Blackheart

Blackheart

Raelle Logan

Excerpt from Blackheart

Long in nightfall, the captain stumbled off the helm to his cabin. Lochlanaire found Siren huddling in the corner of his bed. Her jumpy raven eyes knifed his while he swerved to his wine decanter, uncorked the vessel, and greedily guzzled, ignoring his eviscerating slave.

Siren had watched the door to her newest cage open and she recoiled, rebuking her captor’s every move, a feral, skittish cat. Once he cast the emptied decanter onto the desk and wandered to her, she scurried for the bed’s farthest end. Lochlanaire throttled her right hand, the chain clattering, and forced it outward. Siren fought. His biting grip never wavered, and as her infuriated eyes brushed his healing scarred wrists that irons once trussed, Lochlanaire tore the ruby signet ring off her finger, and rushed to the rain drenched window.

Siren shivered, crouching in the corner, arms wrapped around her legs and stared at him.

“Why?”

Lochlanaire slipped the ring that belonged to King James II to his pinky and searched the darkened waves that dove. Dully he spoke, “Who are you, Siren Rain?”

“You kidnapped me. You should know who I am,” she reprimanded.

Lochlanaire huffed. “Why did Zore accost you?”

“Zore? Who is Zore?”

“Zore is the blackguard captain that cuffed you prisoner aboard the bloody Vengeance.”

Blackheart

A Books to Go Now Publication

Copyright © Raelle Logan 2016

Books to Go Now

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First eBook Edition  May 2016

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

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CHAPTER ONE

Lochlanaire

Dungeons of Heathgate Castle near London, England, 1694

“Evil’s cast ye here. Hell has spat ye out. Heaven will not weather ye, prisoner shall ye be. Crazy, crazy, were Satan’s whispers, hang, hang, hang ye, dead, dead, dead ye be…” an insane voice tolled, this song echoing among drippy labyrinths while torches sparsely lit musty cages of the dungeon prison. Inside one blackened cell, a raggedly dressed man appeared mysteriously marooned as no other, a lion starved for freedom. His bare feet trod the dirt floor, the stench of excrement gagged when he walked near rats that scurried to avoid slop pots and his footfalls. Cage doors screeched on rusted hinges once those condemned lost their bid for liberty and were escorted to be hanged, beheaded or further tortured as spies from lands no longer allied with England. Most prisoners succumbed to starvation long ere their trials were ever heard, these skeletal beasts encumbered by fits of madness. Others died of oozing gashes garnered in squabbles among the damned, or from disease acquired by being exposed to the filth they lived amid, freeing crowded cells for those recently doomed.

The man prowling the farthest cage grumbled, hearing the death knell chant resonate anew. At his barred door, a barrel-chested, scarred-faced guard struck a key in the lock. Fearing reprisal for tortures unjustly inflicted, the guard tossed toward the
prisoner two manacles clasped to a chain. The guard motioned his pistol for the prisoner to click them ‘round his bloodied wrists. The felon dragged the chain along the ground. He shackled himself. The guard shoved the gate inward, gathered the chain dangling between the prisoner’s hands and yanked him forward. Along their route amidst the dungeon, those condemned cheered, bruised arms and cut hands waving at every stride the guard and his prisoner took, winding to crumbly stone stairs.

At the stairs’ landing, light scalded the captive’s eyes. He lifted dirty fingers and shielded his gaze. The chain rattled.

“You, Lochlanaire Blackheart, have been awarded an audience with his majesty, King William. Do you accept this decree, or surrender your life this moment?” uttered a voice spoken by a hazy apparition.

Lochlanaire Blackheart was unable to focus, blinking, “If I refuse the King’s audience is my death hanging, beheading or the ax?”

“Hanging,” announced the constable.

“I accept the audience,” Lochlanaire pronounced, his voice raspy.

“A reprieve of death is granted.” The constable spoke to the guard, “Escort the prisoner to the bath, scrub him down and prepare him for the King. Oh, and, Cumberland, no bruises or cuts. I want the prisoner in fair condition, not half dead.” The constable strode away, still a brilliantly lit vision, as if an angel pitched from Hell.

“Aye, my lord,” chirped the disappointed guard. He shoved the pistol into Lochlanaire’s side. “Get movin’, hero.”

Entering a scantily furnished bedchamber, Lochlanaire’s guard tossed to him the key to the shackles and ordered him to unlock them himself. The guard gathered the chain and backed to the door. The lock clicked and Lochlanaire was left alone. He wandered across the room to an elongated bathtub filled with barely warm water, linen clothing about his size was held by a nail near a burnt hearth that presented no warming fire, boots waited in attendance. He ripped his clothing from his body and discarded the rags. A twinkling looking glass graced the window, gilded by the sun. Lochlanaire approached. The mirror reflected the eyes of a stranger; his left was lightning gray, the right mystical black. Memories should flash, perhaps a loving family, seductive loves lost, or riding conquests taken, but there were no hints of these dreams. He did not even remember his age. Who was he? His name is Lochlanaire Blackheart. The only reason he knew it was because the guard shouted it whenever whipping him bloody. He noted the blisters and oozing blood that dotted his wrists. Shuddery fingers wound into his knotted ebony hair. His thick beard was caked with dirt since he had not shaved or washed in…
when had he bathed last
?
What day is it, what year?
His image rejected, Lochlanaire approached the bathtub. He grabbed the lavender soap provided and dipped first one foot and then the other into chilling water -- how glorious it felt to soak the filth from his achy muscles and treacherously flogged body. Heaven couldn’t be sweeter.

Once he’d dried himself with the linen cloth provided, the bedchamber was swollen by a litany of chatter. Three men darted throughout, one untangled Lochlanaire’s wet hair, cutting it to below shoulder length, another man shaved his beard and mustache, the cheekbones of Lochlanaire’s face prominent, his flesh chiseled. The third attendant conducted the symphony and assisted Lochlanaire in dressing as a nobleman’s valet. Food was brought…a feast fit for a prince. Lochlanaire stared at it as if it could be his last meal. Allowed to eat finally, Lochlanaire chomped on succulent roast duck, steamy Shepherd’s pie and endless goblets of wine. His meal ended, the third attendant inspected the prisoner and eased from a hidden recess a full-length looking glass. Lochlanaire’s broad lips parted and he considered his reflection. No scars sullied his face, although a dimple dipped mid chin. His distinctly different colored eyes sparkled with life; his too slender body was still muscled. His shirt, the finest silk and sable in color, spread over Lochlanaire’s chest, the conductor deciding linen wouldn’t do and breeches of similar sable brushed his legs that he’d honed by constantly pacing the cage. Polished black boots cuffed below his knee. Lochlanaire was ushered through the castle by sentries to a stately carriage of which waited in the courtyard. The guard strangled the pistol at coach step.

Lochlanaire paused. The sun’s precious rays wrenched his soul to life. He quickly breathed the undefiled air, terrified this could be just a cruel dream. Heavenly. Lochlanaire skirted inside the carriage and glowered at the guard who sat across from him, wishing to jerk the pistol from his fist and shoot him. Lochlanaire glanced upon the dust-spattered window, instead. The carriage heaved and began its journey.

Eventually, the coach swept between another palace’s enormous gates and stilled at a silver stone entrance, which bordered the fortress’ rear. The coachman opened the carriage door for the guard and his prisoner to exit. The sentry and Lochlanaire were chaperoned to a lengthy chamber bearing numerous chairs, which lined two mirrored, gold-gilded walls, a heavily carved throne waited forefront. The remainder of the room appeared to be vacant. The magnificent door slammed and was locked with his guards’ exodus. Lochlanaire found himself left in seclusion.

“I imagine you’re curious regarding why you’ve been beckoned. Such will be addressed. First, a conquest,” boomed a disembodied voice.

Lochlanaire heard rustling behind him. A sword cut the air. He turned and caught the blade’s hilt. He instinctively braced for war.

A man somersaulted across the chamber. The blond-haired assailant dropped feet in front of his opponent, slashing his sword against Lochlanaire’s.

Bravely Lochlanaire fought and forced his attacker to back off. He circled his weakened prey. The two battled afresh.

“It is sufficient, Jeremiah,” resonated the voice.

Jeremiah plucked his sword heavenward and suspended the duel.

Lochlanaire’s stare dared his foe, his blade poised, should his adversary attack again.

“Dismissed, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah bowed to Lochlanaire and ended the battle, for his blade stabbed the buckled scabbard lying along his hip. He retreated into where he came.

Lochlanaire was bewildered by what just occurred.

The proprietor of the voice revealed his presence. He stepped from behind concealing curtains, attired in a royal red robe sewn with gold edging, satiny breeches of white and a similar shirt, all crested in gold glimmered his body, ruffles tickled his throat, he advanced on the throne chair -- sweeping the robe aside, he sat. He brushed the curly locks of his chestnut wig and observed the man standing at attention; no smile touched pursed lips, his plump face remained unflinching.

Lochlanaire bowed in submission to his king, trusting that should he not, he’d be killed for his treason. How did he know this?

King William’s jeweled hand urged him to the throne. “The duel was intended as a conquest to see if your skills are no longer honed for my intentions. Your lengthy confinement suggested failure of those attributes.”

Lochlanaire halted on gold-carpeted stairs, his left leg forward cocked. “What skills, Sire?”

King William nodded, diamond studded crown bobbing. “I have heard that you’ve suffered memory loss of some manner. I see it is true. Such, however, appears to have not afflicted your fighting skills.”

“My memory, Sire, is almost nonexistent. I am acquainted with my name only for the guard has shouted it while slashing the flesh from my back,” Lochlanaire chided.

“A pity. I remind then…yes; your name is Lochlanaire Blackheart. You are the monarch’s huntsman for whichever king, or queen, holds sovereignty at the time, this year being 1694. You were falsely jailed, an injustice, I fear, which may burden your memory in future. If not, no matter. The reason you are in audience, is I have a task for you to achieve, one which could command your proficiency in the art of conflict. I require the aid of the assassin that runs in your savage blood. No other soldier will do. Your accomplishments are substantial...your kills are countless. You are known as a slayer without a care, no matter the fiend, innocent or guilty. Am I understood?”

“It is said, Sire, that I am insane. Is this trivial to you?” Lochlanaire paced beside the stairs, the sword still clasped in his fist. Only an imbecile would permit a beast to possess a sword in his kingly presence.

King William sneered. “The sword lying in your hand has not been risen against me, which implies, Blackheart, that your sanity is not so impaired or you would have struck me before now.”

Baring straight teeth, Lochlanaire chortled. “Or, I’m not so vain as to trust that you’ve no sentries surveying my every footstep. Am I wrong, Your Highness?”

“We stand at an impasse. My point is, Blackheart, your skills emerge instinctively and thereby persuade my decree.”

“What decree?” Lochlanaire inquired.

“You are a commissioned Privateer for the Crown. A ship under your command,
Captain
Blackheart, sails the Thames this night. Your crew has been prepared for departure at your word. You journey to America, forthwith. There you hunt a maid.”

Lochlanaire appeared startled. He was released from prison, granted an audience with the King of England, his fighting skills soon after contested all so he could journey in search of a
woman
? “My prey is a female?”

“Indeed. My wife, Mary, passed into death recently. The hunted lass is my wife’s half-sister. She’s the daughter of banished King James II. Understand, Captain Blackheart, there is not
supposed
to be a
third
daughter of King James II. She is the offspring spawned in an affair kept guarded. She’s unknown to everyone except a distinct few. I insist that she remain such.”

Lochlanaire paused. “You desire for me to
murder
your wife’s half-sister?”

King William laughed. “Not unless you must. I request that she be brought to me.
I
shall decide her fate.”

Sinister. Lochlanaire couldn’t think of any reason for this woman to be hunted other than for the purpose of having her slain, for she threatened the throne, perhaps she might one day lay siege over this kingdom. “What reward am I to receive for enslaving this woman in your guardianship, Sire?”

“The murder charge sworn against you will never be reinstated. Freedom, Blackheart, I think, is substantial reward for the quest. Furthermore, you’ll continue as privateer of your own fleet. Three vessels are yours for which to strike any ship not allied with England, the bounties shall be split between yourself, your ships and the Crown. You’ll never be tried for any deaths wrought in the fray of battle. Prey on the seas, you’ve free reign.
And
you will be highly compensated for any assassinations considered necessary in the future by this kingdom. Agreed?”

Lochlanaire’s eyebrow flicked. “I am a seafarer. Such explains the dreams and flashes of memory I have had regarding such an existence.”

“Yes. You were a pirate.”

“My stature improves meagerly, Your Majesty. Perhaps a title and manor are in order so to soothe false imprisonment?”

The king huffed at Lochlanaire’s audacity in requesting further compensation. “The title Marquis of Braighton is yours, Captain Blackheart, a manor will be obtained in the future. Under the fulfillment of our agreement and the signing of a treaty, said manor is yours for residence, along with funds for which to continue its preservation.” He withdrew the rolled parchment, which was shadowed beside him and tossed it to Lochlanaire.

“Agreed.” Lochlanaire questioned, “Shipboard journeys, I envision, are burdened by disaster. What if the woman dies en route of sickness or accident?”

“Bring me the body.”

Nodding, Lochlanaire replied, “And if she’s swept over the ship’s rim, lost to Poseidon in a gale?” Where did the words
gale
and
Poseidon
come from?

“The lady possesses a ring, upon capturing her, seize it. The jewel is King James II’s gold and ruby signet. A paltry painting of the ring and the woman are tucked within the decree.”

Lochlanaire cracked the king’s seal and unrolled the proclamation. Everything seemed orderly. Pensive, he unrolled the portrait of the woman. His unsuspecting prey rivaled the goddesses. Her innocent raven eyes enraptured with sultry black lashes. Flesh flawless, her pronounced cheekbones were high, a slender nose with a delicate ball on the end, ruby lips begged to be kissed and a profusion of wavy black tresses haloed her oval face, cascading creamy shoulders. She’s beyond any beauty he’d ever seen, or he assumed, having no memory of any woman. This portrait merely that, what a glorious seductress she must appear in actuality. “She’s gorgeous,” Lochlanaire muttered.