Excerpt from Monsoon by Wilbur Smith, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Tom shot him a sharp glance. 'Did he tell you that?' He was jealous that his brother had been told something that he, the elder, had not. All the boys worshipped their father.

'No, he didn't,' admitted Guy, 'but it's what I would do for my father.'

Tom lost interest in the discussion and strode out into the centre of the open floor, which was inlaid with a weird circular design in granites and marbles of many different colours. Brass cauldrons were set at the four points of the circle, which would hold the ancient elements of fire and earth, air and water, when the Temple of the Order of St George and the Holy Grail was convened at the full moon of the summer equinox. Sir Henry Courtney was a Nautonnier Knight of the order, as had been his father and his grandfather before him.

In the centre of the domed roof of the crypt there was an airhole open to the sky above. The building was so cunningly laid out that, through this opening, the rays of the full moon would strike the design on the stone floor under Tom's feet where the cryptic legend of the order was inlaid in black marble: 'In Arcadia hahito.' Neither of the boys had yet learned the deeper meaning of this heraldic device.

Tom stood upon the black Gothic letters, placed his hand over his heart and began to recite the liturgy with which he, too, would one day be inducted into the order. 'These things I believe, and I will defend them with my life. I believe there is but one God in Trinity, the Father eternal, the Son eternal and the Holy Ghost eternal.'

'Amen!' cried Guy softly. They had both studied the catechism of the order assiduously and knew the hundred responses by heart.

'I believe in the communion of the Church of England, and the divine right of its representative on earth, William the Third, King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith.'

'Amen!' Guy repeated. One day they would both be called upon to join this illustrious order, to stand in the light of the full moon and to make these vows in earnest.

'I will uphold the Church of England. I will confront the enemies of my sovereign Lord, William...' Tom went on, in soaring tones that had almost lost any last timbre of childhood. He broke off abruptly as a low whistle issued from the opening in the roof above his head.

'Dorry!' said Guy nervously. 'Someone's coming!' They both stood stock-still, waiting for the second sharply pitched whistle that would signal alarm and danger, but there was no further warning.

'It's her!' Tom grinned at his brother. 'I was afraid she might not come.'

Guy did not share his pleasure. He scratched his neck nervously. 'Tom, I like this not at all.'

'Bollocks to you, Guy Courtney.' His brother laughed at him. 'You'll never know how good it is unless you try it.'

They heard the rustle of cloth, the patter of light feet on the staircase, and a girl burst into the crypt. She stopped in the entrance, breathing quickly, her cheeks flushed brightly from her run up the hill.

'Did anyone see you leave the house, Mary?' Tom demanded.

She shook her head. 'Not a one of them, Master Tom. They was all too busy a-pigging thar broth.' Her voice purred with the local brogue, but its tone was light and pleasing. She was a well-set-up lass, with a full bow and stern, older than the twins so probably closer to twenty than fifteen. However, her skin was flawless and smooth as the famous Devon cream, and a tangle of dark ringlets and curls framed her pretty chubby face. Her lips were pink, soft and moist, but there was a sly slant to her bright, knowing eyes.

'Are you sure, Mary, that Master Billy didn't see you?' Tom asked insistently.

She shook her head so the ringlets (lanced. 'No. I looked in at the library afore I came, and he had his head in the books like always.' She placed both her small hands on her hips, and although they were rough and red from her work in the scullery, they almost encircled her tiny waist. Both twins' eyes followed the movement and settled on her body. Her full petticoats and ragged skirts reached halfway down her plump calves, and although her feet were bare and grubby, her ankles were slim. She saw their eyes, their expressions, and smiled with a sense of power over them.

Reprinted from Monsoon by Wilbur Smith, a St Martin's Press publication, by permission of St Martin's Press. © 1999 by Wilbur Smith