One True Knight (The Knights of Honor Trilogy)

by D'Angelo, Dana

  “So the prodigal son returns,” Sir Richard d’Abelard said loudly, interrupting Jonathan’s thoughts. He raised his goblet of wine in mock salute although he made no move to get up. Jonathan and his men filed into the hall. “What brings us the honor of your presence? ‘Twas a great surprise to hear the guard announce your arrival. I thought you had met your death fighting for that cowardly King Edward.”

  Jonathan moved to stand in front of the high table. He sensed that Richard was toying with him, trying to bait him into revealing any crack, any sign of weakness in his armor. It was an old game, one that he was tired of. Yet he could still feel the old prickling sense of annoyance as if he was once again putting on an old, familiar cloak.

  “As you can see, I am very much alive and well.”

  Richard gave a surprising chuckle although there was no amusement behind it. “I can see that. Unfortunately Amelia cannot say the same,” he said, his voice turning sly as he watched Jonathan’s reaction. When he saw Jonathan clench his jaw, he smiled in satisfaction. “I heard that you’ve made a great name for yourself and your fighting prowess has been sung to the high heavens.” He took a long drink from his goblet and smacked his lips before setting it down. “I had little faith in you when I sent you away to foster at my brother’s house. ‘Tis fortunate that he made a man out of you.”

  Jonathan forced himself to unclench his fists. Baiting. Always baiting. Offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he said, “‘Twould seem that you weren’t up to the task.”

  Richard chuckled again. “So ‘twould seem,” he said, unbothered by the coldness in Jonathan’s voice. “The Iron Hawk indeed. You surprise me, son. For all I could see, you had your mother’s weak disposition. Perhaps the strength and valor that you possess are qualities inherited from me.”

  He picked up a piece of greasy meat from a platter in front of him and pushed it into his mouth, and continued. “I had hoped that you would return to Blackburn once you were knighted, but you went to fight under King Edward instead. And then off you went to pursue the so called Grey Knight. I think you might have killed Amelia yourself — perhaps she was an insufficient lover — and you made up this fictional Grey Knight to throw everyone off your scent, humm? If this Grey Knight existed, you should have caught him by now, wouldn’t you?”

  When Jonathan didn’t say anything, Richard shrugged. He waved his hand at the knight sitting to his right. “You remember my garrison commander Sir Raulf? He, at least, has returned to take control of the garrison while my only heir is off chasing a ghost.”

  “I remember him,” Jonathan said. He glanced over at Raulf and saw the other man watching him with narrowed eyes.

  Aside from a few strands of silver hair and being a bit plump in his midriff, Raulf looked much like the day he had first appeared at the castle.

  “Why is he here?” Jonathan had asked his mother. Lady Beatrice usually wandered through the castle grounds, a cloud of sorrow hovering over her wherever she went. But this day her face was flushed and angry.

  “Ask your father,” she said and started to move away. He grabbed her skirt, and looked up at her, undeterred by her many moods.

  “May I play knights and outlaws with him?” he asked hopefully.

  His mother looked down at him for a long moment and then sighed. “Aye, go play with him.”

  But Raulf proved to be a poor playmate. In spite of Jonathan’s many efforts, the other boy remained withdrawn and sullen. Soon after Raulf’s arrival, his father sent Jonathan to train as a knight at his uncle’s castle. While there, his mother wrote to him, complaining with much bitterness of how Richard had decided to train Rualf as a knight. When he earned his knightly spurs, Raulf left Blackburn to seek his fortune. He returned a year later to work for Richard as an armsman.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?” Richard demanded, his grating voice intruding into Jonathan’s thoughts.

  “I have business in this region,” Jonathan said shortly.

  “Perhaps he hopes to find the Grey Knight here,” Raulf said, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

  Richard snorted. “Nonsense,” he said. “As I said, I don’t believe this Grey Knight exists.”

  Jonathan ignored both Raulf’s mocking gaze and Richard’s dismissive tone. He turned to Richard. “I will be here for several weeks. Lady Lorena of Airndale is marrying again and I’m invited to the ceremonies.”

  “I didn’t receive an invitation,” Richard said, frowning. He picked up the white napkin on the table and wiped his mouth.

  Jonathan gave his father a level look. “You aren’t even aware that you have a niece, sire.”

  Richard grunted, and waved his hand as if to flick away an insect. “It doesn’t matter,” he said in a wheezy voice. He coughed in his hand. “I hate weddings anyway.” Grabbing the trestle table, he pushed at it to allow the chair to scrape the floor as it moved back. “Stay as long as you need. But while you are here, you can make yourself useful and help me rid of the robbers that have been plaguing my land.”

  “Robbers, here?” Jonathan stared at him. “I thought you chased the Folmort robbers off these lands years ago.”

  “‘Tis not the Folmort robbers that we’re after,” Richard said. “These particular robbers are frightening my serfs and robbing them blind so they can’t pay their taxes. In essence, they are robbing me blind as well.”

  Richard got up from his chair with effort. “Raulf here is trying to apprehend them and will tell you more,” he added before descending from the high platform.

  He walked past Jonathan, limping as if each step caused him pain. Old age had caught up to him. If only his old enemies could see him now, they would rejoice in their graves.

  Jonathan sensed Raulf inspecting him, and he turned to face him. “You haven’t changed much,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Me? We’re in peaceful times and I’ll admit to indulging in a little food and drink,” Raulf said, shrugging as if it was of no consequence. “But your father has gotten old. I fear that his health is declining and he will no longer have the ability to control Blackburn. I for one am glad to have you return. We need new blood here to help us apprehend the criminals.”

  “Tell me of these robbers that you speak of,” Jonathan said.

  “These robbers are of a different breed; we don’t know their identity. All we know is that they are bold. They raid the farms and rob the serfs in their very beds.”

  “Why hasn’t Richard captured these robbers if they’re so troublesome?”

  “Your father has been ill for the past year,” Raulf said, bending his head as if the idea of it filled him with sorrow. “His condition is very unfortunate. The robbers seem to know this and have taken advantage of his weakness. They have been terrorizing the villagers for many months now, and we have been unsuccessful in catching them.”

  Jonathan scratched his head. Why would Richard allow a band of robbers to run rampant on his land? And for months? “I shall ride out with you tomorrow to investigate the damage these robbers have caused.”

  Raulf jerked up his head in surprise and raised both hands in front him as if to block the idea from being suggested. “The villagers will not speak with me. My going with you is useless. You would be better served if you go into the village on your own.”

  He dropped his eyes again and began to pick off a piece of lint from his worn tunic. An awkward silence hung in the air.

  Had it not been for the clues that the Grey Knight left behind, the uneasiness that permeated Blackburn, and Raulf’s current odd behavior, Jonathan might have declined going into the village. But he sensed that there was something more to the situation, and he found himself saying, “Sir Gareth and I will leave for the village at first light.”

  ***

  When Jonathan and Gareth arrived in the village the next morning, there was that same heavy feeling of dread hanging in the moist air. The villagers were shut tight in their homes as if they feared the robbe
rs were lurking just beyond their line of sight, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting victims.

  The horses picked carefully through the debris laden road that was wet from the night before. The remains of wooden houses that had burnt to the ground were scattered here and there, the ashes washed away by the heavy rain.

  An elderly man stopped on the muddy road when he spotted them. He gripped the reins tighter, pulling his work horse close to his thin frame. And even when they passed, the man stood rooted, unable or unwilling to move as if he were expecting them to attack him and take away his only prized possession.

  The destrier sensed his master’s unease, and his ears perked as if he was trying to discern the subtle signs of danger.

  And even though there were few people traveling on the small road leading into the village square, Jonathan felt that their every move was being watched.

  “There is something odd about the people in this place,” Jonathan said.

  “I notice it too,” Gareth said, watching as a woman alerted by the sounds of the horses looked out of her window, and when she saw them, she ducked her head and slammed the shutters closed. “They seem a suspicious lot.”

  It was true. Of the handful of villagers that they passed along the way, all of them showed a deep distrust that could only have been born from witnessing terror. It was clear that these simple people saw him as the enemy.

  They continued down the muddy road, and Jonathan indicated that they would stop at the nearby tavern to gather information. But they didn’t get within ten feet of the tavern when a mud covered rock sailed through the air, and bounced harmlessly off the sleeve of his hauberk.

  Jonathan turned and caught sight of a young boy who had another rock in his hand, and was about to launch it. The fury in his young eyes flashed as if he wished he was throwing javelins at him instead of rocks.

  The boy’s mother rushed forward, and grabbed his arm, shaking it to loosen the stone in his hand. She looked up nervously and caught Jonathan and Gareth watching them.

  The boy returned their gaze with open hostility.

  The trembling woman pulled her son close to her, putting a protective arm around him as if her actions could shield him from the massive knight. “He is very young, sire,” she said, her voice filled with fear. “I beg of ye, do not punish him.”

  Storm snorted as if to answer for his master. Jonathan walked his destrier over to the woman and child. The woman blinked rapidly and looked as if she was about to faint at the sight of the enormous warhorse and its rider coming their way. Meanwhile the boy’s eyes filled with alarm as if he only now realized how big and dangerous his foe was.

  “Why are you throwing rocks at me, boy?” Jonathan asked. His voice was quiet although it sounded loud in the ensuing silence.

  The mention of the rocks awakened the anger that was sleeping in the little body. The boy lifted his chin in defiance. “Someone needs to protect our village from the likes of ye,” he said.

  The mother gasped. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” she said, jerking the boy tight against her.

  Jonathan paid no attention to the woman, and kept his eyes focused on the boy. Looking down at him, he asked slowly, “Do you know who I am, boy?”

  “Ye’re one of them who steals our food and animals and burns down our houses.”

  Gareth maneuvered his horse over to Jonathan’s side. Exchanging a surprised look with Jonathan, he stared at the boy and said, “Did I understand you correctly? You’re saying that knights did these things to you?”

  The boy spat on the ground. “Aye, that’s what I’m saying. And when I get bigger I’m going to kill ye for what ye’ve done to us.”

  Gareth let out a small laugh as if taken aback by the ferociousness in the boy’s tone. “You’re a blood thirsty lad, aren’t you?”

  The boy gave Gareth a dark look, and clenched his fist as if he wished he still had stones in his hand.

  “Rest easy now,” Gareth said, giving the boy a smile. “What I mean to say is that you are a brave lad. We’re not here to steal from you. I’m Sir Gareth de Mowbrey and this,” he gestured to Jonathan, “is Sir Jonathan d’Abelard, the Iron Hawk. We’ve come to help you catch the robbers, and put a stop to the thievery.”

  Instead of being impressed, the boy looked up at them with suspicion. “Why would the Hawk come here to help us?” he said. “Everyone knows that he’s fighting for King Edward.” He stared at the image of the fierce hawk on Jonathan’s surcoat, and then added doubtfully, “And even though ye say ye’re the Hawk, why should I believe ye? I don’t know how he looks — no one does. Anyone could claim that he’s the Hawk.”

  Now that it was clear that the boy was not going to be harmed, a number of people came out of their homes and gathered around them.

  “Believe what you will,” Jonathan said quietly but there was no denying the fury in his voice. “I am the Iron Hawk, and I don’t like what I see.” The boy’s eyes widened, and took a step back, causing him and his mother to stumble. Jonathan looked at every person in the small group. “Tell your friends and family that these criminals who prey on those less fortunate shall be brought to justice.” He continued. “I will see to it myself.”

  “How can ye stop the criminals when they’re knights such as yerselves?” the boy’s mother asked.

  “Who are these knights that you speak of?”

  There was an angry rumble in the crowd. “They are Sir Richard’s men,” a man shouted.

  Jonathan’s eyes searched for the speaker but whoever had spoken shrunk back into the crowd, no longer brave.

  “Aye, I’ve seen them with me own two eyes,” someone else said.

  “I’ve seen them too,” said another angry voice. “I know them for what they are — they’re criminals. They should all be hanged! They’ve taken every last thing from us and burned our homes to the ground. Now there’s nothing left for us.” The man brought his dirty sleeve up and wiped at his eyes.

  Several people nodded their heads in agreement.

  Gareth surveyed the angry faces of the villagers. “This is getting stranger by the moment,” Gareth murmured. “Perhaps you were right to suspect Raulf. He leads your father’s men. But the Grey Knight has also brought us here. Perhaps there is a connection here and these rogue knights are all working together.”

  “There is that possibility,” Jonathan replied. “At least we now know why the robbers were never caught.”

  CHAPTER 8

  All Rowena could hear was the clopping of the horses’ hooves ringing across the cobbled courtyard. They seemed to be moving painfully slow. She wondered if Jared had chosen this pace on purpose, to punish her for running away and ruining the holiday for him.

  He was silent the entire ride back to the castle and had not glanced over at her direction at all. Derrik was silent too, although she preferred it that way. He was entirely too insufferable.

  She pulled the cowl down further to hide her face. Not that it would do any good. By now the entire castle knew that she had run away. And the fact that she was flanked by her father’s garrison commander and his nephew, made it easy to determine the identity of the hooded figure in the middle.

  She could hear the whispers and could sense the eyes burning through her cloak, as if they wanted to see for themselves how low she had stooped. Well, the idea of running away sounded good at the time, she had to admit. It might have worked if she didn’t tarry so long in town, and if Whitshire wasn’t so far away.

  When they arrived at the stone keep, Sir Jared lifted her off the horse and placed her on the ground. At his nod, the groomsmen took the horses away.

  Rowena ran her sweaty hands down her cloak as if to smooth away the wrinkles. She was in no hurry to see her father.

  Derrik’s eyebrows furrowed at her slow movements. “God’s bones!” he burst out. “Will you cease your infernal dawdling?”

  Rowena wrinkled her nose at him. He wasn’t the one that had to face her father. She pulled the cowl off
her head and brushed past him.

  But when she arrived at the entrance leading to the great hall, her steps began to falter. She chewed on her bottom lip. What would her father do to her? She could imagine him waiting impatiently for her arrival, his fury evident in his bearing. There was no escaping it and she had no one to blame except for herself.

  The Lord of Ravenhearth sat in his chair, his head bent in conference with the steward. But he looked up from his work as if he could hear Rowena’s worrying thoughts.

  His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared at the sight of Rowena crossing the threshold.

  He stared hard at her as if he was seeing a stranger and not his only daughter. Rowena no longer resembled a child yet she acted like one — willful and disobedient. Nothing like Rosalid in personality, but the woman coming toward him was a haunting reflection of his late wife. Her tresses were the color of the night sky; her oval face was smooth and as unblemished as a freshwater pearl. But this was not Rosalid, he reminded himself.

  “Leave us,” he barked to everyone in the hall. The steward gathered his papers in hast and looked with some alarm at Rowena as he passed her. The sound of more scraping feet filled the room and the last of the servants, knights and men-at-arms quickly dispersed, leaving Rowena alone with her father.

  The door closed behind them with a thud.

  Rowena made her way slowly to stand in front of the high table, where it was well known that her father liked to mete out his punishments. He had the advantage of intimidating his subjects from the dais.

  She folded her hands in front of her as if bracing herself for the verbal attack that she knew would come. “You wanted to see me, Father?” she said in an even voice.

  The relief that she was found safe subsided and in its place was a lingering anger burning inside his chest.