

  "I shall not have to,” he said softly, “since you shall be here at my side.” He slipped his arms around her limp body, pulling her against his hard one, wishing he could give her a little of his strength.

  Leaning over, he touched his lips to her cheek. So cool and white, like one of the statues in his chapel.

  "Cold,” she murmured, the light dimming in her eyes. The frail hand on his arm slipped down to rest unmoving on the bed.

  "I will warm you, dearling.” He gathered Julianne more tightly into his arms and, frozen in grief, sat cradling her body long after her sweet spirit had departed.

  "Nicholas!” Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, a voice pierced the foggy pain of his loss.

  Be gone, he snarled silently, wanting to savor his anguish, to stroke it like a sore tooth, to rail at whoever or whatever was heaping this misery upon his head.

  "Put Julianne down, Nicholas. She has earned her rest.” Eleanor laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come, dear brother. You have sat here for hours holding her. God has called her to Him and she is beyond earthly feelings. You, however, need to eat and sleep."

  "There is no God,” he growled, as he rose and lowered Julianne's body back on the bed.

  Eleanor gasped. “Do not say such a thing, Nicholas. ‘Tis your grief speaking."

  "Nay. I have come to my senses after a lifetime of misguided faith. I will not worship a god who could take a sweet innocent like Julianne."

  He blocked out Eleanor's shock and protests, leaning over his wife's unmoving body.

  With great care, he detached the amethyst amulet from around her neck. He had given it to her as a morning gift when they were wed. Someday, he would give it to his son as something that had belonged to his mother. It was still warm from Julianne's skin. For a moment, he thought it pulsed faintly against his palm. Strange.

  He nodded to the women who had been hovering in his peripheral vision for hours. They moved toward the bed and the painful task of preparing Julianne for burial. It seemed heartless to walk away, however there was nothing more he could do for her.

  Realizing how much he had upset Eleanor with his ranting, he said quietly, “Forget my blasphemous words, Sister. ‘Twas my grief speaking.” Not true, but he needed to soothe her.

  Eleanor nodded, unshed tears clustering like raindrops on her thick, dark lashes. “I know, Nicholas, and I am so sorry. Like everyone else, I was very fond of Julianne. She will be sorely missed."

  He was glad Eleanor had come to be with Julianne. He was less pleased that her husband Miles, his former friend, had accompanied her. Earlier, Nicholas had seen the man down in the great hall swilling his best wine. Waves of fury washed over him as he realized Miles would probably be glad Julianne had died and diminished Nicholas's happiness.

  Had Miles realized that now Nicholas had a son, Miles’ elder boy would be replaced as Nicholas's heir? Could that set Miles to plotting against Nicholas and his child? Lately, Miles had displayed signs of discontent with his small holding of Norville Keep, land deeded to him by Nicholas when he wed Eleanor. Miles stood to gain should both Nicholas and the babe die.

  He smiled grimly to himself, and then waved the women away, except Eleanor, whom he motioned to his side. “Sister,” he murmured, “Your husband's greed may soon cause strife between us."

  "Oh, nay, Nicholas, he would not dare,” she whispered, her tawny brown eyes widening.

  "Aye, Eleanor, he dares. He could already be planning accidents for me and my son."

  And Eleanor, too, could be in danger. If Miles secured his fortune with Nicholas's holdings, what would stop him from doing away with a wife he did not love? With Barstow Castle and its extensive lands added to Norville Keep, he could petition the king for an heiress. Miles wanted power and these moves could make him a formidable baron indeed—if the king would allow it. Henry was more greedy than generous.

  None of this he said aloud. Then an idea began to form in his mind. “So,” he paused, a stern expression on his face, “for the moment, I would have you keep Julianne's death from Miles and the castle folk. You may say she is extremely weak and will need much time to regain her strength. Time enough later for the truth."

  If Miles believed Julianne still lived, mayhap he would hesitate to harm the new babe. A living Julianne could produce another child as well as keep good watch over this one. The lie might gain him enough time to go to London and procure more mercenaries to expand the ranks of his small army. For Miles would come against him as surely as Tuesday followed Monday. He could feel it in his bones. The ruse was worth a try.

  "But, Nicholas...” Eleanor began, looking puzzled.

  He frowned. “Do as I say, Sister. I will enlighten you at another time."

  She bit he
r lip, and nodded. “As you wish."

  He bade the others approach and gave them a shortened version of his orders, then added, “Believe me when I say this is very necessary for my son's safety."

  He heaved a deep sigh, and then sent them about the business of washing and preparing Julianne's body for burial, one which would be without benefit of even a private mass. Not that it mattered if the mass was said or not. However, he wondered about Father Thomas, the castle priest. He knew Julianne had died. The man's overzealous faith, his inability to bend a little when necessary, all told Nicholas, he would not agree to keep Julianne's death a secret. Even if Nicholas lied, claiming Julianne lived, although wished to remain secluded, the priest would want to say a mass at her bedside or hear her confession. Handling this man could be a problem. But Nicholas would deal with him later.

  "Lock the chamber, Eleanor, and allow no one except me entry."

  "Of course, Nicholas. What will we do with Julianne's body?"

  "Just prepare her for burial. I will decide later."

  He stumbled from the room and ghosted down the winding stone steps to the great hall. Mounting the platform at the front, he stopped. Julianne's chair sat next to his, behind the lord's table. Anger at her death gripped him. She would never sit beside him again.

  He threw himself into his high-backed chair, then observed Miles staring at him with a smug little smile tilting the corners of his mouth. Nicholas glared back, and his brother-in-law dropped his gaze. Bloody hell! Nothing would please that scoundrel more than discovering that Nicholas had lost his beautiful and loving wife. Aye, he had been right to decide Julianne's death must remain a secret. That would slow Miles down a little and give Nicholas time to prepare for what he feared would come of Miles’ greed and envy.

  Miles must have misinterpreted Nicholas's belligerent expression, because he drew near and asked in a mocking tone, “She delivered a girl?"

  Nicholas started to deny it, but stopped. If Miles believed the child a girl, he might hesitate to harm the babe, girls being of little worth as heirs.