the eldest daughter of the Danish family that had formerly ruled here, and set about creating our family line.”
“How very charitable of him,” Varanus said. “And very forward-thinking.”
“I am certainly pleased by having ancestry,” Robert mused.
After a moment he chuckled and motioned to one of the adjacent paintings, which depicted a man not unlike Henry, dressed in mail and wearing the cross-emblazoned tabard of a crusader, who stood before the walls of Jerusalem with his sword upraised.
“This,” he said, “is Roger Varanus, the first in our line to bear that name. It is through him that we trace our patrilineal descent. Roger was the youngest son of Henry, Earl of Blackmoor. When the Pope issued the great call to crusade, Roger, left without prospects for inheritance, joined the army of the faithful and went forth to sack the Holy Land. Roger was not a particularly good Christian, but he was a remarkable crusader. Though he set out from England alone, with only his sword and his horse, by the time he reached the Holy Land, he had gathered a cohort of men around him who were fanatically loyal. Together, they fought at the forefront of the Crusader army all the way to the taking of Jerusalem. In recognition of his service, he was granted a barony in the Kingdom of Jerusalem.”
There was a brief silence, and in that time Varanus caught sight of Korbinian leaning against the wall, running his fingertips along the frame of the portrait. Smiling at Varanus, he said:
“I have a question.”
Varanus glared at him. She couldn’t respond, of course. What would Cousin Robert think?
But Korbinian was good enough to carry on:
“He says that Roger was the first Varanus. Good for him.” Korbinian spread his hands in a gesture of confusion and asked, “But what is a Varanus?”
Varanus raised an eyebrow at him. What a silly question! She was a Varanus. Grandfather had been a Varanus. Cousin Robert was a Varanus.
Then again.…
“Forgive my ignorance, cousin,” she said to Robert, “but where does the name Varanus come from?”
Roger laughed loudly and replied, “Well may you ask. I am just coming to that. During the Crusades, Roger became famous for his ferocity and rapaciousness, qualities mimicked by his men. Many of the Saracens thought him to be an agent of the Devil, possibly even the Devil incarnate. They had many names for him, none of them pleasant. Some took to calling him Al-Waran, ‘the lizard.’ When Roger learned of this, he was so pleased that he Latinized the word—Varanus—and took it as his soubriquet. And his descendants have borne the name ever since.”
“Remarkable,” Varanus said. She was not entirely certain how she felt about the origin of her name, but at least she now knew its history. “And how do the English Blackmoors come to carry it?”
“That,” Roger said, “brings us to William Varanus. Not your grandfather William, obviously, but his namesake I daresay.”
He brought her attention to a third painting, which depicted a nobleman, richly furnished and armed, seated on a horse and overlooking the Blackmoor plain. Where there ought to have been Blackmoor Manor in the background, a somber medieval keep of the Romanesque style sat upon a forlorn hill, waiting to welcome its prodigal master home. Varanus felt her breath catch in her throat for a moment as she studied the painting. Not only did he share his name, but the man depicted there even looked like her grandfather. Not that it was any real surprise. If the paintings were anything to go by, there was a tremendous amount of similarity between all of the Varanus men.
“William Varanus,” Robert said, “the first William Varanus, was the only surviving descendent of Roger Varanus. After Saladin’s conquest of Jerusalem, William—who, I might add, survived both the massacre of the Crusader army and the Siege of Jerusalem—suddenly found himself landless, and with little interest in serving a kingdom reduced to Acre and the coast, he found his way back home to England and to Blackmoor. Rather like you have done.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Varanus asked, avoiding the sound of sarcasm. What an absurd comparison for him to make!
“His return was fortuitous,” Robert said, turning back to the portrait. “Over the intervening century between Roger’s departure and William’s return, the family at Blackmoor had suffered tremendous reduction. Once healthy, proud, and vibrant, the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Maud had severely reduced their numbers. By the time William returned, the Blackmoor line had only daughters, and it was feared that the family would simply die out, to be superseded by a rival dynasty.”
“Ah, but a miracle,” Varanus said. It was obvious what direction the tale went. “A distant male cousin returns from a far off land, marries the eldest daughter, and keeps Blackmoor in the family.”
“I suppose the story rather writes itself,” Robert said with a laugh. “Still, it was a pivotal moment in our family’s history. If not for William, neither of us would be here. And from then onward, the Earls of Blackmoor have always called themselves by the surname Varanus.”
Varanus thought for a moment about what that meant for the age of the lineage.
“Tell me, Cousin Robert,” she said, “doesn’t that make our family and your title the oldest—at least one of the oldest—in England?”
Robert sighed and smiled. When he answered, it was in a voice touched with sadness—for effect, no doubt:
“Alas not. That is, de facto but not de jure. Our family is arguably the oldest, yes, especially if one traces the line all the way back to Henry rather than to William. Unfortunately, as far as the title is concerned, we have not held it consistently. Or,” he added, almost managing to hide a scowl behind another smile, “more to the point, the title has not existed consistently since its establishment. From time to time there have been English monarchs who, foolishly, believed that they may dispense with us. The title has been revoked several times over the centuries, and once an overly exuberant king attempted to elevate us to the status of marquess, though we soon sorted that out. Being an earl is quite sufficient. There is no need to draw undue attention to oneself, is there?”
“I imagine not,” Varanus said.
Robert motioned toward the far end of the gallery. “Come, let me show you the conservatory.”
Varanus fell into step beside him. It was tricky keeping pace with Robert’s long stride, but Varanus had much experience walking with people far taller than she.
“Tell me,” she said as they walked, “if the Blackmoor title has been revoked—repeatedly, as you say—then why has it been reinstated?”
At this, Robert merely smiled and said, “Because we are Varanuses.”
“That is not an answer, cousin,” Varanus said.
“Ah, but it is,” Robert replied. “The Varanus family is very well ensconced in our little Empire. I would have thought that Cousin William had taught you that.”
“He did. But he also taught me never to believe assertions without evidence.”
“Evidence is so very…incriminating,” Robert said with a smile. “But believe me when I say that there are a small number of families in England, the Varanuses included, without whose goodwill no English monarch has ever successfully reigned. We are England, not the Crown. Monarchs come and go. Ruling dynasties die off or are supplanted. And, as France has shown, even governments can be overthrown. But we.…” Robert’s expression grew serious, more serious than Varanus had seen it since arriving. “We remain. Undiminished.”
Varanus was silent for a moment before asking, “Does ‘we’ include me?”
It mattered little if it did or not, but she did wonder. Since the events of the funeral, she had become intensely curious about the possibility of secret societies and their relationship to her family.
“You are family,” Robert replied. “You