Table of Contents
Cover Page
Praise
Title Page
Dedication
Excerpt
Other Books By
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
About the Author
Copyright
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The Flower And The Sword
Jacqueline Navin
To a wonderful writer, my sister and my best friend, Mary.
To my good friends and fellow writers:
Betty, Carol, Helen, Kate, Kay, Krisann, Lorie,
Mary Anne and Peter.
And to Karen Kosztolnyik—big thanks!
Another voice, rich and bold, cut through the silence of the chapel.
“I am afraid she cannot marry, Father, for she already has a husband.”
Lily’s head shot up, and she whipped around toward the voice. That voice! It could only be…
Rogan stood directly in front of her, staring with a thunderous expression.
Rogan. Rogan was here. Alive. Impossibly, blessedly alive. Staring at her with a terrible, evil-looking smile twisting his lips. His eyes gleamed silver by the dim flames of the candles. Trust him to appear in such a shocking manner, Lily thought, so smug and poised and magnificent!
Also available from Harlequin Historicals and JACQUELINE NAVIN
The Maiden and the Warrior (#403)
Coming soon
A Rose at Midnight (#447)
Prologue
Cornwall, England
February 1197
Lily sat perfectly still in the gathering darkness of dusk, back straight, hands folded and unmoving on her lap. She stared unblinkingly into the void of shadows crowding her chamber, blind to all the world had to offer.
Pain cradled her in its arms like an old friend, not fooled by her dry eyes and composed face.
Tomorrow she would wed a man she had met only once. A kind man with a gentle smile, whom she could never love, for all her love was dead.
She did not understand yet how all her happiness had crumbled into ashes. Or why. She was not even certain she was to blame, yet guilt ate at her soul and melded with her broken heart.
The man she loved was gone, and with him all her dreams…
Chapter One
Cornwall, England
July 1196
“My God, look at it,” Andrew said to his brother. Rogan St. Cyr squinted up at the horizon.
The castle of Charolais perched on the brink of a seaside cliff, a dark sentinel standing watch over the raging surf below. Like its infamous neighbor, Tintagel, Charolais was a functional fitting together of cold, gray stone. Spartan, perhaps, but not grotesque. Rather, its awesome presence owed more to the atmosphere lent by the savage elements of its surrounding: restless sea, rolling skies and gray, barren moor that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Rogan felt a clenching deep in his gut. It had been a long time since he could last recall being nervous. Oh, a certain intensity gripped him just before battle, even after so many times, but nerve-jangling anxiety was something to which he was not accustomed.
Not for the first time, he reflected that he was not the man for the duty awaiting him. He had no skill at diplomacy, nor did he possess a glib tongue adept at tripping over subtleties and false praise. He was a warrior—he had never been anything else—but he was also a man of honour and that was why he had come.
“I swear, my hackles are rising,” Andrew muttered as they neared.
Rogan grunted and kicked his horse forward, his broad-shouldered frame moving in rhythm with the charcoal stallion. He looked completely at ease, but his eyes missed nothing as he and his men entered the gate and advanced into the lower bailey.
At Rogan’s continued silence, Andrew said, “I know this duty weighs heavy on you.”
Rogan finally spoke. “Not even you realize how much, brother.”
As they passed through the inner gatehouse, the steep rise of the keep came into view. It was plain and unadorned, like a monolithic grave marker. The thought threw a jagged ripple up Rogan’s spine.
They drew to a halt and dismounted. At Andrew’s continued perusal, Rogan snapped, “Why the devil do you keep staring at me?”
“It is a sin to swear,” Andrew said with a grin. Rogan finally looked at him, astonished. His younger sibling rarely took anything seriously, least of all sin—this despite the fact he was a priest.
Rogan handed the reins to one of his men and glanced about uneasily. “Garven, take the others and stay outside. Andrew, come with me.”
From the huge studded door, a liveried porter eyed him curiously. Rogan announced himself to the man, who responded with rounded eyes and a quick dash down a corridor. He and Andrew stepped inside the huge hall.
Their boots scraping across the stone floor created an
echo that played a ghostly game among the vaults overhead. Rows of windows were set in elaborately arched openings, now shuttered against the late afternoon heat. Weapons hung on the limestone walls, showing the family colors emblazoned on shields and displayed boldly on banners. Several tapestries were featured, depicting battle scenes woven with care by the generations of Marshand women in order to commemorate the military prowess of their husbands and sons.
Expelling a long breath, Rogan rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s rich,” he said in a low voice. “He will have no trouble mounting an army.”
“We are here to make certain he shall not need one,” Andrew said calmly. “We shall grovel properly and offer pretty phrases to assuage his pride, and he will forgive us. Although I still say Alexander should be here to make his own apology. Let him beg for pardon—”
He was cut off by Rogan’s derisive snort. “The idiot would make matters worse, prattling on about love.”
Andrew grinned. “I take it you are no great believer in true love?”
“Hardly.” Rogan’s handsome face was cold.
“Well, I cannot say that I either believe or disbelieve it. It has never happened to me, nor is it likely to. I am pledged to chastity and though I may be loose with my other obligations, I will not go back on a vow. Yet I must admit our colicky brother seems positively blissful with his merchant’s daughter.”
“Never confuse lust and love, Andrew. Judging by the amount of time they spend in private chambers, I would say it is less an urging of the heart than an urging of a more primitive nature.” Rogan’s gaze roamed, touching on the slack, overweight knights lounging about playing chess and quaffing mead. “Alexander’s mind is muddled and our family honor is at stake.”
“Agreed. And it is always you defending it.”
It was true. Although Alexander was the eldest, and had inherited the duchy and its vast estates, Rogan, the second son, shouldered the responsibility. He had hoped his four-year absence while he fought in the Holy Land would have encouraged Alexander to accept the weightier aspects of his office. As it happened, his blustering, bullheaded brother had learned nothing of tact and self-discipline. Now, less than a year after Rogan had returned from King Richard’s crusade, Alex had committed the most flagrant act of disregard yet.
Rogan ran his hand through his auburn hair, ignoring the stubborn lock that fell back onto his forehead. “Where is Marshand?”
As if conjured by Rogan’s impatience, a loud exclamation announced their host’s arrival. Rogan swung around to face Enguerrand Marshand coming toward them. The man was short and, though not fat, had an oddly proportioned body. His hose showed almost impossibly skinny legs for such a rounded middle. Most of his hair was gone, except for a feathering of gray that wrapped around the back of his head from ear to ear. He was beaming with pleasure until he drew closer and his eyes focused on Rogan. His bushy eyebrows went down as his glance darted toward Andrew. “Where is the duke?” he said in a demanding voice.
Rogan discovered an instant dislike to this arrogant little man. “I am Rogan St. Cyr, Alexander’s brother. This is my younger brother, Father Andrew.”
Enguerrand did not spare the priest so much as a glance. “When I was told it was St. Cyr colors you were flying, I assumed it was the duke.”
“Father?” a sharp voice demanded. Rogan had not at first noticed the woman who stood behind Enguerrand. Tall and willowy with a flawless complexion and symmetrical features, she was inarguably a beauty. Her hair was pulled back neatly in the style of the day, highlighting the prominence of her cheekbones and her pointed chin. This must be Catherine, the woman Alexander had spurned, Rogan thought. She certainly seemed of the appropriate age and he had heard tell of her comliness, though the rigid, austere perfection of this woman spoke of a coldness that faintly repelled.
“Is something amiss?” Catherine asked.
“That is why I am here,” Rogan said evenly. The tension was building inside, stretching his nerves so taut he feared they would snap.
Andrew chose that moment to speak. “Perhaps we should all sit,” he said, motioning to a cluster of comfortable-looking chairs by the huge hearth.
Enguerrand was too impatient “I want to know what is afoot. Why are you here without the duke?”
Rogan saw no point in delaying. Taking a bracing breath, he said, “He will not be coming. I am here to offer my family’s formal apology and to announce that my brother is severing negotiations with you for the hand of your daughter.” Rogan paused, dreading what came next. “Alexander has decided on another.”
There was a short, stunned silence. “Married another?” Catherine said at last. Her lovely features contorted into a mask of outrage. “Who?”
This was the worst part. “A merchant’s daughter. Her name is Carina.”
“He married a merchant’s daughter?” Enguerrand exclaimed shrilly.
Placing a comforting hand on the man, Andrew said, “Perhaps you would like that seat, now, I think we should—”
“Get your bloody hands off me!” Enguerrand thundered.
“Perhaps not,” Andrew answered smoothly, stepping away.
“My brother has chosen his wife based on love,” Rogan said without apology, surprised he could do so. His earlier apprehension was gone, and he faced Enguerrand like any opponent, only this time the parrying was with words instead of blows. Still his hand itched with longing to feel the comfort of his sword hilt. He kept it clenched to control the instinct.
“Love?” Catherine choked.
Andrew shrugged. “Who can explain that intangible emotion? It strikes even the most noble among us, and can be—”
“This is an outrage!” Enguerrand exploded. “He and I were discussing the bride-price! How much further did he think he could lead me? It is a breach of contract, a crime!”
There it was, the accusation he had feared. Rogan narrowed his eyes, ready to leap to the defense when a movement out of the corner of his eye stole his attention.
He turned, looked, then stopped.
Enguerrand’s tirade faded into the background as the loveliest female Rogan had ever set eyes upon rushed forward.
She was dressed little better than a servant, in a faded gown that was much too small for her and more the worse for wear. Her hair was a riotous mass of soft ringlets that fell clear to her waist and was of the same tawny color as the noble lion he had seen many times in his travels. Her eyes, which were now wide with worry, were an impossible shade of blue. No, green. No, somewhere in between, like the color of a tropical sea.
He stood transfixed, watching her wordlessly as she came to him and sank into a deep curtsy, her head bowed. The untamed mane slid forward like a curtain, stealing his view of that beautiful face.
“Your grace,” she murmured.
He was frozen for a moment. Then impulsively he reached down and touched her chin with his fingertips, tilting her head up. Those eyes fluttered open to meet his and she smiled a bashful, tentative smile.
“Lily!” Enguerrand boomed. “Get off the floor.”
Confusion passed over her features. She looked about as if searching each face for an answer.
Catherine glared at her sister. “He is not the duke, you ninny. Get up! Where were you?”
“I was in the orchard,” Lily explained. Hesitantly, and with a doubtful glance at Rogan, she rose to her feet.
“Where is Elspeth?”
“At chapel, I think.” Lily darted another self-conscious look his way, and Rogan instinctively sensed her embarrassment at being chastised in front of him. Again an inexplicable impulse seized him and he offered a small bow. “I am Alexander’s brother, Rogan.” He smiled. “And you are the Lady Lily.”
“Yes,” she answered. Her voice was as soft as a breeze.
“I want an explanation!” Enguerrand demanded. “I wish to speak to the duke myself. For all I know this could be a trick. I’ve never met you two.”
“It is no trick, Enguerrand,” Rogan
said firmly. However, he seemed to be losing his focus. The girl, Lily, was following the conversation with a mixture of bemusement and alarm, and he found the play of these emotions on her face infinitely fascinating. “You know Alexander was reluctant to make the contract final.”
“He all but gave his word!” Enguerrand thundered.
It was Andrew who diffused the situation. “Well, I must say that you are handling this with amazing self-control.” This made Enguerrand’s eyes bulge in astonishment. The older man was doing no such thing and knew it. Andrew continued smoothly, “I know many men, lesser men than you, Enguerrand, who would have drawn their sword and run us through without waiting for explanation. Oh, you are angry and I don’t blame you. Unfortunate business, and we are all the worse off for it. You have a right to make complaint, as does your lovely daughter. But you are a man who has lofty morals, I can see, and knows the value of talking things through. Quite admirable.”
Enguerrand had fallen silent and was staring at the younger St. Cyr with openmouthed shock. Andrew went on, “Of course, with the country in the state it is today, what with John aspiring to the crown and the barons in such an uproar, ‘tis well that such rash behavior is beneath a man such as yourself. Why, it could mean war, and that would decimate two houses. It is hardly worth it, you will agree, but not every man would have the wisdom to see that and do what is best for his people.”
Incredibly, Andrew’s facetious compliments seemed to have their intended impact. Enguerrand was taken off guard and more than a bit confused, but he relaxed slightly, muttering, “Quite so. Indeed, terrible business.”
For the moment, Enguerrand seemed deflated. Behind him Catherine seethed silently. Rogan exchanged glances with his brother, and Andrew flashed him a quick lift of his eyebrows in triumph.
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