A Walk In The Black Forest

By K.A. M'Lady

A steamy time-travel romance written in true bodice-ripper style.

A Knight bred in the blood of battle…

Damon DeGracey is the Dragon of Blackmoor. Darkly mysterious, a cunning tactician of war, and William the Conqueror’s fiercest knight, he is a warrior any King would gladly claim as his champion. In a land awash in bloodshed and treachery, the Dragon must hunt and slay those responsible for the murder of his family while trying to keep the rebels from overthrowing the newly crowned King’s throne.

A sword forged in mystery…

Its ancient etchings and flame red stone draw Anthropologist, Gabriella DeVoux like a moth to a dragon’s fierce blaze. Its secrets she must know…its master’s hand she unwittingly craves. Will history yield to her its secrets or will the Dragon elude her in time’s lost pages?

A love that time cannot destroy...

Now that he’s found her, he will stop at nothing to have her – to keep her. And she will do anything to keep him safe. In these dark times an even darker treachery abounds. Will their love survive the hands of fate?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mojocastle Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781601801876

Book preview

After.

Prologue

Normandy, 1037

Images slowly appeared in the haze across the water’s surface. The looking bowl swirled as possibilities formed along its ripples. From the depth of the clear blue water, the gods spoke to Rosalynn, their voices but mere whispers, the water reflecting images and the possibilities of an uncertain future. She waited, lungs seized, air tight within her chest, cautiously watching the images gather as though dust motes drawn to shards of light. Like coin to a beggar’s hand.

The air was charged with silent anticipation, building like lightning at the edge of a storm. Currents of fear could be felt flowing around the vast stones of the tower room, filling it with uncertainties, stirring the long tendrils of hair that fell along Rosalynn’s spine, where it began to hunch from age and time.

Tell me what you see, an anxious voice pleaded from across the room. Apprehension laced the smoky undertones and softly echoed across the barren walls of the desolate tower room.

There were no bright tapestries on any of the walls, no beautiful landscapes framed in gold. Cobwebs clung to the rafters and dust laced the floor. The solar was but a shell of what once might have been. Only the brazier stood sentinel to the apprehension that filled its occupants.

The Lady Lenore glided smoothly through the door and across the austere space of the ladies solar—her thin form upright despite the weight of her fears. Her raven black hair hung down her back in a thick braid, freeing her face from its waves. The simple style allowed glimpses of her beauty to shine beneath the surface of her ivory skin, despite the weariness and pain that rode the edges of her awareness. Now, her once crystal-gray eyes were sunken and red from endless weeping, and dark circles remained to mar her features with the gravity of her woes.

The lady’s figure remained upright; a proper bearing for one of her station, yet her frail fingers worried the folds of her pale green gown. Her tear-filled eyes never left Rosalynn as she crossed the distance to her side. Not once did she notice the haze that seemed to fill the gloomy room with darkness. Like the shadowed skies beyond the tower windows, the solar was filled with a portent of doom.

Reaching her maid’s side, she beseeched her, her fingers wrapping tightly around Rosalynn’s forearm. Quickly, tell me what you see. Tell me what his future holds.

I see great suffering and heartache, milady, Rosalynn replied, her voice cracking with the weight of the vision. Tis a life filled with courage and strength, friends and foes, love and deception. There is much the future holds for this young one. But all is not revealed in the water; not all is destined to come to pass.

You must go with him, Rosalynn, she implored, her chilled fingers reaching for the stout plumpness of Rosalynn’s work-worn hands. Lenore’s eyes shed the tears only a mother could comprehend. Rosalynn’s heart was breaking with the whispered tones of her plea.

My folly has cost me my son, but you, you can go with him. Protect him as I cannot. Tears trailed the swell of her pale cheeks, her eyes imploring, beseeching. Clutching Rosalynn tightly, she pulled her across the room, their feet silent on the chilled stone floor. The door was but a glimmer, as the great hall appeared far too soon.

Rosalynn had been with the Lady Lenore since her birth. This girl she had helped to raise had become a beautiful young woman of one and twenty years. There was no one else that her lady could trust to protect her child. Her thoughts became a whir of anticipation and uncertainty as her feet shuffled across the great room.

Rosalynn knew her future was set, perhaps ‘twas already written in the hand of the gods. And she knew she could not turn away from this future that seemed to be sweeping her along. She, too, was but a pawn, a piece to be moved as the gods saw fit.

You must never leave him, Lenore pleaded. No matter what happens, you must stay with him. Swear to me that you will keep him safe. Swear it! she cried, her voice breaking with sadness and fear.

Rosalynn didn’t know the true meaning of the vision, but she knew with a bone-deep certainty that her future would be by the boy’s side. Aye, milady, she vowed. I shall go with him and keep him safe.

As Rosalynn looked back, she could see Lenore watching from the door of the great hall. She knew the girl’s heart would now be empty as she stood rooted to the threshold of the keep. Despair and loss filled Lenore’s eyes as Rosalynn and the boy were led from the stronghold by her husband’s warriors. Lenore’s cries could be heard echoing in the pre-dawn light as they crossed the bailey and rode out of the main gates. So many hearts broken, so many lives torn apart. Rosalynn wondered what the gods had in store for this child. The future was still uncertain, and she prayed fervently that the boy would somehow grow and prosper, and that maybe, someday, when he was old enough to understand the depth of true love, he would find it in his heart to forgive.

Chapter One

Britannia, September, 1067

Darkness lost its hold over the land in a fleeting obsidian moment. The pallor of death hung heavy in the eerie silence as the depth of night’s darkness receded in an ashen haze. The only sound that shattered the stillness was a mother’s somber wail as she clung helplessly to her child’s corpse. Her own wounds severe, death’s cold fingers gripping tightly, her tears of anguish trailed across the beaten and bloodied brow of the child. In the steel-gray dawn, her sobs echoed through the burning village and coalesced with the wind’s sadness. Then this, too, was silenced as she drew her final breath.

Moments hung suspended, the sun sweeping the horizon in a glistening saffron blaze before shadows swept the land, plunging it into darkness. In the graying sigh of dawn, the warriors stood tensely at the forest edge, horse and armor unmoving shadows waiting for the signal to charge. Like ghosts of mist hidden within the foliage, they watched with eyes the shade of vengeance as the small town of Baldock lay in a smoldering ruin. The smoke became the specters of the dead, swirling with the heavens like the open arms of beckoning angels. The wind moaned the wail of the wounded and pierced the dawn like a chorus of demons.

As though match struck to tinder, the tiny huts billowed with blackened smoke and swirling flames. The fire, glistening orange and crimson, became a beast of blaze in the darkness, reflecting harshly on the bodies that scattered the flat of the land. Carrion for the circling vultures, the wounded and dead lay where their last steps had taken them.

Thick clouds gathered in a moody sky tinged with purple darkness. The rain that held throughout the night chose this moment to fall from the heavens. It was as if God was trying to wipe away the destruction that had been left to congeal in the crimson pools beneath the bodies littering the once peaceful valley.

Along the edge of the tree line, a dark form sat rigidly atop his warhorse, watching in wordless contemplation. In deathlike stillness, he waited for his faceless enemy to emerge from the burning village. His eyes, the frigid color of a frozen winter sky, keenly scanned the smoldering landscape. Determination creased his brow and his jaw clenched in silent fury.

Damon DeGracey, The Dragon of Blackmoor, waited with controlled vengeance, a caged ferocity worn beneath the flesh like a demon of the soul.

They had spent weeks under the cover of darkness, making their way to Baldock. Blending with the shadows, they had tracked the rebels with the stealth and cunning of the wolf, prowling after prey, jaws slathering for the taste of blood. They had followed as their enemy fled from town to town, killing all who crossed their path, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Yet, forever they had remained one step ahead, one day beyond the enemy’s grasp, on a seemingly endless journey.

In the rain-darkened morning, the village appeared even more desolate. The smoke mixed with the darkening sky, causing the air to turn to a rancid gray mass. Streets ran red as rain merged with blood, pooling in the muddy lanes. The pall of Hades hung in the air like dead men from a noose.

One more village destroyed and countless innocent lives decimated, Damon thought sourly. His anger had carried him through the weeks of ceaseless tracking. This same anger danced through his thoughts, provoking him to wonder if these were the rebels responsible for the ambush to his family as they traveled from London to Blackmoor Castle in the recent weeks that had passed.

Like a haunting specter, the vision of his mother, Lenore, slight of figure with a mound of riotous black and silver curls hanging softly around her small, round face, clung to the shadows of his mind. His sister, Camille, an innocent reflection of his mother in her youth, both lying on the roadside with their throats slashed, blood pooling beneath their bodies, flashed before his eyes like a never-ending nightmare. The horror was still vivid. The loss of his mother and sister pained him gravely. He was awash in a sea of regret.

He had finally given into his mother’s yearning for a reunion. She was ailing, her husband long dead—and good riddance—her daughter needing the care and protection of family. A brother she had never met would be perfect for the role—a Knight in the King’s service, a proven warrior and conqueror of men—who better than he to be her guardian when their mother’s passing came.

No more than a toddler with insurmountable fears clinging to his frail and youthful body, he had watched his mother, framed in the door of the great hall, the first light of morning streaking across the sky, her tears matching his own, before he was forced to ride from the bailey, never to see her again. He never truly understood until many years later why he had been sent from his home, away from his mother and the love he would never know.

He’d heard the stories. Whispered rumors of his father being a cuckold to their marriage. Damon, the bastard of an adulterous union, while his father was off warring. When he was born and grew and resembled his father not—his days became numbered. It left his mother little choice. If she wished him to live, she would send him away and speak no more of his birth, or he would die at the end of her husband’s sword.

She had little choice.

Over the years he would wake deep in the night, tears silently rolling down his cheeks, yearning for his mother’s arms to hold him, for her to console him through the nightmare which had somehow become his life. But she was never there. The nights grew and the days passed, making him weary of trusting others. Life had taught him much harshness. It taught him that love was fleeting and that this also could be taken from him at a moment’s notice. He eventually grew too old for those tears, leaving in their stead, an eternal ache beneath the surface—a brevity and long suffering moroseness that had become an innate part of his soul.

He turned that ache into darkness. An infallible warrior he’d become, strong and ruthless in his fury, an excellent tactician in warfare, a worthy champion for any King. Yet his bitterness he buried deep. His anger became a festering wound and he’d vowed he would never forgive his mother. He would make sure never to cross her path or make her aware of his accomplishments. He vowed he would never lay eyes upon her again.

Yet he did see her again, on one or two occasions over a great many years. The first was soon after he’d earned his spurs. A young and virile youth filled with hatred as cold as the finest tempered steel, he had watched her and her husband from across a tourney field. His ire was immense upon seeing them dressed in their finery, socializing with the lord and lady who had sponsored the games.

Loathing had consumed him as he watched her from a distance while she laughed and chatted with the others who’d come to enjoy the games. She appeared serene and jovial, no cares in the world to worry her. Obviously no cares for the son she’d abandoned, sent away at her husband’s orders on that day so long ago. He left before she could take notice of him.

Many years had passed before he saw her again. And even then, he had refused to speak with her, to even acknowledge her in any way. She had abandoned him for her own needs and purposes, left him to the care of others, never to seek him out, until recently. His anger still festered with the thought of responding to her request, but respond he did.

She had sent him a letter soon after the battle of Hastings, requesting a meeting of great importance. She had told him her husband was dead, and she was dying. Told him of a sister whose protection was needed, a sister he’d never met, nor had he known of her existence. Despite his bitterness, he had reluctantly agreed. The years had been hard on him, creating a man of extreme strength and steadfast knowledge. And despite his feelings for his mother, his own anger and contempt, he could not knowingly leave his sister to be left to the care of others.

He was sent word that they were to arrive at Blackmoor within a fortnight. He’d made all the arrangements himself, advising his staff of the addition to his keep, sending some of his own men to meet them halfway, taking care to be gone himself upon their arrival. Their journey had ended on a darkened road just miles from the outskirts of his lands. He had received word soon after.

Who had done these things, and why? The question still lingered, twisting and turning with fury, stoking the darkness emblazed upon his soul. Was there cause to look within his new household—a keep given to him by William himself—or was his family’s death, in fact, random? Should their destruction be included with the treachery that lay siege all around? There were no simple answers. Only the pain and devastation remained to numb him, to eat at him slowly like a plague of the soul.

He gripped his reins more tightly, keeping his steed firmly under control as he watched the village burn. He waited and silently wondered at all the possibilities. Taking note of all the angles, he searched through his current list of enemies, which seemed to grow with each day that William was in control of England, and considered those whom he’d not considered before. In a chilling rush, before his anger and frustration could fully consume him, his contemplation ended as his enemy emerged from dawn’s dark haze.

Chapter Two

The ferns and maple leaf hung heavy. Forest creatures lay unmoving within their burrows. The earth, a silent witness, waited patiently for death to mingle with its rich musty soil. Dust and sweat clung to the myriad shapes that stood in the forest’s muted shadows as laughter wafted in the haze of morning.

Eyes pierced with loathing, each muscle clenched with fury, Damon watched restlessly, his horse shifting in anticipation. Each warrior, hand clutched upon their swords, sat waiting. Rivulets of rain dripped from helmet rims and muted silver armor. The air was charged with hatred thick as the rivers of hell, each man burning with vengeance while they watched the rebels kick and stab any villager they thought to still be alive.

Bloody barbarians, said Sedrick, the youngest of the group.

Aye, replied Tanak. Keep your eyes alert, young pup, and your sword at the ready and you may live to fight another day.

He’s still much to learn, added Sir Richard. Might be best for him to stay back and learn from the masters.

Used to the jesting by the older warriors, Sedrick replied, If I’m to learn from you, old man, he leaned forward in his saddle, Tis unthinkable that we even won at the battle of Hastings. We know how weak that sword arm of yours can get.

Sir Richard harrumphed in reply.

Tanak’s eyes glistened with mirth.

If the three of you are done socializing, might we get on with this? Damon asked, his own mirth slipping through the seriousness of the situation. His men were weary of travel and of fighting and this was just one more fight. Sometimes the laughter helped, but now was not the time. Maybe after, Damon thought. After justice and vengeance, then they can rest and seek the mirth needed to ease their weary souls.

Through the morning’s stillness, he slowly raised his sword to the sky. His men, bloodthirsty and fueled by aggression, tore down the hillside like deliverers of the Apocalypse, the ground churning beneath their horses’ hooves.

Thirty rebels filled the lanes and pathways of the small burning village. Startled from their brief celebration, they looked on as hell came thundering.

* * * * * *

Bloody Norman bastards, the ringleader, Calder, spat, pulling his sword free of its sheath. His wind-worn features and grizzly beard were covered in grime. Blood stained his flimsy leather tunic and hands where he clutched his rough-honed short sword. His soulless black eyes arched in annoyance as his partially toothless mouth leered.

Gather round, me fellows. Calder’s voice was rough like thunder through a glen as he bellowed, ‘Tis a good day to die! He was resigned, wary as he watched the riders approach. Each of his men were dressed alike, leathers in muted earth tones, no armor or chain mail, no helmet or shield. Good colors for thrash and dash skirmishes, but ill-outfitted against armor-covered Knights.

What do we do, Calder? his man, Tavish, questioned.

Kill them! His stout limbs swung round to meet his foes.

But ‘tis the Dragon, Calder. And Dragon’s Blood he be carryin’, Tavish replied.

Aye, and I’ll be seein’ if the Dragon bleeds his self, Calder boasted.

* * * * * *

The horse’s hooves churned up clods of mud in the rain as the riders tore down the hillside. Battle cries echoed in tune with the howling wind.

A fools’ battle, Tanak claimed as he and Damon road abreast, swords drawn and vengeance rising. They stand no chance.

Aye, Damon grunted. But justice shall be served this day.

As warrior met warrior, the clang of steel echoed through the village as though a bell, tolling each rebel’s demise. The ground turned to a bloody, mud-filled pit, dead men littering the ground. Above the din, Damon shouted fiercely, Curb your fury, we need some alive so that we may know thy enemies’ name!

Tanak and Sedrick flanked him, forming a circle, each covering the other’s back.

Despite the odds, his twelve men had the advantage of years of experience in warfare and the memories of the battle at Hastings were not so soon forgotten. Throughout the land, there had been constant skirmishes as Saxon continued to battle Norman, despite William’s accession to the throne. Damon’s men were the best that good coin could buy; burly warriors, each of them. Upward of six feet in height with the girth to match the mountains, they were like immovable giants on horseback come to seize their enemies.

They wore their ferocity like the scales of the dragon they served. With weapons of the finest metal, razor sharp and gleaming in the steady gate of rainfall, each man, resilient in battle and fearless of demise, steered their mammoth warhorses into the fray of battle. Damon had handpicked each of them for their fierceness in battle, their cunning in warfare and their loyalty, to him and their King, the Duke of Normandy. Aye, they were paid mercenaries each of them, but their fealty could not be bought by any other.

Using his shield to guard his left flank, Damon maneuvered his great warhorse, Fallon, into the center of the rebels, striking down one foe after another. Tanak kept his horse to Damon’s right, making sure his backside was protected, each man taking down their enemy with an almost easy flair.

Glancing to the left, Damon watched as Sedrick picked himself up off the muddy ground, helmet nowhere to be found. He gestured to Tanak who steered his horse to cover Sedrick’s back.

Not the way to keep that head, pup, Tanak jested.

You worry about my back and I’ll worry about my head, oh great dark prince, Sedrick replied keenly as he turned, blade swinging, striking down the man, Tavish, in one swift blow.

As the clang of steel echoed and sword met flesh and bone, Damon’s muscles bunched and clenched with the weight of his fury, his dragon sword singing its rhythm of death. The battle was over in moments.

Turning in his saddle, Damon scanned the lane for survivors. The eerie, silent music of death strummed through daybreak, matching the beat of each warrior’s heart. Mentally taking stock, he noted that only one rebel remained standing amidst the throng of bodies that littered the ground.

His men had done well, though he’d had no doubts in their abilities. He did, however, hope to have more men left alive so that they could be questioned. These rebels had given no quarter and chose death over capture like the fierce berserkers from the North. For a warrior, ‘twas indeed a good day to die.

Like a captured wild boar, their captive stood surrounded on all sides by armored Knights, grunting and puffing his disdain like the creature he resembled. Scraggly and grimy, the man sneered at the gathering throng, rain sluicing into the dirt and sweat that covered his body. With balding pate and scrunched-up beady eyes, he leered at his captors, wiping his brow with the tattered edge of his sleeve, his mouth scowling in abhorrence.

Bloody Norman bastards, he spat, gripping his sword in both hands before him. Ye shall all die! It was clearly a vow to rival any archangels.

Fallon danced beneath Damon’s chiseled thighs as he tightened the reins and leaned from his horse’s side, the jingle of harness disrupting the silence as he angled his sword to the man’s throat. Yield! he calmly stated, his voice a heavy whisper in the morning silence. Yield, and you shall live to fight another day! There was no note of hostility in his voice, only calmness rimmed his words. He appeared relaxed and complacent as though the man’s decision was no more than the bother of a gnat.

If the rebel chooses not to yield, Damon thought passively, his death will be quick and merciful. Aye, he’d suffer no bout of conscience for it. He hoped, however, that the man would be wise and live, and in turn, provide the answers he so desperately sought.

The ravaging of the countryside was weighing on his King and, as his champion, it was Damon’s duty to bring the rebels to justice. To end the fighting and settle peace throughout the land. ‘Twas a great responsibility for a mere man. But Damon’s shoulders, thankfully, were quite wide.

Seconds passed as the rebel assessed his odds, glancing first to the warrior who held his life against the edge of his crimson-tinged blade, then to the others who circled him, until finally returning once more to rest on the dark warrior before him. The man was huge and clearly intimidating and his beast of a horse was just as fierce. Truly, a more daunting warrior had never before existed. He had the look of the Archangel Michael sent by God, ready to meet out punishment to the wicked and seek justice for dead.

Never should have believed stupid, empty promises, he grumbled. His eyes shifted from warrior to warrior. He looked up squarely, stared each man in the eyes. Aye, Fate has definitely been a cruel and merciless wench.