The Red Crown (Knights of Caliburn University #3)

Prologue

AVIGNON, FRANCE

Something is wrong with the bees.

The novice senses it rather than sees it—of course. But once he has, it is unmistakable. Between the herb garden and the cemetery cloister, the hives lie cool and calm, the usual buzz and whirr of God's dutiful builders unnaturally quiet for this time of year.

He would not be here, ordinarily. It is usually the oldest brothers who are the apiarists: those too infirm or senile to pray, let alone train, are given the humble and simple tasks of tending to the hives, harvesting the sticky flats of honeycomb, submitting to the occasional sting.

But Brother Bernard has been ill, and so the novice was called in his stead.

He likes the bees. Of all the duties and rites that he has so far undergone at the monastery of St. Vincent, caring for the bees has been by far the most pleasant.

He looks forward to the spring scents of trees and wildflowers, the sweet almond blossoms and grassy wild chamomile, astringent rosemary and floral thyme.

And lavender, always lavender—before he took the habit, the sight of those purpling hills across Provence had been a great comfort to him.

Now, in the hutch, the novice puts up the tools—gloves, smoker, brush, scraper—knowing their places by feel.

And as he leaves for the chapter house, he senses something settle gently on his shoulder.

The slight pulling on the fibers of the fabric from tiny wings and feet—un grimpeur.

Hitchhikers, the brothers call them, those rogue drone bees that stow away in the folds of a habit from time to time, letting loose only later when a telltale hum interrupts the silence of mass or a meal.

"Va-t'en," he whispers, but the little bee stays put. He thinks to brush it off—but no. So harsh. And why not come along? he thinks. Perhaps this bee will share why he and his fellows are feeling so quiet.

The novice is barely inside the cool air of the chapter house when he is noticed.

"Tout va bien, petit frère?"

He will never know the other brothers by sight, of course. But he knows that voice.

That is the prior-at-arms.

Quickly, the novice shakes his head. "Non—euh, oui. Oui."

A suspicious answer. The prior-at-arms does not move on.

"Quelque chose à confesser, mon frère?" he asks.

"Non." No, nothing to confess, not in that sense. "Mais…"

A faint whirr of wings. Le grimpeur, the hitchhiker, has taken off, buzzing in the air about the two of them.

"Mais?" prompts the prior. But?

The novice inclines his head, out of habit. "Mais il me semble que les abeilles sont peut-être…déréglées."

It feels foolish to say. The bees seem off to me. Why should the prior-at-arms be concerned with such things?

Yet he had asked.

And, too, he seems interested. For nothing comes but a curious silence.

"Je saisis," says the prior at last.

He understands? The novice, for one, does not. What is there to understand about this?

And then dread chills his skin. Perhaps this is another mistake. Another rule he has tripped over, too eager and forthright and unobservant. He thinks of what surrounds them, on the walls, in the catacombs. They are there, he knows, always there—blades. Spikes, shafts, spears. Iron and steel.

He shivers.

A man may be rectified through mortification of the body, through penance and prayer. A creature so small as a bee—what can be done? No threat of hell or promise of heaven, no cache of riches or seat of power can sway them.

For them, the world is only work. Building, growing, living, dying.

It must be nice, he thinks, to be a bee.

"Ah, le voilà," comes the prior's voice. His hand brushes against the novice's shoulder, scooping the little hitchhiker off as if he means to interrogate it.

The prior chuckles. "Ubi est, mors, stimulus tuus?"

A Bible verse, thinks the novice. Eastertide. Where, O death, is thy sting?

There is no answer from the bee, of course. No sound at all in the chapter house, save a small, crisp crunch.

The prior has closed his fist.

There is no more buzzing of wings.

"Alors," he says to the novice, "il nous faut la vérité, non?"

Then it is we who must find out the truth, no?