Prologue

Prologue

Chamont-sur-Maine

Bartholomew was torn between his loyalties. He knelt in the chapel all night before his investiture as a knight and wrestled with his decision.

When Gaston offered to dub him a knight, Bartholomew had immediately thought that he might return to England. As a knight, he could challenge the villain who had stolen the holding that had been his birthright. As a knight, he could defend justice and ensure that his parents were avenged. As a knight, he could claim his family holding of Haynesdale if it had been abandoned and appeal to the king for its return to his hand. His first thoughts had been all of opportunity and triumph.

Still there had been a seed of doubt. Gaston had been more than good to him. That knight had found Bartholomew, orphaned in the streets of Paris, when he had been only a young boy. Gaston had not only ensured his welfare but trained him as a squire when he was too young and small to be one. Though there was only a little more than ten years between them, Gaston could have been Bartholomew's father, given the role the older knight had played in his life. Now, Gaston not only would knight Bartholomew—at considerable expense—but had offered him an opportunity as Captain of the Guard, defending the borders of Chamont-sur-Maine.

Did he not owe it to Gaston to take this role?

Bartholomew's doubts had increased when the party arrived at Gaston's newly won holding to discover that the husband of Gaston's niece was displeased to find Gaston arriving home and hale. It was clear to all that Millard had aspirations to claim Chamont-sur-Maine for his own, and might well have done so already if Gaston had been further delayed. Though the matter had been resolved in Gaston's favor, Bartholomew was aware that his good friend could face additional challenges. Gaston might well need every blade he could summon to his side.

Which duty should Bartholomew fulfill? Was it better to right an old wrong or to ensure that another matter did not go awry in future?

Just days before, Wulfe had arrived for Bartholomew's investiture as a knight, a radiant Christina by his side. That former Templar's tale of returning to his family abode and being accepted by his father had been an inspiration. Wulfe, to Bartholomew's surprise, had been not only a bastard but one spurned by his sire. He had won a title and the hand of Christina in his own.

Because Wulfe had dared to hope for it.

Nay, because he had dared to seek it out and claim it.

Indeed, the fact that this fine holding of Chamont-sur-Maine came to the hand of Gaston argued in favor of Bartholomew going to England. A younger son without a legacy, Gaston had believed he would serve as a Templar for all his life. That such a rich reward had come to the knight Bartholomew admired most in all of Christendom was a welcome indication that he might prevail himself over the villain who had stolen Haynesdale.

It would have been easier to be certain of his path had he known what awaited him at Haynesdale. What had truly happened all those years ago? Bartholomew had been too young for his memory to be reliable. He knew he had been sent away. He dreamed of fire and he bore a scar, burned into his own flesh. Who had attacked their abode? Did his mother still live? Did the villain still hold the estate?

Would the king heed Bartholomew's appeal? He knew that the Angevin kings demanded that all holdings in England revert to their control upon the death of a baron, so that the king could see the responsibility bestowed anew. This practice was to ensure that the king's faithful men were always in power and always rewarded. Henry and his kin did not recognize inheritance in those lands beneath their control—save by the gift of coin. The escheat could be bought but Bartholomew had no coin to secure his claim.

If he departed from France, would he betray Gaston's trust and fail in his own quest, as well? He could argue the merit of both courses and see the risks of both.

Bartholomew eyed the reliquary on the altar and wondered whether Saint Euphemia had interceded for Wulfe and Gaston. Their party had defended the saint's remains all the way from Jerusalem, at some peril. Would she do as much for him?

How could he chose between two paths, both honorable yet both filled with peril?

He supposed this was the task of a knight.

Perhaps this decision was his true test.

That evening, Bartholomew had been washed and shaved, and his beard had been shaved. He had donned a new chemise and chausses and entered the chapel in reverent silence. The reliquary had been revealed and the priest had kissed it, then placed it upon the altar. Gaston had placed the sword with which Bartholomew would be girded before it, and he had been left in silence to prepare himself for his vows.

The portal had been locked and the chapel had become both dark and cold.

It had been hours. Bartholomew's knees hurt. His belly was empty. His mouth was dry and his fingers were cold. Still, he prayed, hoping for one choice to offer itself as more important than the other.

The night passed slowly. He might have dozed, yet on his knees, save his thoughts were churning. The chill of the stone rose through his body and seemed to close around his heart.

Gaston or Haynesdale?

It seemed Bartholomew had knelt for an eternity when he saw the sky lighten beyond the windows of the chapel and heard birds stirring. He raised his gaze yet again to the altar, to the sword that would soon be his own. Its pommel gleamed in the darkness. It was a fine blade of Toledo steel, its hilt simple and strong. Gaston had chosen a weapon that would serve Bartholomew well all his life. The pommel had a round crystal in it, much like Gaston's own, but this orb had a fragment of the True Cross trapped within it. The sword and the spurs Gaston would fit to Bartholomew's boots on the morrow symbolized his new role and responsibility.

Behind the sword was the golden reliquary they had carried from Jerusalem to Paris for the Templars. The tale was that it remained in Paris, but to ensure its safety, Fergus would take it secretly to Scotland. The Grand Master in Paris had agreed that it might grace the chapel here, at Gaston's request, so long as the portal was barred and none outside their party saw it—save the priest.

Bartholomew had not seen the marvel himself until they had reached the Paris Temple and still he could not believe its richness. The reliquary was large and wrought of gold and gems embellished its surface. It was adorned with the name of the saint whose sacred relic was sheltered within.

Saint Euphemia.

Just the day before, Christina had recounted the tale of Euphemia's life, including the miracle attributed to her at the Council of Chalcedon. There had been a dispute about the correct doctrine, so two scrolls, each describing one perspective, had been placed in the sarcophagus containing the saint's relics and sealed there. In the morning, one scroll had been in Euphemia's hand, the other beneath her feet.

She had chosen which doctrine would be orthodox.

She might help him to choose. Aye, it was her blessing to bestow.

Bartholomew recognized this impulse as the right one. Should the first beam of sunlight to touch the altar land upon the sword—the sword given to him by Gaston—he would remain to defend Gaston's legacy. Should the sunlight touch the reliquary first, he would choose greater risk and uncertain reward, the path of justice for his lost father. A martyr like Euphemia, after all, had become a saint by following her faith and holding to her convictions, no matter how uncertain the outcome.

Aye, Bartholomew resolved, it would be so.

His heart beat a little faster as the sky lightened yet more beyond the windows. Finally, a shaft of sunlight pierced the shadows, painting the west wall of the chapel a rosy gold. The sun rose higher and the beam of light eased closer to the altar. Bartholomew prayed as he watched its progress. He could not guess where it would land.

The sunlight was slanting over the altar when he heard a footstep outside the portal. The priest spoke softly to another, probably Gaston, and the key was turned in the lock. The sunlight touched the corner of the altar cloth in that moment, and still he could not anticipate whether reliquary or sword would be illuminated first.

The priest murmured a prayer from the back of the chapel. His soft footsteps came closer, the tread of a knight's boots following behind. Bartholomew watched the sunlight move slowly, nigh holding his breath.

The flare of light when the sun touched the gold was so bright as to blind him. The reliquary shone so vividly that it might have been ablaze, and truly, Bartholomew felt as if the saint's will set his own blood afire.

He would ride for Haynesdale, determine the truth of its situation, and strive to see his father avenged.

Justice it would be.

No matter what obstacle stood in his path.

It would be his first quest as a knight.