Prologue
November
Year of Our Lord 1269 A.D.
Chillingham Castle, 2 miles south of the village of Chatton
He knew it was time to go.
He’d run into this problem before, too many times over the eons of his life – he’d settle in to a task, or a home, or a routine, but soon enough, people would start to realize that he was different.
Odd.
Mostly, it was because he didn’t age like mortals did. He seemed to be perpetually stuck in the summer of his thirty-eighth year. At least, that was the last time he ever noticed any change to his physical appearance, and that thirty-eighth year had come and gone around the 12th century B.C. That’s how mortals gauged time, anyway. He didn’t gauge it that way.
He gauged it by how many lifetimes he’d lived.
In his estimation, he’d lived about thirty-seven life times, as a normal man’s life span went. That type of experience made him an expert on the subject of knowing when to leave his current life behind. In this case, he’d been playing with fire for the past several years, as he’d started to reach that point where men were aging around him, wondering why he wasn’t aging also. But in this case, the catalyst had been a battle.
He’d taken an arrow straight to the chest and had walked away from it.
That had been his mistake, but it had been bound to happen at some point. One could not participate in battles and never be kissed by the death that stalked such events. He’d been participating in battles since he’d been old enough to hold a weapon, originally in what was termed the Greek Dark Ages and the wars that struck up between petty warlords, but he’d had to leave that eventually to become part of a band known as the Sea Peoples, raiders who would pillage the coasts of the Mediterranean from Gibraltar to Alexandria.
But he’d been forced to leave that life as well. When his immortality was suspected, he’d moved on to fight the wars of the Egyptian pharaohs, then the Romans, and back to the Greeks. Macedonia, Troy, Jericho… he’d been to all of them. He’d fought wars all over the world, including rolling with Genghis Khan and the Mongols. But that ended as well, as all of his lives did, and he’d gone on to The Levant, the Holy Land, and hooked up with bands of crusading knights only to end up in Medieval England which was where he found himself now. It was a land of people who believed in demons and witches, and for good reason. The forces of evil were running rampant in the lawlessness of the High Middle Ages.
But he wasn’t part of them.
He was one of the good guys.
Now, he was a knight and he rather liked being a knight, but in his world, nothing lasted forever. He was disappointed, this time, because he’d hoped to live this way for more than just a few decades. As he finished saddling his heavy-boned war horse, he could hear the chatter outside of the stables. Men were on the walls of the castle, watching an angry mob move from the village to the north, heading in their direction with weapons and torches in-hand.
That angry mob was coming for the knight who had taken the arrow to his chest and had come away without a scratch. Soldiers who fought with the knight had seen the strike and had seen him pull the barb from his chest and continue to fight as if nothing had happened. Word got around. Fearful people became even more fearful.
But now, they were coming for him.
They wanted to do away with the demon.
“Kerk!” A knight entered the stable in a hurry, heading in his direction. “The postern gate is open; you must depart from that entry point and make your way down to the creek. The foliage will keep you hidden at this time of night. Are you listening? Stay to the creek and make your way south. Head to Lioncross Abbey when you are clear. My father will give you shelter without question.”
Sir Kerk le Sander looked at his friend, a young knight by the name of Perrin de Lohr. Perrin hailed from the massive House of de Lohr, a family that was intertwined with the crown of England. He was a good man, Perrin was, and Kerk knew that the young man had more questions than answers about him but had the good sense – and trust – not to ask. Perrin was only concerned with helping his mentor find safe passage, away from the mob that was coming for him. Kerk put his hand on the young knight’s cheek in an affectionate, if not final, gesture.
“You have my thanks, my friend,” he said. He quickly dropped his hand and pulled the horse from its stall, finishing up with a buckle on the bridle even as he led the horse to the stable entrance. “What of the men? Those who are not siding with the peasants?”
Perrin knew what he meant; half of the Chillingham army was on the side of those fearful villagers, men that Perrin and the other knights had kept from Kerk. But there were still many other soldiers who were in support of Kerk, who were curious of his resistance to arrows but had not publicly denounced him as a heretic, or worse. It was these men that Kerk would have to depend upon to help him escape.
“Those men are covering the postern gate,” Perrin told him, taking the man’s saddlebags from the hay-strewn ground of the stables and swinging them onto the back of the charger. “Several of them are down in the trees by the creek to ensure you have a clear field of escape. Hurry, now; there is no more time to waste.”
Kerk knew that. The sense of urgency had grown to epic proportions, creating a vise in his chest, squeezing at him. He was fearful, but not for the reasons Perrin or others might have thought. He was truly fearful of what would happen if the villagers captured him because they could beat him and burn him all they wanted and, still, he would not die.
That had happened before, in fact, and it was never a pleasant thing for a man to emerge from a bonfire without a hair singed. That had been tried on him once, in Macedonia, and he could still remember the terror it had created. He was fearful of the panic that happenstance would spread and possibly engulf Chillingham Castle, a place that had been his home for the past several years. He was truly fond of it. And he was especially fond of the family, Lord Grey and his lovely daughter.
Aye, he was particularly fond of the daughter.
As if to read his thoughts, the universe brought forth that particular young lady at that very moment. Lady Emma Grey, a lovely wraith of a girl of seventeen years, burst into the stable with her blonde hair blowing, startling the horses. In fact, Kerk was about to mount his steed when she entered, causing the animal to dance sideways and him to nearly lose his footing.
“Kerk!” Emma gasped, throwing her arms around him awkwardly as he regained his balance. “I had to come and tell you farewell! I could not let you go without telling you how much you mean to our family. To me. Please say that you will return when the situation calms!”
Kerk looked into that pale, lovely, little face. Impulsively, he kissed her cheek, which was more than he’d ever done. Lord Grey was quite protective of his only daughter and Kerk had never dared to show the lass anything more than polite regard. But tonight, knowing it would be the last time he ever saw her, he gave forth the bold gesture.
A kiss to remember me by!
“I cannot, little mouse,” he said, patting her cheek as he, once again, attempted to mount his horse, this time with success. “I must move on. You will be safe here with Perrin. He will take great care of you and your father from now on.”
Emma looked at Perrin as if he were the lowest form of life. He was young and handsome and blonde, but she adored Kerk with his granite-square jaw, eyes the color of the sea, and hair that was such a pale shade of blonde that it was nearly white. He was brave and strong and more manly than any man she’d ever met. She didn’t want him to leave but she knew why he was; she’d heard the rumors, too.
Emma knew that Chillingham was divided and that her father was trying desperately to keep his men calm in the face of the rumor that Kerk le Sander could not be killed. There was genuine fear at Chillingham because of it. Even though she knew all of that, she didn’t care. She’d loved the man for as long as she could remember and it was breaking her heart to see him forced to run.
“Please, Kerk,” she begged, hanging on to his leg as he tried to put his foot in the stirrup. “Please… take me with you. Do not go without me.”
Kerk wasn’t surprised to hear that; he’d known for at least a year that Emma was hopelessly in love with him. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but there was no chance he’d ever loved her or ever would love her. She didn’t understand that, of course, and it wasn’t something he could explain to her.
Love, for him, was something to be feared.
Loving a woman meant losing his immortality. As much of a curse as that was at times, he wasn’t ready to part with it. He, and his brothers like him, were all sons of the great god Poseidon and had been gifted with special powers to aid in the development of Mankind. Kerk, whose real name long ago had been Kerkyros, was a small cog in a larger cosmic wheel of men who had been tasked with a very special mission. He was a protector of Men, to ensure their survival. It had always been thus. But that wasn’t something he could explain to young Emma. Unfortunately, he would have to break her heart this night.
As he’d broken many hearts, many times, over the centuries.
Emma’s was now to be added to the heap.
“I am sorry, little mouse,” he said, taking her hand and depositing a sweet kiss upon it. “I must go. Mayhap I will return someday, but I cannot promise you. For now, you must stay here with your father and with Perrin. You have a great destiny to fulfill, Lady Emma, as the heiress to your father’s fortune. You will bear strong sons for your husband and keep this dynasty strong for years to come. Will you do this? Will you accept your destiny?”
Emma wasn’t entirely sure what he was talking about. All she knew was that he wasn’t coming back. She pulled on his leg.
“Please,” she whispered, tears in her eyes now. “Come back when you can.”
Kerk smiled gently at her, giving her a wink as he took her hand and spurred his horse out of the stable, leading Emma along beside him. Perrin walked behind them as, off to the west, beyond the stable yards and in the direction of the kitchens of Chillingham, they could see men with torches lighting the way to the postern gate.
The gateway to freedom.
Up at the main gatehouse, however, they could hear commotion, shouting and agitation through the iron portcullis. The peasants from the village had arrived and were demanding entry, that angry mob who wanted answers to Kerk’s unusual healing powers.
In truth, Kerk didn’t have healing powers – each of his immortal brothers had a special gift, something that made them unique in their quest to aid the mortal race, but Kerk’s powers weren’t of the healing kind. What his body had done when the arrow had struck was something all of his immortal brothers were capable of. Self-healing was key to their immortality.
Nay… the power that Kerk possessed, but that he rarely used unless absolutely necessary, was the ability to command the elements. Water, wind, air, and fire were in his control. As he listened to the angry villagers at the gates, he knew he had to produce a demonstration of that power to send the mob back where they came from. He didn’t want Chillingham damaged because of those fearful fools. If he had to move on and leave a place that he truly loved, then he was going to punish those who were forcing him to go.
They were going to feel his wrath.
Giving Emma’s hand one last kiss, he dropped her hand and looked up to the heavens. There were a few clouds in the sky but nothing threatening until he lifted a hand and, suddenly, clouds began to gather unnaturally fast. Perrin and Emma watched him curiously, how he seemed to grasp at the sky. Overhead, thunder cracked the sky in half and lightning hurled downward, right at the gatehouse, and exploded in the midst of the group of furious peasants.
Another flick of Kerk’s hand and wind howled, so forcefully that soldiers at the gatehouse were blown off their feet and those from the mob who hadn’t been killed by the lightning were whipped backwards. People scattered like leaves in the wind. Finally, Kerk made a fist and water burst from the clouds in torrents, creating a tempest the likes of which no one had ever seen before.
Although storms in England were common, it was not unusual for them to gather quickly. What was unusual was the fact that the gatehouse and the road leading to the village were the only things being hammered by the elements.
Everything around it was calm.
And that included the postern gate. Perrin and Emma’s attention was on the gatehouse and the mad storm that was knocking people off of their feet as Kerk slipped from the yard, through the postern gate, and out into the darkened landscape beyond. While Emma was still watching the event with a great deal of shock, Perrin’s attention returned to Kerk as the man slipped through the postern gate. He could see the horse’s arse as it disappeared from view. Truthfully, he couldn’t help but notice there was some correlation between Kerk holding his hand oddly into the air and the onset of the freakish spring tempest.
Come to think of it, perhaps it wasn’t so odd….
Perrin had known Kerk for six years, ever since he came to Chillingham to serve Lord Grey. He had been with Kerk through battles and other actions and it occurred to him that he’d seen Kerk put his hand in the air like that before when violent weather had been about. The man would lift his hand and a storm would brew overhead. He’d flick his wrist and lightning would strike. Aye, he’d seen that before but he’d never thought twice about it. It had all been some kind of strange coincidence in his mind for, surely, men could not control the weather.
… could they?
Perrin didn’t know why he’d never made that connection before. But now… now, he was coming to wonder about it.
A man who couldn’t die in battle? Who caused freakish storms to occur simply by lifting his hand? Although Perrin didn’t believe in witches or demons, he had to admit that Kerk le Sander had something about him that was different from the average man. He was a different man altogether, something Perrin was only coming to really understand. He wondered if he would ever know the truth about the powerful knight they knew as Kerk le Sander.
Something told him that it was better if he didn’t.