This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2011 Jennifer August
First Electronic Printing July 2011
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Dear Reader:
Knight of the Mist is a very special book to me. It was actually a gift from my muse. A very rare offering, I’ve come to realize. I actually dreamed this entire book, start to finish over and over again until I knew I had to write it. I sat down and out it came. Stirling and Quinn are two of my favorite characters and I hope you enjoy their story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
I would love to hear from you! Drop me an e-mail at [email protected]. You can also find me on Facebook (Jennifer August) and Twitter (@jennifer_august). I hope to hear from you!
Happy reading,
Jennifer
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
This book would not have been possible without the eagle eyes and to-the-point comments of my critique partners: Mae Harless, Wendy Treitel, Susan Gable and Diana Duncan.
To my family: thank you. Thank you for all your years of support, belief and the idea that I control my destiny. This one’s for you Mom (Christiane Payton), Dad (Stephen Payton), brother Christopher Payton and son Connor McLean.
Knight of the Mist
By
Jennifer August
Prologue
Southern England, October 1064
“Norman bastard!”
Quinn de Trefoid raised a brow at the Saxon knight’s arrogance but remained silent. Inwardly, he cursed his own stupidity for allowing them to capture him, for venturing so far from camp alone. After tracking the renegade knights on foot for nearly two hours, their trail had simply disappeared with the fading sun. He’d been about to turn back when they surrounded him. It was the mistake of an untrained, untested pup.
Idiot.
William would have his head for this. If he survived with it intact.
Five warriors encircled him, four on foot, one atop a mottled brown warhorse. The beast snorted and shook his head, gnawing at the bit between his teeth.
Each man standing carried a short bastard sword, sharp, honed and obviously well-used and equally as well-cared for. He frowned. It didn’t quite fit with the image of the rag-tag outlaws he been tracking. The mounted man, face half-covered by his helm, gripped a long sword.
They were still and silent, but poised for battle. Quinn’s hammered helm and ring mail vest, though adequate for tracking, offered scant protection in combat. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.
“Why are you here, Norman?” one called out.
The leader, sitting astride the horse, spat at the ground between Quinn’s feet. “It doesn’t matter, we’re going to kill him. Just as Lord Robert commanded.”
It was all the warning Quinn needed. He slapped down the faceplate of his helm and he brought his blade up as two of the knights jabbed and slashed at him with their swords. The clashing screech of metal on metal rang through the glade and sparks showered him as he met the attack.
Quinn fought back viciously, grimly satisfied when his blade found its mark and one of the men fell lifeless to the ground. Two more joined the fray and a slashing stroke to his side slipped between the links of his mail, scoring the flesh. Quinn arched, raising his blade in time to ward off what was nearly a death blow.
Keep your mind on your enemies.
Quinn returned the thrust, spilling the man’s lifeblood, evening the numbers considerably.
The two remaining knights on foot renewed their attack with vigor, but Quinn fended them off, managing to repel each new riposte. Their leader cursed loudly before dismounting and entering the melee. Finally, the mercenaries beat Quinn back, bestowing more nicks and cuts, one blow slamming his helm against his forehead, splitting the flesh. Blood poured from the wound, blinding him in one eye. Determined not to die in this foreign land, Quinn lunged forward, sinking the tip of his sword deep through the leader’s right shoulder.
“Finish him!” The man gasped, cursing savagely as he pulled himself off Quinn’s blade.
Eyes narrowed, Quinn turned to face the two remaining soldiers, but saw only one. The crack of a twig sounded behind him seconds before a blade slipped beneath his mail to the vulnerable side of his lower back. With a howl and an instinctive, yet vicious underhanded thrust, he pierced the man’s flesh, sending him stumbling away, sword embedded in his gut.
Liquid, hot pain seared Quinn’s back, darkened his vision and he swayed, dropping heavily to one knee.
Quinn blinked away the sting of blood-tinged sweat and pinned the leader who slumped against a large rock, with a glare. “William, Duke of Normandy will see you dead for this day’s deeds.”
“Dead men do not speak.” The brigand standing before him sneered, raising his sword.
The long mournful wail of a battle horn stopped him and he whirled to the sound, as did the leader.
“Mother of God,” the first cried, crossing himself.
“Nay!’Tis impossible!” the leader shouted furiously. He pointed at Quinn. “Finish it!”
“Do you doubt your own eyes, Tristan? He has the Knight’s protection.” The brigand spun from Quinn and scrambled to the edge of the glade. “‘tis death to challenge the Knight of the Mist. I’ll not walk forever the in-between for this Norman dog.” He skittered away, disappearing into the dense wood.
Quinn ignored the pain of his own wound, struggled to his feet and yanked his sword from the dead man’s belly. He inched toward the safety of the forest, praying the blackness hovering at the edge of his awareness would not overtake him ere he slipped away. Bleary-eyed, he scanned the ridge above them, seeing only the shadowy darkness of evening. The white mist that wreathed the hills roiled and glided down the grass toward him, but he saw no other knight.
“Coward!” The one called Tristan shouted as his man fled, then spun back to Quinn. He stalked forward, his own blade clumsily clasped in his left hand. “You will not live, Norman dog!”
Rage burned in Quinn’s blood, giving him strength as the man drew nearer. “I will not be the one to die this day.” He deflected Tristan’s heavy-handed attack and retaliated with a slicing blow to the back of his knees. Though he forced the other man back and put him on the defensive, Quinn knew he could not keep the pace up for long. His blood flowed hotly down his back and weakness seeped into his very marrow. He lunged, determined to end the battle, but Tristan swung away at the last instant and the ground rushed up to meet Quinn as he fell, sword flying from his fingers. He sprawled motionless, breath stolen, body aching. The scrape of armor against rock jolted him and he rolled over and watched with wary eyes as the injured leader limped closer.
The man’s blood-streaked battleplate glinted duly in the mist-filtered sunlight. The scrape and drag of his steel-cla
d foot grated along Quinn’s ears like the whistle of an axe through air. Suddenly, the heavy thunder of hooves echoed through the glade and the Saxon knight froze, his gaze flying toward the sound.
His sword clattered to the ground and he raised his uninjured arm as if warding the approaching figure away. “Nay! You are not real.”
Quinn squinted upward through the blood of his head wound. A figure covered head to foot in gleaming silver armor stared down at him from atop a gray war horse. The silver knight carried a shield of the same shining metal, but brandished no sword that Quinn’s hazy eyes could detect.
God’s teeth, if only the pain would recede.
Lacking the energy to endure another fight, Quinn sought the stamina to lever himself up and away while Tristan’s attention was turned to this mysterious knight.
The gleaming warrior stopped between Quinn and Tristan and raised a silver-clad arm pointing toward the top of the ridge.
“Leave this place, Tristan of Falcon Fire, and live another day.” The flat, metallic command echoed from behind the helm.
Tristan clutched at the wound in his shoulder, then slowly backed up until he reached his horse. Mounting with effort, he glared at Quinn and the silver knight. “‘Tis not done,” he spat, then quickly urged his horse over the hill.
Quinn sighed in relief, and, unable to hold the darkness at bay any longer, let his eyes fall shut.
The creak of leather and clank of armor brought them open once more. He struggled to rise as the silver knight approached him, determined to fight to the death. But the silver knight wielded no weapon, instead offered his hand.
Quinn eyed it warily. In his weakened state, one false move would leave him completely vulnerable. More vulnerable.
“Take my hand and rise, Norman.”
Again, the odd, almost-lilting metallic voice. Strangely compelling and soothing. Quinn accepted the proffered hand and winced, a groan and gasp escaping as he gained his feet and full weight. His legs were weakened by fatigue and the loss of blood but his determination to return to William’s camp spurred him on. The knight led him to his horse, a giant dappled gray who stood stock still as Quinn pulled himself onto his back aided by the now-silent, mysterious benefactor. He bit back the roil of nausea.
“My sword,” he muttered.
“Take this,” the knight said. He pressed a shorter sword, the hilt of which was encrusted with a round diamond, into Quinn’s hand, closing his palm over it. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Quinn lifted the light sword to examine it. Strength waning, he lowered the weapon and turned to thank his rescuer, but the figure in silver was gone.
Quinn knew his chances of reaching his overlord’s camp alive were slim, but he must try. The knowledge he’d gained this day would be invaluable to his campaign. He kneed the horse’s flanks, urging him in the direction of William’s tents. Gripping the sword tightly, he cast one final glance over his shoulder. A tendril of white mist moved restlessly over the ground. “If I live to see another day, I will return,” Quinn vowed. “You have my oath.”
Chapter One
Southern England, August 1067
“So the rumors are true, John,” Stirling of Falcon Fire murmured to the captain of her guard, forcing away the nervous nausea swimming within her. She dropped the leather window covering and turned to face him, drawing a deep breath. The usually pleasing aroma of lavender that wafted in the air did nothing to soothe her agitation. “The Conqueror has indeed seen fit to give Falcon Fire to one of his knights. Someone approaches bearing the Norman’s banner.”
“You knew this would day come my lady.” The big man’s voice held a hint of resignation. “Lord Calvin,” he spat the monster’s name, “is going to make trouble over this, mark my words.
She shared a knowing glance with John. “Aye, and I would rather marry this Norman stranger than be at that monster’s mercy.”
“Lady Stirling, your search has not been completed. You must end it now.”
She held up her hand, silencing him. “Enough, John. I need your support, not your lectures. Just because he comes, does not mean my quest will end. I cannot just forget Father.” She turned her gaze away from her captain. “God only knows what this man will be like. Do you know who he is?”
The aging knight shook his head. “Only that he had his pick of all of England and chose you.”
She stiffened, both at the comment and the sound of horses in the courtyard. “He chose the land, not the bride. Most likely another fool who has heard the rumors of a golden treasure which does not exist.”
Certainly the Norman cared naught for the woman he was to marry. He’d not even sent an emissary to visit before making his choice, nor one to haggle the bridal price. She was not ready to meet the man who would take her to wife in a loveless marriage while reaping the bounties of her fertile lands. But she was no coward, either.
“Come, John. We shall greet them together.”
He held out his arm and they paced the length of the great hall to the front entryway. The huge oak doors opened slowly and a great cloud of dust, noise and armored men poured inside. Stirling tightened her grip, heart beating quick as a rabbit caught in a snare. Like that rabbit, she knew her capture was inevitable. Pasting what she hoped was a demure, if not a welcoming smile on her lips, she stepped away from John.
“Good eventide, sirs.” Though she spoke French, she chose to address them in her native tongue. A childish display of rebellion, but all she would allow herself, for now. “I am Lady Stirling of Falcon Fire.” She cast a curious glance over them, searching for their leader. A lean, blond-haired man stepped forward, a wide grin on his dust covered face. He lifted her hand and placed a soft kiss against it.
“Bonjour, demoiselle. I am Marcus Elonger, and have been sent here by King William.”
Stirling relaxed slightly, warmed by the man’s genuine greeting and flawless English. Surreptitiously, she scanned his handsome features. Brown eyes danced merrily in his long, tanned face.
Was this her intended? This man with laughing eyes and gentle demeanor? Mayhap she misjudged him and this forced marriage would not be such a burden after all. “Welcome to my home, my lord. I hope your journey was pleasant.”
“All the more so just to gaze upon your beauty.” He winked and his smile broadened.
She knew her cheeks flamed as she tugged at her hand, but he refused to let go.
“Aye, that is all well and good, I suppose.” She tossed a pleading glance over her shoulder to John, who only shrugged. Stirling cleared her throat. “Aye, welcome to Falcon Fire.”
“You said that.”
“Enough, Marcus, free the wench so that we may be about our business.”
Stirling narrowed her eyes at being labeled a wench by the deep voice echoing from the doorway of the keep.
“Of course, my lord.” Marcus winked again and stepped away, chuckling as a tall knight stalked forward.
Awareness tingled over Stirling’s skin at the sight of him. Surely this black knight could not be her betrothed! Unwillingly her gaze swept over him, from the long, tied-back thickness of his raven hair to the impossibly broad shoulders and powerful legs encased in dark armor. A broadsword was strapped low across his hips, and the cloth-covered hilt of another blade jutted from behind his head, the scabbard belted across his chest. She fell back a step, his mere presence like a physical blow.
“I will gladly appease your curiosity, demoiselle, after we eat and drink.” His battle armor gray eyes raked her body with a leisurely perusal, lingering at the rounded tops of her breasts.
Anger warred with unwelcome awareness. Mutinously she met his glare. “I wondered what sort of knight had won this land. Now I see William has given even his stable boy a boon!”
Laughter from the dark knight’s warriors bounced off the stone walls. The side of his mouth quirked upward, though the storm in his eyes did not calm. “You will call him King William. You are Stirling, I gather? The orphaned child of the traitor Ro
bert?”
She stiffened, the sting of his words piercing her like a sharp blade. The arrogant man needed a lesson in manners. Stirling narrowed her eyes as she fingered the bag of herbs she always wore at her waist. Perhaps a potion to make him indisposed for a few days.
“She is Lady Stirling,” John stepped forward, voice filled with bullish insistence. “And her father was no traitor.”
The dark knight shrugged. “Matters not. I am now lord of this keep, and as I have said, I require food and drink.”
“And definitely a bath,” Stirling couldn’t help but mutter.
His icy gray eyes pierced her, full lips curling into a sensual snarl. “Aye and you will assist me.”
She blanched. ‘Twas not uncommon for the lady of the house to bathe visiting lords, and in fact, was expected. But for a maiden to do so was forbidden. She crossed her arms and raised her chin. “I will not.”
He stalked toward her though no sound came from his booted feet against the flagstone floor. Amazed at the control he exerted over his powerful body, she offered no resistance when he tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. “You will. Now.”
The heated strength of his fingers dropped to her wrist, clamping around her newly-sensitive flesh with iron intent. With her in tow, he started toward the staircase at the back of the entry. She had no choice but to follow.
“Marcus, see to the men. And find a kitchen maid to ready a meal.”
His crisp command of her servants chafed.
“As you will, my lord,” the man called back, laughter coating each word. With a loud clap, he barked out orders.
Stirling seethed at the sound of her suddenly compliant servants scurrying to perform the invader’s bidding.
Who was this rigid warrior?
She seethed at his lack of manners; he’d not even introduced himself.
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