by Jo Beverley
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Raven and the Rose
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Author’s Note
The White Rose of Scotland
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The English Rose: Miss Templar and the Holy Grail
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Eternal Rose
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About the Authors
Praise for Dragon Lovers
“Romance lovers with a fondness for fire-breathers will be delighted.”
—Publishers Weekly
“In this enchanting anthology, four award-winning romance authors work their usual literary magic to create a quartet of entertaining novellas.”—Booklist
“A magical volume.”—Fresh Fiction
“Lighthearted, fun tales that take readers and the female lead characters soaring with dragons.”—The Best Reviews
“Enchanting. . . . From knights and lords to a modern-day handyman, from exotic Japan to Regency England, these stories soar with imagination, adventure, and magic to delight those who long for a bit of a fairy tale and a lot of romance.”—Romantic Times
... and for the Authors
Jo Beverley
“Arguably today’s most skillful writer of intelligent historical romance.”—Publishers Weekly
Mary Jo Putney
“Putney’s writing is clear as crystal and smooth as silk.”—Booklist
Karen Harbaugh
“Readers who have been searching for just such a unique historical paranormal will not want to miss Harbaugh’s work.”—Booklist
Barbara Samuel
“Barbara Samuel’s writing is, quite simply, splendid. . . . Samuel soars with genius in the humanity of her storytelling.” —BookPage
SIGNET ECLIPSE
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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, January 2010
Copyright © Penguin Group (USA), Inc., 2010
“The Raven and the Rose” copyright © Jo Beverley Publications, Inc., 2010
“The White Rose of Scotland” copyright © Mary Jo Putney, 2010
“The English Rose: Miss Templar and the Holy Grail” copyright © Karen Harbaugh, 2010
“Eternal Rose” copyright © Barbara Samuel, 2010
All rights reserved
SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Chalice of roses/Jo Beverley . . . [et al.].
p. cm.
“A Signet Eclipse book.”
eISBN : 978-1-101-16327-6
1. Love stories, American. 2. Grail—Fiction. 3. Historical fiction, American. I. Beverley, Jo.
PS648.L6C46 2010
813’.08508—dc22 2009031038
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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Dear Reader,
This collection of stories grows out of the complex and mysterious legends surrounding the Holy Grail. Most people see this as beginning with the chalice used by Christ at the Last Supper. One of those legends says that Joseph of Arimathea, a merchant and follower of Jesus, brought the sacred cup to Britain. Because of that tradition, all the stories in Chalice of Roses are set in Britain, but in different times and circumstances.
The Christian Grail myth might have blended with even older Celtic legends of a vessel of abundance that blessed those who found it. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is one of those mythic forms, though we haven’t gone to Ireland in this anthology.
Each of us has taken our own view of the ancient chalice, of the symbolism of roses and the power of love to heal wounds and bring peace, and we hope you’ll enjoy the result.
Best,
Jo Beverley, Mary Jo Putney,
Karen Harbaugh and
Barbara Samuel
The Raven and the Rose
BY JO BEVERLEY
Chapter 1
ENGLAND, 1153
Sister Gledys of Rosewell was sinning again.
She was dreaming of her knight and knew she should wake herself up, but she didn’t. Alas for her immortal soul, she didn’t want to lose a precious moment of these visions, and her heart already raced with wicked excitement.
As always, he was fighting, clad in a long chain-mail robe and conical helmet. He wielded a sword and protected himself with a long shield on his left arm. Sometimes she saw him afoot, but he was generally on a great fighting horse in battle or a skirmish.
That didn’t surprise Gledys. Strife, punctuated by outright war, had ruled England for all the eighteen years of her life, but that life had been spent in Rosewell Nunnery, so how could she create such scen
es? By day she prayed earnestly for peace, so how could she dream of war so vividly by night?
Every clash of weapons rang in her ears, every squeal of angry horses, every thud of blows. Leather squeaked, metal jangled and the stink of men and horses buffeted her. Hooves cut clods from the ground, and horses breathed like bellows. When these dreams had begun the horses had spewed steam into frosty air and the men had also clouded the air as they howled with pain or roared in triumph. It was summer now, however, and the air swirled with dust and fury.
Then a chunk of earth whipped past her face and she realized she was much closer to the fighting than ever before.
Too close!
She tried to raise her arms to shield her face, tried to stumble back out of danger. It didn’t work. It never did. In these dreams she was powerless to move, as if paralyzed.
A horse’s massive backside swung in her direction. She flinched from its flailing tail and the shod hooves that could kill if it chose to kick. She heard screams nearby. She’d scream, too, but she could no more make a sound than she could move.
Now she was willing to escape.
Wake up! Wake up!
She remained frozen in place, her eyes unalterably fixed on one warrior, and could only pray.
Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy. . . .
It was a dream. It had to be. No one could be killed in a dream.
Holy Mary, pray for me.
Saint Michael the archangel, pray for me.
But then she wondered whether this was punishment. Punishment for her sinful attraction to her knight, and for her secret longing to escape, to explore the world beyond Rosewell.
Saint Gabriel, pray for me.
Saint—
A great rattling thump jolted the litany out of her mind.
A man bellowed.
Someone had come off his horse. Had that been a death cry?
Not her knight, at least. Not her knight. He fought on, but now against a huge grunting man.
All angels and archangels, pray for him!
Saint Joseph, pray for him. . . .
He was being driven closer to where she stood. Despite the danger, Gledys’s frightened breathing changed to a pant of excitement. Would she finally see something of his face? Closer, closer, come closer. . . .
This longing was surely the worst sin of all, but she surrendered to it now, murmuring unholy prayers.
But even when he was almost on top of her she could tell little. Beneath his helmet, a hood came down on his forehead, the front part rising up past his chin, and the helmet had a piece that extended down over his nose. She could see only lean cheeks and bared teeth. Was she imagining a pleasing countenance? He wheeled his horse so that his back was to her, and she glimpsed missing teeth in the snarling red mouth of his opponent. The bigger man landed a hard blow on her knight’s arm, causing him to stagger to one side.
Gledys screamed and tried to run to him, but she was still frozen. Her knight fought on, turning his shield into a weapon, slamming his opponent’s sword hand with it and kicking him with a mailed boot. His horse joined in with hooves and teeth, and the din made Gledys want to cover her ears.
How had that blow to his arm not maimed him?
How was it that he could fight on so fiercely?
She realized that she’d closed her eyes, and forced them open, dreading what she’d see. Somehow, her knight’s opponent had been unhorsed, but the big man scrambled to his feet and unhooked a mighty ax from his saddle. An ax! Her knight leapt off his horse to face him, laughing.
Laughing?
Yes, laughing!
Was he mad?
Mad or not, he was beautiful, even sheathed in gray metal. So tall and broad shouldered, and moving as if burdened by nothing but a shirt, leaping away from another attack on strong, agile legs. It must be a mortal sin to think of a man’s legs, but she’d pay the price in hell.
Be Saint Michael, she prayed. Or Saint George.
It wouldn’t be so terrible a sin to be fascinated by the warrior angel who defeated Lucifer, or the saintly dragon slayer. She might even be receiving blessed visions symbolizing the defeat of heathens in the Holy Land by Christian crusaders.
But in her heart she knew better, and now, watching her knight breathing hard but still smiling with a burning delight in violence, she knew it yet again. These dreams came from Satan, and the swirling chaos of men and horses was a vision of hell. . . .
Gledys blinked, realizing that her view had expanded. Now she could see many fighters, but also others behind them. People in ordinary dress, some of them screaming and yelling, but with excitement.
Spectators!
This wasn’t a battle. This must be what they called a tournament, where knights played at war. Heaven only knew why. People watched for amusement, including women, some of high rank. Gledys glimpsed richly colored gowns and cloaks. Flimsy veils fluttered in a breeze and the sun glinted off precious metals and jewels. Beyond the watchers stood a stone castle on a grassy mound, where colorful pennants danced against blue sky. There were people up there, too, watching.
Why was she forced to endure this from down here?
Another man came off his horse and she remembered her knight. Was he safe? Yes! He stood his ground, although still hard-pressed by his bigger opponent, both of them breathing heavily, even staggering as if they might collapse together in a metal heap.
Gledys fixed her eyes on him by her own intent now, praying that he be safe. As if summoned, he looked past his opponent, straight at her. His lips parted in astonishment.
He saw her?
Gledys tried to reach out, to speak to him, but she was still mute, still frozen in place. She saw the battle-ax swing and tried to scream a warning.
Perhaps he understood, for he turned, ducking. The weapon still caught his helmet, knocking it askew, and he stumbled to one side, down to one knee.
Gledys screamed again. Knew again it couldn’t be heard in her dreamworld.
He was already up, his attention glued onto his opponent as he forced the other man backward. He was younger, stronger, magnificent. He would win! But then his eyes flicked to her once again. . . .
“Don’t,” she tried to cry. “Don’t be distracted!”
The burly man could have killed him then, but exhaustion won and he collapsed to his knees, dropping the ax, wheezing for breath. Her knight sucked in air, too, hands braced on his knees, heaving with it. But then he straightened and turned, seeking her, seeing her. A smile lit his face and he took a step toward her.
Gledys smiled back in pure joy.
At last she would meet him.
At last!
“No!”
Gledys was so used to being mute, she almost shouted the word, but choked it to a mere grunt, fist stuffed into her mouth. She was back in Rosewell Nunnery in the dark dormitory.
No, not back.
She’d been nowhere else.
Though so powerfully real, it had been another dream.
She blinked up into the darkness, teeth in her knuckles to suppress a wail at being snatched out of sleep at just that moment. He’d seen her. He’d been coming to her. They might—oh, heaven, oh, hell—they might have touched.
Gledys clutched her nightcap. It had been a dream, just like all the other ones. Her knight wasn’t real. His opponents weren’t real, nor were the watching people or the castle. Still she grieved, as she always did when snatched out of that unreal land.
Grieved. That was the word for it. Grief as she was wrenched away, then aching grief as precious details melted from her mind like caught snowflakes melting in the palm of her hand.
Her knight. Fighting, as usual . . .
No, not as usual.
People watching. Women, even. A tournament.
A castle . . .
But even as she tried to pin such things in her mind, they slipped away, slipped away.
And were gone.
Her memory was blank, except for knowing
she’d dreamed of her knight again, and one precious image. Her knight looking at her, seeing her, moving toward her. She held on to that so it would etch deep in her mind, even though it carried with it the sinful way her heart had thundered and her mouth had dried.
Did other nuns have wicked dreams? No one ever described such things at the weekly open confession, but Gledys wasn’t surprised. The punishment would surely be terrible.
There was another reason to stay silent, however.
Confessing might make the dreams stop.
Despite awareness of sin, despite the horrors she saw, Gledys needed the dreams as a person needed food and drink.
She flung an arm over her eyes, blinking against the sting of tears. They should be tears of repentance, but they were of simple unhappiness. A holy heart was a tranquil heart, but since the dreams had begun, she’d lost all tranquillity. She’d ceased being happy in the only home she’d ever known and in the satisfying routine of busy days.
Instead she cherished the fragments of dreams and restlessly gleaned any detail of the world outside the nunnery. She ached for the wider world, and often wasted time looking at the only bit of it visible from Rosewell—the top of the great hill that lay a few leagues away.
Glastonbury Tor.
The conical hill rose out of flat, marshy ground and was crowned by a small monastery dedicated to Saint Michael. In itself it was a place of ancient pilgrimage, but on lower ground at the base of the tor stood a holier place—the magnificent abbey famed throughout England for its connection to Christ, and to the sacred cup used at the Last Supper. Legend said that Joseph of Arimathea, he who in the gospels had given his tomb for Christ’s body, had brought the cup there.
