The Dark One: Dark Knight (3 page)

     Gaston emerged from his train of thought. 
“Half a day,” he replied. “We should be there come nightfall.”

     Sir Arik Helgeson, as blond and blue-eyed
as Gaston was dark, nodded with satisfaction.  “I am anxious to see this place.
It promises to be as mighty as Camelot.”

     Gaston and Arik rode alone at the front of
a six hundred-man column. They had sent three scouts ahead two days ago and
were growing impatient, as the men were slow to return.  They were hungry for
news of the area, the climate of the people who were so recently defeated by
the Tudor.  Gaston had his soldiers marching with blades in hand and his
knights were riding with their shields slung over their left knees, ready for
any unexpected action. They were, after all, in enemy territory.

     “Lord Stoneley modeled Mt. Holyoak after
Roman defenses,” Arik mumbled, fussing with the latch on his heavy helmet.  Of
the latest style, it was still new and uncomfortable. “The man was damn proud
of the place, even if he was an idiot.  He shall not be pleased to learn of
your possession.”

     Gaston tightened the reins on his destrier,
feeling the animal tensing beneath him. “Stoneley is one of the more repulsive
men I have ever come across and is exactly where he belongs, in the tower. I
wonder where those goddamn scouts are.”

     Arik shrugged.  “Who knows?  Probably
having their fill of inns and wenches.”

     Gaston grunted dangerously. “If they are,
then they will lose what is most dear to them and I can promise they will have
no need for wenches anymore.”

     Arik laughed softly.  Gaston did not.  He
was serious. Several feet behind them rode Gaston’s knight corps; all
thirty-five of them.  Even though they were trusted, seasoned knights, they
were not allowed to ride with their liege.  Even Gaston’s two cousins, one of
whom had seen eight years of service with him, were not allowed to ride with
him. Only Sir Arik, descended from Vikings, was allowed the privilege.

     Gaston was very careful with the manner in
which he treated his men. He would fight with them, counsel them, respect them,
but he would not eat with them and rarely socialized.  He believed that his
distance and cool demeanor forced the men to continually strive for perfection;
if he were to be too chummy or warm, they might become lazy or complacent in
the knowledge that they had the Dark One’s approval.

     He was not beyond a word of encouragement
and his men had his undivided attention in a war conference, but he was not
their friend.  He was their liege, and he was a firm believer in maintaining
the distance.  Through the entire campaign with Henry his philosophy had not
failed him and his men were the best trained in all of England.

     Arik rode alongside his liege, enjoying the
countryside.  He was as fine a warrior as had ever brandished a sword.  He had
the good fortune of having squired with the Dark Knight and the two had become
fast friends at the very young age of eight. Gaston had one other friend,
Matthew Wellesbourne, but Matthew and Arik were the only men he had ever
allowed himself to get close to. Even his cousins, Patrick and Nicolas, were
not truly his friends.  They were his cousins and entitled as such to the
privileges thereof, but he would not allow himself to become deeply involved
with them. Only Patrick, his eldest cousin at twenty-nine, came remotely close
to being a friend.

     There was another young knight, a close
friend of Patrick’s that endeared himself to Gaston once by blocking an arrow
meant for his liege.  The young Italian reminded Gaston of the Roman statues in
Bath, superbly muscled and leanly beautiful.  The women went mad for Sir Antonius
Flavius and Gaston could see why; he was probably the most beautiful man he had
ever seen, in the masculine sense of the word, and had a heart like a lion.
Gaston could hold intelligent conversations with Antonius, but he would never
talk about himself to the young knight.  To speak of himself would be entirely
too personal.

     The column of soldiers passed through the
fertile lands of Yorkshire, through the towns of Sheffield and Leeds. The lands
were softly rolling, extremely lush, and Gaston was quite fond of the
landscape.  Even when he had been fighting in it, he liked it.

     “What is the name of the town  to the west
of Mt. Holyoak?” Arik cut into his thoughts.

     “Boroughbridge,” Gaston answered.  “Mt.
Holyoak is a mere four miles to the east in the Vale of York.”

     “Good,” Arik grunted.  “The sooner we
establish our presence in Yorkshire, the better.  Moving in the open makes me
feel vulnerable.”

     Gaston glanced around, the gentle hills and
clusters of trees. “This delightful topography makes you vulnerable?  Arik, you
twitter like a jittery old woman. There is nothing in those trees but birds.”

     Arik snorted in disagreement but said
nothing.  He would still be glad when they reached the protective structure of
the fortress.

Eventually, the
structure of Mt. Holyoke was sighted on the horizon. It was a massive
fortressed perched atop a rocky and slender hill, but it was different from the
usual fortresses with miles of curtain walls and a keep somewhere in the middle
of it. Mt. Holyoak was surrounded by the curtain wall, that was true, but the
keep embraced within its innards was so large it looked as if it took up most
of the interior space of the castle. More than that, the dark gray structure
rose at least four stories, the turrets in the corners soaring at least six or
more.  Other than the White Tower, Gaston had never seen such a large keep. In
fact, he was fairly awed by it. It was the biggest thing he had ever seen. He
stared at the sight in disbelief before flipping up the visor of his helm so he
could get a better look. Next to him, Arik let out a hissing sigh.

     “My God.” he breathed.  “Have you ever seen
such a sight?” 

     “Never,” Gaston concurred.  “Look at how
the natural slope of the hill has been sheared off to make it impossible to
scale.  It must be a hundred foot drop from the top of the wall to the moat
below.”

     Arik stared at it a moment longer, a slow
smile spreading across his lips.  “I like it.” he declared. “By damn, I like
it.”

     Since the column was halted, Patrick and
Antonius dared to ride up next to their liege, both of them staring at the
structure.

     “I have never seen anything like it.”
Patrick said appreciatively.  “A hell of a fortress, cousin.  Congratulations.”

     Gaston put his visor down.  “Congratulate
me if, and only if, we are not put to spear as we approach the gate.  With the
drop-off on either side of the road, there would be nowhere to go but down.”

     “They must have been told of our arrival. 
Rumors abound in Yorkshire and there was no mistaking our army,” Arik said, observing
the unbelievably sheer walls.  “Yet I see no outward defenses other than the
raised drawbridge.”

     “If our scouts had returned in time, we
would have known much more about this fortress,” Gaston rumbled.  “If, and
when, those men return, I want them dispatched and scattered.”

     Arik nodded without a word.  Such orders
from the Dark Knight were not unusual.

     “Aye, now,” Gaston tightened his reins. 
“Let’s see what type of warm welcome we are to receive.”

     Arik gave him a snorting chuckle as he
lowered his own visor, telling Gaston that he was thinking the exact same
thing.  This fortress belonged to Yorkist loyalists and Gaston wondered if he
were going to have to lay siege in order to claim what Henry had granted him.

     Looking up at the sheer walls and gouged
hillsides, he wondered if he could indeed lay a successful siege.  It took him
all of two seconds to realize he would have Mt. Holyoak.  He
had
to have
Mt. Holyoak.  It was the only fortress in all of England worthy of him.

CHAPTER THREE

     Mt. Holyoak was ready for their invaders.
The army had been sighted a half-hour before, affording the occupants time to
congregate in the outer bailey to greet their conquerors. A blanket of
melancholy covered the old and young alike, each scared of his individual fate
at the hands of the man they called the Dark One. Surely Satan himself was upon
them, and it was not even an uncommon sight to see old women cross themselves.

     The old men-at-arms gathered in
semi-straight rows, awaiting their new liege and wondering if they would live
to see the sun rise. All of the household servants were huddled together,
whispering in urgent tones as they listened to the soldier on the wall give
them a description of events as they unfolded. 

Tensions were high,
fears higher, and the sky above threatened rain of mighty proportions.  Chill
winds whipped through the baileys, blowing them all about and more than one
person wondered if the Dark One himself had conjured the wind.

     Remington was still in the castle, gazing
from a high lancet window at the army below. It had only been two days since
Charles had returned with word of the Dark Knight’s approach and she felt
grossly under prepared, but there was naught to do now but welcome the new lord
of the keep.

     Honestly, she had felt no fear or
apprehension until this very moment when she looked out over her beloved
landscape and saw a hoard of troops approaching, more soldiers than she had
ever seen.  When they reached the bottom of the hill, the army came to a halt
and several men broke off from the group and started up the incline.  As the
men rose higher along the road, so did Remington’s anxiety.

     Over the years of living with daily fear,
she had learned to bank her emotions well.  Sweaty palms were the only outward
indication of her inner turmoil and she turned for her mirror once more to make
sure she looked presentable.  As if the Dark Knight would care, but she wanted
to look presentable nonetheless.

     She had chosen a green silk surcoat that
turned her eyes into glittering emeralds. The neckline was low across her white
skin, skimming the very edges of her shoulders as it descended down each arm
and hugged her slim torso. A belt of gold links hung at her waist and her
luscious hair was pulled back from her face, secured at the crown of her head
and creating the illusion of a fountain of hair cascading down upon her.

     Remington never considered herself
beautiful. She was not as hard on the eyes as some, she thought, but was truly
ignorant of her radiance. Guy would tell her how lovely she was, but she never
believed him.  The man was a molester and an abuser; she was positive he was a
liar, as well.

     “Remi.” Jasmine was standing in the
doorway.  “Hurry - they’re almost here.”

     Remington continued to stare from the
window at the approaching figures, the chill wind lifting tendrils of her
hair. 

“Go down and order the
drawbridge lowered, Jasmine,” she said softly. “I shall be down shortly.”

     Jasmine fled.  Remington heard her sister’s
flighty footfalls and knew she should follow, but she was fascinated with the
knights down below.  The closer they came into view, the more intrigued she was
with the knight riding in the lead.

     Even from where she was, she could see he
was twice the size of the other men around him.  And the destrier he rode was
the color of ink, as black as sin.  She swore she could see the red eyes of the
beast.  He rode the animal with the arrogant confidence of a knight, implying
untold power and strength with not so much as a word spoken.  It radiated from
him like a scent, yet it was far more heady.  She knew without being told that
the knight in the lead was the Dark Knight… the Dark One.  It could be no one
else.

     Entranced, she watched the horses as they
ascended the road.  As they neared the very top where the road ended and
dropped off into the moat, the ancient drawbridge began to lower laboriously.
She could hear the wood popping and the hinges creaking as the wheels were
turned, reversed to lower the bridge.

     Remington snapped from her train of thought,
knowing that the bridge lowering was her cue to attend to the bailey. With a
deep breath to force her courage, she quit the chamber.

     By the time she reached the bailey, the
drawbridge was almost completely down.  She stood, frozen, at the top of the steps
just outside the keep entry as the bridge slammed to a halt and the rigging was
secured.  She could see straight through the opening, straight to the Dark
Knight, who sat immobile atop his destrier at the edge of the drawbridge.  She
could see how absolutely massive the man truly was and the fear she was trying
so desperately to fight down began to gain speed. Her breathing quickened and
her heart began to race, but there was nothing more she could do other than
face the fear that was fighting to overwhelm her.

     The Dark One had come.

***

     Gaston continued to sit at the edge of the
drawbridge, like a statue.  He was not about to enter the bailey of the massive
structure and lay himself open to ambush.  He would wait until someone from the
fortress approached him and then he would state his business.  The longer he
sat, the more he wondered if the people inside were truly daft.  Surely the
lady of the keep would come out and express herself, be it to declare her
intentions to fight to the death or simply hand over the fortress.  His
apprehension began to mount.  He hoped he would not have to kill her in front
of her people.  He was trying to accomplish a peaceful take over and murder in
the first few minutes of contact was not on his agenda.