Sword of Justice: A White Knight Adventure, #1

By J. S. Chapman

During the Reign of King Richard II, a disgraced knight tests his mettle to save king and kingdom.

 

ENGLAND: In the year of grace, 1189

 

Having recently been dubbed knights by King Richard the Lionheart, Drake fitzAlan and his brother are lavishly fêted in a tournament on the grounds of their father's castle.

 

Before he's had a chance to test his manhood, Drake finds himself branded murderer and outlaw. Drake has two choices. Lose everything he holds dear … or prove his innocence.

 

Chasing after the bad guys, he fends off hangmen, sheriffs, scoundrels, bastards, mercenaries, cutthroats, and the sharp-tongued daughter of an alewife who tends his wounds, feeds him gossip, and drives him mad with desire.

 

His journey of discovery leads him on a trail of power, betrayal, and greed. The stakes are high, not just for himself and his family but for the destiny of a king and his kingdom.

 

In the pursuit of justice, Drake has one last duty to perform … a duel of honor before God and king.

 

Start reading the book now … and get swept away by knights in shining armor and gallantry at the edge of a blade!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Weatherly Books
• Release date: Nov 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781498914994

J. S. Chapman

J. S. Chapman is a paperback writer, recovering screenwriter, genre shifter, and research glutton. She writes thrillers, mysteries, historical fiction, romantic comedies, and nonfiction. You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl. Born and raised in Chicago USA, she may be a suburban transplant but her heart still lives in the Windy City, where she learned her street smarts the hard way. After earning her degree from Northwestern University, she briefly taught in the Chicago Public School system before signing on with the corporate sector. It was in a dreary cubicle around the corner from executive row where she dared to dream and began writing nights and weekends. A little bit crazy and a little bit rock ‘n’ roll.

Book preview

Sword of Justice

A White Knight Adventure

(Book 1)

J. S. Chapman

Sword of Justice

A White Knight Adventure

(Book 1)

J. S. Chapman

Copyright © 2013 by J. S. Chapman

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Weatherly Books

Chicago, IL, USA

This book is licensed for your personal reading enjoyment and may not be resold or given away to others. Reproduction in whole or part of this book without the express written consent of the author and/or publisher is strictly prohibited and protected by copyright law. Short excerpts used for the purposes of critical reviews is permitted. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Book Notes

From the Author

A PARABLE

It happened one day that the prince and his brother were alone in a chamber playing chess.

When the prince lost the game, he took the chessboard and smote his brother upon the head with it, wherefore the brother kicked the prince hard in the stomach, causing him to bang his head against the wall, become dizzy, and fall into a faint.

Afraid he had killed the prince, the brother rubbed his ears and brought him around. Whereupon the prince went wailing to his father the king.

Hold your tongue! said the king. If your brother has done what you say, no doubt you deserved it.

Upon which the king called for the prince’s tutor and ordered his son to be well beaten for complaining.

«»

Ralph of Coggeshall

Chronicon Anglicanum

Saturday, the 19th of August, in the Year of Grace 1189

«»

The Angevin Empire

Chapter 1 

THE HOUR OF vespers brought the chevalier galloping into the precincts of Fontevraud Abbey accompanied by upwards of a hundred men. The sweat-streaked destriers, having ridden hard and long, whinnied and grumbled, though out of deference and the shock of disbelief, no man spoke―"

The knight himself was a magnificent specimen, endowed with all the beauty and strength wished upon him by his mother, and more arrogance and pride than his father allowed. After dismounting his steed, the knight strode alone into the abbey church.

Fading daylight imparted an ethereal grace on the holy tabernacle, its limestone walls and vaulted arches creamy white and seemingly otherworldly. Lord and leader, the knight brashly approached the altar, his jangling spurs breaking the unutterable silence. But as he approached the place where lambs were slaughtered in times before memory, his footsteps faltered and at length halted.

Before the sacrificial stone, in the light of a hundred flickering candles, an old man lay on a bier for all to view. Befitting his rank, the corpse was righteously clothed in the finest of robes: a blouse of gold-embroidered linen, a damask tunic of rich emerald green, and a magnificent ermine-lined cloak embroidered with crescent moons. His feet were clad in satin slippers. A ceremonial sword girded his waist. His ringed hands were crossed athwart his breast. And two silver coins, stamped with a coarse likeness of himself and inscribed with the legend HENRICVS REX weighed down his eyelids.

Like the lordling that looked down upon him, the deceased had once been a beautiful youth, possessed of flinty blue eyes, golden-red hair, and long limbs. Also like the knight, he had an insatiable appetite for women, for wine, and especially for war. Now he was reduced to a wintry reflection, his hair the same metal as the coins, and the wear of a century imprinted on his face though he was but fifty-six years of age, not an old man by any standard, not even in the year of grace 1189.

The withered visage made it difficult to imagine that this man had fashioned through fortune, luck in marriage, and sheer fortitude an empire so vast it stretched north to Scotland and south to the Pyrenees. His English kingdom was a united whole, in name if not in fact, and his Gallic nation was greater than that of the reigning king of France.

He attained his supremacy at the youthful age of one-and-twenty. Over a lifetime of warring and whoring, he spawned eight legitimate children and innumerable bastards to carry his legacy forward. Regrettably, he also waged war on his grown sons, and they on him, eventually leading to his humiliating defeat. Worse, he imprisoned his queen over sixteen interminable years for the unpardonable sin of inciting her sons to rebellion, and never once considered that this one unfortunate act had unraveled, thread by twisted thread, a once-glorious reign. In the end, he died broken, bereft, and betrayed, having only one bastard son to witness his final tortured breath.

Kings, even when graced in life, more times than not die ignobly.

Though king of England, Henri, the second of his name, had been born in his beloved Anjou, died in his beloved Anjou, and would be entombed in his beloved Anjou. But in England, where he was coronated thirty-five years ago, they held him as their native son and long since dubbed him Henry.

The knight dropped to his knees and said a brief prayer, his lips moving but his voice silent. Since the two faces were near one another, those near at hand would have seen the fair likeness between the departed king and the vibrant knight, separated as they were by a mere twenty-four years. The assumption would have led to a further truth: that one was the father and the other, his son.

The knight genuflected as a dutiful son but rose to his feet as a king. Turning on a heel, he thundered out of the church with nary a backward glance. And in England, where tidings had already been carried across the Channel on the wings of doves, they were singing his praises. Richard Cœur de Lion is king! Richard the Lionheart is king!

Heralds called it from the saddle. Townsmen boasted it from the rooftops. Alewives spread the news from behind cloaked hands and lustrous eyes. Lads shouted the tidings in alleyways and streets. Cottagers trumpeted the message from field to field. And priests ordered cathedral bells to send forth the word.

But in private, where no one could hear, everyone whispered the unspeakable. Richard is king. And in the same breath, God save England.

Chapter 2 

THE DRIFTING BLUE waters of the River Itchen sliced through a boundless panorama, an emerald backdrop of rolling terrain at its back, and white-stoned battlements setting off its prominence.

Itchendel Castle rose up from bedrock like a mystical vision of old. Serving not only as a citadel of Norman rule, it was also home to the fitzAlans. Father William, sons Drake and Stephen, and mother and wife Philippia of Aquitaine, entombed alongside a stillborn daughter beneath the chapel’s flagstones.

Clothed in their gayest costumes, townsfolk and country folk streamed onto the castle grounds. Though they came for the food, the drink, and the fête champêtre on this, the first sanctioned tournament to take place on English soil in many a year, it was the romantic notion of dashing knights in shining armor and secretly for the blood sport to come that brought them in droves.

At the base of castle hill, white-clothed pavilions sucked like sails in strong winds. Cooking pits flamed. Wine casks brimmed. Banners fluttered and flew. Jongleurs, acrobats, and troubadours entertained. And song and laughter drenched the fine summer air.

On the occasion of his sons being dubbed knights two days since in Winchester Cathedral by King Richard’s own sword and hand, William fitzAlan had emptied his purse. His largess was grand and knew no bounds. Common folk and nobles alike salivated at the mere thought of the feat and the accompanying feast to come. Of swans cooked fully feathered, stuffed pigling and cormorants, lampreys in galytyne, blancmange with anise and almonds, viaund royal, capon de haut de grace, venison en frumenty, and not to be left out, raisins, figs, dates, and pomegranates; pies, pasties, and sweetmeats; and to wash it all down, ale and mead.

On a long stretch of field, two sides formed up, fifty knights to a side, ranks split by familiarity, friendship, and habitual alliances. After donning armor at either end of the virgin meadow, one hundred knights mounted their warhorses and galloped towards each other, hoofs drumming. Lances were couched securely in one hand while shields were held fast in the other. To mark the opposing forces, banners of red and blue flew aloft, snapping in breezes coming off the river. The silver-clad warriors stopped a bowshot apart, reining in their chargers. A safe distance away, spectators climbed into stands or meandered along the riverbank, eager for the contest to begin. Cheers broke out in support of each side, everyone claiming a favored champion.

Standing on a platform for all the riders to see, Lord William fitzAlan of Itchendel separated the two forces by his presence. He held aloft a white banner and waited for order. When an impatient rustling took hold, he dropped the pennon and shouted, In God’s name, charge!

A cloud of dust rose from the trampled plain. Horseman rushed on horseman, shimmering steel met shimmering steel, and everything melded amidst sibilant war cries.

Tournament or not, anything could happen on a battlefield. Few rules applied in à outrance contests and those that did were soon discarded for the promise of stature, exaltation, and treasure. Honor quickly broke down. Fair was fair when a knight lost his horse, lost his weapons, lost blood or freedom, all to be claimed by the other side for prizes and glory. Since dead men paid no ransoms, capture rather than harm was the object, but fury was indiscriminate. Knights went down, scrambled to their feet, drew sword, grasped shield, dodged weapons that could impale, slash, and draw blood, and outmaneuvered raging horseflesh that might easily trample them to death.

Unseated from his horse, one knight became entangled in a stirrup and was dragged screaming into the distance. Another flew over the head of his steed, forthwith carried off the field, bleeding and insensate. Those knights who held their saddle soon scattered across the countryside, rivalry sending them headlong into one-on-one contests, two-on-one skirmishes, and five-on-one battles royal.

Scattered far and near, recets provided sanctuary to rest, rearm, hold prisoners, and count booty. After replenishing themselves with wine and catching their breaths, knights went out again, to pick another fight, acquire another reward, or lose an engagement. The brawling was destined to go on until dusk and beyond.

Staying well behind the mêlée, his sun-streaked hair a crown of gold against the azure river at his back, Drake fitzAlan stood at the threshold of life and the edge of a killing field. Reining in his magnificent white destrier, the young knight wore a shirt of mail, his coif slung back and ventail unfastened. A sleeveless surcote of red and gold girded his waist. A shield strapped to his arm flaunted the same colors. He held a polished helm in his leather-mitted hand. His other hand gripped a lance, the pennon of gold and red whipping in the breeze. Strapped at his side was his dragon sword, forged of the best Poitou steel.

Engaged in a lively sword fight, his brother Stephen lost his saddle. Recovering handily, he fended off capture and withdrew to the sidelines. His hair glowing like dying embers, their squire Devon of Wheeling helped the knight remove helm. Stephen looked up at his brother, his expression ardent, his eyes sparkling, and his hair dark with sweat. Little separated the brothers, one from the other; not their hawklike profiles, brush-stroked cheekbones, lofty statures, or matching garnet rings. Because Drake and Stephen fitzAlan were not only brothers but identical twins, born in the space of three breaths on a black moon a little more than twenty years ago.

The brothers had been riding with Richard in France since winter before last, serving the duke of Aquitaine as his personal squires, and in serving, matured from green youths to valiant men. Drake and Stephen had returned to England with their new king in anticipation of his coronation, and they would remain in England for as long as it took Richard to prepare for the Holy Crusade, the third such crusade waged over the last hundred years, which purpose was to rescue the Holy Land from the Turks. Whether this would be the final crusade, only God could tell, but when the final Muslim had been routed from Jerusalem, Christendom would reign for eternity.

In the meantime, money had to be raised, supplies gathered, soldiers recruited, maps drawn, ships engaged, wagons and carts constructed, work horses and battle steeds acquired, weapons turned out, mercenaries conscripted, cooks and wagoners employed, and battle plans forged. It would take a hard drive across Europe, over rough terrain, treacherous rivers, mountainous ranges, verdant valleys, and arid plains. Along the way, Richard would bring allies to his side, turn enemies aside, cross stormy seas, and make many promises, some to be kept but most to be broken, until finally he reached the Levant at the head of the greatest army ever assembled and brought God’s judgment down upon the infidels of Islam.

For the fitzAlan brothers, the upcoming crusade was to be an adventure in the service of their king and the dream of a lifetime. Traveling through foreign lands, encountering alien peoples, experiencing strange customs, stranger tongues, exotic women, unaccustomed climates, and unforeseen travails would only be the beginning of an undertaking where their courage was to be tested, endurance proven, and bravery challenged.

The future, though, was but a dream. The present lay before them. The endless field they stood upon had been their childhood playground. Now they would romp on it as full-fledged knights, wielding sword and shouting battle cries, beating back pretend foes, winning prizes and prestige, and hearing ladies cheer them on for greater glory. But for Drake more than Stephen, it was a chance to forge the metal of his fighting instincts in prelude to the real war to come.

The brothers did not speak. There was no need for words, nor was there time. Stephen’s mount, a twin of Drake’s, came into view, a white beauty in a drab sea of black, gray, and brown. Ordinarily the stallion would have been a handsome prize for the man who unseated its rider, but the warhorse brooked none but the touch of a fitzAlan brother. Stephen whistled, made a dash and a leap, and regained his mighty charger, sad loss to the unsung victor. He let loose a war cry as he galloped in pursuit of another fight.

Drake donned his helm, spurred his horse, and charged headlong into the mêlée, riding the wind devil-may-care. In no time he merged with the rest, charging, attacking, defending, regrouping, circling back for another sortie, and yet another. The clashes intoxicated like wine. He lost his lance but stayed his horse, fought with sword and defended with shield, and outran and outmaneuvered the swords and lances crashing relentlessly down on him.

On a whirl of pent-up stallion, Drake caught sight of the black knight mere moments after the knight glimpsed him. Poised at the crest of a hill, the beardless youth made an obscene gesture, replaced helmet over unkempt hair, and rode off, baiting Drake to follow.

Catching up with him on an isolated scrap of grassland, Drake called out his rival’s name like a curse. Maynard of Clarendon!

The knight swung around, raised lance, and urged warhorse. The raven destrier, sleek and powerful, stretched his legs into a gallop.

Slashing his sword through the air, Drake shouted, If you want a fight, damn it all, I’ll give you a fight! Drake’s shield barely deflected the blow.

Maynard circled back. Instead of attacking, he allowed his steed to prance in a wide circuit while teasing with the point of his lance. Drake defended the perimeter in the opposite direction, brandishing his sword and working his shield.

The two men had been rivals since boyhood. Maynard always held contempt for the heir of Itchendel, and Drake loathed him in equal measure. The scrawny boy with black hair and blacker eyes had never been pretty. Pocked by adolescent pustules and scarred across his cheek from an accident with a wagon, he had always begrudged Drake for many reasons but mostly for his handsomeness, his inheritance, and the lasses who frolicked after him like bees to honey. In their youth, Maynard was bigger and brawnier. He bullied Drake, set traps for him, and teased him into fights that he inevitably won. Time and again, Drake would limp home; robbed of horse or boots or bow; bloody, hurting, and vowing revenge. The Lord of Itchendel wasted no pity on his son but put him through the paces, driving him harder with sword fights, wrestling matches, and trials of endurance. As he grew into manhood, Drake made up for lack of brute force with speed and agility. Instead of losing every fight with Maynard, he won every fourth or fifth. He wanted to improve the odds. The time to start was now.

You’ve been looking for a fight all day, fitzAlan.

You have it wrong. I was in the market for a jackass. And here you are.

After besting you on the bedding field, you fear I will best you on the battlefield.

Held at lance length, Drake searched for an opening, his mouth and eyes in constant use. "I fear your mother bedded a donkey and her spawn came out the wrong end of a mule. What say you?—half-ass, complete ass, or the mule itself, equus riding equus, the smarter equus with hoofs carrying the dumber equus with boots? Surely you can find better sport than an innocent lass."

The black lance repeatedly jolted the red-and-gold shield. Not so innocent, Drake. Just ask every man jack. Better yet, ask your doting king about the pleasures his brother takes in highborn maidens the likes of Geneviève de Berneval.

The lady’s name, tossed around as sport, belonged to the maiden Drake aspired to take as his wife one day very soon. She had sent him off at the start of the festivities and would have been watching now had the two knights stayed within the vicinity of the viewing stands, from whence she had cheered him on, her daisy yellow hair easy to spot and her beauty surpassing all the other fair maidens.

He answered Maynard’s insult with a sharp thrust of his sword. The jolt to Maynard’s breastplate caused the destrier to whinny, throw up his head, and step into a wide, counterbalancing circle. When beast and rider came back around, Drake made ready with another blow and delivered it with such unbridled ferocity that Maynard of Clarendon toppled from his saddle, landing with a thunderous thump and a louder, Oomph!

Ah, landed on your arse ... or should I say ass. Drake dismounted and kicked away the knight’s dislodged lance.

Fumbling for the hilt of his sword, Clarendon scrambled to his feet.

You owe the lady an apology, Drake said, and by God, she shall get one! Two quick slices of Drake’s sword and Maynard lost his. A hook of Drake’s foot and Maynard fell onto his rump. A prick of white knight’s blade at the base of black knight’s throat, and Maynard broke out in sweat. Drake threw off his helm and slung back his coif. He intended to make Clarendon sweat a bit longer, too make his bowels run loose with fear, and to put the fear of God and of Drake fitzAlan into him.

The roar of hoofs approaching distracted him from his appointed task. Since his hearing counted only one horse, he took his time identifying the rider and appreciated instead the dread showing on the black knight’s face.

Drake misjudged the charger’s speed and turned too late. The horse arrived at full gallop. The rider’s boot hooked him under the jaw at the same driving gait, flinging him back in a clatter of armor and knocking him quite senseless.

Chapter 3 

THIS MUST BE hell, Drake decided, which meant he must be dead.

The evidence was convincing. The heat. The blood-red backwash. The smell of spilt blood. And the detached mind screaming into a black void. If this were Hell, it negated everything he had chosen not to believe. God existed. Perhaps even the Devil.

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. The words came to him unbidden, but it was too late. There was no turning back now. No amending a life spent as an unrepentant heathen. He had chosen, and his unbelief had brought him to this, his final reward, his ultimate destination, escape a hopeless wish.

Pater noster, qui es in coelis. Too late, even, for prayer but hopefully not too late for contrition. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa ....

Miraculously the invocations were taking effect. Instead of plunging farther into a bottomless pit, he was rising up out of the dark. The reprieve from Hell’s depths, though, did not deliver the promised succor. Had he been at death’s door, he would have opened his eyes on a circle of loved ones. Had it been a bad dream, he would have left the nightmare behind. Had he been brainsick, he would have awoken irrational or raving. As it was, he vividly remembered the staggering blow that attacked him from out of nowhere but hadn’t the remotest idea of where he was or what he had been doing beforehand.

On a whirlwind of prickly sensation, he came screaming out of the dark abyss, fighting all the way and landing with a violent crash. His head pounded. The underside of his jaw throbbed. Swallowing burned his throat. Shaking himself into awareness spun the gorse and tree trunks into a sickening vortex. He clamped his eyes shut, listened to his rasping breaths, felt the sun burn hot on his neck, heard flies buzzing round his ears, and picked out a chiffchaff call out its name.

Time. Time to open his eyes. Time to heed the call.

He braced an elbow in a lake of blood, eerily iridescent, and gazed forward. The funnel he looked into was an indistinct blur. Shock sharpened his focus.

The black knight lay languidly on his back. His limbs were stretched out in goose-flight formation. His face was bloodless. His unclosed eyes reflected a pure sapphire sky. His sword lay within a lax, upturned hand. And a second sword was thrust into his crotch up to the cross guard.

To the white knight, worse than gazing upon a corpse that had met a gruesome end, worse than being unable to tear his eyes away from the gore, and worse than facing the real possibility he had indeed stepped into Hell, was realizing something inconceivable: he clutched the pommel of the killing sword. Three feet of