Book Title: Island of Gold
Series: Sea and Stone Chronicles
Author: Amy Maroney
Publication Date: September 8, 2021
Publisher: Artelan Press
Page Length: 380 Pages
Genre: Historical Adventure and Romance
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Island of Gold
(Sea and Stone Chronicles)
By Amy Maroney
1454. A noble French falconer. A spirited merchant’s daughter. And a fateful decision that changes their destiny forever.
When Cédric is recruited by the Knights Hospitaller to the Greek island of Rhodes, his wife Sophie jumps at the chance to improve their fortunes. After a harrowing journey to Rhodes, Cédric plunges into the world of the knights—while Sophie is tempted by the endless riches that flow into the bustling harbor. But their dazzling new home has a dark side.
Slaves toil endlessly to fortify the city walls, and rumors of a coming attack by the Ottoman Turks swirl in the streets. Desperate to gain favor with the knights and secure his position, Cédric navigates a treacherous world of shadowy alliances. Meanwhile, Sophie secretly engineers a bold plan to keep their children safe. As the trust between them frays, enemies close in—and when disaster strikes the island, the dangers of their new world become terrifyingly real.
With this richly-told story of adventure, treachery, and the redeeming power of love, Amy Maroney brings a mesmerizing and forgotten world to vivid life.
Read an Excerpt
Spring, 1440
Bruges, Flanders
The Portier family entered the church one by one. The warm, stale air smelled faintly of beeswax. Sophie followed Papa, Maman, and Grégoire down the main aisle of the nave to their appointed spot, about three-quarters of the way back from the altar. Behind the altar a three-paneled painting of saints and angels was affixed to the stone wall. Above it, a round window made of colorful stained glass let in filtered sunlight. Sophie stared up at it, mesmerized by the beauty. Ensconced between her parents, she did not hear Cédric de Montavon slip into the pew. Her family’s murmured greetings to him brought her back to the moment. She turned her head and met the falconer’s eyes.
He nodded at her in silence as he took his seat. Flushing, she lowered her eyelids. When she raised them again, he was still looking her way, a faint expression of surprise on his face. She was accustomed to seeing that expression on a man’s face when he first encountered her. Papa took great pride in the attention she attracted.
Like moths to a flame, he often said.
Usually, Sophie found the attention of men annoying. But this time, she felt a powerful tug of attraction. The heat in her throat and cheeks swept into her chest, then settled languidly just above her hips.
The priest began to speak. The familiar Latin words of Mass soon lulled her into a stupor. For a while she trained her eyes on the rosy light spilling forth from the stained glass window above the altar. Then she tried glimpsing Cédric de Montavon from the corner of her eye without turning her head.
She could see the falconer’s fine black leather boots, the dark green hose he wore, his hands resting on his thighs. His slender, sun-browned fingers were a stark contrast to her father’s plump white ones.
The priest droned on and on. She prayed for Mass to end.
Finally, it did. They all stood and filed back down the aisle through the tall doors of the church to the sunlit square beyond. It was a crisp spring day, with a gentle breeze that whispered over her cheeks. Sophie stood with Maman. They discussed the Flemish ladies’ elaborate head coverings, the fine drape of their cloaks, the foreign sounds of their language drifting overhead. Gregoire and the falconer chatted with Papa about business matters, about trade and war and commerce and tariffs.
Several merchants joined them, their attention focused on Monsieur de Montavon. They peppered him with questions about falcons and his work for the count. Sophie watched him respond, admiring his confident manner, the strong line of his jaw, the hard angles of his cheekbones. She stared at his well-formed lips, at his short, carefully-trimmed beard.
“Sophie,” Maman said. “Did you not hear Monsieur de Montavon?”
She scrambled to find her voice, feeling oddly shy.
“Forgive me, sir,” she murmured. “What was your question?”
“How do you find Bruges, mademoiselle?” he asked. “Is it to your liking?”
His brown velvet doublet was criss-crossed with green silk thread embroidered in a diamond-shaped pattern. She was struck with an impulse to run her fingers across the raised ridges of the thread.
“I have lost my heart to Bruges,” she admitted, favoring him with a smile. “I would like to come back every year. It’s a beautiful city, not like Toulouse at all.”
“And what is wrong with Toulouse?” Papa said, pretending to be hurt, but with a mocking gleam in his eyes.
While there were a few rich pastel merchants like him in Toulouse, the city of Sophie’s birth was essentially an overgrown farm town riddled with abandoned and decaying buildings, still not entirely recovered from the plague that had ravaged the world a few generations ago.
“Papa,” she laughed. “How can we compare the two? It is like comparing a stone with a pearl.”
Papa grinned. “Too true, my child. There are treasures to be found here and nowhere else. Like gyrfalcons.” He glanced meaningfully at Monsieur de Montavon.
“Indeed,” the falconer replied.
“Gyrfalcons!” a merchant cried. “Why, aren’t they the most costly birds on earth?”
Monsieur de Montavon shrugged. “It depends on the age of the bird, the color of its feathers, the condition of its health.”
“What color feathers are best, monsieur?” Sophie asked.
“White gyrfalcons are the most coveted,” the falconer responded. His eyes were brown, with flecks of green and gold that caught the light. “After the molt, of course, the feathers can change color. So a bird that begins gray can turn white. But one never knows if it will.”
Grégoire pointed at the doors of the church. “Look there. Isn’t that the Catalan we saw on the Norwegian’s ship?”
Sophie watched a dark-haired man with a short beard emerge from church in the company of two other well-dressed gentlemen.
“Yes,” Papa concurred. “One and the same.”
Perhaps sensing the eyes upon him, the Catalan glanced their way. For the second time in one day, Sophie felt the curious prickling sensation of attraction under a man’s scrutiny. He was nearly as handsome as the falconer, and more elegantly dressed.
“We were gaming on a Norwegian’s ship and met that man, an agent of the Knights Hospitaller,” Grégoire told the gathered men. “He was buying gyrfalcons for someone of great rank.”
“Perhaps the King of Cyprus,” mused Papa. “Imagine having a friend connected to the Cypriot court. The trade in camlets and cloth of gold would open up to us immediately.”
“Cloth of gold has gotten harder and harder to find,” one of the merchants complained. “The Genoese had a steady trade in it for a time, but pirates have made a mess of the shipping lanes in Greece. Sometimes Venetian merchants show up here with a few bolts, but the price!”
“Outrageous,” Papa agreed. “I’ve a mind to hire a gold-beater or two, set up an atelier, and make the blasted stuff myself.”
The men launched into a discussion about cloth prices and the perils of maritime shipping. Sophie had heard versions of this conversation too many times to count. Luckily, she stood directly opposite Monsieur de Montavon and had an unobstructed view of his face. He seemed distracted by the presence of the Catalan. He glanced at the man repeatedly. Then his expression tightened as the Catalan and his companions moved toward their group.
“We never had a chance to be properly introduced,” the man said in French, sweeping into a polite bow. “Those business transactions leave little time for pleasantries.” He looked straight at the falconer. “Your name, sir?”
The falconer gave a shallow bow. “Cédric de Montavon. And yours?”
“Nicolau Baldaia.” The Catalan turned to Sophie’s father expectantly.
“Henri Portier, at your service, sir,” Papa said. “And my son, Grégoire.”
The Catalan nodded at them both, then looked at Maman. “Madame Portier, I am honored to meet you,” he said without waiting for an introduction. His eyes slid to Sophie. “And who is this?”
“Our daughter, Sophie,” Maman said, hooking an arm around Sophie’s waist.
The gesture should have felt reassuring, but instead Sophie felt trapped. The Catalan’s bold stare was oddly possessive, as if just with a look he had taken ownership of her. A fragment of fear penetrated her consciousness. She longed to escape the Catalan’s inspection.
Fortunately, the merchants began to lob questions at him about his work for the knights, about news from Rhodes, about trade in far-off ports like Alexandria and Famagusta. Relieved, Sophie let her eyes drift back to the falconer just as he looked in her direction, his lips quirking in a slight smile.
Her heart thrashing like an eel in a basket, Sophie smiled in return.
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Amy Maroney lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family, and spent many years as a writer and editor of nonfiction before turning her hand to historical fiction. When she's not diving down research rabbit holes, she enjoys hiking, dancing, traveling, and reading. Amy is the author of the Miramonde Series, a trilogy about a Renaissance-era female artist and the modern-day scholar on her trail. To receive a free prequel novella to the Miramonde Series, join Amy's readers' group at
www.amymaroney.com.
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