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THE SWORD IS MIGHTIER

Scholar Knight Book I

by

M Harold Page

Pressname: Paradox Books

Copyright © 2013 Paradox Interactive AB

All rights reserved

Author: M Harold Page

Editor: Mattias Johnsson

Cover art: Victor Titov

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THE SWORD IS MIGHTIER: SCHOLAR KNIGHT BOOK I

CHAPTER ONE Shrewsbury Abbey, England, Winter AD1449

The wooden longsword thwacked into the post. The smack carried into the grip stinging Jack Rose’s cold palms, and echoed back from the walls of the Abbey like a mocking applause. The practice weapon fell to the frosty grass.

Startled crows cawed and swarmed out of a skeletal willow tree. They swirled high into the darkening sky and Jack tried not to imagine them landing on the English dead at Rouen.

“God’s Teeth! Why can’t I get this right? It’s just applied Geometry!”

On the other side of the River Severn, the spires of Shrewsbury caught at the sunset. However, it was the gloomy stone castle at the north end of the hilltop that drew Jack’s gaze. Longsword was all very well, but he needed to learn to use a polaxe. Oddly, the Prior had forbidden Jack to keep even a blunt one. A wooden practice sword was as good as it got for a pupil of the Abbey Grammar School.

As the crows returned to their roost, Jack stooped

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and picked up his sword. He glanced around to make sure that nobody had heard him blaspheme. The sunset had painted the great Abbey a soft pink, but left its grounds to the gathering dusk. Jack was in perfect solitude.

Smiling, he settled into Roof Guard, left foot forward, blade at his shoulder pointing up.

A horse whinnied from the direction of the road. Jack’s heart leapt into his throat. He shook his head

irritably. Probably just some Welsh farmer rushing to cross the Stone Bridge before they closed the gates for the night. According to the Prior, his father and brother would return in their own time, or not at all. It all depended on God’s Grace.

Jack adjusted his position to bring his forward elbow closer to his body and out of harm’s way. With most of Normandy in French hands, the Earl of Shrewsbury would need more men-at-arms and Jack could be one of them... if only he could show them he was more worthy of the sword than the tonsure. Sixteen was not too young to ride to war under his family banner.

Damn. Tense again. “I. Will. Master. This.” Somehow Jack managed to relax his grip just

enough. He exhaled and threw a diagonal cut, stepping in nimbly behind it so his sword was also his shield. As the weapon grazed the post, he visualized his opponent’s defence, flicked his wooden blade up and down again for a second hit, whirled it around with another step, and delivered a cut to the opposite side. Finally, he retreated to safety, well out of measure.

He stood for a moment, breath steaming, sweat chilling his forehead.

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A voice boomed, “Jack Rose! There you are boy! Playing with your toy, I see!”

The Roses were a noble family. Nobody called him “boy”. Jack whirled around.

Sir Oliver Haywood emerged from the gloom. He grinned. Jack shuddered. Suddenly, solitude seemed like not such a good idea after all.

Sir Oliver wore a gentleman’s riding clothes – coat and long boots over his doublet and hose – but the two archers with him had battered brigandines and hair that could do with a wash.

Jack’s sword flicked up into Roof Guard ready to strike.

Sir Oliver’s big round face split into an even wider grin and he laughed, “Careful you don’t get a splinter, little clerk.” The two archers joined in, and it was not a friendly sound.

Jack felt foolish brandishing a wooden sword, but to lower it would be to admit that foolishness. “What do you want, Haywood?” His words sounded shriller than they should.

“Sir Oliver to you, boy.” “Then show me the same courtesy,” said Jack. He

frowned. The sunset seemed awfully red tinged. The Abbey bell began to toll for Vespers. Jack

would get into trouble if he tarried, but not more than he was in already.

“But your family is landless,” said Sir Oliver. “The Rose and Gryphon flag flew over Rose Castle

last time I looked,” said Jack. “Not for much longer,” said Sir Oliver, “now that

your father and brother are dead.” Jack reeled back. He half lowered the sword then

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realised who the bearer of this news was. “Liar!” “How sad,” said Sir Oliver, boots crunching the

frosted grass. “When the camp fever took your father, your brother Richard lost his nerve. The Earl of Shrewsbury had to hang him for cowardice.”

“Liar!” repeated Jack, even as he realised he was throwing a cut at his family enemy. With a wooden sword.

Laughing, Sir Oliver skipped back out of the way. The two Haywood archers loomed up and grabbed Jack’s arms. The bigger of the pair – a mountain of a man – twisted the wooden sword from his hands.

Waves of anger tore through Jack. He growled and squirmed. The grip on his arms merely tightened and the rivets of the men’s brigandines dug into his flesh.

The massive archer asked, “What shall we do with him, your honour?”

“Good question, Powl!” Haywood looked from left to right then grinned. “Nobody around,” he said conversationally. “Cut his balls off. I’ll tell the Prior he did it in a fit of religious ecstasy.”

Jack roared and suddenly it was no different from the fights he was used to in the Dormitory ... except with no constraints whatsoever.

There was no point in wrestling with the mountainous Powl. For all his strength, however, the other archer, was smaller, more brittle.

Jack raised his leg and stomped down on the inside of the armoured man’s knee. There was a satisfying crack! and he gave a surprised yelp. His grip loosened on Jack’s right arm.

Powl swore and started to drag Jack away. Jack jerked his elbow back, grabbed the injured man’s

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dagger, tore it from its sheath and plunged it into his thigh.

Something hot and wet sprayed Jack’s hand. The man howled and went down like a sack of damp wool.

Jack yanked the dagger free and twisted into Powl’s grip.

Powl’s fist hurtled towards Jack’s face. Jack ducked under and slashed the dagger point at

the man’s throat, aiming just where the brigandine left off.

Powl’s other arm released Jack and came around to block.

Jack changed his aim to the eyes, missed, and gouged a red strip out of Powl’s forehead. Blood poured into the giant archer’s eyes.

Powl roared, punched blindly. His massive fist shot past Jack’s face, grazed his ear.

Jack hammered the wrong end of the dagger into Powl’s chin. The metal rondel turned the thing into a cosh. There was a thud and the massive archer toppled to join his dying comrade on the half-frozen turf.

A hand caught Jack’s arm, spun him around. He glimpsed Sir Oliver Haywood’s face, still fixed in a friendly grin. Then stars blazed across Jack’s vision and there was pain, the taste of blood.

And more pain. Jack expected to pass out, or die, for the pain to

cease. But each kick from Sir Oliver Haywood’s riding boots hurt just as badly as the previous one.

And yet, part of Jack looked on with a detached amusement. The Prior had said he would be a great scholar and tour the universities of Christendom. Jack himself had wanted to be a knight and cross swords

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with Christ’s enemies in Prussia, Spain and Greece. Instead he was going to die here, no further from home than the grounds of Shrewsbury Abbey. What would Richard say? Would he meet his brother in Heaven?

The kicking stopped, but not the pain. Jack clutched his bruised ribs and began to shake.

“Powl, can you hold a dagger?” asked Sir Oliver. The archer hawked and spat. “Reckon as I can,

your honour.” “I shall hold young Master Rose,” said Sir Oliver.

“You shall cut off his balls.” “I reckon that’s fair, your honour,” said Powl,

touching his bloodied forehead. Jack struggled to stand. “No, please!” Powl punched him. Jack sprawled. Ice-tipped grass scoured his bruised

face. Powerful hands pinned his wrists. “I shall bind him first, your honour,” said Powl.

“Splendid,” said Sir Oliver. Jack wriggled and yelled, “Help!” It came out as

more of a scream but he yelled again anyway. “Do stay still, boy,” said Sir Oliver. “The quicker it

is done, the less painful, or so I have heard. The Turks, apparently, like their servants this way. Perhaps you should emigrate.”

“Hang on, your honour,” grunted Powl. A strap or belt turned around Jack’s wrists. “Just about got the brat tied...”

From far off, somebody shouted, “Hey!” There was a buzz like a bumblebee.

Powl swore and sprang to his feet. “Run!” said Sir Oliver. Their footsteps receded.

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Jack pulled his hands free, tried to sit up, then collapsed back. The frosted grass crunched under his head.

* * *

Jack’s brother’s face appeared in front of the

darkening sky. Blood was pooled at the back of Jack’s throat. He

swallowed, wished he hadn’t, then asked, “Richard? Am I dead?”

Richard had a black eye and a recently broken nose – not actually what you would expect in Purgatory. “I don’t know,” said his brother with a gap-toothed smile. He held out his hand. “Do the dead scream like little girls?”

Jack slapped the hand away. “They were going to cut off my balls.” He managed to get his feet under him and launched himself upright. Every muscle and bone screamed in protest and tried to fold in on itself. He wanted to ask about his father but blood sheeted down from his forehead to sting his eyes and his legs gave.

Richard caught him. “Sorry, brother. It was, after all, your ... protests that saved you.”

Choral singing drifted through the evening air. The other schoolboys were safely lined up in the Abbey church with nothing to worry about but being caught carving dirty Latin ditties on the pews. Jack wiped the blood from his eye and put a hand to staunch the bleeding. Alive, but only by chance. “What happened to you, Richard?”

“Your brother...” said a familiar voice, and Jack’s heart leapt.

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Sir James Rose’s beard was white now, but his eyes still twinkled like the windows of the Abbey church. “...ruined a perfectly good bascinet, is what happened.”

“Indeed, dear Father,” said Richard. “Next time a French man-at-arms hits me with a polaxe, I shall be sure to have my visor up.”

“Visor?” said Sir James. “Count yourself fortunate if I can replace it with so much as an open-faced sallet. Or possibly that bearskin rug you are so proud of.”

Jack disentangled himself from Richard and stood under his own power.

Haywood and Powl the archer had left behind a pile of old clothes... not old clothes; the corpse of the smaller archer. If he had missed or dropped the dagger, or if it had been fastened into its sheath, that corpse could just have easily been Jack’s.

Bile rose in his throat. He looked away and saw that an arrow now pinned Sir Oliver’s hat to the practice post. “A near miss,” he stammered. His knees, he realised with annoyance, had started to shake.

“His lordship did not want Haywood dead, Master Rose,” said Bartholomew Bowman, emerging from behind Jack’s father. The squat gray-bearded archer had served three generations of Roses, rising to become the retinue’s Chief Vintenar. He touched the brow of his sallet respectfully. However, his look said that Jack had been measured against the Rose standard and found wanting.

Anger spiked through him. “At least I got one of them.” Jack gestured at the body of the smaller archer and wished his arm were not quivering.

“Yes, I saw,” said Sir James. “But who attacked first?”

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“He...” Jack shuddered, then made himself continue. “Oliver Haywood said you were dead, sir. Said you were...”

“And you let your rage get the better of you,” said Sir James. “You, lad, have your mother’s temperament, and it will be the death of you.”

“It was the death of this villain,” said Richard wrapping his arm around Jack to keep him upright. “Come on, Father, the boy has done well.”

Sir James nodded and carefully patted Jack’s shoulder. “You took on three armed men. I am proud of you, Jack.” He pulled away. “But now we have a problem. The Earl of Shrewsbury does not countenance fighting between his retainers.”

“But I am not Shrewsbury’s retainer, sir,” said Jack. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. At some point he had bitten his own cheeks. Perhaps that was where the blood had come from. Better than from some internal injury. He should feel relieved. Really. “And it was self-defence.”

His father just looked amused. Then the sun vanished behind the spires of Shrewsbury and the deep shadows turned Sir Richard’s lined face into a gargoyle.

“It does not work like that, does it, sir?” said Jack. “No lad.” Sir James shrugged. “First things first.”

He stooped to take the dead archer’s arms. “Suicide is such a nasty business,” he remarked.

Richard took the legs. “Looks like the poor fellow was in despair over the fall of Normandy,” he said.

“Yes,” said Sir James. “He broke his own knee, stabbed himself in the thigh and... One! Two! Three!” The body splashed into the black waters of the River Severn.

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“...drowned himself,” completed Richard. He brushed his hands together.

The dark shape of what had been a living person drifted off into the current. Was that what would have happened to Jack’s body?

“What about me?” he said. “You can bath later,” said Richard. “Ha!” Jack didn’t feel like laughing anymore. His near

death, the disposal of an inconvenient corpse – it was all as routine to them as the life of prayer and study was to him.

“Haywood will come for me again, sir,” he said patiently. “And the Earl of Shrewsbury will be angry with me and...”

“Indeed,” said Sir James. “The Earl of Shrewsbury’s anger aside, how shall we protect you when in all likelihood we are off to France again? It would not be beneath Haywood to hire assassins.”

“Come with us as a squire,” said Richard. He turned to Sir James. “Father, he is not suited to be a cleric. Haywood cannot mention this to the Earl without making himself look equally bad.”

Sir James nodded. “Your generation will just have to do without a churchman.”

Jack looked back at the Abbey. In the darkness, the tall stained-glass windows were the fingers of a beckoning hand. To go to war, where everybody is trying to kill me, where survival rests on a decision you don’t have time to make. “No,” said Jack. “No, sir.”

“What?” said Richard. “Since you were just a boy...” “A child,” said Jack. “And now it is time to put

away childish things. I will go abroad to University.” “To Paris?” said Sir James and laughed. “The

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French hate us, lad. Perhaps in the old days, scholars could come and go but...”

“No,” interrupted Jack. “The University of Cologne,” he said, because the Prior had mentioned the place wistfully. “It’s crammed with refugee Greek scholars.”

“Where?” said Richard. “Cologne, I mean. I know where Greece is.”

“It’s on the Rhine,” said Jack. His brother still looked blank so he added, “Germany.”

“Oh,” said Richard. “A Burgundian mercenary once told me some interesting things about the German longsword schools. Perhaps...”

“I won’t be—” Jack clutched his mouth, turned away and retched. That dealt with the nausea. However, his ribcage and guts were in agony and great shudders ran up and down his body. “I’m done with swords and blades of any kind,” he said. “I am the youngest son. I will be a churchman just as I am supposed to be and that is that.”

“Of course it is, dear brother,” said Richard. “But you can still go and watch one of these schools, and write me what you see.”

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CHAPTER TWO

Staffordshire, Rose Castle, Spring AD1454.

Four years later found Jack back in England.

In the evening gloom, the road up to Rose Castle was as familiar as an old glove. He nudged his horse into a faster gait. “We’re almost there!”

“Thank God,” said Dietrich in German. “I need a beer.”

Jack smiled. It was easy to pretend that Father and Richard were here to greet him, and that he’d get to show off his German longsword techniques, and that Richard would tease him for joining a fencing school within weeks of arriving in Cologne and...

The Gatehouse loomed up like a gravestone. Jack reined in. His shoulders slumped. “What’s wrong?” asked Dietrich. Jack shook his head. Before Dietrich could probe,

Jack took a deep breath and called, “Ho there! Porter!” Nobody stirred in the Gatehouse. Behind him, Dietrich said in German, “I expected a

more defensive position. Bigger walls.” “Rose Castle was built before cannon,” said Jack.

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“And England is at peace.” He nudged his horse onto the drawbridge. “This shouldn’t be down. The moat needs clearing as well...”

“A problem for the next owner,” said Dietrich. Jack shrugged. He shouted, “Porter! God’s Teeth,

what kind of welcome is this?” The Gatehouse window banged open. Jack couldn’t

quite make out the face, but it was nobody he recognized. “What the Devil do you want...?” The porter leaned further out and added, “...your worship?”

Dietrich chuckled. “The courteous English...” Jack stiffened, then caught himself. He would deal

with all this in the morning. “Don’t you know me, good man?”

“Can’t say as I do, your worship,” said the porter. “Is he stupid, or just rude?” asked Dietrich in

German. “Or drunk,” replied Jack. “Or there is something

very wrong.” “Oh,” said the man in the Gatehouse. “You’re two

of them Flemish mercenaries what Sir Oliver sent for.” Jack’s stomach lurched. They could turn the horses

right away, but how many crossbows were trained on them? Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. “You are observant, my friend,” said Jack trying to sound foreign.

“You are supposed to muster at Haywood Manor, your worship,” continued the porter.

Sweat beaded Jack’s forehead. How long before the porter noticed that Jack and Dietrich carried only swords and light saddlebags? They didn’t look remotely like mercenaries, Flemish or otherwise. His horse’s ears went back. It stamped and shuffled on the

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boards of the drawbridge. Jack scowled. Now even his mount sensed his terror. He patted its neck and fought to ignore his racing pulse and the cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He needed a way to survive this. Think! “We are... how you say? Outriders for the rest of the company,” he said.

“Can’t let you come within, your worship,” said the porter. “You’ll find Sir Oliver Haywood in the village inn.”

“My thanks, friend,” said Jack. “We will present ourselves to him then redirect the rest of our company.” Then in German, “Just follow, Dietrich.” He backed his horse off the drawbridge and turned it towards the village. A few yards down the road Jack realised they were riding in silence and that it must look suspicious. If only the Moon was not full! He could almost feel the crossbow bolt hammering through his spine. “L... laugh or something, for Christ’s sake,” he stammered. I don’t want to die yet. Please God let the porter believe me...

Dietrich made one of his ale-house guffaws, then asked, “What the Hell is going on, Jack?”

“A rival family...” Jack realised he was whispering and raised his voice to normal. “A rival family called the Haywoods have intruded on my inheritance.”

“Well,” said Dietrich, “we’ll go tell the local duke and he’ll sort it out.”

“That would be the King’s sheriff,” corrected Jack. “And it’s not that simple.” They passed the corner of St James’ Church. “Phew! Out of range.”

“Range? Sweet Jesus, did you say ‘range’?” “The church was sited to be well out of bowshot of

the castle, of course,” said Jack. “Otherwise an attacker

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could use the tower to shoot down at the outer ward.” “How nice,” said Dietrich. “So what?” “The men in the castle could have shot us,” said

Jack. “If they suspected anything. Now they cannot.” “Christ’s Tears, Jack!” said Dietrich. “You

promised England was safe. Safer than Germany.” “Yes,” said Jack. “Mostly safe.” “I am not laughing.” “Nor am I. Let’s see if they pursue.” Jack reined in

at the churchyard gate. “Every single Lord of Rose is buried in there, right back to Roland de Rose who built the castle. All of them except for my father and Richard.”

“Do you know where they lie?” Jack shrugged. “Some mass grave at Castillon.” Nearby the River Rose bubbled away and from the

darkened hillsides sheep took it in turns to bleat. Dietrich coughed. “How is it your enemies could

just ride in and take your castle?” Jack straightened in his saddle, glad to change the

subject. “The Haywoods have a legal claim to the place, if you believe the obviously fake entail they dug up and...” He caught himself getting angry again. “English property law,” he said in a tight voice. “Gets complicated.”

“So we retain a lawyer and get them out,” said Dietrich.

“Even if I could find the money, that could take years,” said Jack and pictured Sir Oliver Haywood making free with his home, filling the Great Hall with his stinking retainers. “Come on.” He nudged his horse onward. “I thought we might have to take to the hills, but we can ride back through the village.”

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“You do know that parish won’t remain vacant forever,” said Dietrich, catching up. “What are you going to do?”

It had seemed like a great plan. Sell up, invest the money in a rich urban parish, put a vicar in to look after the flock, and continue as a Master at Cologne University. Technically, of course, it was both Simony and Absenteeism. Jack winced. “You don’t think this is God’s judgment?”

“Of course not. Everybody does it,” said Dietrich. “And it is not as if you just want to grow fat and chase pretty girls. You have the makings of a great scholar.”

They neared the tree-lined river bank. Jack loosened his longsword in its scabbard.

“Scheisse!” said his friend. “You’re not planning to go back in there fighting? I know they say you’re pretty good...”

“God’s Teeth, no!” said Jack. He had a vision of Sir Oliver Haywood grinning. “I take as many hits as I give. God forbid I do it with sharps.” He rode ahead into the water. “Come on.” Protesting, the horses splashed through the darkened ford. Jack nudged his mount up, clear of the trees to where bats flickered about, scouring the summer night for insects.

The village of Roseford slumbered, shutters drawn, lights doused, except for the Rose and Gryphon at the far end of the street. The inn sign commemorating his parent’s marriage had gone, but it was still the place that Jack remembered.

As if to welcome him, raucous voices rose from the building. Light flared and spilled over the top of the stable yard gates. Cheers sounded from behind the wall.

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Dietrich hissed, “Sounds like a brawl. We should keep riding.”

“God, yes,” said Jack. “The place will be full of Haywoods.”

From within the inn, a girl screamed and men laughed.

Jack reined in and slipped out of his saddle. “Where the Hell are you going, Jack?” asked

Dietrich. “I just have to see...” said Jack, making for the inn’s

gate. The shouting and cheering swelled. There was the

distinct smack of fist on face. Jack flinched. Perhaps his friend was right.

“Have you tried the handle?” asked Dietrich, appearing by his shoulder.

“I thought you said we should ride on.” Dietrich. “I’ll hold the horses for when you will

have to make a getaway.” Jack reached for the handle that would open a small

door in the left side of the gate. Before he could touch it, the door swung in, unleashing the din of drunken men shouting and laughing.

A youth held a lantern at the newcomers Jack’s face. “Yes... your honours?”

“You look familiar, lad,” said Jack. The youth doffed his cap. “Tom Bowman, son of

Bartholomew Bowman the innkeeper, your worship.” Jack frowned. “Bartholomew Bowman survived

Castillon?” The boy shook his head. “No, your worship. Pa is

retired. My older brother Bart went in his place.” The boy trailed off.

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Jack flushed. He was not the only person to lose family in the disaster. “Do you recognize me, young Bowman?”

The lad grinned. He touched his forelock. “Master Jack Rose! You look like your brother.” He frowned. “Or do I call you Lord Rose, your worship?”

Jack felt a twinge of guilt. He was never going to be any kind of Lord Rose. “Master Rose is fine for now.”

The boy nodded. In the courtyard, somebody roared. A woman

shouted and men jeered. Jack took a pace forward then one back. Damn it, if

he waited any longer he would lose his resolve. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

Tom shuffled his feet. “Master Rose, you don’t want to be coming in.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, damn you,” snapped Jack. He slipped past into the stable yard.

Cresset torches smoked all along the guest block’s balcony like a parade of captive comets. They cast long shadows at the feet of a dozen or so men all bearing the Haywood Oak badge. They formed a rough circle around two boxers. One of them was a giant with a deep scar over his forehead.

Powl.

* * * Powl threw a round punch at his opponent, a tiny

gray-bearded man with a flushed face lined with wrinkles that spoke more of foreign skies than of age.

Jack winced, expecting the archer’s fist to obliterate the smaller man.

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The greybeard darted back and then in with a jab to the other man’s guts.

The archer let out an “Oof!” but rather than doubling over, responded with a fist to the face.

One of the Haywood men yelled, “Get him, Powl!” The greybeard blocked, then fell over his own feet,

triggering cheers from the watchers. Drunk, realised Jack. Powl strode up to the greybeard as if to help him

up, then kicked him in the ribs with thud that seemed to echo all the way from that riverbank at Shrewsbury.

Jack curled in on himself. There was nothing he could do.

The boot went in again and the watchers cheered. Jack’s stomach knotted and turned over. He’d seen

the Haywoods. Now it was time to slip away. The tiny greybeard irrupted from the ground like a

malign gnome, somehow lifting both Powl’s feet. The larger man crashed onto his backside.

The greybeard grinned. “Ha! That will teach—” Unperturbed, Powl lashed out with his legs. He

caught his opponent in a scissor grip, flipped him to the ground then rolled on top of him. Sitting astride the wriggling man, the archer set out to land as many punches as possible on his captive’s face while the Haywood men chanted, “Powl! Powl!” in time to the rain of blows.

Every time the fist struck, it made a wet smack that resounded in Jack’s gut. His father would have drawn his sword and put a stop to things by sheer force of personality, but Jack could only edge his way out of the cheering circle.

“You leave my father alone! Peasant scum!” An

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olive-skinned girl burst through the mob – not a girl – a gentlewoman, judging from the fur trim of her overgown. With a flash of ankle, she kicked the archer and treated him to a torrent of swearwords—

—in Greek, realised Jack, the tongue of refugees from Constantinople. He was used to hearing it on the lips of scholars. Now here was this gentlewoman speaking it. Better yet, in between the slurs on the archer’s paternity and preferred species of lover, she called him a “Troglodyte! Satyr! Catamite! Iconoclast! Goth! Monophysite! Eunuch!” What she lacked in consistency, she made up for in education.

To the jeers of the onlookers, Powl left off punching and tried to fend away the gentlewoman’s foot without actually grabbing her.

Problem solved, decided Jack, backing away. Sir Oliver Haywood appeared behind the Greek

gentlewoman. His complexion was ruddier than Jack remembered, but the friendly smile was the same. He caught the gentlewoman around the supple waist and hauled her off the archer, “Hey Reynold, I think I’ve found you a harlot.”

Further back was Reynold, a much younger copy of Sir Oliver. The youth grinned but at least had the grace to also blush.

As the Haywood men laughed, the Greek gentlewoman growled and twisted in Sir Oliver’s arms. Her nails raked his face, leaving a line of blood just missing the man’s eyes.

Sir Oliver slapped her hard enough to make Jack flinch. She sprawled in the dirt next to her unconscious father. Wiping the blood with the back of his hand, Oliver took a pace forward and stood over her. “I

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think, Reynold” he declared, “I shall have to tame her for you first. Somebody find me a whip.”

This earned more laughter from his retainers. Jack’s head whirled. Even Richard would have

called this poor odds. He couldn’t see any of the locals. There might be more than a few of his father’s old soldiers in the taproom. Yes, getting help would be the safest option...

Still on the ground, the Greek gentlewoman twisted and with uncanny accuracy pinned Jack with her gaze. Her dark eyes glinted. She wrestled an arm free and pointed. “Ha! Here is my lover!” she said in accented English. “He is great swordsman. Prepare to die!”

The yard fell silent. Every face turned towards Jack.

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