CHAPTER one
December 1491
The duke of Sagrat, Luis Henrique Peráto, strode through his castle’s hallways with his head bowed in sorrow. Tears slipped from his red-rimmed eyes and down his cheeks. So profound was his rage and grief that he boorishly pushed aside servants and soldiers and subjected those within earshot to mumbled profanities.His stride lengthened further as he neared the castle’s heavy iron-studded doors. At least outside he had some respite from the prying eyes that stalked him every time he left his chambers. There was no privacy within these godforsaken walls.
Tears continued to gather in his eyes. He exhaled a guttural grunt, billowing from deep within his throat, and thought, I must stop crying. A duke’s tears would be seen as weakness of spirit and a pitiful self-indulgence unbecoming of nobility. No one must know why his heart was breaking. Only God would bear witness to his grief this night. Only He would know of his suffering, and He would be merciful.
A thick gold chain at his neck, which jangled against his chain mail vest, secured the long black and gold cloak wrapped around his broad shoulders. The mantle’s ermine fur trim swept the ground behind him. It was heavy and cumbersome, but it was a vital item of clothing to combat the coldest winter months, when a perpetual wind seemed to blow through the ancient castle’s passageways. This night, there was a luminous sky filled with stars, but it was so cold that breath lingered in the air like a fog.