The Flower And The Sword

—Suzanne Barclay

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The Flower And The Sword

Jacqueline Navin

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

To a wonderful writer, my sister and my best friend, Mary.

To my good friends and fellow writers:

Betty, Carol, Helen, Kate, Kay, Krisann, Lorie,

Mary Anne and Peter.

And to Karen Kosztolnyik—big thanks!

Another voice, rich and bold, cut through the silence of the chapel.

“I am afraid she cannot marry, Father, for she already has a husband.”

Lily’s head shot up, and she whipped around toward the voice. That voice! It could only be…

Rogan stood directly in front of her, staring with a thunderous expression.

Rogan. Rogan was here. Alive. Impossibly, blessedly alive. Staring at her with a terrible, evil-looking smile twisting his lips. His eyes gleamed silver by the dim flames of the candles. Trust him to appear in such a shocking manner, Lily thought, so smug and poised and magnificent!

Prologue (#ulink_16af912e-0aad-5e59-9a96-8e33322a40b2)

Cornwall, England

February 1197

Lily sat perfectly still in the gathering darkness of dusk, back straight, hands folded and unmoving on her lap. She stared unblinkingly into the void of shadows crowding her chamber, blind to all the world had to offer.

Pain cradled her in its arms like an old friend, not fooled by her dry eyes and composed face.

Tomorrow she would wed a man she had met only once. A kind man with a gentle smile, whom she could never love, for all her love was dead.

She did not understand yet how all her happiness had crumbled into ashes. Or why. She was not even certain she was to blame, yet guilt ate at her soul and melded with her broken heart.

The man she loved was gone, and with him all her dreams…

Chapter One (#ulink_f0c511e5-10c1-56eb-be9e-f69f92ada65a)

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?”