Free Crown of the Realm (A White Knight Adventure Book 2) by Jude Chapman Page A

awakening from a dream, Drake became aware of beating hoofs, pounding rhythmically on the forest floor. They weren’t in a great hurry, yet they seemed to be trailing him. When Drake sped up, they sped up. When he tarried, they tarried. One horse neighed. Moments later, a second answered. Then his own steed wagged his head and whinnied. The warning came too late.
    They were upon him—two knights—their faces concealed by great helms, the lines of their advance intersecting, their robust mounts straining at the bit. Armored in hauberk, mailed greaves , and good leather boots, they unsheathed swords and leveled the blades, snow-white against the fog-stirred backdrop. On the same trill of steel, Drake brandished his own weapon. They were unimpressed.
    “Drake fitzAlan?” one of them said, his voice muffled by the helmet.
    He didn’t respond to his name. Instead he smiled. The odds were in his favor.
    “Is that a yes?”
    Digging his heels into the palfrey, Drake answered with a war cry. Streaking past both horsemen, he galloped off, nothing to stop him. Except for the third knight who joined the ambuscade.
    The bay reared. His hindquarters compressed. His forelegs pawed the upturned sky. Drake scooped up the reins, and as man and beast came prancing back to earth, dug in his spurs and gave the palfrey its head. The bay sprang forward at its rider’s bidding … on a different track, a narrower trail, a riskier escape route.
    And the n, the fourth knight showed himself. And the fifth. And finally the sixth.
    * * *
    On the third sunrise, when the tawny owl began its familiar to-whit, to-whoo, the knights slowed their pace.
    Drake was exceedingly frustrated. Rough hemp securely bound him. A cloth blinded him. A gag silenced him. A great helm disguised him from casual passer sby. The knights had searched for and found all the hiding places and confiscated every knife, even the one in his boot. On the exhausting journey to follow, Drake did not have the remotest chance of escape. No reason was offered for his capture. Miles of backtracking, circling, splitting apart, and reuniting loped past. The knights were well-disciplined. They rarely stopped for sleep or repast, and then only briefly.
    On the last leg of the journey, a river crossing took the party splashing over shoals. A steep climb brought them to a gatehouse. When Drake was made to dismount, his legs gave way. Powerful hands, one under each armpit, remedied his incapacity. He was ushered into a courtyard and thence through a portal that delivered him into a chilly château and thence to a great hall. The echo of confident footsteps advanced. The removal of the helm brought relief from the suffocating confinement. The blindfold, still in place, yielded only the distant dance of torchlight. A man studied him. Smelling of ambergris, his hand danced close to his face.
    The gag was dragged away. He had to work up a spit. “Who are you? What do you want?”
    A thump between the shoulder blades was his curt reply.
    The knights escorted Drake above stairs to the solar. Upon entering the vast chamber, he sensed the heat of the hearthfire to his right, smelled candle wax to his left, sniffed the musty odors of musty drapery and cushions, and heard the shrill whistle of a caged bird. He sensed even more. Dismay. Fear. A fleeting thought. An unsettling presence. All of it emanating from a single source. There, to his right.
    The knights waited. They had an unyielding grip of his arms, already numbed by effective coercion. The nobleman paced, impatient. At a silent gesture, Drake was manhandled to a chair and drummed down. Before him, someone’s feet shifted on the bare floor as if resisting forceful persuasion. He heard the man breathe with effort and grunt from frustration. Drake was expected to react … to speak. The nobleman’s pacing stopped. The flat of a steely palm caught Drake violently across the cheekbone. He righted his face and spit up to where the nobleman was