If Not For The Knight by Debbie Boek (romantic love story reading .TXT) 📕

IF NOT FOR THE KNIGHT

      Knights are Forever Series

            Book # 1

DEBBIE BOEK

Copyright © 2004, 2017 Debra Boek

Wolf Rider Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

Names: Boek, Debbie, author.

Title: If not for the knight / Debbie Boek.

Description: [Lafayette, New York] : Wolf Rider Publishing, [2017] | Series: Knights are forever series ; book #1

Identifiers: ISBN 9780960077519 | ISBN 9780960077564 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Knights--England--History--To 1500--Fiction. | Saxons--England--History--To 1500--Fiction. | Normans--England--History--To 1500--Fiction. | Man-woman relationships--England--History--To 1500--Fiction. | Great Britain--History--Medieval period, 1066-1485--Fiction. | LCGFT: Historical fiction. | Romance fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3602.O42255 I3 2017 (print) | LCC PS3602.O42255 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

ALSO BY DEBBIE BOEK

When The Knight Falls

Knights are Forever Series Book #2

Sommers’ Folly

THE DEVEREAUX CHRONICLES
 

Devil’s Bait

Devil’s Retribution

Devil’s Gathering

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             debbieboek.com

debbieboek.blog

CHAPTER 1

Northern England 1067

Regan walked slowly back toward the village, admiring the flowers in her basket, pleased at how the yellow primroses complimented the blue of the wild hyacinth that she had finally been able to locate. She had wandered far while collecting them and would surely be punished for being away from the cottage for the whole day and neglecting her chores. She was confident though, that she would be able to convince her father to be lenient. After all, the flowers were for her bridal headpiece; she had wanted to find the prettiest, freshest flowers possible. Surely, he would not be angry about that.

She sighed deeply, unable to hide, even from herself, the heaviness in her heart. She had been promised to Edgar when they were but children. Both had known that they would be married one day. It was just hard to accept that the day had finally arrived.

Edgar was a good man and had pleasing features. He was well respected and worked hard in the Lord's stables. The cottage that he built for them was not large, but it had room enough. He would be able to care well for her and the children that they would one day have together.

The reason for her melancholy eluded Regan. After all, it should be the happiest time of her life. She knew that she had no choice in the matter; it was the way that things were done. There was nothing wrong with Edgar and she was very fond of him, but she could not help but feel sad that this was how it had to be.

In her daydreams, Regan always envisioned being swept away by passion and love, but try as she might, she could not make herself feel anything more for Edgar than friendship and affection. She had gone to pick the flowers hoping that it would help settle the matter in her own mind, but she was not sure if it had.

Smiling wistfully as she made her way through the field of wildflowers, she decided that perhaps she was just being silly and childish to expect to feel differently about her future husband.

Maybe love was not important to a good marriage. Or, perhaps her mother was right and love was something that developed and grew between two married people as they carried on their lives together.

Lost in her musings about the impending wedding, Regan did not at first register the noises she was hearing, screaming and crying, sounds of distress that were coming from the direction of her village.

She climbed atop a knoll, where she could look down into the valley and see the village below. To her wide-eyed disbelief, great plumes of dark smoke billowed from some of the cottages and people, her people, were fighting with, or running from, men on horseback.

Momentarily stunned and frozen to the spot where she stood, Regan watched in horror as her fellow villagers were struck down one after the other, their handmade weapons ineffectual against the attacking army.

Normans, her brain screamed, as her mind and body began to function again. Regan felt her heart begin to race and ran as fast as her slippered feet would carry her down the slope toward the village.

“Please let mother and father be alright,” she prayed as she flew down the hill. The circlet fell from her hair, the plait loosening enough that her long, copper-colored curls blew around her face as she ran. Unable to see clearly, her foot caught in the skirt of her long, linen kirtle. She pitched forward and her temple collided with a large rock. The basket of flowers flew from her hand and the screams faded as the world around her went black.

“Draco,” Calder's voice boomed across the courtyard, “are all of the men accounted for?”

“They are, Milord,” he responded.

The males of the village huddled, unarmed, in a large group in the center of the courtyard. Mingled among the soldiers who sought to defend their Lord's lands were farmers and craftsmen, who had also taken up arms against the Normans.

The knights were awe-inspiring on their large destriers, both men and horses covered in protective armor from head to toe. Most of the knights had removed the conical helmets that they wore during the battle, but their armor and weaponry still clattered forbiddingly as they held the villagers at bay.

Calder rode his large black warhorse around the circle of men, each of whom watched him with a mixture of hatred and distrust in their eyes. He had seen that look many times before and refused to let himself be bothered by it. Some of the men showed fear; but not all, despite the knowledge that he could slay them at that very moment should he choose to.

“You men,” he called to the captives, his voice loud and strong, “I am Calder Wyndym. These lands, and you with them, now belong to my brother, Aric, Earl Of Marlboro, by order of King William. Aric will be here within the week, and you will then swear your fealty to him. Should you not, you will immediately be hung for treason. Should any of you take up arms against my men, or my brother and his men, I will personally see to it that you die slowly and painfully.”

“Do you understand me?” His voice was surprisingly level and matter-of-fact, but the promise it held was unmistakable, none of the men doubted his words. The thin, moon-shaped scar that ran from his right eye down to his jawbone was a livid red against his white skin, making him look even more fearsome.

He continuously circled the group of men, his horse's enormous hooves coming within inches of the prisoners' feet. Some nodded in response to his question, their heads hung in shame and fear. Even with Calder in full battle dress, however, and broadsword and axe hanging within hand's reach, some of the captives refused to look away from his formidable visage or back away from his mighty horse.

Whether due to empty bravado or true courage, Calder could not be sure, but it was time to separate the true rebels from those who were just putting on a show for him and his men. Raising his voice so all would be sure to hear him clearly, he called out, “You will kneel on the ground now, in acknowledgement of your surrender and your acquiescence to your new Lord. When you have done so, and my men have finished searching your homes for weapons, you will be released and no further harm will come to you. Should you refuse to submit, you will stand as you are, under the guard of my men, for as long as it takes for you to comply.”

He made one more circle around them, trying to make eye contact with each one as he passed. Then he directed his steed back toward Draco.

The two knights looked unyielding and fear inspiring as they sat side by side on their war horses. One light, one dark, both large and powerful, their faces set and implacable. The way they held their bodies, taut and alert, was a sure indication that any slight move against them would be dealt with in a swift and deadly manner.

Slowly, one by one, men started to kneel in the dirt. The older men first, then others followed their example. The angry, frustrated looks on their faces showed that they complied, not out of loyalty or respect for their captors,