The Knight's Daughter

by S H Cooper

  The Knight’s Daughter

  Lady Knight Trilogy Book I

  By

  S.H. Cooper

  The Knight’s Daughter

  Copyright © 2020 S.H. Cooper

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by:

  Jörn Meyer

  Edited by:

  Elle Turpitt

  For Ma and Dad,

  Who have never stopped believing in their little girl’s dreams.

  For Sam and Hannah,

  Who have shared in my every adventure.

  For Alex,

  My greatest adventure yet.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter One

  Quickly.

  Quietly.

  Don’t get seen.

  Don’t get caught.

  I repeat those words over and over in my head as I slip through the field. My dress is hiked up around my knees in both hands. I’m not worried about being ladylike. I don’t have time to be. At every rustle of grass and twig snap, I look over my shoulder, worried I’ve been discovered, but I’m alone. It’s still early, and while most of Moorsden sleeps, I run.

  The ground dips gently downward as I near the dirt roadway. If I turn left, it will lead into the village proper. If I go right, it will wind down beside the sea and disappear into the horizon. I’ve never gone right before.

  I hesitate, as I always do when I reach it, and look both ways. A thin fog stretches across the road, silver and undisturbed in the pale morning light. When I’m sure no one is coming, I hurry forward again. A voice shouts up ahead and goosebumps prickle along my arms. I know that voice, and I know what will happen if I’m found. I keep going, though. The nervous tickle in my belly is no match for my determination.

  I’m getting closer. I start to crouch, going lower and lower until I’m crawling up the side of the hill on my hands and knees. The voice from before has gone quiet. Now there is the hum of heavy steel being swung, the ringing of metal on metal, shouting and grunting and yelling. My heart beats fast and hard and, as I reach the top of the hill, I press myself to the ground. I can’t hold back the grin that pulls at the corners of my mouth when I inch my way to the edge and can finally look down upon Wicker Field.

  Men, almost a hundred of them, fill the field. They move in waves, swinging swords and axes and flails at hay dummies covered in dented armor. Their voices rise in a great shout whenever they charge the dummy row. Sometimes, a dummy will spring forward suddenly, knocking one of the men from his feet. I have to hide my giggle in my hand whenever that happens. Even with all of the noise below, I still worry someone will hear me.

  I never laugh long, though. I have to focus. I watch their feet, see how they move. I study their hands, learn how they hold their weapons. I imagine I’m gripping the hilt of a sword and curl my fingers to match theirs.

  Egan falls. He should have spun to the left, where he’d already planted his weight, instead of trying to hop the other way.

  Callum lands a heavy blow to the dummy’s helmet. He’d followed the swing of his sword through with his whole body, just like you should.

  Just like I knew I would, if I was given the chance.

  The knights of Moorsden have no place for a fourteen year old girl, though. Sometimes, it feels like there’s no place for me at all outside my home. I don’t mind it terribly: I’ve started to get better at cooking the evening meal and my stitching has become almost as tiny and neat as Mother’s, if a little more crooked. It’s more fun since I started thinking of the needle as a tiny sword and the cloth as my enemy.

  I think of the mending pile sitting at home in its basket beside the fireplace and sigh. Father’s tunic, Drake’s trousers, a pair of Joseph’s socks, all torn or worn through from long days spent training and patrolling. All waiting for Mother and me to sit down and sew them up.

  I know it’s something I need to get used to. Now that I’m almost grown, it’s only natural that I’ll put aside my childish daydreams and start becoming more serious about my responsibilities. No more running about or sneaking off to the beach with a stick to practice what I’ve seen on the field. No more playing at being a knight. I have to try and be more like Mother: sweet and quiet and a perfect lady with a perfect home.

  And I will. Tomorrow, perhaps.

  The familiar voice rings out again from the middle of the field, cutting into my thoughts. I lay as flatly as I can against the ground and bite my lip, half afraid and wholly excited. A rider on horseback is weaving his way through the men, shouting directions as he goes. He sits straight and tall, his gray eyes, so like my own, scanning those he passes with piercing intensity. Over his plain clothes, he wears the green sash of the High Captain, leader of Moorsden’s knights.

  My father, Sir Patrick McThomas, makes for an imposing figure. His bearded face is sternly set and I can very well imagine just how much more stern it will become if he discovers me. Although I have watched from this very spot many a morning without being seen, I still get a rush of nerves whenever he comes into view.

  Behind him trail two lads on foot. One carries Father’s broadsword and shield. The other, the banner of Moorsden, a crowned crow gripping a sword in its claws. Drake is proud to bear our father’s weapons and walks with his shoulders squared and his chest puffed out. Joseph is less enthusiastic. He trudges along, giving the banner a halfhearted wave whenever Father glances back at him.

  Although they are twins, Drake and Joseph could not be more different. Drake is our father’s son, sharing his same dark hair and hard features. Joseph is more like our mother and me, with reddish hair and a softer face. While they stand at the same height, Drake is broad and large and Joseph is lean. In the shadow of Drake’s confidence, Joseph seems a meek thing.

  They’re seventeen, only a year away from completing their squireship under Father, and then their true training begins. Drake could not be more ready. Joseph could not be more resigned.

  I feel a confusing mix of jealousy and sympathy as I watch my older brother. I would give anything to be in his place, marching behind our father while carrying the banner of our people. To ride a horse and wield a blade. To stand beside Father and Drake on a battlefield. I can’t understand why Joseph would rather be reading or practicing his letters in the quiet of the barn loft. I suppose, though, he would be equally confused that I don’t want to be at home with Mother, cooking and clea
ning.

  It is a lady’s place, after all. I’m just waiting to feel like a lady. I’m sure it will happen any day now, and I will lose interest in all things knightly.

  Until then, I pluck two blades of grass from the ground and march them around in time with Father’s shouted instructions.

  Something glints in the corner of my eye, distracting me from the goings on below. I pause with the grass still held between my fingers and turn my head towards it. The Burl Forest borders the field in a dark line of tall trees. I’ve never ventured into those woods, and staring at them now sends a shiver creeping up my back. Joseph likes to tell me tales of creatures living in the treetops, the kind that will leap down and gobble up unsuspecting children. I can imagine them so vividly, with their long limbs and sharp teeth, and I shiver again.

  Despite the forest’s foreboding appearance, I don’t see anything.

  As I start to turn away, there’s another glimmer, like sunlight reflecting off something hidden in the branches and leaves. My grass knights forgotten, I lift my hand to shade my eyes, trying to get a better look. I stare for a long moment, until my vision starts to blur, and am almost convinced there’s nothing there.

  Suddenly, one shadow separates from a tree trunk and ducks quickly behind another. A second shadow does the same only seconds later. A third appears, but this one hesitates, and I have just enough time to make sense of what I’m looking at.

  It’s a man. No, it’s men. Many of them, creeping through the woods towards the field. Towards the knights. I look quickly between the silently approaching men to my father. Is it more training? Perhaps he’s prepared some kind of ambush lesson? But that doesn’t feel right. I’ve been watching Father closely. He’s not even spared a single glance towards the forest. If he were expecting something, surely he would have at least peeked over there to make sure things were falling into place as planned.

  He’s got his back to the forest. He’s riding away at a leisurely pace with Drake and Joseph not far behind. He’s still shouting orders and words of encouragement. His officers stand at the far end of the field, opposite the forest. They’re observing and talking amongst themselves. Not one is paying any attention to the trees.

  It’s nothing, I try to tell myself, it’s just people crossing through on their way into town.

  But it feels wrong. They aren’t walking, they’re sneaking. My heartbeat quickens in my throat. Silently, I urge Father or my brothers or anyone to turn, to see what I’m seeing, but they’re all so focused. None of them are looking! I’m becoming frantic, but I’m also frozen with indecision. If I call out and give myself away, Father will be angry with me and I’ll never be able to come back to the field. But if I don’t say anything and this isn’t one of Father’s exercises…

  I can’t finish the thought.

  I start to push myself upright, and as I do, I see one of the men from the forest unsling a bow from his back. He fits it with an arrow.

  White hot panic roars in my belly and I’m running down the hill towards the field before I can think twice about it.

  “Father!” I’m screaming. “The forest! Look to the forest!”

  The men closest to me turn. They recognize me and some start to smile, as if the sight of me is amusing, others simply look confused. The daughter of the High Captain shouldn’t be at the training grounds, their expressions all say.

  I point wildly with both arms towards the trees.

  “Someone’s coming!”

  The first arrow lands with a heavy thud in the ground just in front of me. I skid to a halt, my eyes locked on the still quivering shaft at my feet.

  For a moment, it feels as if the world has gone quiet.

  And then, Father’s rumbling commands rip through the air.

  “Arms up! Defensive formation! We are under attack! To the forest; meet them, men of Moorsden!”

  There is such a ferocious cry from the knights as they turn as one and charge towards the others that I clap my hands over my ears. Their position given away, attackers rush from between the trees with weapons raised. Even with my ears covered, my head rings with the noise of swords clashing, of armor grating, of men and horses screaming.

  It isn’t like when they were training. There is no good natured laugh to follow up someone falling. There’s no order or sense to it. It’s loud and frightening and it smells of sweat and hot iron. I stumble backwards, trip on the hem of my dress, and begin to fall.

  A pair of strong hands catch me. I’m lifted easily from the ground and find myself cradled against my father’s chest as he carries me swiftly away from the battle. I throw my arms around his neck and sob into his green sash, just like I used to when I was a little girl.

  It’s all too soon when he untangles himself from my grasp and puts me down in front of him.

  “What are you doing here, Mary?” he demands. His voice and expression are dark.

  I can’t speak past the terrified lump in my throat.

  “Never mind,” he says. “Go home, now!”

  “Come with me,” I manage to beg. I grab his hand.

  He softens for a moment and his large fingers close over mine. But then he is High Captain McThomas again, and he pulls away.

  “Go, Mary. Run!”

  Gently, but firmly, he pushes me back. Tears stream freely down my cheeks and I reach for him again, pleading for him not to leave me. He doesn’t look back.

  Not until the whistling starts.

  It’s faint at first, and I barely hear it, but Father is already spinning on his heel. The whistling grows louder. The sky overheard is suddenly speckled with black dots.

  Everything goes dark. Father has enveloped me in a tight hug. He’s hunched over me, crushing me against him. I can’t breathe!

  The whistling stops abruptly. Father jerks once, and then again, but he keeps a tight hold on me. His breathing becomes ragged in my ear. I start to wriggle loose and his arms slip away, down to his sides.

  “Father?”

  There is screaming and shrieking and the sounds of a battle at its end all around us, but it all seems distant. Father stares down at me through half closed eyes.

  “Father?” I say again, my voice tight and uncertain.

  He lays a hand against my cheek and slowly sinks downward. I grab him as best I can and try to keep him upright, but I can’t, he’s too heavy. He slumps to his knees with a shuddering sigh. That’s when I see them: two long, feathered shafts sticking out from his back and side. My breath catches sharply in my chest.

  Father pats my cheek and I tear my eyes from his wounds to meet his gaze. His hand slides down to mine. He gives it a weak squeeze.

  “You’re not hurt, my lamb?”

  I don’t want to hear him speak in such a soft way, to say my childhood nickname with such concern and affection. Suddenly, I want him to yell at me for being exactly where I shouldn't have been, for putting myself in harm's way. For putting him in harm's way. I squeeze his hand in return and shake my head. My vision burns and blurs with tears. I collapse to my knees as well.

  “Father,” I say pleadingly. “Dr. Willis will - he'll be here soon. It's going to be okay, we'll go home and he'll tend to you.”

  The corners of his lips twitch and I’m sure he’s going to smile. Instead, his eyes roll up into his head, his hand goes limp in mine, and he falls away from me.

  Chapter Two

  Once, when I was younger, Mother took me out to watch Father break in his horse, Raider. Raider had been a temperamental colt, bucking and kicking whenever Father mounted him. Father was an experienced horseman, but few had the same spirit as Raider. It wasn’t long before Father was thrown from his back. He landed in the mud with a surprised, angry shout while Raider trotted off.

  Screaming, I pulled away from Mother to run around the paddock to where he lay. It was the first time I had ever felt fear so sharply.

  “Da! Da!” I cried through the fence, convinced he’d been badly hurt. Raider looked so big and the fall seeme
d so hard!

  But Father was laughing. He pushed himself up on to his elbows and waved at me with a wink.

  “I’m alright, lamb,” he said.

  I still held my arms up, grasping at him to come pick me up. I just wanted him to hold me.

  “Don’t you dare, Patrick McThomas,” Mother warned teasingly when he stood and started towards me. “You’re a right mess and she will be, too!”

  “My wee lass wants me,” Father replied with a cheeky grin. “I can’t say no!”

  He reached over the top of the fence and swept me off my feet. I buried my face beneath his chin and wrapped my arms and legs around him as tightly as I could manage. He smelled of horse and wet earth. Father stroked my back with a chuckle. Mother tutted reproachfully.

  “It’s ok, it’s ok,” he said soothingly. “What’s wrong, then, hmm?”

  “Bad Raider!” I sniffled.

  “Oh, come now, he’s a good lad. He’s just got some fire in his belly.”

  “No! He hurt you!”

  Father sat me on the top rail of the fence and tapped my nose with the tip of his finger. “Do I look hurt, lamb?”

  I gave him a long, serious look over and then, hesitantly, shook my head.

  “That’s because I’m not. Tumbles happen, but I always get up again, so nothing to worry about, aye?”

  He pinched my cheeks and tickled my sides until my tears dried and I was shrieking with laughter.

  It seems strange that all I can think about is that memory. I keep hearing his voice echo in my head, drowning out the chaos that surrounds me.

  Tumbles happen, but I always get up again.

  I always get up again.

  His hand is heavy in mine and I give it a weak tug.

  “Get up,” I whisper. My voice sounds like a stranger’s. “Get up, Father. Get up!”

  I keep expecting his eyes to open and for him to sleepily ask me what’s wrong. He’s so still. So pale.

  “Da, please,” I beg him between sobs. “Get up.”

  I repeat it until I’m screaming the words at him and shaking his whole arm. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I’m torn away. I cling to the sleeve of his shirt, my nails digging into the fabric.