Authors: Elizabeth Rose
Tags: #historical, #historical romance, #series, #lord, #castles, #medieval, #sorcerer, #servant, #medieval romance, #shapeshifting, #raven, #blade, #legacy of the blade
Lord of the Blade
Lord of the Blade
By
Elizabeth Rose
Copyright © 2013 by Elizabeth Rose
Krejcik
Smashwords Edition
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Cover by Elizabeth Rose Krejcik
Background image provided by Shutterstock
Books in print by Elizabeth Rose:
Kyros’ Secret (Sapphire award finalist)
The Oracle of Delphi
Thief of Olympus
The Pandora Curse
Eden’s Garden
Ebooks:
The Caretaker of
Showman’s Hill
Dedicated to my husband, Michael.
Thanks for all your support and patience
through the years.
This book is where it all began!
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Devonshire, England, 1351
The heavy iron bars that protected St.
Basil's groaned with protest. Two Benedictine monks clad in black
robes kept their heads covered as they slowly pulled open the gates
of the monastery.
Corbett, lord of Steepleton, tugged
impatiently at his leather gauntlets and shifted in the saddle atop
his black steed. He felt the eyes of St. Basil's cathedral staring
down at him. Gleaming shards of colored glass made up two huge
windows, a rare and precious gift bestowed upon the church by his
late father, Lord Evan Blake.
The monks moved slowly, dragging the heavy
rails over the dusty cobblestone entrance-way. Corbett willed the
men to move faster so he could be done already and away from this
place. His horse threw back his head and whickered, leaving a trail
of frosty air in front of him. The sun was just coming up in the
distance, peeking through the trees, bringing life and color to the
land leading up the cliffs of Steepleton. Blake Castle sat high in
the distance, towering over the monastery and little cottages of
wattle and daub that dotted the fields of crops and livestock. The
dusty road spiraled through his demesne, past the manor house of
his bailiff and up to the castle.
"Lord Steepleton," came his squire's voice
from directly behind him.
Corbett turned his head slightly to speak
with his fair-haired squire of twenty summers who sat mounted on
his own horse with the Blake banner in his hand.
"Delwynn, I've asked you time and again not
to call me Lord Steepleton."
"Many pardons, Lord Corbett. I think I will
never feel at ease with this familiar way you've asked for all of
Devonshire to address you."
"I strive to make my people feel more at
ease while in my presence. I'm not sure how I've attained my horrid
reputation of being so black-hearted, would I could change it."
"Aye, m'lord. Not to mention a good
disposition may help you find a woman before ’tis too late."
"I've got more women than I want, squire.
What I need is a lady. Now stop the idle chatter and lift my banner
higher. We're amongst commoners and I demand the respect of a lord
of my position."
"Aye, m'lord."
Corbett watched the flag atop the long pole
fluttering in the cool breeze. There flew his family crest, an
argent eagle on an azure field. The bird's wings were spread,
talons ready to attack. He almost felt talons of his own under his
gauntlets as he thought of the dream that had brought him here. He
hated this mission but had to do this, or be haunted the rest of
his life.
He turned back toward the gates. A ray of
sun hit the stained glass of the cathedral just as he edged his
steed forward. He couldn't help but fasten his gaze on the glowing
reds and oranges, the winking ambers that only reminded him of the
fires of hell. A threatening sight considering he sat there feeling
no better than the devil himself.
The tack trailing down the sides of his
stallion jingled as he edged his way forward. Shod hooves echoed on
the stones behind him and with a quick tug to the reins, his horse
obediently stopped short.
"What troubles you, m'lord?" his squire
asked, his hand gripping tightly to the bannered pole. A blond curl
fell over one sleepy eye, and with a puff of air from his mouth he
blew it away.
"Why do you say that, squire? Do I look to
you like a man who harbors guilt?"
"I said naught of guilt, m'lord, but spoke
of trouble only."
Corbett realized his own accusations had
betrayed him. Guilt indeed, along with a bit of premeditated
trouble, had been haunting him for some time now. And he couldn't
help but feel somehow he was to blame.
Three times King Edward III had chosen
Corbett's betrothed, and three times the ladies died before ever
making it to the altar. He wondered inwardly if his own thoughts
were the true cause of their demise.
His squire leaned forward in the saddle,
leather creaking as he did so. He spoke with concern. "I know you
must be in mourning, m'lord. But the plague has left England and
cannot take with it another of your brides."
"Mourning?" Corbett almost laughed at the
mere thought. King Edward's idea of a wife for him consisted of a
twice-widowed elderly woman, an abnormally overstuffed flirt and
the fourth daughter of a no-land lord. True the latter was comely,
but hadn't a dowry worth two shillings. Nay, he would have a virgin
to bear his heir, someone who would obey and cling to his every
word and with a dowry fit for a king.
Relieved was a better word to describe his
feelings about that particular problem. And trouble was the exact
word to describe what would happen to him if he didn't find a wife
soon.
No wife - you lose your land and title. And then Blake
Castle shall be given to the baron's son, Lord Malcomn.
King
Edward's warning was branded in his mind. Corbett would do anything
to keep Blake Castle now that he was lord, including marrying
someone he didn't love. But she must be worthy. She must be a
noble. She must be someone who would clear the sullied Blake name
and bring respect back to his family.
Corbett had been Lord of Steepleton for
three years now, and he would be damned before he gave up his lands
to his foster brother Malcomn. But his time was running out. He'd
been granted the right to choose his own wife as King Edward
refused to send another lady to her death by insisting she marry
the cursed black-hearted lord of Steepleton, as he'd been
tagged.
The bells of St. Basil's brought Lord
Corbett's attention back to the matter at hand.
"Wait outside the gates for me," he
instructed his squire. "I'll speak with the old mid-wife and we'll
be on our way."
"Aye, m'lord." Delwynn backed his horse
away, and Corbett ventured inside.
As the gates squeaked closed between them,
the cry of his raven cut the moist morning air. The raven's cry was
known to all but him as the call of death. He held out his left arm
clad in black leather and continued to ride, not wanting to look
upward. He'd never quite forgiven God for letting his father die
two months after he was stripped of his title. Corbett couldn't
help but think his father's death is why his mother died as well.
He was convinced she died of a broken heart, leaving her newborn
twins to the nursemaid who'd stolen them and boarded a ship abroad.
The ship sank, and with it the occupants. His baby brother and
sister never had a chance.
But as cruel as God was to him, he at least
still had his sister and best friend, Wren. Or so he had thought.
When Wren disappeared in the woods years ago, never again to be
found, Corbett knew God was still punishing him. The only thing he
could do was to right the wrongs of his father.
But he didn't belong anywhere near the place
of God nor did he want to be. He felt uncomfortable and resentful
inside the monastery's walls. He should have sent a messenger in
his place.
But the dream told him he had to come there
himself. It had been so vivid. The girl with the long mahogany hair
and emerald green eyes had appeared to him again, begging him to
find her. One too many times he'd seen her suffer. One too many
times she'd reach out and call for his help before she slowly faded
and he awoke in a sweat. Last night was different. Last night her
surroundings weren't so foggy. This time he recognized Saint
Basil's cathedral behind her, staring down at him as if to tell him
she was hiding within.
He watched a shadow as it moved along the
stone walls of the church and closer to his own heavy heart. The
restless voices in his head were almost a comfort to the vow of
silence that was strictly enforced inside these holy walls from
dawn until dusk. He wondered how his uncle, Brother Ruford, could
endure the life of a monk. Ruford was the last living male Blake
besides Corbett. A waste as far as he could see. But the man wasn't
cut out to be a warrior and Corbett knew inside the monastery's
walls was the only place for such a gentle man. Now it was on
Corbett's shoulders to carry on the Blake name.
The gliding shadow descended upon him. With
a flap of wings, a large raven landed with practiced stealth and
made its perch upon his arm. Several monks with scrolls in hand
walked the cloistered pathways, scattering out of sight and
blessing themselves at the sight of his scavenger bird.
The bells continued to chime as he made his
way to the little shack that lay concealed inside the monastery
behind walls of its own. She had to be hiding in there. It was the
only place he hadn't gone since he ruled as Lord of Steepleton. And
the old midwife had to be a part of it all somehow. He could just
feel it was true.
Corbett turned his head slightly toward the
bird on his arm. "Let's go get her, shall we?"
The bells of St. Basil's were ringing when
morning mass was already finished and mid-day prayers didn't start
for hours. Devon knew this could only mean one thing. Someone of
importance had entered the monastery's walls.
She dropped her basket of herbs and gathered
up her cotehardie, running to the old garden wall. Climbing the
trellis effortlessly, she poked her head over the top and scanned
the cloistered walkways of the monastery with eager eyes.
Clinging to the twisted vines, she tried to see past
the columns of stone to the front gates, but couldn't. Inwardly,
she cursed the way she'd had to live for the last eight and ten
years. Safe inside the walls of the monastery, yet imprisoned from
the rest of the world.
The clip clop of hooves on the cobblestone
walkways sounding closer, Devon's heart skipped a beat as she
thought of life outside those walls. She thought about the
marvelous sight of Blake Castle in the distance, and wished she
could live like the titled ladies and eat food fit for the king
himself. Even the beggars who waited at the castle's gates for the
discarded trenchers, old stale crusts of bread, had seen more of
the world than she had and even seen what lay inside the castle's
walls.
She saw his slight shadow on the ground in
the late winter sun before he even rounded the corner. It looked to
be a man atop a horse, a bird perched atop his outstretched arm. At
first she guessed the visitor to be a falconer or perhaps a
traveler, as the monastery provided shelter for those who
asked.
The rider emerged and made his way to her
own little hut of wattle and daub. Her heart raced as she saw the
man’s bird was not a falcon at all, but a raven. This was the lord
of Blake Castle, and he rode directly toward her hut as if it were
his intent.