by Kris Kennedy
Forbidden Warrior
Kris Kennedy
Kris Kennedy
Forbidden Warrior
by Kris Kennedy
© 2020 Kris Kennedy
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ISBN: 978-0-9971899-8-8
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form (now known or hereafter invented, discovered, beamed down to Planet Earth…you get it) without prior written permission of the author.
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The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is not only illegal, it makes it difficult to make a living. This is my job, if I don’t get paid…I don’t get paid. Help an artist out-don’t file share. If you’re dying to read the book and can’t afford it, contact me, we’ll work something out.
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FORBIDDEN WARRIOR is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental, or used fictionally.
Contents
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Renegade Lords Series
Midsummer Knights Tournament World
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
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Next Book In Midsummer Knights
Excerpt: Defiant
Author’s Notes: Forbidden Warrior
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BONUS
Get a bonus backstory scene!
See where Máel and his blood-brothers started out in the cave at Renegades Cove.
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If you’ve read Tadgh’s story in King’s Warrior, you can read about the rupture that launches his adventure. If you haven’t read King’s Warrior yet, this will whet your appetite!
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Renegade Lords Series
Forbidden Warrior part of the Renegade Lords series.
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A band of renegade princes from Ireland.
Blood-brothers.
Criminals.
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Exiled from their home, these Irish warriors set up shop in England, and they're taking customers.
Any manner of dark, nefarious deed you need done, these Renegade Lords will do it for you...for a price.
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New stories in the works!
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Midsummer Knights Tournament World
Forbidden Warrior is also part of a special, multi-author collection built just for our medieval-loving readers.
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Immerse yourself in the grandeur of a medieval tournament.
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Midsummer Knights: A Tournament World of Chivalry, Intrigue, & Passion
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Summer, 1193.
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England is in turmoil.
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King Richard the Lionheart is being held for ransom by the Holy Roman Emperor. Richard’s scheming brother, Prince John, is fomenting rebellion amid the English nobility.
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Amid the chaos, a grand tournament is scheduled in the north of England.
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The greatest knights and lords from England, Scotland, Ireland, and France have gathered to compete for a great prize.
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There will be celebrations, jousts, and feasting. It will an exhibition of warrior skills, a breeding ground for treason…and for love.
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There are seven stories in the collection. You’re going to want them all!
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Find links to all the books at our website: https://midsummerknights.com/
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BOOKS IN THE COLLECTION:
Forbidden Warrior, by Kris Kennedy
The Highlander’s Lady Knight, by Madeline Martin
The Highlander’s Dare, by Eliza Knight
The Highland Knight’s Revenge, by Lori Ann Bailey
My Victorious Knight, by Laurel O’Donnell
An Outlaw’s Honor, by Terri Brisbin
Never If Not Now, by Madeline Hunter
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Go find your champion!
Chapter 1
England
May 1193
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Máel tightened his hand around the hilt of his claymore and waited in the dark alley beside the Goat and Hound tavern, as arranged. But he wasn’t happy about it.
Firstly, all manner of mischief was brewing in England these days, and while he had no aversion to England sliding violently off the map of the known world into the raging sea, he did not wish to be around the drunken souls who washed up on its shores when it happened. Usually at places such as the Goat and Hound.
Or drunk people who washed up on any shore. Anywhere.
Or people. Ever.
Secondly, it looked like rain.
He had to admit, though, that the Goat and Hound was one of the best places to conduct clandestine meetings and deliver covert messages. Even if the message was being delivered to a peer of the realm.
Especially if it was.
He touched the hilt of his sword again. The touch was spontaneous and unintentional, the sword his private talisman. For Moralltach was more than a sword; it was a solemn oath, laid on him from his father’s dying lips.
Ruin the English.
He’d been doing his part these last fifteen years.
This mission was simply more of the same.
Treason rarely went well for those involved.
A richly attired man stepped out of the shadows. His employer, Lord Geoffrey d’Argent, Baron Ware. Two very large soldiers appeared on either side of him.
Expected. And ominous.
“You have the message?” d’Argent asked.
Máel considered the soldiers a moment, then handed it over.
“Excellent,” d’Argent said, reaching for it.
He broke the Ross clan seal and perused the letter by the light of a torch held aloft by one of his guards.
A moment later he smiled and snapped his hand up, lifting the missive over his shoulder, holding it to the torch. A corner blackened and then the whole thing burst into flames.
Máel supposed that meant he did not want evidence.
Or perhaps witnesses?
A roll of thunder broke overhead.
Máel curled his hand around the hilt of Moralltach but did not draw it. It would be far better for this man to achie
ve his treacherous purposes: overthrow King Richard and install his brother, craven Prince John.
England would hardly be able to withstand the broken truth of such a man.
Ruin the English.
In the sudden flare of burning parchment, the baron smiled. Raindrops began to fall.
“Well done, Irishman. Did you have any problems?”
“Scotland is cold,” Máel replied curtly. “And wet. And there are a great many mountains.”
D’Argent clucked his tongue. “I am sorry for your travails.”
“You’ll pay.”
“I don’t think so.”
It was at this moment Máel reflected, not for the last time, that it would have been a good plan to bring his blood-brothers Fáelán and Rowan along on this mission.
But he rarely planned. He simply acted, often in anger, always with extreme force. In consequence, the English had paid great sums of money for his services and his small band of outlaw blood-brothers had grown quite rich.
This particular situation did not look as if it would result in riches.
The skies opened and rain began sheeting down.
The baron snapped his fingers.
Máel spun, reaching for his sword, but not fast enough. There were three more soldiers in the shadows behind him, and they grabbed him and locked his arms behind his back.
He met d’Argent’s eyes as the rain beat down on them. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me,” he warned.
D’Argent stepped closer. “If you are dead, what does it matter?”
Excellent point.
The torch-wielding soldier looked uneasy at the news they were about to kill him. “But…he is a messenger, my lord.”
Máel nodded. “Aye. You don’t want to break the social code now, do you?”
This, to a man who’d hired Máel to deliver treasonous messages to the Highlands of Scotland, seeking an alliance with the rebels who were conspiring to overthrow King Richard. And then to return with even more treasonous messages agreeing to the alliance, and proposing a meeting at a tournament in the north of England come midsummer.
Fáelán had always said being able to read had its advantages.
“If you kill me,” Máel pointed out, “who will deliver your treasonous messages?”
He didn’t expect any success from the argument, but it was not meant to persuade. It was meant to buy time as he assessed the avenues of escape and weaknesses of the men holding his arms behind his back.
Unfortunately, he found none.
Again, d’Argent stepped closer. “I will simply find another outlaw, Irish. For that is all you are: an Irish criminal. I can find a dozen like you with a snap of my fingers. The only special thing about you is that sword.” His gaze slid to Moralltach. “It has some legend about it, doesn’t it?”
Máel twisted in the embrace of the guards and dropped low to escape, but d’Argent snapped his fingers again and stepped back to watch his soldiers beat Máel halfway to hell.
Two of them held him while the other two rained a hail of punches across his body, matching the rain pouring down from the skies. Then they dropped him to the ground and kicked him a few times for good measure. The fifth, torch-bearing soldier looked on doubtfully, which was no help at all.
Then they dragged him into the shadows beside the Goat and Hound and dropped him facedown in the muck.
He heard the baron say, “Is he dead?”
“He is, sir.”
“Ensure it,” the baron ordered just as the tavern door opened. A stream of drunken men staggered out. The tavern keeper poked his head out, shouting at them to move along or he would call the town watch.
“No one could have lived through that, my lord,” muttered one of his guards.
Silence, then the baron said, “Let’s go. Wait… Take the sword.”
They slid the sword from his belt and walked off.
Máel could do nothing but lay in the mud as cold rain fell on him and think about all the things that had been taken from him over the years by men like Baron Ware.
His family. His home. His lands, and the title that went with them. No one in his family would ever again be Lord of Tir na Fraoch.
But despite their best efforts, the English had not been able to strip him entirely bare. They had not taken his sword. And his father’s sword. And his father’s father’s, and so on, back into the mists of legend.
Moralltach.
He rolled painfully to his hands and knees, his body groaning. He lifted his head. Mud and blood dripped onto the ground as he stared down the street after d’Argent.
“You should have killed me when you had the chance.”
Chapter 2
Midsummer
Rose Citadel, North of England
The grand tournament was about to begin.
It was a perfect summer morn. The sky was clear and blue, the sun bright and hot, and a cool breeze lifted the pennants that fluttered from the castle walls and rustled the silken gowns worn by the noblewomen who filled the stands around the jousting arena.
Laughter was everywhere but in Cassia d'Argent's heart.
Being sold to the highest bidder did tend to put a damper on one's mood.
Ridiculous, she scolded herself.
She was not being sold. She was being...gifted.
To the highest bidder.
Or rather, to one of six high bidders, who would then have to beat all the other high bidders in a private joust. The man who won would become her new husband, and inherit the vast, bankrupt barony of Ware.
Of course, no one knew about that last part. Yet.
She was not eager to discover how her potential suitors might feel when they saw the true state of her father's ramshackle empire. Nevertheless, the title was what mattered: Baron Ware, and with it, access to and influence over the Crown. In these uncertain times, such positions were doubly, trebly important.
England’s King Richard was being held captive by the Holy Roman Emperor. His brother, Prince John, conspired with anyone who could be found—or paid—to support him.
In consequence, rebellion was practically a scent in the air, an ale that had made England drunk this past year. This tourney of Lord Yves’s was its brewing ground.
But amid the turmoil, her father, Lord Geoffrey d’Argent, Baron Ware, had stood loyal to his king.
Six feet tall and burly as an oak, he was a renowned swordsman. He might be at the southern edge of his prime, but it was still his prime, and he had stood by his captive king when so many others were tempted to turn.
It only made sense that an aspiring knight or two...or six would be maneuvering to become the next Baron of Ware.
The deals had been made and the private, elimination joust was scheduled: at dawn, on the final day of the tourney, while others battled on the mêlée field to win booty, six men would fight for the right to become her husband.
Everything about it was a dream come true for Cassia. She’d been lifted from her lonely castle to this world filled with color and music and chivalry. It was on display everywhere, in the bright tunics and polished steel of the grand knights.
It was the adventure of a lifetime. Her first and last one, and she meant to make the most of it.
And of course, she was ecstatic to be viewed as a prize to be won.
Ecstatic, she reminded herself.
A blare of trumpets snapped her ecstasy in half.
She sat in her father's box in the steep stands enclosing three sides of the main field of honor, where the opening ceremonies were being held. The walls were hung with fluttering tapestries, the seats filled with chattering nobles and higher gentry.
Villagers, merchants, and others not fortunate enough to warrant a seat in the stands stood along railings on the far side and spread out across the green fields.
Midway down the enclosure, on a raised, covered platform, sat the renowned, shadowy host of the tournament, Yves le Strange, Lord of Rose Citadel and its town, Gracious Hill.
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Le Strange was a figure of power and influence, although no one knew whether he wielded that influence in service of the king, Richard the Lionheart, or the rebels who supported the king's conniving brother, Prince John.
The trumpets sounded again, a stirring sound. Lord Yves rose.
Cassia slid forward on the wooden bench and placed her elbows on the ledge, eager to hear everything.
A hand closed on her arm, pulling her back. “Propriety, Cassia,” her father's voice came directly in her ear. “Sit back and be proper.”