Dark Knight ***Excerpt***

Dark Knight *** Excerpt ***

By: Kyara Caledonii

Copyright February 14, 1994

*** This book is in the process of being published. ***

I will let you know as soon as this book is available at bookstores. Please email me to put you in the waiting list so you may be 1 of the first to get this book.

The coast of England. Winter, 890 A.D.

The night was bitter cold; the forest silent in a blanket of snow. One lone man stumbled his way across the frozen ground, shivering from the frigid temperatures. Suddenly the pain overwhelmed him and he doubled over, collapsing into a mound of snow. He tried desperately to fight the dizziness and darkness that surrounded his vision and made his ears ring loudly.

"Am I dying, Lord?" he asked as he laid upon the freezing snow.

His skull pounded like it had been rent in two, and he fought not to groan aloud as the pain intensified with every one of his movements. The throbbing in his head increased to a greater life within him, threatening to steal his consciousness once more. The trail of blood, which ran down his face like rain upon the fields at home, would not freeze. He kept wiping the warm blood out of his blurry vision to no avail as more dripped down his face. He groaned, pressing his hand to his injured thigh. Each wound seemed to be alive with all the fires of hell. It was hard to draw breath. He knew that if he didn’t find shelter soon, he'd be dead. He gritted his teeth and inched up on shaking legs, using the great tree beside him to support his increasingly weakening frame. Then as if by magic, his vision cleared enough for him to see the keep on the horizon. Taking a deep breath, he slowly stumbled toward the edge of the woods, praying silently to live.

Just as he reached the end of the forest the pain caused him to falter and his knees buckled under his weight once again. Dizziness washed over him and he collapsed. As his head hit the ground, his pain increased to an intolerable level. His last coherent thought was that he would die here in the snow, alone. His hearing became muffled and darkness crept into the peripheries of his vision as unconsciousness claimed him yet again.

Ragnar galloped down the steep hill. His knowledge of the army tearing its way through the land in search of his master’s one true gem made it more urgent that he reach the keep and spirit his lady away. Count de Warrene’s daughter was in extreme danger, for she was now twentyone winters old and ripe for marriage.

"Milord!" James shouted as he dismounted from his horse at the edge of the forest.

Ragnar jerked on his stallion’s reins and slowed the mount beside James’ pale palfrey.

"What is wrong, James?" he asked in his rough Norse accent while his trained eyes searched the woods for a trap.

Glaring softly at the older Viking from under his mop of curly hair, Sheumas MacAlden winced at hearing the English pronunciation of his name. With a soft sigh of resignation, he took a step closer to the edge of the woods and knelt. A ray of moonlight revealed the naked body of a man, face down in the snow. Reaching out a shaky hand, he touched the man’s shoulder, causing him to moan softly. Jerking his head up, he looked straight into Ragnar’s pale blue gaze. "He’s alive, but wounded."

Ragnar dismounted, giving the reins of his stallion to a young page as he stepped closer and knelt beside the man. Reaching out his gloved hand, he gently turned him over. The man’s skin was as pale as alabaster, his chest barely moving. What they saw as their eyes roamed the man’s body made them cringe. Neither man had ever seen such a severe injury. The man’s right thigh was slashed from his knee to just below his groin. His chest had several small cuts that had crystallized into ice. His left temple had a large lump that still oozed blood down the left side of his face and neck. Ragnar’s gaze was riveted on the man’s pale chest where a small wound just below his right nipple oozed blood steadily.

James slowly stood, crossing himself. "I doonna think he will live much longer, Milord. His life’s blood has almost emptied. But mayhap Milady’s nurse will know of a potion which will bring him back to life if we reach the castle anon."

Ragnar closed his eyes, pulled his glove off with his teeth and slowly reached out with cold fingers towards the man’s chest. Pressing gently, he could feel the man’s life essence pounding softly upon the flesh. He looked around, searching the forest. "He could be a trap, his men-"

"Nay, Milord," James responded from behind the tall Viking. Then he squinted as he noticed something shining under the slight ray of the moon. Taking several steps, he reached under a bush and pulled out a sword. It was covered in blood. The hilt was engraved with a large crest, the soft letters identifying the man just as surely as the rubies, emeralds and sapphires proclaimed his noble birth. "This man is of noble birth," he stated as he raised the sword. "He must have been ambushed. He doesna seem to be a trap to ensnare our lady."

Ragnar took the sword carefully from James, his gaze roaming over the fine craftsmanship. "D’Vachon," he whispered as he read the letters on the sword’s hilt. Looking at the younger man, he nodded. "We will take him to the count. He will decide what to do."

James nodded, impatiently brushing away a stray curl, and quickly took the blanket out of his saddlebags. After carefully rolling the man into the blanket, he stood back and allowed Ragnar to lift the wounded knight up and lay him across his horse. Mounting behind him, Ragnar pressed his hand upon the man’s back to keep him from falling, then lifted his other hand and quickly jerked Lucifer’s reins around. The coal black stallion that had been perfectly content making a meal of the roadside grasses gave an annoyed snort and trotted down the hill toward the castle.

Nykole looked up as the massive doors opened, allowing a draft of freezing wind to gust across the great hall. She frowned as Ragnar approached the hearth, his scowl fearsome to any who did not know him. She sighed as several of the servants scurried away in fear as the tall Viking crossed the great hall towards her. How can I help Ragnar make friends? she wondered silently.

Ragnar bowed and then unrolled the blanket, revealing the powerful, almost naked man. Nykole could not hide her gasp and ensuing sigh as her gaze roamed the senseless man’s glistening body.

"Mildred, summon my father anon!" she ordered without waiting to see if she was obeyed. Putting her sewing aside, she stood and stared at the senseless man at her feet. The flames in the hearth bent and whipped as though alive, called by the cold winter wind pouring through the great hall. Light and darkness licked over the stranger’s body, underlining the strength of his back and shoulders. Sleet shone in the darkness of his curls. Icy rain gleamed on his pale skin.

Nykole felt the man’s chill as though it were her own. Silently, she lifted her gaze to stare at Ragnar. Her large, dark blue eyes asked questions he could not answer.

"Where did you find him?" a gruff voice asked.

Nykole spun around to stare at her father as he slowly walked down the stairs towards the hearth and she stepped closer to the unmoving man.

Sir Walter glared at the young man who laid on his stomach upon the cold rushes. Shifting his gaze back to Ragnar, he repeated the question.

Nykole slowly knelt beside the young man as if to protect him from her father’s ire. She frowned and lifted her hand to his head as the light flashed in his hair.

Ragnar cleared his throat and bowed low. "James found him at the edge of the woods, Milord. He was nearly frozen and has not stirred since he was found. Shall I throw him in the dungeon?"

A frown accentuated the deep wrinkles on his face as Count Walter de Warrene looked again at the slack body of the stranger resting beside his daughter.

Nykole’s outraged gasp made both men turn to stare at her. "You cannot throw him in the dungeon. He is wounded," she stated, standing and stretching her hand out so they could see the drops of blood on her fingers. "He will surely die if he is not tended properly."

Ragnar and Sir Walter stared at her hand and then at the man’s head. Sir Walter looked back at his daughter and sighed. "Nykole-"

"Nay, father, we must help him." She knelt beside the wounded man once again. Ripping a strip of cloth from the edge of her shift, she pressed it against his wound. A tiny smile played at the corners of her lips as she gently brushed his curls off his bloodstained cheek. "I wonder if he was ambushed by Tutelager’s men," she inquired in a bare whisper as her fingers played with the icy curls.

Ragnar stared deeply into de Warrene’s pale eyes. "Milord, the man is grievously wounded. He bleeds from a wound to his side and leg, but the blows to his head could prove deadly." Touching his sword, the Viking lifted a pale eyebrow. "Mayhap we should hasten him on his way to Valhalla-"

Nykole looked up at Ragnar’s comment. "Ragnar, you swore you would help any man who needed your protection. This man needs more than protection, he needs Simone." Looking up, she met her father’s pale gaze.

Ragnar frowned. He bent over and whispered into Sir Walter’s ear. "Sir, he could be an enemy, a spy for the Vikings or a clever trick by Count Tutelager to infiltrate the keep once again. We can tend him just as well in the villag-" Sir Walter raised his hand and waved Ragnar away.

"Was he found like this?" Sir Walter asked, noticing the pale glow of the man’s bare flesh.

Ragnar shook his head and exhaled heavily. His gaze met Nykole’s, telling her he was not happy risking her life. "Nay, Milord, a sword was found beside him," he stated, waving James forward. The curlyhaired man fell to one knee and offered the precious sword to his master, his eyes lowered but still roving slowly in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his beloved Lenora.

"A sword? Then that means he is of noble blood," Nykole stated, as she stood and approached her father.

Walter de Warrene waved Nykole away, huffing. "He might be of noble blood, but we can’t be sure." He looked at Ragnar and James and wrinkled his brow. "He did not carry other objects?"

Immediately, Ragnar and James shook their heads. Ragnar kept his gaze lowered but still riveted on Nykole, as she gently brushed the man’s icesoaked curls off his face and tenderly covered his nakedness with the rough blanket. Taking a step forward, Ragnar cleared his throat. "I assure you, Milord, the man will be well cared for in the villag-"

Walter de Warrene hissed softly as his gaze roamed across the hilt of the sword. Lifting his hand, he quieted the large Viking. "Nykole is right. He will die if he is not tended to immediately, Ragnar." He looked at Nykole and nodded. "Take him to one of the guest chambers and send for Simone," Sir Walter said to Ragnar, setting the sword beside the wounded man. He frowned at James who still knelt on the stone rushes.

"James, is the guard ready to escort my daughter to the abbey?"

James bowed his head slightly and nodded, brushing his unruly curls off his forehead. "Aye, Milord, they await yer order."

"Nykole, are you ready to travel?" he asked as he turned away from James, dismissing him promptly, and reached out to carefully pull her up.

Shaking her head, she pulled away from her father’s hold. "I cannot leave now, Papa. If Tutelager ambushed him, then it is already too late."

Kneeling beside the wounded man, she lifted her eyes to meet her father’s. "I will stay and care for him; it will be better this way."

"Count Tutelager will destroy us all to get to you, my child. I want you safely away from his clutches."

"Papa, I will not leave. I told you that when you sent Ragnar out." Taking the man’s hand in hers, she gasped at the coldness of his skin. "Papa-"

"Non, Nykole, you will not stay here," he insisted, as he forced Nykole off the floor. "The man will be cared for, and you need to be safe behind the abbey’s walls."

Closing her eyes, she dug her leather slippers into the rushcovered stone floor, forcing Sir Walter to stop and stare at her. "I will not go, Papa. I will be safer here. Why do you insist on risking the nuns lives?"

Sir Walter sighed, exasperated, brushing his hand down his face as he glared at Nykole. "Your aunt will keep you safe. It is the only way to protect you."

Shaking her head vehemently, she dislodged her father’s hand from her arm. "You and this keep are all I need to protect me. We have enough men to man the walls and keep me safely away from Count Tutelager." Lowering her lashes, she pouted. "Please don’t send me away," she begged softly, tears filling her eyes.

Sir Walter felt his heart break knowing that his only treasure could be stolen from him. He knew he had to be strong and force her to obey him, because it was the only way to keep her safe. "Nykole, you must go. If that madman reaches us, he will be unstoppable, you know that."

Nykole stubbornly lifted her chin and stared deeply into her father’s eyes, noticing again the dark circles under them and the extra soft wrinkles surrounding the eyes that so resembled her own. "I will not go, Papa. You know very well that Tutelager and his men could be waiting just inside the forest. He had one spy already inside our walls, and he could have another one," she stated softly, so only Sir Walter and Ragnar could hear her.

Ragnar immediately lifted his gaze, roaming the great hall with his Nordic blue eyes in search of any servant that looked suspicious or out of place. He sighed in relief at seeing only James and the young serving girl named Mildred. Taking a step closer, he nodded at Sir Walter. "Mayhap it would be better if she stayed until the patrol can ascertain the safety of the forest and the road. If the count is out there, his army will not be far behind."

Sir Walter met Ragnar’s eyes, knowing the man spoke true. If Tutelager wanted his daughter so badly, he would do anything to gain access to the keep, and if that madman had a spy inside the walls, then he already knew their plans. Nodding, he turned to gaze at the walls surrounding him. His grandfather had built the keep. The walls were still stained in places with the blood of his ancestor who had fought the first Viking raid more than fifty years ago. He turned to meet Nykole’s eyes. "Very well, you may stay, but you will not be alone until Tutelager is gone forever."

Nykole nodded, a soft smile spreading across her features as she leaned forward and kissed his weathered cheek. "Thank you, Papa."

With an angry huff and a few words to Ragnar, Sir Walter turned away, leaving them to care for the stranger. "I will be in my chamber, make sure this man is properly cared for," he stated to Mildred, who quickly curtsied and returned to Nykole’s side.

Nykole touched the unconscious man’s sword, the only weapon he carried. Her fingers touched the hilt and slowly turned it as she read the inscription. Latin words in the shape of a cross proclaimed the owner’s heritage. "D’Vachon, Ad Noctum-into the darkness."

Ragnar nodded to the young serving maid who had just entered the great hall, smiling when she rushed forward without fear of him. "Send for old Simone and prepare a chamber for the wounded man, Denise."

She nodded and curtsied before rushing up the stairs to do Ragnar’s bidding.

The giant Viking knelt beside Nykole. "It seems this man could be of noble birth, Milady, but I will take you down to the tunnels and keep-"

"Forget about the tunnels. I cannot leave this man alone in the care of Simone; she might kill him instead of saving his life." Her eyes settled on the man’s face. Curling dark lashes rested upon pale, stubbled cheeks, and his lips were slack and soft to her touch. The man was handsome, making her shiver as her gaze roamed his features. Recent bruises, wounds, and scrapes on his hands, head, legs and feet mingled with the scars of other, older battles. The marks served to enhance rather than diminish the aura of male power. "Remember, she is wary of strangers, and knowing her hatred for all Frenchmen, she could decide to push him across the river into eternity," she told Ragnar.

Ragnar stood huffing with worry. "The old crone would not dare, Milady. She could be burned at the stake for sins against a nobleman," he stated, sighing in resignation as he met her determined gaze. I swore to protect you from any and all perils, Milady. If Tutelager and his men reach the keep, it will be nearly impossible to take you to safety, he mused as he stared guardedly at the wounded man.

Nykole lifted her gaze to stare at Ragnar. The huge Viking stood over seven feet tall, his pale blonde hair falling to his shoulders in typical Viking fashion. Down to two perfectly made war braids at either side of his temples. His huge upper arms were surrounded by silver arm bracelets that shone in the soft light of the fire. His legs, planted far apart as if he rode the swell of a Viking ship in the middle of a storm, were encased in soft leather and fur, cross gartered around his massive legs. The soft fur vest he wore made her smile. She remembered his words when her father had given him to her. "I will never wear your clothes, but I will care for and protect you with my life if necessary, Milady." Hiding a soft snort behind a cough, she lowered her lashes. She knew exactly what the man was thinking for she had the same thoughts, but she brushed them aside as her fingers touched the wounded man. His skin was cold, and his slack lips had a soft bluish hue to them as he laid there covered only in a woolen horse blanket. Reaching out, she touched her trembling fingers to his lower lip and gasped, feeling the heated breath rush softly against her tender fingertips. "We must move him anon, Ragnar. He is feverish and his wounds need cleansing," she stated, standing and meeting the Viking’s gaze. Her eyes shifted to the scar that ran down the man’s cheek, frowning as she remembered that Ragnar had barely survived being captured and enslaved before her father had taken pity on the man when he had been found at an enemy’s dungeon. She looked at his massive arms and legs, knowing they could kill in one single movement.

Her eyes gazed again upon the scar that covered the left side of his face, running from his temple down to his chin. Her fingers itched to trace the soft line of healed skin there, but she stopped herself, knowing that Ragnar would not accept her pity. She had tended his wounds for days before he was strong enough to fight her ministrations. She smiled remembering how he had pledged his life to her in gratitude and had become her protector and companion once he had recovered from his injuries. Ragnar frowned at her gaze and she laughed softly.

Shivering as a gust of wind drifted through the hall, her gaze returned to the inert man beside her. Mon Dieu! He is so handsome. Why take his life when he has barely lived? she thought, as she watched Ragnar shake his head.

"If Count Tutelager finds you here, Milady-"

"Nay, do not even say it," she mumbled. "If the worst happens and he breaches the outer walls, I will follow you to Norway in hopes of keeping the village and the castle safe."

A sympathetic smile crossed the Viking’s serious features, making Nykole gasp. She had seen that smile so rarely that whenever he graced her with it, the smile made her heart race wildly inside her breast. "How many times have you denied his suit?" he asked, amused. "Five?"

Nykole looked up and met the man’s pale icy gaze and shivered. "Count Tutelager will never have me. I will throw myself from the ramparts afore being his bride," she stated in a cold voice.

Ragnar chuckled, then knelt to carefully take the man’s shoulders and pull him up into a sitting position, which caused the man to groan, his hand fluttering up to touch his head. Seeing this, Nykole pushed Ragnar away and gently rested the man’s head upon her bosom. "It will be alright," she murmured softly, enveloping his hand in hers. "Just lie still. We will take good care of you." When she looked up she realized that Ragnar still knelt beside her, his eyes peering closely at the injured man. She looked down as the man grew still upon hearing her voice. He muttered a few words and Nykole leaned forward trying to hear. Looking up, she met Ragnar’s worried gaze with one filled with mirth. "I’m afraid I am no angel, Milord, far from it," she whispered against the man’s temple.

The man grew still once more, listening. Then suddenly, he opened his eyes and she gasped. They were the deepest and most vivid jade green she had ever seen. They were like torches in a dark forest, mesmerizing and intriguing below such dark brows. Looking deeply into his eyes she felt breathless, her heart thundering inside her breast. Those eyes were filled with unmistakable intelligence, and a puzzled expression invaded the green depths. "Who are you?" she whispered, caught and held by his mesmerizing gaze.

He mumbled something and started to shake his head. The movement elicited a groan of pain and the green eyes closed. She felt his body go lax in her embrace and knew he had slipped away again, back into unconsciousness.

Gathering him against her, she stroked the limp and dirty fingers which were still held in her hand and pressed her lips against his heated temple. "Don’t die. Please, don’t die. I want to know you. I want to hear you speak," she whispered desperately.

With a disconcerted sigh, Ragnar reached out and took the man in his arms, slowly lifted him, and stood waiting for Nykole to show him what chamber to leave the man in.

Nykole led Ragnar and his burden up the first flight of stairs. As they rounded the corner to climb the second set of stairs that would lead them to the ladies’ chambers, Nykole stopped and ordered several maids to bring water and furs. She climbed the stairs slowly, her gaze shifting behind her several times to make sure Ragnar followed. Turning to the right, Nykole led Ragnar to her own chamber. Opening the door, she heard Ragnar gasp. She spun around and stared at him, making him shrug. He entered the chamber and gently laid the man on her bed.

Nykole’s eyes widened as the man rolled over onto his back, his nakedness exposed to her.

"Milady, remember that he could be dangerous. I will stay within the chamber and guard you."

"Nay, Ragnar, Simone and I need to be alone to care for him properly," she stated, tossing a fur blanket over the man’s body.

Knowing how stubborn she could be, Ragnar stared deeply into her eyes and shook his head. "As you wish, but I will be just outside, guarding your door."

Nykole smiled and shifted her gaze to the door as Simone entered the chamber behind Denise. Ragnar bowed and left the chamber quietly.

"What do we have here, Milady? Another one of your strays that needs tending?" Simone asked as she tossed the furs off and touched the man’s slack limbs, making sure no bones were broken. Her crooked fingers touched the ragged wound on his thigh and slowly made their way from his chest to his head. Turning his head, she gasped. Besides the large ragged cut on his left temple, there was a bump the size of an egg that slowly oozed a small pool of blood into the pillows under his head. Spreading the man’s hair, she hissed. A large cut was prominent on the back of his head. The smaller cut had stopped bleeding but looked red and swollen. As she pressed the edges of the wound, it oozed a yellow substance. "Rotting," she whispered. Her old fingers pressed hard upon his temple seeking a reaction. None was shown and Simone lifted her gaze to Nykole’s, shaking her head.