Chapter 1
November 1101—in the forest south of the BeauvoirPass
Rolfe feltthe cold as neverbefore.
The wind wound its way beneath his heavy cloak, its fingers creeping under his tabard to chill his flesh. He shivered as he rode, knowing that winter had only just bared its teeth. It had not even snowed asyet.
Clearly, his years beneath Outremer’s sun had thinned his bloodovermuch.
Wolves howled, their voices at greater proximity than Rolfe might have liked. He was in the forests that covered the flanks of the Alps to the south of the Beauvoir pass, and he knew it would become colder as he climbed higher. He regretted leaving Thierry and Luc in Milan, for he would have welcomed their company, but he was determined to arrive at Viandin well before theYule.
He refused to think of the cheerful inn in Milan, or of the comfort of his fellows there. Instead, Rolfe thought of the greeting he would receive from his brother and mother, as well as the satisfaction of warmth and plentiful food. He had grown lean in his timeaway.
It would be worth this weather to behome.
Rolfe was keenly aware of his solitude as he rode onward. He had forgotten that a winter forest like the one surrounding him could be so bleak. He was certain there were no other men within earshot. The trees’ barren branches seemed to scratch the dark bellies of the clouds scurrying across the sky. A few dry leaves scuttled over the ground, their rattle like a muttering of unwelcomeintruders.
Not a creature stirred; not a birdsang.
Rolfe huddled lower in his cloak, wishing he had not taken the short cut he thought he recalled. The path had been clear at first but had dwindled. He had the odd sense that the forest was reluctant to let him pass. His way had been obstructed multiple times and he wondered if he had lost the path completely. He eyed the faint glow of the sun and hoped he had not lost his direction. On an overcast day like this one, it would be an easy error tomake.
He deliberately thought of Château Viandin. His older brother, Adalbert, should feel secure in his seat as Lord de Viandin by now. He would have the administration organized and the tithes collected. He would have made his bonds with local overlords and undoubtedly be in the confidence of at least one king. Perhaps Adalbert would have a bride, even a son. Rolfe permitted himself to hope that his brother might be inclined to begenerous.
He did not wish for much: just a small property to manage. Perhaps one that Adalbert wished to see securely beholden to his hand. Perhaps there was a holding on the perimeter of Viandin in need of vigorous defense. One with a bridge or a toll. Rolfe would be ideal to oversee the defense of a border, in his own opinion. It would put his experience to gooduse.
Adalbert, of course, might not share hisview.
Rolfe’s gaze fell to the black decanter lashed to his saddle. He had itched to open it since Marcus had placed it in his hands, but he was determined not to insult Adalbert with a usedgift.
That would not make his dream cometrue.
Yet the months and the miles had fed an imagination Rolfe had not known he possessed. He had grown more certain that there was a treasure inside, simply waiting to be discovered. He imagined a rare liqueur created from pomegranates, or an exotic healing potion, or even a perfume the like of which had never been smelled west ofByzantium.
Rolfe ran a finger down the neck of thedecanter.
It was then that he noticed that the wax seal had lifted cleanly away from the bottle. He was certain it had been firmly adhered before. But now the glittering cord swung free and the seal was still whole uponit.
Perhaps the cold had lifted it from thebottle.
He could satisfy his curiosity without Adalbert ever knowing thedifference.
Rolfe did not need to consider the mattertwice.
He pulled his destrier to an unceremonious halt before he could question his impulse. Mephistopheles’ ears flicked, as though the beast made a comment about stopping where there was no sign of shelter, but Rolfe ignoredhim.
He freed Adalbert’s gift from the lashing with impatient fingers, then halted in wonder once the weight of it filled his hand. The dark bottle fit perfectly into his gloved palm, and he sat, turning it and transfixed by the lights reflected from its surface, for a long moment. A fresh gust of wind swirled around him, lifting the ends of his cloak, and Rolfeshivered.
He tried to twist the cork free, but it was more resolutely anchored than he might have expected. Rolfe grimaced as he pulled, but to no avail. Mephistopheles nickered, impatient with their delay, and when the beast danced sideways, Rolfe’s grip on the bottle slipped. It leaped from his grip and for a terrifying moment, it was loose in the air. Rolfe managed to snatch it out of the air before it fell to the ground, and he closed his eyes inrelief.
It was obvious he needed a sure footing for this task. He dismounted then twisted the dark top with all hismight.
The cork popped with sudden vigor, its release sending Rolfe sprawling backward. When he fell, the bottle danced from hisgrip.
“Fool!” he muttered and lunged after the bottle. To his relief, it hit the ground and rolled without breaking. It stopped an arm’s length away, apparentlyundamaged.
Perhaps it was charmed. Rolfe exhaled shakily and reached for the bottle. Nothing had spilled from it either and he wondered if it might be empty afterall.
No sooner had his hand closed around its base than something began to spew forth from its mouth. It was neither elixir, nor liqueur, nor exoticscent.
