Sword of the Rightful King Read Online Free Page B

between them.
    â€œWhat did you give him? The horses are worth less than nothing. They are an insult. Small, badly conformed.” Agravaine’s voice was pitched to carry.
    â€œYou are not used to riding long distances, Agravaine. Orkney is a tiny place compared to Britain. These ponies are perfect for getting us south quickly.” Gawaine pulled his horses head to the right. He neglected to mention the thieves.
    Hearing the unmistakable sound of the whip slashing through the air, Gawaine turned back. He raised his arm to ward off the lash, knowing his sleeve was but little protection.
    The whip came nowhere near him. Instead it flicked across the ostlers back, cutting open his wool tunic and laying the flesh bare. A thin red line of blood showed that the man had been scored, but not badly. Yet.
    Gawaine leaped off his own horse, ran over to his brother, and hauled him to the ground. It was so sudden a rush, Agravaine was not ready for it, and besides he was weak from two days of seasickness, so he fell heavily.
    â€œGo, man!” Gawaine shouted out to the ostler, who hastened away into the nearby inn, slamming the door behind him.
    Agravaine rose heavily from the ground, but Gawaine was on his feet, sword drawn, and waiting.
    â€œGet back on your horse,” he said, his voice a low grumble. “Do not try to attack me, brother. I am older and taller and bigger. I have not been throwing up the contents of my stomach for two days. And I have been practicing my sword strokes with the greatest master in Britain.”
    Shrugging, Agravaine rose. “I was just upholding the family’s honor, brother. The insult should be avenged. If you—the eldest of Lot’s sons—will not do so, then it is left to me.”
    â€œThere was
no
insult,” Gawaine said. “Get on your horse and you will see.”
    â€œMy horse is useless.”
    â€œThen take mine.” With little effort, Gawaine sprung up onto the saddle of Agravaines horse, turned its head to the right, and rode south toward Cadbury and Arthur’s court, knowing that Agravaine had little choice but to follow.

5
Message Delivered
    T HE MESSENGER had sailed two full days before the Orkney princes. He had made a hard crossing and an equally hard landing, coming ashore in such an astonishing downpour that it had all but washed the paint off his small boat.
    In a fortress not far from his landing place, he reported briefly what he had found out in the Orkneys to Lord Bedwyr. Then he had been immediately sent—with a pocket packed with hard journeycake and a leather bottle filled with the raw wine of the previous year—back to the road without either a bath or a change of clothes.
    â€œArthur must know what she is sending,” Bedwyr had told the man. “Let no one and nothing stop you. Not thieves, not those puny lords who hate Arthur and would stop any messages reaching him. Go. Go with Our Lords blessing.” He clapped the messenger on the back with a gusto that belied the fact that he was worried about the man getting through.
    The messengers face was the color of Roman bronze from being outdoors most of his life. He had a hawk’s nose with dark alert hawk eyes above it, glowering from under a leather cap covered with metal. His mustache was as taut and grey as bowstring, and his beard looked as if ash had been sprinkled in it. No one seeing that face or the ease with which he sat his saddle or pulled his long-bladed sword from its sheath would ever mistake him for easy prey.
    Still, Bedwyr worried. His pudgy, homely countenance scrunched up with his dismay. He knew there were many brigands and many followers of the North Witch between his own well-guarded fortress and Arthur’s Cadbury.
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    I N FACT , brigands did not worry the messenger on the long road. His enemies were wind and weather and the many days he had to spend in the saddle. Even a man with his natural strength wearied. A weary man is