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Gregory knew they hunted him, but did they have the horses to see it through? Doubtful, but soon the answer would be known. He neared the end of a mournful poem that had bedeviled him for a fortnight. Once done, he would again ride out and give test to their mettle. Gregory gazed into the raftered reaches of the hall and thought of home. An autumn gust rattled the shutters, candles flickered and, somewhere out there, they waited. He lit a stub of Frankincense, dipped his quill into the inkwell, and hunched over the golden sheet of parchment.
Asked to write a chronicle of the times, Gregory—with his merchant’s wit, his silver and wine, and a talent for arriving in places where he doesn’t belong—journeys through late 13th Century England, to ramshackle villages and splendid cathedral cities, to dank castles and even a remote battlefield in the foggy northern hinterlands. What he finds is a realm of toil and gossip, tragedy and cheer, and hard lines between the accepted and the forbidden.
As the list of friends and enemies grows, Gregory finds himself courting something he never before imagined, the trappings of fame. The Southampton Chronicle, born from the dust and blood of the Middle Ages, itself yields an unlikely hero, a chronicler who sheds obscurity in claiming the highest title available to him—Gregory of Bordeaux.
