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  QUEEN

  A DARK KNIGHTS TRILOGY

  -BOOK TWO-

  BY:

  DAYA DANIELS

  In the Year of Our Lord

  1251

  I am King.

  But I am a man without something I desire the most…

  The entirety of England adores her.

  She is light.

  She is purity.

  She is heart.

  She is perfection.

  I am a king…

  I command all.

  I worship nothing but God.

  But, I need her.

  I require her complete and utter adoration.

  I require her bold, beating heart to be pledged as mine for all eternity.

  I

  need

  a

  queen.

  The story of the House of Montforthe-Byron—the most powerful family in all of England continues…

  WARNING: This novel contains strong language and strong sexual content. Intended for 18+ years and above.

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Quote

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  About the Author

  QUEEN

  Copyright@ 2019 by Daya Daniels

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any way, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or any other means without the explicit written permission of the author, except for brief quotations of the book when writing a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and even facts are the product of the author’s imagination. Wait a minute...especially facts. Any resemblance to actual people—alive, dead, or someplace in between—is completely by chance and likely in your head.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. Holy hell, this is important. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Thank you first and foremost to all the readers. You are my tribe. Without you, my stories would have no audience.

  To my wonderful husband, I love you. Your support is priceless.

  “He fashioned Hell for the inquisitive.”

  -Saint Augustine of Hippo

  To the merciful.

  CHAPTER

  I

  In the Year of Our Lord

  1251

  Berkhamsted Castle

  Hertfordshire

  England

  Briar

  SO, HE WANTED THE rose but could not handle its thorns…

  I’m on my bruised and bloody knees.

  Begging.

  Weeping.

  Losing my godforsaken self…if I ever possessed my own spirit at all!

  I can’t tell you how long I’ve been here…groveling and screaming his name.

  Minutes, hours, days, possibly months.

  Where has that very elusive thing called time gone?

  With a vicious might, I pound on the shut doors. “ZACCAI! Open these doors and face me, you coward!”

  Two guards flank me. One stands to my left. The other stands to my right. Their lances point to the sky and the distinguished crest of the House of Montforthe-Byron decorates the capes attached to the armor they wear. They do not interrupt my tirade. They say nothing, only stand at attention and look straight ahead. Surely, they would intervene, if I pull the sharp pin out of my hair and slit my wrists with it. But they are so focused, so resigned with not interrupting the tantrum of the woman at their feet who used to be a princess, that I truly wonder if they’d stop me.

  “ZACCAI!” My last-ditch effort of breaking one side of the solid oak doors leaves my hand sore.

  The guards do nothing.

  They remain completely silent.

  Eyes level and facing ahead, they don’t even bother to cast a concerned glance my way.

  I rest on my haunches, wrinkling my fine dress in frustration, and cry. I don’t know how long it goes on for, but when I wipe my eyes and my vision clears, I find myself staring down the wide corridor and meeting the gaze of the man storming through it. His burgundy cape and his ash-brown hair flowing behind him as he does. His council is in tow. As are a few other people. It is an entire posse of men and servants which tail behind the King.

  A hiccup escapes me.

  Alexander stops and regards me.

  I must look like an embarrassment.

  I’m a beautiful pile of shit on the stone floor—bedecked in the finest silk and jewels.

  In this moment, I must truly resemble a woman who has no shame or self-respect whatsoever.

  I expect the King to say something, order me to get up, tell me to stop being so ridiculous. Instead, he sends me a hard look, those gray eyes burning a hole in my soul…And then with the quick gesture of an arm, he orders his entourage to follow before he marches off, taking the next corner ahead of him and disappearing from my vision.

  My spirit wilts a little more.

  I am a dying flower without love or sunlight—all I need to survive.

  I’ve been doing this for much too long now.

  And these doors have been shut for months now…

  I’ve been tossed out, dumped, fucking spurned.

  This has all been a wholly severe rejection of my entire soul!

  I am of mind to wonder if Zaccai is even in this castle these days. Possibly, he’s gone…It isn’t as if he’s ever truly been present anyhow. So, you might ask: Why am I crying with his loss? I suppose, we always want what we can’t have. We always desire the people who no longer want us…We are prone to fill our lives with people who do not appreciate us if we aren’t careful…I constantly give of myself and expect nothing in return.

  But still, I weep…

  For him.

  For Hayden.

  For a life I was promised yet knew in some small way I would never have.

  He divorced me…

  On a cold, cold winter night, I had been informed by Archbishop Ramsey that I was no longer a princess…

  I was lost for words—they got hung up in my throat like the claw-like things they were.

  Archbishop Ramsey took my right hand in his, kissed the back of it, and told me he was sorry and then suggested that we pray, which we did. I wept. I prayed. I stayed on my knees and wondered about exactly what my future held. I was afraid. I was alone. Frankly, I was terrified of being stripped of my royal title.

  Although the people continue to address me as the Rose Princess Briar…

  I am not, really.

  I am no longer entitled to the moniker.

  Nothing about me is regal, especially right now.

  I am a woman who is part of a marriage annulled by His Holiness, the Pope, as if it never happened.

  Zaccai’s wish has been granted.

  All his doing.

  The spoiled bastard.

  His aim it seems is to forget me altogether along with all those nights when he used my body in the most creative ways while I endured it all!

  Sinabaldo isn’t a man who grants divorces easily.

  But in this case, he had…

  Clearly, the House of Montforthe-Byron has tremendous sway over His Holiness, the Pope…An annulment would a
llow Zaccai to remarry in the cleanest of ways. His prior marriage is now no longer even recognized under the eyes of the Lord. It is nothing.

  “What in the bloody hell are you doing, Briar?” Vesper’s sharp brows are bent as she grabs the hem of her dress and rushes toward me, scraping me and my broken will up and off the stone. “I told you to stop this.” She cups the sides of my face with her hands. “He doesn’t want to see you.” She straightens my clothes and my disheveled hair. “So, leave him be.”

  I weep.

  The spring chill wraps around us.

  Vesper pulls me into her hold tightly and forces so much warmth and love into my bones immediately the chill I once felt disappears entirely. “Dear sister, you have come too far to still be begging. You have come too far to find yourself on your knees, Briar. You shame me in this moment.” She kisses my cheek harshly and breathes in my skin.

  I suck in a desperate breath.

  Pushing me away, she holds me by the shoulders. “You make me feel nothing but shame at what you are allowing him to do to you.” Her brown eyes are fierce as she shakes me.

  And I pray it realigns my senses if I have any left.

  I weep to no end.

  The two guards step forward and march off since they must be needed someplace else in the castle.

  Vesper holds me closer. “You know, Briar, for many years I dreamed of being reunited with you.” She draws in a breath. “I imagined that maybe one day we would both marry and have children and we’d live in two tiny cottages each built nearby one another. Maybe they would be close to a stream. And I imagined we’d have a garden, just like the one Father always wanted to have.”

  Laughing through my tiny sobs, I gaze up at her.

  “But I never envisioned this, Briar.” She exhales. “Never in my life did I ever imagine that I would see you again, first and foremost. And if I did, by God, I could never have fathomed that your life would be anything like this.”

  “My life is nothing to envy, Vesper.” I wipe the snot from my nose. “My life is awful.”

  “Oh, dear sister, you can’t begin to imagine awful.” Clutching my chin, she gives me a hard look.

  I force my sobs to ease, not wanting to know or hear more about what Vesper hasn’t said.

  But still, it hangs there between us…stories of her pain and the wretched life she was torn away from before she was brought here to Berkhamsted Castle. Vesper doesn’t speak about such times, ever. And often when she attempts to, her words get trapped in her chest, stuck there, but I know she wishes to let them escape.

  I am keenly aware that Vesper wishes to be set free of all the bad memories, just as I do.

  Sniveling and swiping away at my wet skin with a hand, I manage to speak. “I am sorry, Vesper.”

  She squints. “It isn’t anything for you to be sorry for, Briar. I do not wish for anyone to take pity on me.”

  I bob my head a few times.

  “Just as I don’t wish for you to want pity from me in this moment or from anyone.”

  The guards march through the wide corridors.

  The noise beyond where we linger earns our attention.

  Raised voices…

  A slam.

  A bang.

  Profanity is unleashed in its most wildest form.

  I know those sounds which come from a distance away.

  They emanate from the council chamber which is a floor above where we stand.

  Vesper’s big eyes peer back at me.

  I stare at her.

  Hamilton barrels down the stairs, face red, covered in perspiration and breathing heavily. Jean-Baptiste follows looking much the same. And behind them is the Queen Mother. The threesome stand near to each other at the end of the corridor beneath the faint light which pours in through the windows.

  Following both Hamilton and Jean-Baptiste, the Queen Mother reaches out a hand and then puts them both in prayer. “Gentlemen, please be patient with my son. He will heed your advice. You just have to give it time.” Her brows arch and her expression is nothing short of pleading.

  No one seems to notice Vesper and me lingering close by.

  We are intruders on their debate occurring in whisper-yells.

  The dent between Hamilton’s brows deepens. “Your Majesty, please. All the advice we give the King is always in the best interest of England.” He massages his temples. “We were advisors to his father, so the least the boy could do is listen to what we have to say. There are urgent matters, Your Majesty, which need to be tended to right away…” He growls. “We have issues of religion affecting state, we need to maintain hierarchy among the nobles and the barons, and the very taxes he lowered, need to be raised. But, instead, all the King is consumed with is expanding godforsaken territories.” Anger laces his tone and worry skitters its way right across the man’s face.

  The Queen Mother who is still cloaked in all black stands with her hands clasped in front of her. “Alexander has his own plans.” She sighs. “I do understand that. I know that there is so much he wishes to do under his rule. So much.” A tiny smile finds her lips. “But…”

  “The King has decided he will not listen.” Jean-Baptiste lets out a long breath. “I will rally the point home that he must do as we advise, if not…”

  “I will speak with him,” the Queen Mother says firmly. “I will speak with my son.”

  Jean-Baptiste sighs. “He-will-not-listen.”

  “I will speak with Alexander.” The Queen Mother gives Jean-Baptiste a firm nod.

  “If not, we will have to pressure him.” Jean-Baptiste swallows. “If he makes a demand for the assemblance of one-more-army, I will refuse to follow his orders. I could consider speaking with His Holiness, the Pope, about Alexander’s plans. Maybe Sinabaldo could make him listen.”

  I am keenly aware of Alexander’s longstanding desire to keep church and state separate. But he has lost the balance between his personal power and the power of the Church. The Church cannot overrule Alexander in certain matters although His Holiness, the Pope’s, wishes and desires carry heavy weight within the House of Montforthe-Byron. Nevertheless, with things structured in the way they are, it means the King runs wild with his ambitions and there is no one and nothing that can stop him.

  The threesome seem deep in thought as though if their brains meld together they could come up with the most brilliant plan.

  Hamilton’s mouth sets tight.

  “Sinabaldo could talk some sense into him,” Jean-Baptiste reasons.

  “I do not think my son desires for His Holiness, the Pope, to know of his plans.” The Queen Mother frowns.

  Jean-Baptiste rambles on.

  Hamilton’s eyes dart around frantically before he encourages Jean-Baptiste to silence.

  Frustration and exhaustion float in the air between the two men.

  “You will do no-such-thing,” the Queen Mother says firmly.

  “We must.” Jean-Baptiste tips his head forward.

  Stepping closer, the Queen Mother snatches Jean-Baptiste by the lapels of his robe. “What you speak of at this very moment should never be spoken of again. You seek to overthrow Alexander and render his decisions baseless…” Shutting her eyes, she shakes her head slowly as if there is no need to say more.

  Jean-Baptiste silences immediately.

  “If you so much as defy Alexander, or work to conspire against him, then may God help you.” The Queen Mother’s eyes shine with her warning before she lets Jean-Baptiste go with a small shove.

  He retreats with a slight stumble, and when the chaos calms, three sets of eyes fix on Vesper and me.

  Something is traded in those few seconds…and it isn’t spoken in words.

  The Queen Mother disregards our presence, twists around to face the two men, and lowers her voice even further.

  “We should go, Briar.” With caution set in her voice, her palm touches my shoulder.

  “Yes, we should.” I take her
hand and encourage her to stroll away just when I do.

  Catching the tail end of the chatter between the Queen Mother, Hamilton, and Jean-Baptiste, my spine stiffens, and worry entirely rules my head. Their absurd claims are fresh in my ears…

  I will talk to him.

  I will make him listen.

  I will remind him that we were once advisors to his father.

  I will talk to the boyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

  As Vesper and I scurry ahead, a tiny laugh rips from me that the threesome believe they can achieve the impossible. The mere idea of someone holding even an ounce of influence over Alexander intrigues me to no end. And just like an eager audience would, I am compelled to sit and watch the performance…

  Alexander listens to no one.

  Alexander is no boy.

  Alexander is King.

  Alexander

  I SIT, SLOUCHED IN my chair and staring at the chessboard laid out in front of me…

  After letting out a breath, I comb my fingers through my hair and peer out the massive window ahead. It is cracked open, allowing the cool and swift breeze to wash in and dust my skin. It is so, so cold…

  So much time has passed, yet it feels as if nothing has happened at all.

  Briar wanted her freedom.

  It was served up to her on a silver fucking platter.

  And now, even still…just as before…she cries and cries and cries.

  At some time during each day, she settles on her knees in front of that big bloody door and weeps and wails for a poor match of a marriage that was never rosy from the time she and my brother had spoken their vows.

  What more does she want?

  Why can she not see?

  Freedom is a priceless thing.

  I am a king now, and still, I have yet to attain the very elusive thing that is one’s destiny.

  Sucking in a breath, I shift where I sit, eyes roving over my leather boots and the burgundy robe which cloaks me, protecting me from the chill. The fireplace across the room crackles. This room smells of cedar and the vase of peonies sitting in the windowsill which permeate this chamber with their sweet scent are delicate and soft.