Page 61 of King’s Knight

“Out with it man! What news have you brought us?” Next to the king stood Duke Robert with furrowed brow. Behind William was his chancellor, Robert Bloet, his advisor, Ranulf Flambard, Earl Hugh and Sir Duncan. All bore worried expressions.

“I am one of your seaman, Milord. We was sailin’ north of the Tyne when the ships ran aground on the rocks of Coquet Island. ’Twas over so quick, I can still scarce believe it.”

“By the face of Lucca!” the king stormed, glaring at the shaking seaman. “Was there foul weather? What cause?”

“Nay, My Lord,” the man humbly answered, uncomfortable with the truth he had to convey. “The weather was fair, but the waves were like great mountains, swampin’ the ships and forcin’ them into each other. The hulls split open and the cargo washed away.”

The king’s face turned a dark red as he erupted in rage. “My… my ships lost? All… all of them? By God’s face, man, how… how can that be? And what of the men?”

The seaman hung his head. “All lost, Milord, save the few of us able to swim ashore.”

For a moment, Alex thought the king might draw his sword and sever the man’s neck, but Duke Robert interceded, placing a hand on his brother’s arm. “William.”

Alex watched the king take a deep breath, apparently managing to control his anger before shouting at the seaman, “Go!”

The man scampered out and William turned to face his men. The loss of the ships put a hole in the king’s strategy to encircle the Scots as the Conqueror had done. And it meant there would be no supplies. “So,” said the king, “we mu… must make do with our army and wha… what food we have with us.”

One baron opened his mouth as if to protest.

The king’s chin took on a stubborn tilt, his nostrils flared and the sparks in his eyes turned to flint. “We go on!”

It said much for William’s determination that he would push on in the face of such dire circumstances. And, at that moment, Alex was proud to be one of his knights.

* * *

“Thwack!” The arrow hit the target, but not in the center. Still, it was close enough to be a winning shot for Merewyn’s young novice.

Cecily beamed her joy.

“Very good,” said Merewyn. “I can see you have been practicing.”

Cecily nodded enthusiastically. “I have.”

“By the time she is your age,” said Owain from where he leaned against a tree, “she will be able to compete well with those of greater experience who also use the shorter bow.”

Like most of the Welsh archers she knew, Owain was a master of the longbow. But neither Lady Serena nor Merewyn used the bow that took a strong man’s arm to pull the string. She was pleased that Cecily had done so well with her child’s weapon. The girl’s two friends, envious of her new skill, had recently expressed a renewed desire to begin their own lessons.

“I will win, too!” shouted Cecily.

Owain pulled away from the tree and walked to where the small redhead nocked her next arrow. “Your arm is not in the correct position, imp. I can show you how to improve your form so you will hit the target every time.”

Cecily gazed at the Welsh prince in adoration. “I would like that.”

Merewyn stifled a laugh. Owain had won the affection of Rory’s youngest sister. And, truth be told, he had conquered the hearts of several younger women at Talisand, including Bea and Alice, who vied for his attention each night in the hall.

Watching Owain and Cecily together reminded Merewyn of her first year in Wales. Lady Serena had taught her much, but in Wales, she had come to see she knew little compared to Rhodri’s archers. While they also wielded the lance, the Welsh took their archery most seriously. Their longbows were crafted with careful skill, their arrows beautifully made. And they were deadly. Rhodri had over one hundred archers in his personal guard and hundreds more at his command.

If she were to return to Wales, he would have another.

She would have to decide soon. There had been no news from Alex, but she had not expected any. Not until he and his men faced the Scots and sent word of victory or defeat.

Each day, she prayed for his safe return. But even if her prayers were answered, her decision would be the same. She had less than a month to leave, for the child growing within her would make itself known by November when winter would descend with its fury and blanket the mountains with snow.

* * *

William’s army proceeded north, crossing the River Tweed, finally stopping to camp in a Lothian glen. Hunger gnawed at Alex’s stomach as he stood on a crest looking north, the wind blowing his hair and cloak behind him. Vast untamed hills stretched before him in all directions. In the distance, brooding gray storm clouds dropped curtains of rain. He could almost smell the scent of the torrent that would soon be upon them.

The Scottish terrain, like its people, warned intruders not to venture forth. He felt the threat in his bones and shuddered. Not just a warrior’s fear before a battle that he had experienced many times. This was the Scots and their wild land challenging William Rufus and his knights as they had the Conqueror.