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“You told her about me as well?”

It was difficult to hear over the murmur of more than two hundred men and the creak of coach wheels behind them.

“I did,” Eamon said, raising his voice. “I assured her you were the man she would want closest to her for protection.”

Sir Eamon’s high opinion of Roland’s skill reminded him of his younger brother, Geoffrey. His commitment to the ideals of knighthood, even if he sided with their father in the current political climate, rivaled his unwavering praise of Roland. Geoffrey bragged about his older brother to anyone who would listen.

“I hate what this succession has done to our country. To its families.”

“Families, or one family in particular?”

As they left the courtyard, the excited chatter of men quieted, the sound replaced by the steady beating of horse’s hooves on dry dirt.

“I think of my sisters and mother often,” he admitted. “Of my father and brothers. But one in particular will have been most affected by my leaving. Geoffrey idolizes me, even though I’ve spent a lifetime attempting to dissuade him from it. He is also a highly skilled swordsman, my closest training partner.”

“Your father,” Sir Eamon said, “is not unlike many of Stephen’s supporters, who wish only to protect their families.”

“And perhaps, if I were the earl, I would do the same.”

“It is wise beyond your years for you to acknowledge that.”

Like the others, Eamon and Roland grew silent for a time. With so many men, the coach and more than twenty packhorses, their progress was slower than Roland would like. Once safely inside London’s city walls—Matilda’s supporters, including Stephen’s brother, were already waiting there for her to arrive—Roland would breathe easier. But here, on the road, before she was crowned . . . she was too vulnerable for his liking.

Knowing he had to tell Eamon one more thing, Roland took a deep breath. “I am courting Mistress Amalia.”

Unbidden, a vision of that “courting” flitted through Roland’s mind. Resisting a smile at the thought, he peered at Eamon.

The swordmaster did not appear surprised.

“Your father will allow you to marry a lady’s maid?” he asked.

“I do not intend to garner his permission,” Roland said bluntly.

Eamon sighed. “Inspired by Gareth and Evelina, I suppose?”

“Of sorts,” he admitted.

“The stakes for you are high,” Eamon said, riding closer to him as he skirted around a dead animal on the road. Roland looked back to ensure the coach navigated the carcass without issue. When he turned back around, Sir Eamon was watching him.

“Not any higher than for Lady Evelina, who even now, still stands to lose her inheritance.”

“Hers is not an earldom.”

Roland decided to be blunt. “You do not approve?”

“You need not my approval, Roland.”

“Perhaps not. But I respect you, greatly, as do all the men.”

“And ask my opinion on the matter?”

Roland supposed that was precisely what he was doing. “Aye.”

“There will come a time, perhaps very soon, when your services will no longer be needed at Castle Blackwood. The Guardians of the Sacred Oak will disband. Some will return to their families. Some will, perhaps, remain as a part of the new queen’s retinue. But you should be prepared, if your father chooses not to accept your role here, or your choice of a wife, or both.”

When the idea was first presented to him, Roland had scoffed. But now, it seemed a possibility, even if the thought of being cast aside from his family was one Roland cared little for. “My sword arm is strong,” he said, looking at Eamon. “If I were forced to serve as a mercenary, for a just cause, I would do it.”

“A mercenary.” Eamon did not reveal any thoughts he might have about the idea.

“Aye.” Again, he waited. But Eamon said no more. Perhaps he would have, but the line of men before them had slowed to stopping. The hill sloped upward, so perhaps that was the cause. Either way, they could see nothing in front of them other than their own knights and Matilda’s men.

Roland and Eamon exchanged a glance.

“Stay close to them,” Eamon said, not having to specify whom he meant. “I will learn what is happening.”

With that, the swordmaster spurred his mount and rode ahead. Before he could return, however, the one sound Roland did not wish to hear reached his ears. Men shouting, the words indiscernible, but the kind of shouts Roland knew well.

They were under attack.