Suzanne Barclay - Knight's Rebellion

“Halt and state your business,” a stern voice shouted down from atop Eastham’s walls.

“Open the gates for Sir Gowain de Crecy,” he called.

“The hell ye say,” came the reply. “He’s dead.”

Gowain lifted the visor of his helm. “I’m very much alive, as you can see. I come alone, in peace, to see my father and—”

“Wait here while I see what His Lordship says.”

Gowain stared at the closed drawbridge, unable to fathom that his father might not let him in. An interminable wait followed. Just when Gowain thought he might burst into a thousand pieces, the door of the sally port to the right of the drawbridge creaked open and a group of men rode out.

The tingle of apprehension in Gowain’s belly became full-blown alarm. He backed his stallion up till he stood on the crest of the road. It was purposefully narrow, so that an invader might bring up only a few men at a time. At the first sign of trouble, he’d spur down the path.

As the troop drew near, he recognized their leader.

Ranulf!

It was like seeing their father as he might have been at thirty. Ranulf had their sire’s fair hair and eyes the color of summer sky. How Gowain had envied Ranulf that link with the man he adored. How he’d hated the black hair and green eyes he got from his mother. Ranulf had known, of course, and taunted Gowain with it. Calling him “gypsy boy” and “black savage.” The passing years had intensified Ranulf’s resemblance to their father, Gowain saw as his brother halted before him.

“You are not well come here,” Ranulf snarled. Though they were of a height, he glared at Gowain as imperiously as Zeus from Mount Olympus. “Get you gone from Eastham.”

Gowain glared right back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ranulf’s men fan out, flanking him on the sides, but unable to get behind him on the narrow trail. So, they thought to take him. Reflexively his fist tightened on the hilt of his sword. “When I left for France, our father said I would always be well come in his castle,” he said, calmly yet firmly.

“My father is dead, and I am lord here, now.”

“Dead?” Gowain blinked, only years of absorbing physical blows keeping him upright. “When?” he whispered.

“A year ago…for all the notice you took.”

“I…I was in prison.”

“I am not surprised you ended up there.”

Gowain barely heard the taunt as he struggled to absorb this latest blow without revealing the pain it caused. Ranulf had the ruthless instincts of a wolf. If he knew he’d drawn blood, he’d close in for the kill. It had always been thus between them. Gowain the outsider, though he’d been born at Eastham, and Ranulf, the heir, jealous of the young rival for their father’s affection and for the wealthy estate.

“I truly did not know about Papa.” Gowain tried to think what he should do next. “I will not presume further on your hospitality, then. I assume my mother has gone to Malpas Tower, and I will join her there.”

“She has not gone to Malpas.”

“Where is she, then?”

Ranulf shrugged. “Gone back to Wales, I should think.”

“But why? Malpas was her dower property.”

“Nay. Malpas is mine, not hers. Since there was no marriage twixt my father and her, she has no dower lands.”

“What?” Gowain swayed. “That is impossible. They were wed.”

“They were not.” Ranulf sounded so certain, so smug.

“You lie. She was his wife. He…he called her wife.”

“Then he did so to humor her, for there was no marriage between them.” Ranulf smiled, his eyes cold, calculating. “No copy of their marriage lines could be found.”

“You destroyed them, then, you bastard.”

“I am not the bastard here.” Ranulf’s lip curled. “You are, entitled to naught, not even my father’s name.”

“Our father,” Gowain said firmly. “My mother was—”

“Was a clever little Welsh whore who inveigled her way into my father’s bed.” He stroked his chin. “Mayhap you are not even his get. You’ve her looks, and none of Warren de Crecy’s.”

“What have you done with my mother? By God, if you’ve hurt her…” Gowain cried, lifting his sword.

“He raises arms against me! Seize him!” Ranulf shouted.

Gowain’s bellow of denial was lost in the scramble as Ranulf’s men surged forward. Instinct saved him, prompting him to bring his blade up to counter the first blow.

Ten to one, they had him, but he’d spent the past six years fighting the hard, unforgiving French; these men had doubtless spent theirs subduing unarmed peasants.

With his left hand, Gowain whipped the battle-ax from his saddle and flung it at the foremost rider, catching him in the chest. The man screamed; his horse reared, slamming back into those who followed. The noise and confusion were horrific as men struggled to control horses gone wild.

Gowain wheeled his horse and plunged down the dark’ path toward the village. Mentally he calculated his next move. Did he go left, toward the rocks where his men waited? Or right, drawing his pursuers into the forest where he’d played as a boy?

Right.

He’d not risk a confrontation when there was a chance he could lead Ranulf’s soldiers away, lose them in the woods, then double back and get his people to safety. Where? Where could he take them that would be safe… even temporarily?

Behind him, he heard shouts. He risked looking back and saw he was pursued by six men. Ranulf was in the lead, weapon gleaming ominously in the gray light. Ahead, the forest beckoned. Dark. Mysterious. He plunged into it. The forest closed around him, swallowing him, wrapping him in quiet and shadow. The puny trail went right; Gowain headed left, into the thick brush. He couldn’t hide the signs of his passage, but if he could go far enough, fast enough, he might be safe.

Briars snatched at his clothes; branches tried to scrape him from the horse’s back. Ducking low over the saddle, he laid his face alongside the horse’s neck and watched the woods flash by. He’d had no destination in mind, or so he thought, but when he saw the clearing and tumble of chalky rocks, he halted.

Here he used to play with Maye and her brother, Rob. Slipping from the saddle, he led the stallion around behind the rocks, secured him, then crept back to watch. Faint light filtered in through the canopy of leaves. In the dimness, nothing moved. He could hear nothing, but as he pulled off his helmet and cocked his head, a twig broke behind him.

Gowain turned in one swift movement, crouching low as he brought his sword up.

“Gowain!” gasped a female voice. She stood a foot away, a peasant woman in coarse homespun. “Tis me.” She drew back the cowl of her cloak. “Maye,” she added when he didn’t speak.

Maye? Nay, the Maye of his youth had been slender and beautiful, a siren whose call he’d longed to answer. “Maye.” His voice was as unsettled as his pulse. “What do you here?”

“Waiting for you…same as always.” As she closed the distance between them, her features grew more distinct. Yet they were blurred in their own way, by six years’ worth of lines and extra pounds. Still, it was Maye. “We heard you’d died.”

“I’m too tough to kill.” He looked around. “You cannot stay here. Ranulf comes….”

“He’ll not venture far into the woods. Ranulf fears the dark. With good reason. ‘Tis the outlaws’ domain.” Her eyes moved over his face, no doubt finding the years had marked him, too. “You’ve scarcely changed. I saw you ride into the village and wanted to run out and warn you, but Rob feared I’d be reported.”

“To whom?”

“Ranulf.” She spat the name, then smiled. “When Rob’s back was turned, I came looking for you, and found your men instead.”