Knightly Dreams

by Anna Markland

  Knightly Dreams

  Anna Markland

  Contents

  More Anna Markland

  The Knight

  The Nerd

  The Trial Begins

  Outburst

  Doctors Old And New

  Playing Dress-Up

  Raging Hormones

  Spark

  The Ride

  Sounds Good

  Apparition

  Tightly Wound

  First Kiss

  Aftereffects

  Best Laid Plans

  Is This A Dream?

  It's Been A While

  Thank You, Keith

  The Dig

  Footnotes

  About Anna

  Dedicated to treasure-seekers.

  “Remember that not getting what you want

  is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.”

  ~The Dalai Lama

  Knightly Dreams by Anna Markland

  © 2018 Anna Markland

  www.annamarkland.com

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  For permissions contact: anna@annamarkland.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by Dar Albert

  More Anna Markland

  The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition (2018-2019)

  I Conquest—Ram & Mabelle, Rhodri & Rhonwen

  II Defiance—Hugh & Devona, Antoine & Sybilla

  III Redemption—Caedmon & Agneta

  IV Vengeance—Ronan & Rhoni

  V Birthright—Adam & Rosamunda, Denis & Paulina

  VI Star-Crossed— Robert & Dorianne, Baudoin & Carys

  VII Allegiance—Rhys & Annalise

  VIII Crescendo—Izzy & Farah

  IX Infidelity—Gallien & Peridotte

  X Jeopardy—Alexandre & Elayne

  The Montbryce Legacy First Edition (2011-2014)

  Carried Away—Blythe & Dieter

  Sweet Taste of Love—Aidan & Nolana

  Wild Viking Princess—Ragna & Reider

  Fatal Truths—Alex & Elayne

  Sinful Passions—Bronson & Grace; Rodrick & Swan

  Series featuring the stories of the Viking ancestors of my Norman families

  The Rover Bold—Bryk & Cathryn

  The Rover Defiant—Torstein & Sonja

  The Rover Betrayed—Magnus & Judith

  Novellas

  Maknab’s Revenge—Ingram & Ruby

  Passion’s Fire—Matthew & Brigandine

  Banished—Sigmar & Audra

  Hungry Like De Wolfe—Blaise & Anne

  Unkissable Knight—Dervenn & Victorine

  The Marauder—Santiago & Valentina

  Caledonia Chronicles (Scotland)

  Book I Pride of the Clan—Rheade & Margaret

  Book II Highland Tides—Braden & Charlotte

  Book III Highland Dawn—Keith & Aurora

  Book IV Roses Among the Heather—Blair & Susanna, Craig & Timothea

  The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty (medieval Europe)

  Book 1 Loyal Heart—Sophia & Brandt

  Book 2 Courageous Heart—Luther & Francesca

  Book 3 Faithful Heart—Kon & Zara

  Myth & Mystery

  The Taking of Ireland —Sibràn & Aislinn

  Clash of the Tartans

  Kilty Secrets—Ewan & Shona

  Kilted at the Altar—Darroch & Isabel

  Kilty Pleasures—Broderick & Kyla

  The House of Pendray

  Highland Betrayal—Morgan & Hannah (audiobook available)

  Kingslayer’s Daughter—Munro & Sarah

  Highland Jewel—Garnet & Jewel

  Highland Rising—Gray & Faith

  The Knight

  Tooting Bec, South London, Present Day

  Sweating, and close to panic, Susie finally extricated herself from the tangled bedclothes and sat bolt upright.

  The knight had come again.

  It was already daylight. She grasped her ankles, assumed the lotus position and tried to steady her breathing.

  After a minute or two, she swung her legs over the side of the mattress and gripped the edge, smirking at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. There’d be no need for gel today. Pink tufts stuck out like mini volcanoes from the jet black. No wonder her nightly visitor had beaten a hasty retreat.

  She was a firm believer in the power of dreams—probably something to do with her Celtic ancestors—but this was getting ridiculous. The knight with the red cross emblazoned across his chest had disturbed her sleep every night for three weeks.

  What did he want?

  Yawning, she retrieved her robe from the hook behind the bathroom door, folded up the hide-a-bed, and walked across to the kitchenette. The microwave clock indicated only an hour until she had to catch the bus to the supermarket. She pressed fingertips to her forehead, hoping to ward off the first twinges of a headache. Spending her days manning a cash register at Tesco and her nights waiting tables at a busy pub was turning her into a physical wreck, but it was the only way to make ends meet since she’d dropped out of university.

  She’d never really regretted not completing her degree. The profs were mostly pompous, stuffy old men who looked down their noses at anyone who voiced opinions different from their own. What business they had teaching in the anthropology department was beyond her understanding.

  However, at the abysmal rate her savings weren’t accumulating she’d be a senior citizen before she had enough money to fulfill her dream of volunteering on a world-class archaeological dig.

  She opened the door of the mini-fridge, winced at the best-before date on the milk carton and poured some for herself anyway, pleasantly surprised there was at least one clean glass in the dish-rack. She’d meant to bring home another box of cereal; hopefully there’d be an opportunity to grab a snack from the store shelves at break time.

  Having downed the milk in a few gulps, she brushed off the white mustache with finger and thumb, added the glass to the pile in the sink and headed for the bathroom. With any luck she wouldn’t have to feed the gas meter to get enough hot water for a shower.

  The pipes beat their usual tattoo when she turned on the squeaky taps. It took a while for the water to turn hot and fill the narrow shower stall with steam. She soaped her body and shampooed her hair.

  She closed her eyes, tilted back her head and was suddenly in the dream once more. The knight emerged from the mist, steam rising from his armor, rainwater dripping from his helm. She clutched the washcloth to her breast as he beckoned and whispered, “I am the key to the treasure.”

  Gooseflesh marched across her skin.

  The water abruptly turned cold and the Templar disappeared. Teeth chattering, she rinsed off, fought her way past the clingy plastic curtain and grabbed a towel.

  No amount of vigorous rubbing could rid her of the eerie feeling the knight had been in the tiny bathroom with her—an impossibility. She really was working too many hours. Speaking of which, if she didn’t get a move on…

  She dressed quickly, spiked up
her hair with gel and fastened the diamond stud (aka cubic zirconia) back in her nose.

  Walking to the bus stop, she wondered if she’d have time to drop by the library after clocking off at the store. She’d forgotten most of the stuff mentioned about Templars in first year uni, and didn’t have internet in her bedsit. The persistent knight had piqued her curiosity. Especially when he’d spoken of treasure. Uncovering buried treasure would enable her to say bye bye to the second job at the pub, and hello to the long-dreamed-of archaeological dig.

  Her chuckle drew a disdainful look from the bus driver as she boarded and dropped the fare in the box. Probably not a fan of pink hair. Or maybe it was the nose jewelry. She blew an enormous bubble with her green gum, just to confirm his opinion of her as a loser. He shook his head as he put his foot to the pedal. Her amusement was short-lived when she realized the bus was full—standing room only.

  The Nerd

  Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, Fleet Street, London

  Peter Bateson cringed as the waitress with spiky pink hair set down three pints of Sam Smiths on the tiny round table in front of him and his friends. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he complained, loosening his tie.

  “Come on, old chap,” Hugh Farnham retorted, reaching for his beer. “Knowing you and the fanatical way you prepare for things, you’ll breeze through the whole process tomorrow.”

  “Anal retentive, one might say,” Edgar Rotherstein added.

  Peter wiped his sweaty hands on a napkin. Perspiring was something he never did, but the popular pub was crowded, hot and noisy. Nervousness about tomorrow’s doctoral defense certainly had nothing to do with it. “I admit I pay attention to detail, but anal retentive’s a bit much.”

  “Drink up,” Hugh insisted. “It’s doubtful anyone will show up for your defense. If your thesis proved conclusively that the Templar treasure does exist, the room would be packed.”

  Edgar licked foam off his top lip. “Whereas proving the treasure doesn’t exist will simply burst a few pipe dreams, and the Da Vinci Code fanatics won’t believe a word of what you claim anyway.”

  Peter sipped his beer. The sooner he downed it, the sooner he could make his excuses and go home to practice his dissertation again.

  “Many scholars are positive the treasure does exist.”

  The beer went down the wrong way, making Peter cough as he turned to look at the waitress who’d made a statement his years of painstaking research had proven to be unfounded. He decided the best course of action was to ignore her, but his chums evidently thought differently.

  “Know a lot about Templars do you, miss?” Hugh asked, winking slyly at Peter.

  The waitress—Susie according to her name tag—wasn’t a bad looking girl, apart from the geeky hair and the nose stud.

  She chewed her bottom lip then carried on. “There are viable theories about Templar knights escaping to Scotland after the Order was persecuted in the fourteenth century. Even Nova Scotia’s Oak Island is considered a possibility as a place they fled to.”

  Peter had expected a waitress in a pub in the heart of London to speak with a broad cockney accent, but she actually sounded more Welsh.

  Edgar snorted. “Nova Scotia? As in Canada?”

  “We should forewarn you, Susie,” Hugh said after a glance at the name tag. “Peter here is an expert on the treasure of the Templars. He’s defending his PhD on the subject tomorrow.”

  Her eyes widened as she clutched the empty tray to her breast. “Really? I’d be interested in hearing that. Is it open to the public?”

  Peter had spent weeks preparing slides and graphs. He’d practiced and practiced the coherent argument he’d written and revised a hundred times until he was confident every t had been crossed, every i dotted. He anticipated achieving a tour de force. Yet, for some strange reason he hoped this wide-eyed woman wouldn’t attend the formal panel. She threw him off balance. Maybe it was the hair.

  “Certainly,” Hugh exclaimed with a grin. “Two in the afternoon. Queen’s College. Just down the road.”

  Peter squirmed and started to sweat again under her curious gaze. “I’m sure she’d find it boring,” he tried.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “It might prove fascinating. That’s £9.60, please.”

  Susie secured the deadbolts, threw the keys on the kitchen counter and collapsed on the hide-a-bed, not certain she could stay awake long enough to open it up.

  She’d fallen asleep on the tube and almost missed her station. The five minute walk to her flat had blown away some of the cobwebs; a woman walking alone in the middle of the night needed to pay attention to her surroundings.

  The streets of Tooting Bec were a far cry from the family farm in South Wales where she’d grown up. She’d no intention of ever returning to the grinding lifestyle that had turned her parents into bitter alcoholics.

  She looked forward to having the next day off from the supermarket. No snotty-nosed, smart-mouthed kids trying to shoplift gum; no overweight women with their hair in curlers complaining about the price of cigarettes; no balding, middle-aged lotharios trying to pick her up.

  She could spend all day in bed if she wanted. Rest up for her shift at the pub. Except…the studious looking nerd was giving his defense tomorrow.

  He’d eyed her with disdain when she’d expressed an interest. Toffee-nosed. Serve him right if she did show up to poke holes in his theories. Not that her brief visit to the library had provided her with enough information about the Templars to be able to do that, and she likely didn’t have the courage anyway.

  There was just something too smug about him. He needed taking down a peg or two. Hadn’t even finished his beer before rushing off.

  “Who wears a tie in the Olde Cheshire Cheese for goodness sake?” she mumbled, yawning as she prepared for bed.

  She fell into a deep sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  Sometime during the night, the Templar went down on one knee. “Monseigneur de Norrels,” he said, lifting something heavy in both hands, like an offering.

  Susie tossed restlessly, trying unsuccessfully to make out what he held.

  “Many have given their lives to protect what I give into your safekeeping. The survival of the Order depends on its preservation.”

  “Who is de Norrels?” she rasped in her sleep.

  “He has the logs.”

  The knight melted away when she blinked open her eyes. “Logs?”

  It was still dark, so she turned over, punched the pillow and went back to sleep, trying to fathom what logs had to do with buried treasure.

  The Trial Begins

  Peter was already awake when the alarm went off. He hadn’t slept well. His PhD defense had dominated his dreams for weeks, but last night the waitress with the pink hair kept reappearing like an annoying little gremlin.

  He switched on the bedside lamp, got out of bed and went to the bathroom, snarling at his reflection in the mirror. Talk about spiky hair! Still, he’d have lots of time for a shower after breakfast.

  He opened his iPad and checked his email on the off-chance there’d be a reply from his father and step-mother to his invitation; there wasn’t, but then he hadn’t really expected them to come. They probably didn’t have access to WiFi on their African safari, or was it India this time? He’d lost track and learned long ago not to worry about them. They were spending his paternal grandparents’ money and there was no point expecting them to take an interest in his work—or in him. He was fortunate his late grandfather had the foresight to set up a trust account for him. It funded his research and paid for his comfortable lifestyle .

  He sent off a quick email to the university asking for confirmation the arrangements were proceeding as agreed. They hadn’t replied to his last five requests, but he copied his prof, just in case.

  “Anal retentive might not be far off the mark,” he muttered, closing the iPad.

  He made himself two slices of buttered whole wheat toast with a liberal spread of Golden Shre
d marmalade, brewed a cup of Nespresso dark roast coffee, then opened up his iPad again, intending to run through the slides once more while he ate.

  Satisfied every slide was visually impactful and to the point, he eyed the microwave clock. The “courtroom” wouldn’t be available until one in the afternoon, so that left 45 minutes for a shit, shower, shave, an hour to go over his speech one last time, and fifteen minutes to check his projector in case the university’s failed to function. He’d take fifteen minutes for lunch, five to walk to the tube station, twenty on the train, another five minute walk along the Strand. Allowing for delays, he’d still arrive in plenty of time.

  Susie might have blamed the traffic for her tardy arrival at Queen’s College, but the truth was she hadn’t allowed enough time to get from her flat to the university.

  Out of breath and wishing she hadn’t worn her leather jacket, she asked directions at the main entrance. It didn’t help that she only knew Peter’s first name.

  “More than one defense going on today, miss,” the porter scolded.

  She tried to follow the directions he eventually provided, but got hopelessly lost in the maze of ancient corridors that seemed to lead nowhere. Sweating and annoyed with herself, she finally arrived at 2:15.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled to the stern-faced docent manning the door, “punctuality isn’t my strong suit.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry. Hasn’t started yet.”