Page 3 of King’s Knight

Five of Henry’s knights faced him, reining in their horses to sneer. The first one, a powerfully built knight, charged forward. Alex cut him down with one strike of his blade, standing in his stirrups to add force to the blow.

With his legs, Alex maneuvered Azor to one side as he turned to face another. Shifting his sword to his left hand that held his shield, he drew his lance and launched it at his opponent’s neck. The man grunted and toppled sideways, blood gushing over his mail, as he pitched to the ground.

A third knight urged his horse in front of the other two who remained. Grimacing, he said, “You will not have me so easily!”

Behind Alex, the king moaned. William lives!

Alex studied the face of the helmed knight who confronted him, the way he held his sword, his horse’s nervous dancing. Overconfident and arrogant with less control than he believed, Henry’s knight spurred his horse forward. Using his legs, Alex turned Azor to the side, escaping the man’s blade. As the knight passed, Alex’s sword sliced through the back of his neck.

Before the two who were left could attack, William roused and shouted, “Stop, you fools! I am the King of England!”

The remaining two knights apparently believing it was William who had spoken, ceased their pursuit of Alex and stared at the king, their faces ashen beneath their helms.

Alex dismounted and helped William to rise.

One of Henry’s knights quickly slid from his saddle and gave over his horse to the king.

William swung into the saddle, acknowledged Alex’s help with a nod and eyed the soldiers before him. “Which of you killed my horse?” he demanded.

The one who had thrown the lance stepped forward. “It was me. But I did not know you were the king. I thought you were only a knight.”

William must have been in a generous mood for he appeared amused, not angry, and his next words surprised Alex.

“By the face of Lucca, from now on, for your courage and spirit, you will be my man and in my service get a proper reward.”

The man dropped to his knee. “As you wish, My Lord.”

William turned his horse and galloped away. His new man, taking the horse of one of his fallen companions, mounted and followed.

Having finished their own battles, Rory and Guy and the rest of his men rode up staring at the king riding away.

“Do not ask,” Alex said to them. “Only know this, William has been saved from death this day and gained himself a new liege man in the process.”

Alex had witnessed the king’s vile temper on more than one occasion but today he had witnessed his magnanimity. In so doing, William had won Alex’s respect.

* * *

Talisand, England, July 1091

The summer sun found its way to the green undergrowth around her, its golden light dappling the ground as Merewyn lifted her bow and looked into the distance. A tree stood in challenge, her target a small spot of sunlight on its dark bark.

Taking her stance, she nocked the arrow, lifted her bow and pulled the string back to her cheek, an action so familiar she had no need to think about the separate motions, only the result. She let out a breath and loosed her fingers. The arrow flew, a blur too fast for the eye to follow.

“Thwack!” The satisfying sound echoed through the woods, confirming the shot, a difficult one, had hit its mark. In her hands, the bow had become her constant companion and a terrible force, a symbol of the strength she had acquired in Wales. Never again would she be vulnerable to men who, because of her beginnings, considered her an object of scorn, or worse, easy prey.

Pleased, she quickly nocked the second arrow, but the sound of thundering hooves and bleating sheep had her jerking her head around. Heart pounding in sudden alarm, she fixed her eyes on the meadow in front of the palisade. Who would ride toward Talisand at such a pace, tearing up the sod and scattering ewes and their lambs that only moments before were peacefully nibbling on grass?

When no clarion call sounded from the gate tower, she squinted into the morning sun and watched as a dozen riders hurtled down the green slope heading toward the open gate. Over the jingle of bits and harnesses, they exchanged jests and insults, egging each other on.

Despite the years that had passed since she had last seen him, Merewyn recognized the rider in the lead at once.

Alexander.

His sable hair, now long to his shoulders, whipped behind him. Clad in mail, he sat as straight as a lance atop a huge black stallion. Moving as one with the great horse, he raced like a threatening storm toward Talisand’s gate.

Even beneath his mail, she could see his body was now that of a warrior. Powerful shoulders, a lean, muscled frame and spurs marked him as one of the king’s knights.

He sped by without a glance in her direction. Inwardly, she chided herself for the joy she experienced at seeing him again. In the months after her return to Talisand, she had heard tales of him whispered about the hall. Vicious on the battlefield and domineering in bed was how the women described him. An arrogant, swaggering knight and, to her mind, just like the others. The kitchen wenches spoke of his many conquests with women with a gleam of envy in their eyes.