Emerald Prince

by Brit Darby

  Emerald Prince

  by

  Brit Darby

  Copyright © 2012 Brit Darby

  Kindle Edition

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Legend

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  About Brit Darby

  Coming Soon

  Legend

  — and from a fragment of the great pillar stone at Tara, Lia Fáil, the Tuatha de Danaan created an emerald to hold the magick powers — Seòd Fios, the Jewel of Knowledge. Its green fire embraced the lessons of many ages; its five facets reflected the virtues of love, forgiveness, truth, honor and unity. The stone was a gift to the future daughters of the faerykind, so its power might be called upon to aid Eire when she is shadowed by darkness and blood —

  Prologue

  Inishdeven Island,

  Lough Ree, 937

  DESPITE HIS PRAYERS, THE pagans came.

  Huddled at the top of the round stone tower, Brother Donal tried to block out the screams of his brethren below. “A furore Normannorum libera nos domine,” he murmured, crossing himself. “Lord, save us from the rage of the Nordic men.”

  Angry shouts carried on a hot wind up to him, as if a reply from Hades itself. Fingers of fear crept up his spine and clutched him by the throat. St. Gall’s was caught off guard. They never expected the Vik to travel so far inland.

  As the youngest and quickest monk, if raiders came it was Donal’s duty to ring the tower bell in sets of three. Thus, he did as Father Murray ordered and pulled each ladder up after him as he made the perilous climb through the tower’s belly to the belfry. He set the bronze bell clanging. Unum, duos, trois. Repeto.

  Guilt scorched him now. He knew he had condemned his fellow monks with his earlier actions. Yet had he stayed below, he would have died with them. He took consolation in the thought perhaps a few villagers were saved by the warning peals echoing across the island.

  Donal knew he should not fear death. Yet terror lay like a stone in the pit of his stomach, and bile tasted bitter in his dry mouth. He swallowed, trying to ease the knot in his throat.

  He would wait until the din below quieted. He intended to keep his promise to God — he would survive this terrible day to provide solace to the living and absolution to the dead. He fell to his knees, clasped his hands, bowed his head and closed his eyes. Until it was safe to leave the tower, he must pray.

  Smoke slithered up the tower walls and drifted in through the single window slit, carrying the foul stench of burned flesh. Guttural curses far below assaulted Donal’s strained nerves. Fortunately, he thought, even the Devil himself could not burn stone. Pray. He must pray harder.

  Suddenly, it was silent. Were his prayers answered? Had the pagans gone, or were they waiting him out? He rose and picked up the sputtering candle taper from the crude table. The tiny flame was no shield against the onslaught of night. Still, it comforted him.

  As darkness crept over the priory, Donal paced in the tower. It remained silent below. All he heard was his own rapid heartbeat and shallow breathing.

  Desperate for distraction, he forced himself to sit at the table and gripped a page of the Inishdeven Gospels. The elegant script fashioned from his hands moved through his heart and flowed across his lips. Staring at the intricate design, he tried to block out the memory of this day.

  Despite his efforts, his meditation failed. His prayers remained unfinished. Hours passed. The candle sputtered out. Dawn came and went, but the page never turned in his hands.

  A noise jolted Donal upright, like a knife driven into his belly. Had he dozed off? Certe, and dreamed of dying from starvation trapped in the tower. His gaze flew to the single hatchway in the small, sparsely furnished room. He listened, afraid to even breathe. But nobody disturbed his primitive sanctuary. Had he imagined the sound?

  A whisper broke the ungodly quiet. It brushed past his chaotic thoughts. A strange force beckoned him, and coaxed him like a siren’s song from the safety of his retreat.

  Donal stood. He barked his knee against the crude table and the pages he spent years laboriously crafting tumbled to the floor. He stumbled to the window slit and peered across the pale dawn. Praise Jesu, the heathens were gone — only the dead and dying ruled St. Gall’s now.

  At an opening in the floor, he pulled a heavy hatchway open and peeked cautiously over the edge to the room below. He lowered the rough rope ladder and descended on trembling legs. A fresh wave of panic threatened to send him scrambling back up to his refuge and he paused to gather his courage. He heard his own gasping breaths echo off the walls, as if mocking him for his cowardice.

  Donal pushed back the fear and continued his descent. After what seemed an eternity, he arrived at the thick door leading outside. He removed the wooden brace across the door and opened it; the hinges creaked loudly in protest. He rolled the last rope ladder out, dropping it to the ground. He scrambled down, and when his foot felt earth, he whirled and ran. He ran like a man possessed. Where, he did not know.

  The cool darkness of the stone tower house gave way to the warmth of midsummer morn. He dreaded seeing the bloody carnage he knew lay about him. Something finally penetrated his numb mind — a smell. The unforgettable stench of death blasted his nostrils.

  He gasped. The foul haze robbed the air from his labored lungs, forced him to slow. He staggered over the grounds of the burned abbey, wheezing and weaving through a maze of fallen men. He kept going, shielded only by his faith.

  A hoarse cry startled Donal. A mixture of pain, rage, and agony. He froze and his gaze rose to clash with a man’s facing him.

  Before him stood a giant man — nay, no man — a demon. Wild, glazed blue eyes raked over Donal. Dirt and soot smudged angular features leathered by the sun, salt-creased by the sea. Blood from the Vik’s victims still splattered his face. More red stained the long, blond hair whipping about his broad shoulders.

  The Vik raised his massive arm, sword in hand. His deeply-muscled biceps flexed from the strain. Another guttural, savage scream rent the air, proclaiming Donal’s impending death to the world.

  Unable to look away from the pagan’s ice-blue stare, Donal fumbled for his crucifix. He clutched it to his heart and waited for death’s blow.

  The warrior’s gaze went to the simple wooden cross Donal held. His sword arm wavered, and his weapon lowered. Suddenly, a crossbow quarrel raced across the ash-blackened sky. It whistled past Donal and found its mark.

  The quarrel struck deep and t
rue into the Norseman. It plowed through to the fletches. The Vik sank to his knees, dropping his sword with a thud.

  In the distance, Donal heard the shouts of his saviors. His prayers were answered. The villagers had arrived, brandishing everything from crossbows to shovels. Terror still gripped him, but a stronger, compassionate hand guided him. He stepped towards the dying warrior. The man’s eyes no longer held any threat. They seemed — sad.

  The Vik struggled to reach his sword. Without pausing to think, Donal helped. He picked up the weapon and returned it to its owner. The pagan clutched the hilt to his chest, using it for support. Something like gratitude softened his hard expression.

  Then the warrior spoke, with a burst of foamy blood from his mouth. “Many years ago, my ancestor was taken in a raid from these shores.”

  He spoke Latin. Shocked, Donal stared at him in a mixture of fear and fascination. Why would a stranger, a pagan devil, tell him anything? Donal had heard his share of deathbed confessions, but this moment was surreal. Still, he sensed it was important, so he nodded and waited.

  The Vik coughed, a wet gurgle of death as he wiped his bloody mouth with the back of his hand. “The runes foretold I would not return to my homeland. I will enter Valhalla from these shores. Before I join my ancestors, I must return the stone, Seòd Fios.”

  The warrior fumbled beneath the neck of his tunic. He yanked off a sinew cord with something dangling from it and offered it to Donal. “The jewel’s journey must continue.”

  Donal took the necklace. “Jewel?” Looking closer, he saw a large emerald.

  “Seòd Fios,” the Vik whispered hoarsely. “It beckons — you must answer.”

  Donal glanced from the green jewel to the bloodied man who had given it to him. “I don’t know what to do with this. Please, you must tell me.”

  A cough shook the Vik again. Blood spewed from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. “The stone has traveled down through centuries in my family. It must always pass to the eldest daughter of the line.”

  With a shaking hand, the Norseman pointed at the crucifix Donal wore. “Your god will tell you what to do — but the Jewel of Knowledge must find its way to a female descendant of Fand, and no other.”

  The warrior gasped and summoned the last of his strength. He raised his sword to the darkened sky and cried, “To O-O-Odin!”

  The Vik slumped to the ground. The shadow of death stole the light from his eyes. Donal knelt and closed the man’s eyelids. A Christian prayer was unfitting for a pagan, yet respect seemed appropriate. So he prayed the Vik was in this Valhalla he spoke of so fervently.

  “Seòd Fios.” Donal repeated the Vik’s words, heart racing as he stared at the jewel in his hands. An old Irish myth came to mind — the legend of the Faery Queen Fand. His fingers closed around the emerald and he raised his gaze to the blackened sky.

  “God guide me in what I must do.”

  Chapter One

  England

  Winter — 1209

  “HE ASKS FOR YOU, milady.”

  Edie whispered the words, but even so they echoed like a thunderclap off the stone walls in the room. Her mistress awoke with a start and a cry.

  “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” Lady Alianor Coventry rose from the chair serving as her perch for nigh these long hours. The fine tapestry she was working tumbled from her lap to the floor, forgotten.

  Edie pursed her lips. She did not like the way her lady looked. Weeks of worry had rendered Lady Alianor gaunt and lent her a faraway gaze. Exhaustion painted dark shadows under her eyes. Pale, silver-gilt hair fell to her hips in a tangle of stubborn curls Edie knew well. Her fastidious mistress had neglected her own toilette and worn the same blue bliaut dress for days.

  Edie inherited her deep concern. Her mother Greta served as Lady Alianor’s maidservant for years, until age forced her to retire from court. Now Edie served in her mother’s place, the circle of devotion complete.

  “’Twas rest you sorely needed, milady. He ordered you not be disturbed.”

  Lady Alianor did not seem to hear her. Concern for only one other soul ruled her. She flew to her husband’s bedside, quick as a little silver arrow. She leaned over the frail figure in the bed. “Walter?”

  Edie saw Sir Walter’s face looked as gray as his hair, but her poor lady did not seem to notice — or did not want to see. Mayhap she saw not the old man he was in truth, but the great man he had been.

  Alianor fluttered and hovered over her husband. Her dainty hands plucked and smoothed the blanket covering her patient. She went on to rearrange the bolsters behind his head. She wrung out a cloth with water from the bowl beside the bed, and daubed his brow with maternal care.

  “Enough, Nora,” Walter said at her fussing, but Edie glimpsed a hint of a smile on his lips.

  “Shall I change the poultice and read to you again?” Alianor suggested with forced cheer. “Let us finish Beowulf.”

  Walter shook his head. For despite her optimism, all knew the end was near. He patted the bed beside him. “Sit, sweet sparrow.”

  Alianor trembled with emotion at the familiar endearment, but she laid aside the poultice and obeyed. She sat beside Walter and he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face.

  “You deserve love,” he said tenderly.

  “I am loved, Walter. By you. That’s enough.”

  “Nay. You know of what I speak, Nora. A fresh flower should not be plucked by shriveled hands.” Walter paused, as if he sensed her rising distress. He compressed her hands between his bigger ones.

  “I want you to know love, my dear. You deserve nothing less. Your loyalty and devotion to me all these years is commendable, and I am so blessed you did not give me up in my gray hairs. But, do not think I did not notice you gazing at young lovers whenever we visited the faire. Or watching the gypsy dancers, envious of the fire in their steps and the passion in their eyes …”

  Edie saw a teardrop fall and splash upon their linked hands.

  “Walter, please …” Alianor protested, and tried to pull her hands free.

  His grip tightened and he continued. This last vestige of strength reminded Edie of the gallant man Sir Walter had been, the knight in shining armor who protected her lady all these years.

  “Now, listen to me, Nora. It’s important I say this out. I visited the King before my health failed and sent me to bed,” he said. “I told him when next you wed, you must marry a man of your choosing. I made Lackland swear on the Holy Book itself to abide by my final wish.”

  Tears flowed unchecked down Alianor’s cheeks. Walter released her hands and cradled her face in his own. “Do not cry, Nora,” he whispered, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs as he had always done. “Never weep for this old knight, for you made me the happiest of men.”

  Alianor flung her arms around his neck, sobbing. Watching them, tears filled Edie’s eyes as well. She knew it was the greatest parting gift this gentle, honorable knight could have given his lady wife.

  Less than an hour later, Walter Coventry died. Only then did her lady collapse from exhaustion and sleep for days.

  KING JOHN SAT ON his throne and drummed his fingertips against his knee as he waited for Lady Coventry to enter the great hall at Windsor. The anticipation of toying with her twisted his lips into a half-smile.

  He knew the reassurance of Isabella’s presence would lure Alianor into audience with him, so he tolerated her chattering. She sat beside him, her own excitement at the forthcoming reunion causing her to fidget like a child. He glanced over at his wife, conceding she was still lovely, but no longer entranced him as she had in the early years of their marriage.

  Today Isabella wore a murrey-colored gown of soft, fine wool, fuller than fashionable to conceal her growing belly. The purple-red cloth was foiled by a golden girdle set with amethyst and pearls. Beneath a short diaphanous veil, her dark-brown hair was arranged in large coils on both sides of her head, accentuating her fox-like features.

&nb
sp; “Here she is, John!” Isabella cried. “Here’s my Nora.”

  When she entered the great hall, Alianor curtsied to the royal couple, a portrait of quiet and dignified grace. Isabella leaped up from her chair and ran to her with a happy cry, and the two women embraced.

  As the Queen’s favorite lady-in-waiting, Alianor held a special place in Isabella’s heart. John looked on, forced to watch their emotional exchange. Despite the paleness of her skin, and the hollowness in her cheeks and eyes, he thought Alianor lovely, even in stark black mourning. She was as fair as his Isabella was dark.

  Too long had he waited for this day, when Alianor was a widow, without the protection of a husband. This delicate morsel in particular he planned to sample! With Isabella growing large with child again, he was entitled to a distraction, and this one would prove delightful.

  Sprawling back in leisure, he massaged his groin beneath his surcoat as the two women talked, oblivious to his presence. It wouldn’t do to expose his plan or his pikestaff too soon to Alianor, though. He snorted in amusement at his own crude thoughts.

  John cleared his throat and commanded their attention. “Lady Coventry, how good of you to visit us. We have missed your presence these long weeks.”

  Alianor hesitated then spoke carefully. “Verily, I confess I too have missed some things at court, Your Majesty.”

  John knew she meant Isabella and not him, and the slight enraged him. Still, he forced a smile so she would suspect nothing. “As our little Queen has missed you. Isabella talks of nothing else but your return to her side.”

  Alianor looked wary. “Naturally, Your Grace, I would were I able. But, in view of my situation, it’s impossible for me to consider it yet.”

  To John’s satisfaction, Isabella cast him a pleading look.

  “Nonsense. Isabella would have you serve her again, not remain shut up in your dreary apartment. We but seek to make her happy, in view of her condition.”

  His outright mockery of her own words made Alianor angry, and her blue eyes flashed. He let her impertinence pass, because he knew when the idea entered Isabella’s head, she would force the lady to concede.