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

well by trolling in and out of streams, riding up rocky hills, down granite cliffs, and circling repeatedly.
    At nones low clouds blew in from the north and blanketed the sky with unending gray, readily covering the stealthy movements of a lone knight skulking and scurrying about a castle’s perimeter. Though neither elaborate nor majestic, Nonancourt stood the test of time and served its purpose well. Four towers described the square keep. Crenellated battlements crowned it. The barbican housed gatehouse and stables. The walls, twelve feet thick, were constructed of flint, rubble , and stone mixed with lime, sand, and water. Parts of the outer surfaces—corners, window arches, and portals—were fashioned of hewn stone. Wooden stairs on two sides led up to the barbican. Laid down the middle, a graveled embankment allowed passage for horses and carts.
    On first glance the castle appeared deserted, but to the discerning eye the barbican was more than active. Two riders, or sometimes three or four, rode out every hour, circuited the grounds in opposite directions, and met again at the main gate for a last reconnaissance of the river and the southern approaches. Sentinels toured the ramparts. Archers manned turrets and arrow slits. The castle watch was on the lookout for trouble. Odds were that a certain white knight was that trouble.
    Moving a king’s court from castle to castle was an elaborate affair. Drake learned soon enough that the old days—when the duke of Aquitaine was struck with the sudden notion to mount a skirmish, put down a rebellious comte, or simply tour the far-reaching borders of his beloved Aquitaine—were gone forever. Then the baggage was light, needs minimal, and travel fast. No longer. Not in the days of a king, where queens, princesses and ladies-in-waiting, princes and bishops, cooks and maids, provisions and beds had to be transported from place to place at a frustratingly leisure pace. If the king and his royal retinue had indeed left earlier than planned, a single knight riding a single horse could easily catch up.
    To bear out his suspicions, Drake stayed to the forest curtain , scouting the castle grounds, noting the scant evidence, and watching the comings and goings. Smoke escaping from the hearthfire louvres was sparse and infrequent. The Calais road, which would have returned much of Richard’s court to England, and the western road along the River Avre, which would have delivered the remaining Norman court to Chinon Castle, both revealed recent and decidedly heavy traffic. Other than the castle guard, no one else ventured out of doors.
    On one of the reconnaissance rounds, a lookout detected something skulking behind a brake. His steed impatient beneath him, the man sniffed the air while his eyes scanned the horizon. By the time he reached the position, he saw a roe scooting into the distance , and failed to notice, hiding in that brake, an overworked bay palfrey, another dappled gray, and a knight holding the muzzles of both horses to keep them still.
    The sentry returned to the castle. Drake road the horses several miles distant and found a clearing surrounded by a creek on one side, a hilltop on another, and woods at his back.
    Night fell. Drake spread a horse blanket over a mattress of leaves and tethered the Arabian s to a stalwart oak clawing a placid sable sky. The fire, begun by striking flint against dagger, ignited the tinder with a single spark. He fortified the wee flame with his breath, and fed leaves and wood chips into the nascent combustion. Faggot upon faggot, the inferno built and solidified until the pyre singed away the gloom of night. His eyes became transfixed by the dance of firelight, while his hands, burning with heat, fed the blaze as if it were a living thing.
    Gripping a lengthy limb, he danced around the fire just as men in the days of old must have leapt around similar flames, worshipping the invisible gods. Mystical spirits played with man. And man, in his