Prologue

The Outskirts of Jerusalem, A.D. 1130

The sun plummeted behind the low mountains to the west, drawing the veil of night behind it, as Luke summited the hill near his home. Determined to catch the first appearance of the magical star, he’d raced up the hill as fast as his thin, young legs would allow. Out of breath but happy to have arrived in advance of the star’s appearance, the boy collapsed on a large, flat rock to catch his breath.

As yet, no stars pierced the darkening canopy above. Luke glanced downhill toward his home, a small, structure, slightly off-kilter, standing alone by the narrow, dusty road. Beyond it, torches flared to life along the walls of Jerusalem.

His mother would worry about him, coming home so late. Then again, he had bread in his satchel, taken from a merchant who’d unwisely turned his back, and he’d found a silver trinket on the ground that could be pawned for food. His findings would ensure his mother’s forgiveness when he finally made it home.

Casting his gaze upward, Luke gasped in delight as the first needle of illumination pricked the dark sky, followed immediately by the winking of thousands of others. With eyes of a lighter hue than his countryman, betraying him as the child of an infidel, he searched the heavens for the cluster of stars his father had once pointed out to him.

See the bright star at the top there? His father’s voice returned to him, speaking in Norman French, a tongue Luke hadn’t overheard in five months. ’Tis a magical star. If you make a wish on it, your wish will come true.

Until that very morning, Luke had forgotten all about the magical star. However, the trinket shimmering in the dirt had reminded him, and all day, he had looked forward to the opportunity to put things right.

James d’Aubigny, heir to the Earl of Arundel had filled Luke’s head with hopeful visions, like magic stars and more. He’d regaled his son with stories of a land lushly green and shaded with enormous trees, of meadows watered with silvery streams and studded with castles made of stone. He’d drawn pictures for Luke, read him books about kings and mighty warriors, men whose links of armor protected them from the Saracen’s blades—men of such strong faith they had traveled great distances to subdue and convert the disbelievers.

Those stories had become such a part of Luke that the land his father called England seemed almost more real to him than the dusty, arid country in which he had been born and had lived all his seven years. His father had promised him they would return home together when his peacekeeping duties were done. However, five months earlier, James had abruptly died from a ravaging illness his western blood had been unable to fight off, leaving his son and his Saracen mistress destitute.

Luke had mourned the promise of England, lost to him at his father’s death, nearly as much as he’d mourned his dashing and spirited father. Overnight, his life became a wretched blur.

Threatening to stone Luke’s mother, Esme, to death for her shame, her people had cast mother and son outside the walls of the city. Undaunted, and with her young son’s help, she built them a hut of palm fronds and dug them a garden, hoping to eke a living from the stingy soil When their goat ate weeds and died, she sent Luke into the city to beg and, if failing that, to steal.

Neither of those tasks suited him well. His father had raised him to be an honest boy, proud of his Norman heritage. He suffered the scorn of the Saracen locals, endured their mockery and name calling, knowing all the while that he was an outcast, that he would never belong.

Tonight, Luke vowed he would change all that.

For a panicked moment, he searched the glinting stars above, fearing he had lost the magical star forever. Then his gaze fell upon the brightest illumination at the height of a starry cluster, and he exclaimed his joy out loud.

“Magic star,” he whispered, his heart thumping urgently within his chest, “I wish—” He cut himself short. Nay, he could not afford to be hasty, for he had but one wish, a wish his father had advised him to save for a time when it was truly needed.

He put a hand to his mouth to keep from blurting anything rash. It was selfish to consider only himself while making a magical request. After all, his mother suffered even more than he, being shunned by her family, unwelcomed within the city’s walls.

He would think of a wish that saved the both of them.

“Magic star,” he said again, speaking slowly and with care, “I wish for a better life for the two of us, for Mother and me.”

He wondered if he ought to say more, but the star gave a wink and dimmed, as if to say it was too late to tack on specifics.

With a trembling of anticipation, Luke craned his neck to peer into the valley below. If his wish had come true, there would be light in the window and a fire for cooking.

To his disappointment, the hut remained dark.

Reality brought Luke’s trembling to a hopeless calm. A gnawing emptiness filled his belly, reminding him that he’d not eaten at all that day. Touching the loaves in his satchel, his only comfort, he scolded himself for depriving his mother of food.

Standing up, he jumped from the rock to the parched dirt and, turning toward home, plodded downhill.

Thousands of leagues away, in a castle made of stone, the Earl of Arundel clutched a missive in his trembling hand. The letter, like those that James had sent before, was stiff from the many months it had taken to arrive from the Holy Lands. This letter, though, was not penned in his son’s distinctive scrawl. Rather, it was scrawled in the hand of a stranger, informing the earl that his only heir was dead.

Through eyes blurred with tears, Lord William d’Aubigny’s gaze fell upon these words, words that rallied him from complete despair: Luke, son of James . . .

James had left behind a son? Aye, and apparently, the boy remained in the keeping of his mother, a Saracen woman named Esme, and they lived on the outskirts of Jerusalem.

“Steward!” the earl bellowed, rising from his chair with the vigor of a much younger man. “Prepare for a lengthy journey. We go to Jerusalem to collect my son’s remains . . . and to find my grandson.”