Blood Sword Legacy 04 - A Knight to Remember

by Karin Tabke

  A Knight to Remember

  by

  Karin Tabke

  *

  Published by Karin Tabke

  (edited by Lauren McKenna)

  A Knight to Remember

  Copyright 2009 by Karin Tabke

  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.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form and proper attribution is given. If you enjoyed this book, please visit www.KarinTabke.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

  *

  The Lore

  of

  The Blood Sword Legacy

  Eight mercenary knights, each of them base born, each of them bound by unspeakable torture in a Saracen prison, each of them branded with the mark of the sword for life. Each of their destinies marked by a woman.

  ‘Twas whispered along the Marches the demon knights who rode upon black horses donned in black mail wielding black swords would slay any man, woman or child who dared look upon them. ‘Twas whispered their loyalty was only to the other and no man could split them asunder, nor was there enough gold or silver in the kingdom to buy their oath. ‘Twas well known each of them was touched not by the hand of God but by Lucifer himself.

  ‘Twas also whispered, but only by the bravest of souls, that each Blood Sword was destined to find only one woman in all of Christendom who would bear him and only him sons, and until that one woman was found, he would battle and ravage the land…

  Sir Rohan du Luc

  bastard son of a the comte to Monfort

  Sir Wulfson de Trevelyn

  bastard son of a Norman noble and a Saxon maid

  Sir Stefan de Valrey

  bastard son of the comte de Valeroix and Beatrice sister of duchess Mathilde

  Sir Rorick de Moray

  bastard son of MacBeth

  Sir Warner de Conde

  bastard son of the duke d’Anjou

  Sir Ioan the Irish

  baseborn grandson of the Irish king Ivar

  Sir Rhys

  bastard son of the Welsh prince of Gwent

  Sir Thorin Haraldsson

  bastard son of a Byzantinian gypsy and the late King Harald of Norway

  *

  One

  Wessex Coast, February 1068

  Mercia trounced along the path to the jagged cliffs overlooking the churning Irish Sea. Frustration dueled with a deep sense of melancholy. Frustration with her father, Lord Cedric, for not only losing the family’s fortunes, but also for packing her off to the nuns at Drury Abby. “I have not a piece of silver to offer for your hand, Mercia. A bride of God, ye’ll be!”

  Angrily she kicked at a stone in her path. “Jesu!” she cursed when she stubbed her toe. She had the decency to make the sign of the cross and ask the Lord for forgiveness, but she also asked for forgiveness the next time. There was always a next time.

  She did not want to spend the rest of her life on her knees, her hands clasped, repeatedly whispering prayers and vows! She was a child of the earth, of the senses. Aye, and a noblewoman without so much as a milk cow to offer a potential groom.

  Her gaze spanned the silver-white beach below. Dark chunks of wood wrapped in seaweed and other debris had washed ashore from the recent storm. The harsh winter wind tore at her braid, freeing the long golden strands from the worn velvet ribbon. Her threadbare cloak did naught to warm her, yet she did not want to bide her day at Wendover. ‘Twas her home, but it had lost its luster, though her father tried to hide the fact.

  Indeed, he toiled tirelessly to keep up the appearance of prosperity. Prince Rhodri of Dinefwr was on his way to claim his bride, her sister, the beautiful and ethereal Rowena. Would he want her when he learned she came with only the clothes on her back? Rowena’s beauty was renowned and her blood among the finest in all of Saxony. She would make any man a worthy wife. She would beguile the prince for sure. He would not care that she came to him destitute.

  Mercia’s anger waned. She could not begrudge her sister anything. She prayed for her daily, and hoped that once she was settled into her new home in Wales, she might call upon her only sibling for companionship. But knew she would not. A single woman was an added expense. Nay, she would remain at Drury Abby, and this summer take her final vows. ‘Twas a small victory. When all of England bled, she would be safe and go to her bed each night with a full belly.

  Aye, when she became the rational girl she knew she must be, even with all of England’s woes aside, she would force herself to be content at Drury Abbey. The Abbess Avril was kind, and while Mercia found it hard to pray on her knees for hours on end, she tried. She tried very hard to be a good servant to God. But there was that wildness in her still, the wildness to ride bareback along the coast, to run barefoot through the loamy forests, to dance and laugh and be merry. ‘Twould pass, the Abbess told her, it always did. God only tempted her with these pleasures of the flesh; she must not succumb to them, ever, for God would be harsh in his penance. ‘Twould be her undoing if she were not more obedient.

  Obedient!

  She shook her head as the devil speared the angel in her, and looked over her shoulder for her nursemaid, Agatha. From the moment Mercia told her of her desire to see the beaches, the old woman had complained and had not stopped until finally, unable to listen to her mewling, Mercia set off at a brisk trot. She shrugged at the empty path behind her. She would catch up.

  She gave no heed to the churning water below as she angled down the steep trail like one of the shaggy ponies she’d ridden as a girl. Her frustration spurned her forward, and she gave no more thought to Agatha, who no doubt stumbled through the forest. The old woman did not understand that she wanted out of the stuffy old manor house. She’d been aghast at its dilapidated state when she returned home just four days past. Father’s fortunes had dwindled considerably since the coming of the Normans. He hoped that by the marriage between the house of Wendover and the great house of Dinefwr, not only would his fortunes be restored with such a wealthy son-in-law, but the melding of Saxon and Welsh would fortify them against the encroaching Normans.

  Throwing in his lot with Earl Edric had been disastrous for her father. But he had made inroads with the Welsh, and had just this past autumn ridden to Dinefwr and offered his prized possession, his daughter Rowena, as wife to the prince’s only son, Rhodri. His train had been due to arrive several days ago. But with the storm they were detained.

  As she reached the cold damp sands of the beach, Mercia continued her frustrated stride, oblivious to everything around her. She wrestled nightly with her destiny to become a bride of God, and not live the life she had dreamed of. One of sunshine, and children, and a husband who cherished her. A fool’s dream, to be sure. She wanted to scream, to run as far and as fast from her life as she could. She should just march right into the sea and swim to the wild shores of Ireland. Father would not dare come for her, so scourged was the sea with pirates.

  But she could not. Mercia was as wild and untamed as the sea, but she had given her oath to England, to the Abbess and to God, and she would do all in her power to honor it. So intent was she on her march to the churning waters that she did not see the large piece of driftwood. She stumbled over it and landed with a resounding thud in the damp sand. She gasped and spit out gritty pebbles and wiped the stinging salt from h
er eyes. The wind blew sharply against her, bringing harsh tears to her eyes. As she rolled over and stood to brush herself clean, she stopped and screamed.

  ‘Twas not wood she stumbled over but a turned skiff dug into the sand, and a man, half-naked inside it. She turned to run, but curiosity got the better of her. She halted her flight and stared. He posed no threat. His body lay still, as the elements assaulted him. Intrigued by his long muscled body and angled face, she moved closer. A deep gash marked his chest, another smaller one slashed his shoulder.

  She swallowed hard. Only braises and chauses covered his lower body and long legs. Closer still, she stepped, until she could see the fine dark hair on his chest. She followed it down to where it tapered to his…she blushed hotly. His long black hair was wet and sand filled, obscuring most of his beard-stubbled face. She bent down and gently pushed it away, and gasped a second time. Despite the new beard growth, he was most handsome. Dark brows slashed above eyes she envisioned to be as deep and penetrating as the sea. High cheekbones framed full lips. She could not help but wonder how warm and soft they might feel upon hers. She blushed hotly again. She had never been kissed, but since she was a young girl and had her heart set on her father’s young vassal, Sir Bertram, she had wondered how it would feel to be held by a man, and kissed by one. Rarely did she allow the thought freedom; she was, after all, promised to God.

  Tentatively, she pressed a hand to his chest and recoiled at the heat that emanated from him. Fever. His chest rose in slow, shallow heaves. He moaned when she pressed her palm more firmly to him. Aye, his skin, despite the chill of the air, was hot to the touch.

  Mercia looked up to the path she had just traversed, then to the cliffs. He would die if left exposed. And if there was one thing that could be said of Lady Mercia of Wendover, it was that she could not bear to see even a sparrow in pain. She looked closer for an indication of who he was. His hair was long in the Saxon mode, but his face, though a dark stubble haunted it, was clean-shaven, like a Norman‘s. He bore no sword, no other weapon, no signet ring. Save for his undergarments, he was bare. And yet, despite his disheveledness, instinctively, Mercia knew he was a noble.

  Tension nagged at her brow. She chewed her bottom lip, unsure what to do. She could not take him to her father. He would complain of another mouth to feed, and he would forbid a strange man to take refuge inside Wendover. The man moaned, moving slightly in the skiff. Mercia bent down beside him and nearly lost all composure when two eyes the color of smelted silver stared back at her. Something deep inside her moved at that exact moment, all the way to her womb.

  His hand touched hers. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a hoarse curse came forth. Pain radiated from his eyes, and something else. A silent plea for her help. He reached out a shaky hand. “Help me,” he said hoarsely. The quiet desperation in his voice turned the tide. She could not deny him. Slowly Mercia stood and looked around, unsure what to do. There was an abandoned hut upon the cliff, where she had gone many times as a girl and watched the waves crash against the sand. But there were also the caves.

  “Let me find shelter for you,” she said. As she moved from him, his fingers wrapped tighter around hers. Another jolt of something so unfamiliar speared through her nether parts. She felt her cheeks flame as hot as his skin. “Please, sir,” she begged. He released her hand and closed his eyes. Quickly she ran to the bottom edge of the cliff and through the scrub, found the opening to one of the many caves she had hid in as a child with her sister. Rowena had not been nearly as intrigued as Mercia, always complaining of ghosts and pirates. But Mercia had found them fascinating. And as the youngest daughter, her poor aging sire had not reined her in as sharply as her sister.

  Mercia ran back to the man who lay as still as stone. “Sir, I will need your assist. I cannot drag you nor can I carry you. Can you stand?”

  His eyes slowly opened. He swallowed and nodded. In what was a Herculean effort, Mercia managed to drag the wounded man to the cave. She pulled her cloak from her shoulders, laid it upon the sandy floor, and settled him. “A drink,” he said in broken English. She could tell from his accent that it was not his native tongue. Though she could not place it, it was vaguely familiar to her.

  There was a small shallow pool just beyond the cave, fed by an underground spring. In the summer time, she had spent many hours in it, splashing and swimming, fending off the oppressive heat. “I must go for it. But I will return.”

  Mercia flew from the cave. As she came to the foot of the path, she nearly collided with Agatha, who thankfully had insisted upon bringing a small basket of food and wine. She snatched it from her nurse’s hand and was rewarded with a glare. “Stay here, Agatha.” Then she hurried back to the man.

  He was as she had left him. She dropped to her knees and pulled the wineskin from the basket. Gingerly she lifted his head and dribbled some of the brew between his parted lips. He coughed, grabbing her hands, startling her. But once his convulsions eased, he released her and drank in small sips. When he had had enough, he pushed the skin away. Carefully she lowered his head to her cloak.

  The snapping of a twig caught her attention. She hurried to the opening of the cave to find Agatha peering in. “What are you about, lass?”

  For a long moment, Mercia stood silent, debating on sharing her secret with the old nurse. In the end, she decided Agatha would be a good foil to keep her father from nosing around. For Mercia would come here daily to see to the handsome stranger’s welfare. Not only because she could not leave him to die, but because when his hands had grasped hers, her entire body warmed at the thrill of his touch. And while she knew she played a dangerous game coming to him, she could not help him if she stayed away. Her gut told her he was not a nefarious man, but one who had suffered grave injuries, and without her assist, he would surely die. Had there not already been enough death since William’s invasion? Aye, and there would be more, she was sure, but she would do her small part to save even one life.

  “Come, Agatha, ‘tis a man, he is hurt.”

  Mercia grasped the old woman’s hand and led her into the dim cave. As the man’s body emerged, the nurse hissed in a deep breath. “’Tis a Norman? ‘Yer father will have ‘yer head, lass.”

  “He will not know, will he, Agatha?” Mercia threatened. The nurse refused to go near the man. “Aggie, please, his wounds are grave, I would know what poultices and herbs to use.”

  “Nay, I will not aid you. I will not save a Norman when they took so many English lives.”

  “Bah!” Mercia threw her hands up in the air. “Who is to say for sure he is Norman? He could be Irish or Welsh. I will tend him myself.” She turned on the old woman and narrowed her eyes. “But one word of this to anyone, I’ll send you across the sea and let the pirates have at ye.”

  Agatha was old, her sight dimming as well as her hearing, but she had not lost one part of her wits. She set her wrinkled lips, but nodded. “Good. Now stay put while I see what I can do.”

  *

  Two

  Mercia needed a needle and thread. She needed balm and healing herbs. She needed linens and warm furs. The nights were frigid, and if the wounded man was left as he was, he would succumb to the elements. As much as she did not want to leave him, she did. Emptying the contents of the basket, she set the food and wineskin close to his side. But she doubted he would eat or drink. He had fallen into a deep sleep.

  She hurried back to the manor ignoring her sister’s calls and her father’s grumblings. The late meal was about to commence and she knew there was no way to get out of it. If she claimed a headache, Rowena would know she used it as a ruse when she retired, for Mercia would be gone. And nosy Ro would not rest until she was found! So she prepared to sit through a miserable meal, refusing to make eye contact with her nurse.

  “Papa, I worry there has been no word from my betrothed,” Rowena softly said.

  Mercia glanced at her sister. The beautiful, graceful, alluring Rowena. The lady all men desired, but could not have
. “She is worthy of a prince,” her father had crowed, hedging his bets, when, finally, he had negotiated a coup. No sooner had the betrothal contract been signed, he lost all that he promised as her dowry. War was costly. Cedric had given everything first to Harold, then to Earl Edric. ‘Twas the last campaign that broke him. Now his fields lay untended with no churls, no money to pay freemen. Barely a horse in the stables, and what coin could be spared was spent on fine clothes for Rowena. She must appear to be a prosperous lady when her prince came to claim her as his bride.

  Mercia glanced back at her father, who impatiently waved the servants away so that just he and his two daughters sat at the lord’s table. “Aye, your betrothed is late, Rowena. Not even an outrider to announce his coming. I fear he has found us out,” Lord Cedric complained.

  “What is to become of me, then, father?” Rowena cried. “I will not submit to the nuns!” With her words, Ro sent her sister a silent apologetic look.

  Cedric patted his daughter’s hand. “Fear not, puss, the prince’s father himself signed the contract.”

  “Bu-but, Prince Rhodri was not informed until recently. Mayhap he is angered.”

  Cedric shrugged. “Mayhap, but a contract is a contract. Hyclon will not break it. With the Norman king we must ally with the Welsh to protect what is ours.”

  “But father,” Mercia interrupted. “Prince Rhodri will surely discover your trickery and retract the contract.”

  Cedric slapped her across the face, his face clouding red with rage. “Do not speak of it! I have forbidden you to do so!”