Chapter 1
Castle Blackwood, England, 1152
As their swords clashed, the sound of metal against metal clanking loudly in the
courtyard, Roland willed himself to concentrate. Against perhaps the greatest swordsman in
England, save his own father, there could be no missteps.
The crowd had swelled, as expected. They’d chosen the courtyard, rather than the
training yard, in order to provide such a spectacle. ‘A respite’ Sir Eamon had said. The recent
mission, and loss of another of the Knight School’s instructors, had weighed heavily on
everyone, Roland’s fellow recruits included. ‘Let us give them a show, Roland,’ his swordmaster
had said.
And so, they gave the inhabitants of Castle Blackwood just that.
Wind whispered through the courtyard as he and Sir Eamon circled each other. With a
surge, Roland lunged forward, his blade flashing in the sunlight. But the seasoned instructor
effortlessly parried his strike, Eamon’s every movement fluid and controlled.
“Do not be too eager, my boy,” Sir Emaon said, unable to shed his role as instructor even
as he clearly began to tire. “Patience. Always.”
Unfettered, Toland pressed with a series of swift attacks but Sir Eamon dodged and
blocked each strike, his knowing smile not meant to be taunting. As the exchange continued,
Roland ignored the shouts of encouragement for both men and began to notice a pattern in Sir
Eamon’s movements. He seemed to favor his left side, leaving a brief opening after each attack.
Timing his next move with precision, Roland feigned an attack to his right and quickly
shifted his blade to the left, catching Sir Eamon off-guard. The seasoned instructor barely
managed to parry in time.
Seizing the opportunity, Roland pressed his advantage striking, deliberating and
exploiting the opening he’d discovered. Sir Eamon, now on the defensive, struggled to keep up
with his relentless assault.
With a final, decisive strike, Roland managed to disarm his instructor, Sir Eamon’s sword
clattering to the ground. The courtyard fell silent for a moment before erupting into cheers. As
Roland picked up his instructor’s sword, Sir Eamon chuckled, a mixture of pride and acceptance
in his eyes.
“A true swordsman learns not only from his victories, but from his defeats as well,” Sir
Eamon said as Roland passed the hilt of his instructor’s sword to him. “Methinks, however, you
will see few defeats.” Smiling more broadly, he added, “In hand to hand combat, at least. But
one last piece of advice from this old man. Do not let that legendary swagger of yours get in the
way of greatness.”
“Legendary swagger,” Roland said, sheathing his own sword. “‘Tis the first I’ve heard it
said in such a way.”
“As if it is any secret Roland thinks highly of himself,” his friend Alden said, slapping
him on the back. Dark hair, though not as black as his own, and kind brown eyes unlike Roland’s
icy blue ones, the two men could pass for brothers in some ways. Albeit opposites in personality,
but alike in build and strength. And the one quality that mattered most to Roland, one of the
reasons he’d so quickly befriended his fellow recruit.
Loyalty.
“‘Twill be his downfall if he’s not careful,” the defeated instructor said. “Enjoy your
victory, my son.”
With that, Sir Eamon left Roland and Alden behind as the crowd began to disperse.
“I thought for certain he had you,” Alden said as they walked toward the keep of their
secret stronghold. Though all knew Castle Blackwood existed, only a select few knew it housed
some of the greatest knights in all of England intent on one purpose. . . to re-install Empress
Matilda as the rightful queen of England. The usurper, King Stephen, even now was held against
his will at Lincoln Castle, a coup that the Guardian of the Sacred Oak, the secret knightly order
being trained at Castle Blackwood, precipitated. Even so, the war had not yet been won.
“He is as skilled as my father,” Roland admitted. “In ten matches against Sir Eamon, I
would be lucky to win five of them.”
They passed other recruits, some brought to Castle Blackwood because of their skill with
the sword or bow and arrow, others master strategists who could be trained for battles both on
the field and in dining halls where wit was as important as might. But all continued to be trained
to round out those skills making each weapon in this underground war both on the battlefield and
off it.
“Perhaps,” Alden acknowledged. “Or perhaps not. These instructors were once the best,
but someone must become the next best. You are that person with the swords, there is no doubt.”
“You’ve not seen my father wield a sword. Nor my brothers, though none could best
him.”
“You speak highly of your father, and brothers. Yet all support the king.”
It was not a question, so Roland didn’t answer it as one. If there was anything he liked
speaking of less than the Lion of Ravensbrook, the moniker his father earned years ago in battle
that followed him throughout his life, it was his family’s support of an unjust cause.
“How is it you have no siblings?” he asked, changing topics as they made their way into
the keep.
“My mother nearly died birthing me,” Alden said. The son of a blacksmith, he was the
only recruit Roland knew of who was not a knight. Even so, his strength and cunning were
enough of an asset to their order that Roland could see easily why his friend had been recruited.
“She could bear no children afterward.”
Roland shook his head. “The eldest son of an earl with five siblings. The only son of a
blacksmith with none. We’ve much to set us apart.”
“There is much more than those facts,” another of their friends said, catching up to
Roland and Aiden. “To set the two of you apart.”
“Darien,” Roland exclaimed. “You missed the match.”
“Indeed. I’ve just returned from a special session with Stirling. While you play with
swords, the real men of Blackwood hone skills that will actually win battles.”
Roland laughed. “You do not believe swords win battles? Perhaps because you’ve never
actually seen one?” he teased.
“I’ve seen plenty,” Darien said. The golden boy of their order, a man all loved,
instructors and fellow recruits alike, was as mysterious as he was charming. “And know well the
importance of archers.” He smiled. “Such as myself.”
While it was true Sir Darien was a superior archer, Roland took exception to his
assessment of their importance, at least over swordsmen. “And when you can no longer play at
war from a distance? When your enemy is upon you?”
“Both are necessary,” Alden said, ever the peacemaker. “As you know. I’m surprised you
bait a man who will never concede to you.”
“As always, blacksmith, you speak the truth,” Darien replied as the three men turned
toward the hall. “So tell me, how skilled is he truly? I’ve yet to train against him.”
They spoke of the match, of their instructors’ skill, and of their missing compadre.
Recruited during the same period, the three men along with a forth who had left Blackwood to
marry in secret, there had been no word of Sir Gareth since he left.
“The baron will never accept him,” Roland said of the bride’s father, the same man who
financed their cause. One none cared much for, despite the fact.
“Nay, he will not,” Aiden agreed.
“One of many reasons not to fall in love.”
Roland hadn’t realized his friends looked at him strangely until they became so quiet he
looked at them. He had been noticing the craftsmanship on the torches as they passed.
“Do not tell me the two of you believe in such a sentiment.”
“Love?” Darien asked. “I’ve not met anyone who thought the sentiment was so
unworthy. Though it should not surprise me to hear you say such a thing.”
“You of all men should know, eldest sons of earls do not marry for love.”
Darien did not seem convinced.
“Gareth is not the eldest son of a noble,” Aiden pointed out.
“Nay, but will pay a price, I am certain, for marrying Lord Ashcroft’s daughter in secret.
Love,” Roland spat. “Naught but ill comes from it. Thankfully such a thing isn’t necessary for
dalliances.”
“Of which you have plenty,” Aiden said.
“Speaking of dalliances,” Darien said. “A few of us are going into the village this eve.”
“If that is an invitation,” Roland stood at the entrance of the hall where the mid-day meal
was well underway. “Count us among the few.”
“Us?” Aiden asked. “I’ve an early morning session with Lord Stirling. And unlike
Darien, I’ve little skill with the bow and arrow to speak of.”
“Us,” Roland repeated. “If your aim is not true after a few pints of ale, then we can no
longer be friends.”
“If I knew such a feat ‘twould be so easy, I’d have missed the mark long ago.”
Though Roland scowled at the jest, Darien laughed as they sat down with their fellow
recruits, all talk of training and the village momentarily forgotten in favor of the meal before them. ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2025 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
