1
“By all the fires in hell, Guy!” Graelam shouted, pointing between Demon’s flattened ears. “A dozen whoreson villains against a merchant and six men!” He wheeled around in his saddle and yelled back to his men, “Let’s show these damned French bastards what the English are made of!” Even as he spoke, he dug his heels into his destrier’s sides and smoothly unsheathed his gleaming sword. Demon thundered down the grassy rolling hill into the small valley below, his silver-studded bridle glittering in the bright sun.
“A Moreton! A Moreton!” Graelam shouted. He clapped his visor down and swung his huge sword in a wide vicious arc. His two knights and dozen men-at-arms closed behind him, their cries echoing his own. Graelam coolly studied the band of brigands thinking they had chosen an ideal spot for a coward’s attack. And one of the men under attack was no merchant, he realized, as Demon crashed into a horse, tossing the rider high into the air. The man was richly garbed in wine velvet over his chain mail, and sat astride a magnificent bay stallion. He obviously had a knight’s training, for his sword was flashing like silver as at least six of the brigands circled him, four of them on horseback. But despite his prowess as a warrior, unaided he would soon be cut to pieces by his six attackers.
Graelam yelled again, “A Moreton! A Moreton!”, and half of the brigands, no fools, dashed toward the forest, while six others continued their furious attack on the lone man.
He fights well, Graelam thought, and in the next moment he rode into the fray, a grim smile on his face as his sword sank into a man’s throat. Blood spurted upward, splattering Graelam’s mail, but he ignored it, riding Demon straight into another brigand’s horse. Demon rose to his hind legs, slashing with his forelegs at the horse’s neck. At the same moment, Graelam sliced his sword through the man’s chest, sending him spinning to the ground, a thin, surprised croak tearing from his throat. He closed beside the warrior, protecting his flank, and laughed aloud as the remaining rogues, screaming from wounds and fear, fled after their fellows into the forest.
The fighting had lasted five minutes, no more. Save for the groans of the wounded men, all was peacefully silent again. Graelam calmly handed his bloody sword to one of his men-at-arms, then dismounted and turned to Sir Guy de Blasis, one of his knights.
“Only Hugh is wounded, my lord,” Guy said, panting a little, “and not badly. The vermin were cowards.”
Graelam nodded and approached the richly clothed man. “Are you hurt?”
“Nay, but I would be fodder for the crops were it not for you. My thanks.” He pulled off his helmet and shoved back the chain mail covering his head. “My name is Maurice de Lorris, of Belleterre.” He smiled widely at Graelam, his eyes twinkling.
He fights like a much younger man, Graelam thought, taking in the close-cropped graying hair and the deep lines radiating from his dark green eyes. He was still a well-looking man who had not grown soft in the manner of many older warriors. He had not an ounce of fat on his wiry body and Graelam could see the play of firm muscles in his shoulders and arms. “You are breathing hard, my lord,” Graelam said. “Come, rest awhile and tell me why a party of brigands would attack you.”
Maurice nodded and dismounted, aware that his heart was pounding painfully in his chest and his breathing was coming in short, jerking gasps. But Christ’s bones, he thought, it had been a good fight!
“You are wounded.”
Maurice looked stupidly at the bloody rent in his velvet surcoat, and cursed softly. Kassia would have difficulty repairing the jagged tear. “ ’Tis nothing,” he said, shrugging it off.
“Guy,” Graelam called. “Have one of the men bring me some water and cloths.”
He smiled down at Maurice. “I am Lord Graelam de Moreton, an Englishman, returning from the Holy Land. I was beginning to believe that I was traveling through an Eden,” he continued, looking around at the gently rolling hills of Aquitaine. “Bloody boring it was becoming. I thank you, my lord, for the sport.”
“Your timing bespeaks divine intervention,” Maurice said, wincing as one of Graelam’s men ripped the velvet surcoat beyond repair to clean and bind the wound in his arm. “You say you were in the Holy Land?” he asked, looking more closely at the large English warrior who had saved his life. At Graelam’s nod, he continued in a saddened voice, “Word reached me about Louis. The poor king dying like a piece of filth in that godforsaken land. A saint among men, but now what does it matter? Your valiant Prince Edward, did he survive?”
“He did indeed. But enough talk for you until you are stronger, my lord.”
Maurice found himself leaning gratefully against Graelam’s massive chest. Graelam eased him down beneath an oak tree, then rose to survey the damage wreaked by the brigands. He pulled back his mail and ran his hands through his matted black hair. “Guy,” he called, pointing toward a mortally wounded man who was groaning on the ground, “dispatch that brigand to hell.”
It was odd, Graelam thought, but none of the wagons had been touched. He pictured the battle in his mind, recalling the six men who had attacked Maurice de Lorris. If contraband had not been their goal, then . . . He shook his head and continued his inspection. Three of Lord Maurice’s men were dead and two wounded. He gave his men further instructions and walked back to Maurice, whose arm now rested in a sling.
Maurice studied the dark, powerful man who had saved his life. English or no, he was a splendid specimen, and a fierce fighter. And, Maurice thought, his eyes squinting against the afternoon sun, he was young and healthy, his mighty chest firm and solid as an oak tree’s. He was a man well used to command, a man one could trust. He saw the frown furrowing Graelam’s brow and said, “I know your thoughts, my
lord, for they echo my own. There are thieves aplenty in this world, but a force such as attacked me is unusual. Aquitaine is well-governed, and it stretches the imagination to believe I was attacked by such a collection of men for a mere three wagons of wine.”
“You have enemies,” Graelam said matter-of-factly.
“It would appear so.” Maurice shrugged and looked directly into Graelam’s dark eyes. “What man does not?”
“An enemy who also is too cowardly to do the work himself.
“So it would appear.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I have no proof,” he said finally. “There is but one man who would go to such lengths to have me removed from this earth.”
With the excitement of battle receding, Graelam felt weary, more from the weeks trekking from Sicily than from wielding his sword. He rubbed his hand over the muscles knotted in his neck.
“I had forgot,” Maurice said. “Your Prince Edward is now king. Does he return soon to claim his crown?”
“Nay. He has the wanderlust. And there is no need. England is at peace and his uncle, the Duke of Cornwall, will protect what is Edward’s.”
“But you, Graelam de Moreton, I hear in your voice that you wish to be home.”
“Aye. Fighting the heathen in the Holy Land was an exercise in bloodletting and disease and frustration. The treaty Edward negotiated with the Saracens will keep the Christians safe for some time, at least.”
Maurice looked thoughtfully at the English knight. “We are but three days from my home, Lord Graelam,” he said. “Will you accompany me to Belleterre?”
“It will be my pleasure,” Graelam said.
“Good,” Maurice said, his thoughts turning to Kassia. He would have three days to determine if this Englishman would prove a worthy husband for his only daughter. Belatedly he asked, not meeting Graelam’s eyes, “I suppose you have a family eagerly awaiting your return?”
“Nay, but my castle, Wolffeton, is likely falling to ruin. A year is a long time to be gone.”
“Ah,” Maurice said, and sat back against the oak tree, closing his eyes.