CHAPTER ONE
Year of our Lord 1486 A.D.
Mt. Holyoak Castle, the month of July
Yorkshire, England
The mid-summer sun beat down on the earth with unmerciful force. Indeed, summers in the north central of England could be hot, but this heat was unseemly. If it was human or animal, it was sweating and complaining, and if it were anything else, it was wilting and dying.
But the heat of the summer was the last thing on Remington’s mind. Crystal sea-colored eyes, so pale and clear they were nearly unnatural, gazed from the window of her second story bower, fixed on the road that led from the keep and disappeared on the horizon. Oleg had said a rider was approaching, and she waited with more patience than she felt for the rider to show himself. She prayed with a desperate fervor that it wasn’t her husband.
Sir Guy Stoneley was captured at the conclusion of the battle of Stoke by none other than Henry Tudor himself. Loyalists to Richard III had made a valiant attempt to gain sway the country back into control of Yorkists, planning to set the Earl of Warwick upon the throne, but Henry and his army proved too powerful. The defeat had been overwhelming.
Her husband and other rebels were commandeered by the Tudor and hauled away to London. Last she heard, her husband was locked up in the White Tower. Remington prayed that he would never again see the light of day.
“They would not release him, would they?” came a faint feminine voice. “He is an enemy of the crown.”
Remington tore her eyes away from the window long enough to glance at her sixteen-year-old sister. “Nay, Rory. He’s not been released. The rider is someone else.”
“But who, then?” Rory demanded, her wildly curly red hair shaking.
Remington shook her head, her eyes once again trailing to the window. “I do not know, sweetheart. We shall have to wait and see.”
Rory let out an impatient sigh and stomped about the room nervously. When Sir Guy had left to fight, he had taken the majority of his men with him. The only men remaining behind at Mt. Holyoak were the old and the very young, and a skeleton troop of 20 men. Hardly enough against Henry and his army, but Sir Guy had been confident that the Yorkists would defeat the usurper Welsh bastard within weeks, months at most. He furthermore believed there was no possible way Henry would progress to the heart of Yorkshire, where his fortress was nestled in the Vale of York. Therefore, he took his entire complement of men and left Mt. Holyoak to the mercy of God.
The result was a massive fortress left virtually unable to defend itself, especially now that it was considered an enemy’s holding.
Remington shook her head sadly; never in her life did she imagine that she would actually be considered an enemy of the crown, a traitor in her own country, and she had her bastard husband to thank for it.
A slight blond figure breezed into the bower, tiny and feminine. Remington’s youngest sister, Skye, stood next to her oldest sister and gazed out of the window alongside.
“It’s not him, is it?” she asked with as much courage as a thirteen-year-old girl could muster.
Remington’s eyes blazed as she turned to her baby sister. “No Skye, it is not,” she glanced at Rory, pacing the floor. “And even if it is, I swear to you that he will not touch you. I swear with God as my witness.”
Rory stopped pacing. “You cannot stop him, Remi,” she said. Rory had tried, God only knew she had. She was tough and strong for a girl, and could fight as well as some men. But when Sir Guy had forced himself upon her, again and again, she fought him every time but had ended up knocked silly while he assaulted her. And Remington…her sister, her attacker’s wife, had borne worse treatment and wounds than Rory cared to think of. Every time she thought of her sweet sister at the hands of her fiendish husband, it made her blood boil.
Remington swallowed hard, knowing that Rory had not said the words to seem cruel. It was simply a fact. Sir Guy did as he wished with his wife and her three younger sisters and there was naught anyone could do to stop him. Even his men had looked the other way when he raped eleven-year-old Skye.
“I…. I would wager to say that the rider could be Charles,” Remington said hopefully after a moment. “He rode to gather news only a few days ago. Mayhap it is him.”
“If it is, then he has returned quickly,” Rory commented.
Remington silently agreed with her sister, bringing about the original question of the rider’s identity. With a worried hand, she stroked Skye’s silky blond hair and moved away from the window.
With everything her husband had done to her sisters, the younger girls had not lost their fighting spirit. They were a handful, the two of them, too much for their aged father. The man had died three years ago of an ailing heart and never once had the strength to deal with his high-spirited daughters. The destitute baron had married off his eldest to his neighbor in exchange for the man’s protection, knowing the man was of questionable character but delivering him Remington, anyway. He knew his daughter suffered with the disgusting man, but he chose to ignore the fact. He had done what he had had to do, and moreover, there was naught he could do about the situation as it was. Remington was Sir Guy’s wife, and no longer his daughter. Remington had always hated him for overlooking her plight.
When Jasmine, Rory and Skye had come to live with her after her father’s death, Sir Guy had taken fiendish delight in raping the girls and treating them like chattel. Rory and Skye were tough and survived with their minds intact, as youngsters often do; yet Jasmine, now at the threshold age of twenty years, considered her life ruined. The younger two spent their days doing normal things young adults do, and playing evil tricks on Sir Guy’s young cousin, Charles, whereas Jasmine was a generally sullen girl and spent a good deal of her time alone, terrified of the moments when the baron would come to call on her.
Charles Stoneley was Skye’s age, a sweet and quiet boy. How on earth he was related to the deviant knight was a question for the gods, because he was nothing like Sir Guy. Too young to fight in the War of the Roses, he stayed behind, as laird of the keep and Remington loved the lad with all her heart.
“It’s Charles, Mummy,” the boy said, his eyes wide. “Why is he back so soon?”
Remington’s heart softened at the sight of her seven-year-old son. His beautiful sandy-blond hair was tousled, as usual, and his eyes were alive with apprehension. Eyes the color of his mother’s. “I do not know, Dane. But I intend to find out.”
Jasmine did not say a word, looking at her eldest sister for decisions and comfort. At twenty-six years, Remington had seen more of life’s heartaches than most women twice her age and was inordinately wise. But there was far more to Remington than her wisdom and intelligence; surely a lovelier woman had never existed, as her late husband had sworn just before he beat her within an inch of her life. Her hair was a chestnut-auburn color, but not just any plain shade; it was a miraculous myriad of golds and reds, intertwining and dancing in the light, playing off of her natural curls and falling to her buttocks. It could be an unruly mass but she never bothered to tie it back; she loved the feel of it on her neck. Her skin was as white as pure cream and her eyes, with her thick, dark lashes and peachy-colored lips, made her beauty truly striking.
As beautiful as Remington was, she was terribly vulnerable when it came to men. The only men she had ever been close to had ignored and abused her, and she was absolutely terrified of the opposite sex. All except for her beloved son, Dane. The lad was her assurance that there truly was a God.
They all made their way down to the massive double bailey of Mt. Holyoak. The fortress was intricately constructed thanks to her husband, for the man was a military fanatic and demanded the most secure and fortified fortress in all of England. Only a mile from the Irish Sea, he was paranoid as well, and was sure the Celts were planning on an eventual invasion and he was determined not to be caught off guard. The fortress was so fortified it could have held off Hadrian himself, even with a skeleton guard.
Mt. Holyoak sat on a natural hill, a hill whose sides had been planed down to create a fifty-foot drop all the way around the fortress that plunged into a manmade moat below. The only way in, and out, of the fortress was a narrow road that led from the village up to the massive drawbridge.
Charles made his way up the road, thundering across the drawbridge and into the outer bailey, drawing his steed to a ragged halt. Old men and aged soldiers were there to greet him, taking hold of his horse and helping him dismount. Remington, clutching Dane’s hand, was at his side.
“Charles!” she gasped. “What’s wrong? Why have you returned so soon?”
Charles was exhausted; his young face was creased with dirt and fatigue as he met Remington’s inquisitive gaze. “I bear news, Remi. Catastrophic news.”
Remington felt bile rise in her throat and her palms began to sweat. She hoped she could open her mouth to speak without vomiting. “What news, Charles? I would hear it.”
Charles was distraught. “Oh, Remi, ’tis terrible. I met up with several of Henry’s men at an inn, not far from here, and they told me the news. I had to return,” he put his hand on Remington’s arm, his gaze painful. “He’s coming, Remi. He’s coming to Mt. Holyoak.”
Remington was not only terrified, she was puzzled. “Who is coming?”
Charles swallowed hard, “The Dark One. The Dark Knight.”
Remington gazed back at him a moment; hearing his words but not yet feeling the full impact. She was expecting to hear that her husband was returning home; instead, she was hearing something completely unexpected. Her mind went to mud and she was having difficulty understanding him.
“The Dark Knight?” she repeated. “Charles, what are you saying?”
Charles sighed with exasperation. He was terrified and distraught and couldn’t understand why Remington wasn’t feeling the same way.
“The Dark Knight,” he insisted. “The man who single-handedly won the war for the House of Tudor. Henry calls him the Dark One. ’Tis said he is in league with the devil.” He squeezed her arm. “You have heard of him, Remi. Guy mentioned him to you in his missives.”
Remington gazed back at Charles apprehensively, her eyes widening as realization dawned. “De Russe?”
“Aye,” Charles explained, relieved she was beginning to see the gravity of the situation. “Sir Gaston de Russe is coming to Mt. Holyoak.”
Remington’s mouth went agape with shock. “My God,” she breathed. “Why on earth would the man come here?”
Charles shook his head, his exhaustion draining his energy now that his news was delivered. “I do not know. But he is coming. What are we going to do?”
Remington had no idea what to do. What could they possibly do? Women, children, and old men up against the Dark One? The Dark Knight! The man who betrayed Richard at the end and fought for Henry Tudor instead, turning the tables at the Battle of Bosworth, defeating the Duke of Gloucester.
Fear swept her. De Russe would tear them apart if they showed any resistance and well she knew it.
“Did you confirm this information, Charles?” she asked. “Did you seek out anyone of authority of ask?”
Charles shook his head. “Nay, I did not. The knights who gave me the information said they were in de Russe’s personal guard. Do you know that de Russe has a personal knight corps of forty men?”
Remington did not care about the Dark Knight’s personal corp. She was still focused on Charles’ first answer. “Then you did not verify the information? What if they were lying, Charles? Mayhap he is not coming at all.”
Charles looked deeply hurt that she would doubt his judgment. “They were powerful knights, Remi. I believed what they told me. Do you not trust me?”
She had not meant to offend him. “Of course, Charles – ’tis the knights I do not trust. They might have been trying to stimulate the young man’s imagination. Is that not a possibility?”
He shook his head slowly. “Nay, Remi, ’twas no falsehood they told me. I would stake my life on it.”
Remington stared at Charles a moment longer. “Did they say when?”
“They said that he is already riding from London.” Charles wiped the back of his hand against his forehead. “Henry knows the strategic power of Holyoak and is sending de Russe to control it. Since we sit in the heart of Yorkshire, what better place to maintain peace in an enemy’s land?”
Remington did not know what to feel. She was wild with relief that her husband was not returning, yet she was filled with terror on another matter altogether. The Dark Knight was coming to Mt. Holyoak.
She had to think this through. Mayhap there was something they could do, although she had no idea what it might be. There was no fighting a man with the devil on his side. Tearing herself away from her train of thought, she turned to the old maid beside her.
“Eudora, take Charles and feed him. He is exhausted,” she said, pulling Charles to the old woman. “I shall speak with you later, Charles, after you have rested.”
Charles barely nodded as Skye followed him and the serving woman inside. Jasmine and Rory took hold of Dane, retreating back into the castle, leaving Remington standing a bit bewildered in the middle of the inner bailey. Her gaze lingered on the innards of the massive structure, her mind working furiously. What to do, what to do…? The same answer filled her again and again – there is nothing to do.
“Lady Stoneley?” came an elderly voice. “What are we to do about the Dark One’s arrival?”
Remington turned around and realized that a host of aged male faces were staring at her eagerly – men at arms twice, three times her age, and old Oleg, the steward. She knew they were expecting answers from her, answers she was unable to give.
“Prepare for it,” she said evenly. “Prepare Mt. Holyoak as if my husband was returning. I fear we have no choice but to welcome Henry’s Dark Knight.”
The men looked at each other, grunting with agreement or disagreement, she could not be sure.
“But he is the Dark Knight,” one of the older men-at-arms wailed. “Traitorous bastard, he will surely kill us all. I say we should flee for our lives before he arrives.”
“Flee where, Henry?” Remington said softly, her gaze caressing Mt. Holyoak once more. “We have nowhere to go.”
“Surely you have heard stories of this knight, my lady,” another soldier said solemnly. “He’s spawned from the very loins of Lucifer. He shows no mercy, no compassion, and no emotion. Some say Edward had a sorcerer conjure him up.”
“If he shows no mercy, nor compassion, nor emotion, then it will be very much like my husband has returned,” Remington said with bitterness. “We will simply have to show him great respect and obedience and pray he shows us some benevolence. I know of naught else to do, men; if any of you have suggestions, I am willing to listen.”
The men looked to each other hesitantly, waiting for someone brave enough to speak. Yet it was painfully obvious that no one was willing. Remington sighed, feeling their fear.
“Be courageous, then, and prepare the keep for his arrival,” she said. “I shall not have the Dark Knight entering a shabby keep.”
Disgruntled and bewildered, the men disbanded to do as they were told. Remington took old Oleg’s arm and together they walked for the castle.
“What are we to do, my lady?” Oleg asked. “Having the Dark One here will be far worse than Sir Guy.”
Remington’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Somehow I doubt that. I have lived in hell for nine years, Oleg, and cannot imagine this man will make my life any worse.”
“You seem too willing to be complacent,” Oleg commented. “I know for a fact you have much more fight in you than you are showing.”
Remington shrugged. “What good will it do? I could, conceivably, evacuate the castle. But to where? And for how long? Meanwhile, our people will starve and with winter approaching, they would most likely freeze to death. Nay, Oleg, I am convinced that there is no use to run and hide. We would escape right into our own deaths.”
The old man bobbed his head in reluctant agreement. “So we do nothing but prepare the keep for the man like a god returned?”
Remington paused at the entrance to the keep, facing the frail old man who ran the castle so beautifully. “I am afraid so, Oleg,” she sighed. “I would not want to tweak the nose of the most feared knight in all of England.”
Oleg lifted his eyebrows in resignation. “I fear for our future, my lady. I have heard tales of this Dark One. Some say he is a stone statue come to night, only to be resurrected by the light of dawn.”
“Unless the man flies into the bailey with the wings of a bat, I shall not give in to fear,” Remington smiled, trying to alleviate the tension. “If he pulls a pitchfork from ’neath his cloak, or sprouts a speared tail, then I shall be a-feared. Otherwise, he is just a man like all others.”
Oleg shook his head with apprehension. “God save us all.”
Remington took his arm again. “We have much to accomplish, you and I. ’Tis best we get started.”
“As you say, my lady,” Oleg mumbled as they disappeared into the damp, cool innards of the castle. “Your will shall be done.”
He did not sound as if he meant it.
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