Spectre of the Sword

Copyright 2008
by Kathryn Le Veque
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Printed by Dragonblade Publishing in the United States of America

Text
copyright 2008 by Kathryn Le Veque
Cover copyright 2008 by Kathryn Le Veque

For Rob – because the Tour de France went
through Navarre the year this book was written

'Nothing
in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?'

~
Percy Bysshe Shelley

CHAPTER ONE

Year of our Lord 1203 A.D., November

Hyde House, London

“Take her, du Bois.” The
command was a staccato hiss. “Even as we speak, there are assassins are her
tail.  You should have been out of here an hour ago.”

A massive knight with
brilliant blue eyes was in motion before the command left the old man’s lips.
In the dark corridors of the manor house with its mossy walls and cracked
floors, he took the small lady by the arm and pulled her towards the stairs.
Behind him, the old man who had issued the orders followed on their heels.

“You must leave London
this night,” he went on, almost tripping as he took the steps too fast. “I’ve
arranged a safe haven for you in Ealing at Courtenay’s lodgings, but that is of
course providing you can even make it there.”

They reached the bottom
of the steps, continuing back into the bowels of the neglected old house. 
There was a sense of urgency in the air, bordering on panic.  The knight felt
it, even without the elderly man shuffling along behind him or the snarling
lady in his grip.  But he was a professional, a knight born and bred.  He would
not allow the fear or panic to touch him.  He had a job to do.

“I can make it to
Ealing, my lord,” he assured the old man in a tone that suggested no counter
comment. “But your men must buy me some time.  Just enough time to get her out
of London is all I need.”

“No promises, du Bois.
Be on your way.”

The old man followed the
pair into the kitchen; the hollow chamber would have been pitch black had it
not been for the torch the old man was carrying.  As knight grasped the iron
latch that would lead into the kitchen yard where his charger wait, the old man
reached out to grab him.

“Rhys, listen to me,”
the man’s eyes, yellowed with age, bore into him. “I realize this is sudden and
I further realize that until a few hours ago, you had no knowledge of the
political upheaval transpiring.  But hear me and hear me well; this is a
mission in which you must not fail.  If you do not get this lady to safety,
much will be lost.  England will be lost.”

Rhys du Bois gazed into
the elderly man’s eyes as they reflected the torchlight.  Hubert de Burgh was
an old man now, having served his share of Plantagenet kings.  He was the Chief
Justicular of England, wielding as much power as the king himself and this
mission was no folly. As Rhys opened his mouth to reply, the front door to the
manor house swung open, spilling forth a collection of men in wet armor.  They
brought torches with them and more weapons.

 Rhy’s first instinct
was to go for his broadsword until he realized that he recognized the men. The
group headed towards him, splattering rain on the floor and walls.

“Rhys,” the big man in
the lead spoke. “Why have you not left yet? We’ve already had two groups of
assassins killed within a half mile of this place. You’d better leave right
away and we’ll do what we can to cover your retreat.”

“We were just leaving,
my lord,” Rhys assured his liege. “The lady had a bit of a… delay.”

The group of knights
came to a halt. Two or three ran up the stairs with weapons drawn as a couple
ran past Rhys and Hubert and the lady, throwing open the door and entering the
soaked kitchen yard.  Lightening flashed, showing their heavy broadswords
poised and ready. They were looking for a fight, waiting.

The big knight flipped
up his visor, his sky blue eyes fixed on Rhys. “What delay?” he demanded
softly. “This is no time for foolishness, du Bois. You must remove the lady
immediately.”

De Burgh cleared his
throat softly, eyeing both Rhys and the cloak-covered lady. “It was not du
Bois’ fault, Chris,” he said quietly. “They lady was… well, she was….”

A portion of the cloak
suddenly flew back and the figure beneath was revealed.  Luscious golden-red
hair was bunched up around her slender shoulders, the face of an angel evident
in the weak light.  She would have been an exquisitely beautiful creature had
the countenance of her face not been so dark.  Her dark green eyes flashed
furiously.

“I was locked in the
closet,” she announced. “If those murdering blackhearts want to kill me, let
them try. They shall have to get to me first.  I was perfectly safe until de
Burgh and his guard dog wrested me from my place of safety.  And now they want
to take me out into this horrific weather where all manner of creature can take
aim to kill me? ‘Tis lunacy!”

Christopher de Lohr,
Earl of Worcester and Hereford, gazed at the angry little woman before him.  He
tried to keep his cool, knowing time was of the essence.   Besides, having a
wife with much the same flaming disposition gave him the practice of keeping
his calm when faced with a furious female. Still, it was a struggle.

“Lady Elizabeau
Treveighan,” he greeted her calmly. “Allow me to explain the situation to you. 
You are in serious jeopardy. As the daughter of Geoffrey of Brittany and now
the only surviving child that is not in captivity with the passing of your
half-brother Arthur, you are the target of your Uncle John’s madness because
you have been declared Arthur’s successor to the throne. Do you understand
this, my lady?”

Even angry, she was a
delectable little doll.  Her sweet face was scrunched with rage. “I do not want
to be his heir,” she snapped. “What of Eleanor? She is Arthur’s older sister.
Give her the throne; I do not want it.”

“What you want is of no
matter,” de Lohr replied evenly. “Eleanor of Brittany is, even now, a captive
at Corfe Castle. If we do not remove you to safety, you too shall be either
murdered or captured.”

There was more fear in
her features than true anger. “But Eleanor is the true heiress.”

De Lohr sighed
patiently. “But you are free.  Eleanor cannot be Richard’s successor while she
is bottled up in Corfe’s dungeons.” He took another step in her direction, an
enormous man with an intimidating manner. “By virtue of the fact that you are
not captive or prisoner and by virtue of the fact that you are Geoffrey’s sole
remaining living child, you have been named successor.  You must accept this
and I promise that we shall all get along much better.”

She wasn’t happy in the
least; her expression said so. “I would know who made this decision that I should
take Arthur’s place and not Eleanor. Who on earth has the power to make this
so?”

De Burgh interjected. “I
did, my lady,” he said softly. “While John lives, only madness shall rule in
England.  The country will not survive. We need a true and noble ruler, my
lady. We need you.”

The anger faded from her
features, replaced by some trepidation.  “But I am not a true royal,” she
insisted, more softly this time. “I have not been groomed for this duty.”

“You will be.”

The way de Burgh said it
made the statement sound as if there was no argument.  Even de Lohr looked at
him as he spoke the words; there was power and decision in them.  They all knew
the stakes.  They were the opposition to the crown; this was treason of the
highest order.

Elizabeau knew it too and
the more she thought on it, the more frightened she became.  But she refused to
let them see her fear. “If that is so, then why you are sending me out into the
dead of night with only one man for protection?” she asked. “Every man under
John’s belt is out to carve a piece of me.”

De Lohr cocked a blond
eyebrow. “You have been pledged to a nephew of Emperor Otto the Fourth, a
marriage which will solidify the unity between The Holy Roman Empire and
England.  France will be boxed in from both sides with The Holy Roman Empire to
the east and England to the West.  The emperor’s troops will help us secure
your throne once the marriage has taken place. Phillip’s power will be
seriously limited and your Uncle John will be neutralized.”

Elizabeau gritted her
teeth impatiently. “I know all of that. But you still have not answered my
question.”

“And what is that, my
lady?”

“Why are you sending me
into the dark with a lone knight for protection?”

De Lohr, who had once
been the right hand of Richard the Lion Heart and the man known throughout the
realm as the King’s Champion, cast a long glance at Rhys.  The man is in for
one hell of an experience with this one, he thought dryly.

“This isn’t simply a
lone knight, my lady,” he said after a moment. “The man holding you within his
grasp is one of my very best.  Make no mistake; he is a man of great experience
and strength.”

“He is a mere knight.
How dare you trust my life to someone so… so simple.”

De Lohr held up a
finger. “Ah, that is where you are grossly mistaken, my lady,” his reply had an
edge of sharpness. “The knight you have just insulted is the fourth son of the
Duke of Navarre. He has lineage and nobility to match your own. If I were you,
I would have a little more respect.”

Elizabeau inevitably
looked up at the man holding her arm; he was in full armor, a broad bear of a
man made more enormous by the protection he wore.  All she could see, and all
she had ever seen of him since they had been introduced a scare half-hour
earlier, were his eyes, nose and part of a mouth beneath the mail and
three-point helm.  Everything else was covered with well-used armor or buried
under layers of dirks and weaponry. 

She locked gazes with
him, eyes of the most brilliant blue she had ever seen.  They were so bright
that they glowed. There was a strange jolt to the moment, as if something was
buzzing inside her head, and she quickly tore her gaze away.  The brilliant
blue eyes of the knight were unnerving. In fact, the entire evening had been
unnerving and she was struggling with her equilibrium.

“Then I apologize,” she
said, though it was not directed at anyone in particular.  “But I simply do not
understand why I am not kept here, under guard. Surely it will be much more
difficult to kill me if I am locked up in a fortress.”

De Lohr was finished
discussing the subject. He snapped his fingers at Rhys, who began walking
again. “I will meet you in Ealing,” he told du Bois, eyeing more knights racing
from the front of the house and through the kitchens. “For now, I will hold
back the pursuers. But I cannot guarantee that you will not be followed. You
will have to be vigilant.”

Rhys nodded sharply.
“Understood, my lord.”

Elizabeau opened her
mouth to protest but Rhys jerked her into the through the kitchen door and
silenced whatever words she had been preparing to spout. De Burgh and de Lohr
followed.  

It was pouring rain as
he led the lady out into the elements.   The kitchen yard was full of mud,
horses and armed men as Rhys leaned over and swept the lady into his arms,
lifting her up onto his destrier.  He did not handle her gently and she glared
at him as he roughly settled her. But he ignored her as he mounted behind her,
adjusting his stirrups to account for his altered position in the saddle.  The
lady tightened her cloak against the weather.

“Lady Elizabeau,” de
Burgh was standing next to her left leg, watching her fuss with her hood.
“Please understand that we are doing this for your own good.  You must make
your rendezvous with your betrothed and de Bois is ordered to escort you there.
This marriage must take place if England is to survive.
You
must
survive.”