Her Dark Knight

Prologue

Balatradoch, Scotland

In nomine Patris

The fever was catching up to him. Slowing him down.

Killing him.

His knees buckled. By the grace of God and the sheer force of will that sustained him through his long journey, he forced himself upright.

His only thought was to put one foot in front of the other. He would think of nothing else. For to think would be to remember.

…et Filii…

And to remember would be his downfall.

His foot slipped. He fell to one knee, sinking into the slime. His will faltered and he ceased to struggle. He welcomed death, but not yet. Not before he completed his mission.

The bundle he’d carried from France to Scotland slipped from numb fingers. He fumbled the precious package, catching it before it landed in the mud and gently cradled it against his chest.

For his brothers he forced himself to stand. For his master he moved forward. For his lost love he wept.

…et Spiritus Sancti…

Mud sucked at his boots, shackling him, its cold fingers pulling him down.

He dropped to both knees and slowly pitched forward.

He lay on the cold earth, his lungs burning with sickness, struggling to breathe, the rain running off him in rivulets.

Through the driving storm he glimpsed the rough outline of a building.

A chapel mayhap, but it was too difficult to tell and his vision kept fading.

With a last burst of energy he curled his almost frozen fingers into claws and dug at the mud, creating a hole big enough to hold the treasure entrusted to him.

This watery cavity was not what his master intended when giving him this mission, but it would have to do.

He rose to his knees and pulled the white tunic emblazoned with the red, eight-point cross from his satchel. Holding the piece of clothing to his chest, he rocked back and forth, muttering disjointed prayers. Prayers a sinner like he had no business voicing.

He kissed the tunic before lining the hole with the cloth that had once brought him such pride. And had ultimately been his downfall.

He carefully placed the wrapped package inside the hole and pushed the mud over it until nothing remained but a scar in the earth.

With the last of his strength spent, he fell to his side.

He accomplished what he’d been commanded to do.

The precious treasure was safe from the enemy.

He now welcomed the death that shadowed him for close to two years.

Mayhap, if God was willing, he would meet the missing half of his heart on the other side.

He closed his eyes. His lips moved, but he did not know if sound escaped.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

He breathed his final breath.

Amen.

Fire scorched his skin and burned his insides. He tossed one way then the other. His lids fluttered open only to see the bright flames leap at him.

A face appeared before him, stern in its expression, black eyes shuttered. Cool water poured over his body.

“Am I in hell?” His voice was rough, his throat raw.

“Nay. Not hell, but close to it.”

His heart beat rapidly, sweat pooled beneath him. If he had it in him, he would have wept. As it was, he had energy only enough to shiver even though his body burned.

At least the treasure was safe. In that he could find solace. But only that.

When next he opened his eyes a cool breeze touched his heated skin. He turned his head to view his hell. But it wasn’t hell he was seeing, rather the crumbled remains of a stone wall and the unlit wicks of dozens of candles.

“The fever broke.”

His gaze darted to the voice, but was only able to make out dark hair and a strong build. A warrior, mayhap.

“Where am I?”

“Scotland.”

He closed his eyes against the disappointment. He would have rather died than live one more day.

“You will live, brother.” The crunch of stone beneath boots told him the man was moving, but his soft, even breaths remained close. Birds chirped outside. Birds. He’d never thought to hear birdsong again. He didn’t welcome it.

“Why do you call me brother?” He searched for his rescuer, but was unable to move overmuch without feeling as if his head would split in two.

“Are you not a brother?”

Suddenly he was on alert, his body tense. What did this man know? What had he seen? His mind raced to the treasure. Was it still buried or had this man retrieved it?

“I am no one’s brother,” he said.

“Others think differently.”

Why wouldn’t the man move into his sight? “What others?”

“Your brothers.”

“I told you. I have no brothers.” He did have brothers though.

Thousands being persecuted as he lay upon this pallet, weak as a babe.

But he would not admit to that. Could not without dire consequences.

Moments ago he was disappointed he had not died.

Now he was glad. He had to make certain the treasure was still buried. That no one knew of its existence.

The man stepped closer. He was clothed in the garments of a warrior. A sword at his side. Scars on his arms. Muscles that bespoke of long hours of battle.

The man looked down on him with dark eyes. “Do not forsake your brothers to me, knight.”

He swallowed, suddenly ashamed. “Who are you?”

“I am your savior. I brought you back from death for you are needed.”

“I accomplished my task.” What had started as a statement, turned into a question and he cursed his weakness. If the illness had not stolen his strength he would be on his feet, sword in hand, demanding answers. As it was, he could not even lift his head.

“For now,” the man said.

“Speak plainly. Who are you?”

“I told you.”

“You told me nothing. What is your name?”

“Michael.”

“Where are you from?”

“Far away.”

“Enough with the riddles.”

The man named Michael sighed and looked out into the distance before turning his enigmatic stare back to him. “You are charged with another task. A bigger task that will require much of you.”

“Have I not given enough?” He indicated his prone body with a weak sweep of his hand.

“There is more you can give. The treasure will never be completely safe. It needs a guardian.”

“Nay.” His head fell back. “Find another more worthy.”

“There is no other.”

“I don’t want this. I want to die.”

“You want to be with her, but that is no longer possible.”

Michael stood over him, hands on hips, eyes sparkling in the shadows. The anger returned, sharp and hot. Hotter than the fever that had burned through him.

No longer possible. As if it ever was. As if he’d ever had a chance of meeting her in heaven.

Heaven wasn’t for sinners and he’d been a fool to think otherwise.

Even so, he’d allowed himself the possibility.

It dogged his every step from France to Scotland.

It burned in his brain and ate at his soul.

“You are needed here.” Michael’s expression softened, as if he felt his patient’s pain and longing. “You are charged with protecting the treasure for all eternity.”

“Nay.” Nay. He did not want this.

“If the treasure is discovered by the wrong people, there will be war as we have never seen, pestilence and death. Everything as you know it will be gone.”

“You are speaking of the Apocalypse?”

Michael did not answer. His silence was answer enough.

He would not accept that he was the only man standing between life and the end of the world. The only man for the rest of eternity? Nay.

“You will encounter those who want to take the treasure from you, who will do anything to have it. You alone know where it is buried, but only the key can break the seals.”

“What is this key you speak of?”

“You will know when you find it.”

He shook his pounding head. “You speak in riddles again.”

Michael lowered himself to one knee and folded battle-scarred hands over his bent leg. “The key will reveal itself in time. For now you need to protect the treasure. You have been given eternal life to do so. Death cannot claim you.”

He stared at his rescuer turned jailor, anger and desperation and defeat churning inside him. “You lied.”

Michael cocked a brow in question.

“This is hell.”