DEMETRIUS
BARBARA DEVLIN
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2016 Barbara C. Noyes
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Barbara Devlin
The Brethren of the Coast Badge is a registered trademark ® of Barbara Devlin.
Cover art by Lewellen Designs
ISBN: 978-0-9962509-4-8
TITLES BY
BARBARA DEVLIN
BRETHREN OF THE COAST SERIES
Enter the Brethren (Brethren of the Coast 1)
My Lady, the Spy (Brethren of the Coast 2)
The Most Unlikely Lady (Brethren of the Coast 3)
One-Knight Stand (Brethren of the Coast 4)
Captain of Her Heart (Brethren of the Coast 5)
The Lucky One (Brethren of the Coast 6)
Love with an Improper Stranger (Brethren of the Coast 7)
Loving Lieutenant Douglas: A Brethren of the Coast Novella
BRETHREN ORIGINS
Arucard (Brethren Origins 1)
Demetrius (Brethren Origins 2)
KATHRYN LE VEQUE’S KINDLE WORLD OF DE WOLFE PACK
Lone Wolfe
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my husband Mike, because he’s definitely my one true knight.
DEMETRIUS
PROLOGUE
La Rochelle, France
The Year of Our Lord, 1302
Two road-weary travelers, a wide-eyed young couple returning from a pilgrimage to Santiago, sought refuge behind the trunk of a large tree and clung to each other. Given the woman was heavily pregnant, and the duo journeyed on foot, as was often the case with the poor but faithful, they could not evade the robbers, bent on thievery, who preyed on the vulnerable. It was for that reason Templar Knight Demetrius de Blackbourne had been tasked with ensuring safe passage of worshipers en route to La Rochelle, along the old Roman road that led to Talmont, where most devotees crossed the Gironde estuary and continued down the coast to Irún.
Sworn to an austere existence and a life of service, he engaged two masked bandits intent on mayhem. As one boothaler attempted a flanking maneuver, the other charged, and Demetrius struck down the approaching malefactor with a single vicious sweep of his sword and then lunged at the second. As he made to sheath his weapon, a feminine shriek had him turning on a heel, just as a third assailant launched an attack against the husband.
Wielding a rudimentary battle-axe, of a sort, the assaulter crouched, as he prepared to pounce, and Demetrius had little time to react. With both hands, he grasped the hilt and swung hard and fast. The enemy loomed as the specter of doom, and he might have presented further peril, in light of his proximity, if not for the fact that he had no head atop his shoulders. In a peculiar dance, the body listed in the gentle breeze for what seemed an eternity, until it collapsed in a heap on its side.
“Gramercy, good sirrah, as thou hast, no doubt, spared us from an otherwise unpleasant fate.” The dusty gadling drew his bride from the ground. “But I am Hamund, this is my wife Josina, and we are grateful for thy intervention on our behalf.”
“I am Demetrius, and thy thanks are unnecessary, as it is my duty.” Demetrius dipped his chin, as he always found such praise a tad embarrassing and altogether dissonant, given he did naught more than fulfill the obligation of his oath and office. “Now, mayhap ye should take my horse and journey to La Rochelle, and I shall walk.”
“But—what of the criminals?” Josina frowned, as Demetrius lifted her to the saddle of his destrier. “Art thou not afraid for thy person?”
“What have I to fear, as I am reconciled with Our Lord and Savior?” He chuckled in the face of her naïveté. “And I am a Templar, thus I will not fall.”
“If thou wilt convey Josina to La Rochelle, I will follow at a stiff pace.” Hamund removed to the verge. “Perchance thou mayest return for me, anon, Sir Demetrius.”
“No, Hamund.” Josina appeared near tears. “How wilt thee protect thyself, as thou hast no means of defense? Wilt thou make me a widow? Wilt thou orphan our babe ere it is born?”
“Cease thy arguments.” Without ceremony, Demetrius grasped Hamund by the collar of his tunic and threw him atop the mount. “Ride for Vauclair Castle, and summon Sir Arucard.” With that, he slapped the flank of the horse, which bolted with its passengers.
Alone, Demetrius doffed his helm and rubbed his temples. To his chagrin, his magnanimous gesture just earned him a long and lonely stroll to the city, and he hoped to make it to the bastion before nightfall.
After about an hour, which he surmised based on the sun’s path in the sky, he paused for a brief respite and sat on a large rock. In that instant, he regretted not removing his leather bag filled with Adam’s ale, as the trek inspired great thirst.
“A pleasant eventide, Sir Demetrius.” A frail old woman, gray-haired and haggard, appeared in the lane, and he started. “Permit me to share my water with ye, as thou art parched from thy noble labors.”
“Who art thou?” For some reason he could not explain, he reached for his sword. “And whither didst ye come from, given we remain some distance from La Rochelle?”
“Rest easy, brave knight.” With a toothy grin, she cackled. “Thou hast rescued my daughter and her husband, and I would express my appreciation and discharge their debt.”
“But I am a Templar, thus I am owed naught.” Despite his trepidation, he accepted the skin. To his surprise, the drink was cool and refreshing, and he poured a measure on his face. “Thank ye, dear lady.”
“It is Yordana, great one.” She bowed. “And thou art but a man, so I will settle the account with a shiny and delicate bauble for thy wife, and thou wilt not deny me.” From her fitchet, she produced an extraordinary brooch such as he had never seen. “Yet I should warn ye not to underestimate the power of the precious gem, as it holds the gift of sight.”
Marked by an Egyptian influence, the strange item, fashioned of gold in an egg-shaped design, displayed four round rubies and a large oval-cut sapphire. Ornate craftsmanship bespoke the talents of a master goldsmith, as intricate etching of a lotus blossom and a lotus in buds adorned the unusual badge.
“It is quite beauteous, Yordana.” Demetrius caressed the smooth edge and turned what he suspected was a rare artifact in his palm. “But, as I am a Templar, I have taken an oath to maintain spiritual purity and chastity, thus I shall never wed.”
“Ah, but what I know of thy future portends otherwise.” Yordana covered his hand with hers. “Thou dost have dark days ahead, Sir Demetrius, as thou dost call friend those who would smile to thy face and sink their sword in thy back. But fear not, as thou wilt not meet thy end on these shores. Rather, thou wilt rise again, and a mighty legacy is thine to claim, if thou wilt but seize it. And know thy bride-to-be is thy equal, in every measure.” Yordana squeezed his fingers. “Remember this, if thou dost recall anything of our meeting. Ye lady what dons this brooch of ethereal sight shall enjoy unfettered dreams of her one true knight.”
Hoofbeats rumbled the earth beneath his feet, and he peered up the road, spied his fellow Templars, waved a greeting, and glanced at Yordana. “The troops arrive—” To his infinite shock he discovered she had disappeared. He glanced left and then right, but the woman was gone.
“I have word of a w
eary wanderer who lost his way.” Arucard de Villiers, the Grand Prior of La Rochelle, chuckled as he reined in his mount. “And, oh, thou art weary, brother.”
“Very funny.” For a few minutes, he scanned the area and checked behind some dense foliage, but Yordana was nowhere to be found. “Didst thou see an aged matron on the route?”
“Nay.” Shifting in the saddle, Arucard arched a brow. “Wherefore dost thou ask?”
“Oh, it is naught.” As Demetrius collected his destrier, he noticed Hamund accompanied the knights. “Is thy wife in fine health?”
“Aye, Sir Demetrius.” Hamund dipped his chin. “And I must again express my appreciation of thy service, faithfully rendered, as thou didst deliver us.”
“It is my honor.” From his perch, as he heeled his stallion, Demetrius inquired, “Dost thou originally hail from La Rochelle, and is Josina’s family nearby?”
“Actually, Josina was born in Paris, but she has no surviving relations, as she was an only child, her father passed of a fever when she was but three, and Yordana, my bride’s mother, died six years ago.” Hamund brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and smiled. “We moved to this region because hither reside my parents and siblings.”
“A very sound decision.” For a scarce second, Demetrius pondered surrendering the peculiar brooch, but how could he explain the means by which it came into his possession?
Studying the intriguing piece of jewelry, Yordana’s words echoed in his ears: Ye lady what dons this brooch of ethereal sight shall enjoy unfettered dreams of her one true knight. As his position precluded the possibility of romance, and he preferred the singular status, it seemed sad to waste such splendor. Yet the brooch would languish in his keep, because Demetrius would never wed.
DEMETRIUS
CHAPTER ONE
The Year of Our Lord, 1313
The cold November wind blew in from the Thames, and Demetrius hunkered beneath a blanket, as he sheltered in his small tent. Tossing and turning, sleep did not come for him, even though he was tired after a sennight and three days on the road. Mayhap it was the purpose of his journey that rendered him restless and unable to relax.
It was only last month that he received the King’s command to wed, and Demetrius dreaded the task. As a former Templar knight, he had been born to a life of devotion and service, and unlike his brothers in arms he preferred the simple existence. But his once illustrious order was no more, and he had sold his soul to England, in exchange for a new ailette, which bore the wind-star design of the Brethren of the Coast, a fledgling band of warriors sworn to protect the Crown.
The position suited him, as it seemed so similar to his previous existence—until the opposite sex entered the picture. Was it not enough that Arucard took a wife? And Demetrius had no complaints regarding Lady Isolde, as she was a fine woman, but he simply had no need of such a creature.
His stomach growled, and he rolled to his side. Hungry, he peered at the tiny brazier, which he used whenever he traveled, and stared at the orange glow of embers. A loud rumble pierced the quiet, and he tossed aside the covers and foraged for his bag of brewets, his favorite fare, which Isolde had cooked prior to his departure from Chichester Castle. He suspected it was a consolation gift to ease the sting of his impending nuptials.
As he relished the thin slices of spiced beef, seasoned to perfection, he hummed his appreciation. “Ah, thank ye, Lady Isolde.”
“Hello?” an unknown person called, and Demetrius’s horse whinnied. “Thither is someone to offer a measure of respite for the less fortunate?”
“Hither am I.” Retrieving his sword, he untied the flaps of his temporary accommodation, and snow battered his face, as he spied a diminutive shadowy figure amid the gale. “Who art thou, and wherefore art thou on foot?”
“Oh, good sirrah, I am most grateful for thy company, as I lost my mount and know not whither I have ventured.” To his surprise, his unexpected visitor was a woman, and her velvety voice was soft and appealing to his ear. “Might I take refuge with ye, until the morrow? I promise, I will not disturb ye.”
“Of course.” Yet she already disturbed him. As would a chivalrous knight, he stowed his weapon, led her to his pallet, and tucked the blanket about her legs. When she drew back the hood of her cloak, rhyme and reason fled his brain, and he gawked at her beauteous visage.
With thick blonde hair, a heart-shaped face, and vivid green eyes, the lady was a vision, and the matrimonial state struck him as far more engaging, if he could ensure a maiden like her was part of the bargain. Alas, it was not to be, and he sighed, as he feared his bride-to-be had more in common with the whore Morgan recommended to school Demetrius in connubial activities, and he shuddered at the mere thought.
“My, but that smells delicious.” His fascinating guest admired the brewets, and he reconsidered his assessment. “Did ye cook them?”
“I do not perform such toils, as that drudgery is women’s work.” After fetching another cloak, he huddled near the brazier, as the gale lashed the canvas, and offered her some food. “So what is a young maiden doing, alone, in this uninhabited area?”
“Can I trust ye?” She glanced at his sheath. “As it is a very great secret.”
“I give ye my word, as a Nautionnier knight, I will guard thy confidence.” How charming she was, as she blushed. “Thou art no criminal, are ye?”
“Oh, no.” With a nervous laugh, she averted her gaze. “But I am running away.”
“From what?” Ah, they were a pair, but he enjoyed no sanctuary.
“An arranged marriage.” His gut clenched, given her declaration, and a mighty frown marred her lovely countenance. “I have spent the better part of my years at the convent in Coventry, and I want naught more than to serve Our Lord, for the remains of my days. But my father died, and my brother, bent on attaining political prestige, negotiated a contract, which I rebuke.”
“Thine is a noble endeavor.” And how he approved of her uncommon sense, which mirrored his own. “I applaud thy fortitude and courage, to remain true to thy dreams, and I share thy partiality for a modest fate.”
In that instant, she smiled, and he would have swore the sun shone in his tiny abode. “Pray, sir, what is thy name?”
“I am Demetrius.” Now a union with her did not strike him as so bad, as he could do worse. An image of the snaggle-toothed Matild flashed before him, and he winced. “And thine?”
“Thou mayest call me Lily, as do my friends.” She untied her cloak, revealing a swan-like neck and an ample bosom, not that he took much note, sampled the brewet, and moaned. “I should be honored to count ye as such, and this is delicious.”
“What is thy destination?” For some reason he could not fathom, he wished to know her plans, even though he it improbable they would ever meet again. “Given thou hast no means of travel, how wilt ye make the trip?”
“I know not, but I will not go back to London, and no one can force me.” Lily studied him, and he shifted beneath the weight of her perusal. “I intend to join the abbey at Rochester and, if they permit it, make my final profession of vows. Then I shall have what I have always desired, an austere life spent in service to the poor and hapless.”
“I am humbled by thy virtue, fair Lily.” In that he did not lie, as he might have found a rare equal to Lady Isolde, and yet his incomparable charge belonged to another. “Mayest I inquire after thy age, as thou dost seem quite young, despite thy wisdom?”
“I am seven and ten, sir.” She sniffed, and he spied tears, which she tried but failed to hide. “Far too old to be a new bride.”
“Wherefore canst thy brother not see that?” Demetrius snickered. “As thou art almost middle aged.” No doubt that falsehood would haunt him.
“Thank ye, and thou art truly the most intelligent man of my acquaintance.” And then Lily sagged, as a flower thirsting for water, and she yawned. “My, but I am tired.”
“Wherefore dost thou not rest, while I stand watch?” At her expression of skeptici
sm, he chuckled. “Dear Lily, I will not harm ye, as I could have done so, already, if that were my aim. Wilt thou not trust me, as thou hast availed thyself of my hospitality, and I have asked naught of ye?”
“Well, I suppose I should sleep.” Her thickly lashed lids drooped, and she dozed almost as soon as she reclined on his pillow.
Captivated by the magnificent creature, he looked his fill while she was unaware, as never had he spent so much time alone with a lady of her estimation, and her mouth held him spellbound. The hours ticked past, as counted by the moon’s journey across the night sky, and soon a thin sliver of shimmering gold appeared on the horizon.
Demetrius had just relaxed, when the rumble of hoofbeats brought him alert. Grasping his sword, he checked on Lily, but she did not stir. After shrugging into his heavy cloak, he untied the flaps, bent, and stepped outside.
The King’s guard approached, and a familiar guise led the patrol. When Briarus, the Crown’s faithful messenger and sergeant, waved, Demetrius responded in kind. The men drew rein, and Briarus extended his hand in friendship.
“Good morrow, sirrah.” Demetrius considered his impromptu guest and realized he needed to divert his comrades, as he would not ruin the unlucky lady. “It is remarkably pleasing to see ye, but what manner of mischief brings ye beyond the borders of London, proper?”
“I am about the Sire’s business, and it involves ye, Sir Demetrius, and a misplaced mate.” Briarus untied his leather drinking bag. “But I have been searching these hills since last night, and I cannot return without my ward.”
“Sir Demetrius?” Rubbing her eyes, Lily appeared in the opening of his tent, and Demetrius cringed. “Thou art a servant of the realm?”
“Great abyss of suffering, thou hast solved my dilemma, my friend. Wherefore didst ye not tell me?” Briarus signaled his soldiers, and they marched on the wayward waif. “At last, I can go home to a hot bath, a warm bed, and amiable companionship.”
Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2) Page 1