Pirate

William anticipated the feint, waited, then swung his shield, knocking Robert from his horse. The stallion ran off. Behind them, Hugh Fitz Hubert, also unhorsed, took down one rebel knight, then turned to find another riding off, leading the remaining horses away. Two-upon-two, and William the only remaining horseman. He liked these odds much better and he circled around, facing Robert. “I trained you. I know your weaknesses.”

“And I, yours.” The clouds parted, and a shaft of moonlight glinted off Robert’s weapon of choice. A one-edged blade combined the power and weight of an axe with the versatility of a sword. The end curved slightly into a deadly point — one which William had seen penetrate tightly woven chain mail.

The heavier weight of the weapon gave Robert an advantage over the lighter two-edged longsword that William used. But Robert would tire easier, especially now that he’d been knocked from his mount. And no sooner had that thought crossed William’s mind than Robert charged him, swinging his blade like a battle-axe, aiming for the horse’s legs.

William retreated, realizing the greater threat. Take out their horses and, even if they did survive, they could never get back in time to warn the king.

A hard thing to do — giving up the advantage — but William knew it was his only chance. He dismounted, slapping his horse on its flank, sending it off. Fitz Hubert and the rebel knight squared off, swords clashing.

He faced Robert. The two men sidestepped, round and round. William examined Robert’s metal tunic, hoping there might be some flaw in the mail. “Why?” he asked between blows. He needed answers. He intended to survive.

Robert eyed him, shifting the weight of his sword in his hand. “There is enough gold in the king’s camp to fund an entire army — take back what was lost by your inept king’s actions.”

“His actions are his to make”—metal sparked against metal—“whether or not you find them to your liking.”

“My family has lost everything,” Robert said, circling William, searching for an opening, waiting for the right moment. “The king has lined his coffers with our gold — with our blood. Imprisoned my half brothers.” He struck again and again. “That treasure belongs to us, and where it goes, we go.”

William’s muscles burned, he was tiring fast. Robert was a formidable enemy. Younger and stronger. The two men faced each other, their breath coming hard and fast. He lost track of Fitz Hubert and the other rebel knight but heard them somewhere in the dark. “You will fail,” William said.

“Nay. The king is already dying.”

Fear coursed through William. And, with it, the strength to lift his sword one last time. His blade arced. Robert parried — as William knew he would. William’s sword glanced upward, and he used the force to bring it farther, thrusting into the chain mail beneath Robert’s arm. With both hands, he drove Robert to the ground.

William stood over Robert, noting the mixture of fear and loathing on his face as he stomped on Robert’s sword arm. He pressed the point of his blade against Robert’s throat. “What say you now?”

“We have still won.”

“With your imminent demise?” It was a moment of glory. A heartbeat away from striking the deathblow to the traitor. Especially when he saw Fitz Hubert emerge from the trees unscathed.

But then Robert, his breathing labored, smiled at William. “Who do you think convinced the king to move his treasure for safekeeping, then set up this ambush? ’Twas I… Prince Louis, the true king, who sits now in London, will reap the benefits of your false king’s greed… The treasure will be ours.” He sucked in a lungful of air. “We have spies in every court… Every last jewel in his crown, every last bit of his gold, will finance Louis’s campaign. England will be his… You and your ilk will swear fealty to Louis before this week is through.”

“Not if I have aught to say about it.”

William drove the sword home, twisting to make sure the final thrust brought death. He left the body where it was, then eyed Fitz Hubert. “Are you hurt?”

“A cracked rib, I fear.”

“You heard?”

“Aye.”

They managed to recover only one horse, William’s, and they decided because of Fitz Hubert’s injury, William would ride to warn the king. When he reached the encampment in Bishop’s Lynn, he saw it on the faces of the others. John de Lacy met him outside the king’s tent, refusing him entry. “The king is ill. Dysentery. He wishes to see no one.”

“He will see me. Make way or forfeit your life.”

“What—”

William pushed past him and entered the tent, his nostrils flaring at the putrid air. The king’s physician and two stewards were in attendance. Candles flickered in their stands around the king’s pallet, casting a dim glow about the still form. Too still. William feared the king might be dead by now. But as he neared, he saw his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath. “My liege.” William took to his knee at the king’s bedside, bowing his head. “I have failed you.”