Written in the Stars by Patricia Rosemoor, Sherrill Bodine Page A

the violence of the blow exploded such
     pain through his body that Will fell back, struggling to draw air in his lungs with
     his brother’s spurred boot pressing hard into his chest.
    Smiling, Carlyle knelt and ripped the Posey ring from his finger. “I know what magic
     this represents. I will cast this ring into the darkest deepest pit of the sea. Powerless,
     there it will rest in its watery grave forever. As you will lie eaten by worms in
     your earthly grave for eternity.”
    Tasting blood in his mouth, feeling life draining from his body, Will summoned the
     strength to spit in his brother’s face. “It matters not what evil you do,” he gasped,
     pain all he knew. “Elizabeth shall never be yours. Now. Or ever. Our love will endure
     beyond this life.”
    Carlyle leaned closer and Will saw the madness in his eyes.
    “Fool! My magic will always be more powerful than eternal love.” Carlyle frowned,
     his eyes suddenly those of the young brother Will had known. “Ah, brother, you look
     pale and in such pain. I loved you once when we were boys. Before I realized the truth.
     To honor that, I shall be merciful.”
    He flicked the tip of his dagger across Will’s wrist, the sting short and sharp, the
     blood warm dripping into his cupped palm.
    “Yes, Will, you will die quickly now. And I shall be the one to soothe your loved
     ones. Think on that in your last moments of life.”
    His words gave Will a rush of adrenaline to roll over, to try to rise, to refuse to
     give in to the agony ripping his body apart.
    Laughing, Carlyle moved aside thick branches, shed his robe in their small dark cave,
     and mounted his horse.
    He pranced to where Will, fighting with all his draining power, had risen to one knee.
     “Stop struggling, brother. It is your destiny to die here this day.”
    Will watched him ride away through a thickening darkness in his eyes and an icy chill
     shuddering through his body. Gathering the last of his strength, Will called to the
     winds. “Elizabeth, come to me.”

Charles Grey’s Cottage, England, 1601
    In these last hours I have discovered where the sun is born.
    His image is drawn on my soul, and he is imprinted upon my heart.
    It is Will’s smile. Will’s touch. Will’s kiss.
    We have become one in all ways.
    We have pledged our love with Posey rings which will last for eternity. And so we
     will confess to the duke, who I know will bless our love.
    In joy I have made my choice.
    Yet in this moment, my joy is turning to fear. Is it because I know Will, out of honor,
     has gone to Carlyle?
    The winds call to me and I hear…

“Will!” she screamed, dropping her pen.
    Terror a living force consuming her, Elizabeth heard Will calling for her to come
     to him.
    Trembling, she fumbled to dress in a loose gown and coiled her girdle around her as
     she stumbled down the narrow steps of the cottage.
    In the courtyard, Charles Grey looked up from mounting his horse. “Elizabeth, what
     is wrong, child?”
    “It is Will! I must reach him in time!” she cried.
    He tried to stop her but she wrenched free, grabbing the reins and leaping upon the
     horse. “He is at the secluded glade. Follow me.”
    Fear squeezing like a vise upon all her senses, her blood running cold, she galloped
     over the fields to the place where Will had found her.
    Her frigid blood froze her in horror, seeing him on the flat grass, his blood soaking
     red the earth beneath him.
    In her need to reach him, she half fell from her horse, scrabbled to her feet, stumbled
     toward him to sink to her knees at his side. “Will, I am here. Love, I am here.”
    Slowly his eyes opened and she saw a flame flicker in their depths. “I knew you would
     come.” His breath, shallow and low, filled her with terror.
    “Yes, love. Always. I shall save you. I promise.” Tears nearly blinding her, she pressed
     a jeweled crescent from the girdle against his wrist. As before, the wound closed
     into a moon-shaped scar. “I can