FORTUNE’S SHARP ADVERSITY …Tired as he was, Philippe found his gaze drawn down the nave toward the altar. The man in the scarlet cloak knelt farther in this time, leaning against one of the huge columnar bundles at the meeting of nave and transept. He had managed an appearance of peace the previous evening, but now he projected only abject misery. His back bowed, he seemed to have his face buried in his hands. Father Gervais had said he had never seen the man’s face. Perhaps it was disfigured, a result of accident or pox or plague. Even from a distance, Philippe thought he saw the broad shoulders shaking. He weeps? With a frown, Philippe approached cautiously. He tried to remind himself that this was none of his business. But how could he simply walk by a man in such obvious pain? “Monsieur?” He reached out to touch the man’s shoulder, fingers hesitating over the fine cloth. “Are you well, monsieur? Do you need help?” The soft baritone that answered him crackled with icy rage, “Leave me be, païsant. My affairs are none of yours.” Philippe withdrew his hand but refused to retreat. “I’m no country farmer, monsieur, but a painter working here. You seemed in distress. It only seemed right to offer assistance.” The head turned, giving Philippe a hint of a strong, straight nose. Eyes glinted from deep within the hood’s cowl, flicking up and down his frame. “And how would a crippled painter help? Go away. There is no assistance the likes of you could offer me.” The cold dismissal stung. Would you discount me so quickly if I were a whole man? “As you wish, monsieur…” PRAISE FOR FORTUNE’S SHARP ADVERSITY “Angel Martinez delivers another hit story filled with intriguing characters, a fast-paced storyline and smoldering sexual tension. If you are looking for a book to read this summer, then grab an Angel Martinez story.” —Dawn Roberto Love Romances Café “Angel Martinez’s gripping story was very well written and descriptive, the love between her characters only a part of this paranormal romance. The moment I opened it, I couldn't put it down.” —Michael Mandrake It’s Raining Men ALSO BY ANGEL MARTINEZ Boots A Different Breed FORTUNE’S SHARP ADVERSITY BY ANGEL MARTINEZ AMBER QUILL PRESS, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com FORUNE’S SHARP ADVERSITY AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2011 by Angel Martinez ISBN 978-1-61124-158-7 Cover Art © 2011 Trace Edward Zaber PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA For all the teachers and professors who instilled in me a love of social and cultural history—from galliards to gargoyles and all things in between. For of fortunes sharpe adversitee The worst kynde of infortune is this, A man to han ben in prosperitee, And it remembren, whan it passed is. —Chaucer, Geoffrey c.1385 Troilus and Criseyde, bk.3 FORTUNE’S SHARP ADVERSITY CHAPTER 1 THE SCARLET CLOAK “Tant con je vivrai, n’a me rai autrui que vous.” Philippe’s voice set up a pleasant rumble in the small space between stone and scaffold. The tune was a trifle melancholy for the work, but Adam le Bossu’s melodies had a way of haunting one at the oddest times. The stone angel smiled down at him, apparently pleased with the work. “You will be beautiful, just like your celestial brethren,” Philippe reassured him as he twisted to dip up more of the bright saffron for this angel’s gown. He shifted with a grunt to ease the ache in his bad leg and went back to painting. While painting flat on one’s back on a hard scaffold could 1 FORTUNE’S SHARP ADVERSITY never be described as comfortable, he was far younger than Father Gervais was and better suited to clambering around ropes and ladders, even with the lame leg. A youth with two whole legs would have been ideal, but the priests trusted him with the work. “Philippe?” Father Gervais called from below. “You’re losing the light.” “Nearly finished for today, Father,” Philippe called back without taking his eyes from the fold of stone robe he painted. “Please come down, my boy, while you can still see! Someday you will miss your footing in the twilight.” “Surely God will watch over me while I decorate his angels, eh?” “You mustn’t make such jokes. Have you grown so arrogant as to tempt God?” Philippe winced at the sharp tone. He meant no disrespect, no blasphemy, but he did forget to be more circumspect of his speech around priests. Carefully, so he lost none of the precious pigments, he fastened pouches, placed everything in his bag, and slipped the strap around his neck. He grasped the rope fastened to the top of the scaffold and slid off the side of the board. With his left leg too stiff to manage the ladders, he simply descended hand over hand on the rope. Father Gervais steadied him when he reached the ground and handed him his crutch. “You should not work such long stretches up there.” Lips compressed, he eyed the leg that Philippe couldn’t straighten yet. “It will never improve if you forever cause yourself such pain.” “The physicians tell me the leg will never improve no matter what I do.” Philippe tried to keep his voice light, but the bitterness crept in uninvited. He dredged up a smile. “So I may as well do as 2