Page 57 of King’s Knight

The king looked across at his brother. “What say you, Robert? Do we camp?”

Alex did not have to wonder what the answer would be. Robert, who had always been tenderhearted to suppliants, turned to survey the king’s barons and senior knights, their weariness apparent. Robert fitzHaimo, baron of Gloucester, the ponderous Earl of Chester, Roger Bigot, Sheriff of Norfolk, Ranulf Flambard, the king’s advisor, and Sir Duncan were among them. “Aye,” said Duke Robert, “ ’tis been a long day and the men and horses need rest. We would not get very far else we do.”

William appeared to accept the answer. “Have you sufficient food?” he asked Sir Nigel.

“My men have taken deer and game, My Lord, but you may need more for the army.”

“Parfait,” said William. “We have some provisions and the men and archers can hunt. It will serve until we meet my ships on the Tyne. What of Durham?”

“From what we can tell, My Lord,” said Alex, “the people have fled to the woods or are now behind the city’s closed doors. There are no villeins to be seen in the fields.”

“The city was caught between Malcolm’s army and the men I brought with me,” added Sir Nigel.

The king’s brows drew together. “We have no time to deal with the Northumbrians. They can remain behind their city walls for now. On the morrow, we will chase the Scots north.”

The men made camp, erecting a tent for the king. The horses were watered and allowed to forage. And soon, cook fires dotted the countryside as the men prepared their supper before bedding down for the night.

Alex returned to his men. After a meal of roast venison, he and his companions shared a conversation around the fire, speculating about the fight to come.

“ ’Tis unseasonably cold,” said Guy, clenching his cloak to his chest, “and we have yet to enter Scotland.”

“Aye,” said Rory, “These are not the pastures of Normandy.”

Alex, too, felt the damp cold seep into his cloak and was glad for their fire. At least it had not rained. He laid his pallet on the ground and stretched out to stare up at the stars, remembering the conversation he’d had with Merewyn as they had looked up at the radiant circle of stars the night he’d first kissed her. He would never again see the stars without thinking of her.

* * *

“I wonder where she learned to do it.” Jamie muttered under his breath as he watched Merewyn fire another shot from her pony to hit the target’s center. He had counseled her against riding in the weeks since he’d learned she was with child but she insisted both she and her babe enjoyed it. Her body showed no signs of the child growing within her—Alex’s child, he reminded himself—and the sickness she had once displayed no longer troubled her.

“Iorwerth issued her a challenge and she accepted,” said a voice from behind him.

Jamie whipped around to see a tall young man wearing the brown and green clothing of a Welsh bowman, except that beneath his leather jerkin he wore mail. Not just any bowman, but a warrior.

The dark-haired man was nearly Jamie’s own height though younger by several years. Added to the archer’s clothing were leather gauntlets and guards over his shins. From his belt hung a wicked-looking axe and in his hand he carried a longbow. Slung over his right shoulder was a quiver of arrows, the brown-tipped fletchings unlike any Jamie had ever seen. Circling the top of the quiver was a band of metal with an ornate Celtic design.

“Who might you be?” Jamie asked, his hand itching to reach for his sword. The young Welshman was unknown to him, but the voice carried the same accent as Rhodri’s, the prince of Powys whose true name among his people was Iorwerth.

“I am Owain ap Cadwgan,” he said in his accented English, looking behind Jamie to where Merewyn was watching them from her pony. “I see she has not forgotten all she learned from me.”

“You knew Merewyn in Wales?”

“I did.”

He expected the Welshman to say more but he only dipped his head respectfully and walked around him, heading toward Merewyn. He had not even asked Jamie his name.

Jamie was suddenly anxious, yet he did not know the reason. Since his conversation with Merewyn about her condition, he’d been very protective of her, for he knew Alex would expect it no matter that she spoke of leaving. He did not like this new person coming to Talisand, a warrior bearing serious weapons who seemed to know much about her. He had said he had taught her. What was he to her? And with war threatening with Wales, why had he come to England now?

* * *

Merewyn watched Owain walking toward her, his dark brown eyes intense as he approached. Despite his serious demeanor, it cheered her immensely to see him again.

“Merry,” he said, drawing near, “fy golau.” “My light” was the name he had given her for her fair hair, unusual among the Welsh.

“Owain!” She dismounted and, with her bow and quiver slung over her shoulder, led Ceinder to meet him. “What brings you here?”

He took her hand and pressed a light kiss to her fingers, his lips warm on her skin. Never before could she recall his acting so much the gallant. “I had a desire to see this place you spoke of, this Talisand,” he said looking around. Reaching out to stroke her pony’s neck, he added, “I see you and Ceinder are still a pair.”

“We do well together,” she said, wondering why Owain had come now at a time when his warrior skills were so needed by his people.