Lord of the Sky (The Executioner Knights Book 6) Read online

  As the men chuckled, Kevin eyed his second in command, pondering the warrior who had become his best friend over the past couple of years. Their hereditary homes were very close together, their fathers were allies, and they’d known each other all their lives, but had only become close through the course of their service for William Marshal.

  Now, they were inseparable.

  Gareth was a big man, with shaggy dark hair and a quiet demeanor about him. He never said much, but when he spoke, it was something of meaning. He was the product of two warring family bloodlines – his father, Bretton de Llion, had been a horribly brutal warlord years ago before he met Gareth’s mother, who was the daughter of Ajax de Velt, the man all of England had once called The Dark Lord.

  Most still did.

  The things Ajax de Velt did during the course of his warring years still gave men nightmares, and Gareth very much had his grandfather’s big, dark, brooding presence. He also had the distinguishing de Velt physical trait through his mother – eyes that were two different colors. Both eyes were brown, but his right eye had a big splash of green in it. He was somewhat shy because of that trait, keeping his hair down over that strangely colored eye, but that shyness ended when he was on the field of battle.

  The de Velt monster emerged.

  But there was more to Gareth than just a powerful warrior. He had great intelligence, too, and was still a member of William Marshal’s stable of spies, assassins, and warriors, much as Kevin still was. But their world had changed since the death of King John – the Executioner Knights were now into the rule of a new king, the boy-king Henry the Third, but their mission was still the same – protect the king, protect England, only now it was a little less harried with a young king and a regent they could all respect and work with – William Marshal himself.

  Now, The Marshal truly ruled England in every way.

  It was a new world, indeed.

  “I feel as if we are all knights errant to some degree,” Kevin said after a moment, reflecting on that new world they found themselves in. “With a boy-king upon the throne, it seems odd that we are not constantly battling for, and against, John. To be truthful, at times I feel a little… stunned. I think we all expected John to live much longer than he did.”

  Gareth nodded his head. “It is a new era, to be sure,” he said, his gaze moving to the other knights at the table. “But this lot has no idea what we have done in the past to keep England safe. They believe the knighthood to be garlands of roses and acts of chivalry.”

  Kevin snorted. “Little do they know.”

  “Little enough.”

  The knights at the table took offense to that comment to varying degrees.

  In addition to Cal, there was another knight named Bannon de Venter, who had served Kevin’s father faithfully until the old man’s death. He was older than Kevin by a few years, having come into de Lara service through the House of Wellesbourne, close allies of the House of de Lara. Rumor had it that Bannon had a romance with a Wellesbourne daughter and had been banished for it, though the Lord of Wellesbourne, William, had nothing but fine things to say about the man.

  Cal, on the other hand, had come by way of his father, who had served William Marshal for many years before marrying a Welsh heiress and inheriting a Welsh fortress called Nether Castle. Cal was raised English but he’d grown up in Wales, and he was young and strong and idealistic, enamored with the knighthood as only the young could be.

  It was Bannon, older and wiser, who spoke to Kevin’s comment.

  “Do not group me with the young pup,” he said. “I have seen plenty of warfare myself over the past twenty years. Mayhap not with William Marshal’s army, but with the Wellesbourne war machine. They are fearsome.”

  “Indeed, they are,” Kevin said. “Wellesbourne fights with de Lohr, and de Lohr fights for the crown, so your experience is not in question. But Cal…”

  He trailed off as they all looked at the youngest knight at the table. Blond-haired, dark-eyed Cal looked as if he’d just been grievously insulted.

  “I trained at Pembroke and Kenilworth,” he said indignantly. “Surely you do not question my skills.”

  Kevin could see the young man was bordering on outrage. When he’d accepted Cal’s fealty, it had been at the request of his father, Kevin, who told Kevin in confidence that Cal needed to grow up. He was a fine knight, with fine skill, but he needed the maturity to go with it. Cal had a twin brother, Stafford, who had been sent to Wolverhampton. It seemed the wild de Poyer twins had some growing up to do, separately.

  “Your skills are beyond contestation,” Kevin said, fighting off a grin. “But you have much to learn to become a seasoned knight. That will come, with time. You cannot learn everything all at once.”

  Cal was placated. Sort of. It was difficult to tell because he always looked like he was aching for a fight and there was no one in all of Wales or England with as quick a temper. They’d all seen evidence of that. Cal collected his cup of ale, eyeing Kevin and Gareth and even Bannon to a certain degree.

  “Rumor has it that the local warlords are planning to oust us from Wybren,” Cal said. “You know the warlords I am speaking of – Aeron ap Gruffudd and Glynn ap Hywel. The same warlords who showed up the very first day you took possession of Wybren and told you that you did not belong here. No one wants us here.”

  “It is true that no one wants us here,” Gareth said. “I do not even want us here, but here was are and here we will stay. This is a powerful garrison for the de Lara empire and Viscount Trelystan, and we will hold it to the last man.”

  There was something final in that statement, something that gave young Cal a moment of pause. They all knew that they were not welcome in Wales, but Kevin had no intention of giving it up, which meant they were in for some rough weather ahead. They’d only been here for a few months, not long enough for the Welsh to truly build up a rebellion against them, but that would come with time.

  They could all feel it.

  None more heavily than Kevin. This was his property now and the legacy of the House of de Lara, in a sense, was resting on him. He didn’t want to be the one who failed his forefathers.

  More than that, he didn’t want to fail his brother. He’d done that enough over the years while his brother was serving as King John’s hated bodyguard. Kevin had failed him miserably back then and he was determined to show that the little brother of the past was no longer the embittered, shallow knight who had shunned his brother because the man had been doing his duty.

  He had something to prove.

  “We shall hold it,” Kevin said quietly as a servant poured him more ale. “My brother did not give me the hereditary title of Viscount Trelystan only for me to dishonor it.”

  Gareth looked at him. “That was your brother’s birthright,” he said. “I never knew Sean well, as I came into The Marshal’s service when Sean spent all of his time with John, but it was quite generous of him to give it to you.”

  Kevin nodded as he lifted his cup. “He is a generous man,” he said, swallowing the bitter ale. “He did not have to give me anything. I still am not sure why he did, but the Earldom of Bath and Glastonbury keeps him very busy. I suppose he wanted me to have the hereditary properties because I spent all my time there, anyway. I was already his garrison commander at Trelystan Castle when he granted me the title of Lord of the Trilaterals.”

  “He gave you the title because you deserved it,” Gareth said. “You do not have to justify his decision to anyone. I have watched you do that for months and you must stop. All of this belongs to you now and you have done a remarkable job with it. The Trilaterals castles are well-organized and efficient, and you have brought law and order into Wales with your assumption of Wybren. The Welsh will see that soon enough. They will see that your presence here is a benefit and that your heart is true. Hopefully before they try to overrun us.”

  He said the last sentence with some humor and Kevin smiled weakly. But he was uncomfortable with Gareth�
��s praise for many reasons, but mostly because he had always been a follower – sworn to William Marshal, or the de Lohr brothers, or to his brother. He’d never really had a command of his own until his brother made him the garrison commander of the Trilaterals castles. Trelystan, Hyssington, and Caradoc Castles had been his domain until Sean had given them to him. Now, they all belonged to Kevin and as Gareth said, even after all of these months, Kevin was still in disbelief.

  But his focus, for the moment, was on Wybren.

  “Hopefully,” he agreed, focusing on Gareth’s comment. “But I hesitate to move more men into Wales for fear the Welsh will think I am bolstering my army for some kind of military move. If they see me doing that, they will fear the worst and that will cause them to build their armies because they think I am going to attack them. Even so, I think we should start moving more men into Wales, gradually. You are right about overrunning us – I would be surprised if they did not try it at some point, soon.”

  Both Gareth and Bannon nodded, in full agreement, but something near the hearth had Cal’s attention. He had been leaning back in his chair, one foot up on the table, but he spied something that made him sit up so fast that he splashed his ale on Bannon’s leg.

  An angel had just made an appearance.

  “So many men, Megsy!”

  “I see them.”

  “Saesneg men!”

  “Courage, merch. This is for your father, after all.”

  Perhaps it was for her father, but that knowledge didn’t make Juliandra feel any less sick to her stomach.

  The hall of Wybren was a vast place, with a steeply pitched roof and heavy wooden beams in the rafters. There were holes in the eaves to let the smoke evacuate from the enormous firepit in the center of the hall, one so big that a man could easily fall into it and there would be no hope. Big logs were propped up on top of one another, giving off a flame that was as tall as a man and then some. The hall was smoky, crowded, and warm.

  And they were expecting Juliandra to sing.

  Da, I hope you appreciate this!

  The plan was to get close to Kevin de Lara. She’d spent the afternoon discussing the situation with Megsy and they had come to the conclusion that if she sang well enough, and presented a pretty enough picture, the Lord of Wybren might very well want to meet her.

  That was the hope, anyway.

  But that feat would take a good deal of courage, courage that Juliandra had been trying to summon for the better part of the afternoon. She simply wasn’t accustomed to singing in front of a crowd, so this was as fearful an experience as she could imagine. She had always been inordinately shy when it came to performing, not even singing in front of the priests at the parish she attended. She simply wasn’t an exhibitionist.

  But now, she was going to have to be.

  The moment she emerged from the servant’s alcove in the corner of the hall, it seemed to her that all eyes immediately turned in her direction. She was wearing a scarlet damask dress that was bright enough to catch the eye, even in dim light. It was her finest, because she had been certain that if she dressed well, the Lord of Wybren would want to meet with her. She had hoped to overwhelm him with her appearance, but she hadn’t made it that far thanks to the sentries at the gatehouse.

  But she’d found another way.

  Come what may, she was going to have a conversation with Kevin de Lara that night and as she stood at the edge of the room, with all eyes upon her, she knew it was time to act.

  If she could only stop her knees from knocking.

  Taking a deep breath for courage, she headed into the room.

  Juliandra kept her eyes on the hearth as her destination, the big and flaming pit in the center of the room. She would sing from there and, hopefully, everyone would hear her, for although her voice was very angelic, it was not very loud. As she neared the pit, she noticed a soldier sitting at the end of the table that had a lute in his hand.

  She paused next to him.

  “May I borrow your instrument?” she asked. “I did not bring my own. I will take very good care of it, I promise.”

  The soldier was so busy staring at her beauty that he was dumbfounded by her question. It took him to a moment to realize what she had asked, and he quickly handed over his instrument, which was surprisingly well made. Juliandra took it with thanks and continue the last few steps to the fire.

  Unfortunately, as she came to a halt, she happened to look at the room and realized just how many men were there. Saesneg men. Her fear surged but she fought it, quickly focusing on the instrument in her hands. She had to force herself to pretend that she was in her bedchamber at home, playing only for herself. She wasn’t entirely sure that she could pretend, however, considering the buzz of conversation in the hall.

  She was surrounded by curious and enemy eyes.

  In truth, it was impossible to pretend that she was alone, but as she began to tune the instrument, she glanced up to the eastern wall of the hall and noticed a beautiful tapestry hanging there, covering some lancet windows to keep out the night’s chill.

  The tapestry depicted a woman with long blonde hair astride a white horse, riding through a grove of what looked like apple trees. There were various people around, colorfully dressed, and at the far end of the tapestry was a man in armor, his arms outstretched to her. It was a romantic piece of artwork and as she finished tuning the lute, she found herself focusing on the tapestry. It was much easier to focus on the romantic scene and sing to it than sing to a roomful of English soldiers.

  The music began.

  Juliandra was quite adept at playing musical instruments, and the soldier’s lute was no exception. She had skilled fingers and she took her attention from the tapestry for a few moments, watching her fingers as she played the unfamiliar instrument to ensure her fingers hit the right place on the strings. The moment the music began, the room grew still as the soldiers waited for the entertainment to come.

  Juliandra continued to play the lute for a few moments as she struggled to summon the rest of her courage. When she felt strong enough, she lifted her head, looked at the tapestry, and began to sing.

  “In the beauty of the spring,

  He came to sing,

  Upon a white horse he rode.

  His crest was strong,

  His features bold,

  And his hair of fine and spun gold.

  His hair of fine and spun gold.”

  She felt rather relieved to have gotten the first part of the song out of the way without giving in to her fear and picked up the second verse with more confidence.

  “In the beauty of the spring,

  What pleasure he did bring,

  Speaking of a love foretold.

  You see, said he, love is like the spring,

  Beauty that never grows old.

  ’Tis beauty that never grows old.”

  The only sound in that great hall was of her skillful lute playing. Juliandra dropped her eyes from the tapestry, seeing a host of enthralled faces.

  Her bravery surged.

  “In the beauty of the spring,

  He gave me a ring,

  That spoke of his great love for me.

  He promised to return,

  And gave me his word,

  But the ring was all I would ever have.

  The ring was all I would ever have.”

  The end of the song was a few strummed chords, tapering off at the end of her sad song. Timidly, she looked to the men around her, who were still staring at her as if dumbstruck, before they broke out in thunderous cheers. Juliandra actually jumped at the sound, startled, but when she realized it was because they liked her singing, she couldn’t help the grin on her face.

  Slightly embarrassed, she wasn’t sure what more to sing when they started demanding more songs. The truth was that she knew many songs but, at the moment, she couldn’t think of one.

  Her mind had gone blank.

  Men began shouting for a song of laughter, which she took to m
ean a song with humor in it, so she reverted back to her twelve-year-old self who had written a song about a girl who had stolen the eye of the only boy in the entire village that Juliandra thought was handsome. It was rather funny, but it was also cruel. Still, it was the only thing she could think of at the moment.

  Quickly, she began to strum the lute in a fast-paced, almost silly manner.

  “She was lewd and shrewd,

  That pasty wench,

  Who walked with bowed-out knees.

  Myrtle had a girdle

  No man would hurdle

  Because she smelled like a fish!”

  When she abruptly finished, the entire hall burst out in cheers and roars, greatly approving of a song that could be considered quite bawdy. Juliandra started laughing because they were, pleased that her song about Myrtle ferch Bierce was so well received. It was, in some small way, a victory for the boy Myrtle had stolen away from her those years ago.

  Now, it was eight years later.

  But her silly song brought calls for more humorous songs and Juliandra had heard many over the years, some just plain foolish. But that seemed to be what her audience wanted, so she sang a song about a lost dog with a missing leg, a child who refused to eat his mush, and an old woman trying to pretend she was a young maiden in order to catch a husband.

  Every foolish song she could think of was played and her audience loved every minute of it, and she grew bolder with each successive tune. She began to walk a circle around the fire pit, singing her songs, some of which she repeated twice, and all the while men drank and cheered and threw coins at her. At the end of each song, she would rush around the fire pit, collecting the coins, and thanking the men for their generosity. She was enjoying herself quite a bit, and making a good deal of money, until the inevitable happened.

  A man made a grab for her.

  That was when the frivolity stopped and she screamed, beating at the man to release her and his colleagues jumped in to separate them. As she staggered to her feet, someone threw a punch at the man who had grabbed her. Suddenly, the table erupted in a brawl.