One True Knight (The Knights of Honor Trilogy) (8 page)

The horses picked carefully through the debris laden road that was wet from the night before. The remains of wooden houses that had burnt to the ground were scattered here and there, the ashes washed away by the heavy rain.

An elderly man stopped on the muddy road when he spotted them. He gripped the reins tighter, pulling his work horse close to his thin frame. And even when they passed, the man stood rooted, unable or unwilling to move as if he were expecting them to attack him and take away his only prized possession.

The destrier sensed his master’s unease, and his ears perked as if he was trying to discern the subtle signs of danger.

And even though there were few people traveling on the small road leading into the village square, Jonathan felt that their every move was being watched.

“There is something odd about the people in this place,” Jonathan said.

“I notice it too,” Gareth said, watching as a woman alerted by the sounds of the horses looked out of her window, and when she saw them, she ducked her head and slammed the shutters closed. “They seem a suspicious lot.”

It was true. Of the handful of villagers that they passed along the way, all of them showed a deep distrust that could only have been born from witnessing terror. It was clear that these simple people saw him as the enemy.

They continued down the muddy road, and Jonathan indicated that they would stop at the nearby tavern to gather information. But they didn’t get within ten feet of the tavern when a mud covered rock sailed through the air, and bounced harmlessly off the sleeve of his hauberk.

Jonathan turned and caught sight of a young boy who had another rock in his hand, and was about to launch it. The fury in his young eyes flashed as if he wished he was throwing javelins at him instead of rocks.

The boy’s mother rushed forward, and grabbed his arm, shaking it to loosen the stone in his hand. She looked up nervously and caught Jonathan and Gareth watching them.

The boy returned their gaze with open hostility.

The trembling woman pulled her son close to her, putting a protective arm around him as if her actions could shield him from the massive knight. “He is very young, sire,” she said, her voice filled with fear. “I beg of ye, do not punish him.”

Storm snorted as if to answer for his master. Jonathan walked his destrier over to the woman and child. The woman blinked rapidly and looked as if she was about to faint at the sight of the enormous warhorse and its rider coming their way. Meanwhile the boy’s eyes filled with alarm as if he only now realized how big and dangerous his foe was.

“Why are you throwing rocks at me, boy?” Jonathan asked. His voice was quiet although it sounded loud in the ensuing silence.

The mention of the rocks awakened the anger that was sleeping in the little body. The boy lifted his chin in defiance. “Someone needs to protect our village from the likes of ye,” he said.

The mother gasped. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” she said, jerking the boy tight against her.

Jonathan paid no attention to the woman, and kept his eyes focused on the boy. Looking down at him, he asked slowly, “Do you know who I am, boy?”

“Ye’re one of them who steals our food and animals and burns down our houses.”

Gareth maneuvered his horse over to Jonathan’s side. Exchanging a surprised look with Jonathan, he stared at the boy and said, “Did I understand you correctly? You’re saying that knights did these things to you?”

The boy spat on the ground. “Aye, that’s what I’m saying. And when I get bigger I’m going to kill ye for what ye’ve done to us.”

Gareth let out a small laugh as if taken aback by the ferociousness in the boy’s tone. “You’re a blood thirsty lad, aren’t you?”

The boy gave Gareth a dark look, and clenched his fist as if he wished he still had stones in his hand.

“Rest easy now,” Gareth said, giving the boy a smile. “What I mean to say is that you are a brave lad. We’re not here to steal from you. I’m Sir Gareth de Mowbrey and this,” he gestured to Jonathan, “is Sir Jonathan d’Abelard, the Iron Hawk. We’ve come to help you catch the robbers, and put a stop to the thievery.”

Instead of being impressed, the boy looked up at them with suspicion. “Why would the Hawk come here to help us?” he said. “Everyone knows that he’s fighting for King Edward.” He stared at the image of the fierce hawk on Jonathan’s surcoat, and then added doubtfully, “And even though ye say ye’re the Hawk, why should I believe ye? I don’t know how he looks — no one does. Anyone could claim that he’s the Hawk.”

Now that it was clear that the boy was not going to be harmed, a number of people came out of their homes and gathered around them.

“Believe what you will,” Jonathan said quietly but there was no denying the fury in his voice. “I am the Iron Hawk, and I don’t like what I see.” The boy’s eyes widened, and took a step back, causing him and his mother to stumble. Jonathan looked at every person in the small group. “Tell your friends and family that these criminals who prey on those less fortunate shall be brought to justice.” He continued. “I will see to it myself.”

“How can ye stop the criminals when they’re knights such as yerselves?” the boy’s mother asked.

“Who are these knights that you speak of?”

There was an angry rumble in the crowd. “They are Sir Richard’s men,” a man shouted.

Jonathan’s eyes searched for the speaker but whoever had spoken shrunk back into the crowd, no longer brave.

“Aye, I’ve seen them with me own two eyes,” someone else said.

“I’ve seen them too,” said another angry voice. “I know them for what they are — they’re criminals. They should all be hanged! They’ve taken every last thing from us and burned our homes to the ground. Now there’s nothing left for us.” The man brought his dirty sleeve up and wiped at his eyes.

Several people nodded their heads in agreement.

Gareth surveyed the angry faces of the villagers. “This is getting stranger by the moment,” Gareth murmured. “Perhaps you were right to suspect Raulf. He leads your father’s men. But the Grey Knight has also brought us here. Perhaps there is a connection here and these rogue knights are all working together.”

“There is that possibility,” Jonathan replied. “At least we now know why the robbers were never caught.”

CHAPTER 8

All Rowena could hear was the clopping of the horses’ hooves ringing across the cobbled courtyard. They seemed to be moving painfully slow. She wondered if Jared had chosen this pace on purpose, to punish her for running away and ruining the holiday for him.

He was silent the entire ride back to the castle and had not glanced over at her direction at all. Derrik was silent too, although she preferred it that way. He was entirely too insufferable.

She pulled the cowl down further to hide her face. Not that it would do any good. By now the entire castle knew that she had run away. And the fact that she was flanked by her father’s garrison commander and his nephew, made it easy to determine the identity of the hooded figure in the middle.

She could hear the whispers and could sense the eyes burning through her cloak, as if they wanted to see for themselves how low she had stooped. Well, the idea of running away sounded good at the time, she had to admit. It might have worked if she didn’t tarry so long in town, and if Whitshire wasn’t so far away.

When they arrived at the stone keep, Sir Jared lifted her off the horse and placed her on the ground. At his nod, the groomsmen took the horses away.

Rowena ran her sweaty hands down her cloak as if to smooth away the wrinkles. She was in no hurry to see her father.

Derrik’s eyebrows furrowed at her slow movements. “God’s bones!” he burst out. “Will you cease your infernal dawdling?”

Rowena wrinkled her nose at him. He wasn’t the one that had to face her father. She pulled the cowl off her head and brushed past him.

But when she arrived at the entrance leading to the great hall, her steps began to falter. She chewed on her bottom lip. What would her father do to her? She could imagine him waiting impatiently for her arrival, his fury evident in his bearing. There was no escaping it and she had no one to blame except for herself.

The Lord of Ravenhearth sat in his chair, his head bent in conference with the steward. But he looked up from his work as if he could hear Rowena’s worrying thoughts.

His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared at the sight of Rowena crossing the threshold.

He stared hard at her as if he was seeing a stranger and not his only daughter. Rowena no longer resembled a child yet she acted like one — willful and disobedient. Nothing like Rosalid in personality, but the woman coming toward him was a haunting reflection of his late wife. Her tresses were the color of the night sky; her oval face was smooth and as unblemished as a freshwater pearl. But this was not Rosalid, he reminded himself.

“Leave us,” he barked to everyone in the hall. The steward gathered his papers in hast and looked with some alarm at Rowena as he passed her. The sound of more scraping feet filled the room and the last of the servants, knights and men-at-arms quickly dispersed, leaving Rowena alone with her father.

The door closed behind them with a thud.

Rowena made her way slowly to stand in front of the high table, where it was well known that her father liked to mete out his punishments. He had the advantage of intimidating his subjects from the dais.

She folded her hands in front of her as if bracing herself for the verbal attack that she knew would come. “You wanted to see me, Father?” she said in an even voice.

The relief that she was found safe subsided and in its place was a lingering anger burning inside his chest.

“I hate being made a fool,” he said at last. He grabbed the edge of the trestle table, and pushed himself out of his chair.

Rowena glanced up at the sound of his movement and watched him warily.

“You of all people know of this yet you make a game of it. The entire fiefdom — from the servants to my vassals — they are all laughing at me for my inability to control you. You are no longer a child however you act like one — unruly, defiant — why?”

But Philip already knew the answer to that question. He moved away from the trestle table, and walked to the window, wanting to put distance between them. He gazed out the window as if he was seeing his beloved Rosalid and not the rolling green field that surrounded the fortress.

The anger he felt suddenly disintegrated into a cloud of sorrow that had followed him ever since his wife had died. “I have failed your mother,” he said. “Instead of raising a young noblewoman, I’ve raised a hellion. She would have died a second death if she witnessed your disgraceful behavior, your disobedience.”

“My mother is dead,” Rowena said flatly. Philip turned to face her, and cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at her. But Rowena looked at him, her gaze as unwavering as if she was facing an enemy on the battlefield. “You do not have to fear that she will die again.”

“I do not care for your insolence!” he said, his voice turning icy, the anger surging into this chest once again. “Your actions are an embarrassment to me,” he continued, his voice reverberating across the room. He felt his face getting hotter, the vein throbbing hard at his neck, as if it was ready to burst from the pressure. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Rowena flinched as if Philip’s words served her a physical blow but her back remained as straight as a rod. “I had no ill intent,” she said at last.

“Then I demand to know why you were so thoughtless as to run away from the safety of your home.”

She bowed her head, avoiding his gaze.

Philip could almost taste his fury. “Tell me why!” he shouted.

Rowena’s face was flushed and she continued to study the hem of her dress as if inspecting the intricate stitching. After what seemed like a long moment, she said in a barely audible voice, “If you must know, I did not want you to remarry.” Her voice began to shake and she was unable to keep the pain out of her voice. “I had a mother once and she was the dearest, most beautiful woman in the world. Any woman you marry cannot replace her.”

Philip rubbed at his temples, a headache starting to build. “Rowena,” he said with irritation. “Your mother has been dead for many years now. My decision to marry again does not concern you.”

A defiant look crossed Rowena’s face, a look that was so similar to her mother’s. “You are mistaken, Father,” she said, her tone filled with anguish. “You could have spared me the humiliation of your decision before it was announced at supper last night. I know so little of this new woman you plan to marry. Who is she? What is her name?” She paused, a pained look crossing her face. “And is she as kind, as gentle as my mother once was?” Then her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I need to know these things as she will be the new mistress of the castle.”

Philip’s hands fell to his side. Massaging his head wasn’t helping to make his headache disappear. “‘Tis Lady Lorena of Airndale that I am marrying. You already know her.”

Rowena was about to speak and then closed her mouth again. Lady Lorena owned the neighboring land to the north east of Ravenhearth. She had been a widow for the past five years. “Why did you not tell me of her?”

“There was no time,” he said, clenching his teeth. He gazed over Rowena’s shoulder as if he saw the image of an old enemy. “My sources told me that Sir Robert de Clait was planning to obtain Airndale through marriage. And I, thinking to thwart his plan, petitioned King Edward to allow me to marry Lady Lorena first. I couldn’t allow the bastard to acquire Airndale and then have his greedy eyes look west toward Ravenhearth.”

“Surely there is another way to protect Ravenhearth. This demesne is profitable enough — could we not hire additional men-at-arms? Then there will not be a need to add Lady Lorena or anyone else to the fold.”

Philip shook his head and began to pace. “If Sir Robert gets his hands on Airndale, he will be a more powerful foe.”

“Will he not march against us even if Airndale comes under our protection?”

“If he does then we will be forced to wage war against him,” he said.