The Knight and the Sorcerress, Vol 1, The End and the Beginning

By Bruce S. Stewart

A knight, a sorceress, through the acts of war and circumstance, with the active participation of a Goddess, they become more together than they could ever have been alone. This isn't the life either of them had envisioned before they met, but it became the only one they could imagine afterwards.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce S. Stewart
• Release date: Nov 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463895955

Bruce S. Stewart

OK, I don't do much online so you will have to be satisfied with this.Born in Pawtucket, RI, Joined the USN in 1969 and spent 14 years there. I saw much of the world.Worked mostly as a systems Analyst and Network Administrator then went back to college and earned a BA and MA in history and completed all coursework for a PhD. Never finished the degree. Oh, Alma Mater is the University of Illinois.Went to work for the USAF as a historian and completed my 20 years there and retired.While I was in the Air Force I started to write and the bug just hit me.I live in Indiana by myself, which provides time to write.

Book preview

The Knight and the Sorceress:

Book One: The End and the Beginning

By Bruce S. Stewart

Published by Bruce S. Stewart at Smashwords

Copyright 2019 Bruce S. Stewart

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities between characters in this book and persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

NOTE: This work is intended for adult audiences and should not be read by minors or where such writings are prohibited.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Death

Chapter 2 Megwyn

Chapter 3 His Grace

Chapter 4 Ambush

Chapter 5 Succor

Chapter 6 Triage

Chapter 7 Morning

Chapter 8 Battle of Highbridge

Chapter 9 Templeton

Chapter 10 Dreaming

Chapter 11 Awakening

Chapter 12 Conversations

Chapter 13 Dinner

Chapter 14 Another Morning

Chapter 15 Inspiration

Chapter 16 Workout

Chapter 17 Post Coital Conversation

Chapter 18 More Conversations

Chapter 19 Movement

Chapter 20 Feast

Chapter 21 Fugitive

Chapter 22 Loving

Chapter 23 Building

Chapter 24 The Battle of Westport Part I

Chapter 25 The Battle of Westport Part II

Chapter 26 The Battle of Westport Part III

Chapter 27 Westport Conversation

Chapter 28 Parley at the Citadel

Chapter 29 Report

Chapter 30 Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter One – The end of the tale

It was a beastly night. The driven rain lashing at the walls gave the impression that nature herself was in anguish along with the occupants of the castle. Three days the storm had lasted, three days and nights of lightning flashing and the rolling sound of thunder like war bands of knights locked in eternal combat. Three turns of a planet around its sun as the occupants of Castle Northridge waited.

All the servants moved about the keep quietly, speaking only in hushed whispers, as if the soon-to-be widow in the high chamber would be disturbed. The chamberlain had issued no orders for this subdued attendance. It was simply being done, as if by common consent. Each person, letting his or her thoughts move quite naturally to the events transpiring in the high chamber while they completed their tasks, each servant and servitor becoming, in this manner, part of the events taking place in the master’s chamber. Each one of them was a part of the life of the manor, part of the endless cycle of life itself.

The master’s chamber was the second largest room in the castle. It sat over the great hall below it and except for the wardrobe, Megwyn’s work room, and Robert’s study, it would have been the same size. Those three rooms cut approximately sixteen feet off the chamber leaving a room thirty by twenty feet. The ceiling was stained wood, sufficient to support the fighting platform at the top of the dungeon (the central keep of the castle) while the stone walls, as was common in castles, was covered in white plaster. There were two windows on the two longer sides of the room while a fireplace was affixed to the outside wall, facing the bailey was the fireplace, sharing a wall with the great hall fireplace, below it.

In the Master’s chamber a fire burned in the fireplace. Over the mantle the arms of Northridge were carved into the rock. Vert, three dragons seatant Or with the motto First with Honour on a banner beneath the escutcheon. It seemed a fitting motto for the first man to bear it. Two candleholders of 8 candles each increased the illumination of the room. Their light showed a chamber hung with tapestries. Many of them were tributes to deeds of the Master woven by his lady. On the floor, carpets covered the thick wood. On the wall, over the bed, hung the sword Defender, his sword, the sword of a warrior. The lights casting shadows as the occupants sat in thought.

Robert, first Earl of Northridge, one-time champion of a queen, knight of the order of Filias, beloved of Megwyn was fighting his last battle in this life. His breathing now ragged and slow, was barely lifting the once powerful chest. He was a large man his white beard and hair had once been chestnut in color and the arms capable of swinging a sword or controlling a lance for an entire day. Not tall, he stood barely five foot eleven inches; his broad shoulders and well-muscled chest had served the old warrior well through a lifetime of blood and strife.

Sitting at the right side of the bed was a most beautiful woman. She was very tall, even for an Elf. Six feet and two inches when standing, she had hair the color of rich mahogany, highlighted in chestnut, and green eyes that often sparkled merrily as she spoke. Megwyn’s features were fine; her high cheekbones giving her face a noble aspect. Her lips were full and showed kindness with a firmness that made her a natural match for her mate. Most striking of all were her hands, the long thin fingers terminated with beautifully shaped and painted nails. Today, they were painted the burgundy that Robert liked best. She held herself as the daughter of a king that she was, and as the Lady of Northridge should. Her frame was lithe and almost ethereal. When she moved, she moved with the grace her race was famous for.

Others were in the room, they sat around the bed, each absorbed in thought. A strange assortment of people bound together by their love and devotion to the old man slowly dying on the bed. Eight people gathered around the man they had loved, led, or followed, some for nearly three score years. Each now saw the old man through eyes focused on events in the past. Each one of them remembering why they were here in the master’s chambers of Northridge castle, each remembering the passage of years, each proud to have known and served, or been served by, the old man in the bed.

Roland, one time squire and now Chamberlain for the earl, sat on a chair by the door, still performing his duties of guarding and regulating his master’s chamber. Only three years the junior of Robert, Roland was an imposing man. Nearly six feet six inches in height with a large frame that showed the effects of years of campaigning; he was every inch a warrior. His silver hair and beard giving grace to a face lined with the cares of life. But his eyes so blue shone with a fire that explained the attraction of the Earl for his chamberlain. Here was an intelligence and kindness evenly balanced by a warrior’s need for justice that had made the two men life-long friends.

Gareth and Gawain, who by their looks betrayed their kinship to Megwyn, sat next to her. Her half-brothers had been in Robert’s and Megwyn’s service for nearly a human lifetime, Gareth, as captain of Roberts Guard and Gawain as Megwyn’s. Each of them exhibiting sadness that was odd for Elves. The usual aloofness of Elves concerning the things of men was totally absent in this room this night. Like all Elves, they were slightly uncomfortable in the castle room. Their kind being much more accustomed to dwellings that maintained much of the forests, they had never acquired an appreciation for the box-like rooms men preferred.

By the fire, his lyre now silent, sat Callas, Robert’s long time friend and minstrel. His heart was too heavy to play. That single fact was such a different condition for Callas, whose fingers and voice being much known to grace any occasion, and who would play at Robert’s funereal, ere long. Mayhap that knowledge was the key to what kept him silent at this moment.

On the left side of the bed sat two young people. Because they so resembled Robert and Megwyn they could only be Andrew, his son and Merwyld his daughter. The children sat holding hands, comforting each other. Andrew, like his father, was build rather low to the ground with a deep chest and heavy arms. He was graced with his mother’s soft face and his ears betrayed his part-Elvin heritage with their pointed appearance. Merwyld was a light-haired version of her mother with Megwyn’s looks and only the hazel eyes of her father to betray her human heritage.

The last occupant stood by the fire staring into it. He was a tall man, broad of shoulder and his body betraying his occupation of warrior. His hair was long, and blond, now held behind his head by a circlet of gold. He had arrived last night, under the banner of the Earl of Warden, and insisted that he be addressed by that title only; everyone in the room knew that it would be unseemly for a king to stand deathwatch on an earl. So, King David would be addressed as his Excellency, the Earl of Warden for the duration of his watch.

Megwyn the Elvin Lady Northridge, wife of the old knight sat with tears coursing down her cheeks. Her elegant dark hair, for once lying as it willed, not bound by cord or spell, showed the neglect of several days of patient attendance upon her beloved. As a sorcerer/priestess she was acting as physician, confessor, and wife at the same time.

What strange circumstances would cause a king, a master minstrel, two Elvin princes, an Elvin Priestess/princess, and an educated human to patiently attend the death of a human? Each of them had a story of that reason and each story was different, but tied each of them irrevocably up with the old man on that bed. He was, and perhaps would always be, the force that drew them together, that forged them into a power that allowed them to become everything they could ever be.

Often has it been said that Elves should never become involved in the things of men. Men, whose span of life is so short, often live life with a passion that defies Elvin logic. Perhaps there was some of that in the decision of Gareth and Gawain to help the two men they found that day so long ago. Perhaps it was the qualities of goodness and inherent honesty that they detected in Robert so many years ago; perhaps it was simply that his passionate love for his king and kingdom caused them to want to be part of something so good and noble.

The old man on the bed moved suddenly, with evident pain he forced his eyes open and looked at his lady. A small smile brought his face to light and his eyes sparkled briefly at the sight of her. Megwyn took his right hand in both of hers and smiled at him. Robert took a deep breath and said I love you,’

And I thee was Megwyn’s response. With that, his eyes closed and his breathing ceased.

It took a moment for anyone to realize that it was over. Megwyn placed Robert’s hands over his chest, stood, and lifted Defender from her place over the bed. Walking around the bed she handed the sword to Andrew. She placed the sword with the pommel under his two hands, its tip resting on the floor. Slowly she knelt in front of her son and with a voice cracking with emotion spoke the necessary words, Here do I do homage and swear fealty to Andrew, Earl of Northridge, to serve and to obey, thus swear I Megwyn, widow of Robert, daughter of Corrental; now Dowager Countess of Northridge.

It took Andrew a moment to realize that he was now required to speak the words his father had always spoken. It seemed alien to him. This is what the Earl, his father did. When his mother’s eyes prompted him a second time he completed the act of fealty. This do I hear, and will never forget. To act as your champion and liege lord, protecting and defending as long as there is strength in my arm, thus do I swear, Andrew … Earl of Northridge.

David walked to the door and spoke to his marshal. My lord, pray raise the Standard of the King over these walls and place the banner at half staff in mourning for my friend. The marshal nodded, his eyes sharing the grief of his liege for a friend now gone, Yes my liege. He gave the required orders to a knight. Those orders would cause four knights, all of them heirs to Earldoms, to raise the king’s royal banner over the gatehouse of Northridge castle, bunted in black, at half staff in mourning.

Callas stood and spoke the required words, The Earl is dead. A moment later, from the throats of all those present the response Long live the Earl was heard. He picked up his lyre and began to sing a favorite song of Robert’s. It seemed quite fitting that a song of the old Earl first serenade the new Earl. He had given better performances before and in sooth, had his old master heard this rendition, perhaps Callas would still be an apprentice. But then again, maybe it was the finest performance of his life, given the circumstances.

One at a time they all touched Megwyn and departed the room. Finally she was alone with Robert. Thirty-five years of memories flooded her. Years filled with hope, despair, love, and sometimes hurt and anger. She looked down at the body, now empty on the bed and her mind returned to the day she met him. Almost without thinking she began her death-tribute song to him, her life with this man unfolding slowly in song.

Chapter 2 Megwyn

The ten foot by eight foot room was dimly lit, from a single candle by the heavy wooden door set in the west wall. It was a sparsely furnished wooden walled room by any standards. Along both longer sides the collected magical lore of several lifetimes was stacked, nearly floor to ceiling. On the east wall was a low table its top now covered with scrolls, books, chalk, and melted wax.

The assorted codices and scrolls had been collected over the lifetimes of six of the maternal ancestors of the woman who knelt in the center of the room, concentrating fiercely on a single candle, set in a single candlestick. As all of those ancestors, and the woman kneeling, were elves, this meant that the books collected and preserved here represented approximately 1,800 years.

The woman, candlestick, and candle sat in the center of a chalked six-foot circle of power, her concentration, evidently on the final stage of a spell because when all physical components of a spell were set, it was time for the power of the spell caster to complete the spell with her power and abilities, so, in the end, that personal power set the limits of her spells power.

Megwyn, the kneeling apprentice sorceress, had spent hours preparing for this spell. Although all sorceresses could control some aspects of all four of the elements (air, earth, water, and fire, it was to one of these elements that each had a special affinity and through which she could manifest the most powerful spells. Megwyn’s affinity was for fire and it was through this spell, her masterpiece, if you will; with which she was being tested. Success would take her from the ranks of the apprentices, such rank displayed by the yellow robe she wore, to that of a journeyman. At this level, Megwyn would continue to practice her art, and serve people, until she founded her own temple to the Goddess Evelyn and began to train her own apprentices as a Master Sorceress.

All elves have some inherent magical ability; however males nearly always manifest their power through archery or the sword. Females’ talents, more often, tend towards the ability to manage the physical world through spells or simple incantations. Although all elven women had some talents in the magical area, a rare few, less than five percent were powerful enough to allow them access to the ranks of apprentice and only through hard work, and diligent application of talent, could she qualify to present a masterpiece to the assembled sorceresses of her temple and, if successful, achieve journeyman status.

This then explained the concentration exhibited by Megwyn. Her velvety green eyes focused constantly on the base of the candle’s wick, her lips whispering the words of the incantation insuring perfect diction and erudition of the ancient words. It wasn’t as if Megwyn hadn’t conjured light before. This would make the fifth time she had correctly performed the spell, the other four times witnessed by her mentor, Hazlen.

Today, Megwyn had performed every step in the spell to perfection, and observed every rite with exactitude. She had arisen before sunlight and taken her ritual bath in the pools below the temple. This was followed by carefully creating the containment circle within which she sat now. Each element of the circle had to be painstakingly created, as the council would be passing judgment on her work, and should there be the slightest deficiency, she would not be allowed to cast her spell.

Each of the cardinal points of the circle had to match, exactly, the compass point to which it linked. The ancient language spelled out, for each of the elements, its function within the circle. North, source of water, sustainer of life, flow into this circle and give it health. South, symbol of earth, where all creation resides, anchor this circle and keep it true, West, home of the wind, bring air to my circle and make it strong. And to the element with Megwyn’s strongest affinity, East, home of the sun and the source of all energy, give this circle power to hold within it all magic cast therein.

When she was done casting the circle, Megwyn stepped out of the circle and felt the power of the containment spell. Her carefully trained eyes roamed over the circle,