Chapter One

 

Britannia, September, 1067

Darkness lost its hold over the land in a fleeting obsidian moment. The pallor of death hung heavy in the eerie silence as the depth of night’s darkness receded in an ashen haze. The only sound that shattered the stillness was a mother’s somber wail as she clung helplessly to her child’s corpse. Her own wounds severe, death’s cold fingers gripping tightly, her tears of anguish trailed across the beaten and bloodied brow of the child. In the steel-gray dawn, her sobs echoed through the burning village and coalesced with the wind’s sadness. Then this, too, was silenced as she drew her final breath.

Moments hung suspended, the sun sweeping the horizon in a glistening saffron blaze before shadows swept the land, plunging it into darkness. In the graying sigh of dawn, the warriors stood tensely at the forest edge, horse and armor unmoving shadows waiting for the signal to charge. Like ghosts of mist hidden within the foliage, they watched with eyes the shade of vengeance as the small town of Baldock lay in a smoldering ruin. The smoke became the specters of the dead, swirling with the heavens like the open arms of beckoning angels. The wind moaned the wail of the wounded and pierced the dawn like a chorus of demons.

As though match struck to tinder, the tiny huts billowed with blackened smoke and swirling flames. The fire, glistening orange and crimson, became a beast of blaze in the darkness, reflecting harshly on the bodies that scattered the flat of the land. Carrion for the circling vultures, the wounded and dead lay where their last steps had taken them.

Thick clouds gathered in a moody sky tinged with purple darkness. The rain that held throughout the night chose this moment to fall from the heavens. It was as if God was trying to wipe away the destruction that had been left to congeal in the crimson pools beneath the bodies littering the once peaceful valley.

Along the edge of the tree line, a dark form sat rigidly atop his warhorse, watching in wordless contemplation. In deathlike stillness, he waited for his faceless enemy to emerge from the burning village. His eyes, the frigid color of a frozen winter sky, keenly scanned the smoldering landscape. Determination creased his brow and his jaw clenched in silent fury.

Damon DeGracey, The Dragon of Blackmoor, waited with controlled vengeance, a caged ferocity worn beneath the flesh like a demon of the soul.

They had spent weeks under the cover of darkness, making their way to Baldock. Blending with the shadows, they had tracked the rebels with the stealth and cunning of the wolf, prowling after prey, jaws slathering for the taste of blood. They had followed as their enemy fled from town to town, killing all who crossed their path, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Yet, forever they had remained one step ahead, one day beyond the enemy’s grasp, on a seemingly endless journey.

In the rain-darkened morning, the village appeared even more desolate. The smoke mixed with the darkening sky, causing the air to turn to a rancid gray mass. Streets ran red as rain merged with blood, pooling in the muddy lanes. The pall of Hades hung in the air like dead men from a noose.

One more village destroyed and countless innocent lives decimated, Damon thought sourly. His anger had carried him through the weeks of ceaseless tracking. This same anger danced through his thoughts, provoking him to wonder if these were the rebels responsible for the ambush to his family as they traveled from London to Blackmoor Castle in the recent weeks that had passed.

Like a haunting specter, the vision of his mother, Lenore, slight of figure with a mound of riotous black and silver curls hanging softly around her small, round face, clung to the shadows of his mind. His sister, Camille, an innocent reflection of his mother in her youth, both lying on the roadside with their throats slashed, blood pooling beneath their bodies, flashed before his eyes like a never-ending nightmare. The horror was still vivid. The loss of his mother and sister pained him gravely. He was awash in a sea of regret.

He had finally given into his mother’s yearning for a reunion. She was ailing, her husband long dead—and good riddance—her daughter needing the care and protection of family. A brother she had never met would be perfect for the role—a Knight in the King’s service, a proven warrior and conqueror of men—who better than he to be her guardian when their mother’s passing came.

No more than a toddler with insurmountable fears clinging to his frail and youthful body, he had watched his mother, framed in the door of the great hall, the first light of morning streaking across the sky, her tears matching his own, before he was forced to ride from the bailey, never to see her again. He never truly understood until many years later why he had been sent from his home, away from his mother and the love he would never know.

He’d heard the stories. Whispered rumors of his father being a cuckold to their marriage. Damon, the bastard of an adulterous union, while his father was off warring. When he was born and grew and resembled his father not—his days became numbered. It left his mother little choice. If she wished him to live, she would send him away and speak no more of his birth, or he would die at the end of her husband’s sword.

She had little choice.

Over the years he would wake deep in the night, tears silently rolling down his cheeks, yearning for his mother’s arms to hold him, for her to console him through the nightmare which had somehow become his life. But she was never there. The nights grew and the days passed, making him weary of trusting others. Life had taught him much harshness. It taught him that love was fleeting and that this also could be taken from him at a moment’s notice. He eventually grew too old for those tears, leaving in their stead, an eternal ache beneath the surface—a brevity and long suffering moroseness that had become an innate part of his soul.

He turned that ache into darkness. An infallible warrior he’d become, strong and ruthless in his fury, an excellent tactician in warfare, a worthy champion for any King. Yet his bitterness he buried deep. His anger became a festering wound and he’d vowed he would never forgive his mother. He would make sure never to cross her path or make her aware of his accomplishments. He vowed he would never lay eyes upon her again.

Yet he did see her again, on one or two occasions over a great many years. The first was soon after he’d earned his spurs. A young and virile youth filled with hatred as cold as the finest tempered steel, he had watched her and her husband from across a tourney field. His ire was immense upon seeing them dressed in their finery, socializing with the lord and lady who had sponsored the games.

Loathing had consumed him as he watched her from a distance while she laughed and chatted with the others who’d come to enjoy the games. She appeared serene and jovial, no cares in the world to worry her. Obviously no cares for the son she’d abandoned, sent away at her husband’s orders on that day so long ago. He left before she could take notice of him.

Many years had passed before he saw her again. And even then, he had refused to speak with her, to even acknowledge her in any way. She had abandoned him for her own needs and purposes, left him to the care of others, never to seek him out, until recently. His anger still festered with the thought of responding to her request, but respond he did.

She had sent him a letter soon after the battle of Hastings, requesting a meeting of great importance. She had told him her husband was dead, and she was dying. Told him of a sister whose protection was needed, a sister he’d never met, nor had he known of her existence. Despite his bitterness, he had reluctantly agreed. The years had been hard on him, creating a man of extreme strength and steadfast knowledge. And despite his feelings for his mother, his own anger and contempt, he could not knowingly leave his sister to be left to the care of others.

He was sent word that they were to arrive at Blackmoor within a fortnight. He’d made all the arrangements himself, advising his staff of the addition to his keep, sending some of his own men to meet them halfway, taking care to be gone himself upon their arrival. Their journey had ended on a darkened road just miles from the outskirts of his lands. He had received word soon after.

Who had done these things, and why? The question still lingered, twisting and turning with fury, stoking the darkness emblazed upon his soul. Was there cause to look within his new household—a keep given to him by William himself—or was his family’s death, in fact, random? Should their destruction be included with the treachery that lay siege all around? There were no simple answers. Only the pain and devastation remained to numb him, to eat at him slowly like a plague of the soul.

He gripped his reins more tightly, keeping his steed firmly under control as he watched the village burn. He waited and silently wondered at all the possibilities. Taking note of all the angles, he searched through his current list of enemies, which seemed to grow with each day that William was in control of England, and considered those whom he’d not considered before. In a chilling rush, before his anger and frustration could fully consume him, his contemplation ended as his enemy emerged from dawn’s dark haze.