PROLOGUE
Year of Our Lord 1271
Redcliffe Hill Manor
Bristol, England
“Quickly. There isnot much time.”
The words were rasped, the last efforts of a dying man whose breath had become the faint wisps of a fading world and whose blood was now slowing in his very veins as he spoke. A heart that was struggling to beat and a body that had failed him.
Quickly. There is not much time.
That summarized the situation well.
In the chamber that was more lavish than that of a king, he lay upon his silks, feeling their last bit of comfort before he transitioned to a place where no such creature comforts existed. That was his greatest regret. That he couldn’t take his life’s work—and wealth—with him. Around him, musicians played softly, gently easing him from one life to the next, which would have been a delightful way to go if he were ready.
He wasn’t.
But Death waited for no man.
“What would you have of me, my lord?” A woman’s soft voice wafted amidst the notes from the harps. “I have my writing kit. I will write whatever you wish.”
The man drew in a deep breath, trying to stave off the inevitable. His lungs didn’t want to work any longer, but he forced them to. He had something to do and refused to go until he finished it.
“You must send word to my nephew,” he said weakly. “He serves the king. His name is Jareth de Leybourne.”
The young woman had her writing implements spread out on a nearby table, pushing aside old food and cups with dried wine in the bottom of them. A cat suddenly leapt onto the table, scattering her vellum, and she pushed the beast off as she scrambled to collect her parchment.
“Well?” the old man demanded. “What is happening over there?”
She put the vellum in front of her, grabbing for her quill as the cat jumped up again. Frustrated, she eyed it before dipping her quill in her inkwell.
“Nothing is amiss, my lord,” she said. “I will write this missive to your nephew, Sir Jareth.”
“And you will send it to Westminster Palace.”
“Aye, my lord.”
The old man didn’t say anything after that. The young woman sat, ink poised above the vellum, as she awaited his great words of wisdom and sacrifice, but he remained silent. Oddly silent. By the time she looked up to see why, she could see a big smile spreading across his old face. He was shaking.
He’s laughing!she thought.
“My lord?” she said timidly.
He let out a ragged gasp. “You do not know Jareth,” he said. “A fine man. A very fine man. An elite knight who serves Henry.He is moral and brave. He is worthy of that which I will bestow upon him. But I can tell you that he willnotlike it.”
The young woman gazed steadily at him. “He does not like money, my lord?”
The old man weakly shrugged. “A man must have money,” he said. “I have more money than almost anyone in England, but alas, I have no sons. My brother, however, has two sons—his heir and Jareth. Jareth will not inherit when his father passes away, so he will become my heir. You will help him when he comes to Bristol, will you not, Desdra?”
Lady Desdra le Daire nodded slowly. “If you wish it, my lord.”
“I do,” he said. “You are very bright. Brighter than any woman I have ever known. You must explain how everything works to Jareth when he comes.”
“I will, my lord.”
“And tell him not to give his brother anything.”
