CAMELOT FANTASIES

Prolog – at Meredith’s and Thomas’ his pov

The year is 1283
Christmastide near Carlisle

Wounded more by her hateful look than the hole in his chest, Nicholas Bruce raced his mount across the moat and into the great hall. With arrow protruding, he fell, spreading an ever-widening stain on the rush mat. When he closed his eyes, the devil grinned.
A slap brought him back. “Hell’s balls, Nicholas. Just what’ve you gotten yourself into this time?” Thomas D’Agostine cut away the sodden tunic with sharp eyes focused. He shouted over his shoulder into the great room. “Anon. Awake all. We need more torches! Merry, to me.”
Nicholas’ sister fell to her knees, put a cool hand to his cheek, and paled. Her voice shook as she turned to an onlooker. “Wake Lady Ann and have her bring medicines and flesh needles.” 
Sleepy gawkers approached with lit torches, candles and lamps. Nicholas moaned and shut his eyes. The devil danced with glee.
His face stung again when Merry slapped a mite too hard. “Don’t you dare die. Not on Christmastide. I won’t have it.”
Heavy eyelids refused to open and to his surprise, clouds, instead of flames, greeted him. He prayed his grin would stick to his dead face. It would prove that a merciful God had forgiven his many sins.

Chapter One – his pov
Three Months prior- September //or late August 1283??
“I won’t kidnap her. God’s blood, she’s a queen.” Nicholas gritted his teeth, clenched fists behind his back, and paced. 
Three generations of de Bruces gathered in the upstairs chambers of Castle Carlisle. It rankled how all shared the same red hair, same hazel eyes, and same perfected glower. In an effort to look less like them, Nicholas tied his hair back and shaved frequently. 
His elders wore red plaid, as did wall pennants, and a rug in front of the hearth. Even King Edward’s bed, hanging with solid iron chains from the rafters, was covered in bright red with green stripes. 
Dear God, if you have any fondness for me, and for England, let the old maggot drop dead.  Taking a deep breath, he wandered toward a new wool hanging on the south wall. In it, King Edward battled the Welsh, surrounded by red lions and God’s holy light. A Bruce battled with helm down with an angel guiding his sword. Nicholas grunted. As he remembered, there’d been no holiness on that day, only foul smells of the dying and dead. 
His grandsire’s booming voice forced him back to the issue at hand. “If it disturbs your chivalrous nature, woo her as you see fit. What’s so difficult? An overthrown queen’s no queen a ’tall. Steal her away, and put your seed in her.”
 Nicholas narrowed his gaze, a perfect mock of their scowl, knowing it would infuriate them. “Just what are you two plotting?”
A knurled index finger shot forth, poking Nicholas in the chest repeatedly. “You should be gladdened by my offer. In the isles, they don’t care so much about low-born bastards.”
“God’s- umph.” Nicholas sucked in air when his father’s fist hit his gut. He gave his father a quick nod of thanks. 
The two elder’s faced each other so close that their eyebrows met. His father growled, “We’ll not be discussing my son’s birthright. Not here. Not ever.” 
Jowls reddened on both men until they matched the room’s decor. While they were so engaged, Nicholas slipped toward the door, **** it open, and peered. Freedom. He jumped back when swinging wood nearly caught his nose. It closed with a bang.
 His grandsire pushed him back into the room. “You will obey.”
 “King Alexander intends for Lady Fay to marry a Scot, nay English.” 
It took all Nicholas’ will not to take arms against the old maggot as he opened his palms to heaven. He raised his eyes, and smiled as if saying mass for God Almighty. 
“We’re but pawns in the game of kings.”
Nicholas scoffed. Even the fishwife knew that his grandsire, the fifth Earl of Annandale, plotted only for himself. “Let’s say I were to agree. ’Tis well known that Lady Fay arrowed the last two suitors straight through the heart. ‘Twould be easier to bed a rabid boar.”
“I thought you loved a quest.” His grandfather’s eyes glowed red from the fire and his grin exposed yellowed teeth.
 Shuddering, Nicholas shook off the devilish image. “Heed me. She lives on an island, surrounded by loyal guards. None will allow an English knight onto of the Isle of Man. I know. I met some of them in Scarborough.”
“If you’d married her there, as I asked, none of this would be necessary. If you’re worried you’re not handsome enough, I’ll send you with a dowry.” He chuckled and tugged his balls.
 Biting his tongue, so as not to land back in the dungeon, Nicholas toned his voice with care, “Very well, but when I return with her, I expect to be knighted.” 
His father put a hand to his shoulder. “Do this one more deed for Edward and for England, and I will see to it.”
His grandsire snorted. 
Nicholas shook off his father’s fondness and seethed. “Should you not, this time I will see to it that we all hang.” 
He turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.