“Madeline, I hope you don’t find it odd that I share this with you via an old-fashioned handwritten letter. E-mails can be hacked. Dreams can be invaded. And I can’t send a Messenger to you right now, as there are so few of us left, and we are fighting to stay alive.
Think, Madeline.
Who’s the message for this time?”
~ thirty-seven ~
I debriefed Aaron and Chaka at The Harold Washington Library, the stately, large central facility located in downtown Chicago. I figured we could avoid any Hunters or high school mean girls while I told them my story and we researched my latest journey to medieval Portugal. We sat at long tables poring over thick large paper books and online communities. And yes—we found a lot.
Pedro and Inêz’s love story preceded Shakespeare’s rendition of Romeo and Juliet by over two hundred years. After Inêz was crowned Queen post-mortem, Pedro built the Alcobaca Monastery, a small cathedral outside of Coimbra in her honor. He commissioned master sculptors to carve two sarcophagi in each of their likenesses with scenes from their lives chiseled into the stone. The foot pedestals on Inêz’s tomb even featured the faces of her assassins. Pedro insisted that the ornate tombs be placed at the very front of the cathedral so that on Judgment Day, when the dead could rise, the first thing Inêz and Pedro would see would be each other.
“I think I found something a bit odd about Pedro and Inêz’s son,” Aaron said.
“Which one?” I asked.
“Prince John,” he said.
“The boy who witnessed his mother’s death,” I sighed. “I wondered what happened to him.”
“He got married. Shortly thereafter, he accused his wife of adultery and murdered her. She died by his hand; no hired assassins involved. It says here that because of the adultery accusation, the judges ruled that Prince John should not suffer either punishment or penalty, and justice was never imposed.” He put down the book. “Yikes.”
“He became abusive just like his grandfather,” I said. “That breaks my heart.”
“The book I’m reading,” Chaka held up a huge book with beautiful statues and paintings on the cover “states that Pedro and Inêz’s love story was immortalized over the years with hundreds of poems, plays, operas, ballets, paintings, and songs. Their relationship was really quite beautiful, in a tragic sense.”
I am not an angel, and nowhere close to being divine, but I managed to hear Samuel’s prayer in the year 1355 and time travel to medieval Portugal. And during the most epic saga of Inêz and Pedro, I delivered my real message: to remind Samuel that he was a Healer. That he would always be a Healer.
My phone buzzed. I picked it up and spotted a text from a number I didn’t recognize, clicked on it, and read.
“Madeline. Can we talk? Pick a time and a place and I’ll be there. Yours, Samuel Delacroix.”
I stared wide-eyed at Chaka and Aaron. “Who gave him my number?”
They both whistled; Chaka suddenly absorbed in her manicure and Aaron fixated on his laptop. My phone buzzed again and I peered at it.
“Your friends gave me your number. I knew that would be your first question. Please don’t think I’m a stalker. Yours, Samuel Delacroix.”
“When did you give him my number?” I asked.
“After you left the club last night,” Chaka said. “He came back an hour later and asked how he could get ahold of you.”
“I’m dating someone, you know,” Aaron said. “We thought it might not be such a bad idea if you did the same.”
“This makes me nervous,” I said.
“Oh please,” Chaka said. “You nearly drowned and you kissed a dead woman’s hand. You are not allowed to be scared to talk to some stupid guy.”
I sighed but texted him back. “What did you have in mind?”
~ ~ ~
And so I walked with Samuel in present day Chicago down the chilly concrete city streets in the shadows of skyscrapers. It was afternoon and buses flew by us, pedestrians crisscrossed in front of our path, but for once I didn’t really care about traffic, noise, or congestion. Time slowed down and it felt like magic to be with him again.
His hazel eyes lit up as he smiled down at me. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Sure,” I said. “But don’t you have a girlfriend?”
“Not anymore,” he said. “We broke up.”
“Aha,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“We both knew that it hasn’t been working for a long time,” he said. “Yes, I’m okay. Thanks.”
I nodded. “So… what’s on your mind?”
“It’s going to sound weird,” Samuel said.
“I speak the language,” I said. “Carry on, Lord Samuel.” I cringed as the words fell out of my mouth.
“Lord Samuel?” He asked and raised one dark eyebrow.
“Sorry! I’m watching too many of those medieval TV shows lately.” I curtseyed even though it probably didn’t have the same effect as I was dressed in a warm parka and jeans, not a long, flowing skirt.
He smiled. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you recently. Wherever I go, I’ll hear a song, and for some reason, it reminds me of you. That’s weird, right?”
“That depends on what kind of song?” I asked. “Heavy metal?”
He covered a smile. “You will never torture that information out of me, my Lady,” he said and bowed as the light to cross Michigan Avenue turned green.
“Barry Manilow? Ariana Grande? Taylor Swift? Pharrel? Hurry up.” I skipped out into the wide intersection. “You can kiss my hand if you beat me to the other side of this very long drawbridge.”
“Challenge on!” He chased after me and nearly beat me to the curb where we burst out laughing.
“I’m claiming my prize!” He reached for my hand.
But I tucked both of them behind my back. “There will be no hand kissing,” I said imperiously. “Because technically, I beat you. Besides it’s cold out and I’m not taking off my gloves. And you’d better not be thinking of me when a Bieber song plays,” I said as we made our way into a large city park. “Or I will sentence you to a fortnight in the royal dungeons. Pray tell why are we at Millennial Park? The giant orb scares me.”
We stared up at the enormous three-story steel art installation with its ultra polished mirrors.
“You’re scared of the Bean?” He asked. “Why?”
“It looks so frigging weird. I just know aliens are going to burst out of it someday,” I said.
“Hah! I will tell you why we are at Millennial Park after you allow me to kiss your hand,” he said.
“In your dreams. Do continue, Lord Samuel.” And we made our way toward the Bean, our breath forming small clouds in the air.
“Bear with me, Madeline. It gets stranger,” he said. “I spotted the back of a girl recently when I was jogging at Loyola’s track. She was about your height, your size, and she had a little sass about her. Her hair was long and shiny, like yours, and I thought, ‘That has to be to Madeline! It will be so great to see her again.’”
He reached to touch my hair and stopped himself but not before his fingers grazed my face.
I got the chills, gazed up at him, and silently willed him to place his hand on my face, to touch my lips, to take my hands and pull me close to him the way he did in Portugal. “Tell me more,” I said as the cloud from my breath misted between his fingers.
“So I raced to catch up with her,” Samuel stared at his hand and then back up at me. “But when I reached her—she wasn’t you.”
“Oh,” I said and peered down at my feet as we resumed walking.
“I was in line at the grocery store,” Samuel said. “I saw this guy flirting with a girl who resembled you a couple of checkout lines over. And I had this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and I even felt a little jealous. So I stepped away and waited, like a moron, and watched them leave the store. But she wasn’t you.”
“Right,” I said.
We stopped walking next to the outdoor skatin
g rink and watched the people on the ice. There were kids and grownup, couples of all ages and groups of friends daring each other on with laughter and shouts. Everyone appeared to be having a good time; even the folks who fell would grumble but then get back up and try again.
“This is the problem, Madeline. All these girls I think about that might be you—are never you. And I am left lying awake tossing and turning in my bed night after night, wondering who you are, what kind of ice cream you like, are you a Cubs or a Sox fan, do you order thin crust pizza or deep dish, and what your big dream is for life after high school. And no I don’t mean which college you’re applying to, I mean your really outrageous big dream, like, do you want to join the Peace Corp, or you are you learning five languages so you can go to work at the U.N. and someday be posted abroad in a foreign consulate, or do you want to go into the arts and create stories through screenwriting, novels, or film?”
He took my hand but he didn’t kiss it. He just held it, tenderly, kindly, and firmly between his two hands and despite all his supplications in 1355, I think I forgot how to breathe.
“And I wonder why I can’t stop thinking about you,” Samuel said. “And I wonder if I could touch your hair, or your hand, or your face, or your lips; how amazing that would feel. Or what it would be like to just hang out with you somewhere and have a conversation about some stupid giant orb in a public park and who the hell thought that that was art, and I just knew you would feel the same way I did about the Bean, and you do.”
My heart started pounding, my face grew hot, and I felt a little faint. “Chocolate,” I said.
“What?” He asked.
“I like chocolate ice cream, the darker the better. I root for the Chicago White Sox, but if the Cubs ever got into the World Series, hell yeah I’d cheer for them. I’m a thin crust girl and pepperoni’s my thing. My big dream after high school is still unfolding. Right now, I just really hope I can make it through the rest of my time at Preston and no, I’m not going to share anything more with you about that subject right now. But I’m super grateful you feel the same way about the Bean because when the aliens pop out, I’m counting on you to protect me.”
He smiled, his eyes lit up, and he gently pulled my glove off, tucked it into his pocket, brought my hand to his lips, and kissed it. “This,” he said. “This is what is meant to be.”
And on that moment in present day Chicago, I discovered that for now, my wish had come true. Something in Samuel remembered a part of me and we were finally together. Was it because I answered his prayer in 1355 and became his message? I guess I’d never know for sure.
We rented blades, joined the other people on the ice, and skated as we talked and laughed; it felt natural, like two old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time and were simply catching up. He picked me up every time I fell and I did the same for him. The afternoon grew long, the rink’s overhead lights blinked on, and the sun dropped low in the skies, creating a bit of a glare on the ice.
“We should go,” Samuel said. “Grab a bite. I need to get you back home safe and sound, or your parents will call out the guards on me.”
“It sounds like you know my dad.” I smiled and skated a slow circle around him. “Okay, watch this. I’m going to give you a clue to my big dream in life.” I leaned forward and stuck one foot behind me, and extended my arms out to the sides like wings. “Look! I’m a figure skater in the finals at the Winter Olympics. Now you know!” I teetered and started to fall.
But he caught me and pulled me to him.
I looked up into his eyes. “Kiss me,” I said and he did.
It was a simple kiss. A slow kiss. A sweet kiss. But I melted just like all the times I’d kissed him in other lifetimes.
He was finally my Samuel in present day.
We made our way to the side of the rink, took off our skates, and stumbled off the ice, our arms around each other’s waists as we laughed; high on life, high on each other. When we literally bumped into someone by accident.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Samuel said. “Are you okay?”
I caught a flash of a large silver chunky ring and my eyes were drawn up toward Malachi’s face.
“I’m fine, thanks,” Malachi said. “Madeline, it’s you, isn’t it? I think I’d recognize you anywhere. Introduce me to your friend; I insist.”
THE END
Madeline and Samuel’s story continues in
The Seeker (Mortal Beloved, Book Three)
The Huntress (Mortal Beloved, Book Four)
Publishing 2016.
Watch the trailer for THE MESSENGER (Mortal Beloved Time Travel Series) here:
http://bit.ly/1JxdSos
Dear Reader:
Thank you for reading The Assassin (Mortal Beloved, Book Two).
I appreciate every honest review left on the platform where you purchased this book as well as on Goodreads. Reviews help readers find books and genuinely help authors as well.
You can leave your review on Goodreads here:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24180925-the-assassin
Sign up for news and special updates on my contact form at my website here:
http://www.pameladumond.com/contact.html
All my best,
Pamela DuMond
Dear Reader:
Thank you for reading The Assassin (Mortal Beloved, Book Two).
I published The Messenger (Mortal Beloved, Book One) in 2012 and planned on continuing Madeline and Samuel’s adventure shortly thereafter. But life intervened, I moved a couple of times, and my mom died unexpectedly. So thank you for your patience between books.
I’d like to give you a little background on the history surrounding Prince Pedro and Inêz’ de Castro as well as the liberties I took in fictionalizing their story.
I first stumbled upon their intriguing tale of love, doomed romance, and obsession years ago when I was traipsing around Portugal. My friend and I visited the Monastery of Alcobaca where they were entombed and their story has stuck in my brain and heart ever since.
When I wrote The Messenger, I quickly knew that I wanted my heroine and hero, Madeline and Samuel, to be a part of Inêz and Pedro’s saga. Book Two in the Mortal Beloved series seemed like the perfect place to position my young lovers in a story rich in European history, madness, and the perils of losing oneself to love’s obsession.
While I’ve extensively researched the history behind Inêz and Pedro’s saga, The Assassin (Mortal Beloved, Book Two) is still a work of fiction that weaves historical events with fictionalized characters and story.
According to the history books Prince Pedro really did go to war with his father, King Afonso after his beloved, Inêz de Castro was assassinated in the year 1355. From what I read, his mother finally talked him into calming down and stopping that conflict.
Medieval historians have different accounts of where Inêz was killed. Some believe it was at Prince Pedro and Inêz’s villa. Others claim Inêz was murdered at the Monastery of Santa Clara a Vel-ha in Coimbra, Portugal. What is generally agreed on is that two of their children, Beatrice and Denis, did not witness her death, but their son John actually did. In a strange twist of history, John actually killed his own wife.
Prince Pedro did ascend the Portuguese throne and become King of Portugal. Some believe his meltdown moment, where he forced everyone to kiss dead Inêz’s rotting hand, was legend, while others believe it to be true. After he crowned Inêz de Castro as Portugal’s Queen, he entombed her body in the gorgeous church and sarcophagus he built for her. According to historical notes, Pedro eventually became a more benevolent leader and his nickname changed from “The Cruel” to “The Just.”
I invented the fire at the palace at the end of Act 2 in The Assassin.
Hundreds of plays and operas and works of art were inspired by the Pedro and Inêz’s haunting love story and the vast majority of these are European.
Thank you for reading my fictionalized version of Pedro and Inêz’s epic, medieva
l love story. I hope you enjoyed Madeline and Samuel’s adventures in these times as much as I enjoyed writing them.
Xo,
Pamela DuMond
acknowledgments
Thank you to Elsa M. author at The Royal Articles courtesy of The Royal Forums "The Queen Who Was Crowned After Death" Royal Forums Article by Elsa M. who responded to my letter for help researching Inêz and Pedro’s story in medieval Portugal. She also referred me to the book Daily Life in Portugal in the Late Middle Ages by A. H. De Oliveria Marques that helped tremendously.
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A HUGE thanks to Regina Wamba and Jenessa C Andrea. (my cover girl) for bringing the ‘beautiful’ to my book covers for this series. I am in awe of your talent. MaeIDesign.com
Thanks to my beta readers Debbie deBlas, and Rita Kempley for slogging through the ugly first draft. Thanks to Arianne Cruz for her terrific editing. Thanks Allison Morse for additional comments. Thanks to Michael James Canales at mjcimageworks for website and graphics. Thanks to Maggie Marr for her expert legal advice and hand holding. Thanks Sarah Altman for being a terrific author assistant
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Thanks to the folks that continue to amaze me with their generosity and kindness: Monica Mason, Cheyenne Mason, Kristin Warren, Jeanie Whitmire Jackson, Terri Billingsley Dunn, Carole Sauer, Cheryl Cavitt Carlson, Alta Kirkland Roberts, Rebecca Smith Hawrot, Sue Berger, Roni Lynne, Maria Roberts, Ed Schneider, Bob Bernstein, J.M. Kelly, Dave and Mary Jo Thome, Joan Brady, Melissa Black Ford, Cheryl Moore, C. Aurora deBlas, Mike Snyder, Cindy Sample, Joanne Pence, Beth Anderson, Shelly Fredman, Alli Sinclair, Kelly Self, Lesley Fogle, Elizabeth Semida, and my stepmom, Kaye DuMond.
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Thanks to all you bloggers for your time. My favorite Facebook groups – Sassy Girls Book Club, Forever Young Adult, Must Read Mysteries, and Chick Lit Central – you’re terrific. To Romance Writers of America and especially LARA, the Los Angeles RWA chapter, I’m thrilled to be one of your members. You are so incredibly supportive.
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