“I expected as much,” Simon nodded. He would return to Ireland someday, but he still had much to do before he could. “My first concern is Charmot. I was quite sincere in my request to garrison a royal force within these walls. I have business that will force me to be away from home for some small time, and I wish my wife and my retainers to be safe in my absence.”
“And your children,” the agent agreed with a jovial wink. “No doubt you’ll have an heir to think of before the year is out.”
“Pray pardon me, my lords,” Isabel said, standing up. “I will leave you to your business.”
“Of course.” Simon took her hand and kissed it. “I will be with you soon.”
“Oh dear,” the king’s man said when she had gone. “I hope I did not give offense.”
Simon smiled. “Not at all.”
He found her later in the tiny cellar bedroom they now shared. The elegant gown she’d worn for England’s toady had been cast off in favor of one of his own linen shirts; her hair was loose on her shoulders; and a chaos of Orlando’s books and parchment scrolls was scattered before her on the bed. “The king’s agent was very helpful,” he said, stretching out beside her. “He seemed to think we could have a full garrison in place within the month.”
“Brautus will be pleased.” She smiled at him before taking up another scroll. “He needs people he can order about as he likes; otherwise he gets cranky.”
“He’s a good captain.” He took her hand and pressed it to his cheek, savoring the good, strong rhythm of her pulse. After seven weeks, she still was not completely mended, but she was better. “So what are you reading?”
“The same old matter as always.” She showed him the original parchment Orlando had found in Kivar’s mountain pal
ace, the sketch of the Chalice that had first set him on his quest. “This is rather obviously Joseph’s stake,” she said, pointing to the cross of objects underneath the cup. “So this is probably some particular sword.”
“Probably.” He sat up, leaning with her on the pillows. “Orlando thinks there must be other portals to the Chalice grove besides Charmot.”
“Let us hope so.” She studied the drawing for another moment before she set it aside. “You will find it.”
He put an arm around her shoulders and smiled, kissing the top of her head. He sometimes thought he had never been so certain of anything in his life as Isabel was about everything at every moment. “I will.” He touched her chin and turned her face up to his. “Then we can be married indeed.”
“Oh, we are quite married already.” She laid a hand against his cheek. “Don’t you forget it, your grace.”
“Oh, I will not.” He pressed her close and kissed her, and she put an arm around his neck, resisting the urge to cling to him with all her might and cry. He had to find the Chalice and the other vampire he had made; she knew these things and understood. But she could not like it.
“I don’t want you to leave me,” she allowed herself to say as he drew back from the kiss.
“I don’t want to leave you ever, and I’m not going yet.” He kissed her more deeply, shifting her closer in his arms. “And in the meantime, I’ll have back my shirt.”
Epilogue
Isabel stood in the churchyard beside Father Colin, tears streaming down her face. Before her was a large, impressive crypt inscribed in beautiful letters with the name of Francis, duke of Lyan, and just beside it was a smaller stone, marked simply Susannah, covered with the last rosebuds of fall.
“She was a kind and lovely girl,” Father Colin said, patting her hand. “She dwells in golden castles now.”
“Yes.” She laid the last wreath on the stone. “I know she does.”
“Forgive me, my lady,” said Phillip, coming toward her. One of the new royal garrison, he was barely twenty, with ears the size of oak leaves that turned bright pink whenever he spoke to her. “But we should be going. The sun will be going down soon.”
“Will it?” She looked up at the darkening sky and smiled. “Then yes, we should go.”
Simon and Orlando rode into a tiny village halfway between Charmot and the Scottish border, Simon on Malachi and Orlando on his little pony, and found a raucous festival raging in the street. “You, sirrah,” Simon called to a young man with a tankard in each hand. “It’s too soon for All Hallow’s. What’s the occasion?”
“The sheriff, my lord,” he answered with a grin.
“Married?” Orlando asked.
“Nay, lad—dead as a doornail.” The fellow was so merry with ale, he seemed to have taken the wizard for a child, gray beard and all. “Ten years of abusing our women and stealing our crops, and now the bastard’s dead.”
“Did someone murder him?” Simon asked.
“Nay, my lord, you mustn’t think that,” the drunkard promised. “He went to bed last night wicked as ever and hale as a bull in April and woke up this morning stone dead. Or didn’t wake up, I should say. As near as we can tell, an adder got him in the night—there’s two nasty marks on his neck, but that’s all.”