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THE WHITE ROSE OF SAXONHURST
By
Fiona Neal
©Copyright February 2007, Fiona Neal
Cover art by Jenny Dixon ©Copyright February 2007
ISBN
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living person or events is merely coincidence.
Prologue
Saxonhurst Manor, 1054
"We must run and hide, child!" Chest heaving, sweat bathing his brow, Lord Robert burst into the small chamber from the secret tunnel.
Startled, Garth leapt from the bench by the rough-hewn table as old Father Alcuin, his tutor, also stood as abruptly as his ancient knees would allow.
"What is amiss, uncle?" Garth asked.
Lantern in hand, the tall nobleman strode to them, his long shadow preceding him in the gathering gloom of dusk. "Last week your father and his housecarls died on the gallows for treason in Westminster. Thane Aelfgar convinced King Edward that we are all traitors. At this moment, Aelfgar and his men are hot on our trail."
Grief stricken, Garth stiffened. "Nay!" he yelled, his eyes filling with tears. "My father is no traitor and neither are you. Aelfgar lied."
"I know, lad, but the lying blackguard plans to seize this estate and the White Rose, no doubt. I barely escaped the king's troops myself, but Aelfgar and his men are but a few minutes behind me. Before I descended the hill on my way to the secret tunnel, I saw them riding this way. He had his housecarls and many men with him. They'll be at the gates presently, and this manor no longer has the men to defend it."
"Greedy, rapacious swine." Father Alcuin's thin lips curled with contempt. "Aelfgar will roast in hell."
"That may very well happen, but we have no time to discuss the fate of his soul now." Lord Robert took the boy's hand and urged him toward the escape route, but Garth refused to budge.
A servant dashed into the room. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but Aelfgar's men are approaching the stockade. His archers have cut down the guards!"
"We must go, child," Lord Robert said.
Garth resisted. "But the White Rose, Uncle Robert. My father made me swear never to part with the magic chalice. If we leave it, we shall lose it forever. Then we shall not be able to read the future in its waters, and the line of succession will be endangered."
"Forget it, boy." Lord Robert tugged him toward the door. We have no time to go to the treasure room and fetch it. We must go now or surely die."
Garth squirmed out of his uncle's hold. "We must try," he said, for he desperately wanted to keep his promise to his father.
"When you reach manhood, you can avenge your father's death and win the chalice back. Until then, the line will continue because you will be alive and you are the rightful heir, but you risk your life every moment you linger." Lord Robert's whole being emanated a dire sense of urgency.
"But we can't let the White Rose fall into Aelfgar's evil hands."
"It will do him no good." Lord Robert shook his head impatiently and pulled him closer to the door. "He is not the real heir of Saxonhurst. He can't read the future in it."
War cries suddenly filled the air, causing Garth to start. Two arrows flew in the open window, one quivering as it speared the rough wooden surface of the table, the other just missing his head and sinking into the bench.
Terror on his face, Father Alcuin limped into the tunnel as quickly as he could.
Several more arrows whizzed in, one almost skewering Lord Robert.
"Move, boy!" Lord Robert picked up the lantern on the table and dragged Garth by the scruff of the neck into the small space leading to the tunnel. As soon as his uncle slid the secret panel behind them, shouts punctuated the thundering tramp of boots as Aelfgar's men stormed into the room.
Breathing in quick snatches, his knees shaking, Garth followed his uncle down the narrow, winding steps. With just the feeble light of the lantern to guide their way, he slid his hand along the rough, moist stone wall to keep his balance as they made a long, quiet descent.
Catching up with the old priest, they reached the bottom of the staircase and entered the mile-long, narrow tunnel leading to the cave outside the walls of the manor house. Cobwebs brushed Garth's face, causing it to itch, and the dust teased his nostrils, but he stifled the urge to sneeze.
After what seemed like an eternity, they approached the old wooden door, scrolled with heavy wrought-iron hinges, leading to the cave. His uncle withdrew a great key from under his tabard and slid it in the lock. As he turned it, the mechanism tumbled, and Lord Robert pushed open the barrier.
Garth welcomed the fresh, clean air blowing from the river into the mouth of the cavern.
They hurried outside, Father Alcuin, gasping as he hobbled behind them, his brown habit flapping in the stiff autumn breeze.
Lord Robert closed the door and locked it, putting the key, which hung from a chain, around Garth's neck.
In the waning daylight, Garth could still see the waterway. It flowed beneath the knoll where they stood like a winding slate-gray ribbon. In the tall cattails emerging near the bank, Lord Robert's squire waited in a small boat.
"Quick, into the boat, lad," Lord Robert whispered urgently.
"Where are we going?" Garth asked.
"To my estate in Normandy. Your grandmother will care for you, and your late mother's dower lands there are now yours."
Garth eyed the small vessel. Would this small craft brave the rough channel? He knew that was impossible. A larger ship must certainly be waiting for them elsewhere, he reasoned as his uncle, Father Alcuin, and he embarked.
But would they make it as far as Normandy? Terrible storms often raged in the choppy waters of the channel during the autumn. Judging from his recent luck, they would all probably drown, for in one short year, Garth had lost his mother, his father, his home, and the White Rose.
Life had been so peaceful, so full of love and joy before his mother died in childbirth. Now he had lost his beloved father because of lies and treachery. His whole world suddenly shattered around him. His neighbor, Lord Aelfgar, wanted to kill him and would likely seize the magic chalice that was rightfully Garth's, forcing him to become a fugitive from his own home and land.
How could this happen? Hadn't his father read the future and seen Aelfgar's treachery coming? If so, why hadn't he stopped the evil thane? Perhaps the chalice had no real power, and the whole legend amounted to nothing but nonsense. It certainly seemed that way as Garth drifted on the dark waters of the river into an uncertain future.
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