Page 1 of Silent Knight: Alexander

Chapter 1

England, 1392

Peter Mowbray died the day he was born.

However, as of a minute ago, he’d just been brought back to life. Or, at least, that was what Alexander Masterson thought his dying father had whispered to him on his deathbed. This was not turning out to be a very happy holiday at all. It was less than a week before Christmas and Alex’s life was turning upside down.

“Father, what did you just say?” Alex leaned over the bed to listen, thinking Crandell Masterson had gone delirious from his illness these past few days. Perhaps, the man’s high fever had taken control of his mind. How could a baby die and then be reborn twenty-two years later?

“Leave us,” his father called out to the healer that was across the room. He dismissed the woman, barely able to lift his hand because he was so weak. Alex and his father resided in a small cottage constructed of wattle and daub in the south of Devon. The house was very small and only had one room. It wouldn’t have mattered if the room was larger because there was just the two of them, and they never stayed in one place very long. They recently moved here after traveling through Spain, Italy, France, and even the Holy Lands. Because of always traveling, they never stayed in one place long enough to make friends. Then again, mercenaries didn’t have friends.

Alexander looked over his shoulder at the healer and nodded, letting her know it was all right to leave.

“But Master Alexander,” said the woman. “Your father is old and frail and very ill. He shouldn’t be left alone.”

Crandell coughed and struggled to sit up in bed. “I might be old, and there is no denying I’m about to draw my last breath, but damned if anyone has ever referred to me as frail!” His eyes narrowed to mere slits and his face turned bright red.

Crandell Masterson’s stubborn pride would keep him grouchy until the minute death claimed him. He had once been a guard for Baron Mowbray and resided at Framlingham Castle. The man was courageous and had emotions made of steel. To see him losing control was something Alex was not accustomed to.

“Margaret, there is no need to stay.” Alex pushed himself up from the bedside chair, taking a moment to stretch his bad leg before he tried to walk. One too many times, he’d moved quickly and ended up on the floor because of a cramp in his twisted limb. But the disability he’d been born with had turned out to be an advantage in their line of work. His stealth, and being able to catch others by surprise because of his condition, is what helped them make most of their money over the years. Alex was a mercenary, trained by his father to be naught more than a paid assassin.

Alex scooped one of his last coins from his waist pouch and held it out to the old woman. “Thank you for your care, but you are no longer needed.”

“But he’s dying,” protested the woman, not wanting to leave.

“Exactly.” Alex pressed the coin into the old woman’s palm and nodded. “Thank you, Margaret, for your excellent service. I am only sorry I cannot pay you more.”

“Get out of here, you old crone!” shouted Crandell from the bed. “You are taking precious moments of my life that I could be talking to my boy. Now, go!”

“Thank you,” Alex told the woman, keeping his voice calm and gentle so as not to scare her. His subdued nature and controlled emotions helped to make him successful at his profession.

Margaret plucked the coin from his hand and shoved it down her bodice. She complained as she collected her things. “Fine. I’ll leave you to your misery. Let the old bat die, what do I care? He’s never been kind to me in the past week the way you have, Master Alexander. You are always gentle and kind and very polite. Your father, on the other hand, is a shrewd cur. I’ve known him for only a sennight, and that was a week too long. I feel sorry for you that you have to live with such a beast.”

She stacked the poultices and herbal ointments into a basket and quickly covered it with a cloth. The room was cold and dank with only a small fire in the hearth that threatened to extinguish at any minute. The winter wind whipped against the small cottage and rattled the latched shutters, doing very little to keep out the cold.

Alex shivered but, at the same time, sweat beaded on his brow. With both windows bolted closed, there wasn’t enough circulation to blow away the scent of death that hung over his father in a dark shadow.

“Margaret, he’s my father,” said Alex, escorting the woman to the door. He limped as he crossed the floor, his twisted leg hurting like the devil. His father often told him that when he was born, he wasn’t expected to live. His leg always hurt when the weather changed – even more so when it snowed or rained. “Thank you, Margaret, and Godspeed.”

Alex waited until he saw the old woman climb aboard her wagon and take the reins of her horse. She held her cloak tightly closed, trying to keep warm as she battled the elements. Once he was satisfied that she was secure, he quietly closed the door and turned around.

“Oh!” he shouted, jumping backward when he found his father standing right behind him. The man had been too weak to get out of bed for the past sennight, but now he stood there tall and proud as if he were having a last surge of energy before he departed from this world. With Alex’s balance thrown off by his surprise, he stumbled and had to catch himself on a nearby chair. But the chair tipped, and Alex ended up on the ground.

“Get up and act like the nobleman you are,” growled his father. “I have something you need to know before I die, Peter.”

“Peter? Noble?” Alex questioned, shaking his head and pushing up to his good knee. “Father, lie back down. You’ve gone delirious. My name is Alex, and we are not noblemen. We are naught but stinking mercenaries, killing on command to earn our daily bread.”

“Nay, it’s not true. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Your birthday . . . it is in the summer. But by telling you the truth . . . you are reborn today.” The surge of energy seemed to leave. His father reached back and collapsed atop a chair. He laid his head on the table. The small flame flickered in the hearth, throwing eerie shadows over his father’s face. The wind whipped through the cracks in the walls sounding like a screaming banshee as it threatened to blow out the pungent tallow candle next to the bed.

“Father! Are you all right?” Alex hurried over to the table, placing his hand on the man’s back. Crandell turned his head and looked at him, not having the strength to lift more than his eyes.

“I guess I am frail,” he said in a weak voice. “But I wasn’t always this way.”

“I know, Father. You were a guard for the late Baron Mowbray. You were as strong and as skilled as any knight. You’ve trained me to be the same.”

“You died, Son. You died . . . the day you were born. And I did an awful thing to someone I really cared about. It was because I mourned the loss of my wife and only child – that’s why I did it.”

“What do you mean?” Alex limped over to the other side of the room and poured some ale into a cracked wooden cup. His fingers were so cold that he could barely bend them. His leg was stiff as well. “I was born in Italy and Mother died when I was two, so I don’t remember her. You and I traveled to many countries over the years. You not only taught me to fight and wield a sword, but you taught me that even with my twisted leg, I can still accomplish anything.”