One True Knight (The Knights of Honor Trilogy)

by D'Angelo, Dana

  Albert crept closer into the room. “Sire?” he called, his voice hesitant.

  “What is it, Albert?” Jonathan said. He tried to shrug away the unease that he was beginning to feel in the pit of his stomach.

  “‘T — tis your father, sire,” Albert said, swallowing audibly. He knew that Jonathan hated to be disturbed while he rested. He jerked his thumb at the servant standing close behind him. “I tried to tell him that he had to wait, but he insisted that I —”

  The servant pushed Albert aside. “Your presence is required in Sir Richard’s chamber, sire,” he said in a brisk tone. And having said his piece, he hurried away.

  Albert glared after the servant as if he wanted to throttle him. He moved to help Jonathan with his clothes but Jonathan waved him away. “I won’t need your assistance,” he said, pulling on a pair hose and a coarse woolen tunic that he had found in the chest at the foot of the bed.

  When he arrived at Richard’s bedchamber a few minutes later, he already guessed at the news.

  Richard’s body lay under the stark white sheets, his face yellowed and lined with age and illness, looking worse than the day before. Every breath he took sounded as if he was struggling under water, gasping for breath. The priest was by his side, whispering his prayers as the darkness seemed to close in on Richard.

  The thin servant attending Richard glanced up when Jonathan walked into the chamber, his eyes somber. “My lord,” he murmured.

  Raulf was in the chamber, again leaning on the wall, staring at Richard. His body was taut, alert as if he was waiting for something to happen.

  At the sound of the servant’s quiet voice, Raulf snapped out of his stupor, and swung his head in Jonathan’s direction, watching him as if he were a spider and Jonathan had suddenly landed on his web.

  “Your response is quick,” he said.

  “The servant has just informed me,” Jonathan replied, turning his attention to Richard. “How is he now?”

  Raulf shrugged, and turned his face back to Richard. “Take a look for yourself.”

  The room sounded with Richard’s rasping breath.

  Jonathan strode to the bed and the servant moved aside. “Sire,” he said, taking Richard’s thin shoulders and gently shaking him. Richard’s head rolled back and dropped, like the top piece of a flail, but his eyes remained closed, his breathing becoming more laborious.

  He looked at the young servant nearest to the bed, his brow creasing into a small furrow. “Where is the physician?” he asked mildly. He placed two fingers at the base of Richard’s throat and found a faint pulse.

  “We have sent for him but an hour ago, my lord,” the servant replied, his hands twisting the sleeves of his tunic. “We don’t know what is keeping him.”

  “There is little that can be done for him,” Raulf interjected. “He’ll be dead within the hour.”

  Jonathan swung around to face Raulf, frowning. “There is life in him yet. Why was the physician not called sooner?”

  Raulf shrugged, affecting a bored look on face, although his spine was as straight as a sentinel, which ruined the effect that he strove for. “As I’ve said, ‘tis obvious that death is near. The physician won’t be able to help him.”

  The servants bowed their heads as if they agreed with Raulf’s assessment, each one avoiding Jonathan’s gaze.

  Jonathan snapped his mouth shut, and turned away. Even though he disliked Richard, a man should still be given a chance to live, especially when there was still life in him.

  Richard opened his eyes as if he knew that Jonathan was present. “Forgive me, Jonathan,” he whispered.

  Jonathan’s drew his eyebrows together in confusion. “Forgive you for what?”

  His eyes fluttered closed, not answering Jonathan’s question but continuing. “I shouldn’t have done it…’twas a mistake…” his voice grew even fainter,”…a terrible mistake…”

  Then as if Richard had nothing else to add to his confession, his slow laborious breathing ceased completely.

  Alarmed, Jonathan felt his pulse.

  Nothing.

  Richard was dead.

  Frowning, Jonathan took hold of the bed sheet, and covered Richard’s body. “There is no longer a need for the physician,” he said.

  The servants stood rooted in their spots, staring at the corpse in the bed as if they couldn’t believe that a man that they long feared and loathed had fallen.

  The priest too stood frozen at the side of the bed, his face pale. In a shaking voice, he said, “I will ensure that the bell tolls appropriately.”

  Jonathan paid little attention to the priest exiting from the room. His thoughts were still on Richard’s dying words. What did he mean about a mistake? What was Richard trying to tell him?

  The chamber seemed hotter than ever before. He had to get out. Jonathan turned on his heels to leave, and just then, he caught sight of Raulf and for the briefest moment, he thought he saw a smirk appear on his pale lips before it was concealed under a blank expression.

  Jonathan frowned as the man departed from the chamber, watching him disappear into the narrow corridor. Raulf had to be dealt with soon…

  ***

  Jonathan could see it in the villagers’ eyes — their uncertainty, their fear. They knew what to expect with Richard, but with Jonathan, they weren’t so sure whether he was much like his father or worse. When they didn’t think he noticed, they crossed themselves whenever he was near. He couldn’t very well blame them for their insecurity, he knew. He had been absent from Blackburn for years. The villagers identified him only as the Iron Hawk, and his reputation was brutal, maybe more so than his sire.

  Jonathan continued to stare out the small window, wishing he was gone from this place and all the troubles that came with it.

  Given a choice, he would never have chosen to come back to Blackburn. And now that he was here, he had to make concessions to his plans. The annoyance, which sparked as soon as he stepped into the familiar landscape, was now coursing through his body like a swarm of angry bees. The Grey Knight was out there laughing at him, he was sure of it. It felt almost as if his enemy orchestrated the turn of events, creating obstacle after obstacle in an attempt to delay him, to lead him in a hopeless chase.

  “My lord,” Alfred, the steward called out, breaking into his thoughts.

  Jonathan turned, and surveyed the little steward who sat at the high table, blinking at him nervously.

  “‘Tis best if we review the accounts now, my lord,” he said, his voice whiny, and even in his fear he was unable to keep from sounding insistent. “Decisions have to be made, and Sir Richard has been ill for so long…”

  Jonathan pushed away from the window, and slowly approached the high table. The other obstruction that he now faced was putting Blackburn back into order. It was obvious that the estate was in shambles, and it was a miracle that Blackburn held on for so long.

  Alfred’s words trailed off, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he saw the dark expression that crossed Jonathan’s face.

  “I know that ‘tis unpleasant business but it needs to be discussed, my lord,” he continued in a rush.

  “I do not need you nagging me like an ale wife,” Jonathan snapped, his voice making the smaller man wince as if he had struck him. He lifted one hand and began massaging his left shoulder. He could already feel the weight of the new responsibility thrust upon him.

  “I have papers for you to go over —”

  “Cease your nattering!” Jonathan sat down heavily on his chair, and glared at the steward as if he was the source of all his problems.

  Alfred blinked at him, and wisely said nothing more. He was as ancient as the hills, his hair a stark white, the folds of his wrinkled skin hung loose on his face, a walking corpse really. He worked for his father as long as he could remember and was entrusted to keep the castle fed and the criminals found and punished. Since Jonathan’s return, he noticed that while the high table ate well, there was barely enough food for the rest of the
lower tables. As well, the castle servants went about their duties wearing rags.

  Alfred shuffled his papers with his slender, creased hands, unable to hide the trembling. “We must go over the accounts,” he said with less conviction.

  Jonathan sighed inwardly. There was so much to do. He gestured at the steward. “All right,” he said, resignation in his voice. “Show it to me.”

  The old man jumped up and pushed a leather bound ledger toward him. “As you commanded, I have drawn up an inventory of our stores,” the steward said, looking sidelong at Jonathan to see his reaction. Seeing no response, he continued, “‘Tis obvious that we’ve fallen on desperate times. The demesne has not been making profit for some time now, and —”

  “Some time?” Jonathan repeated, his eyebrows furrowing. “Explain what you mean by some time.”

  “For three years at least,” Alfred said, catching a breath before launching into the long list of repairs that needed to be done. The man rattled, almost happily thought Jonathan in disgust, describing the troubles in detail, and the more he spoke, the sinking feeling in the pit of Jonathan’s stomach deepened. When Albert finished his report, Jonathan shook his head in disbelief. It was worse than he imagined. What was Richard thinking?

  “I had informed Sir Richard about these problems before they had worsened,” Alfred continued, “however he never found the time to review the accounts, or advise me on what to do about our troubles.”

  Jonathan pushed the ledger away in annoyance, the force making Alfred startle. “Tell me, old man, how are we to survive the winter with the coffers almost empty? And the inventory we have in storage — we would be doomed if Blackburn ever came under attack. Explain,” he said, peering at the steward.

  “The wealth has depleted over the years despite the fact that there were many years of good crop,” Alfred swallowed hard. “We would surely be in a better position had it not been for the raiding.”

  “Raiding,” Jonathan said, his tone flat. A ball of frustration welled up in his chest, and he slammed down a fist on the table. He stared at the fire in the center of the hall. “Everything comes down to the raiding it seems.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and then pulled at them in his exasperation. There was no way that he could leave the estate for the steward to handle, not until he sorted out the state of affairs. And on top of that, there was a band of outlaws still at large, terrorizing the inhabitants of Blackburn.

  Alfred squirmed under the intense scrutiny, and began to play nervously with the collar of his tunic. He brought the ledger and loose parchments closer to him as if by placing it there, he could create a physical barrier that would protect him from Jonathan’s wrath. “The Bailiff has threatened the villagers but he has had little success in collecting the rents and taxes over the past three years. These robbers, these outlaws are the cause of Blackburn’s near collapse.” He gripped the parchments in his hands, crumpling the edges of the thick sheets. “I have been warning about this for a long time, but everyone just ignores me,” he said, his voice rising and sounding defensive. “If anything, Sir Raulf would be the man to ask about the raiding. He knows all about them.”

  Raulf again. So he knew more than he was letting on.

  Gareth was talking quietly with a couple of armsmen when Jonathan caught his eye and beckoned him over. “Bring Sir Raulf to me,” he said.

  Gareth inclined his head in acknowledgement, and left the hall.

  “The outlaws should have been captured a long time ago,” Jonathan said almost to himself, his lips twisted in distaste. “The incompetence here stinks to the heavens.”

  “I agree in part, sire,” Alfred said, nodding hastily. “We have done all we can on our side. Sir Raulf had gone into the village to speak with the villagers. He promised them protection in exchange for information on the outlaws. But those who spoke up against the outlaws soon found themselves to be targets. Understandably the villagers are wrought with fear and are unwilling to speak up now.”

  Jonathan frowned, recalling his initial visit into the village with Gareth. Indeed not long after his exchange with the villeins, the village was attacked once again. It was almost as if the outlaws wanted to place their retribution on those who refused to hold their tongues.

  That would also explain the reason why he received such a cold reception during his subsequent visit to the village. Five days before Richard died, Jonathan and his men had ridden into the village to inspect the damage that was done by the outlaws, and to see if they could gain more intelligence on the Grey Knight. But instead of learning about the damages or discovering any additional information on his adversary, Jonathan found the villagers even more angry and suspicious.

  He had gone back to the castle, perplexed with so many unanswered questions.

  Jonathan closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples in an attempt to ease the tension that was starting to build there.

  The scraping sounds of metal across the stone floor caused Jonathan to open his eyes again. Raulf walked in front of Gareth, an annoyed expression etched on his face. He stopped in front the high table, facing Jonathan, his legs spread apart and arms folded over his burly chest. “You summoned me?” he said in clipped tones. At Jonathan’s nod, he continued in the same tone. “Well, it had better be quick. I have a garrison to train.”

  Jonathan frowned at his condescending tone. “I called you here to gather intelligence,” he said, crossing his own arms. Since Richard’s death, Raulf had become hostile. All pretense of respect was gone. And every time that they crossed paths, he could sense the negative energy, the contemptuous sneer that was there, barely concealed.

  Raulf cocked an eyebrow at him as if to suggest Jonathan’s lack of intelligence.

  “I want you to reveal what you know about the outlaws,” Jonathan said, trying hard to tamper down the annoyance that threatened to escape.

  “Is that what you called me here for?” Raulf made a sound of disgust, and spat on the ground. “I have told you all I know. Any more and I will be repeating myself.”

  “Then repeat yourself,” Jonathan snapped, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

  Raulf shrugged, and then as if he realized that his face was being studied, a bored expression settled onto his features. His hooded eyes focused on a spot beyond Jonathan’s right shoulder, and when he spoke, it sounded as if his entire speech was rehearsed. “The villeins were attacked by outlaws, that much I know. Homes burnt, crops and livestock stolen, that sort of thing,” Raulf said. “Obviously the outlaws are getting much bolder, however there hasn’t been anything we can do to stop them. These criminals — they are a very clever group of men.”

  “They’re cleverer than you, I suppose,” Gareth said, his voice turning contemptuous.

  Raulf snapped his gaze onto Gareth’s face, bristling at his tone. He inhaled deeply, and then facing Jonathan again, he continued in a monotone. “I have spoken to the villeins and I have sent men to track down the outlaws, but the outlaws remain elusive. Thus far we have not been able to sniff them out of their dens. We do not understand their raiding habits either. They would leave the villeins alone for many months and then without warning, they would attack.”

  Jonathan drummed his fingers on the wooden trestle table, his eyes trained on the commander’s face. “Were there many fatalities?”

  “None from our side, but a handful of villagers have died in the skirmishes,” Raulf said, again looking over Jonathan’s shoulder, unaware or unconcerned of his growing impatience. He took off his gauntlets and began slapping them on his thigh almost absently. Then he added as an after thought, “However there have been no fatalities in the more recent raids.”

  “More recent raids?” Jonathan said. “I was not aware of any recent raids — how many more raids have there been?”

  “I did not know of any new raids either, sire,” Alfred interjected, hoping to deflect any blame from himself.

  Jonathan didn’t bother looking at the steward, and focu
sed his attention on Raulf, waiting for the explanation to come forth.

  “Only three raids have occurred since Richard’s death. They were small and not much damage was done to the villagers.” Raulf shrugged, and picked off a spec of lint that was on the front of his tunic. “I had everything under control and saw little point in disturbing you or anyone else from your time of mourning.” He flicked the lint away.

  “Only three raids,” Gareth broke in sardonically. He kept silent this whole time but he was no longer able to hold back his dislike. “This is madness! Sir Richard has been dead for less than a fortnight.” He spat on the ground. “Nothing is under control if the criminals are still at large. This speaks to me as incompetence on your part. Commander indeed.”

  The bored look slipped from Raulf’s face, and he looked at Gareth with pure hatred spitting from his eyes. His hand dropped automatically to the hilt of his sword, ready to draw. “You offend me, sire,” he said, his voice rising in cold fury.

  Gareth snorted, and stepped forward, also gripping the hilt of his sword. “Everything about you offends me,” he shot back.

  “Enough!” Jonathan bellowed.

  With some reluctance, Gareth stepped back, and fell silent, although his eyes never left the other man.

  “I will not tolerate fighting in my hall,” Jonathan said. He watched Raulf’s reaction carefully. “Now I want to know what you propose to do next.”

  Raulf took a deep breath, trying in effort to control his rage. “I have done all I can,” he spat. “You, on the other hand, are now the lord of the castle and ‘tis your duty to capture the outlaws. You have limited my capacity as the commander of this garrison and with that my hands are tied.”