The author's website can be found at http://www.arianafranklin.com/. There is an exerpt available. I'll paste a bit here, not the very beginning that is more of a prologue, but this will give you some flavor:England, 1176. Beautiful, tranquil Glastonbury Abbey— one of England’s holiest sites, and believed by some to be King Arthur’s sacred Isle of Avalon—has been burned almost to the ground. The arsonist remains at large, but the fire has uncovered something even more shocking: two hidden skeletons, a man and a woman. The skeletons’ height and age send rumors flying—are the remains those of Arthur and Guinevere?King Henry II hopes so. Struggling to put down a rebellion in Wales, where the legend of Celtic savior Arthur is particularly strong, Henry wants definitive proof that the bones are Arthur’s. If the rebels are sure that the Once and Future King will not be coming to their aid, Henry can stamp out the insurgence for good. He calls on Adelia Aguilar, Mistress of the Art of Death, to examine the bones.Henry’s summons comes not a moment too soon, for Adelia has worn out her welcome in Cambridge. As word of her healing powers has spread, so have rumors of witchcraft. So Adelia and her household ride to Glastonbury, where the investigation into the abbey fire will be overseen by the Church authorities—in this case, the Bishop of St. Albans, who happens also to be the father of Adelia’s daughter.
March, a.d. 1176, and a wind hurtling down a ravine in Wales, blowing the haulms of reeds and the flare of torches in the same streaming angle as the hair on the severed heads that topped the line of poles leading up to the Plantagenet tents. It sent grass, leaves, and branches nodding in vehement agreement. With a spike through their Welsh brains, the heads couldn’t nod, though they revolved slightly so that their blank eyes shifted, as if dividing their attention between the bottom of the ravine, where English soldiers were digging burial pits, and a limping mailed figure who was dragging a woman up the steep slope toward the tents.
As she was pulled level with the poles, the woman broke into a wail of Welsh lamentation, peering at each head and calling out what, presumably, were their names.
The mailed man paused, puffing—she was a big lady to haul. “Look,” he said, “they were killed in battle. Battle. Understand? My lads got a bit carried away with their bodies, that’s all. The king doesn’t behead prisoners, at least not often—he’s a good
king. Good.”But the woman was ignorant of English, no matter how loudly it was emphasized. “Duw, Duw,” she cried, lifting her arms to the sky. The man had to get behind her and push before she’d go farther.
The opening of the bigger tent was lit from inside, outlining the figure of Henry II, who stood at its entrance, also mailed, also shouting—this time at a line of bound men being made to kneel in front of him—while a man-at-arms undid the king’s hauberk
at the back and carefully peeled it off.
“There was no point to this, you stupid bastards. No point.” To the interpreter at his side, the king said, “Tell ’em that. Tell them I’ve made peace with their lord Deheubarth, or however the bugger pronounces it. They won’t have to pay any more taxes with me as their king than they pay him already.” He paused. “Well, not much more.” He pressed a cloth against his left arm to stop the bleeding. “Now look what they’ve done. Tell them I’ve had to mount an expensive campaign to put down their bloody rebellion, I’ve lost good men, they’ve lost good men, I won’t be able to use my shield arm for bloody days, and they’ll be taxed for it until their brains squeak—that’s if they’ve got any and if I don’t gouge them out. Tell ’em that. Tell them Arthur is dead.”
At the sound of the name, the kneeling prisoners raised their heads as one man and a shout of “Bywyd hir Arthur” rippled along the line.“Arthur live forever,” translated the interpreter, helpfully.
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