Free Silverhawk by Barbara Bettis Page B

Interesting, but not enough to lure him into remaining.
    In the stables, Nuit was in his former stall at the back, munching hay. The few lads tending other mounts ignored Giles. Except for one familiar, dirty face which popped out of a corner. Davy.
    “Is it true you kill ever’one when a town don’t surrender?” Awe tinged the boy’s voice. “Even women and children?”
    “Especially children.” Giles’ reply was a low grumble. “Inquisitive boys who beat horses.”
    The remark was met by a snort. “I didn’t touch your devil ’orse, Silverhawk. It was m’brother.”
    “What did you call me?”
    The boy hopped back at the menacing whisper, wide-eyed, as if he’d stepped on a forest adder.
    “That’s what they been callin’ you. It’s your name, aren’t it? The famous Silverhawk, who can spot a’ enemy a mile away and bring ’im down in one swoop. Nobody escapes.” Davy demonstrated with a swing of his fist, as if he relished the idea.
    “Bloodthirsty brat.”
    “I am.” The boy strutted. “That’s what Lord Osbert always says. I can stand the sight a’ lots a’ blood. When Sir Karl slashed ’is arm and bled all over everywhere, I ’elped old Maggie wrap it. And I’m not afeard a’ nothin’.”
    He crept closer as he told the tale, ending at Giles’ side. “You don’t have a page or a squire or nobody.” His voice notched up a note in excitement. “I could be your squire. The blood wouldn’t scare me at all.”
    Giles considered for a moment, then couldn’t resist. “I could use someone to clean my bloody gear,” he allowed. “As my squire, your first duty is to care for my horses.”
    Davy peered at Giles, the boy’s eyes rounded like moons. “You mean—’im, too?” He jerked his head at Nuit, who obligingly “thonked” a hoof on the floor and blew saliva-wet hay from his lips.
    “Of course. The two of you will learn to get along. It’s my destrier back in Normandy I’m concerned about. He once took a finger off a page who tried to feed him an apple.”
    Even in the dimness, Giles could see the boy pale. Unfortunately the story was true, although it was just the tip of the left forefinger. A rough lesson, but at least the boy learned not to tease a war horse.
    “If you don’t like horses, why do you work here?”
    Davy screwed up his mouth and wrinkled his nose. “English ’orses are nicer. I’m not afeard a’ them.”
    “Then you’d best apply to an English knight.”
    “Nobody around here does anythin’. They’re not famous. I’m goin’ to be famous when I’m grown. I could learn from you.”
    “Davy! To work!” At the stable master’s shout, the youth scurried on his way. Giles stared after him in bemusement. Learn from him. No one had ever wanted to learn from Giles of Cambrai. It was something a son did, learn from a father.
    He would never have a son. He always took care when he released his seed, so it would not take root, to grow alone and unwanted. A boy should never face such a fate. Better than anyone, he knew that.
    Inside Nuit’s stall, he brushed his hand along the animal’s side. On one knee, he checked the hooves. He didn’t realize Henry had arrived until he heard voices. The words were faint, but he made them out.
    “Ride to Windom and tell Lord Roark what I’ve said, then get home and warn Sir Rance to ready the men. We can’t be sure what’s in store.”
    Why would Henry send off such a message? Nothing threatened yet. He started to rise and identify himself, when a woman’s voice joined the others.
    “What is it, brother? Why did you send for me?”
    “Evie, we may have to leave early.”
    “But—”
    “We’ll stay for the wedding tomorrow, then we go.”
    “Why?” Lady Evelynn’s voice lowered, tensed. “What has happened?”
    “The mysterious messenger from the king was Lord Paxton.”
    “Oh, dear heaven. Not Roark and Alyss’s Paxton? Is he still here?”
    “That’s who left earlier.”
    “He doesn’t