Page 5 of King’s Knight

“Who is that stable boy?” Alex asked when Rory reached him. “There are so many children at Talisand now, I can scarce remember to whom they belong.” The boy looked familiar, one of the groom’s sons most likely.

“ ’Tis young Leppe,” said Rory.

Alex watched Tibby and the stable boy nearing the stables. Leppe stroked the stallion’s neck to calm its agitated snorting. Azor had scented the stables and was impatient for his stall, but the boy’s deft touch worked its magic and the stallion settled. “I remember him now. He is the grandson of one of the old guards who served my grandfather.”

“The child has grown up among us Normans,” said Rory. “Like so many of his friends, Leppe even speaks a few words of Norman French.”

When his father had first been given Talisand by the Conqueror, he’d had to win the trust of the English who were there, survivors of the Conquest and fearful of their Norman overlord. The Red Wolf’s reputation for savagery on the battlefield only made them more anxious. But his father had won their respect, along with that of Talisand’s lady, Serena. Alex would not mar that trust for it was the legacy that would one day be his.

“Is it possible Talisand’s numbers have grown while we were away?” Rory asked, looking around. “I see many new faces.”

Alex remembered the conversation he’d had with his father before he left for Normandy. “The last time we were home, Father told me the king’s levy for his many wars made more men-at-arms necessary.”

A pretty serving wench passed by with a slow smile aimed at Alex. Returning it, he said, “Some faces are familiar.”

Rory’s mouth formed a mocking smile. “Mayhap you bedded her when last we were here and have forgotten. Obviously she has not.” With a shake of his head, Rory added, “You pile up conquests with women like you do bodies of the king’s enemies.”

“And you exaggerate. ’Tis the Red Wolf the men spoke of over the night fires in Normandy.”

“Not since that day in Avranches when you took on five of Henry’s men and managed to cut through three of them before help arrived. Now they speak of his cub, the Black Wolf. Did you know?”

Alex chuckled. “Nay, but I suppose it fits. My hair, my horse—”

“Your way with woman,” teased Rory.

“More likely, my scowl,” Alex returned.

His face suddenly serious, Rory said, “The men admire you more than you know, Alex.”

Alex raised his brows but said nothing. He had wanted to be like his father, but in truth, he could not claim to be the equal of the man he so admired.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he watched Guy, the younger of his two friends, sauntering toward him. Guy brushed a lock of his light brown hair from his forehead and turned to wink at the same serving wench.

“The swagger in his step is new,” Alex remarked. “Was he doing that in London?”

Amusement danced in Rory’s blue-green eyes. “Aye, it came with his knighting in Normandy. ’Twill pass the first time he loses a fight to another of the king’s new knights.”

Casting the woman a parting glance, Guy joined them. “ ’Tis good to be home.”

Rory rolled his eyes. “As if there were not enough women for you in London.”

Guy sighed wistfully, gazing at the swaying hips of the woman as she walked toward the door of the hall. “We were not in London long enough for me to sample many. And you well know there are never enough women, particularly when the supply is limited by the need to compete for our share. Alex leaves few comely women unattended.”

“ ’Tis true,” Rory muttered.

“Enough you two!” Alex cut off his friends. But he could not deny that some unseen force drove him, as if life would be brief and he must taste it all before he left this world. He thrilled to the excitement of battle and lost himself in the arms of willing women, ever restless and always looking for the next challenge.

“Alex can endure anything save being idle,” quipped Guy.

Ignoring the jests of his friends, Alex searched the crowd for the face of the girl he had not seen for many years, a girl who he had been told was recently returned to Talisand. “Where is Merewyn, I wonder?”

“Just there,” said Guy. “Your gaze is set in her direction.”

Alex scanned the people moving about the bailey. “I see no golden-haired girl.”

“You must remember her as she was when we left to squire in Rouen. I grant you, it has been years and ’tis obvious Merewyn has not been a girl for some while. But even dressed as a lad, I would know her anywhere. We were raised in the same household.”

Guy gestured with a nod toward a young bowman wearing a cap of brown felt, a leather jerkin over a linen tunic and loose green hosen tucked into brown leather boots.