The Last Knight Read Free Page B

But in that year of wandering, first north to the timberlands, then south down the Erran River, I’d had my share of adventure, become proficient at all sorts of tasks, and, yes, assisted a few good folk who were in need of an outstretched hand.
    Finding myself only a few weeks’ travel from home, I thought I should visit my family and assure them of my well-being. When I made this decision it had seemed a good notion, but the closer to home I came, the more my anticipation of a lively argument weighed on my mind. I thought I’d spent the last year right worthily—but I knew my father would not agree. I rode into Deepbend trying to displace my worries with thoughts of a hot noon meal at an inn. Most of my wages from the barge master were still in my purse, and I felt quite rich.
    The flowers in the window boxes had faded, but the ivy climbing the dark timbers was red as a cock’s wattle and the thatch shone like buffed gold.
    When I saw the crowd in the market square, I hoped there might be a tourney in the offing. In centuries past, when knights brought the king’s justice to an unruly realm, the tourney was their training ground. Those who lost paid a high penalty, forfeiting their horse and the armor they fought in to the knight who defeated them. And back then, armor was very expensive to replace.
    In these times, tourneys are little more than an excuse for a great fair. But a mock battle is still offered and Chant’s leg had been holding up well lately. Between us, we might have had a chance at the cash prize that has replaced the horse-and-armor ransom. ’Twould also serve as an excuse to delay my homecoming, but I didn’t dwell on that.
    Riding farther into the square, I saw a long platform with three black-caped judicars seated at a table upon it, and remembered that in Lord Malcolm’s fiefdom the first Hornday of the month was judgment day. The size of the crowd spoke of some crime so terrible it called for redemption in blood. This chilled me, though Father would call me soft for it. I considered traveling on and making my noon meal of apples. But Lord Malcolm is neighbor to my father’s liege, and I knew I should stay long enough to discover what the crime had been.
    Even as I made my decision, they led out the prisoners. There were three of them, and Chant’s high back gave me an excellent view over the crowd. The first was a pinch-faced woman, of middle age, whose cap and apron were so white they glowed in the sun. The next was a man, older, but still hard-muscled, wearing a farmer’s rough work shirt, with a black and purple swelling on one cheek. His lip was split as well, and he winced when the sun struck his eyes. As obvious a case of drunken brawling as ever I’ve seen, and recent enough that he was still hungover. He stumbled mounting the steps to the platform, and the last man in line thrust out a manacled hand to catch him.
    The third prisoner was a young man, close to my own age. His short hair was trimmed more neatly than that of most commoners, and he wore a clean shirt and drab doublet, like those of a clerk, or a young merchant. He kept a hand under the older man’s elbow until they settled into place before the judicars. His expression was distant and still, and I saw that he had helped the man without thinking about it. His face was so honest that I wondered if the judicars might have erred. He was neither handsome nor homely, the kind of young man mothers pray will come courting their daughters and the daughters dismiss as too dull.
    But his place, last in line, indicated that his crime was the most serious—and his pallor that the sentence was likely to be severe.
    For someone whose face was green with terror, his composure was admirable.
    A clerk read out charges against the woman. She and her husband were bakers, with a habit of sliding their thumbs onto the scales when they weighed the loaves. Their customers complained, and the deputies had caught her at it.
    Her husband, who