The Last Knight Read Online Free PDF Page A

have.”
    Some of the stiffness went out of Sir Michael’s back. His voice was rough with relief and pain as he asked, “And how am I to repay so great a sum?”
    His father considered him. “I’m not sure. I’m still thinking about it.”
    A flicker of surprise crossed Sir Michael’s face, and I guessed that the baron was seldom unsure about anything.
    “You’ll let me know when you make up your mind?” Had it been anyone but Sir Michael, I’d have sworn I heard sarcasm in his voice.
    The baron heard it too and smiled—a rather grim smile. “Oh, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, we might as well go home.” He cast a distasteful look around the cell, turned, and went out.
    Taking another deep breath, Sir Michael started after him and I followed.
    Sir Michael soon caught up with the old man. “My horses? My gear?”
    “I brought the horses. There’s gear on their saddles, so I assume ’tis yours.”
    We clattered up the rickety wooden steps and into the sunlight. I hadn’t been out of the prison since yesterday, and the air, still fresh from last night’s shower, smelled wonderful: clear, crisp, and lightly scented with woodsmoke from the nearby village and the spicy smell of wet fallen leaves.
    Two men-at-arms, whose pine-green cloaks bore the Seven Oaks badge, were waiting for us, holding Chanticleer, Tipple, and a big, roman-nosed, dun stallion that was so ugly most nobles wouldn’t have been caught dead on him.
    Tipple looked like a midget jester between two knights, and the baron winced at the sight. He looked more displeased about Tipple than he had about me, which I took as a hopeful sign.
    Sir Michael noticed his father’s expression. “You were the one who taught me that a horse’s color is irrelevant, Sir. She’s sound and well-mannered.”
    The baron sighed again, and I made a mental note to keep Tipple far away from beer. Then his face softened.
    “At least you’ve taken good care of this fellow.” He stroked Chanticleer’s nose and the horse snuffled at him. “How’s that injured leg of his doing?”
    That topic got us mounted and onto the road. It was almost dry now, with only intermittent mudholes remaining from the last big rain.
    The prison where we’d been held was in an abandoned mill on the outskirts of Willowere, a village nearly large enough to be called a town. It was very late in the afternoon, and I had hopes of a bath and bed at an inn, not to mention a better meal than the thin stew that had served as prison fare. So I was disappointed when we took the road away from Willowere.
    At this time of day sensible people were heading into the village, so we passed a steady stream of returning plow horses, with a handful of carts and carriages, a tinker, a traveling bookseller, and a wandering beggar thrown in for good measure. The beggar hauled out his cup and called for alms as we rode by.
    Sir Michael reached for his purse but the sheriff had taken it. It was probably in the pack on Chanticleer’s rump.
    The baron tossed a handful of fracts into the cup.
    “Thank you, Noble Sir!” the beggar cried, rattling the coins with a vigor that made Tipple shy. I barely managed to keep my seat. Not being a nobleman, I wasn’t thrown onto a horse’s back before I could walk, and I’m not ashamed of it.
    The baron scowled. “Horn and hoof! Son, if you had to have a…squire, why couldn’t you take one of the men-at-arms instead of a town-bred gutterling with ‘knave’ written all over him?”
    I was too surprised to take offense, for most people don’t see past my honest face. The baron obviously had the Gift of reading people—it’s common among nobles. A pity his son didn’t have it. He might have seen through Lady Ceciel.
    “Fisk was a knave,” said Sir Michael. “But now he is a squire. Mayhap the writing you see will change, in time.”
    The baron looked exasperated, an attitude with which I could sympathize.
    Sir Michael asked, rather hastily, how someone named