The Christmas Knight. Michele SinclairЧитать онлайн книгу.

      ZEBRA BOOKS

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To John,

       who gave me invaluable insight into

       the world of single-sighted vision,

       and his wife, Jessica,

       who shared a little bit of their life,

       revealing the spouse’s side of their love story

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      FRIDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1154

       THE ENGLISH CHANNEL,

       SOMEWHERE JUST NORTH OF NORMANDY

      Wide spacious ships with single mast sails were the primary means of traveling short distances. Ships transporting large quantities of goods drifted slowly at the speed of approximately a knot per hour. The distance between Fécamp, Normandy, the closest port to Rouen, the capital of the Duchy of Normandy, and Southampton, England, which served as the primary port for Winchester, the medieval capital of England, was nearly 130 miles, or approximately five days by sea in good weather. Travel by land depended upon horses, type and condition of the terrain, and the quantity and size of goods being transported. Journeying from Westminster to the wilderness of Cumbria crossed more than 275 miles and typically took nearly two weeks, but the trip could be made in less than five days if one traveled very light and by horse.

      Deadeye.

      That’s what they called the man Laon had been chasing since spring. And it was appropriate. For the famed dark-haired knight refused to wear a patch. How he lost his left eye was a mystery, and if anyone did know, they were not saying. Rather all the mumbling aboard the ship was about Laon and how he had found—more like unwillingly caught—the only man who had refused to become a lord.

      The small fleet of ships had been traveling to England for two days and the seas had been exactly as expected this time of year—unwelcoming. The weather continued to fight their northwesterly course, dramatically slowing their voyage with fierce wind, creating uncomfortably large white-capped waves that constantly slapped at the wooden oak planks of the Viking-designed cog.

      Laon studied the lone imposing figure standing by the ship’s side, staring at the rolling sea. The newly titled, reluctant lord was impervious to the enormous swells that made nearly everyone else on board seek the ship’s rail for temporary relief. Only today had Laon felt well enough to study the battle-beaten knight and prepare some kind of defense or explanation. But he could fabricate not a one, for Laon regretted nothing he had done. The difficult man had left him little choice. A new lord was needed, and Ranulf de Gunnar—whether he wished it or not—was the only viable Anscombe heir.

      Laon did not expect to be pardoned for his actions, but he did hope for understanding. Loyalty between a man and a king was important, even necessary, but the loyalty exchanged between a knight and his liege could mean the difference between life and death. Especially in Cumbria, the remote hills of northwestern England.

      So when the previous Lord Anscombe had lain dying, needing someone to find his elusive nephew and ensure he assumed his responsibility, Laon had gone, never imagining Anscombe’s heir, a favored commander of England’s new king, would be so hard to find…or to persuade. And in the end, Laon couldn’t.

      So he had resorted to shrewd means to not only find, but bind the solemn knight to a life the man had made clear he did not want.

      Sir Ranulf de Gunnar was the next in line to the Anscombe title and forfeiting that right would be ruinous for an already struggling people. The resulting vacuum would tempt not only northern marauders determined to steal and plunder whenever prosperity became possible, but those enemies who lived close by, waiting for a chance to gain even more land and power.

      A voice cried out by the ship’s mast and a young boy dressed in several layers of rags to keep warm rushed across the deck carrying what appeared to be a heavy coil of rope. Unable to see in front of him, the lad collided into the large knight’s back and would have fallen if it had not been for Ranulf’s quick reflexes and accurate timing. He gently righted the cringing boy, who avoided looking at him before taking off again.

      Laon fought the urge to move back into the shadows as Ranulf turned to scan the forecastle. His single umber-colored eye quickly inspected the activity of the bow. The evidence of the eye’s missing mate was hidden beneath a closed, flaccid lid, concealing the empty wound. Most probably thought the injury was the result of an unlucky encounter with a sword, but only someone familiar with the fiery depths of hell would recognize the probable cause behind the mottled scar disfiguring the left brow and cheek. Laon was one of those few.

      Moving back into the shadows, Laon attempted to covertly study his new liege lord. But as if the man understood just what Laon intended, the hard figure returned his gaze to the sea so that his back was once again all that was visible. He had given no evidence in his expression that he was aware of Laon’s scrutiny, but Laon was certain nonetheless that the newly titled lord was fully cognizant of who was around him and what they were doing. A skill he had employed shrewdly in Normandy.

      Finding him had been difficult, but eventually achievable.