One True Knight (The Knights of Honor Trilogy)

by D'Angelo, Dana

  Off to the left was a group of young girls who were gathering early spring berries at the edge of the forest. When she approached, they stopped what they were doing and whispered to one another. Rowena swallowed, and felt a sudden urge to turn around and go back the way she came. But she forced her feet to move as she didn’t want to bring undue attention to herself. She stifled a groan when one of the girls broke free from her friends and advanced toward her. She was about six years old and the smallest of the group. “Are you Lady Rowena?” she asked nervously.

  Rowena let out a laugh, although it sounded false even to her own ears. Speaking in a light, cheerful tone, she replied, “Nay, I am not Lady Rowena. Are these the clothes that the noble lady would wear?” The little girl shook her head as she took in the tattered homespun tunic. Rowena shrugged. “I could only wish that I had owned her fine clothes.”

  The girl looked crestfallen. “My sisters said that Lady Rowena is very beautiful and has raven hair that shines even in the dark.” She paused, and looked up at Rowena. “I thought that you looked like her.”

  Rowena shook her head. “You are mistaken,” she said.

  Afraid of more questioning, she didn’t wait to hear the little girl’s response and moved quickly away. Children had an uncanny ability to see through disguises and if she tarried any longer, they would no doubt see through hers.

  After a while, Rowena slowed her movements when the chatter faded and the only sound left was the rushing stream and occasional bird cry. She continued down the worn path, following the sounds of the stream and almost tripped when she caught sight of a couple in an embrace so passionate that she could feel the heat radiating from them.

  The direction of her thoughts caused her to blush yet try as she might, she couldn’t look away. Was that how she looked when her lips were locked with the man she met in the alley?

  Unfortunately the sound of twigs snapping underneath her feet gave her away. The couple jumped apart as if they had been caught in the middle of a crime. But they relaxed their guard when they saw it was only her. The man placed his arm around the woman and they watched her as she scrambled past them.

  Rowena placed her hands on her flaming face. Perhaps going into the woods wasn’t such a good idea after all, she thought.

  She felt relieved when she finally reached the water’s edge. The trees thinned and the shrubs took over as if competing for space on the lush forest floor. There were no people around as far as she could detect.

  Rowena held onto a nearby shrub, and dipped her hands in the running stream before bringing the cooling water to her face.

  She stepped back, and allowed herself to take in the quiet beauty that surrounded her. The crickets made their own music and every now and then she could hear a small animal scampering about in the underbrush. The sounds of the rustling leaves, the rushing water, and the sweet birdsongs overhead caused the tension in her shoulders to slowly dissipate.

  She took in a deep breath, and pushed away her troubles from her mind. It felt good to be out of the castle, to breathe in the fresh damp smell of early spring.

  Rocks of various sizes scattered along the small stream and Rowena found a large one to sit on. She lay her cloak down on it and sat, watching as the sun rays cascaded down and bounced off the water.

  Untying the small bundle of food at her hip, she took out a small piece of bread and began to nibble on it.

  Now that she was truly alone, she permitted her thoughts to wander to the stranger in town. Who was this man?

  He had an undeniable bold masculinity that exuded from every pore in his body. The way he moved, the way he carried himself bespoke of an ingrained confidence that even she could sense. Yet this attitude was usually found in a lord or a knight, not a traveling merchant who was down on his luck, if the tattered, ill fitting clothing were any indication.

  He wasn’t a handsome man in a classic sense, she mused. She couldn’t tell too much about his features because his beard obscured most of his countenance. The thing she did remember was the long scar on his face, and his expressive brown eyes. Right before their lips touched, she saw a flicker of something in their depths, something that set alarms ringing in her head, warning her that she was getting in over her head. But by that time she was past the point of no return, and then Derrik was almost upon her. She had no other choice but to kiss the stranger, right?

  Rowena traced her fingers on her lips, marveling that they were still tingling. But it was all in her head, another part of her argued. She had never been kissed before so of course she was feeling new and strange sensations. She couldn’t explain the turbulent feelings she was experiencing, nor did she care to explore her wanton response to his kiss.

  She shook her head as if to free her thoughts of the stranger and twisted her lips in disgust. Here she was daydreaming about the man when she should be mapping out a way to get to Whitshire. Rowena put the rest of the bread back into the pouch, her appetite suddenly gone.

  Her plans didn’t seem as solid now that the day was beginning to wane. There was no way she could walk to Whitshire without getting lost and the prospect of sleeping alone in the woods frightened her.

  She looked up in the sky to see how much time she had left but the tree branches above obscured her view of the sun. She never went anywhere without an escort, and the dire warnings about the Folmort robbers made her shudder, even though a dagger hung off her belt, and she had the sufficient skills to defend herself. “Men can be brutal,” Ava had always told her. And Rowena believed her because she saw the terrible injuries that men inflicted upon each other, whether they were knights or common men. Some of them, she knew were unlucky to be alive.

  The sound of animals scampering behind her jerked her from her thoughts. With her heart at her throat, she turned around, almost afraid to find out what was disturbing the peace. Instead of a gang of outlaws, she saw her father’s men approaching.

  She released her breath, relieved that it was only them. “How did you find me?” Rowena demanded. She stood on top of the rock, facing Jared and Derrik.

  “It wasn’t that hard,” Derrik said sarcastically. “You left a trial that even the blind cat in town could follow. You gave us a fine chase, Rowena. Now ‘tis best that we go home. You’ve wasted enough of our time today.”

  “I do not care that your day is wasted,” she said, her tone haughty. Any gladness she felt at seeing them disappeared in an instant. “I did not ask you to follow me.”

  “Come, my lady,” Jared said. ‘Tis prudent that we return to the castle before it gets dark.”

  “I shall not be going back with you,” Rowena said. She folded her arms across her chest, daring them to question her.

  “You are mad, Rowena!” Derrik bellowed. He walked up to her as if he intended to give her a shake, to drive some sense into her. “You made us chase you all over town and then you put yourself in danger by going into the woods alone. Don’t you know what happens to women who wander away by themselves? By God, Rowena, there are cutthroats and thieves lurking about, especially on a holiday like this. What were you thinking?”

  He reached over to pull her down from the rock, but she slapped his hands away in her fury.

  “Nay, I do not know,” she said, gritting her teeth and trying hard to rein in her temper. “And I do not care.”

  “What?” Derrik asked looking as stunned as if she clubbed him over the head with a fallen log. “Did you hear what she said, Uncle?”

  “Come down from the rock, my lady,” Jared said, looking tired.

  Rowena glared at Derrik and then at Jared. “Nay,” she said again, louder. She felt the anger surging in her chest. “I am not mad, and I am not in any danger. There will be a new mistress at Ravenhearth soon and I shall hardly be missed.” She took a steadying breath. “And besides, I am no longer a child. As you can see no harm has befallen me. Just direct me to Whitshire so I can visit my lady aunt. That is all I ask. You can return to the castle and tell Father that you were u
nable to find me.”

  “I’m afraid that would not be possible, my lady,” Jared said.

  “It takes three day to travel to Whitshire by horse,” Derrik interjected. “Need I remind you that you don’t have a horse, and there’s no way you can get there by foot, especially now when the sun will be setting in a few hours. Someone should beat some sense into you to even think about going to Whitshire on your own.” He clenched his fists as if he was the one who wanted to do the beating.

  Rowena raised her own fists in a fighting stance. “You would not dare touch me,” she said, her voice cold. “I still remember the martial lessons that Sir Jared taught us. Touch me and I will remind you how sorry you will be after I punch your nose and watch it bleed.”

  Rowena felt a sense of satisfaction when she saw his face turn red.

  “That was a long time ago, Rowena. You caught me unawares then. I promise you now, I’m bigger and stronger I —”

  “That’s enough, children,” Jared interrupted, his voice sounding weary as if he had aged thirty years just from listening to their squabble. He walked over to her and extended a hand for her to come off the rock. “Your father is waiting for us, my lady. And I’m afraid he’s not pleased.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Jonathan sat on Storm, gazing at the castle in the distance as if it were the last place on earth that he wanted to reach. At one time it held happy memories, but no longer. All that remained was a cold, empty shell atop a hill, looking as if it was a part of the landscape that didn’t belong.

  If it wasn’t for Amelia’s killer, he would never have willingly returned to his childhood home.

  He fingered the blood red cloth — a piece of his father’s heraldic flag. The Grey Knight sent it to him, somehow knowing that it would lead him here.

  Gareth and the rest of his men gathered beside him.

  “Do you think he’s at Blackburn?” Gareth asked, his tone quiet as if speaking any louder would scare away the man that they had been pursuing for over a decade. “I would love it if he’s there. Then I can get my hands on him and let him experience first hand how much pain there is when a knife slits across his throat.”

  “You will have to wait in line to avenge your brother,” Jonathan said, tucking the cloth into his belt. “But nay, I don’t think he’s at Blackburn. ‘Twould be too easy. He wants me here. I just don’t know why yet.”

  He grabbed hold of the reins and urged Storm forward, as if speaking of his enemy somehow energized him and spurred him into action. “We ride,” he shouted, pointing to the castle.

  Gareth and the rest of the men followed their leader, thundering across the rocky plains to the drawbridge.

  A bored looking porter let them through the gatehouse, barely glancing at the coat-of-arms imprinted on their surcoats.

  Jonathan exchanged looks with Gareth. His father was obsessed with protecting his fortress. Even if allies were at his door and expected, he made them wait, just to flaunt his strength and military power. Such carelessness and neglect seemed out of character for him.

  When he entered the courtyard, the atmosphere seemed subdued as if a lingering fear hung in the air. A handful of servants walked through the cobblestone, their heads bent as if an unseen enemy enslaved them into his service. They looked up when they heard the horses’ hooves clattering across the near empty courtyard, but they soon bent their head again, and continued with their tasks.

  Then as if his horse read his mind, Storm whinnied and tossed his mane. Jonathan laid a hand on the side of his powerful neck, and gave the horse a gentle pat. “I know, Storm,” he said quietly. “I can feel it too.” The spotted gray warhorse calmed at his touch. They had been companions for many years, fighting in battles and tournaments and he trusted Storm’s instincts as much as he trusted his own.

  Gareth rode up beside him. “There are no men posted along the parapet,” he said.

  Jonathan scanned the interior of the bailey and noted that the castle was almost entirely devoid of guards. “I don’t like this,” Jonathan murmured. “Blackburn’s defenses are lax while Richard has many enemies. Meanwhile the inhabitants are shuffling around in fear. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “They don’t seem to expect anyone to attack,” Gareth said. “I wonder if the Grey Knight knows of this vulnerability.”

  A man suddenly emerged at the entrance of the keep, and looked down at them as if he owned the castle.

  At first Jonathan thought it was his father who stood at the archway, but upon closer inspection, he saw that it was Raulf, his father’s former ward.

  “Sir Jonathan,” Raulf said, when they were within earshot. Unsmiling, he waited for Jonathan and his men to dismount. “We weren’t sure who you were until your coat-of-arms came into view.”

  “Sir Raulf,” Jonathan nodded, taking in the chain mail and over tunic that marked the man as a knight. This time he wore the red and black colors of Blackburn and had the bearing of a man in the position of power. “‘Twould seem that you’ve risen up in the ranks.”

  “How perceptive you are,” Raulf said. “I am the garrison commander.”

  Jonathan felt a little surprised. He hadn’t returned to Blackburn castle since his mother’s death five years earlier. At that time, Raulf was a simple armsman subjected to another man’s rule.

  Raulf signaled the groom over to take the horses.

  But Jonathan waved the man away. “There’s no need,” he said. “My men and I will take our own horses to the stable.”

  Raulf shrugged as if he didn’t care what they did. “You know where the stable is. When you’ve finished with your horses, Sir Richard will see you in the great hall.”

  His message delivered, Raulf turned and marched back into the hall, not even glancing back to see if Jonathan had moved.

  “‘Twould seem that they are thrilled to see you,” Gareth said dryly.

  “Just as I am thrilled to see them,” Jonathan said. He glanced around to make sure that he was out of earshot of the castle inhabitants. “Keep an eye on Raulf,” he said to Gareth.

  “The garrison commander?”

  “Aye,” Jonathan nodded. “I saw him on my way to Ravenhearth. He rode toward the town with two other men, clad only in grey and no identifying markers. At first I thought I had run into the Grey Knight but then as he got closer, I realized it was Richard’s former ward.”

  Gareth took off his gauntlets. “Are you certain ‘twas him?”

  “Aye, I’m certain. It has been years since I set eyes on the man but I knew him upon sight. I have no idea why he was clad in grey, nor how he has risen so high in the ranks of trust with my father. Richard trusts few men.” He glanced back at the empty archway. “There are too many strange coincidences here, coincidences that I don’t like. My feeling is that somehow Raulf is connected to all this.”

  Jonathan would have said more except they arrived at the stable and became overwhelmed by the stench emanating from the wooden structure.

  Gareth put a sleeve to cover his nose. “Would Sir Richard object if I take my courser into the great hall with me?” he asked half in jest.

  “Aye,” Roland, one of the knights who chose to follow him in his pursuit, chimed in. “The filth in here is unbelievable.”

  And Jonathan agreed. The stable was beyond dirty. His eyes were drawn to a boy lurking near the back of the room. “You boy,” he said. “Clean out the stalls and ready them for our horses.”

  The boy emerged hesitantly from the shadows. He gave Jonathan and his men a wary look, although he remained silent. A man then appeared by the boy’s side as if he was there all along.

  “I’m the stable master,” he said, eying them with open hostility. “The boy doesn’t take orders from anyone but me. Who are ye and what do ye want?”

  Gareth rolled his eyes at Jonathan as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You would think ‘tis obvious what we want,” he said dryly.

  “Obvious to most,” Jonathan said. He turned to the
stable master. “I want the stalls cleaned.” He shook his head in disgust. “This stable stinks like a cesspit. My squire Albert will stay behind and ensure the job is done well. If ‘tis not done to my satisfaction, he will report to me and believe me, you will not like to see me angered.”

  “I have authority here,” the stable master said, crossing his arms over his chest. “The only person who can give me orders is Sir Richard.”

  “I dislike your insolence, Stable Master,” Gareth said, taking a threatening step toward the man. He grabbed him by the front of his tunic, and looked him in the eye. “Mind your manners. You are speaking to Sir Jonathan d’Abelard, the son of the very man you serve.”

  The man gulped audibly at the threat behind Gareth’s voice. He glanced down at the standard on Gareth’s surcoat as if to confirm the truth of his words. At the exact moment he recognized the standard, the blood drained from his face. “The Iron Hawk,” he squeaked. He pulled away from Gareth’s grasp, and stumbled backwards. “Forgive me, sire. I am newly employed at the castle,” he said groveling. “I did not know who ye were. I will have the stalls ready as ye command.” He grabbed the boy, pushed him toward the shovel, and bellowed for more help. The stable hands appeared as if they were waiting to be summoned from their hiding spots.

  Jonathan left the stable with a vague sense of irritation. Blackburn had fallen into a shabby state of neglect since the last time he was here. The new servants didn’t know who he was…What was going on? It had only been five years since he had last visited Blackburn. How could things have changed so much?

  Jonathan paused briefly at the entrance to the great hall, taking in the large room. The paint on the wall behind the raised table was chipped and peeling. He half expected his mother to look up with a sad smile of greeting. But of course she was long gone. The only person present was his surly father.

  Richard sat in his chair much like he did in years past. The red banner, now faded, hung behind his seat. He looked a lot older now, Jonathan noted. His head, once a thick brown like his own, was now a dull gray. Deep lines criss-crossed his face and the tight skin over his skull made him resemble a corpse rather than a feared man who wielded power over hundreds of people. This was not a man he recognized.