Chapter 1
Castle Blackwood, England, 1152
“The battle has been lost, aye. But we will win the war.”
Elara did not doubt Sir Eamon’s words, but as she moved the chess piece, she did push
back for the sake of argument.
“There are many more days between today and that eventuality,” she sat back, looking at
the chessboard between them. The meal long over, there were none remaining in the hall but the
two of them a handful of servants. On evenings such as this one, with no urgent matters to attend
to, sharpening her mind with a game of chess was Elara’s preferred way to repose. For her
companion, however, such was not the case. The bearded master swordsman was known by most
as a quite affable man, but Elara knew well his competitive side.
And he’d never beat her in a game of chess which rankled him, lines of worry etched on
his forehead with good reason. Her pieces were harmoniously placed, her pawns forming a
strong defensive wall.
“The will of God is with us,” Eamon said, scanning the chess board.
“We shall need more than the will of God to install the Empress on the throne with her
currently in hiding.”
“You’ll remember,” Sir Eamon shifted on his seat, the velvet cushions on which they sat
comfortable enough, though less so after sitting for a spell. “The king is our prisoner and in no
position, either, to rule.”
How could she possibly forget the fact? It was the reason Empress Matilda’s supporters
had encouraged her to travel to London to be sworn in as England’s rightful ruler. Instead of
being crowned queen, however, she narrowly escaped an angry mob of Londoners and was
currently in a secret location, guarded by their very own Order.
“We will prevail,” Elara said, confident of the fact. “We must.”
Eamon lifted his eyes from the chessboard to her. “You are worried for him still?”
Elara rarely spoke of her father, but Eamon knew him well. Their close friendship was
how she had landed at the knight school. Both a training ground and meeting place for a secret
order of Matilda’s supporters, it had been her new home since an escalation in the succession
crisis had come to a boiling point two years earlier. Though none but her father knew she was
here, of course, as he continued to serve the king as his royal strategist.
It was a dangerous game they played, her father pretending Elara had married a Scotsman
while she secretly worked for the cause opposing King Stephen.
“Always,” she admitted.
Eamon said nothing. He would never name her father publicly, even if the servants were
too far away to hear them. There were few people who knew Elara’s true identity, and it would
remain that way until Matilda became queen.
“None have reason to question his loyalty to a man he’s been serving since before you
were born,” Eamon said, making his move.
“True enough,” Elara admitted, looking down at the board. “But only a fool would let
down their guard when the outcome was certain death.”
“Always the strategist,” he said, sitting back and taking a sip of wine from the silver
goblet in his hands. Like your father.
He did not say those words aloud, but Elara knew Eamon well enough to hear them
nonetheless. Putting aside her thoughts, she concentrated on the board. Eamon’s King was
somewhat exposed with limited escape squares and vulnerable to attacks.
Much like Matilda.
They’d worked for so long to get her to London. This was a setback unlike the others
since her people, and not her king, had rebelled against her.
“We must redouble our efforts to strengthen her claim among those who currently
support the king. Those in his inner circle will be unlikely to turn, the nobles have too much to
risk.”
“I spoke with Stirling on that matter just last eve. We agree such a campaign has merit.”
Lord Theobald Stirling was their archery master and one of the founders of the Guardians
of the Sacred Oak. He and Eamon, along with Adrian Fitzwarren who recently gave his life for
the cause, were instrumental in creating the order years ago. Keeping it a secret, especially from
the surrounding villages, had been a challenge, but one they welcomed if it aided Matilda’s
cause.
Eamon finally made his move, but Elara could tell it displeased him. As it should.
Victory was hers, though the swordmaster did not yet realize it.
“A campaign,” she continued. “Which strengthens her claims with the commoners. I will
admit, ‘tis not a bad plan.”
“One that could have seen her crowned if we’d considered such a thing before.”
Perhaps.
One thing she was certain of? Elara leaned forward moving her Black Queen to h2.
“Checkmate.”
Emaon stared at the board, more surprised than he should have been if he were paying
close mind to the game. But he was not, as usual, and Elara had capitalized on it. Finding an
opponent’s weakness was always, as her father taught her, the first step to victory.
“You,” Eamon continued to shake his head. “Continue to amaze me, Elara.”
She inclined her head. “Thank you for the kind compliment. You are a worthy opponent,”
she offered.
“And you, my dear, are a liar,” he said laughing.
“I did not specify in which area,” Elara qualified, as Eamon was one of the most skilled
swordsmen in all of England. “I bid you a good eve,” she said, standing.
Eamon lifted his goblet in a silent toast as she walked from the hall. The corridors were
dark, only light from the wall sconces illuminated them. And she should retire. However, Elara
felt restless and decided instead to make her way to a private courtyard that had been a sanctuary
for her these past years. Its fountain, the sound of falling water, would help calm the worry that
had crept into her chest since she and Eamon spoke of her father.
Arriving at the wooden door on the other side of her sanctuary, Elara gave it a pull,
opened the door, and stepped inside. ...
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