Dark and Stormy Knight by John D. Wolf

From the Publisher

Split an arrow and see how James I became King.

This adventure runs the gambit from 1565 to 1569 to establish an heir to the English Crown before Elizabeth passes. Historians know the salient milestones, but aren't sure the path taken. This tale combines elements of secret agents and medieval romance, concerning a time-traveling knight, dispatched to adjust history before it skews. Spies spy, greedy bishops lie, swords, and archer's arrows are thrown voraciously into those battle torn days that made history. This story is best read with a pint of ale in one hand.

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Read a Sample Chapter

A Dark and Stormy Knight

Infinity Publishing

Chapter One

Glimmering shafts of light flickered through the trees that were emanating from his armored breastplate as he passed. These eerie pin-points of brilliant light pierced the night, lighting the way, and illuminating clouds of steaming breath that was forced from the nostrils of the powerful horse with each rhythmic set of hoof beats. There was just enough moonlight to bring this engine of power into focus as the knight and horse dodged in and out of forested shadows.

This was no ordinary sight in 1565 on the moors of England, north of York. First of all, moving fast at night through rutted pathways and unlit forest bogs was considered very dangerous indeed. This knight had advanced technology for his time. In fact, he was from another time and place.

He slowed his stead to a trot as he neared his destination. He stopped beside astone wall and looked down at Castle Brookside, a sturdy but not ostentatious residence in the country side of northern Yorkshire, near the small village of Helmsley. He dismounted swiftly and pulled a crossbow from a leather tube attached to his saddle. The bow was swiveled and locked into place. The cord was pulled back with an odd grinding sound, coming from an internal mechanism. The bolt emerged from the inside of the stock piece and popped into place. It centered itself in shooting position. He steadied his aim on the stone wall and released the bolt. It sizzled through the air, spitting water from its feather fletches and imbedded itself into the door of Castle Brookside with a dull thud. He quickly broke down the weapon, stored it, and mounted his stead. He turned westward and thundered into the darkness. The fading sound of hooves, alternating, splashing, and thumping on wet and muddy ground until only the rustling leaves from the midnight gusts of wind could be heard. All was quiet again. The only witness was a barn owl in a large oak tree. Like duty calling, he gave out a low hoot, hoot as if to say, go away and stay away, you treacherous villain.

Chapter Two

As his mind cleared, he noticed the flickering of moonlight coming through the wavy glass window in his room. A candle was in order. Andrew withdrew only the parts of his body from the warmth of his bed that was necessary to light the candle. The candle sputtered as moisture retreated from the flame of Andrew's splinter. He kept the fine splitters in a tightly sealed wooden box to avoid moisture, but had failed to place the lid on last night. Luckily the coals in his warming pan were hot enough to catch the sliver of turpentine filled pine.

The candle seemed monetarily blinding until Andrew's eyes adjusted to the flame's light. He was alone in an otherwise large, dark pile of elegantly arranged stone masonry walls with only one window and one door. The window was ajar as it always was for a little relief from the less than fragrant air contained within the musty walls of this country manor.

What had hit the door so hard as to wake the dead? Andrew slithered from his covers into a thick woolen robe, somewhat damp from the night air. His feet slipped into fleece lined short boots. A chill went through his body as he began to walk and warm the inside of his tailored blanket. Andrew hesitated at the window. "No, I don't want to open that further on this cold night," he thought to himself. Andrew had a pet crow that was on his perch in the corner shadows with ruffled feathers against the cold. His shiny beak turned to follow his master, drifting across the room, down the stairs, and into the foyer. His cloudy breath followed behind him. Andrew lit a candle group, sitting on a narrow table, against the foyer wall, next to the stairs, and then looked at the door. There was a small shiny tip of an arrow point, protruding from the door. He touched it with extended index finger in disbelief. The question was, "Should I open the door?"

Andrew had to visualize the outside of his stone tomb-like manor house on every occasion, so his mind was thinking, the moon is out and the there should be plenty of light. There were few doors or windows in the manor, built more for security than beauty. Andrew blew out the candles, save one, and proceeded to open the door. The huge door creaked on iron hinges, but opened with surprising ease. He heard the crow squawking loudly from his room.

"Shut up you wretched bird," Andrew muttered under his breath.

The crossbow bolt was stuck in the door with a curious window on the side of the shaft, glowing in the darkness. Andrew leaned over to read words moving slowly across the small window about three inches long. It was a sentence that repeated every few seconds. "Doom pending the Lord of this manor."

Andrew quickly looked outward into the darkness, straining to see the perpetrator. The wind was occasionally gusting. Everything was moving a little bit. It was impossible to pick out any one person or thing. Andrew plucked a heavy sword from the foyer wall and slammed the hilt into the tip of the bolt, dislodging it from the door. He grabbed the projectile and pulled it from the door. He retreated into the safety of the manor. He carefully closed the door and locked it.

The candles were all relit and the sword stored away. The peculiar bolt could now be seen, lying on the foyer table, against the wall in the light of four candles, mounted in their heavy stand. What does this mean? How does this writing move under the window, silently around and around? Andrew ran his figure across the window. This is truly sorcery.

Andrew relit the walking candle, blew out the candle group, and returned to his room, wondering if he should wake the servant that lived behind the manor to stand vigil for the remainder of the night. He entered his room, closed the door, and slid a heavy iron security bolt into place. He turned to face the tip of a sword, waving slowly in front of his throat.

"Don't move or your life will end."

Andrew gasped. His arm went limp and the candle fell from its holder. Andrew soiled himself. A great quantity of urine hit the stone floor and hissed in the sputtering flame of the candle. This was something that he wished he had tended to before venturing down to the front door.

The stranger pulled a cylinder from a pouch strapped to his tight-fitting, black, seamless apparel and set it on the nearby table. He twisted the top and an amber glow came out of it that cast enough light to see the important items in the room.

"Who are you?" Andrew said, gazing at this frog like man that stood at least a foot taller than himself. He was wearing a tight fitting hood that was connected to a bodysuit, down to shoes that seemed like they were part of the suit as well. The suit was thick and obviously well insulated. The stranger didn't appear to feel the chill of the night at all. Andrew then noticed the window was open wide, behind the stranger.

"I am the redeemer."

"How did you get up to a second story window, and what is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"Come let's get you back to bed before you die here, frozen in your own piss." The stranger dragged Andrew by the collar with the tip of his sword. Andrew was shaking with cold and fear. The stranger pushed him into his bed. Andrew backed up to the headboard and sat there with a drawn look on his face, while he slowly pulled the covers over his legs and up to his chest. He looked over the shoulder of the stranger to see a crossbow bolt stuck through his pet crow, lying on the floor in the corner. He then noticed a small scaled-down crossbow hanging from the stranger's belt.

"Sorry to have to disturb a country gentleman like yourself so late at night. I have just come from your two neighbors, Lord Bantwell and Lord Hedgington. Both were equally surprised by my visit."

"How dare you intrude the manor houses of the realm? The Archbishop will have your head."

"It is the Archbishop's head I am here to talk about. I will gladly leave your filthy manor, but I can not, without your key. I think you know which key, the key from Chapel Grey at Ampleforth."

"You know I can not do that."

"Then like so many accidents these days, you will be found under your window, having fallen onto the stony walkway below, after adjusting the pane on a gusty night."

"I don't fear you," Andrew said in a trembling voice.

"And I don't wish you to." The stranger pulled a small flask from his belt. "Here, this is brandy. I offer it to warm your innards, in hopes to begin again on a friendlier note."

Andrew took the flask hesitantly. It was a silver flask of great charm. Who was this odd, frog-like, bulky man? He knew he could not over power him, so he sniffed the drink. It was top-notch. He took a swig.

What Andrew didn't know is this drink was heavily dosed with a truth serum. The alcohol sped the effect into his bloodstream.

"I regret being so forceful, but as you know, you and your two Lord neighbors have been plotting to assassinate the Archbishop, as I am. This is not news to you, I am sure. And you have in your possession a key that with the keys of your neighbors, will allow access to the Archbishop's hidden passageway within the Chapel. These keys should not fall into the hands of just any would-be assassin, wouldn't you agree?"

The serum was now beginning to work.

"Assassinate the Archbishop? What a bloody good idea. That was Lord Bantwell's idea. Archbishop Phillips has not treated the Lords with much respect. He brought this on himself, you know."

"Well, I am here to do that job for you. I am the assassin. Now, where can I find your key?"

"Ah, the crow has it," Andrew said, lifting a heavy hand and pointing to the wreck of a perch in the corner, "It is under the perch in a small drawer."

The stranger made a swift move to secure the key, while Andrew drained the flask. When he lowered his arm, the stranger was gone. "Hey, where'd you go?" Andrew threw back the covers and staggered to the window. There was a chain-like ladder attached to the sill that disengaged as Andrew watched in shock. The ladder fell to the ground and was wound up by the stranger. He placed it in a bag strapped to the largest horse Andrew had ever seen. The stranger swung a cape over his shoulders, mounted the stead, and galloped away with Andrew's key. The chill hit Andrew's chest and he winced. He held up the flask to salute the stranger and melted back into his bed.

The dark knight rode his horse through the sally port into the courtyard of a manor house in the middle of a dale, west of Tollerton. The night was gone and the eastern sky was marginally glowing with the morning light. The sun would struggle to get a view of the manor this day. It looked like rain was on order for this morning.

The knight dismounted and gave command of the stead to Edgar, a Bar Sinister, who was a servant to Sir Widsip Osbearn, the name that one Gareth Goldstein gave the dark knight when he came upon him in Shank Forest, dazed and wandering about without food or drink. Widsip soon became known as a sorcerer by the two. They devoted themselves to him as not to be cursed by him, besides he had an uncanny way of obtaining money. He would leave the confines of the Manor Gilthmore and return with enough money to make all things possibly. In fact, he had purchased the property soon after his arrival, from the estate of a widow that had past away. No one really knew where the money came from, but the deed was registered by the local establishment without question.

Edgar's talent with horses probably came from being born in a stable and raised by stable hands. The Bar Sinister were those bastard children born from noteworthy lineage, but questionable parentage. His mother was probably working for the Lord that impregnated her, but no one knew who she was or would say. By the time Edgar was old enough to know he didn't have someone to call mother, she had been banished by the estate or he had been dropped off in his current circumstance. Either way, he came with the property of Manor Gilthmore.

Mr. Goldstein was another matter. He was a shady gold trader that made his way up from London to York to expand his sphere of influence, until an unfortunate chain of events placed him on the bad side of the law. He had changed his appearance and was now known as Barry Grant, a local mason and house painter, when not at the manor working for Widsip. He told people his father made whiskey in Glen Grant and that's where he got his name. No truer words were spoken. He had read about Glen Grant distilleries from a bottle of Scotch that was found on the property and his father was a hopeless alcoholic. It seemed like a proper alias.

There were three other servants on the estate. One was the kitchen maid Jennifer Wryly; she was an Irish woman that could cook anything on two or four legs that got near her clever. The other two were Leofwen Ashton a house maid nick-named Weny, and Scot McPherson a house keeper. He was also a logistics expert. He kept the estate well stocked with provisions. One never knew when the Master would want to go off into the night, not to be seen for several days.

Scotty was from Southern Upland in Peeblesshire and was probably available for hire to be closer to those he despised the most, the English, and report on their movements, especially if they trended towards Carlisle, going northward to where his true allegiance lay.

Sir Widsip was a puzzle. Who was he really? At first Scotty thought he was an agent of the Tutors, but no. He spoke a dialect of English no one had heard before, and the things he knew about were absolutely terrifying. Where were his credentials? How and where was he knighted? There was nothing in the manor that could tell you that he was anything other than a common man, but his behavior was quite unique. No, he was a warlock all right. He could do things and had things in his possession that only a wizard would possess. Scotty stayed to learn. He had a feeling this knight was also not enamored with the English.

"Edgar, see that Lord Byron is properly washed down before you place him in the stall."

"Yes, Your Lordship," Edgar replied with eager tongue. He wanted nothing more than to do his very best for the Black Knight as some of the house staff called him and the nearby villages rumored.

Barry came up to Widsip and said, "Were you successful in retrieving what you were seeking, Sir?"

"Of course, did you ever doubt it?"

"Of course not, Your Lordship."

Widsip placed a pouch containing three keys in Barry's eager hands. His bony figures wrapped around it like a crab's claw.

Widsip retrieved the pouch from Barry's grip and dashed into the house through the kitchen door and while passing Jenny, who was just arriving at the kitchen station and fanning the coals, said, "I will need breakfast at half past ten, no lunch, and make a portable meal for nighttime."

"Yes, me Lord," Jenny said with half a yawn. It was not unusual to see the Lord of the manor going to bed as everyone else was getting up to do their chores. The smoke in the kitchen fireplace was now catching and turning into a small flame that soon irrupted into a warming fire.

Widsip passed Weny, coming down the upstairs hall with laundry to do. "Top of the morning to you, Sir," she said with a blush of embarrassment in her cheeks. She had a not-so-secret crush on the Lord.

"Same to you, Weny, and good night."

Widsip entered his chamber and closed the door, and then double bolted it. To bed he thought, but not before setting a curious device that apparently kept time. He set the device to wake him at half past ten, and if he did have a grievous visitor, he wanted a door to be strong enough to provide fair warning. Sleep was an inconvenience. He needed five hours sleep, maybe six, but more was wasting time. He had important things to do. In the next few days, he would fabricate a duplicate set of the keys for a future use. Later this day an Archbishop had to be visited, and also today would be the last for some other poor soul.

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Excerpted from A Dark and Stormy Knight by John D. Wolf Copyright © 2006 by John D. Wolf. Excerpted by permission.
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