White Knight

Prologue

Mingo couldn't feel his fingers. Or his toes.

He had stopped shivering and was beginning to feel a false warmth that promised – not relief from the frigid white nightmare he found himself trapped within – but release.

There was no horizon. No day. No night. Nothing but white. White trees. White land. White sky. White water.

White death.

He had no idea how long ago he had found the shallow cave, or when it had embraced his nearly frozen form. He couldn't remember what had happened. He only knew that his coat was missing. His clothes were soaking wet. That his movements were slow and labored and he was confused. He had no idea what day it was, when the storm had started or why he was out in it alone.

And he was alone.

He would die alone.

Mingo glanced at his hands where they showed beneath the cuffs of the linen shirt he wore. Their usual golden tan was a sickly blue. He couldn't open his fingers. Speech was distorted, if even possible. Even though his mind was fast shutting down, he recognized the signs. He was freezing to death. In the spring, someone would find his bones. They would shake their heads and murmur sympathetic words, and then bury him in an unmarked grave far from his home.

Something in that thought roused him. No. No! He would not die and leave no mark that he had been. Struggling against the lethargy that sought to claim him, Mingo raised his arm and reached for a nearby rock. His arm jerked spasmodically and he missed it. Once. Twice. Then he forced his frozen fingers to close on it and, strengthening one hand with the other, began to rake the jagged edge of the stone across the cave floor to write his name.

What was his name?

The stone shook in his fingers. It dropped.

And then so did he.

Silence descended deep as the snow.

A moment later a strong breeze blew through the shallow cave, lifting his black hair, dusting it with white, crystallizing on the surface of the dark leather boots he wore and settling on his buff breeches.

Mingo did not have many heartbeats remaining. A dozen passed before the white wind that had blown through the cave coalesced, assuming the shape of a man. He was clothed in a suit of the palest blue. His honey blond hair was tousled, the curls restive as the spirit that shone out of his pale blue eyes. He was slender. Well made. And young.

And very, very old.

The man knelt by Mingo's side, his fingers finding his throat, checking for the pulse of life that should be there. Locating it – but barely – he turned him over and took one pallid hand in his own.

"I came to save you, my friend," he said, his voice soft as the fall of white flakes that dusted his great coat and iced his pale hair. "Now it is too late. Now," he pushed the fabric back from Mingo's wrist and studied the thin thread of life beating there, 'now, this is only way."

The young man's face grew sober and then blank. His blue eyes turned a sickly green. Full lips stretched taut over razor sharp teeth that grew in length until they were twin portents – not of death, but of immortal damnation.

The vampire howled and with deep regret, bent to the task at hand.

Chapter One

Five nights before

Cincinnatus stood at the tavern window, a damp rag in his hand. He frowned at the heavily frosted glass and then, with the elbow of his sleeve, cleared a spot that blinded him and looked out. Boonesborough was no more. Or so it seemed. Without the window was an endless wall of white. The snowstorm had begun two days before and refused to relent. In places the fierce wind had made it rise to the height of a man and more. Whipped peaks of white crested the walk on the stockade wall. The boots of the sentries caused miniature avalanches as they patrolled it. The older man sighed and shook his head.

"No custom tonight," he said softly. Then he raised one eyebrow and looked toward the back of the tavern where a lone figure occupied a table in the corner, pushing a pint of ale back and forth between deeply tanned fingers.

Well, there was one – though he was hardly a patron.

Cincinnatus tucked the rag beneath the strings pulled round the front of his apron and tied it in a neat little knot. He went to the keg, poured himself a sizeable portion of rum – a gift on an unavoidably bad night – and walked toward the table. Without asking permission, he pulled out a chair and sat down.

Taking a sip, Cincinnatus eyed the tall ebon haired native sitting across from him. He had not known him long – though on the frontier a year could be longer than a man's life. The native was dressed for winter in a warm hunters' frock of crimson with his usual blue and red-striped leggings. It was one of the only times Cincinnatus had seen his well muscled arms concealed. The older man took another sip and then asked, "Well, Mingo…. What's the story?"

The Cherokee started and looked up, as if he had just realized he was there. "Cincinnatus. What?" Mingo shifted the cup back and forth again. "Can I help you?" he asked with a sigh.

"I was about to ask you that. Not that you ain't welcome here anytime, but," Cincinnatus paused dramatically and then leaned forward over the table, "why in tarnation are you here?"

Mingo pursed his lips as he spread his long fingers toward the pint. "A drink. A warm place to sit." He gestured toward him. "The company of a friend."

"I'd say that ale was more your friend tonight than me. Mingo I only seen you drink that much one time before, and that's when your father was here earlier this year."

Mingo's fingers gripped the handle of the mug. He looked down into it as if intending to divine the answer to some great mystery there. Then he stated, emphatically, "This has nothing to do with my father."

Cincinnatus took another sip of his own drink and leaned back in the chair. He studied the Cherokee a moment. "You ain't a drinker, Mingo. And you sure ain't a good liar."

If the Indian's black eyes had been daggers, he would have been dead. "Men have died for saying less than that," he snarled, his voice laced with an unexpected rage.

The older man studied him for a moment. "That's it," he remarked as he rose from his chair.

Mingo stared at him. "What is it??"

Cincinnatus caught hold of the rim of the mug and took it from him. "When an honest man threatens to kill another man for telling him he's honest, he's had one too many. Bar's closed, Mingo, but the inn's still open. With the storm, I got me some empty rooms. Why don't you head upstairs, find one, and bed down for the night?"

Mingo continued to stare at his hands as if the mug were still in them. Several heartbeats passed before he shook his head and shakily rose to his feet. "Thank you for your kindness, Cincinnatus, but I am going home," he announced.

"Home? Mingo, you can't be serious." The older man pointed to the door and the frozen world beyond. "Ain't nothing out there but white death. All of Boonesborough's bedded down. Ain't no one moved but you in the last twelve hours. I'm not even sure how you got here in the first place – "

"Why, don't you know, Cincinnatus?" Mingo answered with an ironic smile, "Indians walk on top of the snow. We do not sink into it. The spirits rise and carry us over it so our feet do not even get wet."

Cincinnatus anchored a fist on his hip and eyed the native. He shook his head. "Make that two too many. Mingo, you ain't leavin' this place. I got a lock for that door not even you can pick."

"That is very kind of you, Cincinnatus, but such caution and concern are entirely unnecessary." Mingo moved somewhat awkwardly toward the door, knocking one of the heavy oak chairs over in the process. He ignored it and reached for his coat which hung on a peg by the door. "I am fine."

"Fine, my eye teeth! You're drunk as a skunk," he countered, approaching him. "You go out in that snow and you'll freeze to death!"

Mingo drew up to his full height so he loomed over the older man. Then, with as much dignity and grace as he could muster – which wasn't much – he pulled his coat on over the thick frock, and then caught his powder horn, rifle, and bandoleer in his fingers. Mingo placed his hand on the latch of the door and then arched a black brow as he looked back. "To quote the Bard, 'there's little choice in rotten apples.' And what choice there is, is mine. I will see you later, Cincinnatus."

And with that, Mingo opened the door and stepped out in the night.

The roaring blast of frigid air drove Cincinnatus back as he did. The older man stood for some moments looking at the back of the door and then cursed, "Dad blamed fool!" The older man's gaze moved to the staircase – up which lay his warm bed and a recently kindled fire. Then it returned to his coat and hat which hung behind the bar. "Darn stubborn pig-headed Indian!" Quickly abandoning the desire of his heart for the sure knowledge of his head, Cincinnatus made for the coat and hat, intent on following Mingo and bringing him back – or at least making certain the sentries knew not to let the native through. As he was thrusting his arm through the second sleeve, Cincinnatus pivoted and headed for the door.

But stopped when he saw a lean figure occupied it.

It wasn't Mingo. This man was tall, but not nearly so tall as the Cherokee. And he was light as the other man was dark. He was dressed as a colonial in a pale blue great-coat and storm gray cloak and tricorn hat. As he stepped in the door, bringing snow and a renewal of the icy wind with him, the man doffed his hat and shook white flakes from his tousled honey-blond curls. Then he smiled.

Instantly Cincinnatus liked him. He opened his mouth to greet him as he greeted all his customers, then stopped.

There was that crazy Indian to think about.

"You want a room, mister? Cause if you do, you go right up the stairs and take one. I'll be back soon as I'm able," he groused as he approached him. "We can settle in the morning. It ain't like you're going anywhere."

The man glanced behind his shoulder at the cold night and then asked innocently, "Did you lose something?"

"A loco Indian!" Cincinnatus snorted. "You must of seen him. Went out right afore you come in."

The stranger ran a hand through his curls, seeking to order them but failing. "I didn't come by the usual route. An Indian, really? What tribe?"

"Damned fool Cherokee. Got his-self drunk for Heaven only knows what reason."

"Ah, Cherokee." The man smiled again. It was the smile of a child – innocent, engaging – and perfectly suited to his boyish face. His pale blue eyes lit with interest. "I don't believe I have ever met one of the native inhabitants of your American shore."

"Well, you ain't gonna meet this one either 'cause he's gonna be dead!" Cincinnatus proclaimed as he pulled his collar up against the wind that blasted in through the open door behind the man. The tavern-keeper shivered and looped his woolen scarf around his throat and then realized the stranger had no scarf or gloves, and even though he was in the line of direct fire, seemed to be perfectly at ease. With a frown, the older man dismissed it. "'Scuse me. I need to find him."

The man touched his shoulder. Cincinnatus paused and looked at him. "You need to return to your drink. Finish it and go to bed." Those pallid blue eyes met his and held his gaze, unwavering. "You are very tired, my friend. Business was miserable this night. There will be no more custom."

Cincinnatus nodded. Once. Twice. Three times. "Tired. Miserable business. No custom."

"Yes. You did not see me. Nor the Indian. Tell me!"

"I didn't see the Indian or you."

The stranger smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man. Now, get to your bed." With that, the man turned to leave the tavern. Once over the threshold he paused. Looking back, he asked, "The Cherokee's name, what is it?"

"Mingo," Cincinnatus replied without hesitation. "Cara-Mingo."

"And where would he be headed?"

"His lodge. Between here and Chota."

The man stepped closer, so the light of the lanterns inside the tavern lit his youthful face. "Are you certain? Is there anywhere else?"

Cincinnatus thought about it. "Dan'l's place. He might go there."

"Dan'l?"

"Boone. Daniel Boone. Cabin's just outside the fort. If Mingo gets past the sentries, he'll go there."

The man nodded. "Have no fear. Your friend will be safe…with me."

Cincinnatus blinked, and then realized he was standing in front of the open door of the tavern with the snow blowing in about his feet. He shook his head as if to clear it, shivered, and then closed the door. For a moment he stood, wondering what he could have been thinking, and then headed across the tavern to grab a broom and sweep the floor. As he passed the stair he yawned mightily and changed his mind.

His bed was calling him.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Daniel Boone was sitting by the fire in the parlor of his home, which was really just a place set aside by the hearth with a tall-back bench and a couple of chairs, staring at his beautiful wife who was busy darning one of a pair of brightly colored indigo blue stockings. They were Jemima's and were her pride and joy, but as their daughter grew, so did her feet, and she had just put a humdinger of a hole in the left one the night before. Becky shifted under his scrutiny and looked up at him without raising her head.

She nodded toward the dulcimer in his hands and asked, "You through singing for the night?"

"Well, it ain't me rightly made that decision, Becky. Sweet Talker is just plum talked out."

"Oh, I see." She took another stitch. "Well, she has been 'talking' a lot the last few days."

"Yep, the old girl's overdone it." Dan placed the instrument with loving care on the bench seat and walked to the window. Drawing back the heavy muslin curtain he said, "Snow's knee-high to a Conestoga mule. And it don't look like there's any sign of stoppin'."

"Mm-hm," Becky murmured. "It doesn't look like you'll be going anywhere soon. How will Mingo survive without his hunting partner?"

Dan looked at her. She never hid it well – that slight smirk. The one she got when she knew she had the great and mighty Daniel Boone. Becky was a wonder. How she put up with him, he couldn't guess. Gone nigh onto three quarters of the year. Missing out on all the important dates. Always seeming to put everyone and everything before her and the children when – in fact – he did it all for them.

"Oh, Mingo'll get by."

"He needs a wife," she declared as she made the last stitch.

Dan laughed. This was a frequent topic of conversation. "I'll let you tell him that," he said with a wink.

Becky put her darning down and rose to join him. As she slipped into the circle of his arms, she turned her face to the icy world outside. "I worry about him."

He kissed the top of her head and pulled her close. "I know you do. But then, you worry about everyone."

"Are you laughing at me?" she scolded, turning toward him.

This time he kissed her on the cheek. "Nope. Lovin' you. Sweet Talker's tuckered. Your darnin's done. The world outside is a solid block of white and the young'uns are in bed." Dan raised one brown eyebrow. "Mrs. Boone, you got any idea what the two of us might do?"

She thought about it a moment. "Well, there's that letter to Abigail that needs writing and the hole in the roof that needs stopped, there's mice in the larder and, if I am not mistaken, a broken shovel and pitchfork – "

He placed a finger to her lips. "And a woman that needs kissin'. And that's the most important chore of all." Dan caught her in his arms and crushed her against him and bent to kiss her on the lips. Outside the hushed world continued to hold its breath, giving them a moment alone – a moment to be husband and wife – one of those moments that were all the more precious as they were so very few.

Becky had her eyes closed. She drew a long deep breath and opened them. Reaching up, she pulled the comb from her hair and permitted the lustrous copper wave to cascade over her shoulders. Then she took his hand and turned toward their room – and almost immediately cried out in surprise.

"Dan! Outside the window!" Her hand went to her throat, her fingers trembling as they clutched her shawl.

"What? Becky, what?" Seldom did he let his guard down but this night – with the snowstorm, with her in his arms – for a moment he had forgotten to be afraid. "What is it?"

She shook her head. "Something. I don't know. Red eyes on the white snow."

Dan took the room in six long strides and returned to the door with Ticklicker in his hands. "Step back, Becky."

"Dan, no! Just leave it. Whatever it was, it can't – "

"Mr. Boone?" Unbelievably a voice called from without the cabin. "Mr. Boone, are you at home?"

Dan hesitated and then drew in a breath of air. "Yep. Who's askin'?"
"You do not know me. My name is Nicholas Knightsford. I have only just arrived in Boonesborough," the man explained over the howling wind. "May I come in?"

Dan glanced at his wife. She shrugged her shoulders. "We can't leave him out in the cold, Dan. It wouldn't be Christian."

He nodded, though his Christian duty was to his God first and to his family second. Strangers came in a close third. "Step back, Becky. Better yet, go check on the children."

"Dan…."

"It'll give me a minute to feel out what this here stranger wants. Do it, Becky."

Her mouth formed that tight-lipped, tight-jawed line that said she would obey but not like it. She nodded and then went to the loft ladder. He watched her ascend and close the trap after her. Then he turned and opened the door.

Outside in the howling snow stood a man. His cloak whipped in the wind, revealing the great coat beneath. It was a miracle he still wore the storm-gray tricorn hat. "Mr. Boone?" he asked.

"Mr. Knightsford. Come in out of the cold."

"Thank you." Nicholas Knightsford stepped into the common room of the cabin and paused, as if waiting for permission to enter further.

"Take a seat by the fire. Warm yourself."

The stranger nodded again and did as he suggested. "That is kind of you."

"Would you like a warm drink?" Dan asked, following him.

"No, thank you. I will not tarry long." Nicholas removed his hat and ran a hand through his blond hair, freeing it of snow. "I will come right to the point as time is of the essence, Mr. Boone. Do you have a friend, an Indian friend, named Cara-Mingo?"

Dan was reaching for the poker to move the logs. He was instantly alert. "Mingo? Is somethin' wrong?"

"I fear it is. As I said, I have only just arrived in your settlement and my natural inclination was to go to the tavern." Nicholas grinned sheepishly. "Upon my arrival I found the innkeeper quite alarmed. It appears your friend, Mingo, was there and left in his cups."

" 'In his cups?' Oh. Drunk, you mean? Mingo? Are you sure that's what Cincinnatus said?"

"Cincinnatus?" Nicholas smiled again. "A noble name with a nobler heritage. But yes, that is what the innkeeper said. Apparently Mingo was alone and had consumed a quantity of ale. Cincinnatus did not know if he was headed for his lodge or here, but as your home was closer, I decided to check it first. There is no trail, of course, with the wind. I take it Mingo is not here?"

"Nope. Why are you lookin' for him?" Dan didn't want to seem suspicious. Still….

"I offered to look. I have a certain natural immunity to the cold. The older man I feared would not weather it well, or have the endurance to persist in his pursuit."

Even as worry for Mingo dominated his thoughts, the back of Dan's mind was wondering about Mr. Knightsford. He was obviously well educated. Who was he? Why was he here?

"Dan?"

Dan swung and looked up. Becky was descending the ladder. Nicholas was already on his feet as if he had sensed her presence even before she started down. "If you would, Mr. Boone?" he asked, indicating he would like to be introduced.

Dan nodded, and then watched the man as he moved across the cabin to greet Becky. Not a gesture was wasted. His body language spoke of grace and elegance, but little else.

Mr. Knightsford was a riddle that needed unraveling.

"Madame," he said as he took Becky's hand and kissed it gallantly.

"This is Nicholas Knightsford, Becky. New to the settlement."

"You came in tonight?" she asked, astonished. "How?"

Nicholas' smile had a wry twist to it. "Oh, I just blew in with the wind."

Dan opened his arms and as his wife slipped into her usual place, she asked the stranger, "Did I hear you mention Mingo's name?"

"Apparently he's out in the storm, Becky," Dan answered. "And he's not himself. He needs help."

Her blue eyes crinkled with worry. "You have to go?"

"Yes, Darlin'."

"It can't wait until morning?"

The stranger had been listening quietly. At her suggestion, he said, "No! It cannot wait." Then, seeming to sense he had spoken out of turn, he added quietly, "In his condition, it would not be wise. He could easily freeze to death."

"His 'condition'?" Becky asked.

Dan scowled. "Looks like Mingo might have taken in one too many horns, Becky."

"He's drunk? But Dan, Mingo doesn't drink."

He nodded as he reached for the peg that held his coonskin cap. "That's what I used to think, Becky. Before Lord Dunsmore came callin' earlier this year."

Nicholas Knightsford had been quietly listening to their conversation. Now his eyes lit with surprise. "Lord Dunsmore? The Lord Dunsmore? The governor-general of Virginia? What was he doing here?"

"Lookin' to make Virginia even bigger," Dan answered as he pulled on a woolen vest and then donned his buckskin coat. Becky went to fetch his powder and kit, and as she handed it to him, he anchored Ticklicker beneath his arm. "You know him?"

"Me? Not really. An acquaintance of mine has had occasion to do business with him." Nicholas' face seemed to fall. "I would have thought this far-flung settlement would have been beyond his influence."

"Well, with Mingo's help we kept it out of his jurisdiction." Dan finished preparing and then turned to his wife. "Rebecca, bar the door and don't let the children venture out. It's too dangerous."

"For you too," she whispered.

He met her worried gaze. "You know I have to go."

Becky nodded. "God speed, and may the Good Lord protect you. Both of you," she finished, glancing in the stranger's direction.

"I am sure God will keep watch over your good husband," Nicholas replied softly. Then he tipped his hat. "Good night, dear lady. Have no fear, no matter what happens, I will see Mr. Boone safely home."

With that, Nicholas Knightsford opened the cabin door and stepped out into the night.

"He certainly is sure of himself," Becky said softly as she braced herself against the wind that accompanied his departure.

"That he is. And maybe while we travel, I can find out some of the other things he is." Dan kissed her on the lips and then turned his face to the howling wind. "There's more than one mystery here tonight, Becky, and I mean to solve them all."