The Terror of Roan

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Twenty years ago, King Mordin’s minor wife, Millicent, turned Roan Castle upside down with her radical notions of an equitable society for both men and women. Notions that had a huge impact on her children before her voice was silenced.

Now Millicent’s first-born, Princess Terese, is of an age to marry, but she has made it clear with her sharp tongue and excellent throwing arm that she wants not to be wed, earning herself the moniker, The Terror of Roan. Now that every member of the nobility has been rejected, the King will now decide, offering title, castle, and land to a knight willing to put up with her.

Sir Hawk Grimwald is certain that he is just the knight for the job, but “the gods can be capricious,” and a contingent of women from across the sea—in addition to a traitorous baron— could ruin all.

Love, villainy, betrayal, and a wild cross-country race make this epic medieval adventure one to remember.

No AI was used in the making of this book. Not in the writing, the inspiration, the cover, or any wording whatsoever. Please support human-created books.

Prologue

"Push, Millicent! Push for your new king and country!"

Millicent's glare was like a forge, framed and emphasized by the sweat coursing her face. "Curse this wretched country," she spat, the thick accent adding more fire to her words. "And curse the king ten-fold!" She let her head fall back, a groan rolling into a shout as her womb dared to expel that which the king had planted there. She would deny him if she could, but the urge too mighty to do anything but what the midwife demanded of her.

In another moment, she was free of it, and the wail of the intruder filled her ears, as well as the drafty castle that had been her prison for these long months of isolation.

"'Tis a girl, my lady."

There was no mistaking the sad edge to her voice that echoed in Millicent's heart. She would not be a satisfaction. She would but curl the king's fingers into fists and his lips into a scowl. This was promised to be the end, but nay, now certes, 'tis just the beginning.

Chapter 1

Thank the heavens the fog was lifting. Sir Hawk Grimwald looked over the tents of his unit that he could finally see clearly. With a peace treaty signed with Usara, war—at least on the northern border of Roan—was at an end, and those tents were coming down. Celebration and laughter rose above the noise of dismantling and loading. Many, like Hawk, had done little other than war for three years.

A horse and rider dared to maneuver through the mayhem, and Hawk strode toward him, a hand raised. "Hold! Now is not the time—"

He held up a sealed missive. "From the King!"

Hawk finished the trek to his side and took it from his hand. "My thanks." Before opening it, he noticed the open pack on his horse held several more—no doubt one for every unit leader in this valley's encampment.

He popped the wax seal as the man rode on, and fellow warrior and friend Leoric came to his side. Neither spoke as Hawk read the missive. It began with congratulations, well-wishes, and instructions for their return to Castle Roan for both an Armsmen Parade and a Knight's Tourney but took an unexpected turn at the end.

At the unconscious lifting of a brow, Leoric could no longer hold his peace. "Please tell that we go not from this war to another."

Hawk turned his brown eyes on his blond friend, a hint of a smile on his lips. "The king makes a grand gesture to the knights who have served long in this conflict, offering land, castle, and title to the one who would wed his daughter, Terese."

Leoric snorted. "The offer made because those already with land, castle, and title will not have her."

Hawk's forehead drew lines. "As I recall ere we were drawn into this 'skirmish' that was to last no more than a month, a young woman, fine of features with golden hair the envy of all at court. What has changed that she is not already wed?"

Leoric took the missive from his hand to read it for himself. "If you did not spend all your time with the horses, you would have heard what the whole country speaks of—that Princess Terese is a harridan who cares not for men. Indeed, she is called Terese, the Terror of Roan."

That gave Hawk a moment's pause, but only a moment. "Certes the lady has yet to meet one to turn her head."

Leoric chuckled. "If princes, dukes, and barons have yet to turn it, why think you will do so—a battle-scarred knight?"

Hawk thought on his appearance. It was true he now bore scars he'd not had three year's past, including one on his temple, but still he did not seem to overly offend the fairer sex. He rubbed a hand around his bearded jaw that sported a lighter brown than his hair, then shook off his ponderings as that of a simpleton. "Since she has cast down the attentions of nobility, 'tis plain she cares not for political games the king plays. The one to turn her head will likely be in accord."

Leoric followed as Hawk tucked the missive in his belt and gave instructions for loading a nearby wagon. "So you would have me believe that the title sways you not. The land is nothing to you."

Hawk shook his head. "Only a fool considers not every word of a contract, but no one who holds the land in higher regard than the woman will turn her head."

"Me thinks the time for head-turning is past. The king will now choose."

Hawk watched Squire Greige as he worked to collapse the tent they'd shared for nigh on a year, his last squire taking an arrow in the back. "I believe my work with the horses has given me favor with the king." He looked around at the chaos of disassembly. "At least as much as any man here."

Leoric clapped him on the shoulder. "Think on this ere you make a leap you may regret."

Hawk was nearly offended. "When have you known me to 'leap' without thought?"

"Even the most philosophical can be stripped of reason in the presence of a comely face and curves."

Hawk hefted the trunk containing his armor. "As we have a four-day journey ahead, I will have much time for thought."

Leoric was hailed by one of the cooks, in a panic over the transportation of foodstuffs, so Hawk turned and carried his trunk to the wagon nearby. Once it was seated securely in the bed, he turned and leaned, crossing his arms. Were the lady averse to him as husband, he would not bind her to him—better no land than shared land with contention within its borders—but until she spoke of such herself, he would continue to believe that all could be well. He pushed off from the wagon as the rising sun dispelled the last of the fog. And surely the rumors of her bad disposition be exaggerated by those she did not approve.

The vase hit the door with such force, there would be only splinters to sweep up. Long ago, valuable treasures had been removed from the receiving rooms, as they had a habit of bursting in the presence of the Princess. Albeit, their demise hurried by her hand and deadly aim when a suitor appeared, lavishing false compliments.

A removal of all ceramics, however, found the furniture in peril, which more angered the king, so she made a bargain with an artesan who no longer disposed of his less-thans but sold them to the Princess to continue her campaign to remain unwed.

The voice that had dripped condescension a few moments earlier now rang through the halls in a fury, no doubt railing about a long journey ending with little reward.

The King had vowed his presence at this ill-conceived meeting with an emissary of Castor, who stood four inches shorter than Terese and several feet wider, but a serious dispute had called her sire away in the middle of what could only be called a well-flowered, and likely exaggerated, view of the man's country that was south of Atrinia, bordering Roan in the west.

Ismeria, Terese's maid, had slipped in, looking stern after the King's exit, likely told to keep the Princess under control. Terese had listened politely to the one whose overindulgence threatened his seams, her practice of sitting as still as a statue unnerving the man, who mopped his forehead with a cloth more than once during his discourse.

After expounding on Castor's mining capabilities to what seemed a disinterested audience, finally, he had halted mid-sentence, pawed through his satchel and pulled out an ornate box. He moved to stand in front of her and opened it, revealing a pile of precious gems.

Terese moved naught but her eyeballs, taking in that which was intended to move her to accept a proposal from a nobleman she'd never met in a country not her own.

After the man had turned his gaze to Ismeria, pleading in his eyes, Terese spoke. "These are from your master's land—your master's business?"

He breathed out as if in relief. "Aye, Princess. All from the lands of Miguel Serrano, the Duke of Belois in the Valley of Shalamais in the country of Castor."

She refrained from rolling her eyes at that long title delivered yet again. "And this is the one who wishes my hand joined to his?"

His smile grew. "Aye, Princess. You will want for naught. Though his castle is not as grand as Castle Roan, he—"

"And what of the rumors that your mines are filled with the poor and orphans, digging their lives away to unearth this cache of colorful rocks?" She raised one eyebrow and waited, glad her sire had been called away.

The man's lips twitched as he closed the box, plainly searching for an answer to please. Before he could find it, Terese continued. "We have heard that though you claim they work their way out of debt, in reality, only do they leave when they are but a corpse adding to the stench below. Is that the right of it?"

His exuberant smile faded. "Princess, rumors only." At her unyielding expression, he went on. "'Tis…" –he mopped his head again—"'tis true that some never leave due to their own sloth or thievery, but all are fed. All clothed. All sleep. All—"

Terese rose and looked down her nose at the man. "None receive the coin due them for a life underground. None feel the sun. None breathe fresh air. None—"

"Princess," he dared to interrupt, "each is brought to the surface… periodically," he sputtered. He reached for another bag. "Castor is also known for its Hickory trees that make the very best…" –he struggled to get the oddly-shaped object out of the bag— "crossbows," he said, finally freeing it from the cloth. He held it up, beaming with pride. "This one has been made especially for you."

Terese's eyes widened as the man handed it to her. It wasn't the worst gift she'd ever received from a suitor. That prize would go to a stuffed ferret mounted on a golden stand. Her youngest sister Dannyelle had taken that one off her hands a moment before she could throw it on the refuse heap.

The bow was polished to a high shine with intricate carving. "Do arrows come with the gift?"

He reached into the bag still in his hands. "Of course, Princess, although the shorter arrows for a crossbow are called bolts." He handed over a small handful, looking wary. "I think you will agree that it is more a work of art than something you… Perhaps you should not load it now."

Terese continued setting the bolt in place and nocking it. The man took a hesitant step back as she brought the crossbow up. "Get out," she said with quiet intensity, "and do not come back."

"Terese!" Ismeria scolded, but the Princess ignored her, holding the crossbow steady.

"I could never wed one who would allow such ill treatment of those under his care, and I would not move to your foul country were it the last bit of green on earth."

"Princess," he pled, hurriedly gathering the box of gems along with the now-empty sack.

Terese fired over his head, lodging a bolt in a ceiling crossbeam near the wall. The man jumped and fled to the door.

The plump Ismeria scurried toward the table holding two vases of flowers, but Terese was faster, dropping the crossbow to the settee before reaching for the glassware. "Out!" she yelled, holding both and raising one above her head.

The man barely had time to sweep up his satchel and turn tail for the door before one crashed into the wall beside it. Ismeria jumped at the splintering crunch but was not foolish enough to get in the way. "Terese, stop!"

The next hit the door before it fully closed behind the portly man from Castor.

Ismeria sank to a chair with an exhale of air. "That is the last of the last, Terese. Your last chance."

Terese's eyes flashed, heavenly thanks frozen on her tongue, before the door flew open with such force, the stonework cracked where it hit the wall.

Terese didn't have to look to know that the King had returned.