The Knight’s Reward: Sneak Peek

Windsor Park, August 1274

Neill blocked out the murmurs and shouts of the crowd, concentrating on the position of his opponent’s lance. Making a slight adjustment to his shield, he vowed to defeat the Flemish champion in one pass. For his surrogate mother and father. For the Waryn family name.

For the king’s honor.

This was his chance to make a difference, to do his part to silence the murmurings of trouble along the border between England and Scotland.

Waiting for the knight marshal’s signal, he loosened his grip on his own lance just slightly, adjusting his stance as needed so he could take down both man and horse. The fact that no other knight had managed such a feat even once in the past three days meant nothing to him. He had decided he would do it, and so he would. When the horn blasted and he spurred his destrier forward, Neill held his position steady despite the movement under him. Despite the hundreds of pounds of horseflesh hurtling toward him.

One chance.

Lance straight over the horse’s head. Hit first. Hit hardest.

He repeated the words over and over in his head until the deed was done, his opponent unseated.

Slowing his mount, still breathing heavily from the effort that had lasted only seconds yet nearly shattered the bones in his hand, Neill tore off his helm and then his gauntlets. Handing both to his squire, he finally allowed the roar of the crowd to penetrate his ears.

Turning toward the stands, he searched the bright blues and greens, ladies’ gowns clashing against the red and yellow banners that hung on all sides. Finding Cora, Neill raised his hand and was acknowledged with a wave in return. She knew what he was about to do. They both did. And so, after accepting his opponent’s payment—his horse and armor, which Neill would give to a young knight in need of both—he joined the marshal in front of the most important man in the crowd. The one who stood in front of his makeshift throne in the stands, towering over his companions, and silenced the rowdy audience with the simple raise of his hand.

The king of England tended to have that effect.

“Sir Neill Waryn,” the marshal called out, “son of the late Lord Thomas Waryn of Bristol Manor and ward of Sir Adam Dayne and his wife, Lady Cora Maxwell.”

The latter Neill had insisted on adding despite the marshal’s protestations to the contrary. If his dead father would be acknowledged, then so too should the man and woman who’d helped raise him from a petulant young boy to the man that he’d become.

“Your Tournament of Peace champion,” the marshal finished.

Neill dropped to his knees and waited. When King Edward finally indicated that he should stand, Neill did so, bracing himself for the question he knew would come.

“Congratulations, Sir Neill. Your boon?”

The boon. The crowd remained quiet despite their numbers, each person leaning forward to hear what was said. Until this day, the Tournament of Peace had been the one tournament Neill had not yet won. Of them all, it offered the biggest prize—a boon from the king of England.

Neill darted a glance at Adam, who stood near the stands, before giving his full attention back to the king. Proud and unapologetic, King Edward was exactly as Neill remembered him from the last tournament. Power exuded from him—from the way he held his head to his upright posture. Damn if he wasn’t the only man Neill could remember intimidating him in a long, long time.

“My thanks,” Neill said, his voice strong and loud. “It has been a pleasure to serve my king and my country, a privilege bestowed on me by the grace of God,” he started, acknowledging his very pious leader. “But if you would grant me a boon beyond that privilege, I will gladly ask for it.”

More than one in the crowd gasped. Rightly so. Although he and Adam had agreed on this course of action, Neill almost regretted the words now that they’d left his mouth. By acknowledging the pleasure of serving his king as his prize, he was taking a huge risk. Edward could very well accept the offering and forgo the greater request he intended to make.

Reminding himself regrets served no purpose, he waited for the king’s response.

“Your answer pleases me,” King Edward said. “Your adherence to the very chivalric code I have vowed to uphold prevents me from accepting this”—he gestured to the list on which Neill still stood—“as your prize. Ask for your boon and you will have it.”

Had he pleased the king enough by that gesture to see his unusual request granted? He was about to find out.

“If it pleases Your Majesty, I ask that Lord Caxton be removed from his position as Warden of the Middle March.”

Neill’s previous comment had stirred the crowd, but his request inflamed them. When his words finally penetrated, the low murmur of conversation burst into loud chatter. Everyone was staring at the king and the young knight who’d petitioned him, but Neill didn’t pay them any mind. He never shifted his gaze from the one man who possessed the power to protect his family.

Lord Caxton seemed intent on breaking the peace at the border rather than upholding it, as was his job, and each day he served as warden brought the situation closer to a breaking point. The monthly Day of Truce, which had staved off battles along the border, had fallen apart under his rule. The Scottish wardens refused to attend the meetings until he was removed. Without the Day of Truce, reivers and murderers met with no justice as long as their crimes crossed over the border.

In other words, anarchy reigned, just as it had before the Treaty of York drew the first line between England and Scotland some thirty years ago.

Although Neill now resided in the south of England, the politics of the borderlands were never far from his mind. His two brothers and sister all resided along the border. The disintegration of the Day of Truce affected his family directly.

The king did not so much as flinch. Watching him, unwavering, Edward leaned over to speak with his second in command. Although Neill longed to glance at Adam and Cora, he didn’t dare look anywhere but directly at the king.

Holding his breath, he waited. And waited.

The crowd grew impatient, stirred into a frenzy by the boldness of his request and the length of time it was taking the king to grant it. He’d never once denied a boon requested by a Tournament of Peace champion, although there was always a first.

Finally, Edward raised his hand once again.

“Your boon shall be granted, with one condition.”

He had been prepared for this too. Neill braced himself, maintaining eye contact with Edward, who now lowered himself into his makeshift throne. Even sitting, he was still high above Neill.

“You and your guests are invited to dine at the king’s table tonight,” said the king’s chancellor, surprising him. That, he’d not expected. “Congratulations, Sir Neill.”

With that, he had been dismissed.

Bowing, knowing he’d need to take a victor’s lap down the length of the list before he joined his squire and spoke to Adam and Cora, Neill walked back to his mount.

A condition.

Whatever it was, this condition must be met. Once it was, Neill would take the good news to his brothers. It was time to go home.

But first, his victor’s lap and requisite meeting with the marshal. Only later, as he sat in the great hall of one of the most impressive castles in England, did Neill allow the king’s condition to trouble him.

They’d eaten, drank their fill, and still the king and queen sat quietly on the raised dais. Finally, he was called before them once again. With a final glance back to Adam and Cora, he made his way to the dais. Bowing deeply, he stood only when the king advised him to do so.

“When I have my renewed oath from Alexander, Caxton shall be removed. After—” he exchanged a look with the queen before continuing, “—you will take the Lady Alina deBeers as a bride.”

* * *

“We’ll be needing you downstairs, Kathryn,” Magge shouted from the other side of the door.

Shoving the innkeeper’s books back inside the desk Magge had procured for her the month before, Kathryn stood, shook out her well-worn dress, and grabbed an apron hanging near the door.

“On my way,” she called, putting it on and entering the dimly lit hallway.

“Yer hair,” Magge cautioned before she shuffled away.

Kathryn reached back, quickly braided her hair and secured it with a ribbon from the pocket of her apron. Sometimes, to avoid notice, she wore a headcovering as well, but Magge seemed in a hurry this eve. Saying a silent prayer she’d not regret it later, Kathryn headed belowstairs, following the sounds of men deep in their cups. Darkness had already fallen, the only light now from the hearth and tallow candles casting their dim glow on the men feasting at the rows of trestle tables.

Her first job would be to refresh the candles.

“Keep yer hands to yerself.” Magge swatted old MacAdder as she walked by him. Sure enough, the Scottish reiver’s eyes widened when he saw her. Although he seemed harmless enough, she wouldn’t tempt fate by walking near him, so she navigated around him to start her duties at the far side of the hall.

Seeing a candle that needed to be replaced, Kathryn leaned between two men, careful not to touch either of them. She took the candleholder with her.

“She’s the one I told you about,” one of the men said to the other.

Uh-oh.

“Fine speech for a barmaid.”

Ignore them, Kathryn.

She tried to move on to the next table, but the young knight grabbed her hand. Kathryn sighed. For months The Wild Boar had been her sanctuary, but she’d made a mistake last night, slipping into French to respond to one of the men, and it would seem she’d made an impression.

While most inns of this size catered to nobles, or at least gentry, this sole inn along the border attracted a wide array of men. Nobles and knights, reivers of both the English and Scottish variety. Magge knew how to handle them all, which was how The Wild Boar had earned its reputation as the sole location on the border where peace still reigned and where men could meet to discuss important matters that affected both the English and the Scots. The Wild Boar and its proprietor were known far and wide.

Magge had proven a fine teacher. Although her figure was stout, her hair greying, she was still quick with a dagger and a fine flirt. She knew the best approach for each of her patrons, and she’d taught Kathryn the same sense of discernment. Kathryn had come to her knowing little of the daily activities of an inn. She’d frequented them, of course, but until she’d come to Magge for help, she’d never worked a day in her life.

“Too fine to address her patrons?” the knight asked.

He stood close enough for her to smell the ale on his breath. Kathryn glanced up and caught the innkeeper’s eye from across the room. Ignore, play along, defend. In that order. Magge had given her that piece of advice the day she’d come here seeking sanctuary, and she’d realized its worth a dozen times over.

“Not so fine as that, sir,” Kathryn said, spinning around and winking in a perfect imitation of Magge. No one dared to enter The Wild Boar and give Magge anything but the respect she deserved. This inn did not simply survive—it turned away patrons nearly every night of the week—and if the guests did not behave, she could and would make them leave.

The man who’d accosted her was an English knight, though not titled if the condition of his armor and roughness of his speech were any indication. His companions watched her as she smiled politely at each of them.

“A pitcher of ale for your troubles?”

The apology rolled smoothly off her tongue, as if it were her fault she spoke “so finely” or wanted to avoid the attentions of three men who’d likely been drinking ale all evening. But none would guess her thoughts by the smile she offered them. That was a lesson she’d learned well.

“What’s your name?” one of the Englishman’s friends asked.

Bearded and a few years older than the man who’d addressed her, this one was likely the leader of the group. Also untitled, most likely, but she’d guess he had a bit more coin than the others. None of which he’d spend this night as Kathryn had just offered to serve them free drink.

Magge wouldn’t be pleased, but she’d be even less pleased if a fight broke out.

Kathryn had inadvertently started more than one, and there was nothing Magge despised more. She’d built The Wild Boar’s reputation on maintaining peace, but even the innkeeper knew violence was unavoidable at times.

Like the time a Scots chief’s son had attempted to drag Kathryn deep into the stables for “a bit of fun.” That particular incident had ended with a local baron dumping the man and his father in the nearby river on Magge’s orders. The innkeeper had no shortage of muscle to assist her when it became necessary.

All of the locals loved Magge, as they did this inn, and they would fight to protect what was hers, including Kathryn. Unfortunately, those who were new to the inn, or too bold or drunk to care about the rules, sometimes had to learn the hard way.

“Kathryn, sir.”

“Does the maid have a surname?” he asked. Perhaps he simply asked out of curiosity, but Kathryn always expected the worse.

That he might know her, or her father. Might suspect the truth.

“Baird,” she lied. “Kathryn Baird.”

“Where are you—”

“The ale?” the third companion interrupted. Kathryn could always count on at least one person caring more for ale or wine than for her.

“Of course,” she murmured, hurrying off and breathing a sigh of relief. She’d not be back to their table this eve. When she reached Mary, she said, “Can you bring a pitcher of ale to the three Englishmen—”

Mary rolled her eyes, the young maid already knowing what she needed. It happened at least once a night when Kathryn worked the hall. Which was why Magge only brought her down here when necessary.

“Aye, I’ll trade yer tables,” the normally good-natured Mary muttered.

Kathryn blew her a kiss.

“Pucker those lips again,” Magge said, catching up with her and giving her bottom a little swat, “and ye’ll be givin’ ale to every goddamn man here.”

Kathryn couldn’t help but laugh at Magge’s expression.

“I learned from the best,” she teased. The older woman was a more notorious flirt than even the most skilled courtiers. And Kathryn would know. She’d spent more time in the English and French courts than she had anywhere else in her twenty years. Although her duties at The Wild Boar were a long way from attending the queen, another duty of her past life, navigating overly-amorous men and sometimes jealous ladies here in The Wild Boar was not overly different than being at court.

Only then, she’d had her father to protect her.

Now that he was gone, Kathryn had to protect herself . . . and her father’s legacy. Which someday, between ordering brews and swatting away prying hands, she vowed to do. Someday, she would learn who had killed him. Who had forced her into this life of hiding.

…..

THE KNIGHT’S REWARD is the final book in the Border Series available on Amazon and in Kindle Unlimited on 4.21.19