“But if we do not depart soon, we might be swept into this new battle, the fight of fools,” Rolfe noted. “I, for one, would be glad to reach home for the Yule.”
Marcus, the keeper, arrived with another pitcher of wine as there was a chorus of agreement. He glanced around at the knights as Quinn’s squire Michel took the pitcher to fill the knights’ cups. “Is there some cause for celebration?” he asked politely.
“Perhaps for you,” Lothair said with a smile. “For you will finally be rid of us.”
“Say it is not so!” the keeper protested, and Rolfe knew the man had come to rely upon their regular custom. When the knights insisted it would be, he raised his hands in surrender. “I have long feared that this day would come, so I have prepared gifts for you all.”
“Marcus, there is no need,” Quinn began to protest.
“You have defended my home,” Marcus said to Quinn and Bayard, recalling an incident in which they waylaid a thief. “You have given me coin to build an olive press,” he said to Amaury who nodded acknowledgment of that. “You have aided in the healing of my son,” he said to Lothair, who knew more of herbs than any man Rolfe had ever known. “You have brought Franji to my door who had need of hospitality, and you have ensured that they paid,” he said to Luc and Thierry. They hadn’t all been from France, but the occupants of Outremer called all the crusaders Franji. Marcus smiled as he turned to Rolfe and Niall. “And you have left my daughters untouched.” He bowed as the knights laughed together at his jest. “I will thank you all.”
Marcus hurried from the common room as the knights exchanged glances. “Provisions for the journey ahead?” Quinn guessed.
“Nieces and daughters,” Niall suggested with a wink.
“More wine!” Luc said.
But Marcus brought gifts. He set them upon the table in the middle of the room and the knights leaned forward as one, their squires appearing from the shadows to peer at the small heap of presents, as well. There were several wooden boxes, a collection of small bags of velvet in different colors, a small glass vial, and a large dark decanter. “My wife is said to have the gift of seeing the future, a gift from the angels themselves. When I spoke to her of all of you, she prepared these gifts, telling me which was for each of you and why. It seems my wife knows something of your reputations.”
Smiles were exchanged as Marcus chose a small red velvet sack and presented it to Amaury. At his nod, Amaury opened it and poured its contents into his palm. It was a stone the size of a very small egg of a mottled green color. He raised his gaze to Marcus, his question clear.
“A stone to detect poison, found in the gullet of a winged lion,” Marcus said. “Place it in any food or drink that you fear to be poisoned. If it remains the same, all is well. If it turns black, do not consume that substance.”
Amaury nodded, hiding his skepticism. “I thank you, Marcus.”
“My wife says you will face treachery upon your return home, and you will have need of it.”
Amaury’s eyes narrowed and he tucked the stone away with care after thanking Marcus again. Rolfe wondered if there was someone at Montvieux who Amaury did not fully trust.
Next was a glass vial with a swirled stopper, sealed with wax. “A perfume that will win the heart of the most reluctant maiden,” Marcus said. Niall grinned and stretched out a hand, but Marcus scoffed at him. “You have no need of this gift!” he said, then passed it to Bayard. That knight flushed, for his clumsy manner with women was a jest with the others.
“I have no need of a maiden’s heart, so long as I have no home of my own,” he said.
“You will have both, otherwise the gift would not have been meant for you,” Marcus replied.
Bayard bowed and thanked the keeper, his appreciation clear.
Rolfe knew he was not the only one whose curiosity had been whetted. It seemed the gifts gave some hint of their respective futures.
Marcus handed Quinn a small box with a pattern of small flowers inlaid on the lid. He made to open it but the keeper stopped him. “You must keep it. When you have found the residence where you mean to remain forever, then open it and have your home blessed forevermore.”
Quinn frowned a little, then smiled and nodded. Rolfe’s sense redoubled that Quinn believed some trouble awaited him at Sayerne. Perhaps the overlord’s messenger had told him more than he had shared.
Another velvet sack was given to Lothair, this one made of dark green silk. At Marcus’ nod of encouragement, Lothair opened it and spilled the contents into his hand. It was a gold coin, but one unlike any Rolfe had seen before. It had a square hole in the middle and a swirling design that might have been script in another language. “A coin, stolen from a dragon’s hoard, and one that can buy your very soul,” Marcus said.
“Though none of us are surprised that it is for sale,” Niall muttered, earning a quick look and a grin from Lothair.
The Viking thanked the keeper graciously and tucked the coin away.
A blade in a heavily ornamented sheath was passed then to Luc, who regarded it with awe. “A dagger that always strikes true,” Marcus said. “For it has a hilt of dragon bone.”
“So it can see where you cannot,” Thierry said, making a reference to Luc’s injured eye.
“A welcome gift. And a fine blade, as well,” Luc said, turning it so that it caught the light. “This is fine steel. I thank you, Marcus!”
Thierry was given another of the small velvet sacks, this one being blue. He opened it and immediately light flooded from inside it. He removed the contents with care and the knights gasped as one at the stone that hung like a pendant from a fine silver chain. It was as clear as a drop of water, but it shone with inner light. The squires nudged each other and pushed closer to see it better.
“The Virgin’s Tear,” Marcus said softly. “Said to have been gathered from a maiden when the unicorn that had laid its head in her lap was snared and slaughtered.” He nodded. “Its luminosity indicates the future of the bearer. When it is radiant, as it is now, all prospects are fine. But when it clouds over or turns dark, take warning.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” Thierry said, the awe in his voice echoing what Rolfe felt. “I will treasure this forever.” Rolfe guessed he was not the only one glad to see the light shining brightly from the stone.
“This is for you,” Marcus said, offering a smaller carved box to Niall. At his nod, Niall opened the box, revealing black seeds as large as a man’s thumbnail. “The red bloom of passion. It grows only when a destined lover appears in the life of the bearer. Plant it and it will grow, a mark of your heart’s true impulse.”
“It will wait a long time for Niall to experience true love,” Lothair teased. “Do the seeds become infertile in time?” The knights laughed at this.
“Whatever do you mean?” Niall asked in mock outrage. “I feel true love daily. Hourly! Each woman I meet, I cherish from the depths of my soul!”
They laughed again and Marcus shook his head. “There will be one, and you will have need of this gift to win her to your side.”
“If she is clever, that will certainly be so,” Niall agreed easily. He bowed. “I thank you, Marcus.”
There was only one gift remaining on the table, the tall stoppered bottle of deepest black. Marcus touched it with a fingertip, then turned and presented it to Rolfe.
“This rich gift cannot be for me,” he protested.
“It is,” Marcus said and smiled. “For it alone has the power to make dreams come true.”
Rolfe took the bottle with care, surprised that it was so heavy. It was blacker than obsidian and its surface danced with strange opalescent lights. Its slender neck curved gracefully to a bulbous base, which was etched with unfamiliar designs. It was mesmerizing to gaze upon the vessel, and even more enticing to speculate upon its contents. The stopper was made of the same dark material, its heavy cork jammed solidly into the neck. A fine silken cord of silver and gold was knotted around the stopper, then secured to the decanter
’s neck with a healthy dollop of red wax.
“It is too small to have a woman in it,” Niall teased and Rolfe grinned.
“Let alone half a dozen,” Amaury agreed.
But Rolfe knew that his dream did not involve a woman. He stared at the bottle and knew that the one thing he desired above all else was a home of his own.
It was so simple and so true.
He would be content to have a place to defend, perhaps a border territory sworn to Viandin. Five years of travel had taught him the merit of having a place to call home. This remarkable bottle, presented to his older brother Adalbert as a gift, might be rich enough to earn his brother’s favor.
Adalbert, after all, had a taste for the exotic.
“I thank you, Marcus,” he said with a deep bow. “I am honored by your generosity.”
The knights thanked Marcus again and toasted his welfare. They remained at the tavern to eat a hot meal and plan for their departures, Thierry tracing routes on the tabletop as they debated the best way to ride. In the end, their ways did part: Rolfe, Thierry, and Luc would ride for Acre and the quicker route via Venice. Quinn and the others would ride for Constantinople. They agreed to meet in Sayerne in a year, then gathered a collection of coins for Marcus and his family.
Rolfe was packing his belongings to depart at the dawn when the bottle rattled just a little, moving on its own. He wondered what could be inside it.
Had it moved? Or had he simply indulged too much in the wine?
It did not matter. This gift was for Adalbert, and it would make Rolfe’s dream come true, just as Marcus had vowed.
Chapter 1
November 1101—in the forest south of the Beauvoir Pass
Rolfe felt the cold as never before.
The wind wound its way beneath his heavy cloak, its fingers creeping under his tabard to chill his flesh. He shivered as he rode, knowing that winter had only just bared its teeth. It had not even snowed as yet.
Clearly, his years beneath Outremer’s sun had thinned his blood overmuch.
Wolves howled, their voices at greater proximity than Rolfe might have liked. He was in the forests that covered the flanks of the Alps to the south of the Beauvoir pass, and he knew it would become colder as he climbed higher. He regretted leaving Thierry and Luc in Milan, for he would have welcomed their company, but he was determined to arrive at Viandin well before the Yule.
He refused to think of the cheerful inn in Milan, or of the comfort of his fellows there. Instead, Rolfe thought of the greeting he would receive from his brother and mother, as well as the satisfaction of warmth and plentiful food. He had grown lean in his time away.
It would be worth this weather to be home.
Rolfe was keenly aware of his solitude as he rode onward. He had forgotten that a winter forest like the one surrounding him could be so bleak. He was certain there were no other men within earshot. The trees’ barren branches seemed to scratch the dark bellies of the clouds scurrying across the sky. A few dry leaves scuttled over the ground, their rattle like a muttering of unwelcome intruders.
Not a creature stirred; not a bird sang.
Rolfe huddled lower in his cloak, wishing he had not taken the short cut he thought he recalled. The path had been clear at first but had dwindled. He had the odd sense that the forest was reluctant to let him pass. His way had been obstructed multiple times and he wondered if he had lost the path completely. He eyed the faint glow of the sun and hoped he had not lost his direction. On an overcast day like this one, it would be an easy error to make.
He deliberately thought of Château Viandin. His older brother, Adalbert, should feel secure in his seat as Lord de Viandin by now. He would have the administration organized and the tithes collected. He would have made his bonds with local overlords and undoubtedly be in the confidence of at least one king. Perhaps Adalbert would have a bride, even a son. Rolfe permitted himself to hope that his brother might be inclined to be generous.
He did not wish for much: just a small property to manage. Perhaps one that Adalbert wished to see securely beholden to his hand. Perhaps there was a holding on the perimeter of Viandin in need of vigorous defense. One with a bridge or a toll. Rolfe would be ideal to oversee the defense of a border, in his own opinion. It would put his experience to good use.
Adalbert, of course, might not share his view.
Rolfe’s gaze fell to the black decanter lashed to his saddle. He had itched to open it since Marcus had placed it in his hands, but he was determined not to insult Adalbert with a used gift.
That would not make his dream come true.
Yet the months and the miles had fed an imagination Rolfe had not known he possessed. He had grown more certain that there was a treasure inside, simply waiting to be discovered. He imagined a rare liqueur created from pomegranates, or an exotic healing potion, or even a perfume the like of which had never been smelled west of Byzantium.
Rolfe ran a finger down the neck of the decanter.
It was then that he noticed that the wax seal had lifted cleanly away from the bottle. He was certain it had been firmly adhered before. But now the glittering cord swung free and the seal was still whole upon it.
Perhaps the cold had lifted it from the bottle.
He could satisfy his curiosity without Adalbert ever knowing the difference.
Rolfe did not need to consider the matter twice.
He pulled his destrier to an unceremonious halt before he could question his impulse. Mephistopheles’ ears flicked, as though the beast made a comment about stopping where there was no sign of shelter, but Rolfe ignored him.
He freed Adalbert’s gift from the lashing with impatient fingers, then halted in wonder once the weight of it filled his hand. The dark bottle fit perfectly into his gloved palm, and he sat, turning it and transfixed by the lights reflected from its surface, for a long moment. A fresh gust of wind swirled around him, lifting the ends of his cloak, and Rolfe shivered.
He tried to twist the cork free, but it was more resolutely anchored than he might have expected. Rolfe grimaced as he pulled, but to no avail. Mephistopheles nickered, impatient with their delay, and when the beast danced sideways, Rolfe’s grip on the bottle slipped. It leaped from his grip and for a terrifying moment, it was loose in the air. Rolfe managed to snatch it out of the air before it fell to the ground, and he closed his eyes in relief.
It was obvious he needed a sure footing for this task. He dismounted then twisted the dark top with all his might.
The cork popped with sudden vigor, its release sending Rolfe sprawling backward. When he fell, the bottle danced from his grip.
“Fool!” he muttered and lunged after the bottle. To his relief, it hit the ground and rolled without breaking. It stopped an arm’s length away, apparently undamaged.
Perhaps it was charmed. Rolfe exhaled shakily and reached for the bottle. Nothing had spilled from it either and he wondered if it might be empty after all.
No sooner had his hand closed around its base than something began to spew forth from its mouth. It was neither elixir, nor liqueur, nor exotic scent.
As Rolfe stared, a dark cloud billowed from the bottle with alarming speed. It was unnatural, to say the least. He dropped the decanter and stepped backward, staring in awe at the erupting cloud. What had he released?
How would he get it back inside for Adalbert?
The dark mist swirled into the shape of a tall woman with long dark hair. She was before him, yet she was not. Her features were clearly visible, but Rolfe could also see the trees through her form. His heart skipped in fear as she loomed high above him.
It stopped when she fixed her gaze upon him.
Rolfe swallowed. This sight could not be real.
The vision leaned closer as he struggled to make sense of what he saw. Obviously, this was some trickery, like that caused by certain mushrooms.
It was an illusion, if a very detailed one.
“You!” the shadow roared and pointed a finge
r at him.
Rolfe jumped at the volume of her voice.
As far as he knew, visions from mushrooms were silent.
But he was not the only one to have heard the vision’s cry. His palfrey, usually content to follow Mephistopheles, whinnied in fright and tugged vehemently at its reins. It snapped the leather from Rolfe’s astonished grip and bolted into the woods.
Curse the skittish creature! His supplies were in the palfrey’s saddlebags! That fact recalled Rolfe to his senses. He called after the palfrey, but she did not halt.
He turned angrily on the vision responsible for his woes. “You have frightened one of my steeds and now my supplies are lost!”
“Me?” she purred, and Rolfe shivered. The specter leaned closer suddenly and he was granted a view of wickedly sharp teeth.
Perhaps he should have worded his question more politely.
The scents of saffron, cinnamon, cloves, and ambergris flooded Rolfe’s nostrils as her dark cloud surrounded him. He struggled to explain the presence of smells that had no place in this northern forest and failed.
Losing his palfrey might be the least of his problems.
“Confess to me your name, mortal,” she growled.
“Rolfe de Viandin.” He answered before he could question the wisdom of doing so. He was dismayed to find his voice no more than a shadow of its usual bold tone.
“So, it is Rolfe de Viandin who condemns me to leave my beloved palace in this place. Trust a mortal man to complicate matters!”
The specter spat. The ground melted with a hiss where the missile landed, just to Rolfe’s left. He watched in alarm as a cloud of steam rose from the spot.
He should have set that old cheese aside at midday, he reasoned wildly. Clearly, the cheese had been past its prime. He had suspected as much at the time but hunger had compelled him to avoid wasting it.
He would discard the rest of it.
Rolfe eased a little farther away from this manifestation of a sour stomach.
Caution was the better part of valor, after all.
One Knight Enchanted Page 2
