The Dark One: Dark Knight Read Free Page B

people who were so recently defeated by
the Tudor.  Gaston had his soldiers marching with blades in hand and his
knights were riding with their shields slung over their left knees, ready for
any unexpected action. They were, after all, in enemy territory.
         “Lord Stoneley modeled Mt. Holyoak after
Roman defenses,” Arik mumbled, fussing with the latch on his heavy helmet.  Of
the latest style, it was still new and uncomfortable. “The man was damn proud
of the place, even if he was an idiot.  He shall not be pleased to learn of
your possession.”
         Gaston tightened the reins on his destrier,
feeling the animal tensing beneath him. “Stoneley is one of the more repulsive
men I have ever come across and is exactly where he belongs, in the tower. I
wonder where those goddamn scouts are.”
         Arik shrugged.  “Who knows?  Probably
having their fill of inns and wenches.”
         Gaston grunted dangerously. “If they are,
then they will lose what is most dear to them and I can promise they will have
no need for wenches anymore.”
         Arik laughed softly.  Gaston did not.  He
was serious. Several feet behind them rode Gaston’s knight corps; all
thirty-five of them.  Even though they were trusted, seasoned knights, they
were not allowed to ride with their liege.  Even Gaston’s two cousins, one of
whom had seen eight years of service with him, were not allowed to ride with
him. Only Sir Arik, descended from Vikings, was allowed the privilege.
         Gaston was very careful with the manner in
which he treated his men. He would fight with them, counsel them, respect them,
but he would not eat with them and rarely socialized.  He believed that his
distance and cool demeanor forced the men to continually strive for perfection;
if he were to be too chummy or warm, they might become lazy or complacent in
the knowledge that they had the Dark One’s approval.
         He was not beyond a word of encouragement
and his men had his undivided attention in a war conference, but he was not
their friend.  He was their liege, and he was a firm believer in maintaining
the distance.  Through the entire campaign with Henry his philosophy had not
failed him and his men were the best trained in all of England.
         Arik rode alongside his liege, enjoying the
countryside.  He was as fine a warrior as had ever brandished a sword.  He had
the good fortune of having squired with the Dark Knight and the two had become
fast friends at the very young age of eight. Gaston had one other friend,
Matthew Wellesbourne, but Matthew and Arik were the only men he had ever
allowed himself to get close to. Even his cousins, Patrick and Nicolas, were
not truly his friends.  They were his cousins and entitled as such to the
privileges thereof, but he would not allow himself to become deeply involved
with them. Only Patrick, his eldest cousin at twenty-nine, came remotely close
to being a friend.
         There was another young knight, a close
friend of Patrick’s that endeared himself to Gaston once by blocking an arrow
meant for his liege.  The young Italian reminded Gaston of the Roman statues in
Bath, superbly muscled and leanly beautiful.  The women went mad for Sir Antonius
Flavius and Gaston could see why; he was probably the most beautiful man he had
ever seen, in the masculine sense of the word, and had a heart like a lion.
Gaston could hold intelligent conversations with Antonius, but he would never
talk about himself to the young knight.  To speak of himself would be entirely
too personal.
         The column of soldiers passed through the
fertile lands of Yorkshire, through the towns of Sheffield and Leeds. The lands
were softly rolling, extremely lush, and Gaston was quite fond of the
landscape.  Even when he had been fighting in it, he liked it.
         “What is the name of the town  to the west
of Mt. Holyoak?” Arik cut into his thoughts.
         “Boroughbridge,” Gaston