Free Sword of Justice (White Knight Series) by Jude Chapman

don’t know where. William made the arrangements.” Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited for the next assault. When it didn’t come, he opened a single eye. Drogo was gone. He took a steadying breath and dropped several coins onto the table.
    Making his way out of the alehouse in the company of several men, Graham felt duty-bound to pay his final respects to the daughter of an alewife, and did it in such a way that the lady in question turned as red as one of Queen Eleanor’s garden roses.
    “Graham,” said Drake, “release the lady.”
    Graham removed his hand from under her skirts and squeezed her jaw in the grip of his fist. “Pucker up, sweetie,” he said, daring Drake and the lady both.
    “She doesn’t like you, nor do I blame her.”
    “And who will make me stop? You, Stephen?”
    Drake unsheathed his sword and said simply, “Aye. Me.”
    Chairs scraped. Footsteps fell away. And Aveline’s brothers forced their way through a ring of cowards.
    Graham considered the odds and released his victim. “God’s eyes, you’d think the lady never had a man in her skirts before.” Graham suddenly doubled over. In unspeakable agony, he slowly raised his head, his face a peculiar hue.
    Drake sent home his sword. “Go, Graham, while you still have your manhood intact.” With the help of his companions, Graham breathlessly vacated the premises, limping like a very old man.
    When Drake turned toward Aveline, she was staring at him, her eyes wide with wonder, but her expression unreadable. “I apologize,” he said, “for me and my friend.” She held his eyes a moment longer, then regally made her way through gawking onlookers.
    Mallory slapped him across the back before making his way out of the alehouse.
    Aveline’s brothers looked him up and down, not trusting him a bit.
    And Drake took his leave while the taking was good.

~ Opening Game ~
The stage of the game where the players develop and maneuver pieces into strategic positions for later play.
    Friday, the 25 th of August, in the Year of Grace 1189

Chapter 7       
    DRAKE BARELY HAD BREATH TO croak but managed to emit, “You set a trap.”
    “So I did.” The low-pitched voice was as sober as it gets for any man drunk to the gills while possessing the worst of intentions.
    When Drake had left the alehouse, he spotted Baldric’s broad back weaving up Staple Gardens. The giant was stumbling along, humming a mindless tune, and drinking from a wineskin. Drake tracked him along the north walls and toward East Gate, but soon lost him. He was about to backtrack along the corridors when an iron arm hooked him around the neck and towed him with successive throat-closing yanks into a back alley.
    After those first words, Drake was unable to utter a peep. Fat fingers fumbled at the buckle of his girdle. A beefy hand seized the scabbard on the descent and tossed the lion sword aside. A cat shrieked and scuttled off. Baldric winched his elbow tighter. Someone overhead tossed out the contents of a chamber pot. Drake shot a foot back, but his leg wrenched into empty space. Baldric chortled. With the laugh, his grip loosened just enough. Drake stomped the heel of his boot on his captor’s foot. Baldric yowled and let go, hopping on his good foot and squeezing the other. Wheezing and rubbing his throat, Drake watched the clumsy antics of the big man.
    “That hurt,” Baldric whined.
    “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”
    “Heaven forfend.”
    With unexpected grace, Baldric swung around and jabbed his untrammeled foot into the pit of Drake’s gut. Drake doubled over. Baldric clubbed his mallet fist down onto the crook of his neck. Drake landed flat on his belly, arms and legs splayed out, stunned beyond sensation. Lumbering on unsteady legs, the giant leaned over his victim. Drake found a last measure of strength. He flipped over, threw out a leg, and clipped Baldric behind the knees. His legs buckled. Drake twisted away and used an identical kick to whack