Knight of Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

parents. She’d learned enough. The hilt felt good in her grip.
    She’d hold these men off or die trying.
    Becker recovered first from the surprise that had left the men’s mouths hanging open. “Our scruffy she-cat has claws, boys. Look out!” he said, laughing.
    â€œJohann, why don’t you take her on?” suggested the scarred one to the young man with them. “You fight like a girl anyway; maybe she’ll have half a chance.”
    So very amusing , she thought bitterly as they all laughed. She wished to God she had her throwing knives. She would take them out like rats.
    Johann drew his sword and advanced. She took his measure: overconfident, swaggering, careless. A slim, pimple-faced youth—a boy, really—arrogantly assuming she knew nothing. She waited, drawing him in closer, then flicked her wrist in three quick twists to send his sword clattering to the road. Some footwork and a lunge brought her sword tip to his throat. But when he stared at her, more shocked than scared, she hesitated.
    She’s never killed a man before. He looked of an age with her youngest brother, Nicholas. Although she wanted to run him through, her stomach rebelled. Stupid time to develop nerves, Lenora! Men had no such compunctions. How did they do it?
    And then Becker’s sword pressed against her throat. From behind, he hissed in her ear, “Drop it or you’re dead.”
    No hesitation for him, apparently.
    Her own death, it occurred to her, might be easier borne. She balked at killing someone, but the end of her own life began to seem a not-unwelcome prospect. Tears pricked her eyes on a flood of despair. She was so tired of this winter’s drawn-out pain and of living prisoner to a man’s whim. For the first time death appealed as respite and sanctuary from the violence of men. The idea of ending it all beckoned with the comfort of a warm, dark dream.
    She pushed her neck into the edge of the sword, testing the feel of steel against her flesh.
    Suddenly horses came galloping around the corner. Her head turned, and Becker slammed his sword hard against her hilt. Her sword fell from her numbed fingers. He pulled her back, his blade still against her throat, as three riders swept into camp.
    The one riding last seemed the leader, an indistinct hulk of a man in the near dark. He reined in by their group, with orders to the two riders with him to care for the horses and get themselves something to eat.
    â€œChrist!” the man cursed, dismounting unsteadily. “There are soldiers everywhere in the next valley!”
    This new man was huge—massive across the chest and shoulders, easily a head taller than all the others. Fresh blood matted one side of his longish black hair and smeared his clean-shaven face and neck. Mud stained his black tunic, and more blood soaked through his sleeve.
    â€œBecker”—the man turned toward her, frowning—“what the hell are you doing with your sword at that boy’s throat? Who is he?”
    â€œWe’ll get to this boy soon enough.” Becker waved over Johann and pushed her toward the youth, who glared at her as he grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her back to keep her immobilized. “What happened, Wolfram? You look like hell.”
    â€œA group caught us in an ambush after we left the last village,” one of the men who’d ridden in with the giant answered as he led away their horses. “The Freiherr took a bad blow, but he felled them and we got away without being followed.”
    They forgot her for a while after that, crowding around their leader and sitting him down on a stool by the fire. The one with the scar across his face proved to be their medic. His name was Krause, she learned from the men’s banter, as he cleaned up Wolfram and examined his wounds.
    â€œGunther!” Krause called to a boy refilling beer steins at the next fire. The lad looked up and ran over. “Fetch