Notorious Knight

England, 1204THE IRON RINGS of chain mail jingled as Sir Bayard de Boisbaston raised his right arm to halt his men. "Well, Frederic, what do you make of Castle Averette?" he asked his young squire, pointing across the wooded valley. Frederic de Sere squinted at the gray stone fortress on the low rise opposite and shifted nervously in his saddle. "Small, isn't it?" "From what we can see, you'd think so," Bayard agreed, "but not every castle is built in a circle. It could be that the barbican and towers facing the main road are at the narrow end." He gestured at the towers at either side of the gate. "Archers have a clear view of the portcullis and good angles to shootHe'd also noticed that the trees and bushes had been cut back from the sides of the road, leaving a swath of brackencovered ground between the road and the wood that was at least ten feet wide on either side. No enemies or footpads could ambush travelers before they had time to draw their swords and defend themselves. Frederic brushed a lock of light brown hair from his eyes. "Yes, I see, my lord." "On to Averette," Bayard said as he nudged his horse into a walk. Whatever else the late lord of Averette had beenand apparently he'd been a terrible manhe'd also been a man of some intelligence, at least when it came to defense, Bayard reflected as he and his men rode in silence along the river toward what looked to be a prosperous village. They passed a millpond and the mill, its wheel turning with a slow, steady motion. Cattle lowed from a nearby field, a few sheep scattered as they went past a meadow, and they could hear geese honking and chickens clucking in farmyards along the road. The village itself was not large, but the buildings were in good repair and the people appeared well fed. A few ragged children, with mongrel dogs yapping at their heels, ran out of an alley between a chandler's stall and an inn sporting a sign depicting a stag's head to stare at them, openmouthed. At the inn's door stood an ample-bosomed wench who eyed Bayard and his men with avaricious calculation. If she thought she'd get any custom from him, however, she was sorely mistaken. Around the green, merchants at their stalls, as well as their customers, stopped to watch them go by. So did the group of elderly men seated beneath the large oak by the smithy that belched smoke even on this summer day, and the girls and women standing by the well. No doubt there would be the usual comments after he was the scar that ran from his right eye to his chin. They'd wonder where he got it, and how, and who had done it. Some would say it marred his face; a few would declare they liked it. He'd heard it all before. Too many times.the notorious Sir Bayard de Boisbaston and recall the nickname he'd earned when he'd first arrived at court. He'd been sixteen, as well as spoiled, vain, and determined to make a name for himself. He'd certainly done the latter. Bayard slid a glance at fifteen-year-old Frederic, who was now sitting his horse with more lordly dignity and looking straight ahead as if completely unaware of the feminine attention directed their way. Undoubtedly he was really enjoying every moment of that attention. The pride and folly of youth! One day he, too, would likely learn that not all attention was good, and not every woman who admired him was worthy of pursuit, or that winning his way into her bed such a great triumph. A shout of warning came from the castle. The sentries were alert, then. Given the news he had to deliver, Bayard decided it would be better to get the initial meeting over. He ordered his men to quicken their pace and lightly kicked his own horse into a canter. As they neared the castle gates, a boy suddenly darted out from behind a farmer's cart filled with empty baskets, running toward the rickety gate in the fence opposite like a pheasant flushMoore, Margaret is the author of 'Notorious Knight ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373772407 and ISBN 0373772408.