Chapter One
As long as the tires still cry on the highway
As long as the dogs still die on the road
As long as I wake up without knowing who I am
I will always think of you as home
London, September 1204
Roasting beef, boar and venison hung from wooden spits that were being slowly turned over several enormous fire pits. They filled the smoky air hovering above the keep with their succulent aromas. A large, noisy crowd had assembled in the bailey of the King's Royal Castle to welcome back an elite brigade of knights who, some three or more years past, had won the honor of representing their God, King and country in a fourth crusade into the Holy Land.
Gentry and commoners alike reveled in the festivities, celebrating not only the return of friends and loved ones but also a bountiful harvest and the coming of autumn. Lords and serfs jostled one another as each strove to be the first to catch a glimpse of the returning heroes. The ladies preened slowly to and fro, taking the opportunity to show off their finest, brightest gowns. The whole of the bailey resembled a fertile summer croft awash with blooming wild flowers of vibrant purples, blues, yellows, reds and greens.
The path leading from the outer bailey to the inner bailey and door of the Great Hall had been covered with fresh rushes and strewn herbs. The Great Hall was a magnificent and imposing two-storied granite structure nestled into the base of the high earthen motte. High atop the motte stood a massive stone tower where sentries and heralds scanned the outlying roads for any sign of the returning knights.
Princess Sara breathed in the crisp autumn air and looked around the inner bailey with a wide smile. Deep red banners bearing the noble crest of her family hung upon the bailey walls. Flowers and fragrant herbs had been painstakingly woven together to hang over the doorway. She thought the castle looked much as it had on the day nearly four years prior when the knights had left to assemble in Venice to await transport to exotic regions far beyond the borders of England.
Celebrating and feasting had marked that day as well. Sara's heart had swelled with pride that her warrior, the King's own Knight Champion, the much-feared and revered Black Monk, had been leading the brigade. She had been consumed by an icy uneasiness, and every day since she had worried and fretted over the fate of that one splendid knight. Even now she feared a lone rider would approach the castle gate to tell her father of the death of her heroic warrior.
Riders had come and gone bearing news of the battles and of those in the King's brigade who had fallen in battle, but her knight's name had never been added to the death toll. They received word he had been gravely injured and those five months of uncertainty while they awaited further news of his fate had been the longest months of her young life. Finally, finally, a messenger arrived late one winter's night and Sara could rest easy for she knew her hero would return.
Minutes seemed to pass as hours while the crowd grew restless in anticipation. Sara struggled to maintain some sense of decorum befitting her position as the only child of King James, but her mounting excitement tempted her sorely to join some of the others her age and clamber atop a table or shimmy up a pole or ladder to get a better view of the road. She could never before remember being so overwhelmed with giddiness merely from the thought of seeing the Black Monk again. Throwing caution and dignity to the wind, she daintily climbed atop a rough-hewn wooden bench and craned her neck to see beyond the stone archway separating the inner bailey from the outer.
At long last, a sharp melodic cadence sounded from the Herald's trumpet. The brigade of knights had been spotted.
Every time I hear you say "John why are you leaving?"
Bless it, my confession is a woman called the road
And like the other woman, the road she gets jealous
She knows there'll come a time I won't see her anymore
The thundering clatter of hooves on the wooden bridge spanning the moat was buried beneath the deafening roar of the crowd as the brigade finally rode into view. Sara's heart leapt with happiness as she spotted the legendary Black Monk, riding tall and confident as he led the column of triumphant knights into the bailey. His chain maille shone in the late afternoon sun and over his armor he wore a blood-red doublet bearing the crest of King James. A gleaming iron helm, silver save for golden-plated features representing his eyebrows, nose and beard, completely engulfed his entire head. Sara smiled fondly as she remembered the look of horror on his face when her father had first presented him with the helm.
Grissom turned the shimmering iron monstrosity over and over in his thick hands, his face contorted in an almost comical look of bewildered disbelief. He turned his gaze upon James who had been struggling to restrain his mirth. "Gil," the King began, laughter evident in his voice, "I am just concerned for your welfare. This helm will completely cover that thick skull of yours and help protect you from a well-placed blow of the mace."
Grissom raised a skeptical eyebrow as if not fully accepting James' explanation.
"Humor me, Gil, and wear the helm. You have already earned a reputation as one of the most ferocious knights to ever mount a charger. This," he continued, waving a hand at the helm, "will completely hide your face and add to the legend and mystery surrounding the Black Monk."
Armored, as he was, Lord Grissom, save for the mighty helm, looked much like every other knight in the column but Sara knew he was very different. Grissom was older than those trailing behind him, weary of his travels and toughened by long years of battle and countless campaigns. His heart had been necessarily hardened by the horrors he had seen and by the terrible acts he was forced to commit. She had not wanted him to leave, had begged him to stay and let the younger knights have their turn upon the field. She scowled fiercely when he gently spoke to her of duty and honor, of loyalty and sacred oaths. Sara understood he had little choice but that did not lessen the pain she felt when he left or the gnawing fear she lived with every day he was gone.
Sara climbed down from her perch and somberly bowed her head as the knights drew closer, reflecting for a moment on their vastly depleted ranks. Fifty stolid warriors had left, less than half returned. Gone now was the gleam, the luster. The sense of excitement and adventure which radiated from the young knights before their departure had been replaced with weariness; too much seen and too much lost. Oh, their maille had been polished, but all wore an air of men who had witnessed the deaths of friends and brothers as opposed to the almost giddy, chest-thumping braggarts who assembled in the very same place four years ago to drink in the well-wishes and adoration which accompanied their grand send off.
The road is my woman
And she's never done me wrong
And I'm true to her
The road is my woman
And she's here in this song
And I'm true to her
But not for long
Princess Sara hurried to rejoin the King as Grissom raised his right hand and called the column to halt before a large wooden podium in the center of the inner bailey. She felt his gaze upon her as she mounted the stairs of the dais to stand alongside her father and Queen Sofia, all the while praying she would not trip on the hem of her long gown in her haste and fall flat on her face right in front of him. He seemed to wait until she was settled before dismounting and approaching the platform. She watched him carefully, looking for any sign of obvious injury, smiling slightly at his distinctive gait. Grissom was fairly bow-legged from spending some twenty-odd years astride a charger and it lent a rather unique chunky roll to his brisk steps.
Lord Grissom stopped at the foot of the podium steps and deliberately pulled his gleaming broadsword from its polished leather sheath and planted the blade into the turf. He next removed his chain gauntlets and placed them on the ground beside his sword before doffing the great iron helm and padded linen coif beneath.
Sara's heart fluttered as she hungrily drank in his battle-worn features. Shaggy graying hair was swept back from his forehead and tied up with a strip of rawhide into small curly ponytail at nape of his sturdy neck. A few stray curls were matted to his forehead, the hair along his brow and neck darkened with sweat. Bronzed skin spoke of long hours spent in the sun and a newly acquired thin-red scar marred his right cheek, curving down from his right temple to disappear into his closely trimmed beard. His eyes, blue as the center of a candle's flame, still held a quiet intensity and appeared even more beautiful and compelling against his darkened skin and graying hair and beard.
She was a maid of sixteen when he went away but had been in love with him for as long as she could remember. His imposing appearance on this glorious afternoon reaffirmed in her mind that he was, despite the scars and silvering hair, the most handsome man she had ever seen.
Nervously smoothing her hand over an imagined wrinkle in her deep rose-colored gown, Sara felt Grissom's gaze dancing along her features and was deeply gratified to note the fond appreciation accompanying his frank appraisal. She covertly watched his guileless eyes as they roamed over her, feeling the heat of his stare as he traced every inch of her woman's body.
Her dark hair was gathered at the nape pf her neck, a long braid trailing down her back. Gossamer wisps of curls escaped here and there to frame her fine boned face. A veil matching her gown covered her silky tresses and a golden coronet perched atop the veil marked her status as royalty. Intricate patterns of golden embroidery decorated the square neck and flowing sleeves of her gown and a delicately wrought link belt sat about her hips accentuating her slender form.
She watched him watching her, and wondered what he was thinking. There had always been something special about Grissom; something about him that called to her heart, to her soul, stirring feelings that were foreign and wholly confusing deep within her woman's body. Perhaps it was the perpetual air of melancholy he wore about him like a mantle…one deep brown and mossy, the color of the earth in the darkened fens…murky and mysterious.
Rescue me sweet angel
She stole me as a child
To become a rider on her two-lane rodeo
And then you came along
Loving me for what I am
I've been too long with a woman made of stone
Grissom reluctantly pulled his attention from the winsome Princess and dropped to one knee before the podium. He bowed his head, baring the back of his neck before his King in a show of vulnerability, fealty and submission.
"Grissom," the King chided softly as he descended the stairs to stand in front of his champion. "You need never kneel before any mortal man, especially me. Stand and greet me as an equal, not as a servant."
Grissom slowly rose to his full height and James received him as warmly as he would a brother with a long, tight embrace. He grasped the Black Monk by the shoulders and kissed the startled knight on both cheeks. Scowling fiercely, James scrubbed the back of his hand across his lips afterwards.
"I am glad women are not prone to furry cheeks," he grumbled. "And I am even happier I am not forced to kiss you very often." Grissom raised a questioning eyebrow. "You are prickly, my friend, and not very tasty." James flashed a wicked grin. "'Tis no small wonder that you are still unspoken for. That hoary face of yours would drive any woman away."
Sara discreetly hid a giggle behind her hand, delighted not only by her father's sardonic comments but also by the flush that had crept up the back of Grissom's neck in response to the teasing. Her gaze lingered on his face, her eyes tracing his beard. She wondered what it would feel like beneath her lips, beneath her fingertips, scratching lightly against her neck, against her….
She shook her head quickly to dispel her wanton thoughts and returned her attention to the activities. Sara felt the heat rising upon her face and deep within her stomach but whether the scarlet flush marking her features blossomed from embarrassment or something else, something unbidden and darkly exciting, she knew not.
Grissom regarded Sara with a strange expression before inclining his head politely to Queen Sofia and bestowing a quick impish grin and barely perceptible wink upon the Princess. Sara flushed with pleasure and returned his greeting with a smile, one that lit up her features and danced delightedly in her eyes. He then turned and inclined his head politely to Queen Sofia.
The road is my woman
And she's never done me wrong
And I'm true to her
The road is my woman
And she's here in this song
And I'm true to her
But not for long
Sara noticed that her father and Grissom were walking towards the door to the Great Hall and moved to take her place beside Sofia when her glance touched upon a strange youngster dressed in an over-large black wool tunic decorated only with a small red eight-pointed cross upon the left breast. She recognized the simple symbol immediately, as it was the same design Grissom displayed on his shield and right shoulders of his shirts. The lad, who could not have been more than four and ten, had messy, sun-bleached hair and was holding the reins to Grissom's roan charger while glancing nervously about the bailey.
The boy's eyes widened and he dropped to both knees as she left the side of her stepmother to approach him. Sara rolled her eyes at the quaking youth and bid him rise with a deft wave of her elegant hand while asking his name.
"I am Sandre, Princess," he mumbled, scrambling to his feet.
"How came you to be in the service of Lord Grissom?"
Sandre swallowed heavily, his brown eyes wide with fear. He opened his mouth to reply but promptly snapped it closed. "Relax, Squire," Sara smiled, noticing beads of sweat glistening in the fine down along the lad's upper lip. "I am not going to bite you or have you beheaded, at least not today," she said with a mischievous grin.
The boy blew out a nervous breath and haltingly started to relate his story. He was the only child of two deeply religious peasants and had traveled with his parents on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Their caravan, consisting of fifteen different families, was attacked one night by a band of masked raiders. His parents and almost everyone else in the camp that night had been brutally slaughtered, the broken bodies littering the desert floor, left where they had fallen for hungry scavengers.
Sara's eyes glistened with sorrow as Sandre's gaze dropped to the ground in an attempt to hide the lone tear tracking down his cheek. She reached out to touch him lightly on the arm. "How did you manage to escape?"
Sandre shook his head as if ashamed before telling her that only the urgent call of his bladder had spared him from the fate the others had been forced to suffer. He was a little bit away from the encampment when the attack had started. He hid in a bunch of scrub, listening helplessly until the raiders left. He then ran back to the camp to find that everyone had been slaughtered and their belongings ransacked. Sandre had heard the voice of one man in particular, the one who seemed to be in charge, and that cold, heartless voice haunted him with its cruelty.
He was left orphaned at the age of twelve and had to fend for himself. "I more or less hid during the day and scavenged for food at night." His eyes pleaded with Sara's for understanding, as if he feared she would brand him a coward for doing what was necessary simply to survive. "Lord Grissom's brigade came upon the site where my parents and the others were killed a few days later and I just attached myself to the company. I managed to follow them for about a week, sneaking into the camp when everyone was asleep to steal food."
"It is fine, Sandre. You did nothing wrong," Sara soothed. "I am sure the knight's would not have begrudged you the food had you made your presence known."
Sandre's lips twisted in a sardonic sneer as he continued to recount his tale. One night Sir Geoffrey, one of the knight's of the King's elite brigade, caught him attempting to take a crust of bread and bit of cheese. He was beaten and kicked for his thievery. Sir Geoffrey had Sandre bound hand and foot and was about to drag him out of camp behind his horse when Lord Grissom heard the cheering of the other knights and intervened on Sandre's behalf.
"He made Sir Geoffrey release me and took me back to his own tent. I thought he was going to beat me as well but he just fed me, pointed to his pallet and told me to go to sleep. The next morning Lord Grissom told me I was free to go and make my own way or I could stay with the brigade and serve as his squire." Sandre shrugged as he finished his long narrative. "That was two years ago and here I am still serving as his squire."
Sara's brow puckered as she thought back over some of the things Sandre had told her. "Have you ever heard the voice of the lead raider again?"
"Yes, but I have been forbidden by Lord Grissom to speak further of it. He said the matter was in his hands now and he would deal with it accordingly." Sara nodded, stemming her curiosity for the moment but making a mental note to ask Grissom about it later.
"And Lord Grissom, he treats you well?" Sara asked, changing the subject.
"I have to work very hard, but yes, he treats me well. He makes sure I am fed and that no one threatens me. He is teaching me how to fight and also how to read. But," Sandre scratched his cheek and scuffed his feet nervously in the dirt. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper so as not to be over heard. "I do not think Lord Grissom likes me overmuch. He oftentimes seems impatient and hardly ever speaks to anyone. He is kind of scary."
Sara laughed. "Lord Grissom can seem rather brusque at times but it is because he demands the same perfection of others which he demands of himself. Do not worry if he seldom speaks. I have known Lord Grissom my entire life and he has always been reticent. That is just his nature."
Sandre glanced around making sure no one was listening. "I think he intends to return me to my family as I am not formally bound to him, but I don't want to go." He wrinkled his nose, clearly displeased with the prospect. "My uncle farms for Lord Braun not far from here and I fear that shall be my fate as well. I honestly have no desire to be stuck behind a plow horse the rest of my life."
"You do not wish to return to your family or you do not wish to be a farmer?"
"Both, Milady," Sandre replied earnestly. "I wish to remain with Lord Grissom if he will have me. The older boys warned me that he has never taken on a squire. I am hoping that, if I work hard enough, I can change his mind."
Sara huffed a small chuckle. "Lord Grissom can be most stubborn once his mind is set upon something." She regarded him with thoughtful scrutiny, as if measuring his worth. "However, if it is truly your wish to stand and serve him, I shall attempt to find occasion to speak on your behalf." She waved away his sputtered attempt at a thank you. "I am doing this as much for me as for you.
As she turned to take her leave, she directed Sandre to the stables. "If you are going to truly serve as his squire, you will need to see to his horse and armor." She waited until the lad nodded before continuing. "You will then need to bathe and put on clean clothes as you will be required to serve him at the feast this evening." Sandre gave another small bob of his head and hurried to lead Grissom's charger to the stable.
Sara walked slowly towards the entrance of the hall and pondered the significance, if any, of Grissom accepting a squire, especially one so young. He had never done so, preferring to maintain his solitude and see to his own needs. She wondered if he had done so simply as a means to ensure the boy's welfare or if taking a squire meant his days of fighting were finally drawing to a close and that he would not be forced to spend long years away anymore. The latter thought made her heart quicken and she hoped it was true, that Grissom was at last ready to settle down, take a wife and sire a family.
The road is my woman
And she's never done me wrong
And I'm true to her
The road is my woman
And she's here in this song
And I'm true to her
But not for long [1]
[1] "Freeway Pleasure" Words and Music by John Stewart. The Lonesome Picker Rides Again (Warner Bros., K46135, 1971) Gold (Wrasse Records, WRASS016, 2000)