by Julianne Lee
She handed back his dagger, and he sheathed it. Then he turned to retrieve his horse. As she watched him go, a single tear escaped her eye and she hurried to wipe it away. Then she went to Alex and made him remove his surcoat, hauberk, and sark to take a look at his wounded arm. She could let herself be absorbed in him, and the rest of the world might fade away.
Alex leaned down and kissed her cheek. His face pressed against hers, he said softly, “It’ll be all right.”
She replied, “No, it won’t.”
Epilogue
Trefor figured he was screwed. It had probably been a mistake to come here, to this medieval armpit of the universe, and now he wondered whether he should stay or leave or what. He stared down the length of the Great Hall at his parents, who sat at the head table, presiding over breakfast like royalty. It was party day; they were entertaining the Earl of Ross, James Douglas’s friend and Edward Bruce’s father-in-law. All the stops had been pulled out, and there was food everywhere. Fresh reeds on the floor, everyone dressed in their best dingy finery. Ol’ Alasdair an Dubhar was doing his level best to become one of the gang, hobnobbing at Mach 3. Trefor nibbled on his meat, not particularly hungry, but wanting to look as if he were joining in.
The parental units seemed happy, all smiling and holding hands. Cruachan often leaned close to tell his countess things that made her laugh. The two seemed to have made a magic circle up there at the head table with their guests, one Trefor knew would never include him. That Gregor kid was there, standing attendance. The foster son. Foster son. Irony upon insult upon injury. In all his childhood wishes and dreams of his real parents, he’d never thought he could have been displaced like that. Not by a foster kid. His stomach was in a knot, and he gnashed at the meat he held between his fingers.
Morag must be somewhere around, and he wondered where. She liked to disappear at odd moments and then reappear at even odder ones. He wondered where she’d got off to this time; she hadn’t been here in the castle when they’d returned from Cruachan. The trip had taken a while, though. Maybe she’d gotten bored and gone off to find amusement. She’d be back. He could tell when a girl was in love with him, and that one had it bad, though she’d never admit it out loud. It made him smile to think how tightly he had her wrapped around his little finger.
It had taken several weeks to organize the village on Cruachan enough for Alasdair an Dubhar to return to his castle. The resident MacDonalds were defeated, the families who’d participated in the rising tried and evicted, and now the rebels were the responsibility of The MacDonald. Their tenancies had been reassessed and some distributed to those who had not participated in the rising, and that was what had taken so long. Come spring new tenants would begin clearing forest to build new farms. Much thought had gone into the distribution of land. Other MacNeils would be given tenancies there, most from Eilean Aonarach and a few of the poorer folk from among Hector’s MacNeils on Barra. With the MacNeils and allied families now the majority on Cruachan, clan loyalties would consolidate Alex’s claim and also his alliance with Hector. It was left now to decide who would be tacksman on Cruachan, and that was what kept Trefor hanging around after that fight with his father. That and the rumor King Robert might visit to confirm the new earldom with appropriate pomp and ceremony. That sounded like a fun party. Trefor thought it might be pretty cool to meet Robert the Bruce, but even more it might be good if ol’ Alex made him tacksman and let him run Cruachan. Even if Trefor couldn’t call himself MacNeil, which he never had until Morag found him and told him his real name, making him tacksman would be the least the earl could do. Yeah, sticking around was probably the best thing. Pawlowski was as good a name as any. It at least was his mother’s maiden name and hadn’t been given to him by those who’d dumped him off.
He gazed long on the countess, and his heart beat faster. His mother was beautiful, just as he’d always imagined she’d be. The woman was strong and smart and interesting, and he longed for her attention in ways that he didn’t even want from Morag. The little redhead was delightfully fun, and helpful in many ways. He loved her, but not in the bone-deep sort of way he looked to Lindsay MacNeil. The countess scared him. He couldn’t look away from her. He would do anything for her if she would only let him. She was his mother, after all. He was supposed to care for her.
And, he realized, if Alex loved her half as much, then he would be vulnerable because of her. Trefor tucked that knowledge into the back of his head for later use.
Finally he looked away. Maybe he’d take a ride around the island today. He’d not had a chance to check it out when they’d arrived; it might be good to explore a little and get to know the lay of the land. He stuffed the chunk of meat into his mouth, picked another, and began eating and chatting with the knight next to him.
***
The day was crisp and fall-like. Late August, but it was plain winter would arrive early here compared to Tennessee. A pleasant breeze drifted among the trees of the forest through which he rode at a walk. There were only the sounds of leaves swishing and dull, thudding hoofbeats on the narrow track.
Morag’s voice came from somewhere. “There ye are. About time you came to find me!”
A grin splashed across his face and he looked around to find her perched cross-legged in the crotch of a moss-covered oak, wearing nothing but her golden rope belt and a smile. Her bright, coppery hair hung in wild curls that spilled over her shoulders, and her eyes glinted with high humor.
“There you are! Where have you been?”
“Right here, silly boy. Waiting for you to be done with those dreary mortals.”
“I had business. I needed to attend — “
“Bah. Come play. The day is fine and ye must be stifling with all your clothes. A body should be freed of them on a day such as this.”
Trefor grinned and reached for the ties of his tunic. In a few seconds he had it off, and his sark. Then he leapt from his horse. The breeze was a mite chillier than Morag made it out to be, but the goose bumps on him could also have been from the sight of her. She grinned, stood on the oak limb, and swung down from the tree. With a giggle she skipped away into the forest. Trefor hurried to relieve himself of his boots, trews, and drawers, then gave chase.
They ran through the woods, laughing, and Morag managed to stay just out of reach. A couple of times he nearly caught her, but she dodged from his grasp at the last second. It only made him laugh harder and chase in better earnest.
Then he caught her and held her to him. Unable to stop laughing, he tried to kiss her but managed little more than mashing her lips with his. Her laughter was out of control, and she was helpless in his arms. He landed a good, solid kiss, and her body warmed against his.
But then she slipped away from him and took off running again. He ran after but lost her in a thicket. Without slowing down he burst through it and figured he’d see her on the other side. Gorse scratched at his skin, but he barely noticed.
It was a small clearing, all grassy and surrounded in bracken. A fallen oak lay at one side, covered thickly with dark green moss that made it look as if it were melting into the grass. He looked around, but there was no Morag. Nor sign of her. His pulse raced, and he went to the log to see behind it. No Morag. He turned a circle, but still didn’t see her.
There was a bit of rock sticking from the earth across from the log, and he went to it. No Morag hiding there, but he found a hole in the ground. It didn’t look big, but that girl was small. She could fit just about anywhere. He knelt to peer into it and see what he might see. It was dark in there, which sort of figured since it was underground, but he thought he saw movement. His smile returned, and he leaned closer.
A force caught him from before and from behind and shoved, as if the very air were trying to stuff him into the hole. Too quick to resist, it blew him through the hole and he found himself tumbling into darkness. He landed with an oof on something soft. Above him, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to discern roots. Big tree ro
ots. Of course, he was underground. But there were voices. High, tittery ones, whispering all around. He sat up to see.
They were wee people. Bhrochan, he guessed, for they looked a lot like the several he’d seen in the States a year ago. Tiny folk with pointed ears like his, dressed in ragged tunics and trews. He held up a hand in greeting. “Hi.”
One of them laughed, high and giggly and sounding like madness incarnate. She then leapt to her feet and did a little dance like a jig. “Oh, look! We’re graced by a visit from our new prince!”
Acknowledgments
Folks say “Write what you know.” But if I only did that, I would never write anything. I am ever in debt to those who know more than I do. Among those who have helped me in writing this series are: LCDR Alan R. Bedford, Sr., USNR (Ret.); Teri McLaren; Judy Goldsmith; James A. Hartley; Trisha Mundy; Diana Diaz; Joyce Coomer; Maggie Craig; Susanne Dhomhnallach; Liz Williams; and the lovely crowd at the 2005 Milford Workshop in Snowdon, Wales.
As always. many thanks to my editor, Ginjer Buchanan, and my agent, Ginger Clark.
For information about future books in this series, visit julianneardianlee.com.
www.bookviewcafe.com
Copyright & Credits
Knight's Blood
Book Two of the Tenebrae
Julianne Lee
Book View Café Edition April 2, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-61138-254-9
Copyright © 2013 Julianne Lee
First published: Ace Books, 2007
Cover photograph: Nejron, Dreamstime
Cover design by Dave Smeds
v20130331vnm
www.bookviewcafe.com
About the Author
At twelve I began to write for fun, which I think is the only real reason to write fiction. Daydreaming with a purpose, and gradually I realized I could gain approval for the very thing teachers used to criticize me for in class. When I was thirty I decided to write for money and bought a copy of Writer´s Digest.
Twelve years, twelve completed novel manuscripts, and eight proposals for uncompleted novels after buying that Writer´s Digest, I sold a novel. Son of the Sword was my thirteenth completed manuscript. Lucky thirteen. Since then Berkley has published two time travel series set in historical Scotland, and two straight historicals set in Tudor England. I also write historical mysteries set in Restoration London, under the pseudonym Anne Rutherford.
About Book View Café
Book View Café is a professional authors’ publishing cooperative offering DRM-free ebooks in multiple formats to readers around the world. With authors in a variety of genres including mystery, romance, fantasy, and science fiction, Book View Café has something for everyone.
Book View Café is good for readers because you can enjoy high-quality DRM-free ebooks from your favorite authors at a reasonable price.
Book View Café is good for writers because 95% of the profit goes directly to the book’s author.
Book View Café authors include New York Times and USA Today bestsellers, Nebula, Hugo, and Philip K. Dick Award winners, World Fantasy and Rita Award nominees, and winners and nominees of many other publishing awards.
www.bookviewcafe.com
Sample Chapter: Knight Tenebrae, Book One of the Tenebrae
Available at most online booksellers.
Prologue
One last dive, just to make certain. The dig was finished, the equipment returned to the ship along with the find and he figured there wouldn’t be anything more, but needed one more dive just to make sure. The expedition had been so fruitful, and so many intact objects found in the silt at the bottom of the firth, he couldn’t pack up and leave without taking a last look around for a missed filleting knife or clothing buckle. So while his crew began preparations to return to port he slipped over the side and angled gently down into the dimness of the water.
The Firth of Clyde was a wonderfully complex place, wide and fed by many rivers. It connected with the Sound of Bute, off the Kilbrannan Sound, and was guarded by islands all about, leaving it clear in some places and impossible in others. That the boat had been found at all had been a miracle. And thank God they had been the ones to locate it. He smiled to himself as he thought of the many trinkets and artifacts his crew had recovered from the fishing boat sunk here centuries ago, not to mention the intact hull of the boat itself. Silt from the river had covered and preserved the hull from complete destruction. Much study would be made of the boat structure and everyday items found here by the river mouth. It had been an incredible find, and his career could he made by it. Would be made. The bright future before him now was nearly blinding, and a smile formed around his mouthpiece.
At the bottom of the shifting water not far from shore, shallow enough to see without artificial light, he began sifting through the loose bottom at the spot where the boat had been. Carefully and slowly, to minimize the inevitable clouding, he felt his way here and there among the rocks and mud already disturbed by the raising of the ancient boat. His regulator blowing bubbles in steady rhythm, and his heart keeping time with the breathing, he went methodically, left to right, then backward, right to left, his hands obscured beneath the swirling mud.
Then he frowned. There was something under here. Not rock, for it was too smooth and even. Unnatural. And there shouldn’t be rock here in any case; there should be only more silt. He moved a hand slowly over it, and found the thing to be curved. Not curved like a river rock, nor like a stream bed with dips and channels worn away by running water, but perfect. A perfect long, smooth, convex curve. Another boat hull? Excitement surged through him. Another, older boat? It wasn’t unheard of. A spot risky to navigate was likely to claim more than one craft. One hand dug, dislodging hardened silt to widen the exposure of the surface beneath, and amid the clouding he caught a glimpse of writing.
Writing? A dark-on-dark character came into sight for an instant, then was gone. Like a capital L. But it was once again beneath the silt, and he wasn’t certain it had not been his imagination.
He pulled his hand back and looked, but the cloudiness obscured. As he waited for it all to settle and be carried off with the current, he listened to his own breathing and tried to keep from gulping his air while a queer, panicky feeling rose. He backed off, flippers waving lazily and hands spread for balance, and he hovered in the dim, rippled light from the surface. The hole he’d made in the silt cleared, and the L was still there, accompanied by a lowercase t. Slowly the topography of the area before him came into view. He backed off some more, and what he saw made his heart pound in his ears. A line this way, a curve over there, and the thing popped into his vision like an item in a “What’s wrong with this picture?” puzzle. His mind raced, unable to completely grasp what his eyes told him he must be seeing. It was huge. And impossible.
For the shape he saw under the silt here in the Firth of Clyde, directly beneath the spot where a Scottish fishing boat had lain undisturbed and mostly intact for more than five centuries, was, unless he missed his guess, that of a modern military fighter jet, and he was hovering over the cockpit.
Chapter One
“Good morning, ma’am. I’m Lieutenant Alexander MacNeil. I’m told you wish to speak to me.” Alex stood nearly at attention, conscious of the appraising look from the young woman before him. She stood from the wardroom table to greet him with a gentle smile and an outstretched hand.
“Lieutenant. Thank you for seeing me.” Her voice was low, but soft, lurking beneath the tinny sounds of silverware and crockery about the room. She shook his hand, and they sat opposite each other at the Formica-covered table. She was English, and pronounced his rank “leftenant,” a habit he found less than enchanting. She was a newspaper reporter, and he was there to give an interview that already was making him uncomfortable, for she was staring at his eyes. He shut them against the intrusion. Women thought his green eyes “mesmerizing,” and they always stared. When he opened them again, she was busy with her notebook as if she hadn’t been staring
at all.
Another reason he wasn’t sanguine about this conversation was that saying the wrong thing in print would backlash in ways he couldn’t possibly predict. The guys who had encountered her about the ship during her stay on board said she was a pretty weird chick, and Alex didn’t figure he wanted to field any weirdness from her while he was speaking on the record.
However, on sight of her he began to think perhaps the risk might be worthwhile, for she was pretty in a tall, dark, angular sort of way. Extremely easy on the eyes, and soft in all the right places. He guessed he could stand to talk to her for a few minutes, particularly since he was under orders to do so.
She took a deep breath and began. “My name is Lindsay Pawlowski. I imagine your captain told you why I’m here.”
“My information is you’re writing a fluff piece and want to talk to a pilot about what it’s like to fly a fighter jet.” She’d been on the ship since it left port in Virginia, and they were now just past the Azores on their way to the Mediterranean.
A bemused smile touched her lips and irritation slipped into her voice. “Well, actually, we have our own jet fighters in the Royal Navy, not to mention the RAF, and so we don’t really need to annoy you Americans with that sort of thing. Also, it’s hardly a fluff piece. Unless, of course, you in the American navy consider yourselves exceptionally fluffy compared to the RAF.”
