Beauty and the Beast Romance (KLN Medieval Romance Boxed Set Collections)

Chapter One

The Month of April

England

It was a lovely night to die.

He stood a moment, inhaling the gentle night air, feeling the caress of the blooming flora.

The black waters of the River Thames ran at his feet, the gentle glide of a liquid caress.

It was a soothing sound. He wondered if the water would feel soothing as it entered his lungs, choking off his life and stopping his heart.

He’d been wondering that for days. Now the time was upon him to find out.

He’d lived a full life. He had achieved more than he ever thought possible, coming from a small berg in Germania after his father died and his mother had married an English merchant.

He never thought that his voluntary admission into King Henry’s army at the young age of fourteen would have led him to the post he currently held.

He was foreign-born, conventionally uneducated, yet he found himself guarding the current king and Henry’s bitter rival, Edward.

A post reserved for the most noble of knights had found a common soldier to occupy it.

It had been an amazing ascent. His father would have been proud.

He tried not to think of what his father would say to his most recent choice; suicide was a coward’s path.

His father had been a Teutonic warrior, bred for battle and hard to the bone.

He himself had been more battles that he could count, blood-spattered, well-choreographed encounters between cousins and their retainers battling for the throne of a country that was considered secondary in the known world.

Secondary, but passionate. He’d lived through sword-cuts, arrow wounds, and a bout with fever so severe that it left him nearly deaf in one ear.

He’d always survived and congratulated himself on his good fortune.

Now, what war and God could not accomplish, he himself would achieve.

He smiled inwardly at all of the men who would have given their souls to have been provided the chance to kill Brogan d’Aurilliac.

He shook off feelings of remorse that threatened.

He took a step up onto the balustrade of the bridge that crossed over the dark, silent river.

He didn’t remove his boots, massive things that were heavy with quality; he wanted to make sure he had enough weight to drag him down.

He knew his instinct to swim would take over, yet he was determined to resist. He reminded himself that this was the course he had chosen for himself.

It was time to end it, and end it he would.

The momentary regrets faded as a strange sense of peace settled. He was ready. The comfort of the swirling waters beckoned to him, and he glanced to the sky above, taking his final glimpse of the world he knew. There was nothing he would miss. Shortly, he would no longer be a part of it.

It was his last coherent thought before something hit him from behind and launched him into the murky waters below.

*

The horse was heading for the Thames at break-neck speed.

Though she’d been riding her entire life, no matter how much she tried, she could not halt the panicked animal.

She had been attempting to stable the stupid beast when something spooked it.

No matter what it was; she never heard a sound.

But in a flash, they were quickly heading for disaster.

Frantic hooves echoed against the muddied earth and ricocheted off the dwellings that lined the quiet avenue.

Thankfully, it was after sup and the streets were void of people.

She pulled steadily on the reins, trying not to panic, herself, but the more she pulled, the faster the horse raced.

She had known this horse since it had foaled, thus she knew it was not easily startled.

Whatever had triggered this had driven the horse into momentarily insanity and she knew it could only end in great suffering, namely hers.

But the lady was not one to fall easily into fits of terror; she had always possessed a calm, logical mind, although now, she struggled to think clearly.

She knew this avenue would shortly intersect with the River Thames.

She further knew that she could stop the horse if she could direct it off the bridge and into the river.

There would only be a split second for her to accomplish this, however, as the footpaths that led from the street down to the water’s edge occurred just before the rise of the bridge as it sprouted off across the water.

In that brief moment, she would have to steer the animal down the footpath and into the water.

They rounded a corner and headed down the straight road towards the bridge.

By this time, she’d stopped struggling with the beast and merely held on so that she would not fall.

The closer they drew to the river, the more she calculated her timing.

It had to be perfect or the opportunity would be lost. Only in that thought did she feel fear; otherwise, the horse would probably run until they fell off the white cliffs of Dover and into the channel.

It was dark, the moon a mere sliver in the velvety sky.

She could hardly see the footpath up ahead.

It would make her timing more difficult.

Apprehension threatened, but she fought it.

If fear took over, all would be lost. She had to react sharply.

Beneath her, the steed slipped on the muddy road and they almost went down.

She rather hoped they would so that she could take her chances with a falling horse rather than an out-of-control one.

But the beast kept its balance and continued on.

At the right moment, she tried to veer the horse to the left, onto the path, but the animal resisted and pulled to the right.

Momentum had her in its fiendish grasp and she flew from the animal, tumbling wildly through the air.

Somewhere in the midst, she struck something.

It was hard, but not hard enough. It gave way and fell with her.

A loud splash and fading hoof-falls of a runaway horse were all that remained, fading quickly into night as if none had ever been.

*

He had no idea what had hit him. Suddenly, he was in the water and he could feel nebulous weight atop him.

His head broke the surface and he turned to see wisps of material lingering on the top of the black water.

He swam a couple of strokes towards it, noting that there was also hair floating amidst the fabric.

Instinctively, he grabbed the hair and pulled.

An unconscious woman popped to the surface.

Startled, Brogan slipped his arm around her neck, her chin in the crook of his left elbow, and swam for shore.

Eventually, he gained his footing in the muck and gathered her into his arms. He sloshed heavily to shore where he lowered himself to his knees.

It had all happened so quickly that it took him a moment to regain his wits and take stock of the occurrence.

The woman had knocked him into the river before he had been ready to jump.

It was as if she had been hurled at him in an attempt to knock some sense into his muddled mind.

Not strangely, he thought perhaps God was sending him a message and his confidence in his actions wavered as he laid her upon the ground.

Pulling the wet hair from her face, he could see that she was alive.

Given the force of her hit, he was, frankly, surprised.

He coughed, clearing his lungs. He tapped her cheek, thinking it might revive her, but she remained still.

He ran his hands over her arms and felt both legs through her wet, heavy garment; there were no broken bones that he could detect.

Somewhere, a cold breeze had roused and it swirled around them both, chilling their wet flesh.

Brogan couldn’t just leave her, lying unconscious and vulnerable on the banks of the Thames.

After a moment’s indecision, he gathered her into his arms and set off in the direction of his quarters.

The moon gave little light to illuminate his path as he made for the Tower of London.

The avenues leading to the fortress were void of life, for which he was grateful; they made a strange, dripping pair.

He entered the grounds through the new main gate between the Lanthorn and the Salt Towers, across the moat and under the massive portcullis.

Wet, and carrying a limp female, he inevitably drew stares from the soldiers on night watch.

Yet no one dared to ask the man what was amiss.

Anyone foolish enough to question d’Aurilliac would be taking his life in his hands.

Even the knights, no matter how seasoned or green, had a healthy respect for him.

The man’s name was synonymous with fear.

The White Tower was directly in front of him with several outbuildings against the enormous outer-wall built by Edward III.

These were the quarters of the knights, senior soldiers, and visiting military officers.

Brogan headed for the middle building of the three long, wooden structures.

Inside on the second floor were his lodgings.

Under normal circumstances, he would not have dreamed of bringing a woman into these quarters.

They smelt of men and rot. The only women ever seen within the old stone walls were whores.

In fact, those women had their own room at the end of the first floor.

As he passed the room and headed up the stairs, he almost stopped to ask one of them to lend a hand.

But he kept silent. He did not want their unclean hands touching the woman in his arms and he did not want to be bothered with their foolishness.