“Do you know what it says?”
“It says ‘everything leads me to thee’.”
The teacher looked at young David with shock. “That’s what he said,” she exclaimed softly. “David, how did you know that?”
David gazed up at the teacher and the docent with his dark blue eyes and shrugged. “I just do,” he replied. “He carried it with him all the time, didn’t he?”
Peter was impressed with the young man’s apparent knowledge of the Irish rebel. “He did,” he confirmed. “Do you know much about Devlin de Bermingham?”
David shook his head as he looked at the cases with all of the items that seemed oddly familiar to him. He had no idea why and, being nine years old, didn’t give it much thought. But he had an odd sense of déjà vu. Still, it wasn’t particularly concerning. He wanted to go see the Medieval weapons.
The boy wandered off, leaving the teacher and docent standing at the case, looking rather perplexed. Peter wriggled his eyebrows.
“How on earth could he see what that cloth says?” he wondered. “You can’t tell that just by looking at it. It’s very faded and torn.”
The teacher shook her head, a lingering gaze on the case. “Who knows?” she said. “He’s always been a bit of an odd duck. He’s had violent outbreaks at times and when we’ve met with the mother to discuss them, she says he has violent dreams as well. Battle, death, destruction, and a particular hatred for England.”
Peter shrugged and they began heading back over to the Medieval weapons case. “Perhaps he’s just a good Irish rebel,” he said.
The teacher grinned as they came upon the children, who were very excited by the Medieval swords and weaponry. “I suppose that’s true,” she said. “Maybe there’s a little Black Sword in every Irish boy.”
* THE END *
Author’s Note
I hope you enjoyed Black Sword’s story!
The Celtic tribes of both Ireland and Scotland are closely connected, with subtle differences. In my research for this novel, I discovered that the term clan, used for both Irish and Scottish family groups, was actually spelled clann in the High Middle Ages when referring to the Irish as a plural for the collective group of families usually with a surname beginning with “Mac”. After the seventeenth century, the term clann was changed to sept, which sometimes scholars still refer to them as.
As with Scotland, the term “Mac” meant “son of”, and “og” meant “of” – for example, MacKinnon (son of Kinnon) or og Michaleen (of Michaleen, usually the father). They wore tartan, too, but they had a specific tunic that was identified as strictly Irish, a long garment called a leinte.
What else as different with Medieval Ireland as opposed to Medieval England? Well, they ate very well – evidently, the Medieval Irish were culinary experts and they very much enjoyed their well-prepared dishes, especially fowl. No potatoes, of course, because they didn’t come along until centuries later, but there were cabbage, carrots, onions, beans, peas, and other vegetables that were common in England, too.
I have taken liberty by placing Kiltimon Castle into the story about two hundred years before it was actually built. There is some speculation that there was some kind of fortification on the site prior to 1500 A.D., but not the castle we see today. Black Castle, however, is a real place with a real history. Check it out sometime – it really did belong to Kildare!
And what about Devlin and Emllyn… their beginning was rough, no doubt. Did he rape her? That depends – at the time, that wasn’t considered abuse. It was considered claiming a prize, so you have to take it in the context in which it was intended. That’s how wives were claimed in many cultures. But did Emllyn have Stockholm Syndrome, relating to her captor as she did? Absolutely not. She figured out how to survive, and then she figured out what made de Bermingham tick. After that, she discovered the man beneath the legend and fell in love with him.
Please find all of my novels online. Please visit my website and www.kathrynleveque.com and sign up for my blog.
Thank you for reading!
THE DARKLAND
A dark and twisted Medieval Romance
By
Kathryn Le Veque
Author’s Note
This novel was written several years ago, parts of which were lost to a faulty hard drive. The majority survived intact but I needed to rewrite a few lost chapters. Not a difficult task; however, I questioned even publishing this book because in re-reading it, I discovered it to be much darker and stranger than I had originally thought. I must have been on drugs when I wrote it – and I don’t even do drugs!
That being said, don’t be shocked at anything you read in this novel. It’s an out-of-the-box and out-of-my-mind dark Medieval romance. Unconventional. If things like sexual relationships between step-siblings (non-blood related) and murder bother you, then don’t read the book. These things weren’t unusual in those dark times. But if you have the guts, keep an open mind and discover that the heart and soul of this novel is a truly passionate love story with a hero to die for and a very happy ending. I have a feeling that this is one of those novels that people are either going to really love – or really hate. The opening scene following the prologue is probably one of the funniest you will ever read. But after that, it gets fabulous… and strange. It is what it is, and I make no apologies. But I do offer this warning….
Beware of The Darkland.
PROLOGUE
She had died like all the rest.
A cowering, foolish woman that was unable to accept the mastery of Man’s strength over her fragile female souls. Not that he enjoyed killing; in fact, were it not for Johanne, he would not have killed at all. But these women, the dead ones, had been a threat to her delicate composition. And he knew he had to do away with the threat at any cost.
Johanne had wished them away, these dead women. Wished them away so that their sweet words and gentle caresses would no longer be known to the one she loved. A secret love, twisted and dark, but a strong bond that grew stronger with each successive death.
He smiled as he watched the silk-clad body sink beneath the waters of the pristine lake. It was the third lady this year to meet such a fate. And perhaps this death would deter other foolish women from pursuing the object of Johanne’s love, thinking that somehow a curse was attached to the man. Left alone by the throngs of adoring admirers, Johanne was convinced the object of her desire would finally succumb to her attentions.
His smile faded as a soft mist began to fall. He could hear the birds in the trees, the whistle of the breeze through the moist foliage. Another storm was on the approach that would churn the waters of the lake and bury the body forever. And he was not sorry, not one bit. Certainly, no one should know what he had done.
No one but God. And the Lord would forgive, perhaps with enough penitence. As the man turned from the lake and made his way through the damp meadow, his thoughts turned from the dead lady to the warmth of Johanne on this wintery night. Most pleasant when the weather grew unfriendly and the temperature dropped. Johanne, his lovely step-sister, would warm his bed.
He simply couldn’t explain the relationship between them. The need to dominate, to consume her. Since the moment her budding breasts had been evident, he had taken her into his bed and convinced her that this was where she belonged – with him, a man with whom she shared the same father. The only man who truly loved her.
Still, he was not the man she loved. He knew that and he didn’t care. The dead women had been lusting for the true love of Johanne’s life and he had listened night after night as his sister cried for a man who hardly noticed her. Therefore, to ease her pain, it had been necessary to do away with the foolish wenches. Another control he had over a woman he was completely obsessed with.
Even so, he knew the man of Johanne’s dreams would never return her affection; a man like Kirk Connaught would be interested in a woman with beauty and spirit, which ruled Johanne out entirely. Her beauty was average and her spirit dark. She was si
ck in the mind, his sister, and everyone knew it, especially Kirk.
The rain was falling steadily by the time he reached his steed, tethered to an oak tree. Mounting the beast, he made haste for Anchorsholme Castle, known throughout southern Lancashire as The Darkland. The House of the Death.
With good reason.
CHAPTER ONE
Lancashire, England
January, 1515 A.D.
She had seen them coming from the distance, a hundred tiny specks against the dead winter landscape. Three massive chargers and a host of soldiers advanced like an incoming tide, the dust from their marching feet creating puffs of gritty haze. As the sky above darkened ominously, so did the lady’s mood.
But she was determined to welcome the army in spite of her apprehension. After all, they were coming for her and she could not refuse them. Whether or not she was willing to accept her destiny was of little concern; the soldiers had come to take her, and she would not resist. Unlike someone else she knew, with far too much defiance for such a lovely young creature. In the face of a horde of weapon-wielding men, the lady could only pray that the stubborn stance would not bring about the death of her only sister.
A biting wind was howling from the battlements by the time the soldiers entered the shabby bailey. The lady wait patiently on the steps of the manse, watching the three knights survey the crumbling surroundings before disbursing themselves. Two went to secure the courtyard while the third, a massive man astride an enormous red charger, rode in her direction. The lady could feel chest tighten with foreboding as he drew near.
When he came within earshot, she folded herself into a proper curtsy. “My lord.” She could hear the quaking in her voice. “I am the Lady Micheline le Bec. Welcome to Haslingden Hall.”
The knight raised his visor, eyeing the woman in the faded blue cloak. “I am Sir Kirk Connaught, captain of Anchorsholme Castle.” His Irish brogue was thick and deep. “I bring you greetings from your betrothed, Lord Edmund de Cleveley. As stated in the missive sent to Haslingden three days ago, the fulfillment of your betrothal contract came due on your eighteenth birthday, two weeks ago. Do you acknowledge these terms, my lady?”
Micheline kept her eyes properly averted. Even so, her apprehension was obvious. It seemed to cover her like a blanket. “I do, my lord.”
There was something in her tone as well as her manner that went beyond the natural fear of her destiny. Something Kirk was unable to put his finger on and he tore his gaze away from the lady, noting his small escort had easily taken control of bailey. In fact, he could count on both hands the number of Haslingden soldiers and servants and he gestured to the slovenly group.
“How many will be accompanying you, my lady?”
Micheline looked up from the muddy ground, staring at a man the size of which she had never seen before. He was so large he seemed to blot out the sky and the Irish brogue was both fierce and intimidating. Everyone knew that the Irish were the ruthless sort, and the knight before her certainly fit the mold.
“Just me,” she stammered. “And m-mayhap another.”
Kirk looked at her as she choked on her words, noting the flush to her cheeks. “Mayhap another? You are uncertain?”
The mottle in Micheline’s cheeks deepened. In spite of the cold weather, she was beginning to sweat.
“I-I am afraid that….” She swallowed hard, fixing him in the eye for the first time. And the strong glimmer in the stone-gray orbs was enough to jelly her spine. “That is to say, my sister does not wish to come, my lord. I have spent the better part of three days attempting to convince her, but she refuses to see reason.”
Kirk remained emotionless, but he could see that the situation was causing the woman a good deal of distress. No wonder he had sensed more than the usual level of anxiety in her manner. “I see,” he said. “Why does she refuse to accompany you?”
Micheline sighed, hoping her sister’s resistance would not send the man into a rage. But, then again, where Mara was concerned, anything was possible. “She says that she is not the one betrothed to Lord Edmund and should not be forced to live at Anchorsholme Castle. It is her wish to be left alone at Haslingden, in peace.”
Kirk scratched beneath his helm in thought, giving Micheline a glimpse of rich dark hair. “How old is your sister, my lady?”
“Seventeen years, my lord.”
That seemed to draw a reaction from Kirk. “Impossible. You are her guardian, are you not?”
Micheline nodded. “Since our parents’ death one year ago, it has only been the two of us.”
He snorted. “Then she cannot stay. She will come to Anchorsholme Castle as the ward of Lord Edmund.”
He moved past the trembling lady and into the threadbare foyer of Haslingden. It was a cavernous place, hinting at the luxury of days gone by, but now, it simply looked old and worn. The stench of poverty was everywhere. As Kirk’s gaze moved over the dingy stone walls, Micheline was on his heels.
“My lord, I beg you, permit me to persuade her,” she pleaded fearfully. “She can be most unreasonable and… impudent. I fear she might offend you with her bold tongue.”
Kirk tucked his gauntlets into the folds of his breastplate. His armor, heavy plate protection of the latest style, glimmered in the dim light. “Where is she?”
Micheline was close to tears. “Please, my lord. I beseech you….”
Kirk turned to the woman, swiftly. “I would ask again where she is. Have faith that I can be quite convincing when the situation requires, bold tongue or no.” He paused, realizing he sounded rather harsh from the expression on her face. His next question was more gently delivered. “What is her name?”
Micheline twisted her hands with anxiety, wanting to protect her sister but unwilling to disobey a man the size of two average men combined. Fear won over and weakly, she gestured to the stairs, a great stone bank that disappeared into the second floor.
“Her name is Mara,” she murmured. “Last door to the right. She responds better to calm reasoning than outright violence, although the latter is acceptable if all else fails.”
Kirk cocked an eyebrow at the strange statement. Mounting the stairs, he found himself wondering what sort of she-cat he would be dealing with. Stubborn, young, and no doubt spoiled. A nasty combination.
The big oak door indicated by Micheline was firmly closed. And firmly locked. Kirk rapped his knuckles against the panel.
“Go away!” came the shout.
He sighed; obviously, his assumptions had been correct. Stubborn, willful, petulant; he could deduce everything simply by the tone of her voice.
“My name is Sir Kirk Connaught,” he announced. “I have come to escort you and the Lady Micheline to Anchorsholme Castle. Will you come peacefully?”
There was a long pause, and no doubt a surprised one. After a moment, the voice that had once been a distant bellow was somehow closer. But the door remained locked.
“I am not going to Anchorsholme Castle, Sir Kirk.” The shouting voice was now sweet in tone. Disarming if he would allow himself to think so. “I am sure my sister explained that I wish to remain at the home of my birth. There is no reason why I need go to Anchorsholme Castle.”
“No need except for the fact that you will be completely alone, unchaperoned, and unprotected.” Kirk leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms wearily. It had been far too long a ride for him to spare patience to an unyielding girl. “Does this not concern you?”
“Nay,” she said flatly. “I do not need anyone to take care of me. I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“I am sure that you are. But your sister is distressed at the thought of leaving you behind. Will you not come for her peace of mind?”
There was a stubborn pause. “Nay.” She was very close now. He guessed she was leaning against the closed door. “Micheline will have a new husband to occupy her time. She will soon forget her concern for me.”
“I doubt that.” Kirk found himself wondering if the lady on
the opposite side of the door was as plain as her sister. Certainly, her voice was terribly delicious and the pleasing tone alone was enough to ease his irritation. “Lady Micheline demands you attend her. As her betrothed’s captain, it is my duty to see her wish fulfilled. Do you understand?”
There was a long, long pause. When the voice spoke again, it sounded as if it was on the other side of the room. “I understand perfectly. And unless you want a battle on your hands, I suggest you forget about fulfilling my sister’s wish. I am not going.”
Now he knew what Micheline had meant by acceptable violence. The young lady on the opposite side of the door was in need of a good spanking. And when he opened the panel, he planned to do just that.
“I am afraid that you are,” he said, his rolling Irish accent low and steady as his irritation returned. “Unlock the door, my lady. If you do not plan on obeying my request, then you will kindly step away from the panel as I break it down.”
He could hear her shriek of outrage. “Break it down and I… I shall jump from the window!”
“’Tis a long way down, lass. Opening the door would be less drastic.”
Behind the closed panel, he could hear a good deal of muttering and bumping. In truth, he had to fight off a smile at her pluck. She was certainly feisty in the face of a violent threat.
“Do you hear me? Open the door or I shall break it down this instant.”
More muttering, more grunting. “I am jumping now!”
He cocked an eyebrow. He couldn’t be positive that she wasn’t bluffing and he certainly did not want her death on his hands. Standing away from the door, he raised a massive boot and lashed out at the bolted panel. In an explosion of splinters, the door came apart and Kirk was into the room before the wood had even settled.
He was concerned when he discovered the room empty. Rushing for the window, he was confronted by a rope of bed linens, secured to the heavy bed on one end and then disappearing out the lancet opening. Puzzled, he grasped the rope as he stuck his head from the window to see what was on the opposite end of the line.
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