Crown of the Realm (A White Knight Adventure Book 2) by Jude Chapman

nobleman wasn’t dull-witted. Drake received a backhanded slap across his mouth. His lower lip welled and bled. Steadying his temper, the man meticulously returned the un-drunken portion of his own wine into the flagon. “If, after the deed is done, Richard’s supporters believe otherwise, that is, if they suspect you were not acting alone and that others were involved, the same fate awaits your brother as if you had not accomplished the feat. The same holds true if you try in any way to communicate beforehand with your king, or with his mignons, or his family. We have informants at the highest levels. We will know if you have tried to sidestep your assignment in any form. You understand?”
    “We’ve met before … haven’t we?”
    He didn’t answer.
    “And what of the woman traveling with my brother.”
    “A woman?” he asked his men.
    There was no reply.
    “Know this. Until and unless we are assured that everything has happened as we wish, you will not see your brother alive in this world, or by inference, the next.”
    * * *

Dragging the gag from his mouth, Drake coughed. By the time he ripped the blindfold away, the beat of hoofs was far distant. He was sitting on his haunches, the ground beneath him damp. Unaccustomed to sight, he squinted into a woodland burnished by morning sun. Baldwin’s bay stood restlessly nearby, nickering impatiently and digging a foreleg into the turf. Drake was able to pick out familiar landmarks and reckoned where the knights left him: roughly five miles south of Nonancourt Castle beside a path that hugged the River Eure.
    They left his sword and dagger behind. He made short work of the bonds. After rubbing feeling back into his hands, he attended to necessary chores without thought and numbly accomplished, exhaustion the overriding factor. He unsaddled the bay and led him to grass. Watched him eat his full while his own belly stayed empty. Gave the steed his fill of water as Drake likewise afforded himself the same, the two leaning side by side over the river embankment and dipping their heads in unison. The Eure rippled on its course downstream, unaware of the knight scrubbing his face of stinking sweat, blood encrusting his wrists, and rust left by the helm. He threw his hair back and looked out at the lonely landscape.
    He had no time to waste.
    Just outside Dreux’s north gate, Drake came upon the trails of the Arabians, one bearing the hefty weight of a knight, the other transporting the slimmer build of a lady. A mile distant, the hoof prints of trailing horses—three in number—converged from different directions like the spokes of a wheel and obliterated the tracks. A quarter-mile later, the Arabians split up, the lighter one veering east. In the clearing beyond, the haphazard imprints of energetic hoofs marked the spot where Stephen must have been overpowered. The fight wasn’t much of a fight, but blood had been drawn.
    Drake found where the hoof prints entered the River Eure and disappeared into the shallows. He waded up and down both embankments and eventually picked up the hoofs of a single palfrey emerging a mile downstream on the eastern shore. The horse had galloped over several miles. Inevitably the stride shortened and progressed into an easy trot and easier lope. He found his dappled gray grazing on dry land but without rider. Grabbing up the loose reins, he crossed and re-crossed the position, calling out for Aveline until his voice became hoarse. No one ever answered.
    He returned to the scene of Stephen’s abduction and followed the course the captors had taken. For a short distance, the tracks of one Arabian and three palfreys showed a clear route south. Drops of blood marked part of the way. One by one, the horses split off, and one by one each led to a cold trail.
    He backtracked and picked up the trail of his own abduction, several miles north of where Stephen had been taken, and tried to follow the signs. But the knights had obscured their route