Page 18 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

“ H e is too pretty for our order.”

The moment Gareth stepped into the men’s quarters, he was met with some ribbing and even more accolades.

The latter he had no need for; reminders of his skill with the lance and on mounted horseback were something he’d stopped listening to many years ago.

If it aided his cause, so be it. Otherwise, Gareth cared little for the praise.

“Aye, ’tis the cheekbones. Though I would not name him pretty. A handsome one, though, for certain.”

He’d never been called pretty, and Gareth cared little for the term.

But saying as much would have the opposite effect among these men.

Instead, he remained silent and assessed those around him.

Perhaps twenty men in total, some taller than others, but none small by any measure.

Blond men, black-haired men. Bearded and clean-shaven, they had just one thing in common.

All had been recruited, as he had been, for the Guardians of the Sacred Oak—an order he’d not known existed mere days ago, but one that fought for a cause in which he believed.

More importantly, one his parents believed in as well. If Empress Matilda was restored to the throne, his father could no longer be called a traitor.

“Your bed is there,” the steward of Castle Blackwood said.

“This eve you will accompany Lord Stirling to dine with a local noble who is one of the chief financiers of our organization. In the meantime”—the elderly man waved his arm to indicate the others—“allow the men to welcome you among their ranks.”

He tried not to smile as Gareth had no wish to insult either the steward or his fellow recruits.

Striding toward his bed, greeting each man as he walked by, accepting their slaps on his back and welcomes, Gareth tossed his saddlebag onto the bed just as a dark-haired man sat next to it.

Like his, the man’s hair was dark brown.

Unlike his, it was shaved, much shorter than was the custom.

He was large, his hands massive. What was his particular skill? Each man, Gareth had learned on the three days’ journey here, was recruited for a reason. By the look of him, the man was either an expert with the battle axe or sword.

“Alden,” he said, by way of a greeting.

“Sir Alden,” he repeated, leaning against the wall near his bed. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Simply Alden. I am no knight.”

Gareth did laugh then. “I was told the Guardians were a knightly order.”

“All are knighted but me. I am the son of a blacksmith.”

“Not any blacksmith,” another man said, passing by them. “His father is John of Dunridge.”

Gareth whistled. Any man in England who owned a sword had heard of the famous smith. “They say Excalibur was forged by your ancestors.”

“They also say you’ve never been defeated on a jousting field, but I know the opposite to be true.”

“Go on,” he urged the smith. “What do you know?”

“Englewood,” the smith’s son said.

His only loss. One conveniently forgotten by those who love to spread tales of Gareth’s feats, but a loss indeed. ’Twas a small tourney, unknown to most.

“You are from Carlsham? Or Englewood itself?” Though Gareth had heard tales of the talented smith, he could not recall from where he hailed. But if Alden knew of his loss, he was likely from the region.

“Shirston St. Mary.”

“Ahh, just north of Englewood, aye?”

“Aye.”

“So your ancestors did not forge Excalibur?” he teased, the man’s point well made.

“They did not.”

“Well, Alden of Shirston St. Mary, I am pleased to make your acquaintance anyway.”

Finally, the man smiled. “And I yours.”

“Will you tell me more of the Guardians? And this place? Why are the men not training or on missions?”

“Some are on missions,” the smith said. “As for training, there is only one thing we take more seriously here. Mealtimes. You’ve caught us just before the midday meal. Mark me well, the cook here will become your favorite person at Blackwood.”

Any reservations Gareth had about joining had just been banished.

If he missed one thing from home more than his parents and two older brothers, it was the meals their cook had always prepared.

When his father had been accused of treason, their lands seized, he and his family had moved to a small manor house but had retained the cook, thank the Blessed Mary.

“Once you are settled, I will show you to the hall,” Alden said. “Have you had a tour of Blackwood yet?”

“Sir Eamon and Lord Stirling escorted me here, but I cannot say I’ve seen much beyond the grounds and our quarters. I am settled and ready now.”

“Come,” Alden said. “I’ve just arrived myself not a sennight past. This hall,” he said as they stepped into the corridor, “is home to many knights of the Order.”

“And they all arrive at different times?”

“Aye,” Alden said. “As you know, each already possess a certain skill, some more prominent than others. ’Tis said they are grooming some for leadership positions and the knight school aims to ensure others have honed their skills as well.”

Gareth’s brows drew together. “I do not understand.”

“I am strong, and well-versed with a sword, but know little of negotiation in politics. And though ’tis unlikely I will be utilized in such a way, each and every man here should be, in the words of one of the instructors, ‘able and ready for any situation, skilled in all areas.’”

“So their hope is to improve on those things the Order does not do well already?”

“Aye. But there are rumors that others are well versed in many ways and those men may be called to lead campaigns. Though ’tis not happened as of yet. Perhaps you will be the first.”

“Perhaps,” Gareth said as they walked. “How many men are there in total?”

“Very few,” he said. “No more than fifty.”

“Fifty men,” he repeated. “Will you tell me what sort of missions have been accomplished by such few men?”

Alden slapped him on the shoulder. “I will tell you all you need to know, my friend. But first...” He nodded to the woman standing at the end of the corridor speaking to a young knight. “There are few women here, and though she is more than passing fair, she is to be avoided.”

“It does not seem as if he”—Gareth referred to the knight she spoke with—“agrees.”

“He’s been warned and will pay the price for his dalliance.”

“Warned?”

“She is married to the village blacksmith. It seems the woman forgets she is married, though if rumor serves, her husband does the same.”

“The blacksmith.” Gareth smiled. “’Tis said they have quite a temper more often than not.”

“True enough. My father would never be accused of possessing an easy temperament, but thankfully I’ve not inherited that trait. You are not married?” Alden asked as they walked by the couple. Indeed, the two seemed more intimate than a married maid should be with such a man.

“Nay. I’ve little to offer a wife.”

Alden stopped walking and looked at him as if Gareth had said something of consequence when he’d merely been stating a fact.

“Little to offer? You are as renowned a knight as any that grace these halls. Talk of you joining us has been rampant since word leaked that Stirling and Thorne planned to recruit you.”

“I am also, as you are likely aware, the son of a disgraced baron whose lands and titles were stripped from him.”

“For supporting the very woman we are all here to reinstall onto the throne.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “But for now King Stephen continues to rule.”

Alden smiled. “He will not do so for long. Rebel barons have a stronger foothold in Northern England and East Anglia than ever before. The church refuses to support Stephen’s son as heir. We are closer now to victory than any other time before.”

“And I would know the Guardians’ role in those victories.”

“Ahh, where shall we begin?”

By the time Alden had taken him through the castle, explaining how each of the major victories these past years were orchestrated by the Guardians, Gareth had grown even more confident in his decision.

He’d never expected to be here, had not even known this order existed a sennight ago.

But the sense of purpose, of camaraderie, was evident, and Gareth could only be glad he’d trusted his instinct to allow himself to be recruited.

By the time they arrived in the hall, the meal was well underway.

“Do not gorge yourself,” Alden said. “Likely you will be feasting again this eve with Lord Ashcroft. He likes to meet all of the recruits personally.”

“I do believe he is hosting me this eve.”

Alden smiled as they sat. It was an odd sort of smile, as if he knew something more but did not wish to reveal it.

“Alden?”

“Aye?” the man answered, filling his tankard with ale.

“What of this meal? There is something you are not telling me.”

“Meal?” another man asked.

“He dines with Ashcroft this eve,” Alden said in response.

At that, every man at the table looked his way. The same one who had called him pretty laughed now, though it was in jest and not intended as a cruelty. Even still, Gareth reserved judgment on the man.

“If any have a chance with her, ’tis him.” The man went back to his meal.

“A chance with her? To whom does he refer?” he asked Alden.

“You shall see, my good man. Now eat. All are anxious to see how the great Sir Gareth of Fenwall will fare against Sir Adrian.”

Sir Adrian Fitzwilliam. Gareth knew of the man, of course.

He was one of the greatest tourney players who’d ever lived, though the man was even older than his father now.

An expert in mounted combat, his own father also a renowned jouster, his presence was something Gareth most looked forward to.

When Lord Stirling had told Gareth he was one of the instructors here at this knight school, he had been surprised, of course, but also elated at the opportunity to test his mettle against such a man.

“As am I,” he replied.

Alden took a deep chug of ale. “It will be an interesting day for you indeed.”