Page 1 of A Dark and Stormy Knight (A Knight’s Tale #3)

London, England, 1258.

T he bugle signaled, and from the stands Sir Wallace of Wolfsbane watched his father urge his mount forward, his solid, heavy helmet tucked, shield raised, lance leveled.

The armored destrier showed strength and skill, it’s well-muscled form on display as it charged down the list field, the leather and silk barding flapping behind.

Chin high, shoulders back, his own heart thundered in his chest as if it was he, and not his sire, facing down a foe, ransoming everything they had, everything they were, before God and King as proof of honor.

Time seemed to slow, and the chinking of chainmail, the sounds of the horse’s hooves striking dirt, echoed in his head.

The crowds outside the Palace of Westminster, screaming only moments before, silenced as the two men, lances at the ready, powered toward each other.

Wallace’s mouth dried, his brows drew close together, and his face tightened. His father seemed looser in the saddle than he should. His body leaned back, rather than forward, his lance tipping downward just the smallest amount too much.

Eyes burning, hands clenched on the wood before him, Wallace did not dare to so much as blink as he watched every movement his sire made.

“Come now, come now,” he urged his father, who could in no way hear him, even were he to roar the words.

The man knew better, had taught Wallace, so why was he not straightening? Leaning? Tightening his grip on the lance?

“Something is wrong,” his mother murmured, her hand rising to clutch his arm.

As the two men clashed in the middle of the field, Dinsdale’s strike was perfectly placed, and Wolfsbane launched hard from his saddle.

Wallace lost his breath.

Dirt plumed upward to mix with the smells of manure, food from the refreshment stalls, and his own cold sweat.

There was a long moment of shocked silence before the crowds in the hastily built stands, and those up in the battlements, exploded with excitement — screaming, jostling, jumping up and down.

Wolfsbane had never been unseated.

His squire dropped the replacement lance and, grabbing up his master’s sword, ran from the lists to where Lord Wolfsbane lay on the ground, struggling to rise.

It was all Wallace could do not to jump over the stands and rush to his father’s side.

Even now, Dinsdale, a smaller, less-skilled fighter was dismounting and removing his dagger from his side as he stalked toward Wolfsbane.

“Get up! Get up!” He screamed the words, and his mother joined in as they watched father, husband, Lord Wolfsbane, move from side to side, his chain seeming too heavy to lift.

He was stunned, that was obvious, but he’d been winded before, had trained Wallace what to do in this situation, but didn’t execute the move himself.

“Roll to the side! To your knees!” he called out, as if he was the one who trained his father and not the other way about.

They could see he tried, but somehow didn’t have the strength, perhaps couldn’t even see as his helmet had moved upward.

All this, even as Dinsdale strode closer.

“Mercy!” The plea was torn from his mother, the panic in her voice, so different from his stern, taciturn parent.

The men in the audience seemed to relish the coming victory, but his mother’s plea was taken up by other women in the crowd.

“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!”

Wallace found the word trapped in his throat as he waited for his canny, calculating father to kick out and break a kneecap, or swipe his leg and let the smaller man fall before kicking him in the face.

All moves he’d been taught by the man on the ground.

When Dinsdale was feet away, he lifted his hand in the air, even as his mother screamed once more, “Mercy!” the word, at volume, seeming wrenched from her.

There was none shown.

The dagger flashed downward without a hint of pity and much purpose until it pierced the exposed section of skin, between helmet and chain, all the way to the hilt.

When Dinsdale pulled it out with a shout of triumph, his father’s blood arced, droplets rising and falling to the dirt even as Wallace’s mouth gaped, his legs weakened, and his hands clutched the rail.

“Nay,” the word was ripped from him, weak, husky, so unlike his robust voice.

His mother screamed, the sound piercing, despairing, as she sank to the ground, the colorfully dressed women around them pressing closer to catch her.

He watched as Dinsdale raised the bloody knife to the crowd, acknowledged the cheers and jeers, and then walked forward to bend one knee to king and queen.

Queen Eleanor pressed a handkerchief to her mouth.

King Henry, crown gleaming in sunlight, his expression impassive as he slowly stood, raised his hands for quiet.

When the crowd fell silent, the king looked at Lord Dinsdale, and beyond at his fallen baron.

Wallace’s heart sat frozen in his chest, as his mother sobbed somewhere behind him.

First his brother earlier this year, and now his father, gone in an instant.

The grief welling within him flashed hot. “I cry foul!” His voice boomed, back at its fullest strength. “Deceit! My father was not himself! Give me a fair turn at Dinsdale!”

Wallace went to jump the barrier, but harsh hands on his shoulders held him back.

“Quiet, else I will have you removed.” The king’s tone, scornful, cold as ice, brooked no argument.

Wallace felt every eye in the crowd upon him, every noble, every peasant, down to the smallest boy sitting in the dirt holding back a yapping dog.

Lips pressed tight, he clenched the wooden rail in front of him, his hands picking up splinters as he held back the scream rising in his chest.

He swallowed, his stomach hollowing. His father had been murdered before him.

“Lord Dinsdale,” King Henry’s voice rose so all could hear him. “The feud between your families has been an ongoing one, and today, both of you vowed before God and King the winner would take all.”

As the crowd cheered, Dinsdale removed his helm, coif, and smiled and waved at the crowd, the scar on his face pulling taut, reminding Wallace his own father had carved it there.

Would that he’d killed him all those years ago.

Before Wallace knew he’d meant to move, hard fingers dug into his shoulders to keep him still as he watched Dinsdale, now kneeling before the king.

He struggled against the hands holding him. “I cry foul!” he yelled again, and the words echoed across the jousting field for all to hear.

“And I am your king, and I will decide! Lord Dinsdale, I give you the right to Wolfsbane Castle, and the properties that came to Wolfsbane upon his marriage.”

“Nay!” His mother struggled to stand, her normally serene face etched with grief and rage. “You beggar us!”

“You will retain your name, and your manor house in Northumberland, Lord Wolfsbane.” The king nodded to Wallace as he acknowledged his new title before turning away. “Now, to the banquet!”

It was done. Finished. The king gave them the least of their properties, a slap in the face, some of it mayhap based on dislike for his outspoken father, and some, no doubt, based upon the king’s own greed.

Lord Dinsdale would be heavily taxed for what he’d won this day.

The injustice of their loss had him lunging forward, growling, but he was pulled back again, and a friend’s voice in his ear, penetrated.

“Hold, or you will lose everything. Even your life. Then what will your mother and sisters do?”

The thought of his mother, sisters, left on their own, left to the mercies of Lord Dinsdale, held him still.

He turned to look at Lady Helena.

Breathing heavily, disheveled, age showing, she shook her head, eyes pleading. “Wallace, nay. I have lost more than enough this day.”

The husband she loved dearly. The properties she’d been so proud to bring to the marriage. She couldn’t lose her only remaining son.

He stepped back, and bowed his head, and the entire audience seemed to exhale.

What had his father taught him? Live to fight another day?

So, he would.

His will hardened. This wasn’t him admitting defeat. This was him salvaging what they had, so they could regroup once more.

This was not over.

He placed his arm around his sobbing mother and led her away.