Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

“He was beyond foolish to leave me behind.”

Mary sighed. “Yes, you smashed that beautiful glass window.”

“I hated to do that but there was no choice.”

“It is too late to be sorry. Now, Chandra, I wish you would forget Lord Richard. He is your father, Chandra. He could never be your husband.”

“Speaking of husbands, I hope Jerval doesn’t need me right now. I’ve heard talk that Sir John of Oldham is a mangy, paltry man. I hope the man doesn’t try anything foolish. Jerval would gullet him.”

Mary rolled her eyes.

Chandra pricked her finger on the needle.

Alan Durwald stroked the thick hank of hair that was braided about his wrist, and was satisfied. Jerval de Vernon, the man who had killed too many of his men, taken back the cattle he’d stolen, would die by his hand tonight, and his lady would be left without a husband to protect her. Sir John’s man had told him that there were a dozen men. Alan would trust Sir John’s men to take the Camberley men who were sleeping in the hall and in the barracks.

He would kill Jerval de Vernon. It was late enough now, and the young knight was likely snoring after slaking his lust. He would also be drunk, if Alan knew Sir John, which indeed he did. He motioned his three men up the narrow stairs of the keep and paused to listen outside the oak door of the bedchamber. All was quiet, as it should be. He quietly pressed the latch and swung the door open, his fingers tight about the bone handle of his dagger. Through the darkness, he saw the outline of two figures in bed, and motioned for his men to enter. They stepped toward the bed, their swords and knives at ready.

Suddenly, the silence was rent by a bloodcurdling yell, and he saw the glint of a sword slicing toward one of his men.

He couldn’t believe it. “It’s a trap!”

Jerval slashed his sword into the man’s belly, then jerked it out. “Take that one, Mark,” Jerval shouted, “I want this bastard.” He leapt aside as Alan Durwald swung his claymore high above his head and brought it down in a vicious blow.

Jerval blocked the claymore, but he felt the force of it all the way to his shoulder. Now it was his turn. Excitement flowed through him.

He brought his own sword down, and he felt Durwald’s arm weaken under the blow.

Jerval heard a low, gasping sound, felt a cold chill touch him. Even as Mark shouted, “Behind you, Jerval!” he wheeled about and saw another man run through the doorway, his sword raised. Jerval flung his knife. It sliced cleanly through the man’s neck, and arcs of blood spurted toward him.

“You damned English bastard!” Alan Durwald saw Geordie fall, his hands clutching at the knife in his throat, saw him fall backward, driving the knife back out. He whirled on Jerval, nearly beside himself with rage. He fought with all his strength, but de Vernon did not falter or fall back. Durwald heard another man fall, and knew with certainty that he was now alone against two men.

“No, Mark, he is mine.”

But de Vernon did not leap toward him as he’d hoped. He saw a blur of movement, nothing more.

Alan Durwald felt the blade slice deep into his shoulder, and he roared with the pain of it, stumbling back. Another knife, he thought blankly, pain numbing him now—he’d thrown another knife at him. His claymore fell from his fingers, and he sank to his knees. He felt de Vernon’s boot strike his b

elly, and he fell to his back. He felt de Vernon’s heel dig into his chest, and saw his enemy lean over to jerk the dagger from his shoulder. With a scream of pain and fury, Alan managed to clutch the dagger, and with all his strength, he jerked it out of his flesh. He plunged it toward de Vernon’s stomach. Jerval jerked back, twisted away. There was an instant of silence, such cold silence it was. Then Alan Durwald, panting, his palms pressed against his own shoulder, felt a sudden blinding pain in his chest. He realized in that instant that de Vernon had plunged his sword downward this time. Then he felt no more.

“Light the torch, Mark.”

Jerval stared down at Alan Durwald.

“He is dead?”

“Aye.” Jerval rose to his feet. “As for Sir John, he will look quite well hanging from the gibbet at Camberley.”

Jerval rode into the inner bailey at Camberley with Sir John and his wife, Lady Faye, beside him, and three Camberley men-at-arms at his back. He had left Mark, Malton, and the rest of Camberley’s men at Oldham to restore some kind of order to the keep.

Sir John faced his overlord in the Great Hall, and knew by the implacable look on Lord Hugh’s face that he was lost. He listened in silence while Sir Jerval recounted the events at Oldham.

“The Scot leader, Alan Durwald, is dead,” Jerval said. “Our northern border should be peaceful for a time.”

“The Scot threatened me, my lord,” Sir John said, rushing forward to grab Lord Hugh’s arm. “He stole my cattle and sheep and bribed my steward and some of my men. I told your son about my steward. He was in league with Durwald. I had no choice but to obey him. He said he would kill me and my poor wife if I did not hide him when he needed Oldham as a base.”

He waved his beringed hand toward his hapless wife, who stood trembling with fear, her eyes upon her feet. Stupid bitch, he thought with impotent anger, could she not at least plead for him? “Aye, Faye was Durwald’s mistress, the faithless bitch. She is the one who is guilty here, not I.”

Chandra broke the silence. “You wear valuable rings on your fingers, Sir John, and very costly garments. Yet I look at your lady wife and see that she wears a tattered gown, and is thin and pale. And the bruise beside her mouth, Sir John, does not become her. It would appear to me that you have not protected her well from harm.”