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  Prologue

  Northern France

  1559

  “Promise me you’ll come back as soon as you can,” Kenna said, looking up into Bash’s gray eyes. In the past weeks she’d fallen in love with the details. The way his dark hair came over his brows. The stubble that thickened above his top lip. How he always had this intense look, like he was squinting to see her better.

  “Of course I will,” Bash said. “I hope we’ll get answers there—at Visegard. The Darkness has been terrorizing the woods for too long. Who better to find him than the Master of Horse and Hunt?”

  He smirked, and Kenna let out a small laugh. Lately, he’d pull her to him, muttering something about his fake title. She liked that he could make jokes with her. That he always wanted to be near her. That he’d rest his face against her neck and breathe her in, closing his eyes as if he was relishing every moment.

  Bash knelt down to talk to Pascal. “This place The Darkness held you… it was in an abandoned village past the stream, just south of the mountain range, right? A town that started with a B?”

  The little boy nodded. Just weeks before, Bash had found him alone in the woods, covered in blood. He said a man with sharp teeth had kidnapped him and held him for days in a place called Visegard. Bash knew it was The Darkness—the monster who lurked in the shadowy woods, a pagan god who was only appeased by the blood of innocents. In the past days Pascal and Kenna had grown close; she cared for him like a mother would. It always took Bash by surprise, how moved he was watching Kenna comb the little boy’s hair or tie his shoes. She grew lovelier with every stolen glance.

  “This has gone on too long,” Bash said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “We’ll find the monster in the woods—The Darkness. We won’t come back until we do.”

  “We should leave before sunset,” Nostradamus called out from across the palace lawn. Bash turned to him and saw that he had already climbed onto his horse. Bash had planned to go alone, but Nostradamus was seeking his own revenge. The Darkness had tortured and nearly killed his love, Olivia.

  Bash grabbed Kenna’s hand, squeezing it tight. He was suddenly aware of Pascal behind him and the guards stationed at the palace’s back gate. He couldn’t kiss her here; it might seem dishonorable. After all she’d endured with his father, he was careful not to draw her close to him in front of people or imply, in any way, she was only an object of lust.

  He looked at her sweet, heart-shaped face, wanting to kiss her, to hold her. Instead, he said only, “I will miss you, Kenna.”

  “I will miss you too,” she said. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard, passionately. It drew all the breath from his body. He tried not to give in to it, but he wanted her—all of her. One kiss was not enough.

  When she finally pulled away, he felt lighter. A heady, wild feeling had overcome him. He climbed on the horse and look down at her, smiling. He gave the reins one quick whip and was off, starting toward the trees.

  Chapter One

  Bezonvaux, France

  August 13, 1517

  “Beautiful work, Claude,” his mother said, looking at the tray of freshly baked rolls. He had folded the dough just the way she’d taught him, turning the ends down into an X. Now they were plump and delicious looking. The whole cottage smelled of warm bread.

  Claude moved easily around the kitchen, helping his mother stir the stew or sort the fresh herbs he’d found by the river. His little brothers, Enzo and Jacques, played on the floor, driving around the horses Claude had carved for them out of wood. Claude relished the distraction, these tiny moments he could focus on. Things seemed so simple: fold the dough, wash the pots, do this, do that. When he was absorbed in this work, he could almost ignore the screams outside.

  Almost…

  “I am faster than anyone!” Enzo yelled, pushing his horse in front of Jacques’s. “I can steal and get far away from here! No one will be able to catch me! No one!”

  Claude shared a worried look with his mother. He tried to ignore it, instead collecting the baked rolls and putting them in a basket. A man had been caught in town just yesterday with pewter candlesticks. He’d stolen them from a nearby shrine, an offense punishable by death. Now the townspeople were all gathered in the square. They’d been there for hours, excitedly awaiting his execution. Even though he was nearly seventeen, Claude couldn’t stand the thought of it. The one time his father had made him go to an execution, he’d snuck away from the crowd as soon as the man’s head fell from the block, the wood stump covered with thick blood. He’d run behind the silversmith’s shed and vomited until there was nothing left inside him.

  “If you could just cut that last bit of goat’s meat,” his mother said, gesturing to the slab of pink flesh on the wood counter. It still had some of the skin on it.

  Claude went to it, not daring to breathe in the heavy scent of the meat. He held the knife above it, wanting to cut into it but unable to stop the queasiness from coming. He could still hear the people in the square. Their cheers had already risen and fallen just moments before. The man, whoever he was, was dead.

  Claude closed his eyes as he made the first cut. He was nearly through the meat when the front door to the cottage banged open. His father came in, his skin covered with sweat. As soon as he saw Claude standing there, hunched over the counter, he sneered. “Boy, what did I tell you?” he said. “That’s women’s work. Don’t let me catch you in the kitchen again.”

  Claude wiped his hands on the front of his pants, then joined his brothers on the floor. He pretended to be interested in their toys, but his shoulders were tense. He knew Enzo and Jacques felt it too. They were quieter whenever their father came in, their voices barely a whisper.

  Their father lumbered around the kitchen, opening cabinets and slamming them closed. He was a giant of a man, with broad shoulders and huge, meaty hands. His hair was thick and greasy, and he always smelled like turned wine. He went to the bottom cupboards and finally found his bottle of rum. He took a few quick swigs, then dropped his hood on the kitchen table.

  It was so hard to look away from it. It was a burlap sack speckled with dark brown spots. There were holes cut for the eyes and a thin string that ran around the neck to keep it from falling off. It’s a sick joke, Claude thought. All the townspeople knew his father was the executioner, didn’t they? Why pretend? His father always spent a great deal on the necessities—chickens, rice, cloth… rum—the week after an execution. He used all the same coins that he had just been paid. And even if he didn’t, he was still so distinctive. That uneven, half-drunk gait so obviously him. How could anyone mistake the executioner for someone else?

  “What are you looking at, boy?” his father asked, catching him staring at the hood. “It scares you, doesn’t it?”

  “Arthur, please, leave him alone,” Claude’s mother said softly. “Please.”

  His father took two more swigs from the rum bottle, his gaze fixed on his oldest son. “Always protecting him…”

  Claude knew what was coming, and he braced himself as if his father were already upon him. He grabbed Enzo’s hand and led him toward the back door. “Go play out back,” he said, pushing Jacques’s shoulder. “Go on, now. Don’t come back in until I say.”

&nb
sp; The littlest boys weren’t even out the door when his father started. “You know what the townspeople think of you?” he asked. “They think you’re worthless. You’re nothing. Their sons are out helping their fathers in the fields. Some of them are going off to fight. And you can’t even watch a man’s head come off without retching in the bushes.”

  Claude kept his eyes on the floor. Enzo had left one of the wooden horses there, and he stared down at it, noticing how the light from the window cast its shadow on the floor. He always went back to the same moment, the only memory that could bring him away from here. Lily standing by the stream, picking flowers. Lily looking up at him and realizing he was staring at her, staring at her purple-blue eyes and black hair, noticing the way her corset dipped in the front. Lily smiling back.

  She was three years younger than he, the daughter of the village blacksmith. Her parents wouldn’t discuss marriage until she turned fifteen, but he was certain she was meant for him. Every time they passed in the village square or he met her gaze at church, he was even more certain. One day, they’d be together. One day, she’d be his.

  Claude heard some of the words: useless, coward, good-for-nothing. His mother tried to protect him (bless her, she always tried), but nothing could change his father’s course once he’d decided it. Claude didn’t respond. He closed his eyes, trying to picture Lily that day at the stream, but that only angered his father more. Soon he was up from the table, taking his belt off and folding it in his hand. He’d raised his arm for the first blow when they heard the boys screaming outside.

  “Mama! Papa!” Enzo’s voice called. “Help, Papa, help!”

  Drunk as he was, their cries woke his father from his anger. He started toward the back door, Claude and his mother close behind. When they got outside, the late afternoon sun was streaming through the trees. Enzo and Jacques were standing at the edge of the woods, looking at two men who’d arrived on horseback. Claude had never seen them before—they must have come from another village, taking a path in the forest. One of the men was still on his horse, but the other had fallen to the ground.

  “Good lord, what’s happened?” Claude’s mother said, looking down at the men. The one on the ground was twisting in pain. His skin was a strange pinkish color. His nose bled onto the grass.

  “There’s a sickness.…” the man on the horse said. Claude could tell he was dying too; his fingers were blackish green. He had giant, swollen lumps in his neck. “Please, we need…”

  He struggled with his words. Claude scanned the woods behind them, knowing they must’ve come through the forest. The family’s cottage faced the trees, the brilliant green hills disappearing behind them. He’d heard about the plague that had swept through centuries before. There had been recurrences since, but was that what this was? How could he know what it would look like up close?

  “The Black Death…” his mother whispered, confirming it.

  “Stay away from us,” his father yelled at the men. “We can’t help you. Go back where you came from.”

  Claude ran to his brothers and pulled them farther away from the men. “You didn’t touch them, did you? How close did you come to them?” he asked, pushing his family back against the house. He covered his mouth and nose with the front of his shirt, gesturing to his brothers to do the same.

  Jacques looked terrified. He turned over his hand, which was covered with the man’s blood. “I was trying to help.…” he said, his voice a sad whisper.

  “Mama, we tried to help them!” Enzo repeated. Then he looked up at his parents. His mother’s face had turned into something unrecognizable. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “Mama?” Enzo asked. “Mama, why are you crying?”

  Chapter Two

  August 29, 1517

  Claude carried the two buckets in one hand, listening to them thump together as he walked. He could have walked forever. Through the woods, past the stream, farther and farther down the hill. Part of him didn’t want to return to the cottage. Was that wrong? Was he a bad person for wanting to leave, to get as far away from here as he could? He couldn’t, he wouldn’t… but he wanted to.

  When he got closer to the stream, he stood there for a moment, looking out through the trees. Had it been here that he’d seen Lily that day, or was it farther down the bank? He wished she’d arrive now, out of nowhere, the bucket in her hand. He hadn’t seen her since the plague started. Once, while he was getting goat’s milk in town, he’d overheard that her younger sisters were sick. He refused to ask anyone if she’d gotten the disease, though he knew it was likely. Whenever the thought came, he tried to push it away, but it always came back. Lily might be sick, Lily might be dead.…

  Claude rested one of the buckets on the bank. He leaned over, about to dip the other one in, when the wind changed. The smell was immediate. He’d gotten used to the stench of rotting corpses, that heavy stinging scent that filled his nostrils and trickled down his throat. He had to cover his mouth to keep from throwing up.

  He glanced upstream, where someone had left the bodies. Three of them, two smaller than Jacques. Not everyone buried their dead. Some were afraid to touch them, instead using pitchforks and shovels to lift them into wheelbarrows. Then they would dump them as soon as they could, wherever they could. Claude could not tell why he was not infected after spending the past weeks inside his house. He waited for the plague to come for him, but it never did. His neck never swelled and he never slowed from fatigue. He knew now that he had been spared. For what reason, though? Why? Was it not a worse fate to live when everyone else would die?

  He stared at his reflection in the water, a clump of blond hair floating past. There was a tiny red sock snagged on a rotted log. He walked along the bank, trying to get beyond the bodies to clean water, but within a few steps he saw a woman, facedown on shore. She was just thirty feet away.

  Claude turned back toward the cottage, hoping he might be able to draw just a quarter of a bucket from the old well in the woods. He took the longer path, circling around the town. As he got to the edge of the cottages, he could hear a woman’s screams. She wailed with the confused words of the dying. Nothing made sense.

  “James!” she yelled, her voice breaking. “I want to go with you, but the world, James! The world!”

  Claude heard a man trying to comfort her, the words too low to make out. There was a child crying somewhere inside. Keep your head down, he thought, watching the ground pass beneath his feet. Don’t look at them.

  It was the only way he knew how to walk through town now. There were graves everywhere, and people calling out from windows, begging for food. Some wondered if he had some special medicine that he was keeping. How was he not sick? Why did some people live and others die? How could he help them?

  As he got closer to the town square, he heard the pagans chanting. A horse made horrible sounds as it bled to death—squealing, bleating. He tilted his head up just in time to see it writhe in pain. The pagans had tied its hooves to the platform and it couldn’t kick free. Blood was everywhere.

  “Our Catholic god has turned his back on us!” yelled Gerard, a man four years older than Claude. He’d been one of the cruelest to Claude growing up. He was always the first to kick him or spit at him when he walked by. “We must make bigger sacrifices to appease the pagan gods. We must try to end this!”

  A few survivors were huddled around him. A woman was crying. “But this is the third horse we’ve sacrificed to them,” she said. “Nothing will stop it. What do they want from us?”

  “We must keep sacrificing to them,” Gerard announced. “We must…”

  He trailed off, uncertain. As Gerard looked out over the crowd, his eyes met Claude’s. His upper lip curled in a sinister smile. He still held the dagger he sliced the mare’s throat with, the end of it dark red. “We will do whatever it takes! They need more to be appeased.”

  A horrible noise was coming from the mare. It was still struggling. Claude turned away, unable to look. Instead, he picked u
p his pace, nearly running past the tiny Catholic church, which was now abandoned. Nothing had stopped the plague, and the survivors had lost faith in their prayers. They turned instead to the pagans in the village, hoping they could give them answers.

  When Claude reached the well, he worked quickly, trying to forget the sight of the dying mare. He tried to forget the bodies by the river and the pile of dead goats next to the stone altar. If only he could forget two days ago, when he’d buried both Jacques and his mother in the woods behind their house. He’d left one wooden cross on each of their graves. He had to believe in some greater power.… It was all he had now.

  There was only an inch of water in the bucket, but he brought it inside anyway, hoping it might be enough to wet their throats. Enzo was lying on a mattress on the floor. His neck was swollen, his fingernails black. He twisted and turned in his sleep. Claude dipped a cloth in the bucket and ran it over Enzo’s lips, then rested it on his hot forehead.

  “Water for you,” he said as he entered the back room. He knelt beside his father’s bed. He was worse than Enzo. The plague had infected him two days before the boy, and he was further along. He couldn’t speak. He could barely keep his eyes open to look at Claude.

  Claude dipped a cloth in the bucket, then squeezed it, letting the water drip into his father’s mouth. He tried to swallow, but he couldn’t. He was wheezing, the thick fluid in his lungs making it hard to breathe. As many times as Claude had wished his father dead, he knew now he’d never meant it. The past days had been horrible to watch. “I’m here now,” Claude said, trying to comfort him. “I’m with you. Be at peace, Father, be at peace.”

  He was slipping away. Claude knew what it looked like now. He knew how everything in the body slowed, how it stopped. He’d seen it in his mother and Jacques. He combed his father’s hair away from his face. Then Claude picked up the wet cloth and squeezed the last of the well water into his father’s mouth.