Read Online The Last Knight by Candice Proctor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Candice Proctor
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know how brave you are. That is why I am worried.
CHAPTER
FOUR
They were being followed.
A thicket of tall beech trees grew beside the track, their slender leaves quivering and rustling in the late afternoon breeze that skimmed along the top of the rise. Damion drew aside into the sheltering shadows of trunks and overhanging branches before he wheeled the Arab to face the way they had come.
By squinting hard against the westering afternoon sun, he could count four mounted men, maybe five, in the distance. Armored men, riding fast. He could see the glint of sunlight on their helms, the cloud of dust raised by the thundering hooves of their horses. They were only half an hour behind, maybe less, and gaining fast.
He turned to survey the road ahead and swore softly to himself at the sight of gentle countryside lying open and vulnerable beneath a wide blue sky. Striped, rolling fields of golden-green grain and cleared pasture stretched on for miles, broken only here and there by a few scattered copses of mixed brush, a hamlet or two, and, not too far ahead, the strung-out line of a merchant caravan, its pack horses heavily laden with goods bound for the summer fair in Laval.
Damion pursed his lips and blew out a long, slow breathas he turned to stare again at that armed party of men. His mission for Henry had been cloaked in secrecy and known only to the king's most trusted inner circle of men. But Damion had learned young not to trust anyone, had learned well the dangerous lesson that things are often not what they seem.
His hand moved unconsciously to the hilt of his sword as he considered the hard-riding men behind him. It was always possible, of course, that they were simply headed, like the merchants, to Laval. Then again, he thought, setting his teeth in annoyance, they could very well be after his mysterious little lordling. Whoever they were, they obviously had orders to kill their horses, if necessary, to get where they were going.
What is it? asked Atticus, riding up to him.
Damion shifted his gaze to the slim, dark-haired youth reining in beside him. Is there any reason to think someone might be following you?
The youth's face went admirably blank as he blinked into the sinking sun. No, he said, drawing the syllable out. Why? Is someone behind us?
Staring down into that fine-boned, attractive face, Dam-ion felt a smile pull at his mouth. At some point, the lad had managed to pick up the courtly trick of making his features go completely smooth and expressionless, thus hiding whatever betraying thoughts and emotions might be boiling behind the public mask. With most people, it probably worked. Except that in Atticus's case, the studied lack of animation formed such a marked contrast to the lad's natural, open expression that its assumption was a betrayal in itself.
Damion felt his smile fade. In the three hours that had passed since they left the monastery, he had studied theyouth closely and come to several confusing conclusions. Despite his fine seat on a horse and his undeniable skill with a dagger, the boy nevertheless had the pale face and soft hands of one dedicated to scholarship and the church from an early age. Which made him a peculiar choice, Damion would have said, to play a role in a treasonous plot. While there was obviously nothing wrong with the lad's courage or determination, anyone who knew the boy well enough to trust him must surely realize that he was too sensitive, too inexperienced, too compulsively honest and forthright to ever succeed at something as dirty and unprincipled as a conspiracy to depose a king.
But Damion didn't believe in coincidences, and for the natural brother of one of the English king's household knights to be on the road to La Ferté-Bernard, at this time, and not be involved in some way in the plot against Henry would be simply too much of a coincidence for anyone to swallow. True, Damion wouldn't have picked Stephen d'Alérion as one of the conspirators,
CHAPTER
FOUR
They were being followed.
A thicket of tall beech trees grew beside the track, their slender leaves quivering and rustling in the late afternoon breeze that skimmed along the top of the rise. Damion drew aside into the sheltering shadows of trunks and overhanging branches before he wheeled the Arab to face the way they had come.
By squinting hard against the westering afternoon sun, he could count four mounted men, maybe five, in the distance. Armored men, riding fast. He could see the glint of sunlight on their helms, the cloud of dust raised by the thundering hooves of their horses. They were only half an hour behind, maybe less, and gaining fast.
He turned to survey the road ahead and swore softly to himself at the sight of gentle countryside lying open and vulnerable beneath a wide blue sky. Striped, rolling fields of golden-green grain and cleared pasture stretched on for miles, broken only here and there by a few scattered copses of mixed brush, a hamlet or two, and, not too far ahead, the strung-out line of a merchant caravan, its pack horses heavily laden with goods bound for the summer fair in Laval.
Damion pursed his lips and blew out a long, slow breathas he turned to stare again at that armed party of men. His mission for Henry had been cloaked in secrecy and known only to the king's most trusted inner circle of men. But Damion had learned young not to trust anyone, had learned well the dangerous lesson that things are often not what they seem.
His hand moved unconsciously to the hilt of his sword as he considered the hard-riding men behind him. It was always possible, of course, that they were simply headed, like the merchants, to Laval. Then again, he thought, setting his teeth in annoyance, they could very well be after his mysterious little lordling. Whoever they were, they obviously had orders to kill their horses, if necessary, to get where they were going.
What is it? asked Atticus, riding up to him.
Damion shifted his gaze to the slim, dark-haired youth reining in beside him. Is there any reason to think someone might be following you?
The youth's face went admirably blank as he blinked into the sinking sun. No, he said, drawing the syllable out. Why? Is someone behind us?
Staring down into that fine-boned, attractive face, Dam-ion felt a smile pull at his mouth. At some point, the lad had managed to pick up the courtly trick of making his features go completely smooth and expressionless, thus hiding whatever betraying thoughts and emotions might be boiling behind the public mask. With most people, it probably worked. Except that in Atticus's case, the studied lack of animation formed such a marked contrast to the lad's natural, open expression that its assumption was a betrayal in itself.
Damion felt his smile fade. In the three hours that had passed since they left the monastery, he had studied theyouth closely and come to several confusing conclusions. Despite his fine seat on a horse and his undeniable skill with a dagger, the boy nevertheless had the pale face and soft hands of one dedicated to scholarship and the church from an early age. Which made him a peculiar choice, Damion would have said, to play a role in a treasonous plot. While there was obviously nothing wrong with the lad's courage or determination, anyone who knew the boy well enough to trust him must surely realize that he was too sensitive, too inexperienced, too compulsively honest and forthright to ever succeed at something as dirty and unprincipled as a conspiracy to depose a king.
But Damion didn't believe in coincidences, and for the natural brother of one of the English king's household knights to be on the road to La Ferté-Bernard, at this time, and not be involved in some way in the plot against Henry would be simply too much of a coincidence for anyone to swallow. True, Damion wouldn't have picked Stephen d'Alérion as one of the conspirators,
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