The Bishop’s Heir Read Online Free PDF

few seemed seriously injured.
    Trurill livery and leathers swirled and surged chaotically around Border tartans strange and familiar, loose ponies and an occasional terrified highland sheep creating additional hazards for the few men who continued to fight from the ground. The ponies’ whinnying and the frantic bleating of the sheep made vocal counterpart to the grunts and exclamations of the struggling men.
    The confrontation was quickly over. With shouts of “A Haldane!” the royal knights closed, shouldering their greathorses deftly between the smaller, lighter border mounts to break up individual skirmishes, flat-blading recalcitrants who tried to keep on fighting, and sometimes bowling over horses and surprised riders of both sides. Kelson and the rest of the royal party held back as a reserve, but their help was never necessary. The closest Kelson came to action was the startled leap his horse made when one of the sheep suddenly bolted between its front legs.
    Soon the brigands began dropping their weapons and raising their arms in surrender. With a shout, the Trurill men rallied to surround them. As Kelson’s warband pulled back to sit their horses quietly at the perimeter of the clearing, still encircling captors as well as prisoners, the Trurill men began ordering the prisoners to dismount and to bind them, a few starting to see to the injured. Ewan, scanning his own command for injuries and seeing none, kneed his charger to Kelson’s side and saluted with up-raised gauntlet.
    â€œWell, that was a pleasant enough romp, Sire,” he said in a low voice, nodding toward the borderers. “You there—Trurill Sergeant!” he called in a louder voice. “Attend us at once!”
    At his command, one of the older, better armored Trurill men glanced back at him, then broke away from the rest of his band and rode slowly toward the royal party, eying the Haldane standard with something akin to suspicion. He gave perfunctory salute with his sword as he reined in before them, glancing first at Kelson and Conall, then at Ewan.
    â€œYou are well come, sir,” the man said, sheathing his sword. “By your plaid, I make you a highland man. Would you be The Claibourne, then?”
    But before Ewan could reply, the man glanced less certainly between Kelson and Conall once again. “And you, my lords—I thank you for your assistance. We see few Haldanes this far west.”
    And doubtless wish to see fewer still , Kelson thought sourly, as he also sheathed his sword and removed his helmet.
    He supposed he should not be annoyed that the man did not recognize him. Other than his own brief foray into Culdi two years before for the ill-fated wedding of Kevin McLain and Morgan’s sister Bronwyn, Kelson doubted any other Haldane had penetrated this deep into the western borderlands for several years before his father’s death. His progress of the summer just past had been confined primarily to Meara itself, and the flatlands of Kierney and Cassan. And even were bordermen not notorious for their indifference to lowland titles of nobility, how could a mere border sergeant be expected to know his king by sight?
    â€œI am Kelson,” he said patiently, pushing back a sweat-stained arming cap from damp black hair and handing off his helmet to a waiting squire. “It appears that the presence of this particular Haldane was rather timely. You are—?”
    The man dipped his head in dutiful if chilly respect.
    â€œGendon, my Lord King, in service to the Baron of Trurill.”
    Kelson favored the man with the same sort of cool, impersonal nod which he himself had received, then scooped damp tendrils of hair from his face with the back of one mailed gauntlet as he glanced over the prisoners being secured by Gendon’s men. How to unbend the man?
    â€œGendon, eh?” he said neutrally. “Tell me, Master Gendon, what brought about this little set-to? Actually, I’m