Page 4 of King’s Knight

She wanted no part of it.

One day, he would take his place as the Earl of Talisand, lauded as the king’s favored knight. Such a man would not even remember the girl he had once saved from a pack of village boys. Why should she give him another thought? After all, she was now her own defender.

In the year after the ruffians had surrounded her in the woods, Alexander’s presence had shielded her from harm. But when he left for Rouen to train as a squire, those same boys, keenly aware her protector was gone, began to leer at her once again.

What began as rude comments, muttered in passing, soon became indecent invitations. Whenever she ventured into the village, a group of idle boys was always waiting, their eyes following her as they called out bawdy suggestions. It was only a matter of time before they found her alone and cornered her once again.

The increasing peril driving her, Merewyn had sought help from the Lady of Talisand. A countess, Serena was also Talisand’s best archer. Merewyn had begged Serena to train her in the way of the bow. She was only beginning her lessons when the Welshman, Rhodri, and his Scottish wife, Fia, came through the demesne on their way to Wales.

In his youth, Rhodri had been Serena’s teacher of the bow and a bard of some renown. Now, he ruled Powys with his two brothers. He had married Fia, a noble Scotswoman, during his sojourn at the court of Malcolm, King of Scots.

When Rhodri observed Merewyn shooting, he complimented her on her rapid progress and suggested she might accompany him to Wales where he could see to her further training.

Merewyn had been only too glad to go.

It was in Wales under Rhodri’s tutoring that she had perfected her skill, eventually drawing the respect of his most senior archers. No one in Powys inquired about her origin or her parentage. Impressed with her archery skills, no one cared.

But now she was back and the day she both anticipated and dreaded had arrived.

* * *

Alex pulled rein in front of the manor, the cloud of dust settling around Azor’s hooves. The bailey’s inner courtyard swarmed with men-at-arms, villeins and servants welcoming them home.

He swung from the saddle, his spurs jingling as his heels hit the ground. Tired from the road, he was happy to be home and waved to the men and women whose smiles greeted him.

Talisand’s great hounds rushed to his side, scattering the geese shrieking their protests. The wolf dogs were so tall their shaggy heads reached Azor’s elbow. Swift in the hunt yet docile around the hearth fire, the hounds were favorites of Alex. Patting the hound’s grizzled gray head nuzzling his gauntlet, Alex breathed in the scent of the beast. The familiar odor comforted him even if it was the smell of unwashed dog that had lain too long in the mud and rolled in moldy straw. “ ’Tis a welcome sight you are, Cathal.”

Casting his gaze about the large open space of the bailey, his eyes were drawn upward to the great mound of dirt, the motte, now covered with summer’s grass. On top sat the huge timber castle, towering above all. It was the landmark he had followed as he tore down the slope. One day, when it was his turn to rule Talisand, he would see it reinforced with stone.

A short distance away from where he stood was the two-story whitewashed manor he called home. Adjoining it was the larger, wooden hall that could hold more than a hundred men.

On the far side of the bailey were the armory and stables set against the palisade fence. Smoke billowed from the smith’s forge and the sound of metal being tortured on the anvil added to the discordant sounds around him. But it was home.

To the north, he could just see the daub and wattle cottages that marked the village. Whiffs of smoke from the hearth fires rose through the thatched roofs.

On three sides of the palisade wound the River Lune like a natural moat. In Talisand, far from Normandy’s battles, there was peace.

Children pushed their way through the crowd to stare at the knights, the boldest waving their hands in hearty welcome.

Alex’s youngest brother, Thibaut, separated himself from his friends and raced to Alex. “You’re home!” The boy’s eyes shone with excitement. “Did you have many adventures?”

Alex chuckled and tousled Tibby’s brown curls. “I did, but the telling of them must wait.”

His youngest brother returned him a momentary pout, but was soon grinning once again. Tibby, only ten summers, could never be dour for long. Of the Red Wolf’s four sons, he was the merriest and the most indulged. Like Alex’s other brothers, Tibby had the brown eyes of their paternal grandfather in Normandy. Only Alex had his father’s gray eyes. And only Alex, as the eldest, had been fostered away from Talisand. With his fostering and his training to be a squire that followed, Alex had spent more years away than at home.

A stable boy eagerly rushed to meet him, reaching for Azor’s reins. Alex thrust them into the boy’s hand. “Give him a good rub down and oats. I’ve ridden him hard this day and he did a destrier’s service in Normandy.”

“Aye, Sir Alex,” the lad said with a grin.

Alex’s squire stepped to Azor’s saddle and removed the shield and helm from where they were secured. “I will see these to the armory, sir.”

Alex nodded as the squire walked off and the boy led Azor toward the stables, the stallion briefly tossing his head.

Still at his side, Tibby said, “I will help,” and ran to catch up with the stable boy.

Nearby, Rory and Guy slipped from their saddles and handed the reins of their horses to their waiting squires. The rest of Alex’s men waved goodbye before going in search of their families.

Doffing his gauntlets, Alex watched Rory wending his way to him.