One Knight’s Bride (Rogues & Angels #4)

Chapter 1

The four knights rode together in companionable silence, though Amaury de Montvieux could not keep himself from urging his destrier to greater haste.

After eight years, he was returning home from crusade.

He was impatient to see the changes in his family holding, to duel with his younger brothers, and to confer with his father once more.

He had so many tales to share and feared he had missed so much.

Were his brothers married as yet? Did Montvieux prosper?

Surely Marcus had not been right in his dire prediction? The tavern-keeper in Outremer had granted a parting gift to each knight in their company: Amaury’s had been surrendered with a warning.

He was aware of the weight of the small rounded stone in his purse, for it seemed to grow heavier with each step closer to Montvieux.

It was a curious dark stone, veined with glimmering lines that seemed unworldly.

It was smooth and rounded like a small egg, deep green, of a shape and weight to be hidden securely in his palm.

A stone from a winged lion’s gullet, Marcus had said. A stone that could detect poison.

How? Amaury did not know, but he believed Marcus’ remarkable assertion. There was something uncanny about the stone, something that made such a power seem plausible.

Worse, Marcus had insisted he gave the stone to Amaury to better confront the treachery that would greet that knight on his arrival home.

Treachery at Montvieux? Surely not. Amaury had been skeptical. But now, with his destination so close, he yearned to know for certain.

His fellow knights were Lothair of Sutherland, oft called The Viking for his fair hair and quiet demeanor.

Lothair was both a fearsome warrior and a healer, and intended to continue to Provins to study under an apothecary there.

Luc and Thierry Douglas were twin brothers from the north of England and better friends than foes.

Their ferocity and composure in battle was almost equal to that of Lothair, and Amaury was glad to count them among his allies.

Squires trailed behind the knights, whose armor showed signs of battle and wear.

Amaury’s three squires rode their own palfreys and he had another loaded with gifts, baggage and acquisitions.

Lothair had only one squire, while Luc and Thierry each travelled with one boy to tend their needs.

Though all four warriors had earned their spurs, none of the company came from so affluent a background as Amaury. He had been glad to share his advantages with his friends and he was anxious to share the hospitality of Montvieux with the men who had become as close as brothers.

He cast a smile at his oldest squire, Philip, who had accompanied him for his entire journey.

The boy was the oldest son of the miller at Montvieux and he, too, was returning home.

Philip, though, had spent half his life abroad.

The boy grinned back, his anticipation as evident as Amaury’s own.

He was growing to manhood now and Amaury realized he should plan for the awarding of Philip’s spurs.

Aye, he must turn his thoughts to matters of peace instead of war, of stability instead of battles. He welcomed the prospect.

They passed through the great forest in the south of Montvieux’s territories, and Amaury could not help but note that the road was not as well tended as once it had been.

The verges had not been trimmed back this year, or perhaps even the year before, which was uncommon.

His father had always been vigilant in managing such details.

Having growth next to the road created opportunity for bandits and other villains. Was something amiss?

Amaury touched his spurs to Ténébreux’s flanks as they broke clear of the forest’s shadows.

The road from this point stretched north and west, a ribbon leading directly to Montvieux’s gates.

But the gates were not there, for Montvieux was not there.

There was no keep rising proudly on the horizon, no blue banner snapping against the sky. He might have forgotten the way home.

There was naught at all before him.

Nay! This could not be!

Amaury cried out and urged his destrier to a gallop. Philip was fast behind him on his palfrey, his concern palpable. The pair raced ahead of the company, though the others, too, hastened their pace.

When Amaury saw the black scorch upon the ground where the village had been, he thought his heart might stop.

All of Montvieux had been constructed of wood, the motte and bailey keep, the protective palisade, the village and even the mill, and built of lumber harvested from that forest they had just left.

And it was all gone, save for the ash and charred marks upon the soil.

Montvieux had been razed to the ground.

Amaury and Philip exchanged a glance of horror.

“But when?” the boy asked, his voice hoarse. “But how?”

“But who?” Amaury demanded, though he expected no reply.

He urged his destrier onward, passing over the area that should have been the gates.

There was a line where the palisades had been burned, only some charred posts emerging from the ground.

A large black scar marked where the hall had stood and silence pressed upon him when he halted his horse.

Where was his father?

Where were his brothers?

Where were all the people who had called Montvieux home?

He heard Philip make a sound that might have been a sob.

“There are no corpses, Philip,” he noted. “They must have fled to safety.”

The boy swallowed hard. “They could have been captured, my lord,” he said, his words thick.

“Not here,” Amaury said, hoping he was right. He realized his companions had come to a halt behind him.

“The fire was not recent,” Lothair said, taking a deep breath of the air. He dismounted, then bent to rub ash between his finger and thumb, sniffing it. “It has been months.” His pale gaze flicked over the ruined keep. “And you speak aright. I see no corpses or indication that there have been any.”

“In Palestine, we would assume they had been enslaved,” Thierry said, then shrugged in apology when Amaury and Philip pivoted to glare at him.

“Not here,” Amaury said again.

Thierry shrugged. “There is little to be gained in ignoring the possibilities.”

“I would know for certain.” Amaury slipped from his saddle and Philip hastened to hold his destrier’s reins. He strode in the direction of the chapel.

“A churchyard?” Lothair asked with interest. “That might hold a clue.”

But there were no freshly turned mounds in the churchyard and Amaury would have wagered that there were at most a few more graves.

He moved aside debris and ash, seeing that someone had cleared the way to the crypt already.

The chapel had burned to the ground, but its burned remains had scattered over the stone sarcophagi in the crypt.

Once the graves of his forebears had been in darkness, but now the sun touched the stone lids through gaps in the broken floor.

Amaury pushed some burned timbers aside, then descended into the shadowed space. The floor overhead was more intact than he might have expected. It was cold in the crypt and the scent of death was unmistakable.

There were three sarcophagi in the crypt, carved of local stone and secured with lids. Amaury’s ancestors were laid to rest there, but there was a fourth tomb. When Amaury had departed, it had been empty, the lid angled against one side of it.

Now the lid was secured atop it.

Amaury had to look upon the face of its occupant.

He was aware of Lothair close by his side and glad of that knight’s presence.

They halted on either side of the stone sarcophagus and exchanged a glance.

At Amaury’s nod, the two knights hefted up the lid.

Thierry moved to the head of the tomb and shoved the slab of stone further back. There was a corpse within.

Lothair unwound the shroud to expose the face of the dead man.

“Father,” Amaury whispered, his tears rising. There could be no doubt, though his father’s eyes were closed and his skin had pulled back from his bones. Lucien de Montvieux could not be said to look asleep, for he was clearly dead.

Lothair was leaning over the body, sniffing and peering at it.

At his gesture, Philip fetched a candle and tinder, lighting it for the knight.

Lothair claimed it to continue his examination, while the others watched in silence.

Lothair pressed a hand on Lucien de Montvieux’s chest gently then lifted it away.

“Not more than three months,” he said with characteristic economy.

Thierry approached then. “Did he wear a signet ring?” he asked.

“On his left hand,” Amaury said. “Beside his wedding band.” He could not tear his gaze from his father’s face, grief rising so hot and hard that it might choke him. How unfair was it that he had arrived too late to say a final farewell to his beloved father?

Lothair unwrapped the dead man’s hands. He glanced up, his expression making it clear that the fingers were bare.

Not just his father but his legacy, as well. Amaury could not bear the weight of his loss.

“Three months,” he whispered. “I could have been here. We could have ridden with greater haste. We could have left Sayerne earlier and not lingered at Viandin.”

“But we did and it is done,” Thierry said sternly.

“Perhaps you would be lying here beside him if we had journeyed more quickly,” Philip added.

“Perhaps we all would,” Lothair added grimly.

Amaury did not understand. “What do you mean? My father had seen only sixty summers. My grandfather and his before him lived long years beyond that.”

Lothair gestured to the empty finger. “Where is his ring?” he asked. “Who has claimed your legacy?”

Amaury blinked. “Surely my brothers took the ring for safekeeping?”

“And where are they?” Thierry asked gently.