The Raven and the Rose (9 page)

He picked up his sword and examined it, grimacing as he rubbed his thumb over a chip in the blade. That mundane action made Gledys laugh. It was shaky, but it was a laugh.

“He thought you were a monk,” she said.

“Stupid as well as vile.”

“Perhaps the chalice guided you to leave your armor behind. It gave you the advantage of surprise.”

He considered that. “Indeed, but I think the darker work this night belongs not to a chalice, but to the ancient garalarl. It may be the agent of peace, but it's also a bloody cup. Come. It's time to leave.”

Gledys felt it, too: an urgency as the cave cooled and dimmed, as if they might be trapped here if they lingered. They dressed quickly and hurried to the exit, but there she paused.

The rose had been left for a reason, so she ran back and took it before fleeing into the normality of night.

***

They rode into the camp when the sun was high, and headed to Duke Henry's tent.

From Glastonbury, they'd been guided to the hut in the woods again, and the familiar bed. There they had found new pleasures in each other. After their breakfast of bread, cheese and ale, they'd left, but Gledys now had a bundle. She'd brought back her habit, for it held good memories. She also had the rose, tucked carefully in her pouch.

Henry of Anjou was outside among a group of men, their horses ready. He was clearly about to leave. When he saw them he halted and abruptly returned inside. They dismounted and followed.

The duke turned to face them. “Well?”

“We think it is so, my lord,” said Michael, his manner calm, as he had been with Henry before. “The holy chalice appeared to us, and then it disappeared. It seems this means that the wheel has turned toward peace.”

“Does it . . . does it? But you couldn't bring it back.”

“We didn't try, my lord.”

Henry of Anjou frowned.

Gledys opened her pouch and took out the rose. “But we brought you this, my lord. Evidence, perhaps, of miracles.”

He took the flower. “Lovely, and I've never seen so deep a red, not even in Aquitaine, where roses grow particularly well. But I don't need evidence of this sort. I just received good news.”

“An offer of a new truce, my lord?” Gledys asked.

He smiled, a wolfish grin. “Better than that. The certainty of peace and victory. Eustace of Boulogne is dead.”

Gledys heard Michael gasp, too, and she prayed guilt didn't show on either of their faces.

“He died of an apoplexy in the night. God's judgment, people are saying, for his pillaging the abbey at Saint Edmundsbury.” He raised the rose and inhaled. “What's more, I hear good news about his father's health. Stephen is failing. The holy chalice has made its wise choice.” He gave the rose back to Gledys. “You have my thanks and my favor. When I am king, you will both get your just reward.” He swept out and they heard his horse's hooves pounding away.

Gledys looked down at the rose, which showed no sign of wilting. “I feel sorry for the king, who has lost his son.”

Michael drew her into his arms. “A better king, a better man, might not have bred such a son. Rejoice, my love, for now our children will have peace.”

She looked up at him. “But we must make sure to have seven, just in case.”

He grinned back at her. “A pleasant sort of holy duty.” Sobering, he cradled her face. “The holy chalice brings not just peace but a deeply precious love. If the troubadours knew of this kind of love, they'd know their songs were shallow.”

Gledys turned her head to kiss his thumb. “My love, my love . . . And we will have a good life. The cup rewards those who serve it well.”

“It already has,” he murmured, kissing her.

Neither noticed when the rose fell to the floor, nor when it faded and disappeared. But for a while, the sweet perfume lingered as the land of England began a new, harmonious song.

Author's Note

The sudden death of Prince Eustace did indeed signal the end of what is now known as the Anarchy. The death was a final blow to his father, who lost all will to fight, and he reaffirmed the peace treaty that named Henry of Anjou his successor. As he predicted in the story, Henry didn't have long to wait. Stephen died the next year and Henry added King of England to his many titles.

Henry II wasn't an easy man—he ended up warring with his wife and sons, and was responsible for the murder of Thomas à Becket—but he was a strong and efficient ruler. He swiftly restored the rule of law to his ravaged kingdom, and during his thirty-five-year reign he reformed the law, finances and administration of England.

You may have noticed that in this story, no one talks about the Holy Grail. At the time
grail
and
graal
were common terms for a cup, and they gained their mystical meaning only in the next century, as the stories were developed by poets and troubadours. However, the legends about the holy chalice, King Arthur, and Joseph of Arimathea were already old, especially around Glastonbury. There were also stories about even older mysteries connected to the tor, and those I have incorporated here.

There was an ancient church incorporated into Glastonbury Abbey, said by some to have been built by Christ, and the thorn tree still blooms there at Christmastide.

The term
garalarl
is my invention. I wanted a pre-Christian concept, and I also wondered why the legends eventually adopted the terms
grail
and
graal
for the sacred chalice. It would make sense if they were adaptations from an already existing ancient term, and I play with that a little by having Michael mispronounce what Gledys says as
grarl
.

As Sister Wenna implies, each age will wrap its own beliefs around the true heart of the mystery. As you'll see in the following stories.

 

Hello,

It's such a delight to have so many novellas coming out as individual eBooks. I'm sure many of you are like me and often reluctant to buy an anthology if I'm only really interested in one story. Now, we can have just what we want, when and how we want it. What an interesting world we live in!

My publisher has previously put out two of my novellas as eBooks—
The Demon's Bride
and
The Demon's Mistress
. The confusion of titles is completely accidental. They were originally published ten years apart.
The Demon's Bride
is a Georgian story that was originally in an anthology called
Moonlit Lovers
, and
The Demon's Mistress
is a Regency that originally appeared in
In Praise of Younger Men
. (Yes, Lord Vandeimen is nearly ten years younger than the widow who becomes his lover.)

Now, three more novellas are coming this winter as individual eBooks.
A Mummers' Play
(released in 12/13) features a vengeful Regency Lady;
The Dragon and the Princess
(2/14) a vengeful dragon lord of Dorn; and
The Raven and the Rose
(3/14) a quest to end the bloody twelfth-century civil war called the Anarchy.

I'm delighted that you've read and enjoyed
The Raven and the Rose
. Please think about sharing the pleasure by leaving a review on your eBook retailer's website.

If you want to explore my other fiction, you can visit me online at www.jobev.com. Nearly everything is now available for e-readers.

If you want to keep up to date with my new and reissued work, you can sign up there for my occasional newsletter and/or click on the link to “like” my Facebook author page.

Here's some information about the other two novellas that are coming out this winter.

A Mummers' Play
will be out just in time for Christmas. It was originally published in an anthology called
A Regency Christmas
in 1995. Mumming was an English Christmas tradition where local people dressed in costume and went to the local big houses to perform in some way and receive cakes, ale, and coins.

Justina Travers is sure that her beloved Simon was killed because of the treason committed by his commanding officer, Lucky Jack Beaufort. Now that Lucky Jack is home and Duke of Cramoore, she intends to end his luck forever. But after sneaking into his home as part of a Christmas mummers' play, she begins to uncover secrets that change everything.

The Dragon and the Princess
was titled
The Dragon and the Virgin Princess
in the anthology
Dragon Lovers
in 2007. This is set in a fantasy middle ages with, of course, dragons.

Rozlinda of Saragon is the official SVP—the Sacrificial Virgin Princess—and she can't wait for a dragon to come so she can do her duty. After all, she'll only have to sacrifice a cup of blood and then at last, at long last, she'll no longer need to be V. But when a dragon flies in from the enemy nation of Dorn, the fearsome dragon rider carries her away. Rozlinda is
not
amused!

Keep reading for excerpts of these novellas following this letter.

You can also find more information about all my digital novellas, including excerpts and buy/preorder links on my website here: http://www.jobev.com/epubnov.html

If you're in the mood for something more substantial, I've written thirty-six romance novels, and nearly all are now available as e-books.

The next new book will be
A Shocking Delight
in April 2014.

This new novel is the story of Lucy Potter, whose dowry makes her a wealthy young woman. She sees no reason to give her wealth to a husband, especially as she dreams of following her father into trade. Then she meets an unusual man in a bookshop. That scene is included in this eBook following the excerpts from the novellas. I hope you enjoy it. And remember, you can preorder that book now.

All best wishes,

Jo

Keep reading for a preview of

A MUMMERS' PLAY

Available now from InterMix

 

London, November 1814

“My dear girl, it's far too dangerous.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Justina Travers coolly. “And I do wish you'd stop referring to me as a girl, Charles. I'm twenty-three years old.”

Lord Ormsbury's plain but honest face pinkened slightly. “That's not a terribly advanced age and”—he cleared his throat—“I do think of you as dear.”

“How can you say that? You don't pay me a penny.”

Though Justina spoke with carefully-judged playfulness and softened the words with a smile, she wanted to scream.

Not Charles, too.

She was so tired of besotted men. The fact that she still wore mourning three years after Simon's death should be warning enough. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to her older sister. Marina had warned, rather enviously, that black suited healthy blondes all too well.

Perhaps she should finally move into half-mourning, for grays and mauves had never become her. But she knew all her anxious friends and family would see it as a sign that she was finally “getting over it.”

She wasn't.

She would never “get over” Simon's death, or not until those responsible were punished. Every last one.

Charles was studying her as if he would say more, but he took the hint and dropped the subject, moving away to busy himself with the wine tray.

Justina let out a breath of relief. She liked and respected her superior at the Home Department, and the amateur spy-catching work she did with him had become almost essential to her sanity, but if he embarrassed her with attentions she would have to cut the connection.

He came over to top up her wineglass, once more the efficient administrator. “You simply can't go poking around in the affairs of a duke.”

“Even if he's a traitor?” Justina demanded, sipping the wine to humor him, though she rarely drank alcohol.

Ormsbury sat on the satin-stripe sofa opposite her chair and crossed one leg over the other. “I haven't failed to notice your obsession with this man, Justina. Thus far, it's been of little significance, but now . . .”

“But now he's a duke he's untouchable? Charles, that is horribly wrong.”

“But realistic. What shred of evidence do you have?”

Justina looked down at the tawny wine made mysterious by crystal and firelight. “You know what I have.”

“The fact that Lucky Jack Beaufort was the only survivor of the ambush in which your betrothed died,” he said crisply. “I've humored you on that, but I've checked into the story and I assure you, there's nothing in it.” He leaned forward, and his tone gentled. “War isn't logical, Justina, and it certainly isn't fair. Some men are simply blessed by fate. Beaufort gained his nickname before that event.”

She looked him in the eye. “Perhaps because he was working for the French all along.”

“My dear girl . . . !” Then he caught himself. “Justina, you must see that this is an unbalanced obsession! There has never been the slightest evidence that Beaufort had irregular dealings. And you have looked, I know.”

She felt herself coloring like a guilty child. She hadn't thought her actions so obvious. “I've never had the opportunity to search in a likely place. All you've ever let me do, Charles, is listen to gossip and search houses in which I was a guest. It would have been the sheerest luck to come across evidence in that way, but now—”

“But now he's a duke, he's even farther out of reach!” Then he flashed her a keen look. “Unless you've already wangled an invitation to Torlinghurst.”

Justina put down her scarce-touched glass and rose to pace the room. “I could, of course . . .”

“Then why not? You'd be safe enough as a guest, and able to poke around a bit.”

She closed her eyes briefly. He was humoring her. She hated to be humored. “He'd recognize the name of Simon's promised bride. They were quite close.”

“That would give you the greater entrée.”

“But he would be bound to talk of him.” Justina thought she had said it without great feeling, but then realized her hand had risen to cover the miniature she wore pinned on her bodice. She didn't need to open the locket to see the image. Blond hair, crooked smile, laughing eyes.

Simon.

Her heart and soul.

Dead.

Charles's tone gentled as he said, “Justina, my dear, it's been three years. Surely you can at least talk of it.”

“Not with
him
! Not with the man who caused Simon's death.”

She swung away to hide tears by staring at a lovely Raphael hanging on the wall, praying for the outward tranquility of that Madonna.

Revenge, they said, is a dish best eaten cold, and she had sheathed herself in ice in order to pursue her cause, not even permitting herself tears. Tears were weak, a sign of despair. She had chosen action instead, and resolved to destroy all those who had destroyed her hope of happiness.

Though her role had been minor, her work with Charles had helped bring down Napoleon, the man indirectly responsible for Simon's death. The Corsican Monster was now defeated and languishing on Elba and Justina gained some satisfaction from that.

But nothing she had done had touched Lucky Jack Beaufort. He'd even made colonel and been mentioned in dispatches before his cousin had unexpectedly died, making him Duke of Cranmoore. How could fate be so unfair as to clear the wretch's way to such a title while Simon lay cold underground?

Or perhaps, she thought—and it almost seemed that the placid Madonna winked—fate had finally cleared the way to justice.

Yes.

With a tingle in her head that almost made her dizzy, she felt that Simon was guiding her, guiding her to Torlinghurst, guiding her to the evidence that would avenge him at last.

With a steadying breath she assumed the Madonna's tranquil smile and turned back to redirect the conversation. “As long as Beaufort stayed in the Peninsula he was out of my reach. If he'd returned as an ordinary man-about-town it would have been quite hard to search his possessions without being caught. But as the Duke of Cranmoore . . .”

“. . . he's blasted untouchable!”

Justina's smile became genuine and she returned to sit in her chair. “No, Charles, you don't understand. As the duke, he's part of a community. I've visited Torlinghurst. It's a small town into itself. Jack Beaufort's only been there a month and can't know everyone. With Christmas mere weeks away, the place will be filling with friends, relatives, and connections—all strangers to him. It's easier to slip into such a huge place than into a set of rooms on Clarges Street. No one will pay attention to one more person at Torlinghurst.”

At last Charles showed guarded interest.

She pressed her advantage. “This idea came to me when Mumblethorpe was wondering whether to go there this year for Christmas. He's a connection, but he doesn't know the new duke. Apparently just about all the branches of the Beaufort family tree feel entitled to spend Christmas there. They always have.”

Charles worried his lips with his thumbnail, which meant that at last he was seriously considering her plan. “But how will you get inside? You're not even a twig on the family tree, and you apparently don't want to go as Justina Travers. If you're thinking of passing as a servant, forget the notion. You exude breeding from every pore, and you're far too beautiful.”

She didn't protest the assessment. Her fine-boned beauty brought her no joy these days so there was no vanity in acknowledging it. “There are pretty maids.”

“Not for long.”

“You cynic!” she said with a laugh, but then shrugged. “In fact, I have no intention of trying to pass as a servant. It would not suit at all. Most servants never even enter the family's part of the house, and a lingering servant is always an object of suspicion. No, I intend to pass myself off as a well-born young lady of limited fortune, and thus ignorable by all. The servants will not question me, and the company will assume I'm one of them but beneath their notice. I will be able to search Torlinghurst at leisure.”

The nail rubbed again at his lips. “Looking for what? If there ever was anything, he'll have destroyed it.”

“It was you who taught me that villains keep dangerous mementos, Charles, and anyway, I doubt he's changed his spots. You know there are people conspiring to restore Napoleon. He'll be working with them.”

Charles shook his head, but he did not argue that point. “I have one serious concern, Justina. In your previous exploits there has been virtually no risk. I've always seen to that.”

“And I wish you hadn't!”

He ignored her protest. “Even if you'd been caught prying, your high birth would have made it a mere embarrassment. If anything worse had occurred, I would have admitted that you were working for the government. But in this case, it would be impossible. Impossible to admit that the government was investigating a duke on no evidence at all.”

Justina reached to touch his hand. “Poor Charles. You're looking so flustered. So you're saying that if I do this, I do it alone?”

He covered her hand with his and squeezed. “I'll help as best I can, you know that. But yes, in the end you will be on your own.”

It took only a moment to say, “So be it.”

“Oh, my dear . . .” His pleasant, intelligent, honest face was almost anguished. “If you do this and find nothing, will you put it all behind you?”

She wanted to drag her hand from his. She wanted to scream
no
! But in her heart Justina knew he was being reasonable. They were all being reasonable, all the family, all the friends, all the people who begged her to forget.

She met his anxious brown eyes and even squeezed his hand back a little. “If I have the opportunity to really search at Torlinghurst and find nothing, then yes, I will try to forget Jack Beaufort and move on in my life.”