Medieval Ever After (136 page)

PIRATES OF THE COAST

The Black Morass

KATHRYN LE VEQUE’S KINDLE WORLD OF DE WOLFE PACK

Lone Wolfe

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my husband Mike, because he’s definitely my one true knight.

DEMETRIUS

PROLOGUE

La Rochelle, France

The Year of Our Lord, 1302

Two road-weary
travelers, a wide-eyed young couple returning from a pilgrimage to Santiago, sought refuge behind the trunk of a large tree and clung to each other.  Given the woman was heavily pregnant, and the duo journeyed on foot, as was often the case with the poor but faithful, they could not evade the robbers, bent on thievery, who preyed on the vulnerable.  It was for that reason Templar Knight Demetrius de Blackbourne had been tasked with ensuring safe passage of worshipers en route to La Rochelle, along the old Roman road that led to Talmont, where most devotees crossed the Gironde estuary and continued down the coast to Irún.

Sworn to an austere existence and a life of service, he engaged two masked bandits intent on mayhem.  As one boothaler attempted a flanking maneuver, the other charged, and Demetrius struck down the approaching malefactor with a single vicious sweep of his sword and then lunged at the second.  As he made to sheath his weapon, a feminine shriek had him turning on a heel, just as a third assailant launched an attack against the husband.

Wielding a rudimentary battle-axe, of a sort, the assaulter crouched, as he prepared to pounce, and Demetrius had little time to react.  With both hands, he grasped the hilt and swung hard and fast.  The enemy loomed as the specter of doom, and he might have presented further peril, in light of his proximity, if not for the fact that he had no head atop his shoulders.  In a peculiar dance, the body listed in the gentle breeze for what seemed an eternity, until it collapsed in a heap on its side.

“Gramercy, good sirrah, as thou hast, no doubt, spared us from an otherwise unpleasant fate.”  The dusty gadling drew his bride from the ground.  “But I am Hamund, this is my wife Josina, and we are grateful for thy intervention on our behalf.”

“I am Demetrius, and thy thanks are unnecessary, as it is my duty.”  Demetrius dipped his chin, as he always found such praise a tad embarrassing and altogether dissonant, given he did naught more than fulfill the obligation of his oath and office.  “Now, mayhap ye should take my horse and journey to La Rochelle, and I shall walk.”

“But—what of the criminals?”  Josina frowned, as Demetrius lifted her to the saddle of his destrier.  “Art thou not afraid for thy person?”

“What have I to fear, as I am reconciled with Our Lord and Savior?”  He chuckled in the face of her naïveté.  “And I am a Templar, thus I will not fall.”

“If thou wilt convey Josina to La Rochelle, I will follow at a stiff pace.”  Hamund removed to the verge.  “Perchance thou mayest return for me, anon, Sir Demetrius.”

“No, Hamund.”  Josina appeared near tears.  “How wilt thee protect thyself, as thou hast no means of defense?  Wilt thou make me a widow?  Wilt thou orphan our babe ere it is born?”

“Cease thy arguments.”  Without ceremony, Demetrius grasped Hamund by the collar of his tunic and threw him atop the mount.  “Ride for Vauclair Castle, and summon Sir Arucard.”  With that, he slapped the flank of the horse, which bolted with its passengers.

Alone, Demetrius doffed his helm and rubbed his temples.  To his chagrin, his magnanimous gesture just earned him a long and lonely stroll to the city, and he hoped to make it to the bastion before nightfall.

After about an hour, which he surmised based on the sun’s path in the sky, he paused for a brief respite and sat on a large rock.  In that instant, he regretted not removing his leather bag filled with Adam’s ale, as the trek inspired great thirst.

“A pleasant eventide, Sir Demetrius.”  A frail old woman, gray-haired and haggard, appeared in the lane, and he started.  “Permit me to share my water with ye, as thou art parched from thy noble labors.”

“Who art thou?”  For some reason he could not explain, he reached for his sword.  “And whither didst ye come from, given we remain some distance from La Rochelle?”

“Rest easy, brave knight.”  With a toothy grin, she cackled.  “Thou hast rescued my daughter and her husband, and I would express my appreciation and discharge their debt.”

“But I am a Templar, thus I am owed naught.”  Despite his trepidation, he accepted the skin.  To his surprise, the drink was cool and refreshing, and he poured a measure on his face.  “Thank ye, dear lady.”

“It is Yordana, great one.”  She bowed.  “And thou art but a man, so I will settle the account with a shiny and delicate bauble for thy wife, and thou wilt not deny me.”  From her fitchet, she produced an extraordinary brooch such as he had never seen.  “Yet I should warn ye not to underestimate the power of the precious gem, as it holds the gift of sight.”

Marked by an Egyptian influence, the strange item, fashioned of gold in an egg-shaped design, displayed four round rubies and a large oval-cut sapphire.  Ornate craftsmanship bespoke the talents of a master goldsmith, as intricate etching of a lotus blossom and a lotus in buds adorned the unusual badge.

“It is quite beauteous, Yordana.”  Demetrius caressed the smooth edge and turned what he suspected was a rare artifact in his palm.  “But, as I am a Templar, I have taken an oath to maintain spiritual purity and chastity, thus I shall never wed.”

“Ah, but what I know of thy future portends otherwise.”  Yordana covered his hand with hers.  “Thou dost have dark days ahead, Sir Demetrius, as thou dost call friend those who would smile to thy face and sink their sword in thy back.  But fear not, as thou wilt not meet thy end on these shores.  Rather, thou wilt rise again, and a mighty legacy is thine to claim, if thou wilt but seize it.  And know thy bride-to-be is thy equal, in every measure.”  Yordana squeezed his fingers.  “Remember this, if thou dost recall anything of our meeting.  Ye lady what dons this brooch of ethereal sight shall enjoy unfettered dreams of her one true knight.”

Hoofbeats rumbled the earth beneath his feet, and he peered up the road, spied his fellow Templars, waved a greeting, and glanced at Yordana.  “The troops arrive—” To his infinite shock he discovered she had disappeared.  He glanced left and then right, but the woman was gone.

“I have word of a weary wanderer who lost his way.”  Arucard de Villiers, the Grand Prior of La Rochelle, chuckled as he reined in his mount.  “And, oh, thou art weary, brother.”

“Very funny.”  For a few minutes, he scanned the area and checked behind some dense foliage, but Yordana was nowhere to be found.  “Didst thou see an aged matron on the route?”

“Nay.”  Shifting in the saddle, Arucard arched a brow.  “Wherefore dost thou ask?”

“Oh, it is naught.”  As Demetrius collected his destrier, he noticed Hamund accompanied the knights.  “Is thy wife in fine health?”

“Aye, Sir Demetrius.”  Hamund dipped his chin.  “And I must again express my appreciation of thy service, faithfully rendered, as thou didst deliver us.”

“It is my honor.”  From his perch, as he heeled his stallion, Demetrius inquired, “Dost thou originally hail from La Rochelle, and is Josina’s family nearby?”

“Actually, Josina was born in Paris, but she has no surviving relations, as she was an only child, her father passed of a fever when she was but three, and Yordana, my bride’s mother, died six years ago.”  Hamund brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and smiled.  “We moved to this region because hither reside my parents and siblings.”

“A very sound decision.”  For a scarce second, Demetrius pondered surrendering the peculiar brooch, but how could he explain the means by which it came into his possession?

Studying the intriguing piece of jewelry, Yordana’s words echoed in his ears:
Ye lady what dons this brooch of ethereal sight shall enjoy unfettered dreams of her one true knight.
  As his position precluded the possibility of romance, and he preferred the singular status, it seemed sad to waste such splendor.  Yet the brooch would languish in his keep, because Demetrius would never wed.

DEMETRIUS

CHAPTER ONE

The Year of Our Lord, 1313

The cold November
wind blew in from the Thames, and Demetrius hunkered beneath a blanket, as he sheltered in his small tent.  Tossing and turning, sleep did not come for him, even though he was tired after a sennight and three days on the road.  Mayhap it was the purpose of his journey that rendered him restless and unable to relax.

It was only last month that he received the King’s command to wed, and Demetrius dreaded the task.  As a former Templar knight, he had been born to a life of devotion and service, and unlike his brothers in arms he preferred the simple existence.  But his once illustrious order was no more, and he had sold his soul to England, in exchange for a new ailette, which bore the wind-star design of the Brethren of the Coast, a fledgling band of warriors sworn to protect the Crown.

The position suited him, as it seemed so similar to his previous existence—until the opposite sex entered the picture.  Was it not enough that Arucard took a wife?  And Demetrius had no complaints regarding Lady Isolde, as she was a fine woman, but he simply had no need of such a creature.

His stomach growled, and he rolled to his side.  Hungry, he peered at the tiny brazier, which he used whenever he traveled, and stared at the orange glow of embers.  A loud rumble pierced the quiet, and he tossed aside the covers and foraged for his bag of brewets, his favorite fare, which Isolde had cooked prior to his departure from Chichester Castle.  He suspected it was a consolation gift to ease the sting of his impending nuptials.