Storm Trilogy Read online

  ~Storm Trilogy~

  by

  Ria Cantrell

  FEATURING:

   KNIGHT STORM

   CELTIC TEMPEST

   CELTIC FURY

  Other Books by Ria Cantrell

  Celtic Fury (January, 2013)

  Celtic Tempest (May, 2013)

  Celtic Spirit (March, 2014)

  Knight Storm (October, 2014)

  Morag’s Tears (April, 2015)

  Celtic Passage – Coming Soon

  Storm Trilogy

  Copyright © 2015 by Ria Cantrell

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your favorite ebook store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All names and events are the creation of the author and are of a fictional nature. Any similarities are purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  So many people have supported me in this journey. I dedicate this book to my husband Paul, who believes in me and helps me live my dream.

  Knight Storm

  *Prologue*

  The young girl bolted awake from the horrible dream. She could still feel the dark, cold water filling her lungs with brine as she had dreamed of plunging ever deeper into the frigid depths of the sea; sinking further from the surface as the splinters of light grew dimmer. She was being pulled under with the ship.

  Gasping for air, she clutched at the bedding, which had become entwined about her like the deadly fingers of seaweed had done in her dream. Her limbs still felt heavy with the weight and pull of her sodden garments, that were now dry upon waking but she struggled to free herself from the tangle of the sheets that were damp with her own sweat. “Mama? Papa?”

  She cried out as the night terror failed to evaporate from her mind. She scanned the room and tried to still the frantic thudding of her heart, sensing the eerie shapes which hid in the shadows cast by the sliver of moonlight that breached the bedchamber.

  She gulped air into her heaving lungs, desperately trying to put the horror of the dream behind her; desperately trying to breathe. Finally pulling the confining bed linens from her petite form, she scuttled from the bed and flung the door to her room open wide. It crashed on its hinges with a loud bang. She did not think about the sound causing anyone to wake.

  She hurled herself into the dimly lit corridor and thought to find her brother. He would offer her comfort, she was certain. For some reason, she could not shake the dread and fear from her dream encounter. Running blindly, the dream images assailed her again. There was a terrifying storm upon the sea and the ship had been tossed like a cork in a vat. The staves of the vessel seemed to strain as the wind groaned against the salt-worn wood. The waves pounded against the hull and there was no way to protect it. Finally breaking through the aft side of the ship, the vessel seemed to break apart like twigs snapping from a tree. Water, as cold as ice, swallowed all the passengers within the ship, plunging them into the freezing depths below. She had felt herself being pulled with the force of the sinking ship, sucking her away from the surface.

  All the while, she was being cast ever downward to the fathomless pits of the sea. The dream had been so real, the girl could remember the feel and taste of the briny water as it burned the back of her throat and filled her nasal cavity. It filled her lungs and pooled in her belly. She had thought she was truly going to die, even in the illusion of the dream. She saw her parents trying to hold onto each other as they stretched grasping hands toward their child, but they were never able to get a hold of her. She tried to call for them, but she watched in horror as they slipped further away from her into the black abyss below. When she opened her mouth to scream, more of the dreadful seawater seemed to fill her lungs. Yes, she had thought, she was dying just as if it was not a dream. She was certain she would succumb, as her parents had before her. And just as she was sure the end was evident, she saw him. He was bright like an angel. Maybe he was one, she was not sure. Or maybe he was a creature of the sea, like she had read about in one of her books. His eyes were a vivid blue and despite the darkness pulling at her, she could see the hue of them. They were like the sky just after a snowfall; crisp azure with silvery edges. Blonde hair nearly as long as her own midnight black locks, floated around his handsome face. His hand grasped around her small wrist and he kicked his strong legs away from the sucking shipwreck. She heard him say, “Come with me. I’ve got you, you are safe now.”

  A merman! Yes, that must be what he was, but as she watched him pulling her to the surface, she remembered mermen did not have legs. It was said they had tails like fish. This one had legs to be certain, for even in her dream, she could see the strength of his thighs as he propelled them further toward the surface. His hand was like a vice as it had tightened around her delicate child’s wrist. She did not want to go with him. She could not leave her parents to drown. She struggled briefly in the blond creature’s grasp but he gave her a stern look, which did not mar the beauty in his face and she ceased her struggle. As they breached the surface, she gulped cleansing breaths of salty air.

  She woke, then. The man who had saved her was gone, but the dread remained. And then she knew.

  Sobs wracked her tiny shoulders as she flung herself into her brother’s bed. Startled by the intrusion, Randall du Montefort let a few choice curses fly from his lips. It only took a moment to realize his precious little sister was wailing beside him most pitifully. Gathering her tenderly into his lap, he crooned, “There now, mon cherie, did you have a bad dream?”

  But the girl only cried harder. He hushed her and held her until the wrenching sobs quieted. Stroking down her tousled hair, he smoothed down her sleep-messed tresses.

  “Shh, shh, now. T’was only a dream.”

  She shook her head and let tears splash onto her brother’s shoulder. “N-nay,” she choked. “Nay, Randall, it was not. Mama and Papa are gone.”

  “Nay, Sweeting, they are only away for a short time so Mama can get well. They will be back before you have had time to miss them.”

  “No,” she insisted. “They have drowned. I saw them. I felt it. It was as if I was drowning, too. I tasted the water in my throat and nose. I felt the darkness pulling me to the bottom of the sea. They are gone, Randall…they are gone,” she cried, burying her tear-stained face into her brother’s neck. For the first time, Randall du Montefort knew what it meant to be afraid. His sister was not prone to hysterics. She was so much like his mother, who had fostered the Gifts of those who had gone before. Some called it the Sight and as sure as Randall’s mother had that gift, he had known for quite some time that his sister was granted the same. Cold dread filled his heart. He knew that Rhianna had not just had a random nightmare. No. She had born witness to the tragic passing of both their parents, he was certain.

  When the missive came a few short weeks later, telling Randall he was the new lord of du Montefort Keep, it was less a shock because of Rhianna’s portent of warning. Still, it was a title he would have gladly never been granted. It was a title now earned from the passing of his father along with his beloved mother, who had been lost at sea.

  ~Chapter One~

  Rhianna du Montefort steeled herself against the chill as the cold wind buffeted her from her perch on the castle battlements. A storm was brewing; one that was not necessarily akin with the weather. She could feel it. She could always feel it. She hated storms. All the warnings she alwa
ys felt when danger was afoot sounded the alarm deep in that place she had grown to know so well. Witch…She heard the talk that sometimes the town folk whispered behind her back. Nay, I am a Healer….

  When she helped the sick or injured, she was revered for her craft as a healer. More often than not, the villagers sought her out to aid them in their sufferings. They had grown to rely on her skill with the herbs and tinctures when some maladies besot them. Rhianna tried to turn a deaf ear to those who spoke out of spite or grief. Sometimes, all her skill with the herbs could not aid in an illness. Those were the times that people were prone to cast hurtful words and names she did not take to heart. At least, she told herself she did not take it to heart. For even though she knew that grief was the cause of their barbs, the words cut her as sure as any dagger could.

  Long had she learned some of the Ancient Arts, which she supposed were fostered by the Celtic people of her mother’s homeland. From an early age, Rhianna could remember her mother, Ceridwyn, teaching her the important properties of plants and herbs. As Rhianna pulled her cloak tighter against the rising wind, her mind wandered to those precious lessons which now lived only as memories in her heart. Rhianna’s parents were both killed during a squall at sea. They had journeyed to the coast of Wales one last time because Rhianna’s mother had never gotten over her homesickness of the land of her birth. Her father loved her mother devotedly and when she had come down with the wasting sickness, he vowed to bring her home so she could heal and get well. Gregory du Montefort would do anything for the woman of his heart; even if it meant taking a perilous journey by ship during Martinmas, when seafaring was the most precarious. The tempest had come out of nowhere, it was said, and the ship was lost just outside of their destination.

  Rhianna remembered waking in the dead of night, that night so long ago, feeling like she had been drowning. At that moment, she knew, even long before the missive came to report the devastating loss, that both her parents had perished with all the others on the ship.

  Besides healing, Rhianna had the Sight. Her mother had told her it was a gift from her ancient heritage. At times like these, when the winds of change blew, Rhianna thought of it less as a gift and more a curse. She pondered it then, while standing upon the ramparts of the castle watch. Rhianna felt that dread and foreboding again this very night.

  Rhianna’s brother Randall had been missing for three months now. He had left to do the king’s bidding and he had been called to fight in some needed campaign. There was always some needed campaign of some sort with this monarch, it seemed. King Edward was voracious in his quest for power. Rhianna kept herself far from the reaches of the king in her isolated and insulated demesne. Still, his grasp extended to her protected world all too recently as Randall was pressed into service for one of the king’s many misguided causes.

  Randall was not dead! Rhianna shouted that thought within her mind, else she would have felt the loss as sure as she had felt the loss of her beloved parents some fifteen years past. She had only been a girl of eight then, and so much had happened since that fateful day. Rhianna and Randall maintained the small keep and outlying village with the help of their father’s loyal serfs and soldiers. Randall had barely been a man when he had been thrust into the position of Lord of du Montefort holdings. Rhianna’s heart swelled with pride at the way he had risen to the task. Hell, they both had! While they both faced many challenges daily, somehow they maintained prosperity and peace within their lands and adjoining villages.

  Yes, there were those who sought to take what was rightfully theirs, but Rhianna did not give in to such worrisome things. Instead, she set to the work of being Lady of the Keep and the Healer of her people.

  As her eyes now scanned the darkening horizon, Rhianna murmured, “Where are you, my dear brother. I don’t know how much longer I can weather this storm without you.”

  ~~~~~

  Andarra watched the young woman who was lost in thought. The girl had been her charge by rote since the Lord and Lady had perished all those years ago. Andarra had come from Scotland to marry an English knight and had remained within these walls ever since. She was proud of the woman the orphaned girl had become. Though Rhianna no longer needed her guidance, Andarra still hovered like a mother hen over the girl. She had inherited the care and guidance of the child as Chatelaine of the keep. At the time, it seemed like a daunting task, but as the years passed, she had grown to love the girl like a daughter of her own. She had never been blessed with a child, so the raising of Rhianna du Montefort filled that void in her heart.

  The wind was kicking up. Andarra sensed a storm was only moments away. She had to get the girl inside but she knew better than to coax her when she was in one of her pensive moods. Still, mood or no, Andarra could not risk anything else to happen to this sole heir of the keep. Master Randall was missing. Perhaps, God forbid it, even dead. She could not have Rhianna come down with some illness because of her refusal to come in from a storm. Clearing her throat so as to not startle the woman lost to her musings, Andarra said, “Come inside, child. The weather is turning foul.”

  Rhianna faced the old chatelaine and smiled.

  “You are always so good to me, Andarra. Why, if I did not have you seeing to my comforts, I don’t know how I would have grown to womanhood. Thank you. I will be but a moment longer. I have a good deal of thinking to do.”

  “And can you not think inside, next to a roaring fire, with a warm mug?”

  “The air clears my mind. I am trying to reach out to Randall. If only I could feel him, then I would know he is alright.”

  Andarra was not surprised or daunted by such a claim by the young Mistress of the keep. She had grown used to the precious gifts the Ancients had bestowed on the lass. She had been steeped in them, herself. Her old cousin Morag had taught her well of the Ancient Ways before she had come to this place so very long ago.

  “And do you feel him, lass?”

  Shaking her head sadly, Rhianna said, “No, but I don’t feel he is lost, either. I know I would sense that emptiness in my heart. It almost feels as if he is alive but caught between the living and the dead.” Rhianna shuddered at the thought. Whatever had befallen her brother, it was not good.

  Andarra knew that to be true. She had long relied on the Gift that Rhianna harbored. She hated when the people whispered dangerous words to malign her mistress because of her Gifts. Andarra knew no fear in such things as she had been honed with them, too. She had lived a long life. Nothing frightened her much anymore; except the loss of the girl of her heart. Sighing, Andarra said, “Alright. Don’t be too long. A tempest is brewing. I can feel it in my old bones. Come inside where it is warm.”

  Distracted again, Rhianna nodded and watched as the old chatelaine moved more slowly than she had in days. It must be because of the impending storm. Rhianna hated storms; she really did! Nothing good ever came with storms, she was certain. She would have to remember to prepare some of her special liniments to aid in the rheumatisms that plagued her dear old chatelaine and friend.

  When the first cold drops splattered against the hood of her cloak, Rhianna gave up her post and hastened inside. The lightening had streaked across the sky and the thunder pounded in a heart-stopping crash. Rhianna did not waste any more time out in it after that. Try as she might, Rhianna just could not sense her brother’s life force. It was like he was alive, but dead as well. That thought chilled her to the bone more than any fierce weather brewing outside her shuttered windows.

  Then there was the other thing she had been sensing. She did not want to give any merit to that for it was too worrisome a thought and Rhianna feared that the unseen storm would change the course of her life from that day forward. Rhianna was not prepared for the ramifications of such a change. Of that she was certain. So she pushed the sense of the foreboding maelstrom to the far recesses of her mind. This night she would not ponder it any longer or give it a place to brew and fester. No. Not this night.

  ~Chapter Two~


  Erik Ragnorsen peered at King Edward, staring incredulously at the monarch as if he had truly turned daft in his progressing years. Erik pleaded, “Please, Your Majesty. I do not wish to take a wife. I am happy to serve your ranks, but as an unmarried man.”

  Erik certainly did not want to marry. In learning about the woman the king thought to saddle him with, bile rose in his throat. The king had said she was an heiress to a rich demesne, complete with a moldering castle, no doubt. Erik had heard the woman was old. A spinster, by the sounds of it! Besides her advanced age, she was known to be quite willful. Erik imagined the old hag to be as disagreeable to look at as an ornery old goat and the last thing he needed was to be tied to one such as that. No amount of lands and riches could sweeten the bitter draught of having to marry.

  Erik had not advanced up the ranks just on brawn alone. He kept his eyes and ears opened and heard the talk. The du Montefort hag was said to be a sorceress. Witch, she was called. Erik wanted no part of the unholy conjurings of some wart-faced heathen. He felt his stomach lurch at the mere thought of it.

  The king eyed his loyal knight who was bent on one knee before him. Sir Erik Ragnorsen was one of his best soldiers. He supposed the Viking blood that coursed through the man’s veins, ran deep. He could always count on Sir Erik to rise to the fight or to lead the best of his campaigns. The man was unstoppable, albeit a little headstrong. The king was able to put that flaw to the side as time and again, the young knight proved himself within the ranks of his army. A partial smile cracked the monarch’s royal lips. Despite being on one knee, Erik’s head was raised; his gaze level with the king’s. Insolence was not usually tolerated, but for this one, he made an exception. He leveled his gaze upon the knight kneeling before him. He said, “Sir Erik, you are needed to take the du Montefort holdings in hand. Our loyal vassal has been missing and is presumably dead. His sister has been left to manage the estates, but we daresay, that she will not be able to continue for much longer. Already, We have received word of uprisings forming to garner her lands. As her Monarch, We must see to the protection of this woman and that her holdings do not fall to the wrong hands. Lord Randall may yet return and in that event, you will not be forced to marry the Lady Rhianna.”