Gayle Eden

• Title Page
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  

Copyright © 2008—09 Gayle Eden Reissue-2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The right of Gayle Eden to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Air Castle Books at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition

Chapter One

He had won her in combat.

Illara of Thresford was now the wife of Pagan de Chevel; a faceless Goliath of a knight whose black armor and visored helm was the only sight he presented to the world. The whispers that surrounded him put chills down her spine: he was a demon, hideously scarred, a devil in disguise, a merciless and cruel fiend…Imagining these things kept Illara huddled in her fur mantle as the wagon rumbled northward.

On a frigid morning, with the fog suspended like ghosts between the woods and rutted roads, she recalled standing in the arena beside him whilst a thousand souls from every corner of the world witnessed the ceremony. His hauntingly unfathomable voice spoke only the vows, not in French, but in Latin. Rasps from an abyss, she had thought, before she was led away and to the long wagon.

Luxuriant it may have been, padded and piled high with prizes won and goods purchased in the merchant cities—but to some it may as well have well been pulled by the Grim Reaper into Hades, instead of the six black steeds carrying her to Northumberland.

Whispers abound that she would die in the frozen north, locked no doubt in his dungeon, and ravished most horribly. Some old hag had clutched her arm, nearly dragging her off the seat as the shrouded driver headed off the Tourney grounds; “Cursed,” she had said. “You are cursed as he is, Illara of Thresford, Egypt, pah! You were no seed of Lord John, but a heathen get! A curse I say, a curse which will turn you as he is, black and wicked and soulless…”

It had been said, in all the years the Black Knight’s fame spread throughout Christendom, at Tourneys and round tables that his prowess and skill, his riches won on these fields was due to witchcraft. His very name offended.

A few claimed he was one of the royal bastards in disguise. Whatever was whispered with Pagan de Chevel’s name, it was always fearful, ominous, and sinister. Those who had seen him score at Tourneys or fight in the Holy land were afraid to murmur them too loudly when he was near—and those who claimed to see him riding through the fog in some of England’s great battles, swore he had dark magic chanted into that armor, as nothing seemed to pierce it. They claimed he did not bleed, could not.

Illara had even heard that there was no body behind rings of steel mail, armored plate, and gauntlets; that the eyes burning through that visor were the red flames of hell. Now they whispered she was the wife of that figure, of both awe and fear, and heading to her doom.

Illara was not a heathen, and she was of her father’s seed. A ward of Baron Starling since her parents had died in Egypt; her father’s overlord had brought Illara to England at age seventeen. Now at twenty and four she found herself a prize to the giant whom Starling knew would win overall at his Tourney.

Lady Starling attested that Illara was impure and not for the convent—she was considered that because of things beyond her control, a woman among the dozens the Lady Starling housed at the castle to train, a blight on English womanhood.

Her dower holding was large, lands at Thresford, the tolls, rents and mills, worth much, but even in a time when females were chattel and a woman by thirty could be wed six times over, she was without champion to claim it. There were beauties, virtuous women of idealized face, form, and humility—and there were richer and more enviable hands to be won.

Even had she been pure “English” a seasoned warrior, a shrewd politician and man of power, Baron Starling took stock of his vassals and wards, those who owed him liege, every year and cut loose dead weight, to take advantage where possible. He wed off or sent to the nunneries females who had not used their own advantage at his castle and furthered themselves. There was no question but that Illara would have been dealt with. It was fate that she had escaped being cast out this long.

Now her invisibility was at an end, and the whole of Christendom knew that Sir John of Trafford’s daughter was being fed to the black beast of Northumberland; that hell spawned wraith, Pagan de Chevel.

Cold wind chilled her face and whipped strands of hair mingling with the roan hue of her fox fur hood. Its unusual red and white color, eyed narrowly by many, so that most times, she kept it covered. Under the bulk of the long boot-length garment, her body was not chilled from the winter, but from trepidation. Such feelings were abhorrent to a woman who had silently held herself together with her own invisible armor for many years.

In her childhood, she had been fearless, taught well by her sophisticated and intelligent mother, Lady Ysoria, who was Egyptian by birth. Indulged by her father, who put her on the fastest Arab racers before she could walk. He allowed her to train with female soldiers, who went nameless and unaccounted into battle. However, it had ended with a swift stroke of fate, first her mother, gone of some cruel and suffering plague, and then her father, feverish in his battle wounds and blind, had departed the world knowing no one, a once brave and renowned knight reduced to helplessness.

Her freedoms and passions in life withered, when the Baron and his great party of lords and knights brought her “home,” to a home she had never known. Had grief and loss not stripped her of joy and hope, the slurs and abuse she had suffered at the hands of Starlings guards did the rest. Scarcely settled in her chambers there, and numb with sorrow, she had been visited by many who came to eye and verbally abuse the half heathen savage—some of the Knights had grabbed and fondled her, and brutally shamed her by holding her down and checking her virginity with their fingers.

She had been pierced so that none remained to prove it. The Lady of the castle held that she lied and was covering some tryst conducted on the journey—and the priest worst, his penance for her fornications more degrading.

Would that she had taken the wrong in silence six years ago, rather than suffer the stigma and isolation, the ostracism from her own sex, and called a blight.

Everyone knew the lies and rumors, and men told of lying with her, and said that she did things to them. There was none, not one, who would champion her. None wanted to claim her and Thresford save this mysterious Knight.

Even when she stood beside the Baron before the Tourney and heard the crier read out what had drawn Knights to the games, the prizes, she was last on the list. Anyone who claimed her hand, won her castle though he would gain the inheritance through marriage, it was the stigma of her Godlessness and lack of virtue that would remain. Unless a knight, a holier vessel and male, more believed than a woman, gave proof or evidence otherwise.

One thing the silent suffering and steel skin had given her over time was some of that fire back in her soul. Had she the chance, Illara would take up her own sword and challenged the liars. She was denied that satisfaction, but the fire had burned her numbness away. Those who spoke knew no virgin blood would flow on her wedding night. They had taken that from her.

Illara’s moss green eyes peered ahead at the dream-like mist, where trees were but silvery gray shadows behind it, and the road vanished as if traveling off the end of the world. It was not for this that the bright sun and exotic scents and sights of youth were traded. She was free in some sense, of the chains of guilt those at Starling put her to unfairly. She had tried to atone to God according to those who considered themselves holy and herself unclean, now she would deal with the devil himself if she must, to have her own life, her own soul, back.

Not even fear that all the whisperings were true could shake that promise loose in her mind. She had tamed a lion that came to their courtyard, and had hand fed a wolf in Starlings woods. The black beast of Northumberland was only a larger and rarer animal. She would find a way to defy fate and feel that freedom in the sun again.

She turned her head toward the cowled man handling the reins. “Will you master be returning to north, also?” She was wondering about that consummation night.

“The master has been behind us for twenty leagues now.”

Illara half raised, holding the corner of her hood and looking behind them. Startlingly, there was that image of the huge figure on his ebony warhorse. Mists muted him in and out, and his armor had been replaced by some thick cloak, yet there was still a black void where a face should have shown. She shivered watching a moment as massive hooves turned up ground. The destrier he sat had a silken long mane, its head bowed arrogantly. Yet it was that cloak flying out like great wings, and the sheer power of the body under it, which was most intimidating.

She turned back around and tucked her hand back under the fur, imagining his eyes were boring into her back, though he was some distance behind.

“We will camp at nightfall,” the squire said in his northern accents. “It will take two more days travel to reach Dunnewicke.”

“Is that a city?”

“It was—at one time, milady. The town was built around the castle. Dunnewicke on the rise overlooking it, with great wall spread out, like wings, to defend those in its shadow.”

“What happened to it?”

“A dark tale that,” he murmured. “One best saved for a warm fire.”

She tried to see his profile for his voice did not sound so very old as she had assumed. He also had a knight’s build. They were distinct because of the discipline and rigors of training. Knights were slabbed with muscle, broad of shoulder, chest, and lean of waist with powerful legs.

The squire had been cloaked in the shroud he was now, with the hood shadowing his face. He was six feet at the least, and having stood beside his master, Pagan—whom she judged to be six feet and a half.

With Pagan, it had been that black armor and the breadth of his shoulders in it, the helm, which seemed to overpower all males on the field and off, but this was a man of some power too.

“Your master, how came he to own the castle? Is it—?”

“Family, my Lady, blood,” he was abrupt, so as to cut off the subject.

She said nothing more, and at nightfall, he led the wagon off the roads to a wide clearing. It had forests at its back, the road before it. She jumped down on her own, seeking the trees for privacy.

When she returned, the horses were being led to the tree line, there were objects unloaded off the wagon. A long propped hide made a canopy over the bed. She saw rich furs rolled out which would make a bed for herself in between the goods. It would be comfortable compared to the trundle she had slept on at Starling.

Walking about to stretch her legs, Illara eyed the misty moon while the man saw about building a fire. After a while, there came a dull thudding sound that she could guess was her husband coming into the clearing. Turning, she saw him heading for the darker shadows of the woods. Since she was in the circle of camp light, now flaming, it made it more difficult to see beyond it. He dismounted and was standing by that horse.

She took steps toward the fire and asked the squire, “By what are you called?”

“Randulf, milady.”

“I am Illara.”

“I know, milady.”