Chapter One

Archbishop Francis McHenry knew he was dying.

Leaving Bishops Edward Fitzroy and Hugh Thurstyn in charge of the Church, he directed them to inform him of any significant situations that surfaced. With a promise to return to the capital in the spring, the Archbishop left the city of Rhennsbury to spend the winter of 1022-1023 at St. Clement's monastery in the Duchy of Belgravia. Already in poor health, he deteriorated further as cooler temperatures heralded autumn and the colder days to follow.

Neither of the two bishops believed they would see Archbishop McHenry again.

By early February, Francis accepted that his death was imminent. He'd begun a journal upon his arrival at the monastery and now prayed for enough time to complete it. He knew how important the journal would be after he was gone. Francis was unable to attend all of the monastery's prayers, but he did observe Mass once a week. He was grateful for the quiet monastic routine and did as little as possible to disrupt it.

One afternoon a soft knock sounded on his cell's door. "Come in," Francis called, before succumbing to a fit of coughing. His bronchitis of the previous winter had returned and run a more virulent course this season.

The monk at the door, Brother Basil, hurried to Francis's bedside and helped the archbishop sit. Francis murmured "Thank you" after his coughing passed.

"I have brought more salve for your chest, Excellency," Basil said.

"Aye." Francis replied, his voice weak. "It soothes and does prevent some of the coughing."

Basil loosened the collar of Francis's cassock and rubbed in some of the herbal ointment. Francis leaned back against the propped cushions and inhaled the botanical aroma. When Basil had finished his ministrations and tightly closed the clay jar, Francis gripped the apothecary's arm with surprising firmness.

Basil's expression changed from concern to alarm. "What is it?"

Francis's eyes darkened with pain. As the spasm passed, he spoke with urgency. "Brother Apothecary, I am dying." As Basil began to protest, Francis shook his head. "'Tis true. Mayhap not today, but soon. I have a boon to ask of you, and I need your sworn promise."

Basil inclined his head in steadfast obedience. "As you will, Excellency."

Francis released Basil's arm and directed him to reach between the cushions that supported him. Basil retrieved the journal secreted there. He looked at Francis in confusion. Francis's voice was a whisper. "Guard this book with your life. Give it only to a messenger from the king, but only if you trust that messenger. I leave the choice to you. Do not give it to Edward Fitzroy." Francis coughed for several moments. "I am being poisoned."

Basil's eyes widened in disbelief. "Excellency, 'tis impossible. No one here would -"

"Someone here has, though I suspect he works for another. Take care of yourself, Brother. As apothecary, you could well be the first person suspected though I know you are above reproach."

Basil inclined his head at the compliment.

Francis continued. "'Tis gravely vital that the king gets this information before the Church does. Do I have your word?"

"Aye," Basil vowed. "I will guard it well and defend it to the extent I must. I could deliver it to the king myself if you prefer," he offered.

"Nay. You could be waylaid between here and Rhennsbury. 'Tis better to wait. Once the news goes out that I have been murdered, Edward Fitzroy will make inquiries, but so will Robert Claybourne. Thank you, Brother."

Basil nodded then lifted Francis's right hand and pressed his lips to it.