The Dark Knight (15 page)

“We are almost to the road,” he said, motioning toward a line of bushes ahead of them that stretched out on both sides of the path. It took her a moment to comprehend that the bushes marked the edges of the Roman road. Even as he spoke, she noticed a horse and rider emerge from the tall thickets near the crossroads. “ ’Tis my man, Oliver. There must not be any trouble ahead or he would have warned us by now.”

She followed his lead as he rode toward Oliver, watching the newcomer as carefully as he watched her. The hood of his brown cloak obscured much of his face. Finally he tilted his head back and shook off the hood, revealing short-cropped dark hair and a hawkish profile. His face was weathered to a leathery brown and the creases around his blue eyes spoke of long exposure to the elements. Brawny and barrel-chested, he had the battle-hardened look of a professional soldier about him. When he finally turned his attention to Sir Percival, he offered little in the way of a greeting; no smile or nod of recognition. He simply bowed his head to the knight.

“My lord,” he murmured.

“Do you bring any news?” asked Percival.

“Nay,” Oliver said, as he straightened to cast suspicious glances at Avalene. “Everything is as you expected … Sir Percival.”

“Excellent,” Percival said. “And the others?”

“They are in position near Beversham.”

“This is the Lady Avalene,” Percival told him. “You
will accept her orders as you accept my own, and do whatever is necessary to keep her safe.”

“Aye, my lord.” Oliver seemed to receive some imperceptible order from Sir Percival, a lightning-fast exchange that made Avalene’s brow furrow. She dismissed it a moment later as fancy when Oliver turned his horse toward London and waited for them to take the lead.

“Let us be on our way,” Percival said, as he motioned for Avalene to ride next to him. “Oliver will bring up the rear, but the road is wide enough here for you to ride alongside me.”

“
This
is the Roman road?” she asked as she urged her horse forward again. The road was indeed wider, but scarcely more discernible than the path they had just left. “I expected something grander than a trace. I thought Roman roads were paved with cobblestones.”

“Some are,” Percival said. “Most are as you see this road, marked only by disuse and countless grasses, bushes, and trees that have come and gone over the years. Only a few are still in use day to day, and those have been either built up or repaired.”

She gave a small sniff, unimpressed with what she had thought would be one of the more interesting sights of their journey. She had always wondered about the long-dead Romans who had conquered England and she had heard many stories about their skills at building roads and walls. This road looked like little more than a beaten-down goat path, although she had to admit that it ran in an exceedingly straight line. She dismissed the disappointment of the road and turned her attention to another matter that had been troubling her. “Why do you have only three men with you, Sir Percival? That is, I know why you did not bring more with you into Coleway, but could my father not spare more than the four of you to see me safely returned to Wales?”

Percival gave her a sharp look and seemed to consider his answer before he spoke. “Fewer men mean we can move more quickly without worrying about rations and the other problems that arise when traveling with a larger group. We will try to go around most villages unnoticed, and avoid notice in general. That would not be possible with a full company of soldiers.”

“Ah, I recall you mentioning that reasoning,” she said. “Still, I assumed you would be more concerned about bandits than being noticed by local villagers. Some of the minstrels say there are bands of thirty or forty men who raid in the forests.”

“Exaggerations,” he said, looking unconcerned. “There haven’t been large bands of thieves in this part of England since the days of King Richard. Minstrels are known to exaggerate tales to make them more exciting. Likely they heard of some small group of bandits in the area and embellished the story.”

The minstrels that traveled from one great castle to the next were the main source of news from beyond a lord’s borders. She had always paid close attention to any news related to Wales. Now that she had opened the subject of lawlessness, she decided to take it a step further. She lowered her gaze and pretended to adjust the fit of her riding gloves as she questioned him. “We heard rumors from several groups of minstrels that the king’s taxes fall heavily upon the Welsh and our Marcher lords.”

He made a noncommittal sound and lifted his shoulders, as if to say it was none of his concern.

“Some believe the most powerful families in the Marches may revolt,” she said. “The king would be hard pressed to put down a rebellion if the Segrave, Bohun, Mortimer, and de Clare families rose against him at once. Some say my father might be favorable to
the match between myself and Faulke Segrave because he intends to side with the Segraves against the king. Some say—”

“You must stop listening to ‘Some say,’ ” he interrupted, his lips curving into a smile. “ ‘Some say’ this, ‘Some say’ that. These tales sound like more creations of minstrels’ imaginations, containing some small grains of truth with many embellishments.”

“Do you know which are embellishments and which are truth?”

He lifted his shoulders again. “ ’Tis true, the king’s tax is not popular in Wales, but what royal tax has ever been popular anywhere? The Welsh natives are restless. Conquered peoples are always restless. And the Marcher lords always have an eye toward increasing their own power. A weak king alienates the Marcher lords at his peril. A shrewd king holds their respect. Edward knows how to handle the Marcher lords. They will not rise against him.”

“What of the Segraves?” she asked in a low voice, encouraged that he would speak to her of politics. Most men would not. “Even the traveling merchants speak of Segrave soldiers being dissatisfied with their lot in Wales and how their lord and his son will soon set matters right with the king.”

He gave her a considering look. “Most women concern themselves more with sewing and gardens than with serious issues such as loyalty and rebellion. Why do these things interest you?”

She made a concerted effort to keep from rolling her eyes. Why was it that most men thought women should remain ignorant of “serious” matters? “A good wife knows everything that could affect her husband, most especially his politics. If I am to be a Segrave, I would
like to know where my loyalties should lie; with Wales or with England?”

“You speak to
me
of treason?” He gave her such an incredulous look that she wondered if he jested with her. Apparently he was serious. “There is no question where your loyalties should lie.”

“Can you honestly tell me the notion has never crossed your mind, that you have never considered the possibility that my father would support a rebellion?” she asked. “Or considered the possibility that you would be forced to betray either your liege lord or your king? In all likelihood, that is the choice I will face as the wife of Faulke Segrave. If you can tell me this will never happen, I will be greatly relieved.”

His lips were pressed together in a straight line. “A woman’s loyalties must lie with the man charged with her protection,” he said carefully, “whether it be her father or husband, or even the knight sent to rescue her. You must trust that the man charged with holding your life safe knows what he is about and will know what is best for you in all matters, including matters of politics. As I am currently your protector, you must trust me when I say the Segraves will not rebel against Edward. Therefore, you must set aside any thoughts of betraying your king.”

He sounded very sure of himself. She wished she felt half so confident about the Segraves. “You are certain?”

One brow rose as he regarded her and she knew that she had somehow insulted him.

The knight sent to rescue her
. She liked the sound of that. “Do you know the Segraves, then? Have you met Faulke Segrave?”

Whatever he saw in her face made him frown. He was annoyed with her, his patience stretched to the edges of politeness. “Nay, I have not met the man, so do not ask
me if I know what he thinks of you or his plans to marry you. I have no idea and would not venture a guess.”

“I had no intention of asking any such things,” she lied.

He gave a slight nod toward the road ahead of them. The clearing they were riding through was about to end at a line of trees that marked the entrance into another forest. “The road narrows, my lady. It would be best if I took the lead so you will be protected between Oliver and me. I doubt the road will widen again for many miles.”

Avalene found herself staring at his back as he rode out ahead of her, well aware that she and her questions had just been dismissed. So she had asked a few harmless questions. Why should that be such a great annoyance?

Actually, what seemed to irritate him most were her questions about Faulke Segrave. She pressed her lips together. Did he dislike the Segraves, or was it possible he felt … jealous?

Dislike, she decided. If even a few grains of the minstrels’ tales were true, then it was no secret that the Segraves would rebel, given the chance. Sir Percival was a loyalist through and through. Even the mention of treasonous thoughts had affronted his senses. That was the source of his irritation.

It was only in her fevered imagination that he experienced jealousy. Just as it was only in her imagination that he viewed her as anything more than his liege lord’s daughter. She was a duty and a responsibility. Nothing more.

A full moon turned the forest into a strange world of stark light and impenetrable shadows, a world that seemed to reflect Sir Percival’s grim mood. He had scarcely spoken since they made their way onto the Roman road, and they rode hard throughout the day and well into the night. All of her questions about her feelings and his had long since faded from her mind beneath a haze of exhaustion.

At last Percival paused at the crest of a hill where a flat outcropping of rock offered a moonlit view of the valley they had just crossed. The two men studied the terrain. Avalene looked out over the valley and wondered what they hoped to see in the darkness across so vast a distance. Up close her two companions were almost as plainly visible as if it were daytime, although it was eerie the way the moonlight leached all color from their faces. Their skin glowed chalky white while their eyes were coal black. She shivered and returned her attention to the valley that was cloaked in the shadows of countless trees. This was a foolish waste of time.

“No one would dare follow us through the forest at night,” she told them, as she drew her cloak tighter against the damp chill in the air. Somewhere in the distance came the lonesome hoot of an owl. “That is, no one will follow us on this night.”

Sir Percival turned toward her, his face stern yet starkly handsome in the moonlight. “Is there something special about this night, my lady?”

She gestured toward the sky. “ ’Tis the Witches’ Sabbath.”

“The Witches’ Sabbath?” Oliver echoed. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

“ ’Tis peasant folklore,” Percival told him. “Some say that witches gather in their covens when the full moon rises on the eve before the true Sabbath.”

“Witches are not the only creatures who gather under the full moon,” she said in a hushed voice. “ ’Tis a night when evil spirits of all sort roam the countryside; demons who search out the souls of hapless innocents and cavort with the Devil’s brides in unspeakable rituals.”

“Saints preserve us,” Oliver whispered, as he crossed himself against evil.

Percival’s mouth curved into a smile and he began to chuckle. “Who filled your head with such nonsense?”

“My aunt,” she answered primly, hurt that he would laugh at her. “I wondered why you insisted that we continue to ride rather than seek shelter in the village we passed at dusk. I know we are supposed to avoid villages, but surely this night could be an exception? Lord Brunor says the only men who venture abroad on a Witches’ Sabbath have the heart of a lion or the head of a fool.”

Percival rubbed his chin. “I take it you have cast me into the role of the fool?” She bit her lower lip, wishing she’d said nothing at all
about fools and lions. Sir Percival saw nothing amiss with his plan to continue their journey. The two men seemed accustomed to traveling at night and Percival thought the Witches’ Sabbath was just a silly old superstition. More complaints would only make her look hopelessly naïve in his eyes. Perhaps it was best to extend an olive branch.

“Forgive me, Sir Percival. I gave my word that I would not question your actions or comment upon them. I spoke rashly to defend what my family believes to be truth, and I was wrong to insult you.”

The reassuring smile disappeared. “Never apologize for defending your family, Avalene.”

He turned his horse abruptly and made his way back to the road, obviously expecting her to fall into line behind him. Somehow she had managed to insult him twice. No wonder he was growing tired of her. She looked at Oliver, but he simply nodded toward the road and indicated that she should follow Percival. She gave a frustrated sigh and fell into line.