Page 10 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

“ C astle Blackwood has been abandoned for years, until now. You are one of its inhabitants, are you not?”

It was the most dangerous question they could receive and one all who’d been commissioned to the Guardians of the Sacred Oak had been prepared for.

As Anwen and Rystan made their way from the inn to retrieve their mounts, three knights whose livery she didn’t recognize approached.

Though the leader, a dark-haired and comely man not much older than them, spoke to Rystan, he looked at her.

The way his eyes scanned her reminded Anwen of Sir James.

Assured but filled with a curious attention she typically only received from men.

If indeed Rystan was correct, and Sir James’ intentions were less than noble, this man shared his disposition.

Rystan’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

The dark-haired leader’s companions did as well.

“We serve Sir Aldric of Wexford, who has been granted Blackwood as his seat. We are readying the castle for his household."

His line had been practiced, as Anwen had been prepped to do.

“Wexford has no ties to Blackwood.”

So he would challenge them.

Anwen sighed as Rystan stepped in front of her.

“If you would but let us pass?—”

Instead of allowing it, the knight stood in Rystan’s path as a crowd began to gather.

“There’s been much talk of Blackwood as of late.”

“Indeed?”

Rystan’s tone had changed. From attempting to avoid the conflict to courting it. She’d watched him train. Watched him fight. This man would end up dead soon if she did nothing.

“Allow us to pass,” Anwen said in her most commanding voice. “We simply wished to have a warm meal and not court conflict.”

“Nay?” the leader asked. “Then perhaps you will tell me why Sir Aldric’s man finds himself with a lady who inquires about provisions for so many men.”

He had spoken to the alewife. She, like most of the village, were supporters of Matilda. Castle Blackwood had been chosen specifically because its trade routes, markets, and guild connections favored Matilda's territories and would prosper more under her rule.

By their questions, Anwen guessed these men were supporters of the king.

“If Lord Halton wishes to inquire about Wexford’s purpose, advise him to send an official request. Until then. Let. Us. Pass.”

Halton. Anwen’s blood ran cold at the name. She had not known his colors, but the name? Aye, he was indeed one of the king’s supporters and a dangerous man at that. If he had any inkling what they were doing at Blackwood, the entire mission could be in jeopardy.

What were they doing this far north?

“I think we will escort you back?—.”

It happened so quickly, Anwen could not possibly have prepared for the mayhem that ensued.

One moment, she stood behind Rystan. The next, he’d drawn his sword and plunged his sword into the dark-hair loyalist’s chest. Before pulling it out, the man falling, dead, to the ground, his men were upon Rystan.

Screams of horror accompanied the clang of steel as Rystan’s sword met one of the men’s.

He kicked the second in the chin, temporarily stopping him from attacking.

The circle around them moved back, none willing to be caught in the fray.

For her part, Anwen did not even have the opportunity to fear for Rystan’s life.

He’d dispatched the smaller of the two remaining supporters and was now engaged with the largest of all three men.

Unlike the others, this one was prepared for Rystan’s attack.

He was also a skilled swordsman.

Although the growing crowd of onlookers cheered every time Rystan gained the upper hand, by now all realizing these were supporters of King Stephen, there was no part of Anwen that wished to join them.

Blood of the two slain men ran through the dirt and mud as the fight continued.

For the first time since they confronted her and Rystan, she worried for him.

Heart pounding and hands trembling, she blinked, wishing for the sight before her to prove a bad dream. Instead, the two men’s swords met as sparks flew from them, the all too familiar sounds somehow more ominous than they were in training.

This was not practice.

Rystan fought the enemy, right before her in front of the inn where they enjoyed drinks and conversation, the stark reality of their situation never more clear.

Please do not hurt him. Please do not be killed, Rystan.

Even when she’d not seen him for years, Anwen had always known Rystan was out there somewhere. The thought of him dead and buried was too much to bear.

I will not let you go again.

Truth be told, she did not wish to let him go either.

Fate had intervened, giving them another chance.

She looked at the dark-haired man on the ground, his eyes bulging, blood running from his stomach across his surcoat to the ground.

One moment, he had been alive, haughty and challenging Rystan.

The next, his life had been snuffed from him.

Because she’d been looking at the dead man, Anwen had no notion how the sword fight ended, except that the crowd’s cheer was nearly deafening. And Rystan stood at the foot of a third dead knight, chest heaving, face blood-splattered. But decidedly alive.

Without thinking, she ran to him. Embraced him. Held on tightly and closed her eyes against the horror she’d heard about but never witnessed in such a way. Anwen had aided in the treatment of knight’s wounds but had never been steps away from the fight that had made them.

“Shhh,” he said, stroking her hair. It was only then Anwen realized tears streamed down her face and he, the one who could have been killed, was the one consoling her.

“Toss them in the river,” Rystan’s voice boomed.

She opened her eyes to see all three of the men being dragged away.

After that, Anwen paid little notice to the conversation around her. She heard words.

King. Retribution. Blackwood.

“Anwen.”

She looked up. Rystan’s face was so covered in blood, only the whites of his eyes were visible. Yet those were full of life. And love.

“I am well,” she lied. “You?” she asked belatedly, stepping back to inspect him. “Are you hurt?”

Wiping his blade with his surcoat, Rystan shook his head. “A nick,” he said, the gaping wound on his forearm visible for the first time.

“More than a nick,” she said, tearing her gown with a strength Anwen hadn’t known she possessed. Though he allowed her to wrap it, clearly Rystan was not concerned about the wound.

“Thank you.”

They turned to find the innkeeper staring at the pool of blood beside them.

“They’ve been here before, scaring away my patrons and spouting the king’s mad platitudes. None have dared challenge them before.”

It was the reason Rystan had been brought to Castle Blackwood.

He would dare that, and more. The man was fearless. Decisive. And more skilled than even Sir Eamon Thorne, the most celebrated swordsman in England, according to some. Only Anwen knew the reason for it.

His brother. Sickly from birth. Weak. Vulnerable.

“I will become the best swordsman on the Isle. Any man who dares threaten my brother will not live to tell the tale,” Rystan told her once when she asked why he trained harder than anyone she had ever known.

She looked once again into his eyes.

Today, it wasn’t his brother Rystan defended so brutally. Neither, even, was it the Guardians or Matilda’s cause.

Today, it was her.