“It’s Charles, Mummy,” the boy said, his eyes wide. “Why is he back so soon?”
Remington’s heart softened at the sight of her seven-year-old son. His beautiful sandy-blond hair was tousled, as usual,and his eyes were alive with apprehension. Eyes the color of his mother’s. “I do not know, Dane. But I intend to find out.”
Jasmine did not say a word, looking at her eldest sister for decisions and comfort. At twenty-six years, Remington had seen more of life’s heartaches than most women twice her age and was inordinately wise. But there was far more to Remington than her wisdom and intelligence; surely a lovelier woman had never existed, as her late husband had sworn just before he beat her within an inch of her life. Her hair was a chestnut-auburn color, but not just any plain shade; it was a miraculous myriad of golds and reds, intertwining and dancing in the light, playing off of her natural curls and falling to her buttocks. It could be an unruly mass but she never bothered to tie it back; she loved the feel of it on her neck. Her skin was as white as pure cream and her eyes, with her thick, dark lashes and peachy-colored lips, made her beauty truly striking.
As beautiful as Remington was, she was terribly vulnerable when it came to men. The only men she had ever been close to had ignored and abused her, and she was absolutely terrified of the opposite sex. All except for her beloved son, Dane. The lad was her assurance that there truly was a God.
They all made their way down to the massive double bailey of Mt. Holyoak. The fortress was intricately constructed thanks to her husband, for the man was a military fanatic and demanded the most secure and fortified fortress in all of England. Only a mile from the Irish Sea, he was paranoid as well, and was sure the Celts were planning on an eventual invasion and he was determined not to be caught off guard. The fortress was so fortified it could have held off Hadrian himself, even with a skeleton guard.
Mt. Holyoak sat on a natural hill, a hill whose sides had been planed down to create a fifty-foot drop all the way around the fortress that plunged into a manmade moat below. The only wayin, and out, of the fortress was a narrow road that led from the village up to the massive drawbridge.
Charles made his way up the road, thundering across the drawbridge and into the outer bailey, drawing his steed to a ragged halt. Old men and aged soldiers were there to greet him, taking hold of his horse and helping him dismount. Remington, clutching Dane’s hand, was at his side.
“Charles!” she gasped. “What’s wrong? Why have you returned so soon?”
Charles was exhausted; his young face was creased with dirt and fatigue as he met Remington’s inquisitive gaze. “I bear news, Remi. Catastrophic news.”
Remington felt bile rise in her throat and her palms began to sweat. She hoped she could open her mouth to speak without vomiting. “What news, Charles? I would hear it.”
Charles was distraught. “Oh, Remi, ’tis terrible. I met up with several of Henry’s men at an inn, not far from here, and they told me the news. I had to return,” he put his hand on Remington’s arm, his gaze painful. “He’s coming, Remi. He’s coming to Mt. Holyoak.”
Remington was not only terrified, she was puzzled. “Who is coming?”
Charles swallowed hard, “The Dark One. The Dark Knight.”
Remington gazed back at him a moment; hearing his words but not yet feeling the full impact. She was expecting to hear that her husband was returning home; instead, she was hearing something completely unexpected. Her mind went to mud and she was having difficulty understanding him.
“The Dark Knight?” she repeated. “Charles, what are you saying?”
Charles sighed with exasperation. He was terrified and distraught and couldn’t understand why Remington wasn’t feeling the same way.
“The Dark Knight,” he insisted. “The man who single-handedly won the war for the House of Tudor. Henry calls him the Dark One. ’Tis said he is in league with the devil.” He squeezed her arm. “You have heard of him, Remi. Guy mentioned him to you in his missives.”
Remington gazed back at Charles apprehensively, her eyes widening as realization dawned. “De Russe?”
“Aye,” Charles explained, relieved she was beginning to see the gravity of the situation. “Sir Gaston de Russe is coming to Mt. Holyoak.”
Remington’s mouth went agape with shock. “My God,” she breathed. “Why on earth would the man come here?”
Charles shook his head, his exhaustion draining his energy now that his news was delivered. “I do not know. But he is coming. What are we going to do?”
Remington had no idea what to do. What could they possibly do? Women, children, and old men up against the Dark One?The Dark Knight!The man who betrayed Richard at the end and fought for Henry Tudor instead, turning the tables at the Battle of Bosworth, defeating the Duke of Gloucester.
Fear swept her. De Russe would tear them apart if they showed any resistance and well she knew it.
“Did you confirm this information, Charles?” she asked. “Did you seek out anyone of authority of ask?”
Charles shook his head. “Nay, I did not. The knights who gave me the information said they were in de Russe’s personal guard. Do you know that de Russe has a personal knight corps of forty men?”
Remington did not care about the Dark Knight’s personal corp. She was still focused on Charles’ first answer. “Then you did not verify the information? What if they were lying, Charles? Mayhap he is not coming at all.”
Charles looked deeply hurt that she would doubt his judgment. “They were powerful knights, Remi. I believed what they told me. Do you not trust me?”
She had not meant to offend him. “Of course, Charles– ’tis the knights I do not trust. They might have been trying to stimulate the young man’s imagination. Is that not a possibility?”
He shook his head slowly. “Nay, Remi, ’twas no falsehood they told me. I would stake my life on it.”
Remington stared at Charles a moment longer. “Did they say when?”
