Page 67 of King’s Knight

William listened half-heartedly. Alex could tell from the king’s restless stirrings that he was growing impatient.

The bishop continued. “The woman appealed to St. Oswin, whose shrine, I suppose you know, is in Tynemouth Priory. The next day the ships ran aground on the rocks of Coquet Island.”

“We know the ships ran aground, good bishop,” said the king, tapping his fingers on the table.

“What you may not know,” said the bishop, “is that the bodies of the seamen and the pilfered goods washed ashore around Tynemouth, the same town your seamen plundered. The people emerged from their hiding places and reclaimed their stolen property. They believe St. Oswin answered the old woman’s prayer, granting a miracle and rendering judgment upon your ships. I, for one, cannot disagree.”

William’s countenance grew troubled, his face turning ruddy as his brows drew together.

Sir Nigel cast a glance at Alex, who took it as a warning that the king’s temper was about to loose itself on the bishop. While the king was not a man who accorded much weight to the teachings of the church, he was superstitious.

“By the face of Lucca!” William swore. “The saints dare oppose me?”

The men of the church sitting around the bishop began murmuring to each other. Even Ranulf Flambard expressed concern. He was, after all, a priest, though he seldom acted the part.

Duke Robert shook his head. “A very regrettable incident, but the seamen paid for their rash acts with their lives.”

“And I have lost my ships!” William pounded the table and sent a stern glower at the bishop. Then his face turned bright red, making his blond hair appear even lighter, as he rose and stomped from the chamber.

War had been averted and the Scots reined in for the moment, but it was a somber evening in Durham as the barons planned to take their leave.

The king was still in a dour mood the next day, his every word sharp and accompanied by a frown, barking at his barons and his guards for the smallest thing.

Alex waited for a lull in the king’s shouted orders in which he could broach the subject of his intention to formally make Merewyn his wife. But given William’s current state of mind, he decided to tread carefully, speaking only of his dislike of the choice of Lady Adèle.

“My Lord, might I have a moment of your time?”

Still brooding, William gestured Alex to the side of the large chamber where he had been attending his barons. “What is it?” he snapped.

“Sire, I know you had in mind a match between Vermandois’ daughter and me, but I would prefer another.”

“Another? You would risk my displeasure by rejecting a Norman bride I have proffered?”

Alex opened his mouth to speak but the king cut him off.

“I must have my lands in Normandy tied to England, sir wolf. Remember that. If you care not for the Lady Adèle, I will find another. But I will see you wed to Normandy. Doubt it not! Now, leave my sight lest I consider you out of favor.”

Alex bowed and turned away from the king’s wrath. It had not been a good time to try and gain William’s approval. Finding Sir Nigel, Earl Hugh and the other barons speaking together, he bid them goodbye. “My men and I are departing for Talisand.”

Ranulf Flambard inquired about Merewyn. Alex shrugged him off with a scowl.

“So, the Black Wolf disdains my interest in the girl? You cannot keep them all for yourself, Sir Alex.”

“And you cannot have that one at all, Ranulf!”

In reply, Ranulf just laughed.

Relieved to see the back of the king’s advisor, Alex and his men turned their horses toward home. A few hours later, they were free of the black mood of the king and sharing the laughter of men who are glad to be alive and returning from the brink of war to the people they love.

Only one face lingered in Alex’s mind as he led his men home: A slender archer whose blue-hazel eyes beckoned. To have her by his side, he would find a way to defy his king.

CHAPTER 13

“Where is she?” Alex asked Lora. He had searched the archery field, Merewyn’s chamber and the stable. Finally, more than a little annoyed, he had come to the hall. Though it would be hours before the evening meal, he was nearly frenetic.

Lora returned his gaze. In her eyes, he detected unease. “Welcome home, Sir Alex.” Then, lowering her eyes, in a soft voice she said, “Merewyn is not here.”

His blood began to boil. “What do you mean, ‘not here’? Where is she?” he demanded.