The Trusted Thief

By Anna Rydell

About the Book

Two kingdoms, two powers, one throne… the Dragon will do anything to get it.

Agent of the Dragon, Drake Gantinough, has hid his daughter from his enemy, Duke Valian, for fourteen years, but Gantinough has a secret. Isabella is Valian’s daughter and Gantinough wants her demise. Isabella remains ignorant of her heritage and her father, who guards the King’s throne. As the Guardian’s heir, she is a valuable pawn, and she cannot see her true adversary. Her sequestered world is turned upside-down when a bewildering stranger arrives, claiming her father is not the man he seems.

Fletcher Gantinough struggles between two worlds and the men who govern them. The man he calls father wants nothing less than his rival’s demise and Isabella’s destruction. In a turn of allegiance, Fletcher must choose to betray his upbringing and turn Isabella’s heart back to where it belongs; yet Isabella’s devotion to Gantinough is making it difficult for Fletcher to draw her away from the danger. Isabella wants nothing to do with the dubious stranger, unaware of the Dragon’s presence, waiting to consume her soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Aug 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887297606

Book preview

Prologue

What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?

For Ye are bought with a price, therefore glorify God in your body

and in your spirit which are God’s. ~ 1 Corinthians 6:19-20

images_354_Copy128.png ime, years, memories of a thousand yesterdays gone by, all threatened to vanish away with age. The weary woman sat in front of the blazing fire as it danced in its place. Her hair cascaded past her waist, laying limp, weary from years of being pulled back beneath wimple and hennin. Her thoughts seemed to swirl about her in the still room as she gazed into the flames pondering the One she longed to see.

 Grandmaman?

 She smiled at the sound of her great-grandson’s voice behind her, though she did not turn her head. Yes, love?

 His voice drifted in from the passageway. May I sit with you?

Aye, she answered. It did not take him long to close the gap between them. He sat down, resting against her chair. He faced the fire, not saying another word.

The pair sat in silence for a while as she placed her hand on his shoulder and patted it. She withdrew her hand knowing that when he felt ready, he would speak. Something troubled him; she could see it in his face.

She breathed a deep sigh as she contemplated the special bond they enjoyed. He seemed to always come to her when he desired advice or felt troubled. Gone were the days when they played together; she couldn’t anymore even if he wanted to. She marveled at how much he grew in the last year. Their time together now consisted more of sitting and talking. Sometimes they would sit in silence, like today.

 Grandmaman? his voice broke the quiet and into her thoughts.

 Yes, love?

 I— He stopped speaking for a moment as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. Her heart melted with compassion for the boy. I just came from speaking with Pater, he started.

Aye, she nodded, he told me he was going to speak to you.

Did he tell you what he wanted to say? Irritation lined his voice.

He did, she answered.

Tears filmed over his eyes. The burden he bore was surely a large one for a boy of twelve years of age. Before he spoke again, awareness overtook her. He felt he’d been betrayed.

 You agree with him, don’t you? The pain in his voice stabbed her like a knife.

 You are growing up. Your calling is not one to take lightly. But I understand the overwhelming sense of loss you are experiencing.

 I don’t want to follow Father’s footsteps, he cried. I want to go to Tourney. I want to joust, show my skills, and use them in front of the world. Why can’t Stuhart—

She set her hand on his shoulder to still his thoughts. You are the oldest; as such your father’s responsibilities to His Sovereign Majesty pass to you.

 I know what Maman and Father have told me. I just don’t see why guarding the throne is so important. Does it not matter what I want?

His voice trailed off and she allowed the silence to reign. She wanted his question to penetrate his own ears for a moment.

Finally she answered, May I answer your question with a story?

He turned and awarded her a smile at the mention of a story. Is there a dragon?

Oh yes, she answered.

A hint of mischief sparkled in her eyes. Though not the kind you would think. But there are knights, maidens, evil lords, and adventure.

She settled back into her chair bringing a note of seriousness to her face. Greater than that, there is a lesson. You must promise me you will listen for it and learn it.

He turned to face her in earnest zeal to hear her out. I promise.

She smiled again at his enthusiasm. Alright, she nodded, now close your eyes and take your imagination back to the Kingdom of Veriti, during the winter season of 1391.

One

The wicked plotteth against the just, and gnasheth upon him with his teeth.

The Lord shall laugh at him: for he seeth that his day is coming. The wicked have drawn out the sword, and have bent their bow…to slay such as be of upright conversation. Their sword shall enter into their own heart

and their bow shall be broken.

 ~ Psalm 37:12-15

images_355_Copy131.png old night wind whipped through his wool cloak, pulling at his hood. He muttered under his breath, wishing for the weightier furs he usually wore. Looking up again he almost grunted in frustration. His breath surrounded him in the brisk nocturnal air. He must get over the battlement, before the second guard came back around on his patrol. This mission played a vital role. His future pivoted on it, just like his precarious position on the smooth stone wall.

 He and his father planned this for months. If he could succeed, justice would be served. At last, he would be esteemed enough in his father’s eyes to be the man he always hoped to become.

 The wind continued to torment him with its brutal and chilling grasp. His fingers felt stiff from cold as he climbed the last of the way. The rattle of armor filled the air. He gripped the rope tighter and wanted to swear, but he knew he shouldn’t. Instead, he pressed himself against the wall, flat as he could. He held his breath with every step the knight took, only releasing it as the rattling of chainmail faded into the darkness. Never had he been more grateful for overhanging battlements.

 Ignoring his pounding heart, the raider threw his body over the battlement onto the wall and landed in the perfect blind spot between the two towers. He smiled at the weakness in the impenetrable stronghold. Impenetrable that is, until tonight.

Quickly, the marauder repositioned his rope and anchored it down on the other side. If he calculated it right, he would land just behind the granary.

He shimmied down the inside, until his feet hit something solid. He smiled again, elated with another success. He had to keep focused though. Until he disappeared back in the cover of the wooded darkness, every caution must be taken to keep from getting caught. He breathed deep and peeked around the wooden building for any sign of movement. There was none. He expected getting past the dungeon to be the hardest part. Guards would be everywhere. His first priority, though, was to find the drainage port down into the catacombs. It had to be here somewhere.

A memory brightened his thoughts. The layout of Veritheld positioned the drain between the granary and the barracks.

Taking in his surroundings, he noted he was on the wrong side of the granary. He could see the keep and the trebuchet, but the barracks were nowhere in sight. He caught himself from growling in frustration. Because this granary was skirted rather than open on the bottom, he would have to go around the front to get to the other side. A move that would leave him vulnerable to discovery, but he had to try it. At least there was no moon tonight.

His heart pounded in his chest as he made the daring move. He emboldened his resolve with a thought of what this man had done to his father. It only stood to right that the tyrant’s power be taken away.

Wrapping himself in his cloak, the marauder hunkered down and then dashed to the wooden entrance of the granary. Its elevation supplied a hiding place. He was about to abandon his cover when the sound of armor rattled through the air again. He could see several soldiers exit the barracks. Agitation stirred within him. He was behind on his task. This was the second changing of the guard. There would only be one more before dawn.

Moments seemed to fly away from him as he anticipated the crier to announce that all was well. Ages seemed to pass before the voice finally settled over the quiet world. The invader breathed in relief, located his target, and rushed for the shadows between the two buildings.

Spotting his entrance, he knelt to see if it was covered by a grate or mere bars. Finally, something in his favor: steel bars that seemed to be bent. It almost looked as though one was missing. Rearranging his rope and satchel he lowered his feet into the opening and wriggled through. It was a tight fit but eventually he dropped, splashing into the sewage below.

It was not as wet as he anticipated, but he was certain it would get worse rather than better. He surveyed the catacombs in the dimness. Now he needed to find the right passage leading to the dungeon.

 He turned down a dark corridor, avoiding the septic filth as much as possible, which now proved to be harder than he thought. Unfortunately, the further he went, the worse it became. He swore under his breath when he reached a dead end. He growled low, hitting the wall with his fist.

A wet substance dripping into his hair, took his mind from his throbbing knuckles. A gaping hole sat above him, and it appeared to be lined with wooden boards. As he gazed up into the hole, the revolting scent of human waste assaulted his nostrils; it seemed to be stronger than the smell radiating from the filth at his feet.  He didn’t like it, but it provided a way in. He anchored his rope again. The wooden planks lining the drain were less robust than stone, but they would do.

 He pulled himself up into the tube-like entrance. Once surrounded by wooden boards on all sides, he placed one foot to the left and the other in front while pressing back with his spine. It took some time, but eventually he wriggled up into the small chamber that would grant him access to the inside.

Clambering out of the seat, he stepped forward, pressing his ear against the door. It creaked open until he felt certain of the absence of any guards. If he guessed it right, the room he sought would be on the same floor, and he would reach his target before the changing of the watch.

 Turning to the right, he hurried past several doors and dark passageways that seemed unguarded. Soon, the last door loomed ahead of him. Elation shot through him. Now his father’s name would be avenged.

Taking care, he crept into the darkness of the private solar. The room also served as the safe-room for the family belongings and precious treasures. Sighting a rather large writing desk, he felt beneath the top for the small compartment; he ran his fingers along the smooth box and wiggled it out of place. With a satisfied smile, he pulled the family crest and seal ring from the drawer. Stuffing them both in the satchel, he turned to find himself face to face with a man no taller than he: no taller, but fully armed.

Going somewhere?

UV

 The fire flickered and crackled, casting light about the room that crowned Isabella’s red hair with a halo. She bent her concentration on her needlepoint. With a sudden squeak, she lifted her finger to her lips. As the taste of iron filled her mouth, she pulled it from her lips and examined it.

A tiny red dot began to form over the impeded area, growing larger. She popped the afflicted appendage back into her mouth and began to pout. She knew it wasn’t ladylike to do so, but she couldn’t help it. That was the third time tonight. At least, she had yet to blot the sampler.

Setting it aside, she clenched her shaking hands. Normally she possessed talent in wielding the needle. Some might dare to say she was graceful. Tonight, however, her concentration on a relaxing task forsook her due to her pater’s absence.

 She looked around her as the firelight reflected off the columns and archways. The once magnificent castle now lay in disrepair from the attack brought on it long ago. Pater replaced the critical stones in the keep, preserving the predominant part of the castle. From the outside to look on it, however, no one would ever guess that someone lived deep within its recesses. Pater assured her every time they met together. I must do it to keep you safe.

Isabella sighed. Infamous words. Words that held no meaning.

 He brought her here not long after the attack on her life, was thwarted. She didn’t mind knowing that Pater needed to take precautions to keep her safe, yet every day she felt like more of a prisoner in her own home.

 Every day he seemed to visit less and less. His last visit didn’t end well. She pushed him too far. She even had her needlework draped over her lap just like tonight. The conversation took place in this exact room.

 Pater? The fire illuminated his thoughtful face that aged all too quickly for worry.

 Yes, my dear? He looked up, affording her a glance and a weak smile before he looked down again.

 My seventeenth birthday is coming, she stated, cautious of how he would take the request.

 Yes, my dear, so it is. He looked at her again, this time concentrating on her face. What do you want? Hmm? Ask anything you wish, and I will give it to you.

 She opened her mouth to speak, but he continued. A dress perhaps? Or maybe some more paper and ink, or would you prefer new tapestry coverings for the walls? These might be getting a bit old. He smiled in an admiring way. She almost lost her nerve, but soon regained her resolve.

 I want to visit the village, and your castle, Pater, I want to see how people behave in everyday settings—

You know we can’t do that.

 But it would only be for one day, she pleaded. And I wouldn’t have to see the village, please just let me spend one birthday with you under normal circumstances.

 She watched his tension build as he stood and turned his back. No, Isabella.

 But, Pater, please just—

 I said no! He turned to face her, his eyes growing troubled. "You have no idea the pain I go through just to keep you safe. Do you so soon forget that we are not surrounded with what is normal!? Do you not remember nor understand that our circumstances are far from usual!?

"But—"

Stop, Isabella! he silenced.

She could see the distress and frustration in his features. No one wishes for it more than I, but until our family is avenged, you must understand this is where you stay.

He turned away with an angry gaze, refusing to utter another word; and though his lack of speech was indeed silent, its deafening expression left her in tears.

 Since that day she hoped that he would return, and she could apologize, but he hadn’t: not even for today. His bowl of soup sat growing cold until she finished her third remove and dismissed herself from the table.

 He even sent some lovely gifts. They were waiting for her upon reaching the solar. Everything he’d mentioned and more sat in the corner mocking her. Three dresses, the paper, ink, the tapestries, plus a circlet and veil along with some books and paints, even a lute, leaned against the cold stone wall. Though she knew he sent them as an apology, she didn’t want things. She wanted his presence, his love and attention.

She smiled at the thought of how she used to giggle and play when he came to see her. They would hide and chase each other through the castle until they fell down pealing with laughter. They spent every one of her birthdays together until her fifteenth year. She tried not to doubt that he still loved her, but his lack of presence started to leave a growing hole in her heart she feared would never be filled.

Two

The Lord is gracious, and full of compassion; slow to anger, and of great mercy. ~ Psalm 145:8

Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink…

~Romans 12:19-20

images_360_Copy134.png he cold of the stone floor chilled Fletcher’s feet to the bone. Right after the duke’s guards searched him for weapons, he tried to make use of the dagger, concealed in his boot, to escape. He cursed himself in his mind; now he had neither.

Large, brutish hands squeezed down on his neck and arms as the guard shoved him down a large, well-guarded hallway. Two massive doors, adorned with iron hinges and scrolled handles, loomed ahead of him. Their beautiful design boasted them to be a work of art all on their own. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised by the magnificence of the structure, considering the political prominence of the man who resided here.

 As though on cue, the doors opened, revealing the throne room. More armored guards lined the walls. The duke sat before him, across the massive chamber. His intense eyes bore through the offender. He pressed his mouth into a thin line.

 The guard forced Fletcher forward until they stood at the edge of the dais where the throne rested.

Here is the intruder, my lord, these are the items found in his satchel. The soldier handed the seal and ring to the powerful noble, who examined them for some time as though having never seen them before now. He drew his brows together, and then set his sea blue gaze on the thief.

Fletcher swallowed hard trying not to shift under the scrutiny. For the first time since being caught, he trembled at the thought of what this powerful man could do. He dropped his eyes to the floor, waiting for his sentence, but none came. The silence stretched on for what seemed like years, swelling into a deafening roar, ringing in his ears.

 The duke’s gaze continued to pass between the pilfered items and the offender. The intensity in his eyes inflicted more conviction to confess than any torture Fletcher had ever endured before. His heart screamed, begging for the man to speak, yet mere silence continued to greet him.

Just when he knew he couldn’t abide it any longer, the duke finally spoke. State your name.

The short, demanding statement did nothing to ease the tension. Though he did not shout, the booming of the man’s voice echoed through the hall. Even as the sentence registered in Fletcher’s ears, he froze.

 The vice-like grip tightened on his arm as the guard pushed his shoulder to the top of its socket.

 Flabeus. The duke’s calm voice broke the silence again as he shook his head at the assertive knight. Returning his attention to Fletcher, he raised his brow in anticipation for the answer. An answer Fletcher was aware was futile to give.

Fletcher Gantinough, my lord. He lowered his gaze again awaiting the duke’s next reaction. He knew that the name alone held enough reason for his death to be commanded, but silence greeted him once more, increasing his agony. His throat began to constrict, feeling tight. His hands trembled. He willed them to stop by clenching them until his nails dug into his palms. Sweat beaded his brow as they continued to say nothing. He could feel the duke’s eyes on him.

Very well then, Fletcher, we will skip the remaining preliminary questions.

 The defendant brought his head up at the statement half expecting to be reprimanded for his disrespect. A knot settled in his stomach as the noble continued.

I’m certain we both know who you are, what you want, and who sent you; so tell me, Fletcher, what should be done to a thief such as yourself that desires priceless family heirlooms for the sake of your gain and the desolation of others?

The ruler glanced down at the items in his hands, then back at Fletcher, awaiting his response.

Fletcher lowered his head. Now he prolonged the silence. He looked up again. Defying court rules, he met the duke’s gaze. I would suppose hanging at most, flogging at the least Your Grace.

Fletcher was taken aback by his own answer, wishing he could run and hide. What was it about this man that intimidated the truth out of people? If only he’d reached the ruler’s private quarters to finish his job before he was caught, he wouldn’t be standing here.

 The corner of the duke’s mouth twitched upward. As he rested his chin on his thumb, his eyes began to sparkle replacing the scrutiny with conspiracy that made Fletcher’s blood run cold.

 What do you know of grace? Hmm? The duke’s mood changed as he awaited the answer.

Grace? Fetcher had never wished so much to be done with an interrogation. The man’s way could only be described as unorthodox, making it even more alarming. He cultivated a fear into his respondent in a way that Fletcher’s father never could.

The thief dropped his eyes to the floor again though the duke waited with patience for the answer.

 Mustering his courage, Fletcher looked up.  In the sake of utmost honesty, I have given out little and experienced even less.

The noble nodded, his tone then grew more serious. And what about mercy?

Fletcher’s head swam. What answer did he want to hear? With all due respect, Your Grace, are they not the same? The question echoed off the walls as the silence grew greater. The duke stood and stepped down from the platform that elevated his seat. As he drew near, Fletcher felt confident he was finished.

 No, they go hand in hand. You cannot have one without the other, but they are not the same. He placed his hands behind his back looking Fletcher in the eye, allowing the answer to sink in.

 The captive nodded, though he seemed to be more contemplative than understanding.

 The duke kept his voice low and calm. Mercy is not getting what you do deserve. Grace is receiving what you don’t deserve. He paused, glancing at a small sculpting of a lamb engraved on one of the pillars to the right then back to his respondent. I am going to extend a little mercy to you.

 Fletcher whipped his head up at the statement. His eyes grew wide, but the duke did not address him again.

 Flabeus, take our guest to the east chambers. Double the guard, and wake Helene, tell her to prepare a meal. Have Dugan prepare a hot bath, he will be waiting on our guest until his business here is finished.

Fletcher’s mind marveled at what he had just heard: guest, waiting, business? Yet before he could comprehend anything, he was being whisked away. He looked back to see the duke once more, but the man was nowhere in sight.

UV

Your Grace! Your Grace! The noble turned to see his steward rushing down the hall after him. Though a good man, he tended to be exorbitantly zealous over matters he didn’t think to be the best ideas. His purple doublet and silver stocking tights gave the indication of being more of a strategist than a warrior.

 What is it, Aiden? The duke smiled as the man drew abreast with concern clouding his eyes. I don’t mean to question you, my lord, but you just invited your enemy into your domain. Do you think that is wise?

 Duke Liam placed his arm on Aiden’s shoulder guiding him from the corridor into the library. He felt his smile fade as he checked the room for clearance and met the other man’s gaze. Aiden, we must remember, this is not my domain. Fletcher’s skills are unsurpassed. He made his way from the outer walls to the inner castle without detection. He could have had my life.

 Aiden’s brow furrowed more. Perhaps that was his plan all along. It is logical to assume Cedrick caught him before he could do so. All the more reason to take his head, not treat him as nobility.

 The duke gave the servant a warning look. I appreciate your concern. However, you forget that taking or sparing his life is a decision that belongs to the King alone. It is necessary that my daughter come back home: not for my sake but His. He is adamant, Fletcher is his chosen man.

Aiden was silent for a moment, then grew surprisingly brave. But what of his loyalty, my lord? His voice trembled a little at the liberty he took.

 Duke Liam set his jaw. I have every confidence it will turn.

 But, my lord, how do you intend to turn it?

 The duke grew thoughtful, looking beyond the steward, as though seeing through the circumstances to gaze at something that the steward could not. It is not up to me. I was merely instructed by His Majesty. We will see how Fletcher responds to the mercy I extend. If he chooses to accept it, I must bestow a generous amount of grace. It is what the King did for me.

UV

Fletcher turned from the narrow, cross-shaped window in frustration. He paced the floor back to the wash basin and continued back and forth in a rhythmic pattern. The duke sealed off every obvious way of escape and would soon seal off any weaknesses that might not be so obvious.

 Sitting down in defeat, he raked his hands through his hair; he’d failed. It wasn’t the first time, but nothing that his father entrusted him with had been so vital. What would he say? Fletcher knew just what he would hear because he’d heard those words before. You failed!? You guaranteed you could do it! I trusted you with the honor of rebuilding the family name! I am ashamed to call you my son.

 He clenched his fists. Rest assured, without question or doubt, his father would be