LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One

       Cornwall, EnglandJuly 1196

      “My God, look at it,” Andrew said to his brother. Rogan St. Cyr squinted up at the horizon.

      The castle of Charolais perched on the brink of a seaside cliff, a dark sentinel standing watch over the raging surf below. Like its infamous neighbor, Tintagel, Charolais was a functional fitting together of cold, gray stone. Spartan, perhaps, but not grotesque. Rather, its awesome presence owed more to the atmosphere lent by the savage elements of its surrounding: restless sea, rolling skies and gray, barren moor that stretched as far as the eye could see.

      Rogan felt a clenching deep in his gut. It had been a long time since he could last recall being nervous. Oh, a certain intensity gripped him just before battle, even after so many times, but nerve-jangling anxiety was something to which he was not accustomed.

      Not for the first time, he reflected that he was not the man for the duty awaiting him. He had no skill at diplomacy, nor did he possess a glib tongue adept at tripping over subtleties and false praise. He was a warrior—he had never been anything else—but he was also a man of honour and that was why he had come.

      “I swear, my hackles are rising,” Andrew muttered as they neared.

      Rogan grunted and kicked his horse forward, his broad-shouldered frame moving in rhythm with the charcoal stallion. He looked completely at ease, but his eyes missed nothing as he and his men entered the gate and advanced into the lower bailey.

      At Rogan’s continued silence, Andrew said, “I know this duty weighs heavy on you.”

      Rogan finally spoke. “Not even you realize how much, brother.”

      As they passed through the inner gatehouse, the steep rise of the keep came into view. It was plain and unadorned, like a monolithic grave marker. The thought threw a jagged ripple up Rogan’s spine.

      They drew to a halt and dismounted. At Andrew’s continued perusal, Rogan snapped, “Why the devil do you keep staring at me?”

      “It is a sin to swear,” Andrew said with a grin. Rogan finally looked at him, astonished. His younger sibling rarely took anything seriously, least of all sin—this despite the fact he was a priest.

      Rogan handed the reins to one of his men and glanced about uneasily. “Garven, take the others and stay outside. Andrew, come with me.”

      From the huge studded door, a liveried porter eyed him curiously. Rogan announced himself to the man, who responded with rounded eyes and a quick dash down a corridor. He and Andrew stepped inside the huge hall.

      Their boots scraping across the stone floor created an echo that played a ghostly game among the vaults overhead. Rows of windows were set in elaborately arched openings, now shuttered against the late afternoon heat. Weapons hung on the limestone walls, showing the family colors emblazoned on shields and displayed boldly on banners. Several tapestries were featured, depicting battle scenes woven with care by the generations of Marshand women in order to commemorate the military prowess of their husbands and sons.

      Expelling a long breath, Rogan rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s rich,” he said in a low voice. “He will have no trouble mounting an army.”

      “We are here to make certain he shall not need one,” Andrew said calmly. “We shall grovel properly and offer pretty phrases to assuage his pride, and he will forgive us. Although I still say Alexander should be here to make his own apology. Let him beg for pardon—”

      He was cut off by Rogan’s derisive snort. “The idiot would make matters worse, prattling on about love.”

      Andrew grinned. “I take it you are no great believer in true love?”

      “Hardly.” Rogan’s handsome face was cold.

      “Well, I cannot say that I either believe or disbelieve it. It has never happened to me, nor is it likely to. I am pledged to chastity and though I may be loose with my other obligations, I will not go back on a vow. Yet I must admit our colicky brother seems positively blissful with his merchant’s daughter.”

      “Never confuse lust and love, Andrew. Judging by the amount of time they spend in private chambers, I would say it is less an urging of the heart than an urging of a more primitive nature.” Rogan’s gaze roamed, touching on the slack, overweight knights lounging about playing chess and quaffing mead. “Alexander’s mind is muddled and our family honor is at stake.”

      “Agreed. And it is always you defending it.”

      It was true. Although Alexander was the eldest, and had inherited the duchy and its vast estates, Rogan, the second son, shouldered the responsibility. He had hoped his four-year absence while he fought in the Holy Land would have encouraged Alexander to accept the weightier aspects of his office. As it happened, his blustering, bullheaded brother had learned nothing of tact and self-discipline. Now, less than a year after Rogan had returned from King Richard’s crusade, Alex had committed the most flagrant act of disregard yet.

      Rogan ran his hand through his auburn hair, ignoring the stubborn lock that fell back onto his forehead. “Where is Marshand?”

      As if conjured by Rogan’s impatience, a loud exclamation announced their host’s arrival. Rogan swung around to face Enguerrand Marshand coming toward them. The man was short and, though not fat, had an oddly proportioned body. His hose showed almost impossibly skinny legs for such a rounded middle. Most of his hair was gone, except for a feathering of gray that wrapped around the back of his head from ear to ear. He was beaming with pleasure until he drew closer and his eyes focused on Rogan. His bushy eyebrows went down as his glance darted toward Andrew. “Where is the duke?” he said in a demanding voice.

      Rogan discovered an instant dislike to this arrogant little man. “I am Rogan St. Cyr, Alexander’s brother. This is my younger brother, Father Andrew.”

      Enguerrand did not spare the priest so much as a glance. “When I was told it was St. Cyr colors you were flying, I assumed it was the duke.”

      “Father?” a sharp

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