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eBook Category: Historical Fiction
eBook Description: Sir James Greybold, Templar Knight, is drawn into a vile plot conceived by those who claim his allegiance. Dishonored and accused of treason, he finds his true enemies are hidden among his own ranks, and the tower of his code weakened by the siege of lies laid against him. Left for dead in the desert, he survives, but is seduced by the lure of vengeance and sets upon a new quest, one forbidden him by oath. The truth is easily told when no reason exists to lie. Vows are effortlessly kept when no reason arises to break them.

eBook Publisher: The Fiction Works, Published: http://www.fictionworks.com, 2004
Fictionwise Release Date: July 2004

2 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [301 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [267 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [261 KB] , Portable Document Format (PDF) [1.6 MB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [293 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [253 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [295 KB] , hiebook (KML) [711 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [346 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [239 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [301 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [341 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [396 KB]
Words: 88447
Reading time: 252-353 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Portable Document Format (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

"A novel rich in historic detail, The Threshing Floor comes highly recommended."--The Midwest Book Review

A raven wheeled high in the vault of heaven over Palestine. Sir James Greybold, Commander of Knights, watched while he waited for an order he knew would come. He longed to be nearer to God, like the raven, yet he remained with man, faithful to both, but caught between the two and bound until death's release.

Unconsciously, he raised his hand to the scarlet Templar cross overlaying his linked mail; the emblem that marked him as worthy in God's sight and in man's. He shrugged his left shoulder to reposition his armor, hot in the scorching sun. The raven disappeared, lost to the vast, endless blue overhead.

Heat waves shimmered above the desert floor. War-horses stamped and shook chanfrons, anticipating battle. In the distance the shouted commands of the enemy drifted across the plain, excited and eager in tone.

Saracens darkened the hills to the west, thousands of cavaliers and bowmen. Did they, too, wait for an order to come? One he dreaded, but they hoped for?

Greybold's sergeant-at-arms, Anthony of South Wales, leaned close, and quietly asked, "Will Gerard send us, Sir?"

Greybold dashed sweat from his brow with the back of his gauntlet and gave an honest answer, disheartening but true. "I believe he will. I doubt he will wait for aid. Renaud holds powerful sway."

"Aye, but he shouldn't, Sir," Anthony said with resentment. "He isn't Templar."

"No. But I fear Gerard will listen." A truth steeped in the blood of the innocent.

Anthony frowned, an expression contrary to his disposition. "They might as well fling us against stone, Sir."

Stone would show more mercy than the Saracen, though Greybold expected no mercy of any kind. His allegiance was forever pledged to God and to King, his heart to Christ, his hands to war. He would do what was required of him.

A short distance away, two ranking men argued. With his knights arrayed behind him, Greybold sat his horse and listened.

"Send them!" shouted Renaud de Chatillon, the Prince of Antioch, cunning and mad. His fine bay charger, covered in bright silk and armor, danced and chomped at the bit. "The infidel are within striking distance." He flung his arm in the air. "Send them!"

"We shall wait," replied Gerard de Ridefort, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, a callow man, and heartless. The lives of all present rested in his hand.

"The infidel is gathered." Renaud squeezed his gloved hand into a fist. "Crush him!"

Gerard shielded his eyes against the glare and glanced at the thin rank of knights. On his shoulder, the eight-point cross of the Knights Templar shone bright, embroidered in gold.

"Attack! Why do you wait?" Renaud asked.

"You forget yourself, Sir!" Color rose in Gerard's pallid cheeks. His countenance was fiercely stern, but also revealed the softness of an easy, indulgent life. "'Tis I who shall decide their fate."

Renaud laughed, a high, wild sound. He sat back, folded his hands across his saddlebow, and said, "Do you play the coward then?"

Greybold's charger shook his head and pawed the ground. The metallic rattle of shaken chanfron and reins secured by chain work obscured Gerard's reply.

"Strike!" Renaud shouted. "Strike! Soak the field with heathen blood."

At Gerard's direction, the two reined their horses out of earshot.

Greybold lifted the blue silk scarf tied to his sword belt, a token from the Lady Jane; a love forever lost but still treasured. He touched it to his cheek, the material as soft as her hand. Should he fall today, a likely event, who would mourn him? Certainly not Jane, a bitter truth.

Gerard issued commands to their Marshal, James de Mainly (de Mailly is a historically accurate figure. Is there some reason to change his name, or something I'm not aware of?), who obediently bowed his head and backed away.

As de Mainly approached, Greybold read his expression and knew Gerard had succumbed to the urging of a mad prince.

"We have been ordered to engage," their Marshal said, his tone dauntless in the face of certain defeat. "God be with you all."

Greybold gave a curt nod and looked away, the order heavy as lead in his heart. He uttered a quick prayer asking for conviction and courage rather than deliverance. He prepared to take the field and face the massive force awaiting them, skilled infidels whose hands overflowed with death.