by Jody Hedlund
There was a subdued air about the porter’s plain features that sent a shaft of worry into my heart. As if sensing the seriousness of the message, Derrick rose quickly to his feet. “Who is it?”
The porter held out a ring. Even across the distance, the cross at the center of the ring was clear. It belonged to only one man in all the land — the Noblest Knight, the Duke of Rivenshire.
Derrick’s grin faded. His jaw tensed. Beneath the clean tunic he’d donned, the muscles in his arms rippled. “What message does his Grace have for me?”
The steward crossed the room and handed Derrick both the ring and a parchment. Derrick unrolled the stiff paper. As he read, his expression turned grave.
Finally, he looked up and met my anxious gaze. The seriousness in his eyes filled me with dread.
“I must ride out at the first light of dawn.”
I nodded and waited for him to go on.
“Although I may be too late to help, I must do all I can to save my friend.”
I didn’t ask him which friend. I knew it was one of the noble knights — either Sir Bennet or Sir Collin, the most loyal and brave friends a man could ever have.
“He’s to be hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
I shuddered. Although I’d been facing my fears and my nightmares regarding torture methods, my heart was still tender and always would be. “Then you must go.”
Derrick reached for my hand and gripped it passionately. “Even though I will hate every second that I’m away from you, I must do this. I must fight to save his life. I can do nothing less . . .”
I nodded. I knew he could do nothing less as well.
He caressed my cheek one last time and then spun and strode out of the Great Hall, his footsteps echoing their good-bye.
