Immortal Warrior Read Free Page B

enough to deal with anything short of outright invasion. Several of the servants grabbed up torches and lit them while the others armed themselves. Those without swords or spears took up what was at hand—a club or pitchfork here, an axe or scythe there—as Alaida peeked through a gap between the timbers.
    Their visitors were indeed knights, and one of the horses was indeed handsome, with a striking white mane against a dark coat that matched its rider’s pale hair and dark clothes. She could see little of the second man in the moonlight, except that he was huge and carried a large bird on his shoulder.
    “Who are they?” she asked Oswald, keeping her voice low.
    “They will say only that they come from the king and would speak to you. The one does talk like a nobleman.”
    “Is there any sign of trickery?”
    “No, my lady. I have Edric watching the verges. He sees nothing.”
    If Edric saw nothing, there was nothing to be seen—the man had the vision of an owl. “Let them in, then,” said Alaida. “But on our terms. The postern gate.”
    The men arrayed themselves around the side gate, their arms at the ready. Alaida drew her own knife from the sheath at her waist and gripped it low, nearly out of sight under the edge of her cloak. Oswald nodded, and the men at the gate drew the bar and swung the gate open.
    The postern gate was made to pass a horse without a rider, so the strangers had to dismount and lead their animals through single file. The leader, the man with the pale hair, stepped into the circle of torchlight and stopped, glancing around at the blades pointed toward him until his eyes fell upon Alaida.
    “Your caution is wise, Lady Alaida.”
    “Who are you?” she demanded. “And by what right do you demand to see me at this unholy hour?”
    “I am called Ivo de Vassy, and I take my right from the king, as the new baron of Alnwick.” He glanced down at the knife in her fist, then back up to meet her eyes. One brow went up, and she had the unnerving sense that he was holding back a laugh.
    The second man didn’t bother to hold it back, snorting mightily when he saw her blade. “I told you,” he said to the first, then turned to Alaida’s men. “Why are you still on your feet? Kneel to your new lord.”
    The guards and servants dropped immediately, save Bôte, who stood firmly at her mistress’s heel. Oswald also held his position, his short sword gripped tightly in his hand.
    “I said kneel,” growled the second knight, putting a hand to the hilt of his sword. As though sensing trouble, his bird—a large raven—flew off to sit on the wall.
    “A man can claim to be anything,” said Oswald with a calm he surely must not feel. “I have seen no royal writ, and until I do, Gilbert Tyson is lord of Alnwick, and I serve him and Lady Alaida.”
    “Fair enough.” The pale knight reached into a pouch hanging from his saddle and produced a folded parchment. “Do you read Latin, my lady?”
    “Well enough for this.” She returned her knife to its sheath, took the document, and with de Vassy following, carried it to one of the large standing torches. The scribe’s hand was clear, and even in the flickering light, she could make out the important words: Ivo de Vesci. Barô. Dominus. Alnwick. And that was the king’s great seal imprinted in the wax; she recognized it from letters held by her grandfather. The sense of dread she had held at bay through these last months flooded over her. Her voice was barely a whisper as she asked, “Is my grandfather dead, then, monseigneur ?”
    “No. Imprisoned at Windsor with de Mowbray, but alive and well at last word.”
    “Thank you, my lord.” She collected herself, turned, and lifted her chin to announce to the others, “This is from the king. Bid welcome to your new lord.”
    “Saints save us.” Bôte crossed herself and did a quick courtesy.
    Oswald sheathed his sword, and with an apologetic glance toward Alaida, knelt to his new master. “Forgive me, my lord. I sought only to protect my lady.”
    Lord