The Lion of Kent Read online

  The Lion of Kent

  By Aleksandr Voinov & Kate Cotoner

  Squire William Raven has only one goal—to finally receive his spurs and become a knight. When his lord, Sir Robert de Cantilou, returns from a five-year crusade in the Holy Land, William wants nothing more than to impress him.

  After Sir Robert’s return, noble guests arrive from France, bringing intrigue to the castle. William is oblivious to the politics, as he’s distracted by nightly visits from a faceless lover—a man who pleasures him in the dark and then leaves—a man he soon discovers is none other than his master, Sir Robert.

  But William can’t ignore the scheming around him when he overhears a plot to murder Robert. He becomes intent on saving his lord and lover from those who would see him killed…

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  Dedication

  Aleksandr: to Raev Gray, Gileonnen, Barbara Sheridan and Kate Cotoner for their passion, talent and friendship. You guys rock.

  Kate: Alex, thank you for letting me play with William!

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  About the Authors

  Chapter One

  England, 1176

  William gave no quarter. He struck blow by blow—fast, vicious, with little technique, but enough strength to make up for it, and an uncontrollable anger. John had hit him so hard in the knee that everything felt numb there, and William’s reaction was as much pain as surprise, which made him fly into a rage. Everything around him blurred until he was aware of nothing but his enemy. The pain radiated through him, firing his anger. His arm ached with tiredness, yet there was always another blow in him, and even though he could see fear in the other squire’s eyes, it didn’t occur to him to relent.

  “Enough! William!”

  He ignored the voice, refusing to obey the order. He wanted John to yield, wanted him to fall to his knees, to give up, to beg for mercy.

  “William!”

  Strong hands gripped his sword arm, one hand on his elbow, the other on his wrist. He whirled around, wincing when the instructor used the grip against him, changed the angle and almost made him drop to his knees. He gave up the sword, snarled, but there was also a yelp of pain.

  “Sir Robert is back, you bloody fool,” Ulric hissed and let him go after a punch in the arm.

  William straightened, considered taking up the training sword again, but then he realised what the instructor had said, and turned.

  Men on horseback had entered the cobbled courtyard. Richly clothed, swords and shields at their sides as if they’d been worried about robbers on the road, they made a bright display against the dull stonework of the castle keep. Sir Robert de Cantilou was their leader, and William thought his lord had changed much since the day he’d left his lands. When had that been? Five years ago?

  Robert’s dark hair looked now like it would in winter, in a heavy snowfall, the colour more grey than black even though his lord wasn’t an old man. He sat proud in the saddle and, William thought with a hint of shame, he wore an expression of amusement. Sir Robert must have seen him fight and lose his control.

  “Well, then, now that the squires are listening, too…It’s good to be back.” Sir Robert slid off his horse, hands adjusting his sword belt. The household gathered in the yard, regarding their master in amazement. He’d arrived completely unannounced, and William wondered why that was. Why had he not sent a messenger first so everything was prepared?

  Instead of lowering his gaze, William stared open-mouthed at his lord. Sir Robert was tanned, his blue eyes seemingly glowing in the dark face, and his rich red clothes played around his form in strange, outlandish splendour. His sword hilt now bore a large jewel in the pommel, and the heavy rings on his gloves sparkled in the late autumn sun. He must have made a fortune abroad, but it wasn’t the flaunting of wealth that impressed William so much. Instead, it was Robert’s bearing.

  Five years ago Sir Robert had seemed cold and distant, and though he was a lord admired and respected by the people of his manor as well as by his peers, he had too little humour and too much impatience. Always fair, always just, but somehow lacking. The death of his wife had not improved matters. Rather than seeking a new bride, Robert had announced he would go on crusade. He took with him five senior knights and left the castle and his children in the capable hands of his widowed sister, Lady Alais.

  In William’s limited experience, the Robert of five years ago had been much the same as any other noble, but now he’d changed. It was said that the Holy Land made its mark on a man’s soul, scouring away the bad and revealing the good. According to the Church’s rhetoric, no one—except the heathen Saracens—could walk on the same soil as the Christ and not be humbled and remade for the better. William had been sceptical, but looking on Sir Robert now, the claims seemed to be true. Never had William seen a man more confident and assured. This was how a knight should be—composed, gracious, benevolent.

  He stepped forward as Robert strode past. “It’s good to see you back, sir.”

  Robert paused, then glanced over his shoulder. His sharp gaze raked over William as if remembering the gangly youth he’d been and fitting that old image against the man who stood before him now.

  “And you, William,” Robert said. “Seems we have a young lion in the dog kennel.”

  William flushed, unable to tell what his lord meant by the comment, understanding only that Robert was making fun of his family and upbringing. The acknowledged bastard son of the manor’s reeve, William owed his place at the castle to the charity of Sir Robert’s late wife. Regardless of the knowledge that he should guard his tongue in the presence of his benefactor, he couldn’t stop the angry retort from springing to his lips. “If a kennel is what you call your house, sir.”

  Sir Robert turned, making William’s heart pound with sudden anxiety. He tried to rein in his anger, which wasn’t directed at Sir Robert at all, but at Ulric for twisting his arm and at John for not yielding. Sir Robert’s eyes grew hard and William winced inwardly, but he’d take his punishment without flinching. At least that.

  The darkly tanned face didn’t betray any emotion as he was measured, and William fought the embarrassment under his liege lord’s gaze.

  “I wager, young William, next time I sail for Constantinople, I’ll take you with me to unleash on the heathens. They would certainly deserve your belligerence.”
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  “Forgive me, sir.”

  Sir Robert gave him another of those level, unblinking stares, then turned, heading for Lady Alais, who emerged from the keep with smiles of welcome for her brother, Robert’s three children following after her.

  William hung back, mingling with the other squires who nudged one another and whispered, some in excitement and others in apprehension. The younger lads scarce remembered Sir Robert and knew him more from the songs of travelling minstrels than from deed. William had always thought minstrels embroidered their tales, spinning webs of fantasy for the enjoyment of whoever gave them shelter for the night, but as he stared at his lord’s sumptuous velvet cloak and those jewelled rings glinting from his gloved fingers, he wondered if the songs were true and if Robert really had discovered a basilisk’s nest, saved a princess of the Comneni and fought off twenty-eight Saracens single-handed.

  Robert greeted his children before giving his attention to his sister. He drew her into an embrace, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then spoke a few quiet words for her ears alone. A moment later he turned to include the men at his back and raised his voice. “Call Philip and Ranulf to the solar. You squires, too—you will need to hear this. I bring news and a command from the king.”

  Ushering his sister and children ahead of him, Robert strode into the keep, followed by the knights who’d accompanied him on the road. The squires shoved forward to get inside the castle, and John, William’s opponent from a few moments ago, elbowed him, catching his sore arm in his haste. William snarled, whipping around.

  John stumbled backward with a good-natured laugh, lifting his hands in apology. “An accident, my friend—I didn’t mean anything by it…”

  “Careful, lad.” His instructor’s hand clamped on his shoulder, holding him back. He shrugged Ulric off, impatient to be on his way, and only half listened to the words called after him. “Watch that temper of yours, William Raven! Unless you learn some control, it’ll bring you to Sir Robert’s attention in all the wrong ways.”

  William shook the warning aside and ran into the keep, dashing up the main stairs and only slowing his pace as he crossed the great hall. The shutters were open, revealing the long tables pushed up against the walls and, in one corner, the bedding reserved for the squires, men-at-arms and upstairs servants who slept in the communal space. Three wolfhounds lay sprawled on the rushes in front of the hearth where a couple of serving boys raked through last night’s embers before laying the fire for the evening.

  As he ducked beneath the lintel at the far end of the hall to enter the private quarters of Sir Robert’s family, William paused to allow a maid carrying a basin of hot water to pass in the narrow corridor. A door opened and he heard the calm voice of Lady Alais giving the maid instructions to attend the knights who’d come with his lord.

  William went in the opposite direction, running up a short spiral staircase to the lord’s withdrawing rooms, following the sound of excited chatter. He shoved at the door to the solar and went in, placing himself against the wall near the window. The other squires crowded close to the small fireplace, surrounding the stool where the clerk, Ranulf, sat. Philip, the castle steward, stood on the other side of the room clutching his account books. Both men had known William’s father when he still lived, yet as usual they didn’t even look in William’s direction.

  Conversations faded when Sir Robert entered the room. He strode to his chair, giving William a brief, inquisitive glance as he passed. Though he had put off his riding cloak, the dust of the road still clung to his boots and he looked weary. Philip put down his ledgers long enough to pour his master a cup of wine. Robert drank deep, wiping his mouth on his hand when he’d finished. He leaned against the chair, gripping its back, and looked around the room. His gaze came to rest on William, who fidgeted slightly in response.

  Robert inclined his head toward his men. “I apologise for causing such disarray with my early arrival. I can travel as quickly as any messenger, so thought to bring the news myself.” He paused for effect, then continued, “A hunt will be held here within the month, by order of the king. We are to entertain certain French nobility from the County of Toulouse.”

  A murmur of comment washed around the room. William shifted against the wall and folded his arms. A hunt could be the outlet he needed. He’d have to borrow a horse from Sir Robert’s stables, but if he acquitted himself during the hunt, perhaps he’d gain his spurs at last. If he performed well, he might even catch the interest of one of the visiting nobles. Not that he wanted to leave the de Cantilou household, but a knight needed to win renown and riches, and he had been five years waiting for the chance to make his mark.

  He paid attention as Robert lifted a hand for quiet. “The emissaries from Toulouse are as yet at Westminster and will make their way here in a week or so. His Majesty indicated that their business is somewhat delicate…which is no doubt why he wants them rusticating here in Kent.”

  A few chuckles sounded, but Robert didn’t smile. William wondered what sort of business the Frenchmen wished to discuss with the king. As William understood it, the southern French squabbled periodically with their northern neighbours and feared the day the French king and the Duke of Burgundy put aside their differences and combined forces to bring Toulouse within their fold.

  Ranulf spoke up. “My lord, are we to assume these noblemen from Toulouse are here for a diplomatic purpose?”

  “We are to assume nothing without His Majesty’s permission.” Finally a wry smile warmed Robert’s expression. “Perhaps they have simply heard about the good hunting in these parts.”

  More laughter from the squires, though the knights who’d accompanied Robert from London wore smiles more cautious than genuine. William straightened, his curiosity piqued.

  “All that’s necessary for us to know,” Robert said, raising his voice a little, his gaze hard, “is that the French are our guests and we are duty-bound to entertain them. There will be no discussion of any other matters. Do I make myself understood?”

  The men murmured their assent, and Ranulf scratched out whatever he’d written in his day-book. William knew what must be on everyone’s minds—the attempted rebellion of Young Henry and Princes Richard and Geoffrey, three years ago. Sir Robert had been on crusade at the time, far from the political maelstrom that had swirled through England and France. William envied his lord that distance and wished he, too, could have avoided the revolt. William’s father had been one of the men-at-arms who’d died in the quelling of the Earl of Leicester’s uprising, and though William and his father hadn’t been on the best of terms, William felt the loss in other ways.

  Now, with the news of the emissaries from Toulouse, it seemed as if trouble was stirring again across the Channel. This time William was old enough and experienced enough in practice combat to wield a sword for real on the battlefield. The thought of fighting alongside his lord made William curl his hands as if to grip a weapon. Sir Robert’s family had done more for him than his own father, and William would repay the debt with his loyalty all his life.

  Robert spoke again, this time without tone, though a curl of his lip indicated his emotions. “When our noble guests arrive, they will be accompanied by my brother Stephen.”

  William frowned. Everyone knew there was no love lost between the two de Cantilou brothers, but five years ago Robert and Stephen had had a common purpose. He spoke up, posing the question he was sure no one else would dare to ask, “Did your brother go with you to the Holy Land, sir?”

  Robert gave him a quicksilver look and uttered a bark of laughter. “That was his plan, but in the end Stephen saw no profit in it. Too much risk and not enough gain. Only a churchman would see the world in such mercenary terms. No, my brother did not come with me. He went as far as Marseilles. By then he’d attached himself to the Bishop of Poitiers and has since been travelling thither and nigh across the length and breadth of France.” Resignation crossed Robert’s face, and he shrugged. “Stephen has been busy. Busier t
han me. But he is still my brother, and I must welcome him into my house.”

  He paused, once again gazing at the assembled men as if he debated telling them something more, and then he gave a snort. “Be on your best behaviour when Stephen arrives. He’s aiming for a bishopric. Loose talk and immoral actions make him fly into a rage, and he’s likely to begin excommunications before he’s even invested.”

  The men chuckled and called aloud the names of those most likely to cause offence. William started when he heard his own name shouted out. Before he thought better of it, he stepped forward, his fists bunching.

  “Who said that? Who says I will give offence to our lord’s brother?” He stared at his fellow squires and the senior members of the household, then realised he’d spoken out of turn again. He winced inwardly, remembering too late Ulric’s admonishment to guard his temper. The damage was done, and now he needed to prove himself humble.

  He turned to Robert and bowed. “Forgive me, sir. I am too quick to anger and hasty in my judgments.”

  Robert narrowed his eyes. “Indeed. You may take comfort in the fact that these are not grievous sins. My brother would probably commend you, for he makes all his decisions with remarkable swiftness.” He walked toward William, the sunlight through the quarries of the window playing shadows upon his face. “For myself, I prefer the men who share my hearth to be more temperate in their manners.”

  William lifted his chin. “I was not sent here to become a milksop.”

  “No.” Robert seemed amused. “You would be wasted as a serving maid.”

  Guffaws broke out around the room. William stood firm, refusing to succumb to humiliation. He had not half the wealth and connections of the other squires, but he had more pride than all of them combined, and the fighting skills to match any of them in battle. Swallowing hard, he met Robert’s light gaze. “At least a serving maid can use what skills she has, my lord.”