Chapter Two
Afrigid gust of winter’s chill strikes Alec’s face while he hovers in the night air far above the city of London.
Orange torch fire flickers like stars across the shadowy cityscape.
Silence engulfs him, soothes him. He is cold and alone, but his mind is all his own, not burdened by other’s emotions or visions of tragedies yet to come.
He is out of reach, flying above the human pain revealed to his seer’s eyes.
But then he feels a tug from below.
“No,” he says, his voice flat.
He turns onto his back and stares up at stars, distant guardians, but of whom or what?
He once believed they were angels, but he stopped believing in angels long ago.
Too many people suffered needlessly for angels to be real.
He covers his face with his hands. Again, he feels a pull in his heart, a soul pleading for his.
His hands fall away. Large snowflakes cascade and dance, whirling in swirling circles from a now starless sky.
He sighs and spreads his arms wide, like a bird, and drifts down.
The vague city shapes become defined — shacks, warehouses, churches, fortresses, docks, riverboats, and bridges.
Then he sees her.
She is standing on a narrow, wrought iron bridge, guarded by two lions, their faces watchful and regal.
But those stone sentinels cannot save her, only he can.
Her shoulders tensely hug her ears as she pulls the folds of her tattered cloak tighter against the wintry night.
Fear and pain coil like writhing snakes around her heart.
His long arm extends, reaching down to her, comforting her.
Her wide dark eyes brim full of tears. Heartbroken.
Hungry. Cold. Her pleas ride upon the whirling snow until they reach his ear in a whisper. “Help us.”
He descends, swooping down, stopping a breath away from her face. He meets her gaze.
“Alec,” she whispers, a puff of icy breath leaving her lips.
Alec MacVie sat up with a start, his thin wool blanket pooling around his hips.
His heart pounded in his ears, along with the dizzying accompaniment of another’s heartbeat, her heartbeat.
He threw back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and rested his head in his hands.
A flash of cold lingering from the wintry dream passed over him, chilling his naked body.
Shivering, he wrapped his fingers around the shard of stone, nearly purple in color, which hung from a long, leather strip around his neck.
Heat emanated from the stone. He closed his eyes, inviting the warmth to imbue his body.
The chill fled, but whoever she was, the poor, heartbroken lass on the bridge, her pain still gripped his soul.
Her fear quickened his own pulse. He took a deep, slow breath and willed it all to cease.
Slowly, everything drained away, leaving the hollowness inside him to which he had grown accustomed.
He crossed to stand in front of the hearth.
Orange embers glowed in the darkness. Closing his eyes, he again saw her pale face and heard his name on her lips.
Still staring at smoldering ash, he backed up a few steps and sat in the high-backed chair.
The stone shard he wore now felt cool against his skin.
He wrapped his fingers around it, wondering about the secrets it held — secrets kept even from his divining gaze.
The stone had come to him by the Abbot Matthew of Haddington Abbey.
The Abbot led a secret network of Scottish rebels to which Alec and his brothers belonged.
Before setting out on his latest assignment, the abbot had given Alec the shard and told him that it contained a secret he hoped Alec could reveal — a secret of great importance to the cause.
“Somehow, Scotland’s fate is tied to this broken shard,” the abbot had told him.
For months now, he had pondered the stone, but it had remained quiet, soulless; that is, until three nights ago, when he started dreaming about the lass on the bridge.
Suddenly, the stone had allusively revealed itself, warming when her heartbeat accompanied his own.
This was the third time he had dreamt of her, and now the third time he had felt the stone’s fire.
But who was she? And what did it all mean?
He raked both hands through his hair, as he glanced about the room.
One thing he knew for certain — the answers were not hiding there in his chamber.
He needed to get out. Letting the cool stone fall against his chest, he stood and crossed to his wardrobe and grabbed a pair of hose.
He pulled them on, settling the waistband low on his hips.
Then he yanked on a black tunic, which he belted at his waist. Within his tall boots, he hid a dagger.
And after securing his sword to his back, he swept a thick, black cloak over his shoulders and headed toward the door.
Stepping into the hallway, he shut the door and locked it before setting out down the corridor, which was illuminated by candlelight.
At the end of the hallway, he turned onto a landing.
His eyes, as always, were drawn straight ahead where a massive shield bore the King of England’s coat of arms. The large display served as Alec’s daily reminder that he was, indeed, living in King Edward’s palace in London — or at least a wealthy English merchant named Randolph Tweed was.
For several months now, Alec had been living under the alias of Randolph Tweed, spying on the English court by order of Abbot Matthew.
But in all that time, King Edward had not actually been in residence.
He had moved his household to York where he readied his army for war, bringing a six-month truce with Scotland soon to an end.
In his absence, he had left his palace in London in the less than capable hands of a man named John Bigge.
The keepership was John’s according to hereditary laws, but as keeper, he had done little to preserve courtly order.
Rather, his salacious appetites had invited all manner of sinners to court.
He had even tempted the monks in the adjacent abbey to partake in his unholy revelries.
In fact, it was rumors of the monks’ debauchery that compelled the abbot to send one of his secret rebels to the palace in the first place, and it was no surprise that he assigned Alec to the task.
Of all the secret rebels in Scotland, Alec was particularly adept as a spy, owing to gifts that had both served and plagued him his entire life.
In the simplest of terms, Alec possessed the Sight.
He could feel what another person was feeling, and if he laid his hand on someone, he saw into their soul — their fears, pains, sorrows, and desires.
When it served him to be charming, no one could resist him.
He could sense a person’s response to him, guiding his word and deed.
They invariably told him exactly what they needed to hear.
Lies could never fool him. Detecting deception came as naturally to him as breathing.
More than that, he had visions, dreams that revealed need or what loomed in the future — like his dream of the heartbroken lass on the bridge.
When he was not pretending to be someone else, he chose to isolate his thoughts, to buffer and block out the voices.
Over the years, he had learned to erect walls around his senses, shielding his heart and mind from the continuous barrage of human emotion.
As a result, most thought him cold-hearted ...
a hard man. And whether true or not, he did nothing to change their minds.
He preferred to keep people at a distance.
They were all too human, too quick to distrust and to assume the worst of themselves and others.
The inner workings of another’s mind were seldom uplifting.
Most of the time, it was like walking through a nightmare of despair, and the king’s palace was no different.
The keeper had amassed a collection of companions with the vilest of hearts, bent only on baseless pleasures.
He knew not the hour as he approached the great hall, but he would be able to judge the time depending on how drunk the revelers were.
He closed his eyes, steeling his strength against the assault of emotion as he pulled open the large double doors and walked headlong into the large room.
Piercing laughter and battling voices echoed off the vaulted ceilings.
Raucous men salivated after dancers who languidly moved among the tables, undulating their hips in layers of sheer silk.
Barmaids busily skirted around the dancers, filling greedy fists with large tankards of ale at a speed that meant the night was still young.
He took a step forward just as one of the dancers twirled away from groping hands straight into Alec.
Her hands splayed across his chest as she looked up to meet his eyes.
Flashes of her life came unbidden to his mind; a little girl loved and treasured, a father lost at sea, a mother with no place to turn, a life torn asunder, a beautiful young woman alone.
“I’m sorry,” she said, a sensual smile curving her lips. But then her eyes narrowed on his, and her smiled vanished. She dropped her hands to her sides. “Randolph,” she said, surprise and trepidation lacing her voice.
He held her gaze but revealed none of what he’d glimpsed of her.
Nor did he acknowledge her distrust of him.
The dancers and serving maids were all afraid of him.
They had seen his black eyes and cool facade and assumed the worst of him.
Rumors abounded of his cruel sexual appetites, although he had never taken any one of them to his bed.
Still, he did naught to dispel the rumors as it kept them away.
Eyes now wide, the dancer turned and darted away from him.
He cleared her from his thoughts, emptying his heart and mind, choosing numbness over the lust, greed, hunger, and fear, which pulsed through the room and fought to enter him.
Only snatches of emotion made it past. But then an ache so soft and pure, cut through the rest, overtaking all his defenses.
Pain accompanied by truth rang out, even in its gentleness, above the din of desperation.
His eyes fell on a woman he had seen many times before.
Her name was Diana. Her flaxen hair trailed the ground where she sat, and her green eyes shone with mirth and delight.
She was an actress without equal. Those surrounding her, her many admirers, could never have guessed the pain she was in.
Only Alec knew that which even she might not have known herself.
She was dying. He could feel the struggle for life in her waning heartbeat, but something or someone was keeping her alive.
He looked at the large, detestable man at her side and knew he was not the reason behind her strength.
“Randolph,” a voice called out.
Alec turned and locked eyes with the keeper.
John’s thick black hair curled close to his scalp.
He had just celebrated his fortieth year with all the pomp of a true royal despite the humbleness of his birth.
He was neither lord nor knight, but he carried himself as though he were king.
He raised his tankard as Alec approached.
“Randolph, I’ve not seen you for days.” His small, brown eyes darted left then right before he continued in a quiet voice. “Have you any news?”
Alec, of course, knew what John sought. Unbeknownst to anyone, from the very beginning, Alec had been pitting John’s companions against one another, mostly merchants and some lesser nobles, inciting conflict among the ranks.
Then he revealed the subsequent deceptions and misgivings to John, earning his unquestioned trust. In turn, John’s approval protected him from the others, that and his own stony demeanor.
“I’ve nothing to report,” Alec said, his face and voice impassive.
John nodded, then his eyes left Alec’s as one of the dancers enticed him with the gentle sway of her hips.
The keeper grabbed her. Alec looked away.
Hazy drunkenness blurred John’s emotions, but he had at least what he thought he wanted — a tankard in one hand and a woman on his lap who was not his wife.
Alec resisted the urge to shake his head in disgust as John palmed the dancer’s breast. He turned and started to walk away. He had to get out of there.
“Will you not join us?” the keeper called.
Alec glanced back. “I’ve some business to take care of.”
“Some evening you must bring your business here so that we might meet her,” the keeper called after him, laughing.
With a cool nod, Alec turned away from John’s greed. Ignoring the stares as he passed through the revelers, he stepped out into the courtyard and welcomed the sting of icy wind. The city awaited him, and perhaps this night he would find what kept him in London — the lass from his dreams.