King's Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 4) Read online

  KING’S KNIGHT

  Regan Walker

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  KING’S KNIGHT

  Copyright © 2016 Regan Walker

  All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9968495-5-5

  Kindle Edition

  Praise for Medieval Warriors:

  “This series captures the medieval era perfectly, creating the true sensation of traveling back in time to experience epic, riveting love stories that ignite the imagination. Beautifully written, perfectly paced and action-packed… What more can you ask?”

  —The Book Review

  The Red Wolf’s Prize

  “An exciting tale and a passionate love story that brings to life England after the Conquest—medieval romance at its best!”

  —Virginia Henley New York Times Bestselling Author

  Rogue Knight

  “Rogue Knight is yet another brilliant novel from Regan Walker. She is a master of her craft. Her novels instantly draw you in, keep you reading and leave you with a smile on your face.”

  —Good Friends, Good Books

  Rebel Warrior

  “Rebel Warrior is beautifully layered with true historic figures, facts and authentic history of Scotland woven into a creative and intriguing fictional story. A spectacular, riveting adventure!”

  —Tartan Book Reviews

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There were many who provided me their expertise for this book. Katie Sterns, a gifted horseback archer, graciously read my scene of Merewyn shooting from the back of her Welsh pony. My friend, Chari Wessel, my consultant for ship scenes, stayed with me for this book and contributed her fine mind to the story. Scott Moreland, my editor, is a constant encouragement, helping me in those doubtful moments, of which there are always many.

  I must thank photographer Laura Olenska for the image of Merewyn on the back cover. It captures well her delicate features and her determination. Interestingly, I saw the image years ago when I was doing the cover for The Red Wolf’s Prize and thought it perfect for Serena. Since she was “the prize” I thought to put her on the front cover. But Laura and I didn’t get together until after that cover was done. Now Laura has generously given me her permission to use her photograph for Merewyn, who is very much like Serena, her “mother of the heart”. (The link for Laura’s website is on my Books page at the end of the story.)

  Lastly, I thank my street team, Regan’s Ravens, who believe in my stories and help other readers to find them. I am so blessed to have you all!

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Praise for Medieval Warriors

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Map

  Characters of Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Excerpt from The Red Wolf’s Prize

  Author’s Bio

  Books by Regan Walker

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Following the Norman Conquest of England, William I reigned over a kingdom consisting of Normandy and England. Because he gave lands confiscated from the English to his Norman followers, many of his nobles possessed lands on both sides of the Channel. But a quarter of a century later, all was not peaceful in the kingdom.

  Rebellions flared in both England and Normandy and the Conqueror’s eldest son was not in his favor. William was busy trying to hold his kingdom together, so perhaps that explains why he was an inconsistent, if not a poor, father. His sons’ flawed characters were the result.

  The Conqueror died in Normandy on September 9, 1087. Although his father considered Robert, the eldest son, a weak leader, he inherited the dukedom of Normandy, arguably a more prestigious position in those days than England’s king.

  As for William, his middle son, the Conqueror expressed the desire that he should succeed him as King of England. William was quick to seize the opportunity. Called “William Junior” by his contemporaries and dubbed “Rufus” by historians because of his ruddy complexion, William II was skilled with a lance and well liked by his men. However, he frequently broke his word and constantly warred with the church, eventually drawing open disdain from the Archbishop of Canterbury for his male lovers who frequented his court.

  The Conqueror’s youngest son, Henry, received only silver at his father’s death and was bitter for it, often changing sides between his two warring brothers when, by doing so, he could gain lands. While Robert was conveniently away on crusade in 1100, William Rufus was slain in the New Forest, some believe by Henry’s order. Upon William’s death, Henry quickly seized the throne, even though Robert was William’s designated heir.

  It is against this background of a dysfunctional royal family my story is set.

  In 1090, nobles loyal to Robert and William were at war with each other in Normandy, a war instigated by William himself. Henry, who had purchased lands from Robert, fought on the side of his eldest brother, but was soon abandoned by both his brothers.

  Early in the next year, William decided to personally intervene in Normandy, taking a force of knights with him. At the king’s side stood a noble and valued knight, Sir Alexander of Talisand, son of the legendary Red Wolf, whose men, out of respect, called him the Black Wolf.

  For such a knight, only a woman of extraordinary character would do, one who had triumphed over hardship and shame, one who was not afraid to hunt with a wolf.

  CHARACTERS OF NOTE

  (BOTH REAL AND FICTIONAL)

  Sir Alexander of Talisand, son of the Red Wolf

  Merewyn of York

  Sir Rory, son of Sir Maurin de Caen and Cassandra

  Sir Guy, son of Sir Geoffroi de Tournai and Lady Emma of York

  Sir Renaud de Pierrepont, Earl of Talisand (the Red Wolf)

  Lady Serena, Countess of Talisand

  Maggie, Talisand’s head cook, Cassie’s mother and Rory’s grandmother

  Maugris the Wise, a seer

  Sir Geoffroi de Tournai, husband to Lady Emma and father of Guy and Bea

  Lora, daughter of Sir Alain and Aethel and sister to Ancel

  Sir Jamie, captain of the house knights at Talisand

  Father Bernard, Talisand’s priest

  Hugh, Vicomte d’Avranches, Earl of Chester

  Lady Ermentrude, Countess of Chester

  Nelda, maidservant to Lady Serena

  William Rufus, King of England

  Robert, Duke of Normandy, older brother of the king

  Ranulf “Flambard”, advisor, priest and treasurer to
the king

  Adèle de Vermandois, daughter to the comte de Vermandois

  Herbert, comte de Vermandois

  Sir Nigel d’Aubigny, one of the king’s barons

  Sir Duncan, eldest son of Malcolm, King of Scots

  Malcolm Canmore, King of Scots

  Edgar Ætheling, brother to Margaret, Queen of Scots

  Steinar, Mormaer (earl) of the Vale of Leven in Scotland and Alex’s uncle

  Owain ap Cadwgan, a prince of Powys in Wales, Rhodri’s nephew

  Love wants a chivalrous lover

  skilled at arms and generous in serving

  who speaks well and gives greatly,

  who knows what he should do and say,

  in or out of his hall,

  as befits his power.

  He should be full of hospitality, courtesy, and good cheer.

  A lady who lies with such a lover as that

  is clean of all her sins.

  From the 12th century poem Be’m plai lo gais temps de pascor

  By the knight-troubadour Bertran de Born

  PROLOGUE

  Talisand, the North West of England, 1082

  Merewyn escaped into the woods, dashing between trees, her heart beating like a frightened fawn. Crushing bracken beneath her bare feet, she ran as fast as her twelve-year-old legs would take her, outrunning the boys who pursued her but not their horrible taunts.

  Behind her, she could still hear their echoing shouts, like the cries of mobbing crows. “Bastard! Whore’s daughter!”

  She knew well enough she was bastard born, but her mother had been no whore. Lady Emma, her mother’s closest friend, had told her Inga had been young and beautiful, the only child of the finest sword maker in York. Though common-born, she was noble of spirit and kind to all she knew. But the Norman knight who took her by force cared naught for her innocence. To him, she was merely one of the conquered, his rightful prey.

  Pain stabbed Merewyn’s side and she paused in her running to rest against a tree, panting out breaths while looking behind her, listening for running feet. The only sounds were the leaves rustling in the breeze and a bird, disturbed by her presence, taking to flight.

  Relief washed over. She was alone.

  Memories of her mother were few and shrouded in mists of childhood, half-forgotten. Sweet had been her kisses but too soon they were gone. Merewyn vaguely remembered a stepfather, Sir Niel, but he was often away with the other knights and died in battle when she was only four. Days later, her mother had died trying to give birth to his son. The midwives had shooed Merewyn from her mother’s bedchamber, closing the heavy door to keep her from seeing the thrashing white body and the sheets stained scarlet, but nothing could block the sound of her mother’s screams. They had haunted Merewyn all the years since.

  “Here she is!”

  Panic seized her as a half-dozen leering boys, older than her by several years, emerged from the trees to surround her like ravenous dogs.

  One with shaggy brown hair stepped in front of the others. “Swive with us and we’ll leave ye be.” He was too young for a beard but his thick-chested body told her he worked in the fields. Fear clawed at her belly and dread settled over her. She knew the meaning of the word he had used. The kitchen wenches had whispered about the couplings between the earl’s men and the village whores.

  “Keep away from me or you will be sorry!” she cried, but her voice quavered. Their predatory looks told her they did not take her warning seriously.

  The thick-chested leader stepped closer.

  She pressed her back into the tree, the rough bark digging into her tunic.

  He reached out to grip her chin, twisting her face back and forth, his rough fingers scraping her soft skin. “She’ll nay be so bad to look at once the mud is gone.”

  She swatted his hand away.

  He grabbed her wrist and yanked her into his chest. He had a foul smell of one who had not washed for a long while. She drew back her foot and kicked his shin hard.

  Expelling an oath, he squeezed her wrist harder, his dark eyes narrowing. “Ye’ll pay for that.”

  She sank her teeth into his hand, determined to fight with whatever she had.

  “Bitch!” he spat out, thrusting her away.

  The other boys closed in, like dogs after a cornered rabbit.

  Merewyn screamed, a shrill cry echoing through the woods.

  The leader reached for her again just as heavy footfalls crashed through the underbrush.

  “Halt!” came a shout. A lad, taller than the rest, with black hair and brows drawn together in a frown, emerged from the dense growth of trees to scrutinize the half-circle of boys standing around her.

  Alexander, the Red Wolf’s son.

  Her heart still pounding, she looked toward her savior. He was only a year older than she, but just then Alexander looked much older, much larger than she remembered. His black hair framed gray eyes shooting silver sparks beneath his dark brows. A fierce apparition, his broad shoulders and lean muscled limbs promised strength and his presence gave her hope.

  “What goes here?” he demanded.

  “Just a bit of fun,” said the shaggy-haired leader. “ ’Tis only Merewyn, the whore’s daughter.”

  Alexander backhanded the other boy, a blow that sent him reeling. “Never call her that again.”

  The boy brought his hand to his injured cheek. “What is she to ye, cub of the Red Wolf?”

  Merewyn knew Alexander hated the nickname, but the only sign of his anger was his clenching jaw and his intense glare aimed at the leader. “If you value your skin, you will leave now.”

  The leader sneered. “There are many of us and only one of ye,” he boasted, puffing out his thick chest. His companions, however, were beginning to look doubtful.

  “So be it,” said Alexander. “You will be first.”

  Where he had learned to fight, she did not know, but Alexander reared back and planted his fist in the miscreant’s face, sending the other boy sprawling in the mud.

  Raising his hand to ward off the next blow, the boy said, “All right, ye can have her.” Rubbing his jaw, the leader struggled to his feet and shot Merewyn an angry look before slipping into the woods. His companions slunk away after him.

  Alexander turned to her. His gray eyes that had been stormy only moments before were now calm, but in their depths she glimpsed concern. “Are you all right?”

  She let out a breath. “Yea, but I would not be had you not come. I am in your debt.”

  He tossed her a grin. “ ’Tis one of the rare times I am glad my father casts a large shadow. ’Twas not my fists they feared but the wrath of the Red Wolf.”

  The hint of a smile crossed Merewyn’s face. He might be loath to claim credit but she knew well who had saved her. From that moment on, he was the hero of her heart.

  CHAPTER 1

  Nine years later, Avranches, Normandy, March 1091

  Alex left the meeting with William Rufus, pausing in front of the king’s tent to gaze across the bay toward Mont Saint Michel. The rugged granite crag reaching hundreds of feet above the vast muddy plain always filled him with awe. He could well imagine that three hundred years before, as the Bishop of Avranches had claimed, the Archangel Michael had pressured him into building a church on top of the island. The Benedictine abbey sitting on top of the granite rock stood like an offering to Heaven.

  It was the perfect place from which Henry could take his stand against his brothers, the King of England and the Duke of Normandy, who had combined forces to lay siege to the fortress sheltering their rebellious younger sibling.

  That is, if Henry had no need for fresh water, for there was none to be had on the rock that was Mont Saint Michel.

  Henry’s mercenaries and loyal knights knew well the unstable ground around the island, so they could avoid the treacherous quicksand better than could William’s knights. Alex hated their routine sallies from the fortress to harass William’s men while seeking the water Henry so despera
tely needed. Some of their forays had been successful, only postponing the siege.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Alex glimpsed Rory striding toward him, shoving his tangled red hair back from his face.

  “Alex, do you see Henry’s knights riding on our side of the bay as if indifferent to the king’s tent flying his banner within their sight?”

  “Aye, I have been watching them. What say you we remind Henry’s men ’tis William Rufus who has come to call and not some baron of low rank?”

  Rory greeted Alex’s response with a grin. “I will get Guy and some of the men.”

  Guy and Rory were Alex’s closest companions, knights from Talisand like himself, serving England’s king.

  Moments later, Rory had gathered the men. Alex mounted Azor, his black stallion, while keeping his eyes focused on the score of mounted knights in the distance making their way along the edge of the bay.

  “They will not taunt us for long,” Alex muttered to himself.

  Just as he raised his hand to give the order to charge, the king plunged from his tent, wearing mail and a plain iron helm. “I will not sit in my tent drinking Robert’s wine when a fight can be had!” shouted William. “I am coming!”

  “My Lord,” Alex said, bowing his head, “ ’tis our pleasure to follow you into the fray.”

  They rode forth, the king in the lead, and soon they were engaged in close fighting with Henry’s mounted knights, their swords clashing furiously in hand-to-hand combat. The men they fought were as well trained as they were, some likely having been squires in Rouen with William before he was named king.

  Engaged in his own battle, Alex looked over his opponent’s shoulder just as one of Henry’s men thrust a lance into William’s horse. The stallion screamed in panic and reared, causing the king to fall. The horse ran, dragging the king behind him, his foot caught in the stirrup.