Page 2 of King’s Knight

Merewyn knew Alexander hated the nickname, but the only sign of his anger was his clenching jaw and his intense glare aimed at the leader. “If you value your skin, you will leave now.”

The leader sneered. “There are many of us and only one of ye,” he boasted, puffing out his thick chest. His companions, however, were beginning to look doubtful.

“So be it,” said Alexander. “You will be first.”

Where he had learned to fight, she did not know, but Alexander reared back and planted his fist in the miscreant’s face, sending the other boy sprawling in the mud.

Raising his hand to ward off the next blow, the boy said, “All right, ye can have her.” Rubbing his jaw, the leader struggled to his feet and shot Merewyn an angry look before slipping into the woods. His companions slunk away after him.

Alexander turned to her. His gray eyes that had been stormy only moments before were now calm, but in their depths she glimpsed concern. “Are you all right?”

She let out a breath. “Yea, but I would not be had you not come. I am in your debt.”

He tossed her a grin. “ ’Tis one of the rare times I am glad my father casts a large shadow. ’Twas not my fists they feared but the wrath of the Red Wolf.”

The hint of a smile crossed Merewyn’s face. He might be loath to claim credit but she knew well who had saved her. From that moment on, he was the hero of her heart.

CHAPTER 1

Nine years later, Avranches, Normandy, March 1091

Alex left the meeting with William Rufus, pausing in front of the king’s tent to gaze across the bay toward Mont Saint Michel. The rugged granite crag reaching hundreds of feet above the vast muddy plain always filled him with awe. He could well imagine that three hundred years before, as the Bishop of Avranches had claimed, the Archangel Michael had pressured him into building a church on top of the island. The Benedictine abbey sitting on top of the granite rock stood like an offering to Heaven.

It was the perfect place from which Henry could take his stand against his brothers, the King of England and the Duke of Normandy, who had combined forces to lay siege to the fortress sheltering their rebellious younger sibling.

That is, if Henry had no need for fresh water, for there was none to be had on the rock that was Mont Saint Michel.

Henry’s mercenaries and loyal knights knew well the unstable ground around the island, so they could avoid the treacherous quicksand better than could William’s knights. Alex hated their routine sallies from the fortress to harass William’s men while seeking the water Henry so desperately needed. Some of their forays had been successful, only postponing the siege.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex glimpsed Rory striding toward him, shoving his tangled red hair back from his face.

“Alex, do you see Henry’s knights riding on our side of the bay as if indifferent to the king’s tent flying his banner within their sight?”

“Aye, I have been watching them. What say you we remind Henry’s men ’tis William Rufus who has come to call and not some baron of low rank?”

Rory greeted Alex’s response with a grin. “I will get Guy and some of the men.”

Guy and Rory were Alex’s closest companions, knights from Talisand like himself, serving England’s king.

Moments later, Rory had gathered the men. Alex mounted Azor, his black stallion, while keeping his eyes focused on the score of mounted knights in the distance making their way along the edge of the bay.

“They will not taunt us for long,” Alex muttered to himself.

Just as he raised his hand to give the order to charge, the king plunged from his tent, wearing mail and a plain iron helm. “I will not sit in my tent drinking Robert’s wine when a fight can be had!” shouted William. “I am coming!”

“My Lord,” Alex said, bowing his head, “ ’tis our pleasure to follow you into the fray.”

They rode forth, the king in the lead, and soon they were engaged in close fighting with Henry’s mounted knights, their swords clashing furiously in hand-to-hand combat. The men they fought were as well trained as they were, some likely having been squires in Rouen with William before he was named king.

Engaged in his own battle, Alex looked over his opponent’s shoulder just as one of Henry’s men thrust a lance into William’s horse. The stallion screamed in panic and reared, causing the king to fall. The horse ran, dragging the king behind him, his foot caught in the stirrup.

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.