Knight of Westmoorland: The Queen and the warrior

by Toboorg, M. S.

  Folding his arms behind his head, he gazed upwards and thought of Queen Gracelyn, as he did countless times every day. Her absence was an ache deep in his heart, an empty spot in his soul.

  He was returning to her. He and his men—Gerard, Benjamin and Josef—departed from Westmoorland after breakfast, two days prior. They rode hard, reaching the manor of Gerard’s parents well after dark. A second day’s ride took them out of Westmoorland, across No Man’s Land and into Cambridge, where they had made camp the night before.

  They carried a white flag of truce and a message from King William. Soon, there would be peace between Cambridge and Westmoorland again; a peace that King William would not be able to break so easily.

  But, for Declan’s peace of mind, it wouldn’t happen soon enough. King William would have at least one more night, one more chance to prey upon his beloved. And he knew the king intended to do just that.

  He would protect her, had to protect her. Whatever the cost.

  As he sat up, Josef looked up from the fire. “Huh. I didn’t think I’d need to wake you. You’re a driven man, Dec.”

  The warrior yawned, running his fingers through his reddish-brown hair. “Yeah, well…I’ve had to be. Haven’t I?”

  “Yeah,” the black haired man agreed with a sigh. “I know. But, you could’ve slept another…” he paused, studying the sky. “Thirty minutes, or so.”

  “Look at it this way.” Declan stood up and stirred the fire. “A little extra shut-eye for you.”

  Josef yawned. “I know why you wanted last watch. You want to make sure we get an early start. Why are you in such a hurry to get to Cambridge, anyway?”

  Adding wood to the fire, Declan shrugged dismissively. “You know me. Just like to get where I’m going.”

  “Yeah.” Josef didn’t sound convinced. He stood up, stretched and yawned again. “I’m gonna get some sleep. Let us sleep until dawn, will ya?”

  Staring into the fire, Declan tried not to smile. “I’ll think about it.”

  Josef laid down where Declan had been and rolled onto his side with his back to the fire. Within minutes, he was snoring.

  Declan sat with his back against a tree and smiled. They would reach the castle by late morning, if he could get his men going and nothing happened to slow them down. A journey that normally took at least three days, they would make in just over two.

  He was anxious to return to Queen Gracelyn. The thought of their night together widened his smile. The fact that he was a prisoner in her dungeon, shackled and blindfolded, didn’t deter from his delight in the memory. He had lain with his beloved! He had pleasured her well, despite the chains restraining him. The remembrance raised his pulse and stirred his groin. Yes, he was yearning to see her again.

  But he was on watch and needed to remain alert, couldn’t lose himself to his memories. He raised his green eyes to the other two sleeping men. Though they didn’t know the intimate details of his time in Cambridge, Gerard and Benjamin were his friends and understood his haste. That was why he had chosen them. He had chosen Josef simply because he needed a fourth Knight.

  When he’d first become a squire, over a decade earlier, Josef had been one of the main saboteurs. When Declan entered the Knighthood, Josef had protested, along with many others. Over the years, though, an unspoken truce had developed between them. He knew he could trust Josef to have his back on the battlefield.

  But Declan didn’t trust him with his secrets, so Josef knew nothing of the warrior’s love for Queen Gracelyn. Of the forty-some Knights of Westmoorland, only Gerard and Benjamin were privy to that information.

  Returning from Cambridge nearly ten months earlier, he had found the knights planning a raid to rescue him. King William had been busy preparing for the birth of his heir but he still demanded a full report. Most of his questions were about Queen Gracelyn. Declan answered them, keeping much of the details to himself.

  His stomach growled and he retrieved his knapsack. Pulling out an apple, he rubbed his hand over the worn leather sack and smiled. It was the same sack given him by Queen Gracelyn, the night she’d released him.

  Released, but not freed. He would never be free of her. Didn’t want to be free of her. He was hers, as he’d always been, from the moment he saw her.

  But now, more so than ever.

  Wiping the dirt from the apple on the hem of his shirt, he took a bite and started to sit back down.

  Over his shoulder, through the trees, he heard a soft nicker. He grinned, knowing what the sound meant. Gallant wanted him to share the apple.

  Drawing his dagger, he cut a slice from the apple and walked to where the horse was tethered.

  The horses were in a small clearing beside their campsite. Queen Gracelyn’s black horse was tethered at one side, the other four on the opposite side. As Declan approached, the horse neighed, nodding his head.

  Declan held the slice in the palm of his hand, flexing his fingers down slightly as the horse took it from him. He stroked the white blaze on the horse’s nose.

  Behind him, a horse snorted and stomped his foot. Declan turned his head. His own mount, Fireball, a red and white paint, looked at him accusingly, stomped his foot again and then turned his back, swishing his tail.

  Chuckling softly, Declan offered Gallant another piece of apple, taking a second bite himself. He would make amends with Fireball later. Tonight would be his last night with Gallant and he had bonded with the horse on the trip back to Westmoorland.

  “Do you think she’s missed us?” he murmured to the horse, scratching him behind his ear. “I’ve missed her. You have too, haven’t you, old boy?”

  The horse bumped his great head against the warrior’s chest and neighed softly.

  “Hmm, yes. You know where we’re going. You’re going home. And…so am I.”

  Home. Westmoorland was his birthplace; he’d never lived anywhere else. But, it was no longer home. He longed for Cambridge.

  He longed for Queen Gracelyn.

  Declan continued sharing the apple, a slice for the horse for every bite he took, until there was only the core remaining. This, he offered to the horse.

  Crunching the apple core, the horse suddenly raised his head high, his ears twitching. Declan caught the horse’s unease and heard a rustling in the underbrush to his left. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he reached for his sword.

  It wasn’t there. He’d left it beside the fire.

  Gallant flattened his ears against his skull and tried to rear up, stopped short by the tether rope. He neighed shrilly, a note of terror in the sound.

  With a grunt, a wild boar charged them from the underbrush, its head down and its deadly tusks gleaming in the moonlight.

  Declan pulled his dagger across the tether rope, freeing the horse to find safety. Gallant kicked up his heels as he darted away, stopping after he’d reached a safe distance and turning to watch with a nervous snort.

  Declan faced the boar. The feral beast was large, over two hundred pounds. The tusks cleared its mouth by a full four inches. Coarse grey hair stood up along the ridge of its back and its beady eyes were black.

  The warrior gripped his dagger with both hands, wishing it were his sword. His sword would tip the scales significantly in his favor, as would a higher vantage point. If he could attack the pig from above…

  But, neither was an option. Retrieving his sword or climbing a tree would give the beast time to attack one of the four horses still tethered on the other side of the clearing. He would have to work with the situation as it was given to him.

  He stood his ground until the boar was upon him and then stepped to the side, plunging his knife into the animal’s flank, just behind its front leg.

  The pig squealed, whipping its head around. The tip of a tusk caught in the rough weave of Decla
n’s shirt, ripping it as the tusk sliced his stomach.

  The energy coursing through his blood dulled the pain. He pulled his dagger free, planting his heel against the pig’s side with a powerful kick.

  Grunting and squealing, the boar scrambled to its feet and prepared to attack again. Declan took a step backwards and his heel landed on a rock. The rock teetered and he felt himself slip.

  Controlling the fall, he dropped onto one knee as the animal charged. It wasn’t the position he’d have chosen but, again, he would have to make it work. He brought his left arm across his chest, bracing his hand with his right fist, his fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his blade.

  As the pig reached him, he thrust his braced arm under its chin. Several of its short bottom teeth grazed his arm and he pushed his arm upwards, protecting himself. The cuts on his arm were nothing compared to what it could do with its tusks.

  The weight of the pig pushed him onto his back. He maintained control, keeping his arm under the pig’s neck. Its jaws snapped on empty air. Its breath was hot on his face and rank in his nostrils. He held his breath.

  Using his shoulder and arm muscles to support his arm, he slashed his dagger across the beast’s throat.

  Its squealing gurgled to a stop, as its blood poured out onto Declan’s neck and chest and spurted onto his face. Its body thrashed, twitched and then was still.

  Declan rolled, dumping the animal on the ground beside him. Sitting up, he pulled his shirt over his head and used it to wipe his face, neck and chest. A glance at his arm told him those wounds were of no concern. He turned his attention to the cut on his stomach.

  Below the scar on his side and more centered, the cut wasn’t deep, but was nearly five inches long. If he couldn’t stop the bleeding, he would have to stitch it. Using his dagger, he cut his shirt into strips, one short and one long. He folded the short strip and pressed it against the wound, and then wrapped the longer strip twice around his body and tied a knot, holding the makeshift bandage in place. That would have to do, for now. He had business that demanded his attention.

  The first order of business: catching Gallant.

  Declan found him in the trees at the edge of the clearing. He approached the black horse slowly, one hand outstretched. He knew the horse would smell the boar’s scent on him.

  Gallant whinnied nervously and pawed the ground with his nostril’s flaring.

  “Easy, old boy. Whoa, now. It’s just me.” He continued to murmur reassuringly to the horse, knowing the animal would focus on the sound of his voice.

  The horse pawed at the ground again, snorting uneasily, but allowed Declan to catch the tether rope.

  With the horse again tethered, he turned his attention to the next order of business: the boar. It would delay their departure and put him at risk for a poaching charge, but he could not let the meat go to waste. In his childhood, there had been too many days when food was scarce, too many nights he’d gone to bed hungry.

  Staking the meat to roast over the fire, his last hours in the dungeon of Cambridge flashed through his mind. He shuddered, wondering—not for the first time—what would have happened if Marcus hadn’t tried to roast him alive. Would Queen Gracelyn have resorted to using the Rack? The Rack would have broken him; of this, he had no doubt. Once broken, would his confession have been his ignorance of King William’s plans, or his love for the Queen?

  Idle curiosity made him wonder. He wasn’t sorry he didn’t know the answers. He shook off the memory and turned his attention to the last order of business: himself.

  He rested his gaze on his closest friend. Gerard had taken first watch and so, had slept the longest. Squatting, Declan laid his hand on the knight’s shoulder and said his name.

  Gerard awoke with a start and his eyes grew wide. “What happened to you?”

  Declan shrugged. “A boar tried to attack the horses.” His eyes wandered to the meat staked over the fire.

  Gerard looked at the meat, and then turned to see the horses through the trees before returning his gaze to the warrior. “You all right?”

  “Yes.” Glancing down at himself, Declan saw that blood had oozed through the bandage, but not soaked it. “It got me, but not too badly. I want to go down to the river and wash. Can you take watch for a while?”

  Gerard frowned, confusion clouding his sleepy brown eyes. “You want to go wash?” Cleanliness was not usually a concern when the knights traveled.

  Declan’s only response was a nod.

  The confusion in Gerard’s eyes cleared. “Ah. We will reach Cambridge today and you don’t want to go before your Queen covered in pig’s blood.”

  With a grin, Declan confessed. “No, I do not.”

  Suppressing a yawn, Gerard sat up. “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll take watch. But…” He pointed his finger at Declan, smiling. “You owe me.”

  Declan’s grin widened. “Yes, I owe you. Thanks, Gerard.”

  Gathering a change of clothes, Declan picked up his sword and walked through the trees to the river’s edge.

  He owed Gerard more than he could repay in a dozen lifetimes. The third son of Lord Irving, Gerard was knighted less than a year before the blacksmith’s son became a squire. While most of the knights vehemently objected to the squire’s presence, Gerard offered his hand in friendship. When their objections turned to sabotage, Gerard aligned himself with the young outcast, taking his side and watching his back.

  Declan was eternally grateful.

  In the early years, Benjamin had been neither friend nor foe, but merely a spectator. And then, on the darkest night of young Declan’s life, Benjamin became a friend. He was at the tavern when the broken-hearted knight sought comfort in the liquid form. After the ale loosed his tongue, Declan confided the reason for his temperament. He felt like a fool and expected Benjamin to laugh, but the man didn’t.

  The next day, he ran into Benjamin and several other knights in the marketplace. He expected to be ridiculed for his feelings, but wasn’t. Benjamin had kept his secret and their friendship began.

  At the water’s edge, Declan laid his clothes and weapons upon a rock and stripped down. Carrying his soiled pants with him, he waded into the water. The cold water raised gooseflesh on his skin, but felt good against his wound.

  He scrubbed the pants, hung them over a low tree branch, and waded back into the water. Ducking below the surface, he worked his fingers through his hair, matted with pig’s blood.

  He hadn’t cut his hair since returning from Cambridge and it now fell past his shoulders. King William had frowned and some of the other knights had laughed, but he didn’t care. Queen Gracelyn had said she liked it long. He would grow it to his ass, if that pleased her.

  His hair and body clean, he sat down on a rock to let the air dry the water from his naked body. He folded his arms across the top of his knees and stared at the still surface of the river. The song of the crickets was dying and the moon was low in the sky; it would be dawn soon. The same hour of morning he had last seen the Queen.

  Did she miss him? This was not idle curiosity. The idea that she returned his feelings amazed him. The fact that she had frequented Westmoorland just to see him, knowing what awaited her there, amazed him even more.

  And, it still awaited her there. Before there could be peace, Queen Gracelyn would have to return to Westmoorland, to King William’s castle.

  But to his bed? Declan closed his eyes as a surge of fury filled him, remembering his conversation with the king.

  Declan walked the halls of Westmoorland, heading to his quarters. It was still early but he wanted to turn in, though he didn’t expect sleep to come easily. He was too anxious.

  They were leaving for Cambridge in the morning.

  He turned a corner and stopped, startled to see King William waiting at the door to his chambers. For
the king to seek him out this way meant only one thing: a private conversation, off the record and unwitnessed.

  Declan bowed his head. “Sire, you wish to speak with me?”

  “Yes, boy. Let’s go into your chambers.”

  Declan’s quarters were small and modestly furnished. Though his skills as a knight had advanced him up the ranks to second in command, King William had refused Declan’s request for better accommodations, saying those rooms were reserved for the sons of nobility.

  “This won’t take long,” the king stated, looking around the neat room with disdain. “You rank highest among the knights going to Cambridge, so you will be in command. I charge you, boy, with bringing Queen Gracelyn safely back to Westmoorland.”

  Squaring his shoulders, Declan raised his chin to look the king in the eyes. “I will protect her with my life.”

  “You’d better. Her life is of value.” King William rubbed his hands together, a gleam lighting his eyes. “Return her to me. I have missed her.”

  Declan clenched his jaw to keep himself quiet. There was much he wanted to say, but this was, after all, the king. No amount of disrespect was tolerated. He had seen many men, including knights, imprisoned and tortured for insolence. And either one would prevent him from making the trip to Cambridge.

  “There’s fire in that woman, boy. Not that you will ever experience it. You are not worthy to kiss her feet.” King William sneered.

  The warrior ducked his head, drawing a deep breath. He had kissed more than that, and the memory strengthened him against the king’s insults.

  “Return the wench to me, safely.”

  WENCH? Declan held his tongue, but the derogatory term filled him with anger and his hands curled into fists.

  King William turned to leave, murmuring under his breath, “I look forward to partaking of her again, many times.”