The Darkland

THE DARKLAND

A dark and twisted Medieval Romance

By Kathryn Le Veque

Author’s Note:

This novel was written several years ago, parts of which
were lost to a faulty hard drive. The majority survived intact but I needed to
rewrite a few lost chapters.  Not a difficult task; however, I questioned even
publishing this book because in re-reading it, I discovered it to be much
darker and stranger than I had originally thought. I must have been on drugs
when I wrote it – and I don’t even do drugs!

That being said, don’t be shocked at anything you read in
this novel. It’s an out-of-the-box and out-of-my-mind dark Medieval romance.
Unconventional.  If things like sexual relationships between step-siblings (non-blood
related) and murder bother you, then don’t read the book. These things weren’t
unusual in those dark times. But if you have the guts, keep an open mind and
discover that the heart and soul of this novel is a truly passionate love story
with a hero to die for and a very happy ending.  I have a feeling that this is
one of those novels that people are either going to really love - or really
hate.  The opening scene following the prologue is probably one of the funniest
you will ever read. But after that, it gets fabulous… and strange. It is what
it is, and I make no apologies. But I do offer this warning….

Beware of The Darkland.

PROLOGUE

She had died like all
the rest.

A cowering, foolish woman
that was unable to accept the mastery of Man's strength over her fragile female
souls. Not that he enjoyed killing; in fact, were it not for Johanne, he would
not have killed at all. But these women, the dead ones, had been a threat to
her delicate composition. And he knew he had to do away with the threat at any
cost.

Johanne had wished them
away, these dead women. Wished them away so that their sweet words and gentle
caresses would no longer be known to the one she loved. A secret love, twisted
and dark, but a strong bond that grew stronger with each successive death.

He smiled as he watched
the silk-clad body sink beneath the waters of the pristine lake. It was the
third lady this year to meet such a fate. And perhaps this death would deter
other foolish women from pursuing the object of Johanne's love, thinking that
somehow a curse was attached to the man. Left alone by the throngs of adoring
admirers, Johanne was convinced the object of her desire would finally succumb
to her attentions.

His smile faded as a soft
mist began to fall. He could hear the birds in the trees, the whistle of the
breeze through the moist foliage. Another storm was on the approach that would
churn the waters of the lake and bury the body forever. And he was not sorry,
not one bit. Certainly, no one should know what he had done.

No one but God. And the
Lord would forgive, perhaps with enough penitence. As the man turned from the
lake and made his way through the damp meadow, his thoughts turned from the
dead lady to the warmth of Johanne on this wintery night. Most pleasant when
the weather grew unfriendly and the temperature dropped. Johanne, his lovely step-sister,
would warm his bed.

He simply couldn't
explain the relationship between them. The need to dominate, to consume her.
Since the moment her budding breasts had been evident, he had taken her into
his bed and convinced her that this was where she belonged - with him, a man with
whom she shared the same father. The only man who truly loved her.

Still, he was not the
man she loved.  He knew that and he didn’t care. The dead women had been
lusting for the true love of Johanne's life and he had listened night after
night as his sister cried for a man who hardly noticed her. Therefore, to ease
her pain, it had been necessary to do away with the foolish wenches. Another
control he had over a woman he was completely obsessed with.

Even so, he knew the man
of Johanne's dreams would never return her affection; a man like Kirk Connaught
would be interested in a woman with beauty and spirit, which ruled Johanne out
entirely. Her beauty was average and her spirit dark. She was sick in the mind,
his sister, and everyone knew it, especially Kirk.

The rain was falling
steadily by the time he reached his steed, tethered to an oak tree. Mounting
the beast, he made haste for Anchorsholme Castle, known throughout southern
Lancashire as The Darkland.
The House of the Death.

With good reason.

CHAPTER ONE

Lancashire, England

January, 1515 A.D.

She had seen them coming
from the distance, a hundred tiny specks against the dead winter landscape.
Three massive chargers and a host of soldiers advanced like an incoming tide,
the dust from their marching feet creating puffs of gritty haze. As the sky
above darkened ominously, so did the lady's mood.

But she was determined
to welcome the army in spite of her apprehension. After all, they were coming
for her and she could not refuse them. Whether or not she was willing to accept
her destiny was of little concern; the soldiers had come to take her, and she
would not resist. Unlike someone else she knew, with far too much defiance for
such a lovely young creature. In the face of a horde of weapon-wielding men,
the lady could only pray that the stubborn stance would not bring about the
death of her only sister.

A biting wind was
howling from the battlements by the time the soldiers entered the shabby
bailey. The lady wait patiently on the steps of the manse, watching the three
knights survey the crumbling surroundings before disbursing themselves. Two
went to secure the courtyard while the third, a massive man astride an enormous
red charger, rode in her direction. The lady could feel chest tighten with
foreboding as he drew near.

When he came within
earshot, she folded herself into a proper curtsy. "My lord." She
could hear the quaking in her voice. "I am the Lady Micheline le Bec.
Welcome to Haslingden Hall."

The knight raised his
visor, eyeing the woman in the faded blue cloak. "I am Sir Kirk Connaught,
captain of Anchorsholme Castle." His Irish brogue was thick and deep.
"I bring you greetings from your betrothed, Lord Edmund de Cleveley. As
stated in the missive sent to Haslingden three days ago, the fulfillment of
your betrothal contract came due on your eighteenth birthday, two weeks ago. Do
you acknowledge these terms, my lady?"

Micheline kept her eyes
properly averted. Even so, her apprehension was obvious. It seemed to cover her
like a blanket. "I do, my lord."

There was something in
her tone as well as her manner that went beyond the natural fear of her
destiny. Something Kirk was unable to put his finger on and he tore his gaze
away from the lady, noting his small escort had easily taken control of bailey.
In fact, he could count on both hands the number of Haslingden soldiers and
servants and he gestured to the slovenly group.

"How many will be
accompanying you, my lady?"

Micheline looked up from
the muddy ground, staring at a man the size of which she had never seen before.
He was so large he seemed to blot out the sky and the Irish brogue was both
fierce and intimidating. Everyone knew that the Irish were the ruthless sort,
and the knight before her certainly fit the mold.

"Just me," she
stammered. "And m-mayhap another."

Kirk looked at her as
she choked on her words, noting the flush to her cheeks. "Mayhap another?
You are uncertain?"

The mottle in
Micheline's cheeks deepened. In spite of the cold weather, she was beginning to
sweat.

"I-I am afraid
that...." She swallowed hard, fixing him in the eye for the first time.
And the strong glimmer in the stone-gray orbs was enough to jelly her spine.
"That is to say, my sister does not wish to come, my lord. I have spent
the better part of three days attempting to convince her, but she refuses to
see reason."

Kirk remained emotionless,
but he could see that the situation was causing the woman a good deal of
distress. No wonder he had sensed more than the usual level of anxiety in her
manner. "I see," he said. "Why does she refuse to accompany
you?"

Micheline sighed, hoping
her sister's resistance would not send the man into a rage. But, then again,
where Mara was concerned, anything was possible. "She says that she is not
the one betrothed to Lord Edmund and should not be forced to live at Anchorsholme
Castle. It is her wish to be left alone at Haslingden, in peace."

Kirk scratched beneath
his helm in thought, giving Micheline a glimpse of rich dark hair. "How
old is your sister, my lady?"

"Seventeen years,
my lord."

That seemed to draw a
reaction from Kirk. "Impossible. You are her guardian, are you not?"

Micheline nodded.
"Since our parents’ death one year ago, it has only been the two of
us."

He snorted. "Then
she cannot stay. She will come to Anchorsholme Castle as the ward of Lord Edmund."

He moved past the
trembling lady and into the threadbare foyer of Haslingden.  It was a cavernous
place, hinting at the luxury of days gone by, but now, it simply looked old and
worn.  The stench of poverty was everywhere.  As Kirk’s gaze moved over the dingy
stone walls, Micheline was on his heels.

"My lord, I beg
you, permit me to persuade her," she pleaded fearfully. "She can be
most unreasonable and... impudent. I fear she might offend you with her bold
tongue."

Kirk tucked his
gauntlets into the folds of his breastplate. His armor, heavy plate protection
of the latest style, glimmered in the dim light. "Where is she?"

Micheline was close to
tears. "Please, my lord. I beseech you...."

Kirk turned to the
woman, swiftly. "I would ask again where she is. Have faith that I can be
quite convincing when the situation requires, bold tongue or no." He
paused, realizing he sounded rather harsh from the expression on her face. His
next question was more gently delivered. "What is her name?"

Micheline twisted her hands
with anxiety, wanting to protect her sister but unwilling to disobey a man the
size of two average men combined. Fear won over and weakly, she gestured to the
stairs, a great stone bank that disappeared into the second floor.

"Her name is
Mara," she murmured. "Last door to the right. She responds better to
calm reasoning than outright violence, although the latter is acceptable if all
else fails."

Kirk cocked an eyebrow
at the strange statement. Mounting the stairs, he found himself wondering what
sort of she-cat he would be dealing with. Stubborn, young, and no doubt
spoiled. A nasty combination.

The big oak door
indicated by Micheline was firmly closed. And firmly locked. Kirk rapped his
knuckles against the panel.

"Go away!" came
the shout.

He sighed; obviously,
his assumptions had been correct. Stubborn, willful, petulant; he could deduce
everything simply by the tone of her voice.

"My name is Sir
Kirk Connaught," he announced. "I have come to escort you and the
Lady Micheline to Anchorsholme Castle. Will you come peacefully?"

There was a long pause,
and no doubt a surprised one. After a moment, the voice that had once been a
distant bellow was somehow closer. But the door remained locked.

"I am not going to Anchorsholme
Castle, Sir Kirk." The shouting voice was now sweet in tone. Disarming if
he would allow himself to think so. "I am sure my sister explained that I
wish to remain at the home of my birth. There is no reason why I need go to Anchorsholme
Castle."

"No need except for
the fact that you will be completely alone, unchaperoned, and
unprotected." Kirk leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms wearily.
It had been far too long a ride for him to spare patience to an unyielding
girl. "Does this not concern you?"

"Nay," she
said flatly. "I do not need anyone to take care of me. I am quite capable
of taking care of myself."

"I am sure that you
are. But your sister is distressed at the thought of leaving you behind. Will
you not come for her peace of mind?"

There was a stubborn
pause. "Nay." She was very close now. He guessed she was leaning
against the closed door. "Micheline will have a new husband to occupy her
time. She will soon forget her concern for me."

"I doubt
that." Kirk found himself wondering if the lady on the opposite side of
the door was as plain as her sister. Certainly, her voice was terribly
delicious and the pleasing tone alone was enough to ease his irritation.
"Lady Micheline demands you attend her. As her betrothed's captain, it is
my duty to see her wish fulfilled. Do you understand?"

There was a long, long
pause. When the voice spoke again, it sounded as if it was on the other side of
the room. "I understand perfectly. And unless you want a battle on your
hands, I suggest you forget about fulfilling my sister's wish. I am not going."

Now he knew what
Micheline had meant by acceptable violence. The young lady on the opposite side
of the door was in need of a good spanking. And when he opened the panel, he
planned to do just that.

"I am afraid that
you are," he said, his rolling Irish accent low and steady as his
irritation returned. "Unlock the door, my lady. If you do not plan on
obeying my request, then you will kindly step away from the panel as I break it
down."

He could hear her shriek
of outrage. "Break it down and I... I shall jump from the window!"

"'Tis a long way
down, lass. Opening the door would be less drastic."

Behind the closed panel,
he could hear a good deal of muttering and bumping. In truth, he had to fight
off a smile at her pluck. She was certainly feisty in the face of a violent
threat.

"Do you hear me?
Open the door or I shall break it down this instant."

More muttering, more
grunting. "I am jumping now!"

He cocked an eyebrow. He
couldn't be positive that she wasn't bluffing and he certainly did not want her
death on his hands. Standing away from the door, he raised a massive boot and
lashed out at the bolted panel. In an explosion of splinters, the door came
apart and Kirk was into the room before the wood had even settled.

He was concerned when he
discovered the room empty. Rushing for the window, he was confronted by a rope
of bed linens, secured to the heavy bed on one end and then disappearing out
the lancet opening. Puzzled, he grasped the rope as he stuck his head from the
window to see what was on the opposite end of the line.

He could make out long
dark hair and a worn surcoat perched on the ledge several feet away.  It was a
rather precarious position but she was absolutely plastered against the wall,
fingers clutching at the stone.  For someone attempting to jump, she wasn’t
doing a very good job.  

"My lady?" The
tone was droll. "What, may I ask, are you doing?"

Pressed against the
stone wall as far as she could go, the small figure refused to budge.
"Jumping!"

Kirk did grin, then.
"With a rope around your waist?"

"I did not want to
fall before I was ready!"

"I see." He
leaned lazily against the windowsill, the humor of the situation apparent.
"And when will you be ready?"

The dark head twitched.
"Soon. Sooner still if you do not go away and leave me alone."

Kirk snorted softly,
glancing to the ground below; nearly three stories up, it was a severe drop and
he could see his men gazing up with interest. In fact, the two knights that had
accompanied him, Sir Corwin Martin and Sir Niles de Worth, were directly below
and he waved weakly in response to their inquisitive expressions.

"I do not plan to
leave," he said, simply to goad her. "In fact, I have a rather good
view of the entire event. I plan to watch."

On the small ledge, the
tiny figure shifted, pressing herself even closer to the wall. "Then I
shan't jump. I shall stay here until you leave."

The rope was still in
his grasp. With a wicked grin, Kirk tugged on it, enough for her to feel it.
"Come on, lass. It's been a long time since I have seen a good
jumping."

She squealed as he
tugged. "Stop it! Stop it, I say!"

Kirk could hardly hold
back the giggles, tugging more firmly on the rope. "Do not be shy, lass.
Go ahead and jump."

She screamed and he was
forced to bite back great guffaws of laughter. "Damn you for tormenting
me, you brutish fiend!” she howled. “Stop pulling on the rope!"

He continued to tug
mischievously. "Please?"

"Nay!"

"I promise I shall
applaud loudly. I shall even throw money if it's particularly gruesome."

"Stop
pulling!"

He did, but not before
he gave the rope one final tweak. "Then come in here if you are not going
to jump, you naughty wench. How dare you taunt me with promises of blood and
pain."

The dark head shifted,
turning toward him. Kirk's smile faded when he beheld features more beautiful
than anything he had ever witnessed. Delicate, porcelain beauty with eyes of
the brightest blue. Eyes that were currently blazing with fury.

"Let go of the
rope, you beast," she hissed. "I am coming to the window and if you
had any intelligence, you would run for your life!"