Nigel Bennett & P. N. Elrod - Keeper of the King

KEEPER OF THE KING

By

Nigel Bennett & P. N. Elrod

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

Orleans, Normandy, the Beginning

An old man, and he was only thirty-five.

His arms felt like lead, his back ached, and sweat streamed into his eyes, creating

false tears. He'd fought the whole morning and well into the afternoon and felt every

harsh moment, but he couldn't show any weakness. Not to this crowd, not with so

much at risk.

A hundred men had started the great tourney and now the numbers were whittled

down, as they always were, to the final two. Himself, Richard, third son of

Montague, the Duc d'Orleans, seasoned, hard… and that damned boy.

Richard had managed by a series of strategies, alliances, and pure skill to defeat

some seventeen men. They had been strong, yet he had been stronger or smarter or

both. But now, as he faced his final opponent across the shattered turf, now he was

tired. More tired than he could remember. Every inch of him was bruised and his

helmet, grown heavy from the constant battle, chafed around his neck.

Richard looked across to the galleries of the old Roman-built arena taken over for

the contest. They had been nearly empty for most of the morning, but as the day's

climax neared, they fluttered with the movement of the onlookers. Even the duke his

father had deigned to show his face at last along with his fat firstborn, swollen even

now with the expectation of his inheritance. No such joy for the third son of most

houses. For him was the bitterness of a few thin gold coins and the polite request to

leave. Richard would go, eventually, but on his own terms and with honor. He would

make a show for them they'd never forget.

It had been his only real misfortune, Richard d'Orleans, to be third born. Nothing

other than that accident of timing could have marred him. He was tall, over six feet,

and handsome. He had inherited his mother's eyes, so he was told, of icy blue. He'd

never seen her, for she had died bearing him, bleeding her life away as he was rushed

to the wet nurse, screaming. He had cried for three days, whether from hunger or

from grief no one ever knew. His fair hair came from his father, as did his size and

strength. Montague d'Orleans had gained his place brutally over the bodies of many

an enemy and not a few friends. His third child came by his streak of cold

determination honestly. If you knew the father, you knew the son.

Richard's childhood had been no better and no worse than anyone else's of his

station. A wry grin crossed his face as he thought of it. His station! The third son

had no station. The first born inherited, the second went to the clergy, and the third?

The third simply went, the farther away the better, unless he could earn his keeping.

Thank God for the tourneys. Early in his youth he had shown the unmistakable

signs of being a natural warrior. In play as children, his older brothers were easy

prey for one of his precocious strength and skill. In the course of his years of

training he went on to ever older, larger opponents, and beat them all. Never once

had he lost. When his body flagged, his brain saved him. He possessed a tenacity

and intelligence that, coupled with his size, made him a natural champion. Pray God

these qualities would not forsake him now. So long as he could continue as the

favored champion of Orleans, bringing glory and honor to his family name, then his

parsimonious father had good reason to allow him to remain home. Anything less

and he would be shown the door quickly enough. Neither his father or oldest brother

had said as much in so many words, but it was clearly understood. The outcome of

this tourney would decide many things for them all for some time to come.

Richard d'Orleans looked to his callow opponent, studying him. The youth could

have been' no more than sixteen, the age of a squire, but was tall, muscled beyond

his years, and heavy-boned in broken and ill-fitting mail. His breathing was labored

as he leaned for a brief moment of respite on his sword. A bastard, thought Richard,

and all the more dangerous for that. Longing for honor. Longing to make a name

.

Because of his youth, he shouldn't have been allowed in the tourney, though there

were always exceptions. If the boy had had the good luck to capture a noble of

some rank on the battlefield, rather than submit himself to be ransomed by an

inferior, the noble would have knighted his captor on the spot, saving his name from

the humiliation. Richard didn't know or really care about this adversary's past, his

own future was all that mattered. The boy was nothing more than an obstacle to

overcome.

The trumpets sounded their strident calls. The defeated had been carried from the

field, either to be bandaged or buried, depending on their luck. Now it was the time

of champions. The crowd would be silent, awed by strength and savagery, by the

heat and the rush of blood and hope, until, as one of the champions fell, a great roar

would go up in exultation of the victor. Richard stood straight as silence descended,

facing his quarry, quiet as a statue. In past contests, so simple a ploy had often been

enough to unman even the boldest fighter. Soon he would find out if this stripling

was in that number.

The herald called their names out to the crowd, shouting what was already known,

that the victor of this single combat would win not only the tourney purse, but all the

arms and armor of the loser. Richard had little use for the boy's shoddy equipment,

but he wanted—needed—that purse of gold and all the important honors that went

with it. Then would he have the freedom he craved, to make the choice to stay in his

fathers court or to move on to serve in another, better house.

Despite his secure position as the firstborn with a son of his own to carry on the

title, his oldest brother had made no secret of his jealousy for Richard's abilities. The

teasing rivalry they'd once shared as children had grown spiteful over the years, at

least on his brother's part. All too aware of his dependence on the good will of their

father, Richard had grimly done his Christian duty and turned the other cheek to

keep peace in the house, but it was damned difficult at times. More and more often

his whispered confessions to the priests included his great temptation to pound Dear

Brother to a jelly. Even after a day such as this he could do so without much effort,

and oh, but didn't Dear Brother know that well enough? The priests, of course,

cautioned him against so grave a sin, and he reverently submitted to the penance

without a murmur. No one could accuse him of disdaining the knightly virtues.

But enough of that. Memories of the past and fair dreams for the future could

wait. All thought, all attention must be fixed upon what was to come. That purse of

gold wasn't yet tied to his belt; he had to first earn it. This new opponent had

unquestionably fought well, defeating more than a dozen veteran fighters to get this

far; it would be foolish to underestimate him just because he was a boy.

I was that young once, that desperate to prove myself. Why should he be any

different?

Richard continued to hold still, letting his cold gaze pound against the boy's

scratched and dented helmet. He was distant enough to not be able to see the boy's

eyes, but still… Can you feel that, young pup?

The boy held still in turn, perhaps wise to Richard's game and attempting to play

as well. The stillness seemed to spread out from them, encompassing the field, the

crowd, until the least murmur was stifled to silence. For the tiniest moment Richard

thought he could hear their very breath in their throats.

Then in the stands, the kerchief fell. Battle was joined.

Those who watched would tell later that this was the greatest struggle they had

ever witnessed. It was a struggle between man and boy, between experience and

youth, confidence and desperation.

At first, little happened. The two adversaries circled each other warily, searching

for weakness or fear. Then quick as lightning, they fell to it. For over an hour, the

clanging of sword on shield, of metal against metal rang out across the damp

Normandy countryside. For over an hour, it was the only sound to be heard, as if

not merely this crowd of watchers but the whole world held its breath. No bird sang,

no animal called, no infant cried. All was rapt attention, centered on the contest.

Initially, the young boy clearly had the upper hand.

He'd used his moment of respite well, and was full of energy and spirit. He

attacked with all the confidence of being sixteen and immortal. His sword arced

through the air time and again, driving Richard back. It looked to all that the older

man had finally, brutally met his match.

Richard, however, felt only serenity in his soul. He'd faced this many times

before. Indeed, it was often a tactic of his to allow a brash opponent the upper hand

in the early going to tire him out. Then he would come on full strength and finish off

the unfortunate. He'd convinced himself that this was the case now, and sure

enough, the boy was slowing, and the force behind his wild blows had faded.

Richard chose to forget the fact that he had been truly shocked by the sheer ferocity

of the boy's initial rush.

Now it was his turn. He hefted his great sword and swung it into smooth,

practiced motion, this time for attack, not defense. The boy staggered well back

under the onslaught, and for the first time, a collective murmur arose from the

crowd. Richard basked in their gift of approval, all but feasted on it in the brief

pause as the boy fought to recover himself. Time now to undermine his confidence

while he was yet vulnerable.

"I will have all you possess, all you desire. You are mine, boy."

"Not yet, I'm not," the younger man gasped. "I will not be beaten by an old man

such as you."

The words stung Richard. Unexpected, that, but easily returned. "Age, my lovely

youth, is in the eye of the beholder." And he struck again, down once to jar, then

hard to the side and up, driving the boy's sword from his grasp to send it flying

through the air, a flash of silver in the fading sunlight.

It was nearly over. An unarmed boy against

Orleans's greatest champion—all that remained to be decided was how much

injury to give before Richard chose to stop. He should cripple the jumped-up

bastard, for no champion wanted such a dangerous opponent to ever challenge him

again. But as he prepared to deliver the blow the boy suddenly charged him, fast as

the wind, faster than he could bring his sword around, arms wide to wrestle him to

the ground. An old trick, was his fleeting thought, tried often and doomed to fail.

The boy crashed against him with a grunt, the shock of impact passing hard

through his mail and padding beneath. More bruises for later. He felt burly arms

wrapping around his waist, trying to lift him, to topple him. He twisted to break the

boy's hold. Just for an instant he saw their long shadows black against the churned,

blood-soaked grass, saw their shapeless forms struggling, striving, one against the

other. He lifted his sword high, the blade catching the lowering sun behind him.

Sparks of light reflected off its polished surface, blinding him, but he didn't need to

see to accurately bring the thick pommel down on the back of the boy's neck just

below his helmet. It wouldn't kill, but it would give Richard the moment he needed to

tear free and finish the job. No mercy for this one, not after this humiliating trick. He

could hear the hooting from the galleries already.

Just as he'd raised his arm high enough, the inexplicable happened. Not that he

had time to work out exactly what caused it, all he understood was that an invisible

hand seemed to seize the sword from his grip and send it flying through the air.

"Slipped away from him, by St. George!" someone crowed.

Thunderstruck, Richard's mind howled a silent denial at this even as he tried to

recover from the setback. Not slipped! He knew better. Something had… had taken

it, plucked it right away from him when he needed it most.

Then his feet left the damp grass, he lost all purchase, all balance, and the world

spun crazily beyond the confines of his helm. The earth came up and slammed him

in the back, then another weight threw itself upon his laboring chest. He was down

with the boy on top of him.

Even now, with his surprise about the sword necessarily fading against changing

circumstance, he wasn't worried. He'd been in this situation more than a few times

before, wrestling in the mud before pinning his opponent and rising first to claim

victory. But this time, he found it more difficult. The youth was heavy and fighting

with all the ferocious recklessness of one who truly needed the victory. He wrested

out of Richard's grasp, quickly pushing himself to his knees. Richard clawed at his

legs to drag him back, but the boy pulled out his dagger and slashed down at the

older man's hand, driving the thin blade between the protective rings of his mail

glove like a hammer. Richard roared with equal parts of pain and outrage. Blood

spurted, mingling with the mud as the boy yanked the blade free then twisted

Richards helmet off. The sudden air was freezing against his sweat-soaked face and

hair. Richard brought a now-clumsy arm up and over, barely managing to block the

next fall of the knife. He tried to strike the boy's face, but that poor fit of a helmet

was sufficient protection. Not so for Richard. The boy's own mailed fist connected

like the club it was against the side of Richard's now vulnerable skull. The sun

whirled and flamed behind his eyes leaving behind a shuddering darkness.

The next thing he felt was a hand roughly grab his hair, pulling his head back,

exposing his throat. For an awful, bottomless second he was utterly certain of his

death. His time had finally come. All the victories of the years past meant nothing.

He was lost. Everything he had was lost.

The boy's leering face swam into view. "Yield, old man!"

His heaving breath stank, and the sweat dripped from his forehead onto Richards

own streaming face. He pressed the dagger hard against Richard's throat, cutting

him. A thick trickle of blood slid hot over his cold skin.

"Your life, your possessions are mine no matter what. Yield to me and I will spare

you. Old man."

He spat the words out, and Richard knew he had no choice. He became aware of

the clamoring crowd, the blaring trumpets, the screams, the laughter.

"I yield."

The words came with no effort. Those words that he had fought so hard over the

years never to have to say. They simply fell from his lips. Contemptuous, the boy

released him and threw his arms skyward in victory and staggered like a drunk away

to the welcoming shouts of his supporters.

Richard's strength was quite gone. He could only lie in the grass and reddened

mud, staring at an empty sky. His lungs labored painfully, his heart pounded far too

hard and fast for comfort, but gradually both eased their breakneck pace, allowing

him the single clear realization that he'd finally met defeat.

So it had happened at last, and strangely, very strangely, he felt free, released.

But God's mercy, how he hurt.

Dusk fell as Richard squatted alone in his tent by the lake. His servants weren't

there when he'd returned from the field, nor had he expected to see them after his

failure. They were, after all, attached to his father's household, not to him. However,

the boy's new page and squire, grinning like fools, had most timely come to remove

everything. His good chain mail, every trapping and weapon that he'd used in the

tourney, all his best possessions were forfeit. Even his great broadsword, his soul as

a fighter, disappeared, taken from him as he had taken it from his first victim. The

spoils ever went to the victor in this kind of contest. It was a lesson Richard had

learned long ago and benefited well from. Now, as though a great wheel had turned,

it was his time to suffer.

"Our master will have your horse in the morning. He has no need of it tonight. Do

not try to remove it," the squire had sniffed as he went, "or he will surely remove

your head."

Richard said nothing. His left hand hurt like the devil. When he'd removed his mail

glove to give to the page, his severed ring finger had fallen right out to the beaten

earth. The smirking child doubled over, whooping with laughter at Richard's

surprise. The squire bent and picked up the finger to offer it back with mocking

politeness. Richard stared at him until the youth shrugged, tossing it onto the old

blanket that served as a bed. The two of them finally finished their scavenging and

hurried away in the growing darkness, laden with their master's booty, anxious to

deliver it and pass along their tale. They'd left him the tent, too tattered to bother

claiming, his clothing, a bed, such as it was, and an oil lamp. After fourteen years of

service to his fathers house, this was all he had left, but he'd be damned before he

begged for aught else.

And now Richard squatted by the lamp's feeble light looking at the lifeless bit of

flesh that had once been a part of him. The blood was all gone from it; it felt

absurdly light and small.

What to do, he thought, what to do? The idea of taking his horse and riding like

the wind for the coast and a ship to Britain or even Wales had, indeed, crossed his

mind, but he dismissed it. Bad enough that he'd lost; he would not run away like a

beaten dog. No honor in that, mores the pity.

Ah, yes. Pity. The most favorable response he could anticipate for his defeat…

and the least tolerable to his temperament. God's death, but it was easy enough to

pity others, but for himself—better to be scorned as the defeated champion than to

suffer charitable sympathy. The other response would certainly be

contempt—especially from Father and Dear Brother—for what had happened.

And what had happened? How could he have lost his sword so easily, so

damned carelessly? At the time he'd have sworn on the church altar that it had been

solidly plucked away, and so it still seemed to him now, but that was ridiculous. It

had to be. No one had been close enough to them to…

Had the young bastard had magical help? Had someone been working witchery in

his favor? Richard was aware of such things, but in all his long years of fighting had

yet to see any for himself. No, that couldn't be it. That very morning he'd made his

confession with all the others who were to fight, been absolved, prayed at mass,

taken Communion, and worn his blessed cross all through the tourney. Surely no

sorcery, no matter how strong, could have touched him. No, despite his strong

impression of the incident, he must have mistaken things, somehow muddled them.

The deed was done, anyway, over forever and the bleak consequences from the

resulting loss were only just beginning to take root in his weary heart.

What to do?

He knew the fate of men in similar straits, having seen it often enough. He'd

always thought them pathetic and somehow deserving of their ignominy, that they

must have brought it upon themselves in some manner. He was well on the way to

revising that belief, for it looked to be his future, too, wandering from court to court

in hope that some lord would decide he was worth the keeping. If lucky, Richard

might attach himself to a wealthy liege and train other men to fight. If not, then dead

on a muddy road because… because he was an old man now and an easy kill. The

bastard had been all too right.

Old man.

He could still hear the boy's taunt in his mind, still feel the surprising pain of it.

Thirty-five and an old man, at least as a fighter. News of this would spread far and

wide, of how the great champion of Orleans was defeated by… what court would

even have him after this?

Now who is raining pity upon you?

He looked up, sure someone had spoken aloud to him, but the tent was empty.

He listened, hearing nothing except the distant noise of the revelers starting their

celebrations, a feast he had no stomach to endure. The voice had been a fancy only.

Perhaps he was getting a fever from the battering he'd taken, or from the lost finger.

That would make a perfect end to the worst day of his life.

What to do?

Of course, if he really got desperate he could enter into God's service. It would

mean dawn to dusk toil, broken by an endless series of prayers and masses, but he

was used to heavy work and at least he'd be fed regularly. Without money he could

never hope to rise very far in the church hierarchy, nor did he have influence to make

up for the lack. His second-born brother, who had taken orders, bore as little love

for him as the firstborn, scorning him for his success in the sinful vanity of

tournaments. Perhaps if his younger sibling was sufficiently repentant might he be

persuaded to have a change of heart.

But no, the cloistered walls of an abbey or monastery were not for Richard, not

with his appetite for life's fleshly joys. For once, his most recent confession had had

nothing to do with his oldest brothers slights and everything to do with the comely

wench whose company Richard had so thoroughly enjoyed the night before. He'd

gotten a weary penance for that sport, but she'd been worth it. Where was she?

Helping to celebrate the new champions victory no doubt. Not that he could afford

her favors now. Sweet Jesus, but he didn't even have enough money to get decently

drunk.

It was an effort to drag his mind back to the unhappy cares of the moment, but

back it came, encouraged by a legion of aches. A full day of hard combat was

difficult enough to bear when victory came at the end of it. Now with the bitter gall

of defeat, the pain of his body was almost unbearable.

You stink, Richard, he thought to himself. Go and bathe. Then have your

wounds treated. Off to the good sisters with you.

It was his custom after any trial of arms to visit the Priory of Our Lady the Virgin,

give generously to the sisters, and take advantage of their skills in healing if he

needed it. Perhaps tonight they would remember his past generosities and treat him

for nothing. He hoped so, for he was in grievous need of their help. His left hand

throbbed as he tore a strip from the blanket and wrapped it clumsily over the still

seeping wound. He'd have to find some hot wax to cauterize it, then have it properly

seen to; unless carefully treated he could lose his whole arm to rot, perhaps even die

from it.

There's a comforting thought.

With an immense effort of body and will, he slowly stood and turned to leave,

every separate stiffening muscle shrieking protest at the movement. It was then that

he saw her, heard her soft voice drifting to him across the dim tent like a gentle

summer breeze tousling the heads of wheat in a field.

"Bathing is an excellent idea, but if the good sisters possess any sense, they will

have nothing to do with you."

She stood just in the doorway of his tent, and for the first of many, many times,

the Lady Sabra took his breath away. He wasn't sure if she had spoken the words

he'd heard, for he hadn't seen her lips move. Certainly he didn't know what to say in

reply, particularly since she had commented upon his very thoughts. He stood like a

dumbstruck fool for what seemed an age, drinking her in with his eyes like a pilgrim

at the feet of a saint's statue. Such was the feeling her presence inspired in him, as

though he were in church, but instead of a bit of painted wood or stone this statue

was alive, regarding him with ancient eyes, eyes that had seen all and could forgive

anything. For an instant he wanted to fall to his knees before their terrifying beauty.

"Lady, you mistake your place," he whispered, finally mastering himself enough

to speak. "If you have lost your way…"

"I am not lost." Her voice was as cool and smooth as the lake water, and she

continued with her steady regard of him. Smiling.

No lady of any rank—and her clothing proclaimed her to be very high and

wealthy, indeed—would have been alone as she seemed to be, but here she stood,

looking at him as though nothing at all was amiss. He found it difficult to believe, but

perhaps this angelic beauty was a camp follower dressing well beyond her station.

Only one of that number would travel about after dark with no escort and boldly

come to a man's tent.

"You have no business here. I have nothing for you…" There, an inoffensive

dismissal, an easy way for her to take her leave no matter who she might be.

"You are half correct," she said. "You have nothing for me, good Lord Richard,

but I do have business here." And she smiled that devastating smile again.

What kind of creature is she? he wondered. She was built like a girl, small, tiny

compared to him, and yet there was a strange wisdom in her face. Her eyes were of

the darkest brown, so dark that the black center was indistinguishable. Her skin was

clear and milky white, and her ready smile showed strong, white, even teeth. But

there was something else about her that he could not readily describe. She was

confident, yes, and there was royalty in her bearing for sure, and at the same time,

something disturbing. Then it came to him. It was a sense of power so vast and great

that for an instant the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise, and he felt an

almost overwhelming urge to run away as far and as fast as he could.

"I am the Lady Sabra. You may have heard of me."

He tried his memory, but so unusual a name as hers meant nothing to him, and

had he ever met her before he'd certainly have remembered. Had she been in the

galleries? No, for he'd have surely noticed her there sparkling like a jewel amid the

gold.

"No, Lady Sabra, I have not. Forgive me." How abashed he felt, like an

inexperienced lad with his first woman.

"It does not matter."

"You are kind." Why was she here, a lady of her rank? What could she want with

him? A base idea crossed his mind, one of many possibilities, but he was reluctant

to explore it too far. He'd learned long ago that the pursuit of carnal pleasures with

noblewomen was often of far greater danger than any battlefield. Best to find out her

business, then get rid of her as fast as politeness allowed.

"I would ask you to sit, but as you can see, there is nothing to sit on." He

gestured with his right hand, holding his left close to his body.

"I do not need to sit." She continued to smile at him as she spoke, her gaze

holding briefly on his injured hand before shifting back to his face; an unspoken

challenge flashed from her remarkable eyes. "I watched you today at the tourney.

You did well… for an old man."

God's mercy, but he did not need this now, no matter how beautiful she was. His

lips tightened in an effort not to grimace. "I thank you, lady, your compliment is

appreciated, though the 'old' is irksome. I have done better many times in the past.

Perhaps Your Ladyship should have seen me then." There, he'd almost sounded

civil, even to his own ears.

"I saw all that I needed to see today," she said evenly. Her gaze now swept over

him from top to bottom, obviously judging, assessing, noting everything. He was

more than aware of his ragged appearance, the muddy filth, blood and bruises. It

was of no matter to him, if she wanted to talk to a gaudy peacock there were plenty

to choose from in Father's court. "I saw," she continued, "a boy defeat a man. I saw

a man humbled before a great throng. I saw youth bring pride low."

God's death, but he did not need this. Had a man voiced such things to him

Richard would have given in to temper and challenged him on the spot. Instead, for

the sake of her sex he must endure her insults. But she speaks the truth, so how is

that an insult? Still, his jaw ached for holding back a sharp retort to her. A woman

such as she would surely have a champion. However tempting it was, he didn't want

to offend her and get into another fight. At least not for a day or two. He took a

deep, steadying breath before replying. "Indeed, lady. Forgive me, but I am not at

my best, and truly do not need to be reminded of my defeat. Perhaps you should

leave and allow an 'old man" —despite his wish for control his anger and voice rose

as he spoke— "to be alone with the ends of his overweening pride, and to treat his

hurts as best he can."

"Forgive me Lord Richard." Her demeanor abruptly softened and she seemed

truly repentant. "I did not mean to add to your misery. I've not come here to gloat."

How could she have known he was thinking that?

"I simply tell as I see. There is no judgment there. In truth, that boy will gain little

from his victory. I see a short life for him…"

She stopped, as if uncertain whether to go on, then stepped toward him and

looked up earnestly into his eyes.

Nigel Bennett & P. N. Elrod - Keeper of the King

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