The anger rose to blinding rage. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself strike the king repeatedly, until King William collapsed, a bloody figure at his feet.
In reality, he stood still and watched the king exit his chambers.
He sank down onto the bed, his whole body trembling. Never in his life had he felt such unadulterated rage; it frightened him.
Could he really kill the king? He had taken life in battle before, but this would be different. This would be murder. Murder of the king to whom he had sworn his loyalty.
The night breeze against his bare skin did little to calm him, but the rage no longer frightened him. Now, he found a curious strength in embracing it.
King William would not partake of his beloved Queen. Not many times, not once. He would prevent it.
With a little luck, he would only have one night about which to worry. If he could think of a way to protect her without bloodshed, he would. But if not…
So be it. Blood would be spilt.
They were still a good two hours from the castle. All morning, they rode two abreast, Declan and Gerard in the lead, with Gallant tagging along on Declan’s right side. But, Gerard had recently dropped back even with Benjamin and Josef.
Declan couldn’t hear their conversation, but he knew what they wanted. And it made sense. The trail they were on was passing close to a stream, but would soon veer away. His men needed to rest; the horses needed to rest.
He needed to reach Queen Gracelyn. But as leader, he couldn’t think only of himself.
He held up his fist, a signal he was stopping, and reined in Fireball. The horse dropped from a gallop to a canter and then a trot. He snorted, his sides heaving, and Declan wasn’t sure if it was in protest or gratitude.
As the horse slowed to a walk, Declan turned in the saddle. His men were dismounting and Josef looked at him. “Finally!” The knight exclaimed. “We were beginning to wonder if you were going to push on until we reached the castle.”
Suppressing a smile, Declan swung off his horse. “My apologies. My thoughts were far away.”
Benjamin and Josef began laying out lunch, while Declan and Gerard took the horses to the water’s edge. To the gentle slurping of the horses quenching their thirst, Declan cupped his hands in the cool water and splashed his face.
Gerard squatted beside him. “Do you think she’ll send a troop to meet us?”
“Uh huh. I’m surprised we haven’t met them already. In fact…” Declan raised his head, hearing the sound of approaching hoof beats.
Gerard nodded. “Speak of the devil…” he said with a grin.
The two men gathered the horses and headed back to the clearing, reaching it as six knights rode up. They all wore chainmail, their swords drawn.
“What business have you in Cambridge?” their leader demanded.
Declan stepped forward, leading Fireball, the white flag displayed prominently from the saddle. “We travel under a flag of truce, with a message for Queen Gracelyn from King William.”
Turning, the knight’s eyes narrowed and he frowned. “You.”
Declan nodded. “Good day to you, Philippe.”
Philippe’s frown deepened. “What is your message?”
“King William and Queen Jenna would like to re-establish peace with Cambridge. A new agreement is offered, for Queen Gracelyn’s approval.”
“If your mission is peaceable, you will accept an escort to the castle. And you will surrender your weapons,” Philippe challenged.
It was protocol, a demonstration of passive intentions. Still, no knight liked to surrender his weapon.
Raising his chin, Declan returned the other man’s gaze steadily. “We welcome an escort. And we will surrender our swords. We will keep our personal daggers. There is still much rough terrain between here and the castle.”
Philippe nodded, though his frown remained. “Fair enough. Armand.”
The dark-haired knight sheathed his sword and dismounted, collecting the swords from the Westmoorland knights two at a time.
Handing over his primary weapon, Declan turned back to Philippe. “I killed a boar this morning, on Cambridge land. I had no choice. It attacked me and Gallant.”
The knight’s eyes found the Queen’s black horse. “Was Gallant hurt?”
“No.”
“Good. Queen Gracelyn wouldn’t like it if you let her horse be injured.”
“I cooked the meat. No sense in being wasteful. There is plenty left; you and your men are welcome to join us.” It was a peace offering. The hostility he sensed from the brown-headed knight puzzled him.
After a hesitation, Philippe nodded at his men. As the remaining four dismounted, he urged his horse forward, reaching down. “They will join you. I will return to the castle and inform the Queen of your message. And I will take Gallant with me.”
Frowning, Declan handed him the horse’s reins. He wanted to be the one to return the Queen’s horse to her, but he could think of no good reason to refuse. He watched silently while Philippe and Armand tethered the four swords together, two and two, and then Philippe slung the bundles across his horse.
Philippe was taking their swords with him. This wasn’t so much protocol, as a test.
Declan stepped to the rock where the boar meat laid, using his dagger to slice off a large chunk. Approaching the lone Cambridge knight still mounted, he raised the meat as an offer. “Will you tell her it is I? Tell her I have returned.”
Philippe accepted the meat with a scowl. “I will tell her.” His horse pawed the ground restlessly as he turned the animal to go, adding over his shoulder, “If she asks.” Pressing his heels into the horse’s sides, he clicked his tongue and rode away.
Declan turned back with a sigh and studied the Cambridge Knights.
He remembered Armand. The man was standing with two of his comrades, not far from Benjamin and Josef. The stance of the three men was relaxed and their expressions were friendly, but they observed everything with cautious eyes.
The other two stood apart, their feet planted firmly, their shoulders back and their arms crossed over their chests. One was as big as Gerard, with dark curly hair and a shaven face. The other was shorter, brown-headed with a full beard. Their eyes were down as they talked quietly. The taller one spat on the ground, raising his eyes to glare at Declan.
Alarm coursed through him, that he was unable to name.
Gerard cut a handful of slices and offered it to the two Cambridge knights. The shorter one frowned, shaking his head. His companion continued staring at Declan and didn’t even acknowledge the offer.
Glancing over his shoulder at the warrior, Gerard shrugged and moved on to the other Cambridge knights. As they accepted the meat, he said something softly with a laugh, causing them to chuckle.
They lingered over an hour; the two knights keeping themselves separate the entire time. Declan knew they were giving Philippe time to get a good head start, but understanding their intention didn’t make it any easier for him. This additional delay meant it would be late afternoon when they reached the castle. He was anxious to be on their way.
Declan paced to the stream. Squatting, he refilled his flask. The snapping of a twig told him he had company and he looked up as Armand joined him. The man crossed his arms over his chest and gazed at the water.
“I remember you.” Declan rose to his feet. “You helped the Queen with the candles. And you stopped Marcus from pouring hot wax on me. I appreciate that.”
Armand didn’t reply. The line of his jaw indicated he had something on his mind. Declan rested his hands on his hips and waited.
Leaning against a tree, Armand cleared his throat. “Marcus was married to my sister.”
Declan stiffened, raising his hand to curl his fingers around the handle of his sheathed dagg
er, ready for trouble.
Armand turned his head and saw the position of Declan’s hand, and then returned his gaze to the water without unfolding his arms. “Marcus was a tormentor. He targeted those who couldn’t fight back. Like, a man in chains. Or…” he paused, sighing. “A woman. My sister was once a beautiful woman. Now, she bears scars on her face and body and walks with a limp.” He met Declan’s eyes. “If you repeat what I’m about to tell you, I’ll deny it.” He shrugged. “It will be your word against mine.”
Declan nodded. “Go on.”
Armand returned his stare to the sun-lit water. His arms rose and fell as he breathed. Finally, he spoke. “Nathan didn’t kill Marcus. I did.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his hand trembling slightly. “I heard them arguing. I got there as Marcus broke Nathan’s neck.” The knight’s hands clenched into fists. “I picked up the dagger and…I stabbed him. Once for every scar he’s given Adelle. And then, once more, for good measure.”
Declan returned his hand to his hip. “I understand. But, why are you telling me this?”
Taking a deep breath, Armand returned his arms across his chest. “I wanted you to know…it wasn’t your vengeance that killed Marcus. It was mine, for my sister.”
“Well. Your hand and…” Declan cleared his throat. “My dagger. Seems to me, your sister and I were both avenged. You have my gratitude. And my silence.” He extended his hand.
Armand hesitated, his eyes searching the warrior’s face before accepting the handshake, and then he turned away from the stream. “Be careful, Declan. There are some who are not happy you’ve returned. Let’s go.”
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I need to thank my husband, Frank, for his love, support and encouragement. And for taking the time to give me invaluable feedback and letting me peek into the male psyche. I couldn’t have done it without you, Baby.
Second, I want to thank my daughter, Kim, for her encouragement and reaction when she read her Mama’s “sex book”.
Last but definitely not least, I thank my friends in the Community, for showing me it’s okay to be who I am.
About the Author
M.S. Toboorg lives in a small town in NC with her husband, Frank. Her daughter is grown with young sons of her own, so their “children” are of the four-legged and furry variety. At present, they have 2 dogs, 3 cats and a guinea pig.
She has always felt the call to put words on paper, though for many years, life crowded out the little voice that said, “Write. Write! Write!” She finally returned to the craft, to silence the voice and get the stories out of her head.
She writes romance with a twist. Whether it is historical or contemporary, fantasy or supernatural, there is a prevailing theme of men in difficult situations with—or against—women. The level of erotica varies from mild to intense, depending on the story and what fits.
Knight of Westmoorland: The Queen and the warrior is her debut novel.
You can contact the author at her email address:
[email protected]
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