The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) by Elizabetta Holcomb Read Free Book Online Page A

seen when it was productive or necessary, which was never.
    It was not only the children that called to Jareth, but also the castle he was given, the providence, and the very people whose charge he was entrusted with. He had been only thirteen, and an orphan of sorts himself. Entitled Duke of Dover by the king when titles were new to the English. It was a custom of the French and some Scottish. Even Prince Edward, the Black Prince, had only recently been given the title of Duke of Cambridge. Titles were given only to royalty—which was the crux of Jareth’s birth.
    Whose son was he? How was he the only duke of England who was not a royal?
    His Scottish mother would not look at him, so she had not the civility to tell him who his father was. Instead, the rumors abounded and when he was given lands and title, a sort of legend spread. Was he a son of the king? Even he did not know for sure, but he had his suspicions. He had deep suspicions.
    Visiting the orphanage had a dual purpose. He was making a delivery. Across his breast was a satchel that contained precious cargo. Recently, he had completed another chapter of translation for John Wycliffe, a reformer being held at Oxford University under house arrest. It was of grave importance that he deliver the documents into the hands of the local priest who had access to Wycliffe’s guarded room.
    “Your grace, spare ye a moment?” a deep voice thick with foreign burr begged from the darkness. It came from near the stone gate of the orphanage, where a knight stood in watch over the yearlings’ home.
    Jareth pulled the reigns tightly, clamped his thighs around the girth of the horse and came to a complete stop as to not run over the man. His eyes searched the darkness until the hooded, cloaked figure stepped up to his mount. The contour of the garment was odd, misshapen. The man was hiding something.
    Jareth said nothing. The plans of his night were thwarted. His heart beat in his throat; anxiety had crept up and settled under his breastbone. Suddenly, he forgot about the orphans and the translations. Adrenaline made his thoughts swim as if he were entering battle. He said nothing, because his tongue refused to move. The entire world as he knew it was spinning toward a single moment in time that would change his life forever. Fate was knocking on his proverbial door. It was no longer a wait for a month to pass. The time was here. The awareness of that made the air around him sizzle. This was the moment Gabriel and Minh had prepared him for.
    Percival steered his horse between them, leveraging himself as a protective divergent between him and the unknown person. Jareth craned his neck to see over the large horse. The veiled person did not move, nor was he intimidated by the squire’s defensive stance.
    “Be gone, ye beggar.” Percival touched the pommel of his sword, then shook the blade free from its scabbard to bare the steel. He spoke French, regardless that the man spoke in clear English.
    “I am no beggar,” the stranger growled.
    Jareth stood in the stirrups for a better look.
    “Tis a strange tongue ye speak,” Percival said. He glanced over his shoulder to the duke. His lips turned downward at the corners when he saw the duke’s curious stance. “What business have ye?” He reached with his free hand and fumbled at the coin purse tied to his waist.
    “I don’t want money,” the man spat—both in words and physically near the hooves of the horse that was sidestepping dangerously close to him.
    Jareth swung off his mount, ignored the pinch of the sutures and the grueling pain it brought. “Do you have the stones?”
    “Yes,” the man answered quickly. He came forward.
    They met at the rear of Percival’s horse. Jareth looked down to the lump in the man’s cloak. “Give me the stones first, and then I will see to your boy.”
    “I see someone has been playing with time.” Gyula shook his head and thrust his arms forward as if to show it was impossible to