Queen Of Knights
QUEEN OF KNIGHTS
By: David Wind
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the permission in writing from the author or publisher.
<><><>
All rights reserved.
eBook 3rd Edition Published January 2015 by David Wind
Copyright © 1985, 2012, 2015 by David Wind.
Original print edition published in 1985 by Pocket Books
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill / EDHGraphics
<><><>
Previous Novels by David Wind
A listing of David Wind’s previous novels can be found at the back of the Ebook Edition
<><><>
THIS NOVEL IS DEDICATED WITH LOVE TO
Bonnie Marilyn Wind, for always being there,
for her unending belief, for her unswerving faith.
<><><>
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Kate Duffy. (1953—2010) —for the trust to let me free my mind.
To Tony Chilton—resident expert in arms and armor for the BBC —for sharing his devastating wealth of knowledge with me in Hay-on-Wye, Wales.
To Roberta Gellis—the first lady of historical fiction—for allowing me not only to
pick her brain, but her extensive research library as well
To Leslie O’Gwin Rivers—for her invaluable aid as my researcher.
To Frank Yerby, Rafael! Sabatini, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and Andre (Mary Alice) Norton, to name but a few—who through their novels taught me the meaning of adventure, speculation, history, and fantasy.
To Julia Coopersmith — who believed when others did not.
And to all the wonderful people in England and Wales who helped me with my research and aided me in my travels.
<><><>
What People Are Saying about Queen Of Knights
"Historical fiction and fantasy…Outstanding!"—Andre Norton
“QUEEN OF KNIGHTS is an unusual fantasy in which history as well as fiction dances to the author’s piping.”—Roberta Gellis, author of the Rosalynde Chronicles
"The writing of this book draws a reader in. The story is told almost mythically.... In the end, it was a fun read!"—Amazon.com review
<><><>
FROM THE AUTHOR
Entwined throughout the roots of history lies legend: for what else is early history but the remembrances of men’s thoughts? Within those early memories, those early thoughts, lay the old tales of superstition and legend; for is it not truth that history and legend are born within the minds of people, and the only distinction between them, is in the eye of the witnesses to those bygone events?
Who among us actually looks to discredit the tale of Robin Hood? Who seeks to destroy the legend of King Arthur? Who would challenge the might and power of Odin? Who would dare say the Druid circles were but randomly placed stones?
And who of you, when turning the pages of this legend, will be unwilling to free yourself from the binding restraints of recorded history and journey into a realm that could have been, and for all we know, might have been—for legend and history are inexorably linked by the random joining of truth, need, and thought.
Know you, who read on, that Richard the Lion-Heart and Saladin lived in the past, and, with Gwendolyn KiIdrake and Miles Delong, they live again in the legend of the Queen of Knights.
David Wind
<><><>
Contents
Prologue
Book I
Chapter 1
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Book II
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Book III
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Book IV
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
From the author
About the author
Available Novels by David Wind
Prologue
On the Estate of
Sir Hughes Kildrake, Duke of Devonshire,
at the Pool of Pendragon
The sun glanced daringly across the calm waters of the forest pool as a young woman stood near its edge. The cool water beckoned to her and, as if in a trance, she disrobed and entered.
She was a maiden of beauty, a true daughter of the land of England. Her complexion was fair, with sapphire-blue jewels for eyes, and raven hair that gleamed boldly against the milky whiteness of porcelain skin. The birds who sat upon the branches of the forest trees sang sweet tunes whilst they watched Gwyneth, daughter of Sir Hughes Kildrake, barely ten and six years, welcome the first warmth of summer by entering the pool.
This part of the forest, since earliest memory, had always been called the Pool of Pendragon. Here, it is said, King Arthur and his queen rested and played in the days of the first Lord of Devonshire (Sir Hughes’s great ancestor, Byron of Kildrake, first Duke of Devonshire), who had been granted these lands by his Majesty Arthur, and dubbed by the sword Excalibur.
And now, centuries later, in the almost mystical pool, the youngest of the line of Kildrake, Gwyneth, daughter of Hughes, lay on the shallow rock bottom, her eyelids half shuttered and her mind in a dreamlike state while she remembered the words of the old seeress.
It had happened the night before when they had finished the evening meal and she and her mother, Ariel, had gone to the women’s chambers to work on their tapestries. As they worked and talked, an old woman had entered and come toward them. Gwyneth had seen her many times about the castle, but had never spoken with her. Yet her mother, Gwyneth knew, had spoken frequently with the strange old woman. The woman’s eyes, like the small black berries found in the farthest corner of her father’s lands, burned intensely into Gwyneth’s.
The woman’s name was unknown, but everyone called her the old one and whispered of ancient powers. They said she was a Druid priestess.
The old woman had come directly to them, and Gwyneth remembered clearly what had transpired, as if it were happening now, in the Pool of Pendragon.
“Through a mist of many-colored bands will come the father of your child. A giant among men, the last of his earthbound race. Gold will spill from his head and flow past his shoulders. His muscles will ripple with the strength of the mightiest bear, yet he will move with the grace of a running stag.
“His eyes will be the color of the early morning sky, and he will come to you, as if in a dream, and beget by you the lifeblood of a new race. Greatness will follow the issue of this union, greatness unknown ever before. Kings will bow low before the power and might and strength of this child when the child grows to adulthood.
“This child will be among the tallest in the land, with fair hair and a mind that grasps the unthinkable, and will turn the impossible into reality. Across the breadth of the world; valor and strength will be known of the issue of Kildrake, and the legend will grow.”
La
st night, Gwyneth had tried to understand the meaning of the crone’s words, but had been unable to. Today brought no enlightenment. Her hand was promised to Malcolm of Kingsgrove, but he was short, wide, and of a dark, ruddy complexion. No child of golden hair and sky-blue eyes could be foretold. No child of stature and strength would come of that union.
In just three cycles of the moon she would wed. To leave this forest, this glade, this pool, and her home forever.
Gwyneth’s body floated to the surface of the glassy pool, making the water swirl when her full breasts broke its calm surface. She felt a sudden chill rush by, carried upon the early summer air.
The sun was almost at its zenith, sending shimmering rays of light through the forest. In the near distance a small dark cloud released its water to the earth. When the rain stopped, the reflection of the sun upon the newly wet trees produced a rainbow that held all the colors of creation. Gwyneth’s heart stirred with its beauty.
She gazed at the rainbow, again in a trancelike state, feeling herself afloat as if she were riding a cloud, until suddenly the beginning of a dark shape formed behind the rainbow. The shape was hidden by distance, but, slowly, the form took substance.
Gwyneth could not move, not even when the birds of the forest fell silent and the insects stopped their calling. Growing taller within her vision came a man. She must get out of the water! She must dress, Gwyneth told herself, but her body would not obey her commands. Slowly, the form came closer.
When she finally saw him, emerging through the rainbow, she became even more powerless to move. His long blonde hair, falling in thick waves, was lost behind his shoulders. The rainbow was at his back, and his size was larger than life. With his every step, muscles rippled. About his waist was a girdle of dark pelt; upon his feet, boots of shimmering silver skins; at his side, a longsword glistened when a shaft of sunlight struck its handle.
And then Gwyneth saw him clearly. His eyes pierced her with bright morning blueness. He was the tallest man she had ever seen, a giant among men. His thighs quivered powerfully as he walked, the muscles standing out with every stride. His chest was broad, his shoulders massive, but Gwyneth could only look at his face.
No scar marred his skin. High cheekbones stood out against a strong, straight nose. His hair was the color of golden wheat and silver moonlight; his teeth were flashes of white against a thick golden beard.
And then Gwyneth knew who he was. She had heard the stories of the fearsome Norse people—the Viking raiders of old. But the race had died out. It existed now only in legend.
Yet he was real, alive, and here at the Pool of Pendragon.
Finally, after an eternity of watching and waiting, the Norseman stood above her. His head was framed by the sun, and his coppery skin shone like armor. Gwyneth could do nothing but gaze at him, unafraid.
Gwyneth watched as his large hand reached out and blocked the sun. His palm was upraised and waiting. She could not help herself from extending her hand and letting it become encased within his. He lifted her gently from the pool and pulled her to his chest. The water conducted his heat across her body, and Gwyneth felt herself begin to burn. She smelled the forest scents clinging to him, mixed with the aura of his power and sex. His lips went to hers, and in her dreamlike state, she did not protest. Ever so slowly, he lifted her with his mighty arms as if she weighed no more than a feather. Gently, the Norse giant, who stood three heads taller than Gwyneth, placed her on a bed of soft, grassy moss. Gwyneth could not summon the power to force her body to movement. Yet she was still unafraid of the blonde giant who stood above her.
She was unafraid even when he removed the pelt girdle, and placed that, with his glinting longsword, upon a rock shaped like an altar. He stood above her, letting the sun pour
over his nakedness, and Gwyneth felt her body come alive. Her deeply drawn breath echoed like thunder in the stillness of the forest.
Slowly, the giant lowered himself until he covered her body with his. His head came down, and his lips gently tasted hers. A rush of heat again flowed along the length of Gwyneth’s body until she grew lightheaded. With their mouths together, the Norseman moved between her thighs and, for one instant of time, Gwyneth remembered who and what she was.
This could not happen, she told herself silently, even as she felt the heat of his loins burn against her tender flesh. She tried to fight, to push against his great strength with her pitifully small hands. He paused at this resistance, lifting himself on outstretched arms. His blue eyes gazed down at her until all resistance fled. He kissed her again, and Gwyneth’s world dissolved as the blonde giant took her.
He filled her, lancing deep within her. She cried out, but did not know she had, as she was carried to a place she had never dreamed of, and knew instinctively she would never return to again. But this time of magic and power and mystery would not be denied. This one time would content her until she left the earth behind.
The rush of pain from his deep, piercing thrusts subsided, and soon her body joined his in its lithe movements. Their bodies, so different in size, blended; the smaller, doe-like woman moved in harmony with the stag-like giant above her. While they made love, Gwyneth’s eyes remained open, watching the face that was only inches above hers.
The sun was like a fringe of golden light surrounding his head. His eyes of morning blue glowed as he gazed deeply into hers, until suddenly a haze clouded her vision and a wrenching tore through her soul to whisk her away from the mossy ground of the Pool of Pendragon, to float above herself and look down upon both her and the golden giant.
She heard again the echoing words of the old seeress, just as the Norseman’s final thrust filled her with his molten fluid. “Across the breadth of the world, valor and strength will be known of the issue of Kildrake, and the legend will grow.”
And Gwyneth knew the seed of the legend, the lifeblood of his family, had been planted deep within her.
Ever so slowly, Gwyneth returned to the earth and rejoined her body. The Norseman held her tightly, gently pressing her breasts against his chest. He held her like that until their breathing eased, before he slowly drew from within her.
When he stood, Gwyneth saw her blood smeared on his thighs, but felt nothing except the loss she would retain for the rest of her years. His eyes told her he felt the same, and when the time came, in another world, on a different plane, they would be joined, never to part.
Gwyneth stared at him, her eyes wide, unrelenting in her desire to capture his face forever within. He nodded slowly, and then went to his pelt girdle and sword of silver.
When his girdle was secured he turned back to Gwyneth.
He walked to her and stood above her. Slowly he knelt upon one knee and brought his palm to rest upon the softness of her belly.
Gwyneth felt a jolt pass from his palm and enter deep within her womb. The Norseman, the last of his true race, nodded again, solemnly, and then stood. Swiftly, he lifted the sword from the altar-like rock with both hands and raised it to the sky. Gwyneth gasped at the ray of sunlight which raced from the sword’s tip to its pommel. She watched the sword glow silver, radiating a warmth which encompassed the man, the woman, and the forest glade. Then, with his arms still upraised, he bowed his head and turned again to the raven- haired Gwyneth.
He stood with the sword raised above them both. If any were to have seen them at this moment, bathed in the silver- and-gold light that joined sword and sun, they would have trembled with fear for Gwyneth’s life. But Gwyneth had no such fear. She knew.
The giant smiled tenderly, and with a movement that blurred light, the blade swiftly arched, ending its path at the tip of one swollen nipple.
Again, with a hairsbreadth of air separating blade and skin, Gwyneth knew no fear.
The giant Norseman knelt once more and, with bowed head, laid the hilt of his sword upon Gwyneth’s abdomen. The tip of the blade reached past her ankles. He kissed its silver shaft and then the skin between the pommel of the sword and the tender, downy
hair below it.
He stood, leaving the sword upon her, and as silently as he had come, walked back into the rainbow mist that had borne him.
Gwyneth did not immediately return to the castle when the Viking was gone, but rather, stayed by the pool, unmoving on the soft carpet of moss, her eyes remaining closed against his leaving while her hands caressed the hilt of the sword that remained. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked at the crystal sky above, then down at the sword.
Her hands grasped the hilt, and she knew he had left it for his son. She knew he had planted the seed, and the seed would grow strong within her. It was only when she lifted the sword that she realized its difference was not in its silvery glow alone. Although the sword was as wide as a broadsword and the length of a longsword, she hefted it with surprising ease. Its weight was no more than the small wooden swords the soldiers made for little children to play with. But even when she lifted it high, catching more of the sun’s rays along the length of the blade, the silvery sheen did not diminish. She knew also that the blade was coated with the purest of silver.
And with all the knowledge she had so suddenly gained came one more thought. Gwyneth realized she must hide this sword, keep it safe until her son was born and grew into manhood.
Unwilling to cleanse herself of the aftereffects of her lovemaking, Gwyneth stood, placed the sword upon the altar-like stone, and dressed herself. Carrying the sword in the crook of her arms, she began to walk along the path leading to her father’s castle. Halfway there, she veered from the path to enter a deep area of the forest. Not a hundred feet from the narrow roadway was a special place she used to go as a child, a place known only to her and her mother, Ariel, who had once shown it to Gwyneth when the girl was only seven. It was a small cave, and her mother had whispered it was a place that had been inhabited by a sorcerer of bygone days. But Gwyneth knew her mother had only been teasing, and had taken this cave for her very own. It held two things that were important to her—pleasant memories and a strange, comforting warmth no matter what season was upon the land.