The Drawing of the Dark

PROLOGUE: All Hallow’s Eve, 1529

WITH ALMOST LUDICROUS CARE the old man carried the pitcher of beer across the sunlit room toward the still older man who reclined propped up in a bed by the window. A smear of dried mud was caked on the foot of the bed.

“Here you are, Sire,” he said, pouring the black liquid into the earthenware cup which the old king had picked up from the table beside the bed.

The king raised the cup to his lips and sniffed it. “Ah,” he breathed. “A potent batch this time. Even the vapors are strengthening.”

The other man had now set the pitcher down on the table, pushing to one side a rusty lance head that had lain next to the cup. “It’s a few ounces short,” he confessed. “He sneaked down here Easter evening and stole a cupful.”

The king took a sip, and closed his eyes rapturously. “Ah, that is good beer.” He opened his eyes and glanced at the other old man. “Well, I don’t think we can grudge him one cup of it, Aurelianus. I really don’t think, all things considered, that we can honestly grudge him it.”