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  A KNIGHT OF SILENCE

  Candace C. Bowen

  Published by Knighttime Press

  Copyright 2015 Candace Bowen Early

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  August 20, 1119

  Battle of Bremule

  Mesnil-Verclives, Normandy

  The battle was over. King Henry I of England stood victorious over King Louis VI “the Fat” of France. Once again forced to defend his dukedom of Normandy, in triumph he surveyed the battlefield. Rejoicing in his God-given victory, he proudly held the banner of the defeated king, waving it over his head for all to see.

  Captured French soldiers sat in small groups upon the broken, bloodied ground. Leaving his retinue, King Henry paced alone through the prisoners, searching for French knights of high rank who would be able to pay a hefty sum to purchase their freedom.

  As Henry turned away from one set of vanquished knights, they scrambled to their feet, sprinting towards his unprotected back.

  A lone cavalryman witnessed this treacherous charge, shouting, “Protect the king!”

  Fulke’s English broadsword clanged against French steel as he fought his way to King Henry’s side. Hacking his way through the group of defiant French knights surrounding the king, he roared with rage as his sworn enemy William Crispin raised his sword, striking the back of the king’s helm. The king fell forward from the force of the blow, saved by the hauberk protecting his neck.

  Before he could strike again, Fulke lunged forward. Tackling Crispin, he drove him face first into the ground. Kicking the stunned knight’s sword away, he drove a knee into his chain-mailed back, raising his sword to strike.

  “Hold!” the king’s grandson, Roger leapt forward.

  “Nay, slay the traitor,” the king’s kinsman, Walter of Auffay called. “He turned against King Henry to advance his own interests. Any Norman loyal to King Louis is deserving of death.”

  Roger narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to Fulke. “Step back, soldier.”

  Straightening, Fulke moved aside. His sword pointed at Crispin.

  He lowered it in surprise when Roger flung himself over the prostrate Crispin, shouting, “Out of fear of God’s wrath, in the name of fellowship in arms, his blood shall not be spilled this day.”

  Angry English knights moved in to surround the prostrate pair. “Crispin charged the king after Fat Louis fled like a coward. I say his life is forfeit,” Walter called. His eyes leveled on the group of re-captured French knights.

  “Would you risk your immortal soul, Walter?” Roger glanced around at the crowd of angry men surrounding him. “Would any of you?”

  “Aye, I would,” Fulke replied. “He struck a blow to the king’s back after the battle. I say Crispin’s life is forfeit.”

  “What goes here?” The booming voice had them turning to bow as King Henry stepped forward.

  Walter addressed the king. “Sire, we believe Crispin has forfeited his life for the attack on you. Young Roger appears to deem otherwise.”

  Removing his dented helm, the king tossed it aside. Brushing absently at his stained tunic, he turned his cold stare on Roger. “You demean yourself before the enemy, rise.”

  Scrambling to his feet, Roger said, “Sire, we captured the bulk of Louis’ knights. The rest we routed to the gates of Andely. We have reports that only three men fell this day, I beseech you not to make it four.”

  “We shall see.” The king shifted his gaze to Crispin. “Rise and face me, churl.”

  Crispin stood boldly before the king as Fulke stepped forward to press his sword to the small of his back.

  Seething with hatred, Crispin braved, “Do your worst, usurper.”

  The king sneered, “I see you champion the mislaid cause of my older brother, Robert.”

  “I champion the cause of his son, William Clito. The rightful Duke of Normandy,” Crispin replied proudly.

  “William, my brother’s son, who even as we speak flees through the forest to escape my wrath?”

  “His father, the rightful King of England has been wrongly imprisoned for seeking what is his by right of succession. Rumor has it, blent by your command. Would you have William wait for you to thrust a hot iron poker into his eye-sockets?”

  The king’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. “Speak no more to me of which you know not. Your bravery in facing me is the only thing that saved you this day.” Glaring at Crispin with contempt, the king called, “Place him under guard with the rest. Perhaps my nephew will pay a hefty sum for his return.”

  “Thank you, Sire.” Drawing his sword, Roger motioned for Crispin to precede him.

  Keeping a watchful eye on the pair, Fulke reluctantly sheathed his blade.

  The king spoke to the remaining knights. “Louis rode off into the forest with Baudry of Bois. Seek them out.”

  Fulke prepared to follow the scrambling men when the king held up his hand to stay him. “Not you.”

  Lowering his head, Fulke replied, “Sire.”

  “You have come to my notice prior.” Taking in Fulke’s imposing frame. “What is your name?”

  “I am Fulke, Sire.”

  Sliding his sword from its scabbard, the king stepped forward. "Kneel before me, Fulke."

  Removing his helm, Fulke knelt in the dirt at Henry’s feet. Lowering his head, King Henry briefly rapped him on each shoulder with the flat of his broadsword. “Rise, Sir Fulke.”

  Gaining his feet, Fulke replied, “Thank you, Sire.”

  “Thank you, Sir Fulke.” The king acknowledged with a curt nod.

  Surrounded by his kinsman to thwart another attempt on his life, the king made his way from the battlefield.

  Fulke surveyed the remaining groups of captured knights for any sign of trouble, before he swung around to find his childhood friend grinning at him. “There will be no living with you after this day.”

  “So glad you could join me Albin,” he scowled.

  “Are you in earnest, Fulke? It was I, keeping French steel from your back.”

  Pacified, Fulke nodded.

  Albin stared hard at him. “The battle's outcome has displeased you.”

  “Aye,” he scoffed. “Warriors do not capture their sworn enemies, they kill them. I find no cause to be pleased.”

  Albin shook his head in disbelief. “You bemoan the fact your sword is not stained with the lifeblood of our brothers, yet the king himself has knighted you on the field of battle.”

  “I took part in no battle of valor this day, and I bemoan the fact that our swo
rn enemy has lived to fight another day,” he shot back.

  “We share the same descendants, Fulke.”

  “Born in Yorkshire, King Henry is English, as are we. Anyone who raises a hand against my king or country is my sworn enemy.”

  “Even if the one you speak of is a true brother?” Albin asked in disbelief.

  Pain made his words sharper than he intended. “You above all, know that to be impossible. Yet, with your own brother siding with Clito, I well understand your reasoning.”

  Removing his helm, Albin let the matter drop. “The prisoners are to be moved to Noyon until they are ransomed. We are charged with returning to the coast.”

  “Very well. Where did you last see my horse?”

  Albin ran a calloused hand down his bearded jaw. “The arrow wound to the neck proved fatal. I am sorry, Fulke. I know you trained him from a colt.”

  Turning away, Fulke surveyed the scores of dead horses strewn on the field of battle, their lifeblood staining the soil red. “It may prove difficult to find another.”

  “That is all you have to say on the matter?” Albin lightly pressed.

  “Aye, Albin. That is all.” Stalking off, he picked his way past soldiers removing trappings from the fallen horses.

  Finding his horse, his lips tightened into a grim line. Squatting beside the noble beast, he ran his fingers through the chestnut mane.

  “For a silver denier, I can lead you to a fitting proxy.”

  He stood to face a malnourished young waif dressed in rags. His bare feet stained with blood. “Who would you be?”

  “To most I am known as, Guy."

  Fulke quirked a brow. "What do the rest call you?"

  "The ladies call me insatiable," he grinned.

  Ignoring the attempt at humor, Fulke asked, “Tell me Guy, why is it that you are not in service to the king?"

  Guy shrugged. “I am beholden to none, and go where I desire.”

  “In other words, you are a wandering beggar.”

  “I have known no other way. If the way I live offends you, I shall take my bid elsewhere.”

  Exasperated, Fulke called him back. “Show me this horse.”

  He followed Guy towards the woods thick with imposing oak, beech and chestnut trees.

  In the shadows of the battlefield, concealed by evergreen shrubs of maquis, stood an imposing black destrier tethered to a tree.

  Recognizing the trappings of William Crispin, he grinned. “Lead him out.”

  Guy asked, “And the coin?”

  “By the looks of you, it will cost me twice your worth to feed you,” he grumbled, striding through the brush back to the field.

  “Does this mean you will train me?” Guy called after him.

  “It would appear so,” he responded, without bothering to turn around.

  He guided the horse through the underbrush as Guy caught up to him. “You will not regret it, Sir. I spout a fair sonnet.”

  Fulke stopped in his tracks, his look incredulous. “That will assist during a battle, how?”

  Guy cocked a brow. “It does well on the village lasses.”

  Rolling his eyes, Fulke stalked from the tree line.

  A burrowing marmot raised its head at his passing, before scurrying for cover in the thick underbrush.

  Albin met them on the field. Eyeing Crispin’s horse, he crossed his arms before him. “I see it did not take you long to find a proxy.”

  “Guy here offered him up,” Fulke replied. Bending to remove the trappings from his horse.

  “And what is to be done with, Guy?” Albin questioned.

  Finished with his task, Fulke lifted the saddle from his once noble beast. “He returns with us to England.”

  Albin grinned. “Taking in another stray, are we?” He studied Guy. “How old are you, lad?”

  Guy studied his feet, embarrassed. “I believe a half score, seven.”

  “It is nothing to be ashamed of, lad,” Fulke cut in.

  Albin cupped Fulke’s shoulder. “Just when you have me believing your heart to be made of stone, you astound me."

  Shrugging off his hand, Fulke dumped the saddle into Guy’s arms. “See if you can barter for a pair of boots.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  Grabbing the reins to Crispin’s horse, he slanted his gaze to Albin. “Clean him up before getting him something to eat.”

  Albin bowed mockingly. “Your wish is my command, my liege.”

  * * * *

  November 25, 1120

  Coast of Normandy

  William Adelin, Prince of England, recently acknowledged Duke of Normandy, celebrated the day. More than a year after the Battle of Bremule, King Louis acknowledged his claim to Normandy over that of his cousin, William Clito.

  The victorious English were returning home.

  Strapping on his sword, Fulke slid his dagger into its sheath. Grabbing his cloak, he gazed with indifference at the naked whore reclining on his straw pallet. “Will you not stay longer?” she purred. Spreading her legs invitingly.

  He tossed a denier in the dirt by her feet. “Your services are no longer required.” Pushing the tent flap aside, he ignored the French slurs following him out.

  Striding past scores of soldiers preparing to embark on the voyage home, he made his way down to the crowded shoreline. Skimming the league long stretch of celebrating men, he spotted Albin’s dark curly hair. Picking his way around the men stowing their battle gear, he made his way over to where he stood with Guy. “We are to sail on the ship following William Adelin’s.”

  Albin shielded his eyes from the setting sun’s glare as he scanned the line of troop ships. “Which one is the prince’s?”

  “He sails on the largest, the White Ship. It is the merchant vessel anchored fourth from the left. The prince has already boarded with his entourage.”

  Albin grinned. “I shall rejoice to walk on English soil once again.”

  “Aye, Albin,” Guy agreed. “I shall rejoice to see the fair English ladies.”

  Fulke shared the same sentiments, yet remained silent. Gathering his packs, he made his way towards the ship as the others dropped in behind him.

  Finding a space on the deck, he set down his gear. Scanning the choppy waves of the channel, he frowned. “It grows dark; we have tarried too long in celebration.”

  “The sky is clear, Fulke. It should make for a smooth crossing,” Albin replied.

  With a noncommittal grunt, he noted Guy’s ashen color. Muttering under his breath, he asked, “I take it you have never sailed before, lad?”

  Guy swallowed hard. “No, my liege.”

  He shared a knowing look with Albin. “Stay close to the side.” He added, “Well away from me.”

  Seated on rows of benches in a recessed center of the ship, oarsmen prepared to set sail. Hearing the blast of a horn, the men onboard fell silent. Listening to the herald announce the arrival of the king’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, low murmurs ran the length of the deck.

  Fulke joined Guy at the rail to clear the count’s path as he headed to the stern with his entourage. In passing, he halted before him. “You are the knight who came to the aid of the king?”

  “I am Fulke, your lordship,” he dipped his head.

  “You have my gratitude, Fulke.”

  “Thank you, your lordship.”

  Stephen gestured to the adjacent ship. “I have decided to forego sailing with the prince. It appears William remains bent on celebrating.”

  “The ship is prepared to sail at your command, your lordship.”

  Stephen regarded him for a moment. “I have heard much about you, Sir Fulke. We shall speak at length another time.”

  “I shall look forward to it, your lordship.”

  After Stephen had moved on through the crowded deck, Fulke moved to the rail beside Albin. Larger than the transport ships, the White Ship could hold no more passengers. Hundreds of nobles, most of them related to the king, packed the deck. In the midst of them all, the triumphan
t prince celebrated the return to England with barrels of French wine.

  Hearing the call for the oarsman to set-to, Fulke remained uneasy. “I have a bad feeling about this, my friend. The channel can be treacherous even by the light of day.”

  Albin sighed, “Aye, mayhap you are right. Yet who are we to say anything?”

  * * * *

  In the dark of a new moon, they gradually navigated off the Normandy coast. Not long past the treacherous rocks of Barfleur, they heard the destructive sound of splintering wood carried to them on the brisk November wind.

  “The prince’s ship has struck the rocks!” The shout brought all aboard to their feet.

  “Row about!” Stephen of Blois bellowed to the oarsmen. Instantly taking charge of the situation.

  By the time the ship maneuvered around, they were too late. Reaching the rocks where the White Ship foundered, they held torches aloft, scanning the churning waves for any living sign of the more than three hundred souls aboard.

  Fulke watched in horror as Stephen bowed his head, before ordering, “Make for the coast. At first light, we search for the body of the prince.”

  England was without an heir.

  ONE

  Kenwick Keep

  Lincolnshire Wolds

  England 1126

  Crashing through the vibrant underbrush of autumn, Warin spotted his sister sitting beside the stream. Out of breath, he rushed up to her. “Reina you should not be here, Baron Erlegh will be arriving soon.”

  Reina inhaled sharply at Warin’s abrupt approach, before replying, “I have no intention of seeing his lordship.”

  He sank down on the bank beside her with a frown. “Father is bound to be wroth if you do not return to the keep with me.”

  She smiled fondly, resisting the urge to rumple his hair. Six years younger than she at ten and three, he remained the boy she loved beneath the exterior of a growing man. Tall and gangly with thick brown hair, bright hazel eyes and dimples, his boyish face held the promise of the handsome knight he would one day become.

  “Father will be too busy currying his lordship’s favor to even notice my absence.”