Page 72 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

M iraculously, the others managed to escape as well.

Rendezvousing at their planned meeting spot, they rode out without delay. Putting as much distance between their riding party and the angry mob that had congregated on the Tower was the only thing that mattered.

It should have been Roland’s most important duty—protecting his charge, the Sacred Oak to which he’d pledged his life to guard. But when it had become apparent what was happening last eve, he’d not been thinking of the rightful queen.

He’d been thinking of Amalia.

If there was any uncertainty whether he loved her, none remained.

The sheer terror he’d felt at her being in danger made Roland curse himself for allowing her to come, as if it was his decision to make.

Which, of course, it had not been. He hadn’t attempted to dissuade her, and in those moments of uncertainty, he’d berated himself for not trying.

He could not see her in the coach, but Roland hoped she was able to get some rest. It would be a long journey to Oxford. Without the coach and packhorses, they could have made the ride in three days.

As discussed, they would stop only for brief periods.

To relieve themselves and feed the horses.

Having trained as hard as the men, their mounts would be pushed to exhaustion, but there was nowhere they would feel safe until Oxford.

With its defensive capabilities, and a gathering place for allies, it had been prepared for this reason.

In the event Matilda’s coronation did not go as planned.

“Why did de Ypres attack with so few men?” Roland asked Darien as they slowed. The sun had risen long ago, and though Roland did not wish to stop, he was aware it was necessary for the horses.

“You can ask a hundred times more, but still I have no answer.”

It had been bothering him since the attack. Strategically, it made little sense.

“There was a bigger plan. Did it go awry?”

“Again,” Darien said, “I’ve no answers. Our task now is to get to Oxford as quickly as possible.”

The column gradually halted along the fringes of a vast meadow.

The men dismounted, each guiding his steed to a secluded spot where the lush grass promised a brief reprieve.

As the men shared knowing glances and exchanged terse words, their eyes scanned the horizon for any signs of pursuit.

The urgency of the escape was tempered by the realization that the well-being of their horses was paramount.

Roland gave over his mount to a squire and headed to the nearby coach. While Matilda exited from the other side, Roland took Amalia’s hand and helped her to the ground.

“We’ve little time,” he said, as the men unpacked stale bread.

They’d not had time to prepare provisions, and neither would they remain long enough to catch fresh meat.

“It will be a difficult few days,” he warned her, walking Amalia to a spot thick with tall grass.

“We will be riding hard, with little food.”

“I feel poorly that the coach slows us down.”

“It does,” he agreed, “but also offers more comfort and protection. Try to rest when you can.”

They were surrounded now, the closest men too far away to see them.

“Do you need assistance?” he asked.

Amalia laughed. “I should think that would be an ungraceful thing, for you to aid me as I relieve myself.”

Roland stepped away and turned his back. “Ungraceful? Even for a future husband?” he asked, relieving himself as well.

She did not answer. Keeping his back turned, Roland waited until he heard the grass shift as Amalia walked toward him.

Reaching for her, Roland did what he’d wanted to from the moment they met on the stairwell inside the Tower. Pulling her toward him, Roland held Amalia close to his chest. Her arms wrapped around him, and they remained that way for too long. The men would already be preparing to leave.

But he did not care.

Pulling back slightly, he looked down into her eyes and kissed her. It was a claiming kiss, one he could not allow to consume him, as they needed to leave. But one that told her how worried he’d been for her safety and how much he loved her.

When they broke apart, she took a deep breath. “A future husband.” She repeated those words. “If such a thing is possible. The events of this day have broad repercussions.”

Roland knew it well.

“Indeed,” he agreed. “But know this. You will be my wife, Amalia.”

She blinked. Roland needed her to believe him. “I will give it all up, if necessary, but we will be married.”

Whether she believed him or not, Roland did not know. He’d have asked, but the one sound he wished not to hear reached them.

Someone, and then a chorus of men, screamed. “Attack.”

“Run,” he yelled, grabbing Amalia’s hand.

When they cleared the grass, and he could see again, Roland’s worst fear came true.

The enemy were already upon them, some of the men engaged in battle.

They were surrounded to the north and west, but a path still appeared clear to the east. It was in that direction he spotted the queen’s crimson riding gown fleeing on horseback beside her captain of the guard.

Roland had never run from a fight in his life. But as his fellow recruits began to engage the enemy, he planned on doing just that. Getting to his steed and bringing Amalia to safety was all that mattered.

The squire was nowhere to be found, and neither was Roland’s mount. On the edge of the melee, a packhorse neighed, kicking up its feet. Roland tossed the saddlebags to the side and hoisted Amalia up just as the outer ring of fighting reached them.

Already, the Guardians had begun to push back the attackers, but he would take no chances that there could be more. He was about to mount when a familiar crest caught his attention.

No, please God, no.

As he watched, the man fought off one of Roland’s own. In the distance, he could also see Darien, mounted, preparing to let go of an arrow.

“Geoffrey,” he screamed, knowing he was right.

These were not his father’s men, but that was most certainly his brother fighting alongside the others.

All at once, he could see familiarity now.

His mount. His fighting style. His brother never could resist joining a fight, more so than any of his siblings.

Roland ran, Amalia in tow, screaming to Darien.

“No!” he called, over and over again.

Darien could not hear him.

“No, Darien. My brother.”

Slashing his way forward, Roland felling two men while hardly glancing at them, he finally caught the attention of his friend. “My brother,” he said, pointing to Darien’s target. “My brother,” he called more loudly.

Darien turned, felled another man instead.

Confident his brother was safe, for now, he paused long enough to mount behind Amalia. And then retreated the same way as Matilda.

“Retreat,” a man yelled, over and over. It was Sir Eamon’s voice.

A thinning between the attackers and the Guardians, along with a clearing that the attackers apparently did not have enough of their own men to cover, allowed both Roland and the others to escape.

They rode hard. Even harder than before.

Looking back, while clinging to Amalia, enough time passed as they continued their retreat that the sun began to dip in the sky.

Roland tried not to dwell on the fact that his brother was partially responsible for their fallen men.

They were on separate sides of a fight and such things were inevitable.

Thinking too much on the fact would only make him angry and bitter.

Roland followed Matilda’s captain, confident the man knew which way would afford them the best terrain, and safe passage. Roland knew not how many they’d lost or if they were being pursued.

He knew only that Amalia was safe.

For now.