Chapter One
1172
Goodmont, England
“For the love of my lord William!”
The words echoed throughout the black darkness. Richard le Breton gripped his sword tightly, knowing what was to come. He wanted to drop the weapon and back away, but his fingers would not open. Suddenly, as he tried to force his fingers open, blood pooled from between them to drip down his arms into the blackness. A balding man with white hair on the sides of his head and an immaculate white robe towered up to an unreasonable monstrous height.
Richard tossed in his bed, kicking at his covers. He knew that man. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket.
As Richard watched, horrified, and unable to stop it, the top the of the Archbishop’s pristine head split open as if from the blow of an axe, the wound growing wider and wider. Blood was everywhere, turning the black around him into red guilt. Richard tried to pull back, but his feet were stuck in the red liquid; the blood-like tar sucking at his booted feet.
Around Richard, flames erupted, the heat singing the flesh from his arms. He pulled back, but the fire was everywhere. He looked up at the Archbishop in desperation.
With half of his head gone, the Archbishop pointed a finger at Richard. “You did this.”
Richard sat up, his body slick with sweat. He turned his head, gazing this way and that. When his rapid breathing slowed, he wiped at his brow and inspected the sleeve of his tunic in the moonlight, fearful that he would find blood. But there was no marking on his sleeve. Just his body’s reaction to the dream; a dream he often had. He swung his legs from the straw mattress, and the blanket entwined around his legs fell to the wooden floor. He rested his head in his hands, taking a deep breath to calm his madly beating heart before running his hands through his hair, and rising. There would be no further sleep this night.
He rose, pulled on his boots and secured his belt to his waist. He moved to the door, threw it open and emerged into the hallway. He looked down the stairway at the first floor of the inn where the flickering glow of a warm fire danced on the walls. He walked down the stairs and stood at the bottom, scanning the room. The hearth light washed over empty tables and chairs scattered throughout. When he saw the room was vacant, he let out a long breath and took a seat before the fire. He extended his hands toward the hearth, feeling the warmth against his palms. He couldn’t forget it. The murder weighed heavy on his shoulders even though it happened eighteen months ago. There was no escaping the guilt that followed him like a shadow.
A young girl walked up to him. Richard recognized her as the innkeeper’s daughter. He had seen the innkeeper giving the girl orders when he had arrived. The child rubbed her eyes as if she had just woken. “Is there somethin’ I can get ya?”
“No, lass,” Richard said.
The girl nodded and turned away, disappearing into a darkened back room.
Richard stared into the snapping flames of the hearth, running a hand absently over his long beard. After the death of Becket, King Henry had advised all four of the knights involved to flee England. Richard shook his head. England. His home. They had killed the Archbishop under King Henry’s orders, and he had advised them to run away. He sighed. He couldn’t blame Henry. The King couldn’t risk being excommunicated and losing favor with his people. At least he had not stripped them of their titles and lands. His friend and co-conspirator, Sir Hugh de Morville, had lands and a castle at Knaresborough where the four knights had lived since the death of Becket. When the Pope excommunicated them in March of 1171, they had done everything to gain an audience with him to beg forgiveness. When they had finally faced him and told him of their remorse, it had done no good. He hadn’t believed they were truly repentant. He had exiled them to Jerusalem for fourteen years.
Fourteen years. Richard’s shoulders sagged. He was on his way to the coast to seek passage to Jerusalem now. He wished he could do it all over again. He would never have harmed the Archbishop. But he could not take it back.
The door swung open and a group of men, farmers by the looks of their dirty tunics and breeches, entered. One nodded toward him. “There he is.”
Tingles raced along Richard’s spine.
“Is it him?” another asked.
Richard stood. He faced the men as they entered the room. “I want no trouble, friends.”
One of the farmers spit on the floor. “We’re no friends of yers, ya murderin’ giglet.”
Richard turned toward the stairway as one of the farmers rushed to block his path.
“It’s him,” the innkeeper said to the farmers.
“Ya killed the Archbishop.”
Prickles raced across the nape of his neck. How could he deny their accusations? He had been hiding from the fact for years.
When he didn’t deny it, the crowd of men murmured unhappily. Dangerously. “Itisyou! Blackguard!”
“Ya’ll burn in hell!”
His body jerked forward as someone shoved him from behind. He stumbled forward but caught himself on a chair before he could go down to his hands and knees. More unhappy grumbling sounded in the room as he straightened. He turned to face them, and a solid blow to his chin spun his head back.
“Devil spawn!”
Pain pulsated from his jaw, and he put up his hands up in submission. When one man with dark hair and crooked teeth came toward him, he brought his hand back for a blow. Suddenly, he froze, staring into the farmer’s dark hateful eyes. These were innocent men. He had sworn to protect the innocent. It was part of his oath as a knight. He had made that mistake once. He would not do it again. His hesitation was enough. The hateful eyed man raised his fist and swung landing powerfully against Richard’s jaw. Another blow to his head knocked him sideways, and the room swirled. Bright flashing lights blinded him for a moment.
