Read Online Keeper of the Dream by Penelope Williamson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Penelope Williamson
Ads: Link
long time she opened her eyes onto the conical canvas roof. Gold-tinted clouds scudded across the smoke hole above her. It felt too early to still be today, so it must already be tomorrow, and she must have slept unconscious through the night. The boy must have bathed her, too, for she was no longer covered with mud. Even her hair had been cleaned and she’d been dressed in a new tunic that didn’t stink of the stables. He had kept her magic mazer for himself though, for it wasn’t with her and she didn’t see it lying about.
Her duty now was to plan an escape, but the task of getting loose from her bindings and making her way through an enemy camp bristling with knights and men-at-arms seemed insurmountable. Besides, she had no idea where she was, for all she knew she could be in the black heart of England itself.
She jerked at the sudden sound of laughter that came from right outside the tent. She caught snatches of words:
king, battle,
and something that sounded like
accursed Welsh bastards.
But then the voices dwindled. Far in the distance a trumpet sounded.
The wind came up, rippling the canvas. The flaps that covered the entrance were tied shut, but there was a gap that let in a welcome breath of fresh air. A lance had been stuck into the ground beside the entrance, its bright ironpoint buried deep into the soft earth. The pennon that hung from the shaft stirred in the sudden draft, and Arianna gasped.
It was a black dragon on a bloodred field.
4
I’m getting too old for this, Raine thought, wincing at the stiffness in his legs as he walked along the banks of the river Dee, searching for his tent.
Deep in his bones, he felt the hours of a night spent in the saddle. But it was more than that, he knew. He had wasted his youth in tournaments and war, hunting and carousing, drinking and wenching, and he was tired of it all.
Tired unto death.
Gaudily colored tents and pavilions were spread in a rainbow array over rolling meadows and among groves of sycamore. They had ridden through the night and most of that morning to arrive here at the main encampment of Henry’s army near Basingwerk Abbey.
The war-horses and pack animals corralled by the river had churned the ground into mud, and Raine had to sidestep around a particularly noisome puddle. The camp sprawled before him. Sergeants and squires bustled to and fro. Strolling minstrels sang love songs, followed by strolling strumpets ready to satisfy the itch inspired by those same songs. Mountebanks and peddlers relieved new recruits of their hard-earned coppers. Shouts of dismayand triumph mingled with the aroma of simmering soups and potages carried by the breeze from the cooking fires, where men had gathered to drink and gamble at nine-men’s morris and dice.
Yet for all the tumult of activity around him Raine felt alone.
Word of the Black Dragon’s feat had spread and men called out their praise, but few approached him. He’d always intimidated most men, and he had few close friends. He had stopped making friends long ago, when he started losing them to sword thrusts, crossbow bolts, and the bloody flux.
Contrary to yesterday’s storm, today the sun beat down with a vengeance. Rivulets of sweat soaked into the quilted bliaut Raine wore beneath his mail. A fellow knight hailed him as he passed, holding out a wineskin. Suddenly made aware of his thirst, Raine reached for the skin with a smile of gratitude.
He took a swallow, rinsed out his mouth, spat into the dirt, then drank deeply. They spoke of the Welsh ambush; the knight sounded disappointed to have missed the fight. Raine listened with half an ear, mumbling monosyllabic replies. A pair of whores strolled by, arms linked, laughing. One had striking cinnamon-colored hair.
She turned her head and her gaze locked with Raine’s. She had dark, velvety eyes. Raine gave her a slow smile. She pouted and tossed her head. But a second later her eyes, full of invitation, were back on Raine’s face. His
Her duty now was to plan an escape, but the task of getting loose from her bindings and making her way through an enemy camp bristling with knights and men-at-arms seemed insurmountable. Besides, she had no idea where she was, for all she knew she could be in the black heart of England itself.
She jerked at the sudden sound of laughter that came from right outside the tent. She caught snatches of words:
king, battle,
and something that sounded like
accursed Welsh bastards.
But then the voices dwindled. Far in the distance a trumpet sounded.
The wind came up, rippling the canvas. The flaps that covered the entrance were tied shut, but there was a gap that let in a welcome breath of fresh air. A lance had been stuck into the ground beside the entrance, its bright ironpoint buried deep into the soft earth. The pennon that hung from the shaft stirred in the sudden draft, and Arianna gasped.
It was a black dragon on a bloodred field.
4
I’m getting too old for this, Raine thought, wincing at the stiffness in his legs as he walked along the banks of the river Dee, searching for his tent.
Deep in his bones, he felt the hours of a night spent in the saddle. But it was more than that, he knew. He had wasted his youth in tournaments and war, hunting and carousing, drinking and wenching, and he was tired of it all.
Tired unto death.
Gaudily colored tents and pavilions were spread in a rainbow array over rolling meadows and among groves of sycamore. They had ridden through the night and most of that morning to arrive here at the main encampment of Henry’s army near Basingwerk Abbey.
The war-horses and pack animals corralled by the river had churned the ground into mud, and Raine had to sidestep around a particularly noisome puddle. The camp sprawled before him. Sergeants and squires bustled to and fro. Strolling minstrels sang love songs, followed by strolling strumpets ready to satisfy the itch inspired by those same songs. Mountebanks and peddlers relieved new recruits of their hard-earned coppers. Shouts of dismayand triumph mingled with the aroma of simmering soups and potages carried by the breeze from the cooking fires, where men had gathered to drink and gamble at nine-men’s morris and dice.
Yet for all the tumult of activity around him Raine felt alone.
Word of the Black Dragon’s feat had spread and men called out their praise, but few approached him. He’d always intimidated most men, and he had few close friends. He had stopped making friends long ago, when he started losing them to sword thrusts, crossbow bolts, and the bloody flux.
Contrary to yesterday’s storm, today the sun beat down with a vengeance. Rivulets of sweat soaked into the quilted bliaut Raine wore beneath his mail. A fellow knight hailed him as he passed, holding out a wineskin. Suddenly made aware of his thirst, Raine reached for the skin with a smile of gratitude.
He took a swallow, rinsed out his mouth, spat into the dirt, then drank deeply. They spoke of the Welsh ambush; the knight sounded disappointed to have missed the fight. Raine listened with half an ear, mumbling monosyllabic replies. A pair of whores strolled by, arms linked, laughing. One had striking cinnamon-colored hair.
She turned her head and her gaze locked with Raine’s. She had dark, velvety eyes. Raine gave her a slow smile. She pouted and tossed her head. But a second later her eyes, full of invitation, were back on Raine’s face. His
Similar Books
