It had taken him a full year to recover, enough so that he could function without assistance. He, and the few others who had survived the blaze, were tended by the priests at St. Joseph’s church in Calais. His memory was so damaged that he didn’t even remember why he’d been on that ship until someone at the church mentioned that it was a ship belonging to a Flemish warlord. It had been going to Calais and carried one hundred soldiers, but that information didn’t really help him. He still didn’t know who, or what, he was.
All he had was that little cross.
And then, one day, it came to him.
Eckington.
Al had mentioned the name Eckington, though he didn’t know what it meant until he spoke to a man from England who happened to be at the church one day when he was strong enough to sweep off the steps. They got to speaking, mostly about the fire that had burned him so badly, and the man told him that he was from the West Country and Eckington was a town in Herefordshire. That led him to believe that Eckington was where Al was from or, at the very least, where he could seek answers. Perhaps Al had a wife who would welcome her husband home.
The man who carried the cross.
With his features burned so badly, she would never know the truth.
Armed with the name, and that gold cross, he’d decided to go to Eckington and see what he could discover about Al’s past.
And his future.
But traveling to the Welsh marches wasn’t without peril. From doing odd jobs around the church, he’d had enough money for passage to England, but he needed a horse once he got there. Because he was so horrific to look at, the first two livery stables had turned him down. They basically told him to go away and not come back. At the third livery stable, the man did the same thing, so the man now calling himself Al had killed him and stolen one of the horses. He didn’t much have a sense of morality, so killing and stealing seemed to come naturally. He headed west, following the main road and keeping an eye out for anyone who might be looking for a murderer. Perhaps the family of the man he’d killed would come after him, but he couldn’t be sure.
He couldn’t be sure and he didn’t much care.
All he knew was that he had to go west.
That apathy kept him on the main road, making his way east and really having no idea where he was going. He just kept going west. He would stop at taverns at nighttime, letting a bed or finding a warm corner to sleep in. He’d long learned to keep his face covered up, so he wore a scarf that covered his head and his face so that only his eyes were showing. By doing that, people would just focus on his eyes and not on the horrific scars all over his face and head.
By traveling that way, he could keep himself relatively unseen. No one bothered him as he traveled from town to town on his stolen horse. The night before he reached Eckington, the tavern keep in a tiny village just south of his destination told him of Harald de Efford, Lord Eckington, and how the man had traveled to Lioncross Abbey Castle on the Welsh marches for a great tournament. Everybody in the shire was talking about the tournament and many had traveled to see it, including de Efford. The same tavern keep mentioned Lord Eckington’s widowed daughter and her two children in the course of gossiping about Harald de Efford, as well as a local farmer’s wife that de Efford evidently bedded on occasion. The rumormonger was quite gleeful about it. Al didn’t care about the farmer’s wife, but he was quite interested in Eckington’s daughter. Somehow, he didn’t even have to ask her name.
He already knew.
Catalina.
The real Al had told him that.
That realization had him heading for the Welsh marches and the tournament at Lioncross Abbey. It hadn’t been difficult to find, and now he was finally here. Riding on a damp night, with the moon high overhead and listening to the sounds of the darkness around him, he was focused on the glowing settlement ahead. He would find Lord Eckington, and Catalina, and showthem the cross he still kept in his pocket. Perhaps then they would accept him as Al returned.
Perhaps they would even welcome him with open arms.
That was the hope, anyway.
In the darkness, he pushed on.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The blue silkribbon was pinned safely to the neck of his tunic.
It was dawn as Lioncross Abbey and the tournament field began to come alive. A glistening of dew covered the ground, making everything smell fresh and new, as the sun’s golden fingers began to caress the land. The world was lighting up, glowing, and a new day was upon them.
The competitors for the tournament finals were ready.
That included Essien.
He’d been up before dawn, seeing to his horse, a muscular steed named Peggy. It was a stallion, in truth, and his name had been Pegasus, but over the years, it had been reduced to Peggy and that was all anyone ever called him. Peggy was a glorious roan, gray-brown in color, with a dappled rump and four black-and-white socks. He was quite a handsome horse and much the envy of other competitors.
Essien treated the horse like a pampered dog.
The grooms were fussing over the horse this morning, making sure his tack was precisely placed, precisely fastened, as Essien stood by and watched, chomping on an apple that he eventually gave over to the horse because Peggy ate like a pig. If there was food around, he wanted it. And much like thehorse, Essien had his own preparations to go through, so he began to don his clothing for the coming joust with the help of Christopher’s sons, Douglas and Roi.
Douglas had seen fifteen summers and Roi was about nine years older. They were good lads, and Essien liked them a great deal. He’d watched them grow up, so they were more like brothers to him than his liege’s sons. He stood still, arms raised, as Douglas and Roi dressed him for the day. Essien didn’t normally utilize squires, although he had a couple of lads back at Raisbeck Castle, his garrison, who tended to him. They simply hadn’t made this trip.
