A Knight in Central Park
By
THERESA RAGAN
Copyright © 2011 by Theresa Ragan
www.theresaragan.com
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Theresa Ragan.
Cover art by Dara England
Table of Contents Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
Joe, thanks for more than twenty-five years of love and laughter. It just keeps getting better.
To my children: Jesse, Joey, Morgan, and Brittany. I’m the luckiest mom in the world!
To my sister, Cathy, and Janet Katz, I give many thanks for reading and proofing A Knight in Central Park. You both rock!
About the Author
Theresa Ragan is a member of RWA and the Sacramento Chapter of RWA and has garnered six Golden Heart nominations in Romance Writers of America’s ® prestigious Golden Heart ® Competition for her work. She lives with her husband, Joe, and the youngest of her four children in Sacramento, California.
A Knight in Central Park
Chapter One
Reality can be beaten with enough imagination.
—Anonymous
England, 1499
“Alexandra! Run! They are coming!”
Alexandra turned from her work in the fields and saw her brother, Garrett, shouting and waving his hands in the air as he ran toward her. She jabbed the spade into the soft dirt at her side and said, “What is it, brother?”
Garrett slid to a stop before her and bent forward. His small bony shoulders heaved from exertion. “They are coming,” he said.
“Who?”
“Sir Richard’s men.”
Alexandra looked past her brother over the fields. Twice, her sister Mary had turned down Sir Richard’s proposal of marriage. Until her father returned from his journey north, she would do anything in her power to stop Sir Richard from taking matters into his own hands. He wanted her father’s land, not her sister. “Garrett,” she said firmly. “Hide. Now! Do you hear me?”
Garrett nodded, his eyes wide. “What about Grandfather?”
Thankful her two younger sisters accompanied Mary to the village, Alexandra pushed him along. “Tell the field hand to inform Sir Richard that we have left to visit relatives. Then stay well hidden. I will take care of Grandfather.”
She prayed for her young brother’s safety as she watched him disappear through the fields of tall wheat. She headed for the farmhouse, her mind whirling with speculation. Sir Richard’s father had been an evil man, using force to take what was not rightfully his. And now his eldest son was proving to be no better. Why else would Sir Richard’s men come? She knew Sir Richard was a stubborn man, but she knew not how far he would go. Ever since the death of Sir Richard’s father, rumors had been rampant. Would Sir Richard carry on his father’s brutal ways?
She ran faster, unwilling to find the answer at her family’s expense. Hens and geese fluttered their wings as she ran.
As she rushed up the stairs, the wood planks creaked. Near the hearth, Grandfather rocked in his chair as if he had not a care in the world. Kneeling before him, she gazed into his wrinkled face and tried to catch her breath. “Grandfather, you must listen. Sir Richard’s men are headed this way.”
He looked straight through her, unblinking.
She shook his frail arms, trying to stir him to mindfulness. “Sir Richard’s men will surely destroy the farm if I turn him away, mayhap even harm us. We must hide.”
Her grandfather was as old and gnarled as the oak tree that shaded their small manor. His mind sometimes wandered aimlessly like the branches of that same tree. Once in awhile, though, his eyes would light up, as they did now, and a spark of life would come to the old man.
She breathed a sigh of relief when he stood, using his apple wood cane for support as he moved toward the door. She followed him.
A sickening wave of terror welled within as a trio of armor-plated men rode over the hill, a coiled snake on their shields and surcoats...Sir Richard’s insignia.
One of the men came to a halt in front of the hired hand near the edge of the wheat field. The two men exchanged words. Sir Richard’s man seemed to ponder on what the worker told him before he turned and viciously struck the field hand down with one swift blow of his club.
Alexandra held back a strangled cry as she tugged frantically at her grandfather’s arm. If she could get him to the back door, they could escape through the fields and hide with Garrett. But he was like the old rooted tree, refusing to budge. “Grandfather, please do not be difficult.”
“There is something I must find,” he muttered. He was almost as stubborn as she, and thus she knew he would not cooperate until he had whatever it was he needed.
She followed him back to his room, nudging him all the way. Impatiently, she watched him struggle to reach under his bed and pull out an old wooden box. As if this delay was not enough to make her scream, he then set about searching for a key.
She peered through the open door and swallowed dryly at the sight of Sir Richard’s men outside their front entry. Quietly she shut the door to Grandfather’s room, securing it with a thick wooden beam. Oblivious to their predicament, the old man searched through an ancient wooden trunk. Alexandra’s mind reeled with the absurdity of her letting him have his way. Now, of all times. Raking a hand through sweat-dampened hair, she tried to think, but the thumps of heavy footfalls and clanks of armor made it impossible. “Grandfather,” she said urgently, “help me move the bed.”
Click. The box opened.
Grandfather shot her a gap-toothed grin.
The door creaked in protest when someone on the other side attempted to enter.
The tip of a battleaxe hacked through the door.
“Grandfather!” she shouted.
He came to her side. Together they grunted and heaved, pushing the bed a few inches at a time. Wood scraped against wood until the bed blocked the door, giving them a few minutes more.
His breathing was ragged from the effort. He looked deathly pale. “Is it your heart?”
“Nay,” he breathed out in a huff.
“I should have knocked you out and dragged you to safety whilst I had the chance.”
“You did right. You are a good child.”
Men argued outside the door. Then the axe sliced through again, sending chips of wood through the air before its sharp edge embedded into the hard wood of Grandfather’s bed.
Her heart lodged in her throat. May God have pity upon us.
“Here,” Grandfather said as he placed his cherished possession in her hand. “Take these.”
Alexandra gazed sadly at her open palm. She fe
lt the urge to cry with fury and shame when she saw the source of Grandfather’s excitement...the dull, lifeless objects which had, in all probability, cost them their lives.
His ludicrous rocks.
He’d spent most of his life talking about the stones...so many stories, so long ago. According to people who knew him best, Grandfather used to be as sharp as King Henry’s blade and as clever as a fox. But that was before he gained possession of the stones.
Alexandra peered into his eyes. He looked so brave, so fearless as their world crashed down around them. She prayed silently for her siblings. Her sisters and brother had been thorns in her side since her mother’s death, but she would do anything to see them safely within their beds this night.
“Do not be afraid,” her grandfather said as he closed her fingers tightly around his treasure. “You remember what to do, child. Go in search of your hero...our hero. A brave, chivalrous soul who champions right against evil and injustice. A man who...”
“I cannot,” Alexandra said. Tears stung her eyes. Another crash on the door caused her to jump.
“Aye, but you can. Remember all I taught you.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Years ago you believed, Alexandra. Close your eyes and do not stop believing until you have returned with The Chosen One.”
“But...”
Splinters of wood rained down around them.
“Believe,” he said loud enough to be heard amidst the chaos.
Alexandra shut her eyes. An absurd thing, bothering with these rocks in the midst of death, but what choice did she have? “Take me from this place,” she prayed, turning the smooth rocks within her fingers. “Give me the power before all is lost.”
Suddenly her skin grew clammy. No longer did she hear the clanking of armor or the loud thumps of an axe.
Beams of light darted before her. Her body felt weightless.
She watched with numbed horror as the room grew dim and small. This could not be happening. It was illogical.
A sickening wave of terror welled within as she reached out a hand and found nothing to grasp.
Desperate to return to her grandfather, she thought of the familiar...her grandfather’s old wooden chest, the hand carved bench against the wall where she and her siblings played games.
It was no use.
Even the light grew hazy and dim before disappearing, leaving her in darkness, gasping for breath, clawing at nothingness.
Chapter Two
My favorite thing is to go where I’ve never been.
—Diane Arbus
New York City, Present Day
A blare of a trumpet sounded, bringing Alexandra to her feet.
Strange, she thought as she glanced about. Not a trumpeter in sight.
Standing still, she tried to catch her breath which came out in cold white billowy puffs of air. Her hand fell to her chest where she could feel the steady beat of her heart. I am alive. Another moment and Sir Richard’s men would have barged through the door and mayhap killed them both.
She gazed at the stones in her trembling palm. Had these simple rocks truly brought her through time? Could Grandfather’s stories have been naught but the truth?
Perplexed, she realized there had been five stones before, but now there were only four. She scoured the snow-covered ground, finding nothing. Yet one stone was clearly missing.
Waves of terror struck her as she realized she was not in familiar territory. Where was she? What demons would she be forced to fight now?
At the sound of a grunt, she whipped about, startled by the sight of a man wrapped in a coverlet, sleeping beside an old crate. Her heart thumped against her chest. Thankfully, he did not appear to take notice of her.
She took a step backwards, trying to stay calm when a young man walked past, acknowledging her presence with a nod. He had green spiky hair, and he carried a strange box that exploded with a ghastly noise. He too, seemed unaffected by her presence. Covering her ears, she hurried in the opposite direction, following one of many trails in the snow-covered grass. Her muddied slippers slid across patches of ice. Her feet felt numb.
A dull ache gnawed at her insides and her teeth chattered. Within moments a new cacophony of sounds invaded her senses: blaring horns and the squeals of so many rusty carts. The earth groaned beneath her feet.
Market Day! Mayhap she could find someone to help her, she thought as she trudged onward. Through tangled bare wintry branches of trees and shrubs she saw a blur of fast-moving carriages, their wheels whirring like windmills let loose. No horse leading the way. Strange indeed!
A high-pitched bell rang out behind her. A gust of air brushed against her back. Whirling about, she stumbled backwards to avoid being run over by a man on a metal stick with wheels. The man’s legs went around and around in furious circles and the wheels did the same. Her eyes widened at the sight of such a wonder.
“Fiery flap-dragons,” she muttered. Grandfather had been telling the truth all along. Her eyes misted, her body and mind filled with bewilderment. She tried to remember the stories he had told her about his stones...about the strange places they could take her. After her mother died, his tales had been what she clung to instead of her mother’s skirts. His stories of strange worlds filled with flying machines and fast moving carts had made her smile again, kept her from falling into a gaping hole of despair. Mostly his stories had given her permission to believe that anything was possible...except the one thing she wanted most. Her mother. Once she realized Grandfather’s stones could never bring her mother back, she stopped believing.
Until now.
With a trembling hand, Alexandra slid the remaining stones in the hem of her skirt. Her teeth chattered from the biting cold as she tried to think of what to do next. First, she decided, she needed to find the man Grandfather had so often spoken of. If Grandfather’s tales held true that would mean the man on wheels could have been The Chosen One. Grandfather often said she would have no need to search for help because her Knight would find her. When she gazed upon this knight...
She chewed on her bottom lip, trying to remember. Hellspawn! She could remember naught but the fact that this Knight’s eyes would be filled with desperation. Or was it despair? Something in the man’s gaze was to tell her that he was The One. Ludicrous! ’Twould be impossible to stare into the face of every man she came upon.
She studied the path in the snow where the man on wheels had disappeared. The gnawing in her gut subsided somewhat, and she thanked the lord for that, for she would not let grief and sorrow determine her future. She had a family to look after. They were in danger.
A cool breeze whipped strands of hair about her face as she resolved to swallow her fear and self doubts. Fear would not rule her actions. She must keep her wits about her. As sure as the sun rose each day, she would do as Grandfather instructed. She would find a hero. And she would be quick about it. Never mind that finding this man and returning home with him could prove to be her ruination.
Her eye twitched at the thought of being shackled to a man for the remainder of her life. Most of the women in her village longed for a man’s protection, and yet once they found themselves shackled to a man, their plaints were many. Alexandra had enough responsibility. Another mouth to feed, another person to care for; the mere thought was too much to bear. Everyone in the village knew of her fate, for they too had listened to Grandfather’s stories over the years. His prophecy declared that after The Chosen One destroyed the dark cloud hovering over her family, he would then become her husband. But she never worried overly much about her fate, since she believed her grandfather’s tales held no truth.
Being the Holder of the Stones made her the lucky bride-to-be.
A heavy sigh escaped as she started off again, making her way through snow, wondering where she might find a brave, chivalrous soul who championed right against evil and injustice; a man who would never surrender or flinch in the face of the enemy.
She rolled her eyes. Such a chore would be about as easy a
s finding a snot-nosed ogre. But what choice did she have? If she failed to find help before the next full moon, she would be stuck here forever. That thought quickened her pace. For a year now she had been caring for her younger siblings and elderly grandfather. Every day of late she had prayed for an adventure; wishing she would be taken far from the endless responsibilities.
Be careful what you wish for, for there was no wonder in this adventure suddenly set before her; only a sick worry that gnawed on her bones and pierced her heart with dread.
The sounds of sloshing snow and the intermittent blowing of horns grew louder as she neared the street. One glance upward caused her jaw to fall and her heart to renew its vigorous beating. A massive tower of stone shadowed the people below; a stronghold larger than any castle she had ever seen. Aye, much larger.
She hurried on, her gaze holding fast to the magnificence of such a fortress. As she stepped close to the busy street, the soles of her slippers failed to grip the icy ground. She fell hard and fast. A sharp pain shot through her leg. The ear-piercing blare of another trumpet sounded. She looked up in time to see a gigantic glistening contraption headed straight for her.
“Watch out!” Shelly screamed when a pedestrian exiting Central Park suddenly leapt into the street. Or maybe the person fell, it was hard to tell.
Joe McFarland hit the brakes, causing the car to swerve on the ice-covered road. Keeping a tight grasp on the wheel, he let up on the brakes and prayed the tires would grip pavement. He flattened his palm hard on the horn, and then heard a horrifying thunk.
“Oh, my God!” Shelly cried. “Did you kill her?”
Joe shoved the door open. He sloshed through the snow as he made his way to the front end of his Explorer. Shelly was right. It was a woman. Her clothes were ragged and stained. Instead of shoes, she wore strange looking slippers. The woman looked like one of the many homeless people who inhabited the park. Her clothes and fingernails were dirty, her hair uncombed.
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