The Dark One: Dark Knight (4 page)

     Still standing on the steps, Remington
watched and waited, waited and watched.  The man outside on the huge armored
destrier continued to remain stationary and the tension and confusion in the
bailey rose. They were the victors and obviously they had met with no resistance
- why did they not come in?

     “What are they waiting for?” Jasmine
whispered. 

     “I do not know,” Remington shook her head,
apprehensive as well as confused.  “Mayhap they expect me to go to them.”

     “Do not go to them.” Rory snapped.  “Make
the bastards come to you, Remi.”

     Jasmine shushed her younger sister harshly
as Remington gathered her skirts. “I suppose there is only one way to find
out.  If they trample me with their chargers, bury me in my gold silk, will you
please?”

     Jasmine gave her sister a wry smirk,
watching her closely as she crossed the outer bailey.  Her strides were
confident and proud, not at all timid as was her mood. The eyes of the young
and old were on the straight, elegant back and the cascades of rich, colorful
curls.

     Remington’s eyes were trained on the largest knight. 
She could only assume he was the leader and walked directly for him. She let go
of her skirts because her palms were sweating so badly she was positive she
would leave stains on her coat, but she held her head high and tried not to
maintain any sort of an expression.  She had grown very good at masking her
emotions and she drew upon the practice.  But, in faith, she was fairly
terrified by the time she crossed the drawbridge with soft, dainty footfalls.

     In the distance, thunder rolled like the
devil laughing and a chill shot up Remington’s spine.  Icy wind whipped harsher
about her, lifting her hair as if it had a mind of its own.  The force of the
gale met her head on, plastering her surcoat to her body and outlining every
curve and flare blatantly, giving the knights full views of her round breasts
and womanly hips.

     Her green surcoat streamed out behind her
like a wildly waving banner.  She came to a halt several feet in front of the
men, her heart pounding in her ears and fighting the urge to sway in terror,
but she lifted her face expectantly.  Patiently, she waited for the monstrous
man to speak.

     Gaston looked down at her. From the moment
she had exited the castle in the brilliant green dress, his eyes had been drawn
to her. When she crossed the bailey toward him, her body erect and proud, he
had been riveted to her as he had never been riveted to anything in his life.
Her hair was magnificent and her body, outlined by the wind, was beyond
description. Pleasing was a grossly inadequate word. But it was her face, when
it came into full focus that hit him hardest of all.

    
An angel
, was his very first
reaction. 
I am looking into the face of an angel!

     The angel was waiting respectfully for him
to speak, but in faith, he did not trust himself to. He forced himself to cool
as unhappy confusion swept over him.  Why did he react like that to her? By
God’s Bloody Rood, he’d never reacted to a woman in his life!  They were
nothing more than breeders of men, the inferior sex with minimal intelligence.
True, some could be beauties, but they were a worthless lot for the most part.
No woman warranted attention beyond a night of relief, and he was positive this
woman in front of him was no exception.

     … then why couldn’t he catch his breath?

     The woman continued to wait and he let her,
allowing his eyes to rove over her delicious body under the veil of his visor. 
He shouldn’t have, but he found himself so damn curious about his reaction to
her that he couldn’t stop himself.  What was different about her other than her
obvious beauty?

    
Nothing
, he told himself sharply. 
She
is a simple woman, like all the rest.
 

     “Who are you?” he finally asked, his tone
cold.

     Remington felt herself jump at the sound of
his voice. It was as deep as the thunder in the distance, echoing out of his
mouth like the voice of God.  Her breathing started to quicken but she forced
herself to calm.

     “I am Lady Remington Stoneley,” she
replied.  “My husband is lord of Mt. Holyoak.  I bid you good knights welcome.”

     Gaston looked at her. Hard. Her voice was
seductive, sweet, and melodious.  It matched her appearance. Welcome, did she
say?  “I have six hundred soldiers waiting not a quarter mile below,” he
rumbled. “I would enter the keep and secure it myself.”

     Her eyes, like crystal sea-green stars,
gazed back at him. “Mt. Holyoak is yours now, is it not, my lord?” she asked,
resignation in her voice.  “You may do as you are so inclined.”

     “How many people are in the keep?” he
asked.

     “We have twenty-two men-at-arms, the same
amount of servants, and my family, my lord,” Remington replied.

     “How many is in your family?”

     A wild thought flashed through Remington’s
head at that moment. My God, did he intend to rape her sisters, too?  And what
of the other knights?  They were entirely at their mercy, but she knew better
than to lie to him.

     “My three sisters, my husband’s male
cousin, and my son,” she answered, her voice quiet.

     “How old are the males?”

     More panic shot through her.  He wasn’t
planning on killing her son and Charles, was he?  Utter terror swept her and to
her dismay, she felt her eyes start to sting with tears. Dear God, she was
trying so very hard to be brave.

     “My husband’s cousin is ten and four, my
lord, and my son is seven years,” she answered, her voice shaking.

     He heard her quiver and imagined what she
was thinking. As hard as he was, as completely professional, something buried
deep inside him wanted to reassure her that he had not come to kill them, but
it was far too soon. For all he knew, she was harboring a company of men just
inside the gate to spear them all.

     “Very well,” he mumbled in reply.  He
motioned to the two knights to his right to move forward into the keep before
addressing Remington again. “My name is Sir Gaston de Russe.  I claim this
fortress in the name of King Henry VII.  You, your family, and your household
are now my vassals.  Is this clear?”

     “Aye, my lord,” she nodded, confirmation of
what they had suspected. This man was indeed the feared Dark Knight.

     And little wonder.  He was dressed from
head to toe in the most formidable plate armor she had ever seen, enlarging him
even more than he already was.  If it wasn’t shining armor, it was black
leather or mail.  This man was a warrior the likes of which Remington had never
seen.

     Yet it was far more than merely the colors
he wore; it was his
presence. 
The simple act of living and breathing
conveyed a world of foreboding and fear.  Blind obedience was the only way to
survive.

     Gaston flicked his wrist and knights began
to charge past her and on into the bailey, but Gaston remained still, absorbing
the activity.  The sky above was growing threatening and the wind was vicious,
caressing her with icy fingers. Remington watched the strange, fearsome men
riding into her ward, fighting the urge to hug herself against the wind.  She
would not allow the Dark Knight to see any weakness in her, or any show of her
inner emotions. Over her shoulder, she could feel the weighty gaze of him and a
chill ran up her spine.  Involuntarily, she shivered from both the stare and
the cold.

    
My God, what have I done
?  A strange
sense of despair swept her and she felt the distinct taste of hopelessness. 
Should she have tried to hold him off, but for what purpose?  She had not the
men to maintain a strong defense and she knew everyone would have been killed
trying to fight off Henry’s knight.  The lives of her people were worth more to
her than maintaining the sovereignty of the keep that had shown her nothing but
grief.

     “Return to the keep, Lady Stoneley,” came
his voice from behind her, gravelly and deep so that it shook the very ground
she stood upon.  “I will speak with you at a later time.”

     Remington couldn’t get away from him fast
enough. It began to rain as she crossed the drawbridge, messing her surcoat and
pelting her face with chilly droplets.  Behind her, she could hear the
unmistakable hollow sounds of hoof-falls as they crossed the bridge.  It would
seem that the Dark Knight was intending to follow her into the bailey.

     Remington was bewildered and depressed by
the activity in the bailey. The Dark One’s knights had whipped the aged
men-at-arms into a frenzy and they were climbing the ladders to the catwalks on
the walls with an energy she had never seen before from them.  Fear was a
potent drug, indeed, and she felt so guilty.  She had allowed the knights into
the keep and she told everyone there was no use in resisting the inevitable. 
She could only pray that the old soldiers did not break their necks or have
chest pains as a result of her philosophy.  Already, they were suffering.

     Her sisters, Charles, and Dane had
disappeared into the castle, but Remington refused to go.  She stood on the
stone steps, watching de Russe and his men systematically clear the bailey and
the towers.  They moved like great cats stalking mice, leaving no door
unopened, no crevice unchecked.  De Russe himself checked the two great wall
towers before descending the ladder, satisfied no one lay in wait for his army.
With a few barked words, two of his men remounted their chargers and tore from
the bailey to signal the waiting troops.

     Remington watched the Dark Knight
intently.  He never raised his voice, never made a sharp movement, but he did
not have to. He had the fear and respect from his men without such devices. She
found it difficult to comprehend that a person could radiate so much power and
presence.  It was as if de Russe was beyond a mere mortal and therefore
entitled to the respect men reserved for gods.

     Aye, she was frightened of him, but she was
also fascinated.  Curious, utter fascination. And all of this before she had
even seen his face.

     Before she realized it, he was standing in
front of her and she startled, gazing up at him with genuine fear. He’d snuck
up on her and she had never heard him coming.

     “Go inside and wait for me,” he said.  “I
have many questions.”

     She opened her mouth to speak but no words
were forthcoming. Her breathing came in rapid gasps and she took an unsteady
step back from him. 

     “How…how many men shall I prepare rooms
for, my lord?” she stammered.

     “I have thirty-five knights who will all be
housed in the castle,” he said.  “Do what you must to make them comfortable.”

     “And you?” she asked, her voice soft.

     He turned his helmed head to her. 
Remington’s breath caught in her throat as a monstrous mailed hand came up and
unlatched his visor.  In a flash, it flipped up and she found herself staring
into the most intense eyes she had ever seen.  They were like precious stones,
smoky-gray in color, masking all emotion and clouding his soul. Dark brows
lifted, arched like the wing of a raven.

     “You will put me in the master’s chambers,”
he said.  “That is where I will stay.”

     She nodded unsteadily, disoriented by the
piercing eyes.  She moved to turn when she heard his voice again.  The tone was
much quieter than it had been only a moment before. 

     “What is your name again?” he asked.

     She met his eyes again, unnerved all over
again by the power they conveyed.  They seemed to reach out and touch her,
everywhere.

     “Remington,” she replied in a choked
whisper.

     His eyes studied her a moment longer. 
Without a word, he slammed his visor down and marched off across the rapidly
filling bailey.

***

     In spite of her nerves, Remington did an
outstanding job of setting out the evening meal.  In truth, it was only late
afternoon but she assumed correctly that the Dark One and his men would be
famished from their journey.

      A storm had rolled in from the east and
was dumping copious amounts of water, unusual in summer, and the temperature
had dropped. A fire roared in the massive hearth, warming the cavernous and
smoky great hall, to dry out the men when they came in from the elements.

     Remington ordered a varied fare.  Mutton,
boiled, roasted, and spiced, graced every table heavily.  Bowls of boiled
turnips and carrots, spiced apples, pomegranates, pears, and tiny grapes filled
the tables to bursting.  Bread, butter, and rich fruit preserves were also
nicely displayed.

     She also made sure that banks of expensive
tallow candles lit the tables so that the men could plainly see what they were
eating.  She was afraid they might accuse her of trying to poison them if it
were too dim to see the food.  She did not want to give them any excuse to harm
her people.

     When everything was properly prepared and
she was assured by Oleg that every one of the twelve empty bedchambers in the
keep were provided with beds for the knights, she sent the servants back to the
kitchens and bade them wait for her signal. Quickly, she changed into a clean
surcoat of soft yellow that was magnificent with her hair color, and dashed
back down into the hall to await the new lord of Mt. Holyoak.