Connie Mason by The Black Knight Read Free Book Online Page A

unanswered. “I understand perfectly, brother.” His penetrating gaze did not leave Waldo’s back as his brother retraced his steps to the keep.
    Suddenly Drake noticed something lying on the groundand stooped to pick it up. It was the gauzy veil that had covered Raven’s bright hair. Apparently it had fallen when he had pulled her into his arms. Smiling to himself, he stuffed it inside his doublet.
    Drake’s squire was waiting up for him when he returned to camp. The lad sat on the cot, polishing Drake’s black armor and helm by candlelight. He jumped up when Drake ducked inside the tent.
    “Everything is in order, my lord. Your armor is polished and your weapons in good repair. Is there aught else you need?”
    “Nay, Evan. You may seek your own bed now.”
    Evan ducked out the tent flap and ran into Sir John of Marlow’s well-muscled chest. “Is Lord Drake in his tent, Evan?” John asked.
    “Aye, Sir John, he just returned from the banquet.”
    John sent Evan on his way and entered the tent. Drake greeted him amiably. “I see you left the banquet still able to stand,” he teased.
    “Like you, I compete in the games tomorrow. Too much drink dulls the wits. Besides, the ale Lord Duff served was swill. He probably keeps the good stuff for himself.”
    Drake heard footsteps approaching and reached for his sword. “Who goes there?”
    “Lord Waldo’s man. My lord sends a flagon of wine to aid your sleep.”
    “Did the man say wine? By all means bid him enter, Drake.”
    “Come,” Drake called gruffly. Ordinarily Waldo was not a thoughtful man. Drake wondered what his brother was up to.
    The man-at-arms, wearing Eyre colors of blue and gold, ducked into the tent and set the flagon down on the camp table.
    “Lord Waldo sends wine with his compliments to the Black Knight,” the man recited.
    Drake eyed the wine with suspicion.
    “ ’Tis good French wine,” the man was quick to add. “The best the castle has to offer.”
    “Ah.” John sighed with none of Drake’s reservations. “Good French wine is hard to come by. Break out the cups, my friend, and we shall toast to success tomorrow.”
    The man-at-arms started to back out of the tent when Drake stopped him with a harsh command.
    “Wait! What is your name?”
    “Gareth.”
    “Have you been in Waldo’s service long, Gareth?”
    “Aye, since before he became earl. I fought with him in France as a foot soldier.”
    “Waldo must trust you.”
    The fellow puffed out his chest. “With his life, my lord.”
    “Then you must drink with us.”
    John stared at Drake curiously. “Come now, Drake, why waste good French wine on this fellow when he obviously prefers ale?”
    “That is so, master,” Gareth said with alacrity. “Pray enjoy your wine.”
    “But I insist,” Drake said.
    “God’s toenails, Drake, what has gotten into you?” John chided.
    “There are cups in my war chest, John,” Drake said. “Please bring one for each of us.”
    John obeyed, though he was obviously puzzled by Drake’s insistence that the man drink with them. He found three pewter cups and set them on the table beside the flagon of wine. At Drake’s nod, he poured wine into each of the cups. John held his cup to his nose and sniffed appreciatively.
    “Ambrosia,” he said, bringing the wine to his lips.
    “Nay, John, do not drink . . . yet,” Drake added as he brought his own cup to his nose and inhaled the headyaroma. “Gareth will drink first.” He handed the cup to Waldo’s man.
    Drake watched Gareth closely, smiling with satisfaction when Gareth stared into the cup with horror.
    “Drink up, man,” Drake invited. “How often do you get to drink good French wine?”
    “Are you daft, Drake?” John said.
    “Drink, Gareth,” Drake ordered harshly, stilling John’s protest with a slash of his hand.
    “Nay!” Gareth cried, spilling his wine on the ground. “I cannot.” Whirling on his heel, he made a hasty exit.
    John stared into his own cup, a