Queen Of Knights Read online

  The coolness of the dagger’s handle calmed her as she stood to face the three. The men, seeing her unclad body and the weapon she held before her, smiled.

  “Look, a forest nymph, just like the old tales,” said the leader as his eyes narrowed to beady slits. He signaled his two men onward with an abrupt motion. Both men held shortswords, as did the leader, but these men said nothing. Only their eyes spoke, devouring Gwendolyn.

  “Stop!” she ordered, standing straight and proud against them. She could feel the blood race in her body. Her muscles tensed dangerously as an energy built, unlike any she’d known before.

  ‘Stop’ she says.” The leader of the ragged trio laughed.

  “We’ll not stop until each of us is satisfied thrice over!” he snarled, advancing ahead of his two companions. Ten feet separated them when Valkyrie screamed again. The three looked skyward, but too late. The huge bird of prey dove, striking the leader full’ in the face. The giant eagle’s claws sank deep into forehead and eyes. The man screamed in agony, dropping his sword as he fell to the ground, his hands beating futilely against his winged assailant.

  Without thinking, Gwendolyn dove for the shortsword. As her fingers closed around its hilt, she rolled in a perfect somersault, landing lightly on her feet to face the remaining two men. She watched them shake themselves free of the haunting image of eagle and man fighting on the ground and saw their expressions turn fiercer as they advanced toward her.

  She held the sword in front of her, moving it smoothly, loosening her wrists and preparing to fight. She knew she was outnumbered and inexperienced, but the singing in her blood bid her to challenge.

  A slow smile spread on her lips as her gaze followed, instinctively, not the men’s footsteps, but their eyes. Closer they moved, their swords raised above them, trying to frighten the tall, golden-haired woman. Then the first cried out and he lunged toward her.

  Gwendolyn expected the attack and, as he came at her, she spun under the man’s blade, her own sword’s tip biting into his shoulder.

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  Sir Miles Delong, Earl of Radstock, Knight of the Realm, and military advisor to King Richard the First, stared at the ground, looking for signs of those he sought.

  The filtered sun glinted from the dark chain maille covering his arms as be squinted in an effort to locate the trail. He, with his two squires, twin brothers named Arthur and James, had been riding since sunrise to catch the three men whom he had found to be thieves. Miles knew they were near; he could feel it with every sense he possessed.

  “Here, Sir Miles! The trees are marked.” Miles turned his charger and looked in the direction to which Arthur pointed. On the bole of one large oak was a gouge made by a man in passing. Miles rode to the tree and looked down. His eyes, the deep green of the ocean, examined the mark minutely. He bent and stretched a hand out to graze the scratch, and it came away with fresh sap between thumb and forefinger.

  “Close,” he said. His word was followed by the screeching of a large bird. Snapping his head up, Miles saw a golden eagle diving toward a not-too-distant spot in the forest. The eagle disappeared. Suddenly a horrible shrieking echoed. “Come,” Miles ordered the two boys.

  The squires jumped on their horses and followed their lord.

  When Miles neared the spot he had fixed in his mind, the sounds of fighting came to his ears. Drawing his longsword, Miles spurred his mount onward. The trees flew by in a blurring of speed as he came nearer to the scene of battle. One moment he was deep in the forest, the next in an open glade. Reining in the horse, Miles looked about.

  He froze in the saddle at the sight that greeted his eyes.

  Before him, on the ground, was one of the three men he hunted. The man was still. A golden eagle—its claws buried within his face—stood victor atop him. Then Miles’s eyes flew toward the fighters. His breath exploded as he watched the tallest woman he had ever seen do battle with the two others he sought. She was naked, her long blonde hair flying wildly about as she parried and fought the renegade men-at- arms. Time seemed to come to a halt. Miles saw the woman perfectly—the satiny sheen of her skin and the muscular perfection of her body lent a magnificent gracefulness to her moves. She was doing well, his military mind noted, but she also showed signs of inexperience by failing to take advantage of openings.

  With a cry of rage, Miles charged the three figures just as his two squires broke from the forest. Miles rode at one of the men, his sword circling his head as he closed in. From the comer of his eye, he saw the woman’s startled expression when he cut down one of her foes.

  Reining in the charger, Miles wheeled him around and bore down on the other man. The man, Arrant by name, saw his death coming and began to run. Miles smiled as the woman swung her sword at his retreating back, barely missing him, and then laughed as the frightened thief ran into the knife point of James, twin brother of Arthur. The man stopped, and his shortsword fell from his fingers while James’s knife held him at bay.

  Quickly, Miles dismounted and went to where Gwendolyn had dropped her clothes to the ground. He picked them up and walked to her; admiration reflected in his eyes. She stood proudly, unheeding of her nakedness as her full breasts rose and fell from her labors. She gazed directly into his eyes, and as he came closer he could only think of the beauty of a morning sky. Looking into her eyes, Miles held up the burgundy tunic for the woman to step into.

  Dropping the sword, Gwendolyn took one step toward the knight and turned. He wrapped her in her tunic, and as her hands closed the material she turned to face him. Their eyes locked again, and Gwendolyn felt her blood begin to race anew. The depth of his eyes was bottomless, and the strong, angular cut of his chin was commanding. His prominent cheekbones added to the power that was in his face. Dark, almost black hair fell to his shoulders, framing his deeply tanned face. His full lips held only a faint trace of smile, and a flash of white teeth showed between them

  Miles turned from the woman to face his squires. “Take him and fetch the men. I will await you here.” A moment later the twins, along with the sole survivor of the trio, disappeared from the grass that surrounded the Pool of Pendragon.

  Gwendolyn willed her heart to slow and her breath to return to normal as she faced the knight. She had yet to take her eyes from him, and from the fact that this man was the first she did not look down upon, he must be at least three inches taller than she.

  “Thank you, Sir Knight, for your gallantry. I daresay, if you had not arrived when you did, it would have taken me a bit longer to finish the two.”

  Miles could not believe his ears as he listened to the words she spoke, but in his heart, he heard not the words, but the bravery and the spirit which filled them.

  “Perhaps, yet I think you lack the experience to have finished them. But we shall never know, and for that I am grateful. I would not want to have seen you, if your valiant effort had failed.”

  “I would not have failed, but again, Sir Knight, you have my thanks, and my debt,” she said as she curtsied to him. “And whom do I have the honor of being saved by?” Gwendolyn asked with a smile.

  “Forgive me, but my manners have always been a poor second to my sword. Permit me, I am Miles Delong,” he said with a slight bow.

  “Sir Miles? Earl of Radstock?”

  “The same, I fear,” he replied with a smile.

  “From the tales I have heard, Sir Miles, you fear little.”

  “And you?”

  “Forgive me. I am Gwendolyn Kildrake.’

  “Sir Hughes’s daughter?” asked Miles, a frown creasing his forehead. Word had reached Miles, several years ago, that Hughes’s daughter had died.

  “His granddaughter, Sir Miles. Daughter of Gwyneth, who was wife to Guy of Halsbred,’ she explained.

  “Of course!” Miles exclaimed, a smile erasing his frown as he looked at her. Her height should have told him who she was. Miles had heard of Gwendolyn Kildrake; his mother had told him the tale ten years ago, when he was fifteen, and word
of Sir Guy’s death had reached their lands. Rumors had flown, and Miles had heard of the strange affair of Lady Halsbred’s return to her father’s lands. When he asked about it at the table one night, a gale of laughter had followed his question, and many explanations had flown across the boards. But later, his mother had told him that Gwyneth, her distant, fourth cousin, had given birth to a daughter, eight years to the day of Miles’s own birth, and that the child was not the daughter of Sir Guy. His mother, gentle soul that she had been, spoke only good of Gwyneth, and advised him not to listen to unfounded rumors. Then, almost four years ago, when Miles was fighting with Richard in Normandy, word had come of Gwyneth’s death, followed by other tales of her strange daughter, a blonde-haired girl, beautiful but overly tall

  While Miles recalled these facts, his eyes continued to trace the lines of Gwendolyn’s face until she turned and moved to the rest of her discarded clothing. Silently he watched as she completed dressing. When the leather girdle had been buckled, securing her tunic, and her jeweled knife returned to its sheath, Gwendolyn moved toward the eagle which now stood alongside its conquered victim.

  He watched the tall, golden-haired woman kneel and extend her arm. It was then he noticed a leather binding covering her right wrist. And she flies an eagle, he thought when the bird climbed onto her arm.

  Gwendolyn felt a surge of warmth when Valkyrie stepped onto his leather perch, grasping her wrist in a light, but secure hold. She looked into the eagle’s amber eyes and smiled. “Thank you, my friend,” she said to him as she stroked his chest. She turned and, with a deep breath, lowered her arm. With a fluid, graceful, and practiced motion, Gwendolyn swung her arm upward. The eagle left its perch, arched down and, as its wide feathered wings spread, began to lift toward the treetops.

  Gwendolyn watched her friend, which was how she thought of the eagle, fly skyward. Behind her, she heard Miles’s voice.

  “You’ve trained him well. I’ve never seen an eagle that is gentler than a hawk.” Gwendolyn spun to face the knight.

  “I’ve not trained him at all. He comes with me by his own choice,” she informed him.

  “I would expect nothing else from one such as you,” he said. “My men will be here shortly. I would see you safely home.”

  “My thanks, Sir Miles, but I would see myself home. I have many things to do today, and returning to Kildrake Castle before the sun is down, is not one of them,” she said as she bent and retrieved her cape.

  Miles watched her carefully. He had never met a woman who carried herself so well., who emanated such strength and power, yet did so without conscious effort. He knew she spoke truthfully, and was not trying to hide anything. Suddenly Miles knew something else also. Now that he had met her, he knew he would never be satisfied with another woman. In that moment, Miles Delong made up his mind to marry Gwendolyn Kildrake.

  Gwendolyn watched as Miles accepted her words and moved closer to her. She saw his eyes change and noted the tightening around his mouth. She realized her heart was beating madly within her chest as his gaze swept across her face.

  “Gwendolyn Kildrake, granddaughter of Hughes, are you betrothed?”

  “Yes,” she whispered through the knot that had suddenly formed in her throat. She turned from him and walked to the black mare that had stood so patiently waiting. Before reaching the mare, she felt Miles’s hand stopping her and pulling her around to face him. She tried to ignore the hot throbbing just beneath her skin as she faced him.

  “Do you have feelings for your betrothed?” he asked, his green eyes boring relentlessly into her lighter blue ones.

  She tried to form some evasive answer, but the words would not leave her tongue. Slowly, she shook her head.

  “I have no choice. The bargain was made shortly after my mother’s death. I am to marry Morgan of Guildswood, by summer’s end.”

  “After your mother’s death? She would not have approved the match?” he asked, searching her face for the answer. Then he smiled. “I would give you your choice!” he stated boldly. “Would you have me for your husband?” Gwendolyn knew with a strange certainty that life with this man would be everything she could want. Even the one thing which she knew was impossible, but was her most cherished dream.

  “I would,” Gwendolyn whispered, her heart stopping for an instant.

  “Then I will speak of this to Sir Hughes. I will strike a bargain he will be agreeable to.”

  “But .. .” Gwendolyn began, taking a deep breath as she lifted her hand and gently stroked his cheek. The sensation of his skin on hers sent tremors along her arm. Her thoughts swirled with the possibilities of the future, and she knew she must voice them before anything further could come of this meeting. “I would ask one boon if you are to marry me.”

  Miles’s eyes were unblinking as he looked at her. Then he nodded. “When I saw you, I knew you were no ordinary woman. Your boon, or as many as you ask, shall be granted! One, or a hundred, it matters not.”

  Her heart swelled at his words. She wondered for a moment if this was just his passion speaking. Then he smiled again, his face softening.

  “You have a strong chin, Sir Miles, and intelligent eyes. I could fare worse. There is one, and only one, boon I would ask.”

  “Then speak it, for it is granted.”

  “Not yet. If you succeed in winning my hand, you will hear my boon on our wedding day.”

  “And why not now?” Miles asked, puzzled by her secrecy, yet at the same time feeling an intense anticipation.

  “Because, my gallant knight, until we are actually betrothed, and until the words of the marriage ceremony are to be a reality and not a dream, I will trust no one with what I must ask.”

  Hearing the passionate depths of her words, Miles tightened his grip on her hand. “You will always be able to trust me, my lady, always. Now, up with you,” he said as his hands went around her waist and he lifted her effortlessly onto the mare’s back. Gwendolyn closed her eyes at the pleasure of finally having someone who could make her feel like a woman.

  “Soon, my Lady Gwendolyn, I will come to claim you.”

  “I know,” Gwendolyn whispered. Then she sat straight on the horse’s back and, using her heels, urged the mare into the trees. She rode smoothly, not giving in to the impulse to glance back. She had no need. Miles’s features were indelibly printed in her mind: his strong face, his deep, but gentle eyes, the strength in his hands, and the aura of his power.

  Gwendolyn knew that now she must go to the cave. She must feel the sword of her father in her hands, and with it, she must think over everything that had happened to her this day.

  Chapter Two

  Gwendolyn rode deep into the forest, her mind confused, yet peaceful at the same time. Over and over, she forced herself to replay the encounter at the pool. She analyzed every moment now that she had the time to do so. She remembered all her mistakes clearly, but at the same time she realized she could have done no better. All her training-in-arms and the ways of fighting had been learned by observation of the squires and knights when they practiced; and her own practice had been limited by necessity to the times when she was alone. And then she could only fight imaginary foes with her sword.

  She reviewed what had happened and again saw Miles charging forward on his mount, his head bared, his halberd hanging on its thong, and his sword held high, reflecting sunlight and gleaming its intent as he whipped it downward against the others. But there was his handsome face . . .shivering, even in the warmth, Gwendolyn wondered what the fates had in store for her.

  Why had she spoken so boldly? Because I have waited a lifetime for him! Because he is the only man I have ever seen that I could allow myself to be with! Because I see within him a vast good.

  Without realizing it, Gwendolyn had arrived at her destination. She slid from her mount's back and dropped the reins. Pausing as she looked at the obscured opening in the face of the moss-covered hill, she felt her heart beat faster.

  Breathing deeply, Gwendoly
n started forward. As always, a tingling began in the balls of her feet, and by the time she reached the entrance, it spread through her entire body. It was a far-from-unpleasant feeling and one she always looked forward to.

  Ducking her head, Gwendolyn entered the darkened cave.

  Inside, she walked unerringly toward the deep niche in the far wall. Reaching up, Gwendolyn’s fingers searched until they brushed against the soft chamois. She sighed in relief. It was always so, every time she returned to the cave: she feared that she would never find it. Her fingers grasped the object and she drew it down.

  With the chamois-wrapped blade secure in her hand, Gwendolyn walked toward the entrance of the cave. Halfway there she reached the daylight filtering inward in a misty flow. At the first edge of light upon the cave’s floor, she stopped.

  Sinking gracefully to her knees, Gwendolyn placed the chamois on the ground and gently unfolded it. She gasped as she always did when the light struck the blade. The silver shimmered, and Gwendolyn felt warmth emanating from it.

  She gazed at it for long moments, her eyes reacquainting themselves with her treasure—her inheritance. The pommel, a perfect oval with a round silver ball on top, and a tapering and simple quillons cross bar beneath it, was crisscrossed with fine lines, and Gwendolyn knew the design was not for beauty, but for traction on the skin.

  The blade was several inches longer than most longswords, yet so thin it was almost invisible when turned sideways. Its gleaming length was unmarked, showing not one nick from battle. But instinctively, Gwendolyn knew this sword had seen more battle than any sword in England or Normandy.