Sword of Justice (White Knight Series) (2 page)

Unseated from his horse, one knight became entangled in a stirrup and was dragged screaming into the distance. Another flew over the head of his steed, forthwith carried off the field, bleeding and insensate. Those knights who held their saddle soon scattered across the countryside, rivalry sending them headlong into one-on-one contests, two-on-one skirmishes, and five-on-one battles royal.

Scattered far and near,
recets
provided sanctuary to rest, rearm, hold prisoners, and count booty. After replenishing themselves with wine and catching their breaths, knights went out again, to pick another fight, acquire another reward, or lose an engagement. The brawling was destined to go on until dusk and beyond.

Staying well behind the
mêlée
, his sun-streaked hair a crown of gold against the azure river at his back, Drake fitzAlan stood at the threshold of life and the edge of a killing field. Reining in his magnificent white destrier, the young knight wore a shirt of mail, his coif slung back and ventail unfastened. A sleeveless surcote of red and gold girded his waist. A shield strapped to his arm flaunted the same colors. He held a polished helm in his leather-mitted hand. His other hand gripped a lance, the pennon of gold and red whipping in the breeze. Strapped at his side was his dragon sword, forged of the best Poitou steel.

Engaged in a lively sword fight, his brother Stephen lost his saddle. Recovering handily, he fended off capture and withdrew to the sidelines. His hair glowing like dying embers, their squire Devon of Wheeling helped the knight remove helm. Stephen looked up at his brother, his expression ardent, his eyes sparkling, and his hair dark with sweat. Little separated the brothers, one from the other; not their hawklike profiles, brush-stroked cheekbones, lofty statures, or matching garnet rings. Because Drake and Stephen fitzAlan were not only brothers but identical twins, born in the space of three breaths on a black moon a little more than twenty years ago.

The brothers had been riding with Richard in France since winter before last, serving the duke of Aquitaine as his personal squires, and in serving, matured from green youths to valiant men. Drake and Stephen had returned to England with their new king in anticipation of his coronation, and they would remain in England for as long as it took Richard to prepare for the Holy Crusade, the third such crusade waged over the last hundred years, which purpose was to rescue the Holy Land from the Turks. Whether this would be the final crusade, only God could tell, but when the final Muslim had been routed from Jerusalem, Christendom would reign for eternity.

In the meantime, money had to be raised, supplies gathered, soldiers recruited, maps drawn, ships engaged, wagons and carts constructed, work horses and battle steeds acquired, weapons turned out, mercenaries conscripted, cooks and wagoners employed, and battle plans forged. It would take a hard drive across Europe, over rough terrain, treacherous rivers, mountainous ranges, verdant valleys, and arid plains. Along the way, Richard would bring allies to his side, turn enemies aside, cross stormy seas, and make many promises, some to be kept but most to be broken, until finally he reached the Levant at the head of the greatest army ever assembled and brought God’s judgment down upon the infidels of Islam.

For the fitzAlan brothers, the upcoming crusade was to be an adventure in the service of their king and the dream of a lifetime. Traveling through foreign lands, encountering alien peoples, experiencing strange customs, stranger tongues, exotic women, unaccustomed climates, and unforeseen travails would only be the beginning of an undertaking where their courage was to be tested, endurance proven, and bravery challenged.

The future, though, was but a dream. The present lay before them. The endless field they stood upon had been their childhood playground. Now they would romp on it as full-fledged knights, wielding sword and shouting battle cries, beating back pretend foes, winning prizes and prestige, and hearing ladies cheer them on for greater glory. But for Drake more than Stephen, it was a chance to forge the metal of his fighting instincts in prelude to the real war to come.

The brothers did not speak. There was no need for words, nor was there time. Stephen’s mount, a twin of Drake’s, came into view, a white beauty in a drab sea of black, gray, and brown. Ordinarily the stallion would have been a handsome prize for the man who unseated its rider, but the warhorse brooked none but the touch of a fitzAlan brother. Stephen whistled, made a dash and a leap, and regained his mighty charger, sad loss to the unsung victor. He let loose a war cry as he galloped in pursuit of another fight.

Drake donned his helm, spurred his horse, and charged headlong into the
mêlée
, riding the wind devil-may-care. In no time he merged with the rest, charging, attacking, defending, regrouping, circling back for another sortie, and yet another. The clashes intoxicated like wine. He lost his lance but stayed his horse, fought with sword and defended with shield, and outran and outmaneuvered the swords and lances crashing relentlessly down on him.

On a whirl of pent-up stallion, Drake caught sight of the black knight mere moments after the knight glimpsed him. Poised at the crest of a hill, the beardless youth made an obscene gesture, replaced helmet over unkempt hair, and rode off, baiting Drake to follow.

Catching up with him on an isolated scrap of grassland, Drake called out his rival’s name like a curse. “Maynard of Clarendon!”

The knight swung around, raised lance, and urged warhorse. The raven destrier, sleek and powerful, stretched his legs into a gallop.

Slashing his sword through the air, Drake shouted, “If you want a fight, damn it all, I’ll give you a fight!” Drake’s shield barely deflected the blow.

Maynard circled back. Instead of attacking, he allowed his steed to prance in a wide circuit while teasing with the point of his lance. Drake defended the perimeter in the opposite direction, brandishing his sword and working his shield.

The two men had been rivals since boyhood. Maynard always held contempt for the heir of Itchendel, and Drake loathed him in equal measure. The scrawny boy with black hair and blacker eyes had never been pretty. Pocked by adolescent pustules and scarred across his cheek from an accident with a wagon, he had always begrudged Drake for many reasons but mostly for his handsomeness, his inheritance, and the lasses who frolicked after him like bees to honey. In their youth, Maynard was bigger and brawnier. He bullied Drake, set traps for him, and teased him into fights that he inevitably won. Time and again, Drake would limp home; robbed of horse or boots or bow; bloody, hurting, and vowing revenge. The Lord of Itchendel wasted no pity on his son but put him through the paces, driving him harder with sword fights, wrestling matches, and trials of endurance. As he grew into manhood, Drake made up for lack of brute force with speed and agility. Instead of losing every fight with Maynard, he won every fourth or fifth. He wanted to improve the odds. The time to start was now.

“You’ve been looking for a fight all day, fitzAlan.”

“You have it wrong. I was in the market for a jackass. And here you are.”

“After besting you on the bedding field, you fear I will best you on the battlefield.”

Held at lance length, Drake searched for an opening, his mouth and eyes in constant use. “I fear your mother bedded a donkey and her spawn came out the wrong end of a mule. What say you?—half-ass, complete ass, or the mule itself,
equus
riding
equus
, the smarter
equus
with hoofs carrying the dumber
equus
with boots? Surely you can find better sport than an innocent lass.”

The black lance repeatedly jolted the red-and-gold shield. “Not so innocent, Drake. Just ask every man jack. Better yet, ask your doting king about the pleasures his brother takes in highborn maidens the likes of Geneviève de Berneval.”

The lady’s name, tossed around as sport, belonged to the maiden Drake aspired to take as his wife one day very soon. She had sent him off at the start of the festivities and would have been watching now had the two knights stayed within the vicinity of the viewing stands, from whence she had cheered him on, her daisy yellow hair easy to spot and her beauty surpassing all the other fair maidens.

He answered Maynard’s insult with a sharp thrust of his sword. The jolt to Maynard’s breastplate caused the destrier to whinny, throw up his head, and step into a wide, counterbalancing circle. When beast and rider came back around, Drake made ready with another blow and delivered it with such unbridled ferocity that Maynard of Clarendon toppled from his saddle, landing with a thunderous thump and a louder, “Oomph!”

“Ah, landed on your arse … or should I say ass.” Drake dismounted and kicked away the knight’s dislodged lance.

Fumbling for the hilt of his sword, Clarendon scrambled to his feet.

“You owe the lady an apology,” Drake said, “and by God, she shall get one!” Two quick slices of Drake’s sword and Maynard lost his. A hook of Drake’s foot and Maynard fell onto his rump. A prick of white knight’s blade at the base of black knight’s throat, and Maynard broke out in sweat. Drake threw off his helm and slung back his coif. He intended to make Clarendon sweat a bit longer, too make his bowels run loose with fear, and to put the fear of God and of Drake fitzAlan into him.

The roar of hoofs approaching distracted him from his appointed task. Since his hearing counted only one horse, he took his time identifying the rider and appreciated instead the dread showing on the black knight’s face.

Drake misjudged the charger’s speed and turned too late. The horse arrived at full gallop. The rider’s boot hooked him under the jaw at the same driving gait, flinging him back in a clatter of armor and knocking him quite senseless.

Chapter 2
   
 

THIS MUST BE
HELL, DRAKE
decided, which meant he must be dead.

The evidence was convincing. The heat. The blood-red backwash. The smell of spilt blood. And the detached mind screaming into a black void. If this were Hell, it negated everything he had chosen not to believe. God existed. Perhaps even the Devil.

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
The words came to him unbidden, but it was too late. There was no turning back now. No amending a life spent as an unrepentant heathen. He had chosen, and his unbelief had brought him to this, his final reward, his ultimate destination, escape a hopeless wish.

Pater noster, qui es in coelis
. Too late, even, for prayer but hopefully not too late for contrition.
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa
….

Miraculously the invocations were taking effect. Instead of plunging farther into a bottomless pit, he was rising up out of the dark. The reprieve from Hell’s depths, though, did not deliver the promised succor. Had he been at death’s door, he would have opened his eyes on a circle of loved ones. Had it been a bad dream, he would have left the nightmare behind. Had he been brainsick, he would have awoken irrational or raving. As it was, he vividly remembered the staggering blow that attacked him from out of nowhere but hadn’t the remotest idea of where he was or what he had been doing beforehand.

On a whirlwind of prickly sensation, he came screaming out of the dark abyss, fighting all the way and landing with a violent crash. His head pounded. The underside of his jaw throbbed. Swallowing burned his throat. Shaking himself into awareness spun the gorse and tree trunks into a sickening vortex. He clamped his eyes shut, listened to his rasping breaths, felt the sun burn hot on his neck, heard flies buzzing round his ears, and picked out a chiffchaff call out its name.

Time. Time to open his eyes. Time to heed the call.

He braced an elbow in a lake of blood, eerily iridescent, and gazed forward. The funnel he looked into was an indistinct blur. Shock sharpened his focus.

The black knight lay languidly on his back. His limbs were stretched out in goose-flight formation. His face was bloodless. His unclosed eyes reflected a pure sapphire sky. His sword lay within a lax, upturned hand. And a second sword was thrust into his crotch up to the cross guard.

To the white knight, worse than gazing upon a corpse that had met a gruesome end, worse than being unable to tear his eyes away from the gore, and worse than facing the real possibility he had indeed stepped into Hell, was realizing something inconceivable: he clutched the pommel of the killing sword. Three feet of forged iron embedded to its full length. Three feet of whetted blade that surely must have riven bowels, penetrated ribcage, and pierced heart. Three feet of steely death wrapped tightly inside the curled fingers of his blood-soaked hand.

A dream, a nightmare brought on by concussion, yet too real to be imagined away. He tried to open his fist, to surrender the sword to the black knight, to renounce the deed, but his fingers refused to release their death grip.

Pounding horses advanced from all sides. In a bleak effort to run, to escape, and to vanquish the hideous image with flight, he slipped in the undercurrent of body fluid that was not his own but might as well have been. When one of the riders struck a mace at the base of his skull, he pitched uncontrollably back into the abyss from which he had crawled.