DONNA FLETCHER
LEGENDARY
WARRIOR
Dedication
To my agent, Grace Morgan,
for performing miracles.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Other Avon Romances
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Ireland, 1500s
“He stands three heads above other men. His strength is that of a dozen warriors. With his claymore in hand he enters every battle without fear, devastating his enemies with a single blow and leaving in his wake death and destruction.”
The wind whistled around the stone and thatched-roof cottage, sounding as if someone cried out in fright, and interrupting the telling of the tale. The children who sat gathered at the storyteller’s feet shivered, and their eyes grew wide. The young girl nestled on the big, burly man’s lap snuggled closer to his warmth and the protection of his thick arms.
When the wind ceased its anguished cries, Patrick Cullen continued, raising a beefy hand. “His hands possess the might of one hundred men and his weapon of choice—fear.” He stopped and looked cautiously around the single-room cottage, causing the children to follow his glance, their small bodies tense, wondering, Was he near? Then he once again settled into telling the tale. “It is told that to face him in battle means certain death. No one has seen his face, for he wears a black helmet designed and crafted especially for him. It conceals all but his eyes, mouth and jaw. Men shiver and women weep in his presence, for he shows mercy to none.”
The big man held firm to the young girl in his arm and leaned forward, his deep voice a husky whisper. “Kings fear him, the Lord rejects him and the devil wants nothing to do with him.”
He leaned back in his wooden chair and continued to captivate his young audience. “It is told that he lives far north, where the winters turn bitter cold and no one dares trespass on his land. Those brave enough to seek his help pay a dear price, for he does nothing out of the kindness of his heart—but he is always victorious. He has a legion of men that follow him, follow him because they owe him their souls.”
Several mouths dropped open, and the children huddled closer to those beside them.
The man pounded the arm of his chair with a beefy fist. “Some insist he is a myth, others think he is a ghost, but he has forever been called—” He paused for a moment, and the children waited anxiously and fearfully, their breaths caught in their throats. The big man glanced at each child, then announced in a deep booming voice, “The Legend!”
Silence struck the room, and even the crackle of the fire in the hearth quieted in reverence.
John, a brave lad, spoke up though his voice trembled. “We live north and our winters are cold. Does that mean”—he stopped and swallowed hard, afraid to speak the name, so he whispered—“the Legend lives nearby?”
The man rubbed his chin slowly, and the children waited in anxious anticipation. “Could be the Legend lives not far from us.”
Reena snuggled closer in her father’s huge, warm arms. Her deep blue eyes rounded in fright as he continued to speak of the Legend. His booming voice filled the small cottage along with the warmth of the stone hearth, though shivers were common among the children when Patrick was in the thick of his storytelling.
Patrick rubbed at the stubble of gray whiskers on his thick chin. “Could be,” he nodded slowly, “that the Legend hears all and knows that we speak of him.”
Another young lad leaned forward and tapped Patrick’s leg.
“Whisper,” the tiny lad said with a finger to his lips.
Patrick nodded again, keeping his smile concealed. “A good point, but I fear he would hear us anyway. He hears and sees much.” He looked out at the anticipating sea of young faces. “I know, for I have seen the Legend with my own eyes.”
A round of gasps rushed around the room then settled, all the children eager to hear more.
“On one of my journeys I came upon a group of warriors sitting around a campfire. They looked battle worn and seemed frightened of their own shadows, jumping at the barest sound and casting anxious glances at the surrounding darkness.
“They bid me to join them as though my presence would make a difference to their safety. I did so though with a bit of reluctance, their fears contagious. I sat with them, shared their meal and waited, for what I did not know.”
“The Legend,” said Reena’s best friend, Brigid.
“Shh,” admonished John. “You speak his name too loud.”
In a solemn tone Patrick agreed with the young lass. “Ah, it was the Legend they feared, for they had recently battled with him and his warriors, and it was said that no enemy was left untouched when faced by the Legend and his legion of warriors. They told me of the battle and how in the end the Legend was left standing alone on the battlefield, dozens of dead and dying men at his feet. And while victory was his, he did not stop until every last enemy was captured, which meant the Legend was coming for them.”
Reena sat spellbound on her father’s lap and listened to him weave his magic. No story fascinated her as much as the one about the Legend. She had heard it many times, and it never failed to send the shivers through her small body or cause her blue eyes to round in fright. She held her breath, as did the other children, waiting for the moment when the Legend entered the story.
Patrick continued. “The dark woods grew silent, the chilled wind ceased blowing and not an animal could be heard.” He lowered his voice. “Then out of the darkness stepped four big men; they surrounded the camp not in haste but in confidence. They drew not a single weapon; they simply stood and waited.”
The children huddled closer together.
“Then as though the black night gave birth to him and spit him forth from its belly, the Legend appeared.” Patrick closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head and shivered. He opened his eyes and looked at each child. “He was a giant of a man and looked to have the strength of twenty. His metal helmet gave no hint to his features, and every man there shivered in fright, for no one knew what the helmet concealed. Was he man or beast?”
More gasps circled the room.
“With fearless strides he advanced on the battle-worn warriors, and they instantly fell to their knees begging for mercy. The Legend raised his hand and pointed to the darkened woods. The blackness swallowed the men whole as they marched one by one into the woods, not a protest made. The Legend followed last, but not before he glanced at me; his look warned me that I should not follow. I bowed my head, rubbed my chilled hands together near the fire, and when I raised my head, all were gone. I knew then why the Legend was feared; he feared none, not man, not beast, not God.”
“I never want to meet the Legend,” Brigid said and moved closer to huddle against Patrick’
s leg.
“Nor do I,” echoed another child until there was a resounding chorus of agreement from all the children.
Reena joined in, echoing the same sentiments. “Never, never do I want to meet the Legend.”
Chapter 1
“You cannot do this, Reena,” Brigid begged her best friend. “It is not a wise choice.”
“It is the only choice I have.” Reena stopped packing the cloth sack with the few food items she had managed to scrounge together. With a heavy sigh, she lowered herself to the wooden chair at the table in front of the hearth—an empty hearth—leaving the small cottage cold, though it was but early autumn. What would happen when winter set in with all its force and fury?
“The villagers are starving and there is not enough firewood for the winter—” Reena suddenly grew silent.
“It is not your fault,” Brigid insisted. “The new earl has caused our hardships.”
“True, but who in the village is strong enough to stop him from causing more harm? And who is left to protect you?”
Brigid sat and fought the torrent of threatening tears that ached to spill. “I cannot believe my John is gone.”
Reena said nothing, the memory of Brigid’s tragedy fresh in both their minds.
The tragic day had brought a horrible change to their prosperous village. All had been well in the small earldom of Philip Kilkern, earl of Culberry. He had been generous to the tenants who farmed his land, and the land had prospered along with the villagers. But two summers ago, the day after Reena had celebrated her twenty-year, the earl had taken ill and died within the week. With no immediate heirs of his own, his land passed to his nephew.
Peter Kilkern arrived in the village that fateful day in early afternoon. The sun was bright, the sky a brilliant blue and the crops grew fat in the fields, which meant there would be a bountiful harvest and more than sufficient food for the winter.
The villagers had gathered to share the midday meal, talk, laugh and hear Patrick Cullen tell a tale or two. They watched as Peter Kilkern rode in on a fine steed, looking as if he was prepared for battle, wearing fine body armament of leather and metal. He had dismounted his horse with ease and stood tall and straight, his six feet or more height impressive as well as the strength of him, his bulk being more muscle than fat. He had sharp features, his nose narrow and ending in a defined point, his lips thin and his dark eyes intent, as though with one swift glance he could take in all and know all.
Reena remained by her father’s side, though he blocked much of her slim body with his bulk. She appreciated her father’s protective stance, for she shivered at the sight of the new earl.
Peter Kilkern introduced himself and announced in a clear crisp tone what he expected from his tenants. “I care not how hard you work or what revelry you make, but my fee for farming my land will be seventy-five percent of all harvested crops.”
The crowd had gasped, and he in turn had silenced them with a raised hand. “I am not finished.”
The crowd’s mumbles faded, and it was with heavy hearts they continued to listen.
“Tenants will not be allowed to hunt on my land—”
That was when Brigid’s husband John spoke up.
“How are we to live?”
Peter Kilkern turned glaring eyes on him. “Who asks this?”
John stepped forward without fear. He was a large man in height and width, and handsome. All the women in the village had vied for his attention, but he had lost his heart to Brigid, for how could he not? Brigid was beautiful, tall, slim, long reddish-blond hair and the face of an angel.
“I am John, and we have lived well under Philip Kilkern’s fair rule, and his lands thrive because of our care.”
Peter Kilkern’s voice turned harsh. “My lands best continue to thrive because of your care. And you will not hunt off Kilkern land; the animals are for my hunting and feeding pleasure, not yours.”
John tried to reason. “Your land stretches far and wide; it will take days for us to reach land where it is permissible to hunt for food.”
“That matters not to me.”
“How can it not?” John asked. “Do you not care if your tenants starve?”
Peter Kilkern’s dark eyes glared like an animal ready to attack. “You dare question me?”
Brigid stepped forward, her instincts to protect her husband, but Reena’s father stilled her steps with his large hand and whispered, “Do not be foolish.”
John kept his tone calm and reasonable. “Hungry tenants cannot work hard.”
Peter Kilkern advanced on John. “Tenants work hungry or not.” And to everyone’s horror, and before anyone could react, Kilkern pulled his knife from its sheath and struck at John, slicing his arm open from shoulder to wrist.
“No one is to challenge my edicts,” the man raged, his face red with anger.
Brigid screamed and ran to her husband as several men nearby reached out for John as he dropped to the ground in agonizing pain.
Brigid had worked frantically to stem the bleeding and to piece his savaged arm together. Fever soon set in, and within a week John died, after having suffered greatly. Everyone in the village had offered Brigid their help, but that winter proved difficult for all. There was barely enough food to feed everyone, and without game from the surrounding woods, many went hungry. Reena’s father had gone hunting in an attempt to find food; he suffered a broken leg, and by the time he managed to return to the village, his leg had begun to heal, though not properly. Her father lost much weight, and now he walked with a severe limp that limited his ability to farm the land.
Reena had taken over her father’s farming chores, but they proved more demanding than she had expected. Average in height and slim, she had never lacked strength or fortitude in completing any task, but the constant struggle with the land overwhelmed her, and she began to lose weight until she barely resembled herself. Her once full breasts shrunk to a mere handful, her curving waist, which had flowed to curving hips, were no more, and her face had lost its fullness. If it were not for her long, shiny black hair, many would think her a young lad; it fell to the middle of her back and was straight, not a curl or wave to it. She wore it tied back, rarely pinning it up, preferring it loose and free.
When possible, she had helped Brigid attempt to keep up the parcel of land that John had so successfully cultivated. There were many nights when she had been too exhausted to eat and fell into bed only to begin her arduous chores again at sunrise. The second winter proved more disastrous—several older villagers died, along with two babies, barely two years.
Reena could not, would not allow another horrendous winter to pass. All the villagers had worked together to help one another, giving food to those who had none, helping to farm another’s plot along with their own, but it had taken its toll, and they were beginning to hoard their food for themselves for fear of starving.
It could not go on, especially with what had recently happened to Brigid. Peter Kilkern had mostly kept to himself, his men keeping count of the tenant fees paid with the harvest. One day Kilkern rode up on his steed as the villagers arrived at the keep to pay their fees. Brigid had been among them, and her beauty had caught his eye. He had approached her and made it known that she would do well to please him, for then she and her friends would not go hungry.
Reena knew that her friend considered the option. So many people were suffering, especially the children. What did Brigid have to lose now when a part of her had died with her husband? And she did not wish to see Reena’s family suffer any more than they already had. Her father was crippled and her mother rarely left her bed. Reena was the only one capable of taking care of her family, and she planned to do just that.
“I cannot let you do this,” Brigid said with a determined swipe at one last stubborn tear on her damp cheek.
Reena stood and continued packing the cloth sack. “And I do not want you selling yourself to the man who killed your husband to keep me and my family fed or any of the village
rs from starving.”
Brigid reached out and grasped her wrist. “Think about what you do.”
“I have thought. I have thought long and hard, and it is the only chance for us all to survive.”
“You do not even know where to go.”
“But I do,” Reena said as she reached in the sack and pulled out a rolled piece of parchment. She spread it out on the table, moving the sack to the side and placing the candlestick with the half-burned wick closer so that Brigid could see clearly.
“A map,” Brigid said, surprised, and looked more closely at it. “A good one too, so it must be one of yours.” Her fingers traced the intricate lines and drawings.
Reena smiled, something she had not done in many months. But then drawing maps brought her much pleasure—at least it had before Peter Kilkern had arrived. When she had grown old enough to travel, she had accompanied her father on his mapmaking expeditions, and he had taught her well the ways of recording the land. Reena possessed a natural ability to draw and had an acute eye for detail and memory. She’d remembered much of what she had seen on her travels and had recorded all she could.
Her father and her travels had come to an abrupt halt when Peter Kilkern had arrived. There had been no time for anything but work, and when her father had suffered his broken leg, they’d both known that he would never again map any lands, far or near.
Patrick attempted to encourage his daughter to continue her mapmaking skills. He would whisper at night when her mother was asleep that she should go and travel and not return home.
She understood that he wanted her safe and happy, but she could be neither if she left her family and friends behind to suffer, especially when she had it in her power to help them.
“How do you know this map is accurate?” Brigid asked. “You have never been there.”
“But I have,” she said with a sad smile. “My father’s tales have taken me there so often that I know the way without even glancing at the map.”
“Then you also recall that anyone that trespasses on his land suffers a terrible fate.”
Legendary Warrior Page 1