THE THIRTEENTH KNIGHT
Tricia Andersen
Historical Romance
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The Thirteenth Knight
Copyright © 2016 Tricia Andersen
E-book ISBN: 978-1310595912
First Publication: February 2014
Re-released:
Edited by Tabitha Bower
Proofread by Rene Flowers
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
Dedication
To Jean Joachim and everyone at Tuesday Tales. Thank you for your support and encouragement. I love being part of the group and am honored to be among such talented authors.
THE THIRTEENTH KNIGHT
Chapter One
Wrapping her arms around her knees, Miranda watched the rays of sunlight twinkle off the clear water in the stream. The large oak tree she sat beneath shaded her from the summer sun. She hoped that she could sit beside this creek all day.
Miranda glanced back to her village. The king’s nobles had returned once again. Their presence had terrified her. Almost viciously, they had thanked her father for his service to the king, but indicated that his duty was now over. One had spoken the words, “We will soon return for the maiden.”
Ever since their first visit, Miranda’s father would no longer look her in the eye. He found every excuse to be absent from their cottage.
She wiped the tears that suddenly sprang into her emerald green eyes. Could it be true? Could the man who raised me, loved me as his own, not be my real father?
As Miranda lifted her eyes to watch the stream ripple past, a scream erupted from her throat. Her gaze had locked on a spider, its thin, spindly legs rappelling down from its silk web. She scuttled backward, colliding with a very solid object. Her stare traced from the arachnid to the stick it was fixed on.
Thatcher met her terrified expression with a mischievous grin. “Hello, Miranda,” he crooned.
She scrambled from beneath his arm holding the spider and rose to her feet. Thatcher was Miranda’s other heartbreak. He had been part of Miranda’s life ever since she could remember. His father was a farmer, and hers was the town miller. The two men were business partners and best friends.
As small children, Thatcher had been as close to Miranda as a brother. They had spent their days gathering color-filled stones from the creek. They had spent the evenings singing songs around the campfire and chasing fireflies.
But as they matured, Thatcher had become so much more to Miranda. He had grown from a lanky teenager to a tall, sensual man. His body was chiseled, every muscle rippling and strong. He kept his black hair cropped short. His eyes burned a beautiful, sapphire blue.
Yet, she was sure he didn’t feel the same about her. I’ll always be like a sister to him.
Thatcher balanced the tiny spider on his arm, allowing the creature to climb across the fabric of his tunic. “Settle, Miranda. It is just a spider,” he laughed.
“It was not funny, Thatcher,” she chided.
“Yes, it was.”
Miranda took a deep breath. “I see the king’s army has made their camp nearby. Have you gone to talk to the commander?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They leave in two weeks. I will leave with them.”
She felt her heart break to pieces. “And your father is all right with this?”
“Yes. He is proud that I will become a knight of the king’s army.” Thatcher cocked his head to the side, his mouth still turned up in his devilish grin. “How does my Miranda feel about it?”
“I do not believe I have an option, do I?”
“Of course, you do. I value your opinion.”
She bit her lower lip nervously. “I do not approve.”
“Why not?”
“It was not our plans.”
“What were our plans? I had none in this village.”
“Oh,” Miranda squeaked. She glanced back to the hamlet then to the paths and brush. Despite the king’s nobles, she needed to make an escape back to her cottage. Soon.
Thatcher gently brushed the spider to the ground then slowly strode toward her. “Miranda, what were your plans of me?” he demanded.
Miranda gazed up to him as her face flushed red. “That you and I would be…wed,” she whispered.
“Wed? You and I?”
“Yes.” She braced herself for his laughter, feeling tears rush into her eyes again, this time of humiliation.
Then, she gasped in surprise as Thatcher swept her into his arms. The noise was smothered by his deep, soft, delicious kiss. Miranda wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him as the embrace deepened.
As their lips parted, he rasped, “Are you certain you wish to be my wife?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Then, I will go speak to the commander of the army tomorrow. I will also speak to your father.”
“But your desire to be a knight,” she protested.
He kissed her once more. “This is my true desire. I want nothing more than you as my bride, Miranda. I love you with all my heart.”
Miranda’s heart thundered in her chest at his words. “I love you also, Thatcher.” Her thoughts of the village, her father, and the king’s nobles disappeared as she melted against his hard, warm body and lost herself in his kisses.
For hours, the two lovers talked and laughed as they wandered along the sandy bank of the stream, dreaming the plans for their wedding. But Miranda felt Thatcher’s hand tense beneath her fingers as they ascended the path to their village. She watched the euphoria drain from his eyes, the sapphire blue becoming cold.
“You have changed your mind,” she whimpered. “You will not marry me now.”
He gazed down to her. The warmth returned to his eyes. “I had planned on waiting until I spoke to the commander of the king’s army before I spoke to your father. However, I cannot wait that long. I will speak to your father now.”
“But you are tense.”
Thatcher cocked a half smile at her. “It is not a simple task, Miranda. I am asking your father for you, the daughter he loves so dearly. I have always believed he found favor with me. But is it enough to allow me to have you as my bride?”
Miranda rose on her toes and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. “He loves you, Thatcher. He will be overjoyed for you to be my husband.”
“I hope so.” He clasped her hand tighter as they strolled along the dirt roads.<
br />
They stopped as they approached the lane that led to Miranda’s cottage. The path was blocked by the king’s soldiers and noblemen. Miranda’s father was amongst them.
Miranda ran to the group of men with Thatcher on her heels. “Father, what is happening?” she pleaded.
The man standing beside her father turned, his gray eyes gleaming with some mysterious success. “Ah, Lady Miranda,” he greeted.
Bewildered, she looked to her father. “Father, what is he saying?”
“I am Count Brunon,” the man introduced. “You are Lady Miranda, daughter of Lord Roderick, the late brother of the king. I am here to take you home to the palace.”
“But this is my home. And my father.” Miranda looked pleadingly at the man she had always known as her father.
“Does he look like your father? Your hair is dark, my lady. His is sandy blond. Did your mother have dark hair?” She shook her head silently in answer. Brunon motioned to the carriage. “Your belongings have been gathered. We must go, my lady.”
Thatcher rushed past them and approached Miranda’s father. “Sir, I have come to ask for Miranda’s hand in marriage. Please give me that reward and keep her here in our village.”
The old man shook his head sadly. “Forgive me, Thatcher. There is nothing I can do.”
Thatcher turned, his eyes narrowed in rage, as Brunon’s laugh echoed through the street. “His majesty will certainly not give her hand to the poor son of a farmer. Let us go, Miranda.”
Miranda stared at Thatcher as tears streamed down her cheeks. Her dreams were shattered. She heaved a heart-wrenching sob.
“Now, my lady.” Brunon grasped Miranda’s arm and shoved her toward the carriage.
Thatcher charged the tall, thin man. “No man will treat my love in such a way,” he snarled.
Suddenly, half a dozen swords froze Thatcher in his place. Miranda watched him helplessly as she stepped into the carriage. She peeked out the window to watch the scene around her. The soldiers mounted their horses. Twenty paces separated Thatcher and Brunon. Brunon laughed in triumph at the farmer’s son.
Thatcher’s voice was cold as he responded. “Then, my choice is made,” he growled. “If his majesty won’t give me her hand as a farmer’s son, I have better fortune to win it as his trusted knight.”
With a shout, the procession surged to life and disappeared around the corner. Miranda’s gaze locked on Thatcher until he disappeared from sight.
* * * *
Miranda stared out the glass of the window seat in her bedchamber. The lofty branches of the evergreen trees framed the beautiful scene below. She could see acres and acres of forests, streams, villages, and farms. The palace, which was nestled on a cliff to protect it from those wishing the crown harm, provided the breathtaking view. Yet, none of it was a balm to her heartbreak.
The castle was a stunning place. There were corridors that branched off in many different directions, filled with rooms of wonderful things. Hundreds of stained glass panels flooded the space with rainbow light. There was a library with more books than she could ever have imagined. The dining hall could easily accommodate every person in her village.
Thousands of brilliantly colored blooms grew in a garden that stretched as far as the eye could see. Her own bedchamber was furnished with only the finest cedar furniture and hand-woven tapestries. But Miranda had seen very little of her new home. Much of what she had learned was from her maids. She had not left her bedchamber since she had arrived.
Her nurses bathed her, clothed her in the finest silk-embroidered gowns, and brought her food. But they could not coax her from the room. Thatcher filled her thoughts during the day, and he invaded her dreams at night. She had no peace.
As she heard a knock, Miranda wiped tears from her emerald green eyes. "Come in," she choked out.
The large, wood door to her bedchamber was pushed open. A bulky man, similar in height to Thatcher, stepped inside. He had auburn red hair and emerald green eyes similar to Miranda. His broad, barrel chest made him appear huge. She did not wonder who he was. She knew. She stood on trembling legs then fell to her knees. "Your majesty," she breathed.
He reached down to her with a large hand to help her to her feet. "None of this formal address, Miranda. To you, I am Thaddeus. Or uncle, if you prefer."
Miranda shook her head. "I am afraid there is some mistake, your majesty. I am just a poor miller's daughter."
Thaddeus gently took Miranda's right hand and turned it palm up before running his finger over a small birthmark. It was twisted in the shape of a cross. Then, he turned over his own right wrist. He bore the same mark. "There is no mistake, Miranda," he assured.
"The girls in the village used to tease me about my birthmark. They called me odd, strange."
"You are not odd. You are royalty."
Miranda shook her head, confused. "I do not understand."
"Let me explain." Thaddeus led Miranda to the window seat then sat down beside her. "Shortly after you were born, your home was attacked by a mysterious army with dark, evil magic. Your father, my brother, sent you away with a trusted servant to keep you safe. Your parents and everyone in the castle were murdered.
“The servant had family in the village where you were raised. He left you with his cousin, the town miller, the man you knew as your father then came here to report to me. There you stayed, until you were old enough to know the truth and come home."
"Why did the army not attack the palace?"
"Your father was next in line for the throne. I have no heirs, and at this point, I will not sire any. However, he did have an heir. You.”
"He sent me away to preserve the crown."
"And to protect you. You were the world to him."
Miranda smiled weakly at her uncle. It was difficult to feel sorrow for a father she had never known. She folded her hands in her lap. "So, now what will happen?"
Thaddeus beamed at her. "First, I want you to feel comfortable here. This is your home. Then, I will find you a suitable husband. Together, you will rule in my place."
Tears rushed to Miranda's eyes as a sob escaped her throat.
Thaddeus looked down at her with concern. "You already have a young man?"
Miranda nodded. "The farmer's son," she whimpered.
"Ah, little one." Thaddeus shook his head. "I am sorry. I cannot marry you to anyone less than a lord."
Miranda buried her face in her hands as Thaddeus wrapped his arm around her. But she could not be comforted. It was no use. Thatcher was lost forever.
* * * *
Thatcher stepped from his tent, clasping his book tightly to his chest. He inhaled the warm autumn air. The army had spent two weeks in this forest practicing drills. It had been the most intense training he’d had during the three months he had been a member of the king's army. Today was a well-deserved day of relaxation.
Thatcher looked up as he heard his name called.
It was a large soldier, several years older than him. "Come with us to the village for a pint of ale and a bar wench or two!"
"Thank you, but no," he declined.
"Of course Thatcher won't come with us," the large soldier's tall, thin companion replied. "Thatcher has no use for alcohol and certainly no use for women. All he has use for are those good, strong knights. Tell me, Thatcher. Why are you so fascinated with the king's knights? Is it more than admiration?"
The two men stumbled away, doubled over in laughter. Thatcher's sapphire blue eyes narrowed in furious slits. He cast a glance over his shoulder toward the cliffs of the palace. Yes, he spent an extraordinary amount of time serving the knights as a squire. However, contrary to his companion's opinions, it was for a woman, one who lived in the castle.
Thatcher strolled silently down the leaf-strewn, dirt road. Hearing horses, he jumped to the ready, drawing his sword. Then, he dropped to his knee as he saw three knights approaching.
"Thatcher, where are you going?" the first one demanded.
"To
find a quiet place to read, sire," he answered.
"No, you are not. Get your horse and load our things. We need a squire to accompany us. We are training with the king."
Sometime later, Thatcher’s horse sauntered behind the others, weighed down by the bulk of the three knights’ belongings. The farmer’s son walked alongside the gray steed, holding its lead tight in his hand, not having the heart to abuse the animal further with his own weight. He silently cursed the oafs for dragging him along on this mission.
Thatcher and his horse followed six of the king’s knights in total. Each had been chosen by his majesty himself. Ahead of the entire band proudly rode King Thaddeus. Thatcher’s heart wrenched when it came to the monarch. Just like the other citizens of the kingdom, he was devoted to the just and fair king. However, that ruler was also the bastard who had taken his Miranda away from him.
Thatcher snapped to attention as he heard shouting ahead. A band of rowdy, cloaked marauders rushed the path, approaching the group. Even from this distance, he could see the army uniforms beneath the robes.
This was the biggest farce Thatcher had ever seen.
The knights disembarked from their horses and engaged in battle. The sword fight was brief. The mob fled into the forest before any blood was shed. Thatcher glanced at Thaddeus. The king was clearly far from impressed.
“Good work, men,” Thaddeus praised, his voice flat and unemotional. “Let’s return to camp.”
Thaddeus urged his own white steed to return down the path they had come. Thatcher bowed his head reverently as the monarch passed. The group followed, weaving their way through the countryside. The trail grew narrow, pressing the entourage through the tight wood.
Hearing a dull thud nearby, Thatcher searched for the source of the noise. He looked up to the thick, tightly woven overhanging branches. Like evil, gigantic raindrops, black-garbed men fell from the trees. Instinctively reaching for his scabbard, Thatcher drew his own blade as an attacker grasped Thaddeus and pulled him to the ground.
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