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“Surely you see the problem? Aye, you’re an earl, and Terric’s a baron’s son.” He nodded to Guy. “Even the mercenary is a knight.”
“And my title is well earned,” Guy winked, “unlike these two.”
Lance couldn’t help but smile at that. Guy had made the remark many times over the years. That it failed to rile Conrad now was a mark of the seriousness of their discussion.
“Take out your sword,” Conrad ordered, his gaze on Lance.
There were few men Lance took orders from these days, but this man was one of them. So he complied.
He’d intended to remind Conrad he was but a blacksmith, but there was no use telling his friends what they already knew. And though Lance had no use for a fancy title or any of its trappings, the solemnity of the moment was not lost on him. No, it was clear to them all. One look at Terric’s and Guy’s expressions told him as much.
Ignoring the others, he dropped to one knee, laying his sword across it as Conrad pulled out his own sword. Tapping him on each shoulder, he uttered the words Lance had never thought to hear in his lifetime. When he was finished, Conrad bade him rise.
“Stand up as a knight, in the name of God.”
He did, unsure what to say.
“Do you have any further opposition to our order?” Conrad asked.
“No.”
“Good. We’ve much to discuss.”
Of that, Lance had no doubt. Rebelling against a king required planning, after all.
“Including your new title.” Guy bowed to him. “Sir Lance.”
“I quite like it.” Terric bowed as well.
“A Scots clan chief bowing to an English blacksmith.” Guy looked at Conrad, raising his eyebrows dramatically. “I’ll admit ’tis a sight I’ll not soon forget.”
“When you finish jesting . . .”
“Does he ever?” Lance asked Conrad sincerely.
“We’ve the small matter of King John to discuss.”
Small matter indeed. If even a hint of what they’d just done were whispered to the wrong person, their heads would be forfeit for it.
Knight or blacksmith, earl or mercenary . . . none of their titles, or lack thereof, would matter if they were exposed as traitors to the crown.
The king’s men marched through the courtyard as if it were their own. Idalia’s father stood next to her on the doorstep of the great keep’s entrance. She peeked up at him, wondering when the hair of his beard had become more gray than black.
“Welcome,” he boomed as the first of the newcomers reached them. A captain, perhaps? Idalia tried not to smile at the looks they were receiving. Not outright hostility, but certainly the people of Stanton could give the representatives of the king a warmer welcome.
She was secretly glad they did not.
“My lord.” The tall, thin captain bowed to her father, the Earl of Stanton. “We travel to Norham Castle and request shelter for the evening.”
Interesting. Why were the king’s men on their way to Norham and so far north?
Idalia could hear her father’s silent answer to her silent question. Do not concern yourself with the affairs of men. She also knew what he would say next.
“My daughter will see to your comfort.” He looked at her as if expecting a retort. It was market day, her favorite, and Father knew it well.
But he knew his daughter too.
“Of course.” She smiled as the captain and his two companions joined her. They were dressed identically, in armor topped with bright red tunics bearing the crest of their king. They’d require assistance in removing that armor. Marina, her mother’s maid, would normally assist her in making the arrangements, but Marina was nowhere to be seen.
