Conquering the Dark Axe Read online

  CONQUERING THE DARK AXE

  By

  AMBER DANE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarity to actual events and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  Copyright © 2012 by Amber Dane

  Cover Art: ParaGraphic Designs

  *Please keep in mind this is a work of Fiction and some liberties have been taken to fit in with my tale. Hope you still enjoy the novel.

  Dedication:

  To the man who made Rourke possible- V.O.

  Thank you, big guy. You will always be in my heart

  Table of Contents

  Prologue:

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  1067 Northumbria England Winter

  Prologue:

  The golden-haired herculean knight sat brooding in the dark corner of the boisterous great hall and did his best to ignore the hushed rumors and innuendo that swirled around him. The dark whispers were of him, of the devastation and slaughter he wrought wherever he went. The manor’s hall had been brightly lit and swollen with nobles wall to wall just the day before full of celebration and exuberance, now today the rooms were steeped in heavy gloom. Finely clothed figures stuck close to the arched alcoves, with their barely concealed scorn-filled expressions hidden by the shadows. Most turned away in fright when his gaze fell in their direction.

  He had grown used to such behavior and talk over the years and shrugged it off most of the time. Some stories were true, but out of the mouths of the gossipmongers the tales had grown quite tall and with great embellishment. However, this time their words…these people that had smiled and drank merry with him just yester eve, pierced his defenses and wounded him deeply. What was being said had been spoken of and bandied about all morn since the terrible and tragic incident.

  With dusk settling in and the threat of a violent storm, the golden-haired knight’s mood grew as dark as the ominous silhouettes dancing eerily on the stone walls.

  The raging father of his intended, his massive grief too strong, sat erect in the high back chair on the raised dais and openly stared death his way.

  The great knight’s second-in-command watched him from the side with a look of worry upon his face.

  None knew what to do to attend to the most feared man in this part of the countryside. His name preceded him. He had returned from one of several hard fought and successful campaigns that still arose a year later after The Conquest just the night before. Even with his weapon still dripping with the blood of the dead, he’d morphed the next morn into a man full of eagerness, joy and honor to join with and wed his betrothed.

  Although the marriage had been by the king’s edict, it was seen as more than one of alliance. It was welcomed with great anticipation.

  She, a high born lady and the most beautiful for miles.

  He, a respected, favored and most merciless knight. Far and wide a fine looking man descended from a long bloodline of the mighty Vikings, blessed with their fine pleasing looks, herculean size and leonine mane, had stolen one’s breath many times.

  The union between the Norman knight and the beautiful Saxon Lady Jacqueline was looked upon with zealous wonder to see wed indeed.

  After having spent close to nigh three months courting his betrothed, the merciless knight had done the unthinkable.

  He’d fallen in love with her. All within and out of the manor were well aware of it.

  They would have been the perfect match.

  The morning of the wedding his betrothed asked him for a word alone. With his heart on his sleeve, never would he think to deny her aught, the great knight followed her to a hidden spot they had ventured to often during their brief courtship. There in the quiet, under the canopy of trees that shielded them, the lady had surprised him and after her words, left him standing there a different and broken man.

  By the time the great knight had found his way back to the entrance of the grand hall a sentry had rushed through to his betrothed’s father. The Lady Jacqueline had thrown herself from the cliffs. The golden-haired knight had stood rooted to the spot feeling an unbearable and deep grief down to his very soul. She had taken his heart with her in her desperate plight to get away from him. Be free of him.

  Her words came rushing back to him and he knew they would haunt him for the rest of his years. He would never forget them.

  Anger and ice filled his veins, his heart. He vowed that very day to never be twice a fool and make the mistake of falling in love with a woman ever again.

  ONE

  FALL 1072 ENGLAND

  They were all dead.

  All of them dead.

  Her sister, Lisbeth, had taken her last gasp of breath in less than a sennight of falling ill and now her beautiful young body lay beneath her feet in a freshly dug grave in that hollow and lonely place of darkness waiting for the maggots and worms to feed upon her flesh.

  Another soul taken away from her way too soon.

  Alexa Barnett turned her head aside with a mournful cry escaping her dry lips. The wind was the strongest up here in this place of death and decay on the steep grassy knoll behind her home.

  The family burial ground.

  Her whole bloodline now lost to her forever lay rotting in the world of ever after. She stood with her long lean legs apart, her breeches and leather boots splattered with mud. A tunic sashed at her waist and a hooded cape clasped at her throat, she still felt cold. The cape billowed out behind her in the biting wind and whipped across her slim figure. Her long amber colored locks, unbound, whipped wildly about her head and face. Her ivory complexion rosy not only from the bite of chill in the noon fall wind, but from the angry unshed tears she bit back in sorrow over her sister’s passing. Her arms rested atop the jewel-crusted sword stuck in the ground. A red and black strip of cloth, tied just below the hilt blew in the breeze.

  The last of the mourners, manor servants, a few villiens and the blacksmith’s family, walked down the hill toward the stone manor. Seeing their eyes filled with worry and sorrow only pained Alexa further. They were a caring people and would miss Lisbeth almost as greatly as she. Alexa cursed the heavens silently. Why not she?

  Lisbeth was to have married in less than a fortnight before her untimely death and now by order of the Conqueror, King William, she was to marry her sister’s betrothed in her stead.

  That thou
ght raged through Alexa and she tore the sword up and out of the earth with a loud anguished cry and pointed the gleaming blade toward the heavens. She should have fled when the king’s messenger had brought her the news that she was to take Lisbeth’s place. All of England knew this man’s name and how he’d acquired it.

  Fury mingled with her deep sorrow shot from her eyes to the dark clouds above. Men. She spat a curse. They thought women were simple beings to be bought and sold at whim. Like chattel, bartered to form alliances and bring kingdoms together. All in the name of peace and for the better good. Now by the king’s decree…he would never be her liege…she was to marry the murdering and soulless Dark Axe.

  Memory of Lisbeth’s soft, fearful whisper came back to her warning her from her death bed to keep such hateful thoughts silent lest they be overheard. If they were, Lisbeth had feared Alexa’s words would be cause for her to lose her head. Alexa had not cared then, nor did she now. She was the only living Barnett left.

  She was all alone.

  She, a proud Saxon woman being forced to marry some forsaken landless Norman bastard was beyond outrage and further insult from these murdering devils of Normandy. He was but a blood thirsty mercenary doing whatever his liege told him, the tales of his reputation were no doubt exaggerated, Alexa knew. The most infamous rumor thus far was the murdering axe stood nigh eight feet long that his clubbed feet dragged when he sat a horse and his head was the size of an ogre. Alexa scoffed. He probably was nowhere near to that, albeit she believed he had to be large enough to support the strength he had to muster in cleaving a man in two with his bloody axe.

  Full of brute strength with an ugly mug only a mother could love, of that she was certain. For to be so vicious, savage and mean, he had to be as ugly inside as out. And she was to marry such! God strike her dead now! The Norman lowborn knight was coming for her and her lands and there was naught she could do about it.

  Marrying her would give him noble status, but marrying her would not strip away what he could never change and that was the fact he was and would always be the enemy. A Norman and a murdering bastard.

  Alexa elicited another cry with a sudden movement. Moving the sword in a circular swing of strength and agility with her right arm, she brought the gleaming weapon down hard, driving it back into the earth, halfway to the hilt at the bottom of the freshly dug grave. Falling to one knee, she gave in to her grief for Lisbeth, herself and her future fate. Yet the tears did not fall.

  He sat obscured by high trees at the forest’s edge astride his black steed, waiting. Horse and man stood so still, quiet like stone, the man’s long black cloak blended in with the horse’s dark coat nigh seamless if not for the silver glint of the small sharp knives fastened to the knight’s large calves. Rourke Thorsson, Lord of Westlan rode free of his helm. His leonine mane fastened in a tight queue at the back of his thick neck. His face like stone as he tore his gaze from the adequate size village of small huts, plowed fields of grain, a stretch of stables and the dark looming shadow of the stone manor to the sound of an anguished roar next to it. He squinted, not sure at first what he was seeing.

  He was unaware of his intake of breath as he watched the tall figure with her hair blowing wildly behind her and her graceful swan like maneuver with the gleaming sword as she raised it high above and over her head before she drove it down into the earth.

  Rourke’s face darkened, brows creased and his lips pulled into a hard line as annoyance shot through.

  When word had come from his liege to leave court posthaste to wed straight away, Rourke had not understood at first the urgency. He had been granted the lands by the king’s hand himself and he knew he was to marry this Lisbeth within one month’s time. All had been planned accordingly up to that day. It was another chance at hell in his eyes for at the mere thought of it left the taste of bile and brimstone in his mouth. He spat on the ground, yet the taste lingered on his tongue.

  He was to take a Saxon bride and add to his title.

  It was not the only reason he was here. William had ordered him to secure this northern shire and quell any usurpers lingering in the forest. He’d just come from visiting a fellow overlord and friend across the river not far from here. The image of that lord’s beautiful new bride had given him a glimmer of hope for all of a brief moment. But Rourke knew it would not be his fate to have such luck. Luck had forgotten his name long ago.

  With this betrothal, something had happened while he’d been at court and the matters of the arrangement had changed. His betrothed was dead. He’d never met her, but that had in no sense lessened the blow for him. He had said nothing and simply hardened that wall around his heart all the more.

  Yet, all was not lost.

  He was now to marry the remaining daughter, Alexa Barnett.

  Rourke cared not which or whom of the two he was ordered to marry as long as he received his award. He would wed the girl, consummate the marriage and she would give him his heir. If she did not give him a son, she was of no use to him. There was neither room nor time he wanted to expend on some sniveling, clingy Saxon wench. From the weakness he’d seen during the Battle of Hastings and a few other campaigns after that, he’d no tolerance for the weak and traitorous Saxons whatsoever. He could never love one.

  Nor any woman for that matter, Saxon or not.

  Love and affection had no place in his life. He’d found that out years ago the hard way and that hate filled him now as it had then. He’d poured it all into battle, growth and being a worthy vassal to his king.

  Nothing more.

  The night they had departed, William had discussed the unexplained murders at the Barnett holdings and he trusted Rourke would root out the evil doers behind it. But, it was not that that had caused Rourke to give his sovereign a peculiar glance. It was his second words as he and Goran had neared the barbican gate.

  “Your back is well guarded by your good man Goran on the battlefield, but my friend, he cannot watch your back with the one you are left to wed. She is not a tame one. I would not like to see my Dark Axe cut down by a knife in the back from some untamed Saxon wench. Be wary.”

  Rourke had chuckled along with Goran, yet he’d noted that William had not. His liege had just arched a thick warning brow and watched them depart. As they’d ridden hard and fast across the English countryside to Barnett holdings, Rourke had thought no more of it until he witnessed the wild banshee above on the grassy knoll. She had swung that sword too easily.

  He shook off his musings, grunted out a curse of disgust and guided his warhorse in a slow ascent up the hill in her direction.

  The hairs on the back of her neck tingled and drew Alexa out of her state of grief. She remained in her crouched position as she listened. She heard nothing. But she felt something. She looked through her fallen locks that covered most of her face and could see nothing out of the ordinary down below in the village. But a movement- there! Aye, a fleet of soldiers dismounting in the manor courtyard. The sight caused her anger to resurface. So the Norman bastard had arrived. Alexa stood abruptly, tore the sword from the ground with ease yet again and in a flash of steel wheeled around, the tip of her blade just missed beheading the giant that stood behind her.

  Before she could finish her battle cry, she suddenly found herself flat on her back with the breath knocked out of her and a wall of stone on top of her.

  “A man’s weapon is not a toy, wench.” The gruff voice of steel brushed over her brow. His use of her language was perfect on his tongue, and then he muttered something crude in his Norman French.

  She understood his words. Fluent in Latin to Norman French, her father had been insistent upon it and seen to it during her and Lisbeth’s early education. A foreboding sign of things to come it seemed.

  Alexa could not breathe. The stone wall was a man. A very large man in chain mail. She could feel the cold of his mail through her tunic. The fall had twisted her clothing and the cloak that was clasped at her throat, pressed down upon her wind pipe, choking
her and it didn’t help that his large hand rested firmly on top of that. Panic and fury seized her.

  Rourke’s other hand wrapped around her wrist in a tight grip. “Drop it!” He hissed over her and felt her hand tighten.

  He pulled back a bit to look down at her. Most of her face was covered by amber-colored waves. Only the tip of her straight nose and full lips were visible. Her nostrils flared.

  He continued, “If I have to ask you again, wench, I will break this.” He applied pressure to her slim wrist to further his emphasis, and she let out a painful yelp. He waited just a second as she released the sword and it clanked to the ground beside them. He knew the moment she was about to fight. Rourke was ready. Or so he thought.

  The hellion almost threw his large frame off her by arching her spine and using her thighs to launch them both nearly off the ground. Rourke’s surprise at her strength wore off quickly.

  He had no idea that part of that strength came from her battle to breathe. His large frame was crushing her chest. Alexa was close to passing out if this big oaf did not get off her or release his death grip on her throat. She had sensed him behind her. Probably one of that Norman warmongering bastard’s soldiers. His chest and mail were crushing her. She bucked and had to fight off the threat, the pull of darkness. He finally removed his hand from her throat to pull both her hands in one of his and stretch them above her head. The move caused more of his weight to bear down on her and brought her face directly under his.

  He continued, “Men have died for less than your girlish foolishness. Now, what do you here?”

  She heard him over her heavy pants to suck in air. His booming demand hurt her ringing ears. Alexa managed to gasp out in a strong voice, “Your loudness is what gives you away. Unhand me at once!”

  “Not ‘til you tell me who you are,” Rourke seethed. He already knew who she was. She had just confirmed his suspicions by the authoritative tone in her gritty voice.

  “I will if you remove yourself from my person so that I may breath, you lack-wit!” She spat the last at him.