The Last Arrow RH3 Read Online Free Page B

times the younger man's wisdom and patience far exceeded that of the passionate, impulsive heir to Amboise. In that much, it was said, they resembled their respective fathers, for Alaric FitzAthelstan had always been content to stand in the shadow of Lord Randwulf, letting the legendary Black Wolf establish himself as the champion and slayer of dragons while he himself sought only the position of friend, ally, and closest advisor. It was a role that suited Will as much as it suited Lord Alaric, for although he had trained as hard as any of the sons to earn his spurs and showed as much ability and courage to wade wholeheartedly into battle, his quick mind, instincts, and powers of perception had proved far more lethal. He was a brilliant strategist. He could look at a problem and see three solutions where others were left scratching their heads in search of one. Lord Randwulf had had no qualms sending him to Maine with the rest of the men from Amboise. It had been Will's-quiet advice and Robin's genuine respect for it that had, as much as the brazen courage of the thousand knights who fought under the pennons of the Black Wolf, won the day at Roche-au-Moines.
    With only eighteen years to his credit, however, he had not been among those knighted on the field by King Philip as a reward for their services. It had been a bitter disappointment, but as Brenna had been quick to point out upon his return to Amboise: "Your time will come. Even Robin was nineteen before the king took notice of him, though I am not sure he would not have ridden Sir Tristan straight into the royal bedchamber if all else had failed. Why are men in such a hurry to have their brains bashed out anyway?"
    "You would not understand."
    "Indeed, I admit that quite freely. I most certainly do not understand. Richard and Dag have no brains to speak of, therefore they would hardly feel the loss. But you—you have the best bow arm ... with one obvious exception of course ... in all of Normandy, Brittany, Poitou, and Touraine, yet you fever with eagerness to clamber up on a horse, burden yourself under a few hundredweight of armor, then hurl yourself down a course knowing there is a good likelihood of breaking every bone in your body."
    Will had scowled. "Your confidence in my ability is touching."
    "It is not my goal to encourage you. Nor is it my father's, I warrant. And before you puff up like a weed pod, I am not saying he is less than proud to bursting that you came this close"—she had pressed her thumb and forefinger together by way of emphasis—"to wearing your spurs home from Maine, but he has four sons who would sleep in their armor if they could find a way to do so without making eunuchs of themselves. What he needs and what they need is a cool, level head to guide them."
    "Now you think too much of my abilities."
    "Your modesty is commendable, truly it is. But who else in this or any other demesne within a ten-day ride can speak six languages fluently and quote great boring passages of Sophocles when it is least expected?"
    “‘It is not the powerful arm, but the soft enchanting tongue that governs all,' " he mused.
    "There. You see? Even he agrees and he has been dead for a few hundred years."
    Will had only laughed and shaken his head at her unaffected lack of reverence.
    Less than four months separated them in age and they were as close as they could possibly be without becoming intimate. She suspected both sets of parents had always harbored the secret hope that a lifetime spent in each other's company would naturally have progressed into something more. There was no denying Will was painless on the eyes. He was long-limbed and well muscled, handsome enough to draw second glances from women of all ages and situations. From his father he had inherited his scholarly mind and an easygoing nature that hid a devilish humor and deep sense of honor. From his mother, Lady Gillian, had come the shock of red hair and the gilt-colored eyes, the keen sight and