A Knight With Grace: Book 1 of the Assassin Knights Series (5 page)

Curtis lifted his gaze to William. He sputtered and blood splashed from his mouth.

William scanned him, glancing quickly over Curtis’s body. And then he saw what had happened. The dagger Curtis held had been twisted up in his fall and impaled him. William straightened. He had been in enough battles to know this kind of wound was fatal. The fight was over. And still, despite his less than honorable attack from behind, William felt a twinge of regret. It didn’t have to end this way. He could have run.

“Curtis?” Grace called.

Curtis held out a shaking hand to her.

William blocked her path as she came forward. “There is nothing to be done.”

Grace surged around him and dropped to her knees at Curtis’s side. She took Curtis’s face into her hands, brushing his hair from his forehead.

William’s mouth dropped open in surprise. That tender touch made everything clear. William knew in that instant. She had not been kidnapped. She was fleeing. He snapped his mouth closed. Of course she was, he thought. As she should be. He gritted his jaw, his thoughts bitter. He wasn’t certain if he was angry with her or her father. It didn’t matter.

Curtis turned over, revealing the dagger lodged in his chest. He lay his head in her lap, staring at the sky above.

Grace’s tears fell onto the young knight’s face, trailing paths of despair. She continued to stroke his forehead and cheeks, wiping the blood from his mouth with her sleeve.

William turned away. Let the two spend his last moments together in privacy. Of course, he did not like to see his future wife grieving over another man, but there was naught to do about it now. Future wife, he thought in mockery as he stepped into the cottage. He patted the neck of his horse. He had kept the black war horse inside so they wouldn’t know he was here. This was not quite what he had expected. Lord Alan told him she had been kidnapped. Everyone was looking for her. Didn’t he know? She had run away! William couldn’t blame her. What woman would want to marry him? But for a moment, William had believed what he was doing was worthwhile and just. He bowed his head, leaning it against Hellfire’s neck. How wrong he had been!

CHAPTER 8

G
race gently stroked Curtis’s cheek
even after he had long since slipped away. This was her fault. He would still be alive if he hadn’t agreed to take her away. Tearfully, she pressed her forehead to his. He would still be alive if he hadn’t have been her friend. Why? Why would the Lord take him away? Why would the Lord do this to her? After all her praying for her knight to come and save her, this is what He brought to her instead. She had prayed every day, every spare moment. What else did He want? She sat up and swiped at her eyes with her sleeve, only to freeze. Blood stained the hem of the sleeve. A new wave of anguish crested over her, and with it came resolve and anger. She had prayed enough. She had to be strong and depend on herself. If God wasn’t answering her prayers, then she would save herself.

She eased Curtis’s head to the ground, silently thanking him. She backed away to a nearby tree, pressing her back against it as she sat. She lifted her knees, encircling them with her arms. She was not going home. She would fight. She would do what she had to. She was not returning to Willoughby Castle. Because if she did, everything Curtis had done for her would be for naught. Curtis. She bowed her head to her knees and grief washed over her, letting out a torrent of sorrow. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Dead. Curtis was dead. Just like her mother. Death was following her everywhere.

That accursed Sir William! He had done this! He had taken him away. Why did he have to come after her?

“M’lady...”

She lifted her head to find Sir William standing before her. Vile murderer! She should have expected nothing less of this monster. He had slain the archbishop, so what did the life of a simple knight mean to him? Now he had murdered her friend, too. “You killed him,” she whispered, her voice ragged.

Sir William stood stoically before her. No emotion crossed his rugged face. Icy blue eyes gazed at her. Finally, he turned and moved into the cottage. When he emerged, he was holding a shovel.

Grace was surprised when he began to dig a grave, surprised at this honorable act. She lifted her chin. That still didn’t change the fact he had murdered Curtis nor that his soul was damned for all eternity.

The sun was setting, spreading a deep red across the sky, when William finally finished burying Curtis. He patted the shovel on top of the grave.

Grace stood in the shade of the tree, watching William bury Curtis. With Curtis gone, Sir William would take her back to her father and insist she marry him. But she never would. Her life was being buried with Curtis in that grave. Their life. She would not betray him. She would never make his death, his sacrifice, meaningless. She would never marry William. But how was she going to stop it now? Desperation filled her. She couldn’t just stand here and do nothing! She glanced over her shoulder into the woods. The leaves swayed in a soft breeze as if beckoning her. She could run. But she knew that would be even worse. Without protection, she wouldn’t stand a chance against the outlaws and bandits roaming the woods. And Sir William would come after her anyway. She was trapped. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She was not going back to her father.

William straightened, wiping a hand across his sweat drenched forehead. He arched his back. He had removed his chainmail armor and his gambeson and worked in a tunic.

She lifted her chin slightly and determination filled her. She prepared for a fight.

He put the shovel on his shoulder and turned to her.

Her entire body clenched in dread. He would take her back to her father, regardless of whether she wanted to go or not. The thought was agony. The thought was horrible. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t return. She couldn’t. She squeezed her arms.

He bowed his head and his long dark, damp strands fell forward. “We’ll stay here for the night and start out in the morning.”

She didn’t acknowledge she heard him. She looked at Curtis’s grave, a lump rising in her throat. Grateful relief swept through her. She had one more night to think of a solution. She would do anything not to return to her father.

He lowered his chin to his chest. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Shocked at the sincerity in his voice, she looked at him. Dark strands hid his face from her.

“You can stay inside the cottage. I will remain outside.”

For a moment, she couldn’t move. It was more sympathy than her father had shown her after her mother’s death. He was allowing her grieving time. She had to use the time wisely. Yes, she would miss Curtis and she did grieve for him. But she had to think of her future. There would be time to mourn him later. She glanced again at Curtis’s grave before brushing by William to enter the cottage and begin planning.

William sat beneath a nearby tree with his horse, Hellfire, standing nearby. The moon was far overhead, casting the surroundings in a surreal muted glow. Curtis’s steed whinnied softly, perhaps missing his owner. William had tied him to another tree where there was plenty of grass to feed on. He lifted his head to gaze at the moon. It had been almost fifteen years since he had last gotten a good night’s sleep. He had spent time fighting in Jerusalem, had participated in many skirmishes, had nearly lost his own life many times in the frenzied madness of battle, but that was not what kept him up at night. It was the blood. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw pools of innocent blood filling his mind’s eye. In his dark dreams, he often found himself staring down at his hands, seeing them covered in dark red liquid. He wondered if his friends had this much trouble sleeping.

He doubted Reginald FitzUrse had any trouble sleeping. Reginald was always confident in his actions, never regretting them. It was for the king, Reginald would say. Everything they had done had been for the king. Reginald’s loyalty was to King Henry, even above God. His excommunication never seemed to bother him. Reginald was tough, always fighting for what he believed in with the courage of a lion, but he was also angry and headstrong. After all this time, William wondered if it hadn’t been for Reginald’s anger, if they would have sought to bring the archbishop before the king. William thought back to that fateful night. A colder night. A December night.

Two monks clad in brown robes opened the doors of the cloister for the four knights. The four knights, William, Reginald, Richard le Brey and Hugh de Morville, entered the monastery, each man’s face filled with grim determination. Reginald led the way into the hall. William nodded at one of the monks he passed. He couldn’t help but notice the fear and anxiety in the young monk’s dark eyes.

Long tables lined the hall and monks ate quietly at them.

“Where is Thomas Becket?” Reginald demanded.

The monks looked up at him. Some set aside their food and drink, but none said a word.

Richard Le Brey stepped forward. “Where is the traitor?”

“We bear a message from King Henry!” Reginald added. “Speak up!”

William glanced at Reginald in surprise. They had no message from the king. Perhaps he meant they were here on the king’s mission. Still, the half truth made him uneasy.

Finally, a man dressed in white robes rose from one of the tables. His bearing, his demeanor was different than the others. He clearly commanded respect. “I am here, FitzUrse,“ Archbishop Thomas Becket said. ”Why do you disturb these monks at mealtime?”

“By the king’s orders, you are to return with us to England,” Reginald commanded.

“I do not answer to the king, but to One in higher authority. I will not return to England.”

William gaped at this, as did the rest of the knights. Defying King Henry’s order was unthinkable. “You defy the king?” William asked, shocked.

The archbishop looked at William and his gaze softened. “I answer only to one rule. His rule.”

His rule. The Lord’s rule. Uncertainty immediately filled William. Is that what he was doing by being here? Is that what this mission meant? Was he placing king over God? Before he could answer, or question himself further, Reginald stepped forward.

“All who are on the side of the king, hinder the archbishop!” Reginald ordered the monks. “Do not let him leave!” He whirled and stormed from the hall.

William stood still for a second longer, as his comrades moved out of the hall, following FitzUrse. Would they return to England empty handed? Would they return as failures? His gaze moved over the hall. Many of the monks mumbled amongst themselves. Some rose and gathered together near the archbishop. William began to turn, but locked eyes with the archbishop.

“Turn from this path, knight,” the archbishop commanded.

William knew there would be no turning back from this. The monks knew they came for the archbishop. Others would know of their mission after they left. They would be seen as failures if the archbishop did not return with them. They would be laughed at. Ridiculed. He turned and followed his friends from the hall.

William had missed that first opportunity to abort their mission, to talk his friends into leaving. But he knew Reginald would never have left regardless of any arguments William might have presented to him. Reginald would never have run from the mission. Thomas Becket had been doomed from the moment the king uttered the words
’What a parcel of fools have I nourished in my house, that not one of them will avenge me of this upstart clerk!’.

With a sigh, William knelt in the dirt, as he did every night, and said a prayer for the archbishop’s soul.

Sleep came sporadically for Grace. She sat in a corner, as far away from the door as possible. The mattress had bugs and moldy straw in it. Her stomach grumbled. The uncertainty of her future haunted her. How was she going to get out of this? Her thoughts shifted to William. What of that murderer? He was cursed for what he had done, doomed to hell, excommunicated. Why would her father have betrothed her to him, knowing his grandchildren would be cursed as the spawn of evil? She didn’t understand her father. Not his sudden hatred of her, nor his decisions. Had her mother’s death driven him to insanity? She lowered her chin to her chest and closed her eyes. He would be furious that she ran away, that she had defied his order. He had commanded her to marry William and she had defied him. He wouldn’t tolerate it. Maybe Curtis was lucky to be dead.