by Regan Walker
Alex slashed his sword, dispatching the knight with whom he’d been fighting, and dug his spurs into Azor’s side in pursuit of the king.
Just ahead of him, the king’s horse came to a sudden halt and pitched to the ground, dead. Beside him lay his fallen master. The king’s eyes were closed and his mud-smeared face pale beneath the dirt.
Behind him, Alex heard the sound of Henry’s men galloping toward him. From their vile remarks, they thought he was running. They were wrong.
Alex whirled, his sword flashing in the sun.
Five of Henry’s knights faced him, reining in their horses to sneer. The first one, a powerfully built knight, charged forward. Alex cut him down with one strike of his blade, standing in his stirrups to add force to the blow.
With his legs, Alex maneuvered Azor to one side as he turned to face another. Shifting his sword to his left hand that held his shield, he drew his lance and launched it at his opponent’s neck. The man grunted and toppled sideways, blood gushing over his mail, as he pitched to the ground.
A third knight urged his horse in front of the other two who remained. Grimacing, he said, “You will not have me so easily!”
Behind Alex, the king moaned. William lives!
Alex studied the face of the helmed knight who confronted him, the way he held his sword, his horse’s nervous dancing. Overconfident and arrogant with less control than he believed, Henry’s knight spurred his horse forward. Using his legs, Alex turned Azor to the side, escaping the man’s blade. As the knight passed, Alex’s sword sliced through the back of his neck.
Before the two who were left could attack, William roused and shouted, “Stop, you fools! I am the King of England!”
The remaining two knights apparently believing it was William who had spoken, ceased their pursuit of Alex and stared at the king, their faces ashen beneath their helms.
Alex dismounted and helped William to rise.
One of Henry’s knights quickly slid from his saddle and gave over his horse to the king.
William swung into the saddle, acknowledged Alex’s help with a nod and eyed the soldiers before him. “Which of you killed my horse?” he demanded.
The one who had thrown the lance stepped forward. “It was me. But I did not know you were the king. I thought you were only a knight.”
William must have been in a generous mood for he appeared amused, not angry, and his next words surprised Alex.
“By the face of Lucca, from now on, for your courage and spirit, you will be my man and in my service get a proper reward.”
The man dropped to his knee. “As you wish, My Lord.”
William turned his horse and galloped away. His new man, taking the horse of one of his fallen companions, mounted and followed.
Having finished their own battles, Rory and Guy and the rest of his men rode up staring at the king riding away.
“Do not ask,” Alex said to them. “Only know this, William has been saved from death this day and gained himself a new liege man in the process.”
Alex had witnessed the king’s vile temper on more than one occasion but today he had witnessed his magnanimity. In so doing, William had won Alex’s respect.
* * *
Talisand, England, July 1091
The summer sun found its way to the green undergrowth around her, its golden light dappling the ground as Merewyn lifted her bow and looked into the distance. A tree stood in challenge, her target a small spot of sunlight on its dark bark.
Taking her stance, she nocked the arrow, lifted her bow and pulled the string back to her cheek, an action so familiar she had no need to think about the separate motions, only the result. She let out a breath and loosed her fingers. The arrow flew, a blur too fast for the eye to follow.
“Thwack!” The satisfying sound echoed through the woods, confirming the shot, a difficult one, had hit its mark. In her hands, the bow had become her constant companion and a terrible force, a symbol of the strength she had acquired in Wales. Never again would she be vulnerable to men who, because of her beginnings, considered her an object of scorn, or worse, easy prey.
Pleased, she quickly nocked the second arrow, but the sound of thundering hooves and bleating sheep had her jerking her head around. Heart pounding in sudden alarm, she fixed her eyes on the meadow in front of the palisade. Who would ride toward Talisand at such a pace, tearing up the sod and scattering ewes and their lambs that only moments before were peacefully nibbling on grass?
When no clarion call sounded from the gate tower, she squinted into the morning sun and watched as a dozen riders hurtled down the green slope heading toward the open gate. Over the jingle of bits and harnesses, they exchanged jests and insults, egging each other on.
Despite the years that had passed since she had last seen him, Merewyn recognized the rider in the lead at once.
Alexander.
His sable hair, now long to his shoulders, whipped behind him. Clad in mail, he sat as straight as a lance atop a huge black stallion. Moving as one with the great horse, he raced like a threatening storm toward Talisand’s gate.
Even beneath his mail, she could see his body was now that of a warrior. Powerful shoulders, a lean, muscled frame and spurs marked him as one of the king’s knights.
He sped by without a glance in her direction. Inwardly, she chided herself for the joy she experienced at seeing him again. In the months after her return to Talisand, she had heard tales of him whispered about the hall. Vicious on the battlefield and domineering in bed was how the women described him. An arrogant, swaggering knight and, to her mind, just like the others. The kitchen wenches spoke of his many conquests with women with a gleam of envy in their eyes.
She wanted no part of it.
One day, he would take his place as the Earl of Talisand, lauded as the king’s favored knight. Such a man would not even remember the girl he had once saved from a pack of village boys. Why should she give him another thought? After all, she was now her own defender.
In the year after the ruffians had surrounded her in the woods, Alexander’s presence had shielded her from harm. But when he left for Rouen to train as a squire, those same boys, keenly aware her protector was gone, began to leer at her once again.
What began as rude comments, muttered in passing, soon became indecent invitations. Whenever she ventured into the village, a group of idle boys was always waiting, their eyes following her as they called out bawdy suggestions. It was only a matter of time before they found her alone and cornered her once again.
The increasing peril driving her, Merewyn had sought help from the Lady of Talisand. A countess, Serena was also Talisand’s best archer. Merewyn had begged Serena to train her in the way of the bow. She was only beginning her lessons when the Welshman, Rhodri, and his Scottish wife, Fia, came through the demesne on their way to Wales.
In his youth, Rhodri had been Serena’s teacher of the bow and a bard of some renown. Now, he ruled Powys with his two brothers. He had married Fia, a noble Scotswoman, during his sojourn at the court of Malcolm, King of Scots.
When Rhodri observed Merewyn shooting, he complimented her on her rapid progress and suggested she might accompany him to Wales where he could see to her further training.
Merewyn had been only too glad to go.
It was in Wales under Rhodri’s tutoring that she had perfected her skill, eventually drawing the respect of his most senior archers. No one in Powys inquired about her origin or her parentage. Impressed with her archery skills, no one cared.
But now she was back and the day she both anticipated and dreaded had arrived.
* * *
Alex pulled rein in front of the manor, the cloud of dust settling around Azor’s hooves. The bailey’s inner courtyard swarmed with men-at-arms, villeins and servants welcoming them home.
He swung from the saddle, his spurs jingling as his heels hit the ground. Tired from the road, he was happy to be home and waved to the men and women whose smiles greeted him.
Talisand�
�s great hounds rushed to his side, scattering the geese shrieking their protests. The wolf dogs were so tall their shaggy heads reached Azor’s elbow. Swift in the hunt yet docile around the hearth fire, the hounds were favorites of Alex. Patting the hound’s grizzled gray head nuzzling his gauntlet, Alex breathed in the scent of the beast. The familiar odor comforted him even if it was the smell of unwashed dog that had lain too long in the mud and rolled in moldy straw. “ ’Tis a welcome sight you are, Cathal.”
Casting his gaze about the large open space of the bailey, his eyes were drawn upward to the great mound of dirt, the motte, now covered with summer’s grass. On top sat the huge timber castle, towering above all. It was the landmark he had followed as he tore down the slope. One day, when it was his turn to rule Talisand, he would see it reinforced with stone.
A short distance away from where he stood was the two-story whitewashed manor he called home. Adjoining it was the larger, wooden hall that could hold more than a hundred men.
On the far side of the bailey were the armory and stables set against the palisade fence. Smoke billowed from the smith’s forge and the sound of metal being tortured on the anvil added to the discordant sounds around him. But it was home.
To the north, he could just see the daub and wattle cottages that marked the village. Whiffs of smoke from the hearth fires rose through the thatched roofs.
On three sides of the palisade wound the River Lune like a natural moat. In Talisand, far from Normandy’s battles, there was peace.
Children pushed their way through the crowd to stare at the knights, the boldest waving their hands in hearty welcome.
Alex’s youngest brother, Thibaut, separated himself from his friends and raced to Alex. “You’re home!” The boy’s eyes shone with excitement. “Did you have many adventures?”
Alex chuckled and tousled Tibby’s brown curls. “I did, but the telling of them must wait.”
His youngest brother returned him a momentary pout, but was soon grinning once again. Tibby, only ten summers, could never be dour for long. Of the Red Wolf’s four sons, he was the merriest and the most indulged. Like Alex’s other brothers, Tibby had the brown eyes of their paternal grandfather in Normandy. Only Alex had his father’s gray eyes. And only Alex, as the eldest, had been fostered away from Talisand. With his fostering and his training to be a squire that followed, Alex had spent more years away than at home.
A stable boy eagerly rushed to meet him, reaching for Azor’s reins. Alex thrust them into the boy’s hand. “Give him a good rub down and oats. I’ve ridden him hard this day and he did a destrier’s service in Normandy.”
“Aye, Sir Alex,” the lad said with a grin.
Alex’s squire stepped to Azor’s saddle and removed the shield and helm from where they were secured. “I will see these to the armory, sir.”
Alex nodded as the squire walked off and the boy led Azor toward the stables, the stallion briefly tossing his head.
Still at his side, Tibby said, “I will help,” and ran to catch up with the stable boy.
Nearby, Rory and Guy slipped from their saddles and handed the reins of their horses to their waiting squires. The rest of Alex’s men waved goodbye before going in search of their families.
Doffing his gauntlets, Alex watched Rory wending his way to him.
“Who is that stable boy?” Alex asked when Rory reached him. “There are so many children at Talisand now, I can scarce remember to whom they belong.” The boy looked familiar, one of the groom’s sons most likely.
“ ’Tis young Leppe,” said Rory.
Alex watched Tibby and the stable boy nearing the stables. Leppe stroked the stallion’s neck to calm its agitated snorting. Azor had scented the stables and was impatient for his stall, but the boy’s deft touch worked its magic and the stallion settled. “I remember him now. He is the grandson of one of the old guards who served my grandfather.”
“The child has grown up among us Normans,” said Rory. “Like so many of his friends, Leppe even speaks a few words of Norman French.”
When his father had first been given Talisand by the Conqueror, he’d had to win the trust of the English who were there, survivors of the Conquest and fearful of their Norman overlord. The Red Wolf’s reputation for savagery on the battlefield only made them more anxious. But his father had won their respect, along with that of Talisand’s lady, Serena. Alex would not mar that trust for it was the legacy that would one day be his.
“Is it possible Talisand’s numbers have grown while we were away?” Rory asked, looking around. “I see many new faces.”
Alex remembered the conversation he’d had with his father before he left for Normandy. “The last time we were home, Father told me the king’s levy for his many wars made more men-at-arms necessary.”
A pretty serving wench passed by with a slow smile aimed at Alex. Returning it, he said, “Some faces are familiar.”
Rory’s mouth formed a mocking smile. “Mayhap you bedded her when last we were here and have forgotten. Obviously she has not.” With a shake of his head, Rory added, “You pile up conquests with women like you do bodies of the king’s enemies.”
“And you exaggerate. ’Tis the Red Wolf the men spoke of over the night fires in Normandy.”
“Not since that day in Avranches when you took on five of Henry’s men and managed to cut through three of them before help arrived. Now they speak of his cub, the Black Wolf. Did you know?”
Alex chuckled. “Nay, but I suppose it fits. My hair, my horse—”
“Your way with woman,” teased Rory.
“More likely, my scowl,” Alex returned.
His face suddenly serious, Rory said, “The men admire you more than you know, Alex.”
Alex raised his brows but said nothing. He had wanted to be like his father, but in truth, he could not claim to be the equal of the man he so admired.
Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he watched Guy, the younger of his two friends, sauntering toward him. Guy brushed a lock of his light brown hair from his forehead and turned to wink at the same serving wench.
“The swagger in his step is new,” Alex remarked. “Was he doing that in London?”
Amusement danced in Rory’s blue-green eyes. “Aye, it came with his knighting in Normandy. ’Twill pass the first time he loses a fight to another of the king’s new knights.”
Casting the woman a parting glance, Guy joined them. “ ’Tis good to be home.”
Rory rolled his eyes. “As if there were not enough women for you in London.”
Guy sighed wistfully, gazing at the swaying hips of the woman as she walked toward the door of the hall. “We were not in London long enough for me to sample many. And you well know there are never enough women, particularly when the supply is limited by the need to compete for our share. Alex leaves few comely women unattended.”
“ ’Tis true,” Rory muttered.
“Enough you two!” Alex cut off his friends. But he could not deny that some unseen force drove him, as if life would be brief and he must taste it all before he left this world. He thrilled to the excitement of battle and lost himself in the arms of willing women, ever restless and always looking for the next challenge.
“Alex can endure anything save being idle,” quipped Guy.
Ignoring the jests of his friends, Alex searched the crowd for the face of the girl he had not seen for many years, a girl who he had been told was recently returned to Talisand. “Where is Merewyn, I wonder?”
“Just there,” said Guy. “Your gaze is set in her direction.”
Alex scanned the people moving about the bailey. “I see no golden-haired girl.”
“You must remember her as she was when we left to squire in Rouen. I grant you, it has been years and ’tis obvious Merewyn has not been a girl for some while. But even dressed as a lad, I would know her anywhere. We were raised in the same household.”
Guy gestured with a nod toward a young bowman wearing a
cap of brown felt, a leather jerkin over a linen tunic and loose green hosen tucked into brown leather boots.
“That is Merewyn?” asked Alex. “Looks more like kin to the Welshman who is friend to my mother.”
The young bowman’s head jerked up. Alex’s words had carried across the bailey. Leaving his friends, he strode toward the slender figure in brown and green. As he did, the bowman bent down to pick up a quiver of arrows and a pale golden plait fell over her shoulder to touch the ground, a single concession to her femininity. Rising, she flipped the plait to her back and turned her appraising gaze on him.
“You have changed much, Merewyn,” he said, arriving in front of her. His eyes took in her alabaster skin and the blue-hazel eyes he had never forgotten with their golden flashes amidst the vivid azure blue. He supposed she was a woman now but any curves she possessed were hidden beneath the jerkin and loose hosen.
“So have you,” she said, her voice lower and more sultry than he remembered. “You are taller.”
He was tempted to laugh, but uncertain she had meant it as a jest, he refrained. There were many things she could have remarked upon, which would have pleased him more. He took her reference to his height as avoiding them. “You might have noticed I gained my spurs since last we were together,” he said, feigning offense at her failure to remark on his knighthood.
“ ’Twas not unexpected,” she said, her manner formal and distant. He sensed more than her attire had changed. Gone was the girl who had followed him about like a whelp, the vulnerable waif he had once defended. Before him stood a proud young woman who defied a woman’s place with her bowman’s garb. In her beautiful face, he saw a cold determination that had been absent when he had last bid her goodbye. What had happened? He was intensely curious but reluctant to ask while they stood in the midst of the crowded bailey.
“Alex!” Rory’s voice rent the air.
Alex turned to see his companion standing at the door of the manor next to the Lord of Talisand. His father’s chestnut hair had long been laced with gray but his body was still lean and well muscled. In his fifth decade, the Norman knight favored by the Conqueror and known for his prowess on the battlefield and his fidelity to both king and wife owned Alex’s respect. But with the Conqueror’s death and Alex’s knighthood, the Red Wolf rarely rode to battle. In recent years, it was more often Alex who led Talisand’s men.