The Night Drifter

It was the kind of night in which anything could happen. Magic. Moonlight. The sea roared like a dragon, breathing a soft mist that slowly enveloped the land. A stalwart figure drifted along the rocky shoreline, appearing to be an apparition in his glinting chain mail and dark tunic ... a ghostly knight from King Arthur's court who had wandered into the nineteenth century by mistake and couldn't quite manage to find his way back to Camelot. But Lance St. Leger was merely a man attired in the costume he had worn to the Midsummer's Eve fest, a costume he had not yet troubled to remove. He had far more important matters on his mind. He studied the overturned hull of an abandoned fishing boat. The sea raked cold fingers of foam across the sand, obliterating all traces of any footsteps. But Lance was certain this was the place where he had been attacked only an hour before, surprised by a hooded brigand and rendered unconscious. When Lance had awoken, he had found his watch and signet ring missing. But that had not been the worst of it. The thief also had taken his sword, the one that had been in his family for generations, a weapon as steeped in mystery and magic as the St. Leger name itself. When the sword had first been handed down to Lance on his eighteenth birthday, he had sensed the power in it. Merely touching the hilt had somehow made him feel stronger, better, more noble. He had earnestly recited the pledge that all St. Leger heirs were required to give. That the sword would be employed only in a just cause. That it would never be used to shed the blood of another St. Leger. And when the day came that he married, he would offer it up to his bride as a symbol of his undying love, along with his heart and soul forever. But that had been a long time ago. Back when Lance still believed in such things as just causes, magic, and true love. Back when he still believed in himself.... Lance's lip curled in contempt at his own folly. He had certainly made mistakes in the past, brought enough disgrace to his family's name, but this was by far the worst thing he'd ever done. Allowing that sword to be stolen. Not true, a sad voice whispered in his ear. The worst thing was what you did to your brother, Val. But Lance refused to think about Val. He was already racked with enough guilt over the disappearance of that infernal sword. Despairing of uncovering any clue to his attacker on the beach, Lance turned and headed up the path toward the village. Recently cashiered out of the service, Lance moved as he would forever more, with the military bearing of a man who had spent nearly nine years as an officer in Wellington's army. Slipping quietly alongside the forge next to the blacksmith's shop, he peered toward the line of whitewashed cottages. Earlier Torrecombe had been a riot of noise and laughter, alive with all the excitement of the Midsummer's Eve festival. But the village slumbered now, not a soul stirring across the green in the center of town. Lance thought briefly of conducting a house-to-house search, only to discard the notion. He doubted that anyone from the village would have dared to attack him. The local folk were too much in awe of the St. Legers and their legends, legends of a family descended from a notorious sorcerer. The mighty Lord Prospero might have come to a disastrous end, burned at the stake, but he had passed on to his descendants a legacy of strange talents and powers of which Lance had inherited his share. No. Lance was convinced no one from the village would have trifled with a St. Leger. The thief had to have been an outsider, a stranger, and there had been plenty of those wandering through Torrecombe tonight because of the fair. Many of them were likely stopping over at the inn, and that seemed the most likely place for him to beginCarroll, Susan is the author of 'The Night Drifter' with ISBN 9780345433121 and ISBN 0345433122.