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By Starlight
Marliss Moon
Excerpt
Chapter One
North Yorkshire, 1154 A.D.
With a rustle of black robes, the Prioress of Mt.
Grace stood between her colleagues, the Abbot of Jervaulx
and the Rector from Richmond, to deliver the verdict. Her
broad wimple blocked the sunlight beaming through the slit
behind her, yet even with her face in shadow, there was no
mistaking the eager gleam in her slate-gray eyes.
The nuns who had gathered for the verdict hushed
themselves into silence. It was late September, yet the
refectory hall felt as cold as if it were winter. A shiver
crept up Merry’s spine. She stood before the dais braced
for condemnation, knuckles white, knees locked to keep her
standing. With every shallow breath, her heart beat a
tattoo of premonition.
In desperation, Merry glanced at the clerics on
either side of the prioress. Nothing in their darting gazes
gave her comfort. The prioress, with her business acumen,
had made the diocese wealthy. The jury would vote as Mother
Agnes decreed.
“Sister Mary Grace,” the woman began in a voice as
dry as fallen leaves, “you blaspheme the name you were
given when you took your vows. Henceforth, I will address
you as Merry of Heathersgill, for you have proven yourself
a nun no longer.”
Merry’s heart beat faster. Not the rope, she prayed,
dreading a hanging sentence. A drowning she might survive,
for she swam quite well.
“After lengthy interrogation and deliberation,”
continued the prioress, “we find you guilty of attempted
murder, of heresy, and of malefaction.”
Guilty! The word reverberated in her head like a
death knell. She had come to Mt. Grace to avoid persecution
for her healing art. Yet in this supposed sanctuary, she’d
found anything but tolerance.
The trial had been a farce, from beginning to end.
The eyewitnesses to her crimes had clearly been coerced.
One had seen her frolicking under a full moon. Another had
caught her copulating with the devil. Others still had
espied her with a black cat, most likely her familiar.
Tales of fancy! Those same nuns would have thanked her if
the Mother were dead.
Only she wasn’t. At the last minute, Merry had put
only two leaves of henbane in her wine instead of three.
Now she wished she were more hard-hearted. Her reluctance
to kill might ironically be the death of her.
“Malefaction is a grievous crime committed against
God and the Holy Church," the prioress added, savoring her
victory.
Merry’s jaw came suddenly unhinged. “And what of
your crimes, Mother?” she challenged boldly. “Are they not
grievous, having been committed against mere girls?”
The nuns behind her gasped in awe. The Abbot of
Jervaulx and the Rector from Richmond shared a common look.
All of them knew the prioress’s perverse pleasure in
wielding her whip. She ruled her abbey with a heavy hand,
seeming to enjoy the inhuman punishments she inflicted on
her nuns.
“Silence!” Agnes cut in, raising her arms to
resemble a great, black bird. “The accused is not to speak!
How dare you malign me when you have proven yourself an
abomination in the sight of God?” She narrowed her gaze at
Merry. “I was going to display Christian tolerance by
reducing my sentence to a whipping of twenty lashes, but I
have changed my mind. We condemn you to burn at dawn
tomorrow, and tomorrow you shall burn!”
Burn! The sentence was absurd. Burning was common on
the continent but rarely executed in England. Merry widened
her stance, determined not to swoon as the floor seemed to
shift.
‘Twas not too late to beg forgiveness. Still, twenty
strokes of Agnes’s whip were as likely to kill her as any
fire.
And for what crime? All Merry had done was to shield
her sister nuns from Agnes’ wrath. Whenever the Mother
whipped them, Merry insured there was a consequence: a
seizure that made the woman bite her tongue; a rash that
wouldn’t go away; warts upon the hands-—all designed to
make Agnes hesitate ere she raised her whip again.
The prioress was subdued but not reformed.
Her most recent victim suffered an infection that
had killed her. In reprisal for her death, Merry had put
henbane in Agnes’s wine, and the prioress suffered a
purging of the bowels so violent it might have left her
dead. Alas, it hadn’t. Now Agnes wanted justice.
“You will have to notify my family,” Merry stalled,
gasping for breath.
Agnes eyed her with false sympathy. “Your family
isn’t the least concerned with your fate, else they would
have written long ago,” she pointed out.
It was true, her elder sister, Clarise, and her
mother, Jeanette, had declined to visit after delivering
her to Mt. Grace. Given the trouble she’d caused them, it
was unlikely they would wish to save her now. Only Kyndra
might wish to save her, but her younger sister was still
flowering into womanhood and therefore powerless.
No one would save her now. Since the day that had
changed Merry’s life forever, she had found no justice, no
peace anywhere, not even in a priory. What matter if she
died tomorrow?
“Well, have you something to say for yourself?” the
prioress prompted. “Are you sorry for turning from the
Church and making a pact with Satan? Come, where is your
penitence?” In her eagerness to hear her, Agnes leaned over
the high table, her face pulling out of shadow.
Merry drew back at the Mother’s countenance, struck
by the resemblance between this tyrant and her stepfather,
Ferguson. Both had hooked features and chilling eyes. There
was an ugliness about them that went beyond the sneer of
their lips, the heaviness of their jowls. Thank God
Ferguson was dead. At least there was one less tyrant to
torment meeker souls.
As the flame of righteousness flickered, Merry found
her tongue. Her tone was anything but penitent as it rang
out in the vaulted chamber. “I will see you in hell,
Agnes,” she replied, drawing gasps of admiration from her
sister nuns. “If I am to burn now, then you will burn for
eternity for scarring innocent women. Burn me if you must.”
She lifted her chin, demonstrating a defiance she did not
fully feel. “I would sooner die than remain in this hell on
earth with you.”
+++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++
Sir Luke le Noir, Captain of the Prince’s Royal Army
and grandson of the Earl of Arundel, never suffered the
infirmities of mortal men. He urged his army to ride
through the night, setting a pace that made sleeping in the
saddle impossible.
Erin, his groggy squire, considered him sidelong,
amazed to find his lord’s posture still erect after all
these hours. Against the backdrop of a violet dawn, Sir
Luke’s proud silhouette contrasted sharply with the
slouching figures of his men. His armor, kept in immaculate
condition, glowed silver in the purplish light. His dark
head was helmless as usual; his ears alert to sounds more
menacing than the chirping of insects.
His army had pledged a year of service toward the
destruction of adulterines—-strongholds built without royal
sanction. Nine months out of twelve were already spent.
They’d destroyed one castle in Drax and another in
Lincolnshire. With only three months remaining, one might
question whether they would complete their final task. Erin
suffered no concern. Sir Luke would set a grueling pace,
bloodying his fingers, inspiring his men to match his
expectations. One look of approval from his burning eyes
and anything was possible.
Yet Erin sensed the captain’s heart was no longer in
their labors. A missive had come by courier a week ago
informing him of his grandfather’s continuing debilitation.
No one would have blamed Sir Luke had he turned home with
his work undone. Yet, loyal vassal that he was, he set
aside personal concerns in the name of duty, fording moor
and mountain to convey the full reach of Prince Henry’s
arm.
At times like these, Erin pitied his lord, though it
made no sense to pity him. Sir Luke was wealthier and more
powerful than most nobles, and yet he was not only base-
born, he was also half Saracen. With two marks against
him, ‘twas a marvel he had risen so high in rank as to
become Prince Henry’s favorite.
Of course, he had saved Henry’s life in a fire, when
the prince was but a boy. His bravery had earned him the
nom de guerre, the Phoenix, by which name his fame had
spread. He was Henry’s most cunning military leader. To the
benefit of his enemy, he preferred to strike a truce than
to fight. Abroad and at home, with this tenuous matter of
tearing down unsanctioned structures built in Stephen’s
rein, Sir Luke’s diplomatic skills made him indispensable.
Like the Phoenix, whose name he bore, Sir Luke
seemed immortal, imperturbable. He emerged from battles
unscathed, his dignity and poise intact, utterly unaffected
by whatever drama seethed about him.
Even now, he did not look like a man who had ridden
through the night. Tirelessly, his sharp gaze scanned the
distance for their destination—-a priory where at last his
men could rest. Glancing over his shoulder like a shepherd,
he kept watch over his men, lest one of them should tumble
from the saddle, fast asleep.
The moment he spurred his sorrel to a canter, Erin
knew his lord had spied the priory in the distance. He
would arrive at the gates before his men, smoothing the way
for them, as was his custom. Erin prodded his mount to
follow, eager for a meal and a pallet, in that order.
Built on the edge of the fells, the priory was a
small, sullen enclosure. With the sky turning silver behind
it, it seemed cold and unwelcoming and shut tight as a
tomb.
Sir Luke dismounted and tugged at the bell rope.
The peephole cracked open. “Who’s there?” inquired a
girl in a frightened voice.
"’Tis the prince’s royal army,” the Phoenix gently
conveyed. “We seek rest and a meal behind your walls."
To their mutual surprise, the peephole slammed shut.
Sir Luke sent a startled look at his squire then tugged the
bell rope a second time.
It seemed a very long time before the peephole
opened a second time. “I’m the prioress. Why are you here?"
barked a dry, unfriendly voice.
“We serve his majesty, Prince Henry,” the captain
said, tersely this time. “We need a place to sleep and a
meal." Now. The command was unspoken but clear nonetheless.
“You’ve picked a poor time to ask," groused the
woman. “There’s an infection within these walls. We’re
quarantined,” she added. “This morning we will burn the
bodies of the dead.”
Erin wondered at the strangeness of her words. There
was no black flag tied to the gate in warning.
“What manner of illness is it?” his lord inquired,
taking a precautionary step back.
“A pox of some sort,” said the prioress. “‘Tis
horridly contagious. You had best be off.” With that she
shut the little door between them.
Erin felt sorry for his lord again. But mostly he
felt sorry for himself, for he had so looked forward to a
few hours’ sleep. He eyed the Phoenix’s stiff back and
wondered what his lord would do now. The men were just
catching up to them. The relief in their faces was not
something any captain would want to disappoint.
He turned around, slowly, his expression
guarded. “Take your rest on the ground,” he called. “We’ve
been denied entrance.”
As the soldiers lamented loudly and slithered off
their horses, Sir Luke drew a length of rope from his
saddlebag, his movements betraying no inner strife. His
gaze rose to meet his squire’s. “Come with me, Erin,” he
instructed. “Sir Pierce, I am going to take
reconnaissance,” he added, addressing his sergeant.
Erin hurried after his lord’s tall form as he
rounded the priory’s wall. The grass, brittle from the
summer’s drought, crunched loudly beneath their boots. At
last, the Phoenix paused. He shucked his mailed gauntlets,
unbelted his sheath so that his sword dropped to the
ground, and began unlacing the stays of his surcoat.
"Are you climbing the wall, my lord?" Erin guessed,
with dawning appreciation. Clearly, his lord suspected
something amiss within the priory walls, and he meant to
discover what it was.
“Help me get this mail off," he said simply.
As Erin struggled with the iron coat, Sir Luke
divested himself of his remaining armor, until he wore only
his padded shirt, armored hose, and boots. Even without his
armor, he cut an impressive figure, his body honed from
years of intense physical duress.
The first pale rays of sunlight fingered the rough
wall. "I may not need the rope," the captain said, studying
the stones.
Erin watched as his lord crooked his fingertips over
projections and found footing in crevices below. Inch by
inch, he scaled the wall, nudging Erin’s respect still
higher. His lord’s climbing skill had made him famous in
Rouen ten years before. Now Erin knew why.
In less time than it had taken to undress, the
Phoenix was peering over the partition.
To Luke’s grim satisfaction, he had an unfettered
view of the priory’s courtyard. His gaze went at once to
the figure at the center of the stake, and a cold blade of
shock bisected his spine. It wasn’t a dead person at all,
but a woman fully alive and tied to a stake!
God’s blood! The prioress meant to burn her alive!
His jaw muscles flexed. A pox, indeed. He’d smelled
something illegitimate from the moment the frightened nun
had answered his summons.
The girl at the stake was also a nun, dressed from
head to toe in black homespun. She was scarcely a woman by
the looks of her, her young face narrow and pale, her eyes
enormous. She stared at the sky to avoid watching the
workers sprinkle straw at her feet.
Luke simmered with disgust. Ecumenical law forbade
the Church to enact such punishments. The word sanctuary
would mean nothing if the Church wielded such terrible
power!
He focused his resentment on the prioress, a tyrant
whose isolation led her to the false belief she was all-
powerful. He would confront the woman at once and demand
the girl’s release. He prepared to leap from the wall, when
an imposing nun swept into the courtyard, whipping a torch
about like a banner.
“Hurry!” she commanded. “I want more tallow on it!”
He knew her by her voice. She was determined to get
the matter done swiftly, no doubt wary of the army outside
her walls. There was no time for negotiation, he surmised.
That left just one course of action, an alternative
with grave ramifications. No one, not even a tenant-in-
chief to the future king, had the right to enter a holy
house uninvited. On the other hand, he was honor-bound to
save the girl. To walk away now would make him as much a
murderer as the prioress.
Figuring his odds for success, Luke glanced down.
“What d'you see, my lord?” Erin prompted.
“A girl being put to the stake,” Luke said evenly.
Erin gasped. “Is she a witch?” he asked, crossing
himself.
Luke sent a thoughtful look at the victim. He
couldn’t tell much about her, enveloped as she was in black
robes and a wimple. “There are no such thing as witches,”
he replied, curbing his squire’s imagination. The workers
had finished splashing tallow on the straw. He would have
to devise a plan quickly.
The prioress’s brittle voice drew his gaze. “Don’t
think you can beg now, girl,” she taunted her victim. “You
mocked my offer of charity, remember?”
Luke cut his gaze to the girl, curious to hear her
reply.
“I don’t require your forgiveness, Agnes.” Her voice
was as steady as steel. “’Tis you who should ask
forgiveness of me.”
Luke’s eyebrows rose in admiration. Such bravery
deserved reward, no matter the consequence.
He threw a quick look at the assemblage. With only a
handful of men present and a clutch of nuns in one corner,
he would face no serious resistance.
“Erin, throw me my sword,” he called, making a swift
decision.
The youth complied with a grin, and Luke caught the
broadsword, laying it soundlessly on the top of the
wall. “Return my armor to the horses,” he added, “and do so
quickly. Tell Sir Pierce we must away from here at once.
Look for me at the gate. Now hurry!”
Erin knew better than to question his leader. He
tossed the gauntlets, guards, and belt onto the mail and
began to drag the armor behind him. Luke put both hands on
the top of the wall and hoisted himself on the ledge.
No one had seen him, for all eyes were fixed on the
prioress as she tossed her torch with flourish onto the
pyre. The kindling exploded into flame.
Black smoke billowed upward then dissipated under
the morning breeze. So too did the victim’s bravery. Her
eyes went wide with terror. Her slender body strained
against the ropes.
Luke had less time than he’d wagered. As the flames
roared higher, he braved the enormous leap to the ground,
rolling to break the fall. Broadsword in hand, he sprinted
toward the pyre.
Merry had shut her eyes against the encroaching
flames. She clenched her fists, feeling her fingernails
break the skin of her palms. The heat took her breath away.
She pressed herself against the wood at her back, dreading
the first contact of flame against her bare feet. Be brave,
she counseled herself, but she could feel the screams
welling inside her.
Suddenly the platform shuddered, and a breath of
cool air hit her face. Her eyes shot open, and she found a
man balanced on the stage beside her.
She stared at him, disoriented. The ropes slipped
from her wrists, fell from her hips.
"Hold on to me," he instructed.
She threw her arms around him, gladly. Given his
handsome visage, he could only be an angel come to deliver
her soul. God had been merciful, after all. Glory be!
The ropes at her ankles parted. In the next instant,
the world turned upside down as the angel hefted her over
one shoulder. He leaped down the face of the pyre, managing
to dodge the flames. They leapt up, however biting into
Merry’s wimple, singing her hair. She snatched off the
headpiece and threw it down.
It was then that she realized she was still alive.
The angel hadn’t taken her soul, but her mortal shell as
well. He jogged toward the gate, now, his hard shoulder
pummeling her belly. Gasping for breath, Merry craned her
neck to see the Mother pursuing them. Agnes had snatched up
her braided whip and was coming after them, teeth bared
like a she-wolf. The abbot and priest followed close
behind.
Merry's savior beat them to the gate. He threw it
open, and suddenly she was surrounded by milling horses and
gleaming weaponry.
"Ride," he said with authority, and the horses leapt
into thunderous motion.
Strong hands spanned her waist, and Merry landed
jarringly atop a saddle, the sky once more above her. No
sooner had she caught her breath than the prioress's cry
raked over her.
“Stop!”
The tip of a whip whistled by her cheek, and Merry
lurched back, fighting to keep her seat. “Hand her over to
me at once!” the prioress insisted, threatening them both
with her whip.
Agnes was a formidable woman, but Merry’s rescuer
was taller still, with shoulders twice as broad. He gripped
his sword with accustomed ease, frowning at the Mother’s
unseemly rage.
Clearly he wasn’t an angel, but a warrior of some
sort. His voice reached her ears, steady and dignified, as
he addressed the prioress. “As the prince's right arm,
madam, ‘tis my duty to intervene. You said you would be
burning the bodies of the dead this morning. This girl does
not look dead to me.”
He flicked Merry a glance, his gaze running through
her like a sword of fire.
“She is dead of spirit, dead to the Church!” the
prioress raged. “How dare you interfere in matters of
religious concern! This witch tried to poison me!” She
glared at Merry.
“Indeed,” said the warrior smoothly. “Then I will
convey her to the nearest abbey to be tried there. It seems
to me you have forgotten whom you serve.”
Conveyed where? Merry’s heart stopped dead. Nay, she
could not endure a second trial!
“I will not stand for it!” the Mother seethed. “What
is your name? I intend to bring a formal complaint against
you. How dare you breach my wall!”
“’Tisn’t your wall,” the warrior corrected
softly. “’Tis God’s wall. The name is Luke le Noir,” he
answered. “Complain all you like, only be prepared to
account for your actions if you do.” He dismissed the
Mother with those words and positioned himself to mount
behind Merry.
The prioress drew back her whip.
“Beware!” Merry cried.
The sword flashed by her eye, severing the lash in
two. With scarcely a pause, the warrior dropped into the
saddle, pulling Merry snugly against him. They leapt into a
gallop, riding into the golden trail of dust the army had
left behind.
A hundred paces down the road, he placed his sword
across her lap. “Hold this,” he requested, taking the reins
with both hands.
Merry’s fingers closed about the heavy weapon. She
registered the smooth, cool quality of the blade, its razor
sharp edge. Her senses were strangely heightened, so that
the newly risen sun blinded her, the grass filled her
nostrils with dusty perfume, and the wind whistled through
the weave of her nun’s attire, cooling her skin. Those
details roused her to the realization she was still alive!
Yet she felt nothing but despair. She had come so
close to death that she’d welcomed its oblivion. How much
better for an angel to have taken her soul! Now, according
to this man, she would be made to stand another trial.
She had endured too much in her previous trial—-
allegations that the devil had tricked her; questions as to
the properties of herbs; how had she come by the mark on
her backside—-had the devil put it there? By heaven, she
was weary of it! She simply could not live through it
again!
A quiet rage began to burn in her, overtaking the
shock of her reprieve. Merry looked wildly about her. She
could see that they were gaining on the army ahead of them.
It hadn’t escaped her notice that her rescuer wore no
armor. Finally, she looked down at his sword, lying across
her lap.
She curled her fist around the odd-shaped pommel.
The steel had been beaten into the shape of wings. If only
she had wings herself to fly away!
It wouldn’t be right to kill the one who’d saved
her. Neither could she wound him, though it might allow her
to thrust him off his horse and gallop away. Still, where
would she go after that? The prince’s soldiers would be on
her in an instant.
‘Twould be easier just to kill herself. The rolling
movement of the horse alone might send the point sliding
between her ribs.
God’s teeth, only the sword was too long! She
struggled a moment, extending the pommel as far as she
could. The tip slipped under her arm, pricking the man
behind her.
“What are you doing?”
He wrenched the sword from her grasp and, at the
same time, brought the horse to a sudden standstill.
Merry relinquished the weapon with disgust. She
should have known oblivion would not come easily. And now
she’d angered the one behind her. She cringed, preparing
for a blow.
“Were you trying to kill yourself or me?” he
demanded incredulously. Having slid his sword beneath a
strap on his saddlebag, he captured her jaw, angling her
head back so she was forced to meet his gaze.
The strength in his fingertips astounded her. She
realized he could break her neck without calling upon even
a portion of his power. A familiar terror rose up in her
and seized control of her muscles. His motives for saving
her could not be pure. No man was that noble.
She gained her freedom by sliding abruptly from the
saddle. Unmindful of her bruised knees, she scrambled up
again, deaf to the warrior’s command that she stop. The dry
grasses pricked her feet like a thousand needles. She could
not understand why it pained her so to run, but her usual
speed was hindered.
She felt only dismay, not surprise, when two
powerful arms snatched her from behind and lifted her off
her feet.
She kicked him mightily, making painful contact with
his armored hose. After a moment of useless struggle, she
realized she was wasting her strength. Better to conserve
it for a later time. She went suddenly limp.
How miserable her existence, she marveled. She’d
avoided being raped by her stepfather and beaten by the
prioress only to face ruin at the hands of a warrior too
powerful to overcome. Again, she was at the mercy of a
warrior. What she knew of such men, she had learned first
hand. They were bloodthirsty barbarians who used women
ruthlessly and cast them aside. Her own mother had been
raped by such a man.
“If you force me,” she warned, calling upon the
unique defense that had kept her chaste this long, “your
member will shrivel and fall off, I swear it. I am a
powerful sorceress,” she added raggedly, “and you will rue
the day you ever did me harm!”
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