Chapter 1
Alex left the meeting with William Rufus, pausing in front of the king’s tent to gaze across the bay toward Mont Saint Michel.
The rugged granite crag reaching hundreds of feet above the vast muddy plain always filled him with awe.
He could well imagine that three hundred years before, as the Bishop of Avranches had claimed, the Archangel Michael had pressured him into building a church on top of the island.
The Benedictine abbey sitting on top of the granite rock stood like an offering to Heaven.
It was the perfect place from which Henry could take his stand against his brothers, the King of England and the Duke of Normandy, who had combined forces to lay siege to the fortress sheltering their rebellious younger sibling.
That is, if Henry had no need for fresh water, for there was none to be had on the rock that was Mont Saint Michel.
Henry’s mercenaries and loyal knights knew well the unstable ground around the island, so they could avoid the treacherous quicksand better than could William’s knights.
Alex hated their routine sallies from the fortress to harass William’s men while seeking the water Henry so desperately needed.
Some of their forays had been successful, only postponing the siege.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alex glimpsed Rory striding toward him, shoving his tangled red hair back from his face.
“Alex, do you see Henry’s knights riding on our side of the bay as if indifferent to the king’s tent flying his banner within their sight?”
“Aye, I have been watching them. What say you we remind Henry’s men ’tis William Rufus who has come to call and not some baron of low rank?”
Rory greeted Alex’s response with a grin. “I will get Guy and some of the men.”
Guy and Rory were Alex’s closest companions, knights from Talisand like himself, serving England’s king.
Moments later, Rory had gathered the men. Alex mounted Azor, his black stallion, while keeping his eyes focused on the score of mounted knights in the distance making their way along the edge of the bay.
“They will not taunt us for long,” Alex muttered to himself.
Just as he raised his hand to give the order to charge, the king plunged from his tent, wearing mail and a plain iron helm. “I will not sit in my tent drinking Robert’s wine when a fight can be had!” shouted William. “I am coming!”
“My Lord,” Alex said, bowing his head, “ ’tis our pleasure to follow you into the fray.”
They rode forth, the king in the lead, and soon they were engaged in close fighting with Henry’s mounted knights, their swords clashing furiously in hand-to-hand combat.
The men they fought were as well trained as they were, some likely having been squires in Rouen with William before he was named king.
Engaged in his own battle, Alex looked over his opponent’s shoulder just as one of Henry’s men thrust a lance into William’s horse. The stallion screamed in panic and reared, causing the king to fall. The horse ran, dragging the king behind him, his foot caught in the stirrup.
Alex slashed his sword, dispatching the knight with whom he’d been fighting, and dug his spurs into Azor’s side in pursuit of the king.
Just ahead of him, the king’s horse came to a sudden halt and pitched to the ground, dead. Beside him lay his fallen master. The king’s eyes were closed and his mud-smeared face pale beneath the dirt.
Behind him, Alex heard the sound of Henry’s men galloping toward him. From their vile remarks, they thought he was running. They were wrong.
Alex whirled, his sword flashing in the sun.
Five of Henry’s knights faced him, reining in their horses to sneer. The first one, a powerfully built knight, charged forward. Alex cut him down with one strike of his blade, standing in his stirrups to add force to the blow.
With his legs, Alex maneuvered Azor to one side as he turned to face another. Shifting his sword to his left hand that held his shield, he drew his lance and launched it at his opponent’s neck. The man grunted and toppled sideways, blood gushing over his mail, as he pitched to the ground.
A third knight urged his horse in front of the other two who remained. Grimacing, he said, “You will not have me so easily!”
Behind Alex, the king moaned. William lives!
Alex studied the face of the helmed knight who confronted him, the way he held his sword, his horse’s nervous dancing.
Overconfident and arrogant with less control than he believed, Henry’s knight spurred his horse forward.
Using his legs, Alex turned Azor to the side, escaping the man’s blade.
As the knight passed, Alex’s sword sliced through the back of his neck.
Before the two who were left could attack, William roused and shouted, “Stop, you fools! I am the King of England!”
The remaining two knights apparently believing it was William who had spoken, ceased their pursuit of Alex and stared at the king, their faces ashen beneath their helms.
Alex dismounted and helped William to rise.
One of Henry’s knights quickly slid from his saddle and gave over his horse to the king.
William swung into the saddle, acknowledged Alex’s help with a nod and eyed the soldiers before him. “Which of you killed my horse?” he demanded.
The one who had thrown the lance stepped forward. “It was me. But I did not know you were the king. I thought you were only a knight.”
William must have been in a generous mood for he appeared amused, not angry, and his next words surprised Alex.
“By the face of Lucca, from now on, for your courage and spirit, you will be my man and in my service get a proper reward.”
The man dropped to his knee. “As you wish, My Lord.”
William turned his horse and galloped away. His new man, taking the horse of one of his fallen companions, mounted and followed.
Having finished their own battles, Rory and Guy and the rest of his men rode up staring at the king riding away.
“Do not ask,” Alex said to them. “Only know this, William has been saved from death this day and gained himself a new liege man in the process.”
Alex had witnessed the king’s vile temper on more than one occasion but today he had witnessed his magnanimity. In so doing, William had won Alex’s respect.
* * *
Talisand, England, July 1091
The summer sun found its way to the green undergrowth around her, its golden light dappling the ground as Merewyn lifted her bow and looked into the distance. A tree stood in challenge, her target a small spot of sunlight on its dark bark.
Taking her stance, she nocked the arrow, lifted her bow and pulled the string back to her cheek, an action so familiar she had no need to think about the separate motions, only the result. She let out a breath and loosed her fingers. The arrow flew, a blur too fast for the eye to follow.
“Thwack!” The satisfying sound echoed through the woods, confirming the shot, a difficult one, had hit its mark.
In her hands, the bow had become her constant companion and a terrible force, a symbol of the strength she had acquired in Wales.
Never again would she be vulnerable to men who, because of her beginnings, considered her an object of scorn, or worse, easy prey.
Pleased, she quickly nocked the second arrow, but the sound of thundering hooves and bleating sheep had her jerking her head around.
Heart pounding in sudden alarm, she fixed her eyes on the meadow in front of the palisade.
Who would ride toward Talisand at such a pace, tearing up the sod and scattering ewes and their lambs that only moments before were peacefully nibbling on grass?
When no clarion call sounded from the gate tower, she squinted into the morning sun and watched as a dozen riders hurtled down the green slope heading toward the open gate. Over the jingle of bits and harnesses, they exchanged jests and insults, egging each other on.
Despite the years that had passed since she had last seen him, Merewyn recognized the rider in the lead at once.
Alexander.
His sable hair, now long to his shoulders, whipped behind him. Clad in mail, he sat as straight as a lance atop a huge black stallion. Moving as one with the great horse, he raced like a threatening storm toward Talisand’s gate.
Even beneath his mail, she could see his body was now that of a warrior. Powerful shoulders, a lean, muscled frame and spurs marked him as one of the king’s knights.
He sped by without a glance in her direction.
Inwardly, she chided herself for the joy she experienced at seeing him again.
In the months after her return to Talisand, she had heard tales of him whispered about the hall.
Vicious on the battlefield and domineering in bed was how the women described him.
An arrogant, swaggering knight and, to her mind, just like the others.
The kitchen wenches spoke of his many conquests with women with a gleam of envy in their eyes.
She wanted no part of it.
One day, he would take his place as the Earl of Talisand, lauded as the king’s favored knight. Such a man would not even remember the girl he had once saved from a pack of village boys. Why should she give him another thought? After all, she was now her own defender.
In the year after the ruffians had surrounded her in the woods, Alexander’s presence had shielded her from harm. But when he left for Rouen to train as a squire, those same boys, keenly aware her protector was gone, began to leer at her once again.
What began as rude comments, muttered in passing, soon became indecent invitations.
Whenever she ventured into the village, a group of idle boys was always waiting, their eyes following her as they called out bawdy suggestions.
It was only a matter of time before they found her alone and cornered her once again.