Knights of the Imperial Elite Complete Trilogy Read online

  Knights of the Imperial Elite

  Complete Trilogy

  Beth Mikell

  Copyright © 2015 by Beth Mikell All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2015 Can Stock Photo Inc.

  Cover design by Kardo Designs

  Published in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2015

  www.bethmikell.wordpress.com

  Preface

  The Imperial Arm introduced himself to my muse in 1999. After years of writing and rewriting, I have tried to create a realistic yet fictional setting—a tale driven entirely by my characters. I took the “what if..?” scenario and ran with the concept. This novel is meant to be pure escapism, adhering to, but not strictly to the characteristics of the time.

  The idea came to me after pondering the 80’s television show, The A-Team. I’m sure you’re wondering what this has to do with a medieval story. I was inspired to write about knights with a certain skill set. Men who were defined by a code of honor and worked together to complete every mission.

  The Imperial Arm takes you on a journey with Darrius of Blackstone as the leader of his Elite knights. The Atonement carries you through Colin’s redemption and the woman he loves more than his own life. Then, follow Rowan the McLeod in Armed Judgement. He is a man all women adore, but only one will claim his heart.

  The Imperial Arm

  Knights of the Imperial Elite - I

  Never traffic with traitors. Never give evil counsel to a lady (married or not); treat her with great respect and defend her against all.

  Prologue

  Carthmore Keep 1256.

  Kneeling at her feet, Brenna’s sister clutched a fistful of her gown and said, “Please, I beg you—there must be a way for me to go to Dorling Castle with you. I want to go to your wedding. I can hide in the dowry wagon or dress like a squire. Do not leave me!” Tears trailed down her cheeks.

  Brenna stroked Linnea’s pale hair, biting her bottom lip. She tried to use mellow understanding to soothe her. “Father has forbidden it,” she whispered, lifting her sister’s chin. “Dearest, I wish more than anything to take you with me, but if we defy father, he swore to...” she allowed her words to fade, but her meaning was clear. He would use his hand or worse… his whip.

  Horror filled Linnea’s eyes and fresh tears gathered.

  “Linnea, you must promise to remain strong.” Brenna smoothed away the silvery drops. “Father’s threat is the only thing keeping me silent,” she told her, knowing their father, Sir William, would make good on any promise involving pain. Delightfully so.

  The younger sister shook her head. “Nay, I am not like you, and he knows it. I always displease him.”

  True. Brenna knew their father always found fault with Linnea. Her sister was gifted with hair the color of honey, somber blue eyes, and a graceful body. She drew much admiration. Nevertheless, her sleek beauty remained but a formality. Deep down, Linnea bled a fragile spirit, similar to their mother. Lady Jane had thrown herself from the top of Carthmore Keep two years ago to escape her husband’s violence, leaving her daughters to carry the burden of suffering alone.

  Brenna blazoned Linnea’s contrast. Where the younger sister was tall and willowy, the elder radiated small and delicate with dark hair, falling in soft waves to her waist. Her spirited green eyes danced with fire and often rebellion. She claimed neither pushy nor ambitious, but forthright and strong by nature. Her kindness never ceased, despite her life skidding to a halt as the soon-to-be Lady of Dorling Castle.

  She often bore the brunt of their father’s wrath, standing up to him when necessary. However, adversity and neglect resounded firmly against the walls of Carthmore Keep—all from a man driven by greed and selfish desires. A man who knew not a kind word or softness for his two daughters.

  “Please, Linnea, try not think upon it,” Brenna consoled. “Let me try to persuade father’s permission for you to go to Dorling on his return.” She was resigned to give comfort to her sister, but in the end, she knew her father would not allow it and would beat her for daring to ask.

  Later, he stood by the door with his whip still in hand. “I will be happy to finally be rid of your meddling ways. Be warned, dear daughter,” he sneered. “I would not show Lord Gunther this side of yourself. He may not be so forgiving.”

  Sir William was once considered a great man, but the reality was he would be hard to distinguish from Satan. In appearance, his clothes were the finest, accentuating the firm leanness of his body. A scar ran down the middle of his right cheek, demonizing his coarseness. His gray hair hung to his shoulders in wiry waves, while his empty green eyes reflected contempt.

  Mind-numbing pain followed Brenna. The lashes on her back gave new meaning to physical discomfort, and she would be forever marred.

  ****

  Dorling Castle.

  “I want King Henry dead! Do you hear me? Dead.” Sir William of Carthmore slammed his fist against the table, rattling the goblets and fruit tray. “You owe this to me for ridding the world of your father.”

  Lord Gunther of Dorling blanched, fear worming through his gut. What Sir William demanded was treason. If discovered, his own death would follow. “Have you given any thought to the infamous dark knight rumored to be in the king’s service? He is said to be cloaked in shadows and magic and knows things before they happen. If we are caught…” he trailed off.

  The older man leaned across the table, his expression one of disgust. “If I am implicated, I will kill you myself.” He gave a wave of his hand. “Spare me such babble of sorcery…’tis only that… a rumor. I bear it on good authority, King Henry has no such man in his service, and it is merely a ruse to frighten his enemies,” Sir William said. “The king has no taste for politics, so a dazzling canard is his next best strategy. He can no better rule this country than a commoner. He is at the mercy of bad judgments, and his own stupidity.” The Lord of Carthmore stood, his chair falling to the floor with a hard thud, his agitation was barely reined in. With impatience, he jerked on his metal gauntlets and fur-lined mantle.

  Gunther stood, earnestly thinking of a way to end their meeting without upset. “At least I get your daughter in the bargain,” he mused with a crafty smile. He reflected upon his upcoming nuptials, and his face flushed and manhood hardened. He loved nothing more than finding release between the thighs of a woman.

  Sir William grunted. “Stop thinking with your cods for once! You will have your hands full with that chit, and I happily turn her over to you. I tire of her endless rebellion,” he said. “Remember, I will witness the consummation.”

  A nasty gleam reflected in Gunther’s expression, nodding. “With pleasure.”

  As the older man left, Gunther sank to his chair with a heavy sigh. Remorse was rarely a pastime he indulged in, but revenge came at a high cost. Sir William killed his tiresome father, Lord Robert, and he no longer had his sire breathing down his neck. However, the Lord of Carthmore wanted gratitude in the form of treason.

  His options were laid out: marry a foolish girl, bed her while her father watched, and try to kill his king. He knew not how to accomplish the latter, caring even less for what Sir William had to say about the supposed dark knight.
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  The rumors had been gaining in frequency over the years. Gunther had no wish to confront such a man if he truly existed. Many men thought to outsmart the king, only to have their plans thwarted by a silent force described as a magical power or black sorcery. A force so strong, so powerful, many whispered of the devil himself, but the king always scoffed at such a notion.

  Gunther needed his own plan.

  Pondering hard, he rubbed his woolly chin. Perhaps he would have Sir William killed after his marriage? He was ambitious toward his personal pleasures, and he liked his head attached to his neck. Treason was not much of an inducement in keeping it there. He needed a distraction—and fast.

  He stomped over to the thick wooden door of his chamber and bellowed for Neda, his personal favorite among castle lemans. The woman appeared in a tattered muslin gown, a simple creation that tied at the throat for easy removal. Her blonde hair hung in wavy curls over her breasts, and he ignored her wary expression.

  “Yes, my lord?” she asked.

  He held out a hand, his gaze blazing with lust. “Come.”

  Neda took a few steps, stopping close to him. She exhaled slowly as his hands sought the ribbon securing her gown and it fell to her feet with a soft hiss to the stone floor.

  Gunther took the weight of her breast, flicking her nipple, eliciting a gasp from his evening delight. He smiled, a sinister gleam curving his lips, and he gave the bud a hard twist until she cried out. Malicious intent tilted his face.

  “Get on the bed,” he ordered. As she obeyed, he undressed, uncaring where his clothes landed. His shaft stood ready, and a slice of dark anticipation tumbled through his veins.

  Without ceremony, Gunther sauntered closer, eyeing his prey. He grasped a red, silky material off the foot of the bed, guiding it through his fingers. “Ready, my sweet?” She did not answer and he did not expect her to. He wanted her cringing and fearful. It made him even harder for her.

  He tied Neda’s wrists and ankles to the bed frame, noting her frightened expression. “Not to worry, my dear. This will only take the rest of the night.”

  He was right… his torture lasted until dawn.

  Chapter 1

  Dorling Castle.

  Greed, power, and control diddered the walls of Brenna’s new home. She paced her chamber, her gown swishing around her ankles as agitation coursed through her. The cold, stone floor seeped through her slippered feet, chilling her body even more. She contemplated fate and its mockery. After arriving four days ago, she expected to wed her betrothed as soon as her foot touched the ground, but there was a delay. Her father’s guests had not arrived. It was another postponement, adding to her nervousness.

  She had found Gunther to be an exact copy of her father. He was contemptible. This knowledge of her soon-to-be husband presented itself to her after an hour in his company. He had shown no decorum in fondling a castle whore in her presence, while leering at her over the evening meal. His manner had shocked her. Rowan, Gunther’s cousin, had tried to blunt Gunther’s vulgar behavior, however, the Lord of Dorling had sent Rowan out on a mission he deemed important. The man known as the McLeod had yet to return.

  Last night, Gunther found her alone. He had backed her up against a wall and she had cried out as the force dug into her injured back. He had pinched her breasts, roughly nudging the junction of her thighs open with his knee.

  “You are a sweet temptation, my lady,” he had whispered, his lips grazing her cheek. “You will come to me willingly or forced. It makes no difference to me, my sweet, but I prefer forced.”

  “I would rather die!” Brenna had seethed, but he persisted in his brutal fondling. She had slapped at his hands, fighting against his strength.

  Her father had walked in on the abuse, barely casting them a glance. “It is not the wedding night, Gunther. She is worth more to me married.”

  She wondered if God was asleep the day he had created the bane of her existence. Gunther could not be described as human, but rather, a cur with no bounds in temper or proper behavior. She ached to escape and thoughts of taking her own life filled her with joy every passing moment.

  Yet she was trapped.

  Her dowry boasted far and above what some women had to bring to their marriage, but to Brenna, it was a blood ransom. It was a way to give her father more power and influence. She knew Gunther and her father were in league together, wanting to control a vast sweep of land in the north. Once King Henry III gave his permission for marriage, she left Carthmore.

  Maude interrupted Brenna’s musings, and she glanced over at the young girl. It was not only her handmaiden’s appearance she found comfort in, but the girl’s sweetness in spirit and temperament, which she found so little of in people her own station. In some fashion, she envied a servant more than her duties. Anyone with eyes would know the horror of marrying Lord Gunther.

  Surprise crossed Maude’s face as she found her mistress awake. “It is early, my lady. Did you sleep well?” She laid out her lady’s wedding dress with careful attention and steady hands.

  Brenna shuddered with disgust. “Not as good as I wished. Has anyone else risen?” She padded over to the window, unimpressed with the view. Freedom taunted her from beyond the castle walls, and then she turned away.

  “Nay, my lady. It is much too early,” Maude said, flashing her mistress a soft smile as her lady made her way over to the hearth.

  Brenna inclined her head at the reply and stared into the fire.

  A knock echoed through the room, and Maude answered it. A tall, lanky boy limped into the room, carrying a burden of wood, maneuvering his load over to the fireplace.

  “Pardon the intrusion, my lady.” His head was down, face averted and covered in something foul.

  Manure?

  Maude excused herself, and Brenna prudently covered her nose as the loathsome stench penetrated the room. The boy’s clothing hung on his rail, thin body, and his ratty garments were smeared with everything imaginable. A measure of compassion filled her. The boy dropped the logs into the bin, stacking the wood neatly. Finally, he stood to leave, but he neither turned nor moved.

  Frowning, Brenna watched him closely. “Yes?” There was no response from the boy. “May I help you?”

  “Oh, Brenna!” The boy pulled his hat from his head, exposing long, greasy blonde hair.

  “Dear God…” she whispered, seeing the shadow of her sister underneath the layers of grime.

  Brenna crossed the room and grasped her sister in a warm, heartfelt embrace, uncaring of her filthy state. Placing her hands on either side of Linnea’s dirty face, she looked at her. “What happened? Why are you here?”

  “He beat me! I had to leave! I had to!” Tears tracked over her stained cheeks.

  “Shh… calm yourself, please,” Brenna said softly. “Dearest, you risk much by coming here. If father finds out, he will be furious. How did you manage to escape?” Fear twisted inside her.

  Linnea turned away, her shoulders shook. “Father said… he said a beating would slow me down if I had any thoughts of following.” She hiccupped through her pain and continued, “That is why he sent you ahead without him—he wanted to make sure I was hobbled,” she sneered. “I stole a horse and clothes from a stable boy and made my way here. Once I arrived near Dorling, I let the horse go, and then I gathered logs from the woods, so no one would notice me when I entered the keep. Father said on his return, he would marry me to James of Thursmond—an old man! I would not stay. I could not.”

  Stunned, Brenna realized Linnea had shown more courage than was usual. She could have died from her injuries and cold weather, which not to mention, the dangers of traveling alone. She walked over to Linnea and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  The younger girl jumped at her touch, facing her sister with tear-swollen eyes.

  “I cannot fault your decision in coming here, yet if father finds out…” Brenna’s voice trailed off, implying her meaning of the torture that would most assuredly follow. “You did the right th
ing. I will hide you, but Linnea, it could mean both our lives if we are discovered.”

  With a nod, Linnea joined in the secret pact of concealment.

  “Let us clean you up and find a place to hide you.” Brenna offered a comforting smile, but she was far from reassured.

  ****

  Several cloaked riders awaited the orders of Darrius of Blackstone with trust and respect befitting his position as the Imperial Arm. He was the king’s personal emissary. And he was furious. So hard and rigid his composure, he defied nature’s chain of command.

  His eyes narrowed upon the castle nestled before him. The glory of Dorling Castle was but a formality to greatness. Every stone bled hate, every murder hole a question of how many innocent men had died. The fortified structure blazed a trail of heartache, but the Imperial Arm was not impressed.

  The downfall of Gunther of Dorling was his mission or rather… his day of reckoning. Darrius choked back irritation in regards to his prey. He had the unfortunate circumstance of being Gunther’s twin brother and the Imperial Arm was far from seeking a family reunion. Gunther owed humanity a debt… his death.

  After ten years of service to King Henry, Darrius stumbled upon Gunther’s path of destruction on more than one occasion in the form of rape, thievery, and murder. The lord found perverse pleasure in any dishonor he could impose upon the human race. He relished it… gloried in it. However, nothing could be proven. Moreover, another problem remained. Since the sudden death of Gunther’s father, he controlled a vast amount of land in the north.

  King Henry remained unwilling to pursue an end to Lord Gunther’s existence without upsetting the balance in his northern region. The king had enough on his mind, dealing with political troubles. Hope prevailed when the king discovered his most trusted emissary to be Gunther’s twin. The king sent the Imperial Arm to infiltrate Dorling Castle along with his Imperial Knights.