Reynold de Burgh: The Dark Knight. Deborah Simmons

      ‘Oh, we know you are leaving,’ she said, waving a plump hand airily as her sister Armes emerged from the shadows to join her.

      Reynold vowed they would not sway him with their wiles. In fact, he would tell them he was off to check the dam or the fields or any one of a number of tasks that he helped his father and the bailiff oversee, so that he would be rid of them. However, when he opened his mouth, he blurted out that which was uppermost in his mind instead.

      ‘Don’t try to stop me.’

      ‘We wouldn’t dream of it, my dear,’ Cafell said, reaching out a hand to pat his sleeve.

      ‘Of course, you must go,’ Armes said. Taller than her sister, she lifted her chin to fix him with a serious gaze. ‘It is your destiny to complete your quest.’

      Her words were not only unexpected, but made no sense to Reynold. ‘What quest?’

      ‘Why, the usual one, I suppose,’ Cafell said, with a smile. ‘You must slay a dragon, rescue a damsel in distress, and recover her heritage.’

      For a long moment, Reynold simply stared, dumbfounded by her speech. Then he snorted, a loud sound of disdain in the stillness of the early morning. ‘You’re confusing me with St George.’

      ‘Oh, I think not,’ Armes said, haughtily.

      ‘Really, Lord Reynold, some might believe the de Burghs are saints, but after coming to know them personally, I must agree with Armes,’ Cafell said. ‘Though you all have many fine qualities.’

      Reynold shook his head. He had no time for these women and their curious babbling, to which only a fool would give credence. He knew full well his brothers would have scoffed at the very notion of a quest right out of romantic legend. Indeed, the thought made him wonder if one of his siblings, probably Robin, had enlisted the old women to hoax him.

      But Robin was gone, living at Bad dersly, where he was holding the demesne for his eldest brother Dunstan’s wife. None but Reynold’s younger brother Nicholas could be blamed, and yet would he play such a jest? And how had Nick—or anyone—discovered that Reynold was leaving? He had kept his own council, and the only sign of his plans had been the packing he did this very morning.

      ‘There is no time to waste in idle chatter, sister,’ Armes said. Then she turned her attention back to Reynold. ‘You must go, but do not go alone.’ And with a lift of her hand, she summoned a young boy, leading a mount laden with its own pack. ‘This is Peregrine, who will serve as your squire on the journey.’

      Reynold frowned at the youth, who appeared unfazed by his grimace. Indeed, the lad flashed him a grin before nimbly swinging up into the saddle as though eager for a day’s outing.

      Reynold shook his head. If he wanted a companion, he would be better served by his own squire, who had done well for him these past two years. But he would not take Will away from his home, Campion, into danger, perhaps never to return. So why would this boy?

      ‘We had better hurry, my lord,’ Peregrine said, with a calm certainty. Those words, more than anything, made Reynold turn to mount his destrier. Now was not the time to argue; he would send the boy back later. As if as eager to be gone as he, Reynold’s horse stamped restlessly, but Cafell moved toward him once more.

      ‘Take this, too, my lord, for your protection,’ she said, handing him a small cloth pouch.

      At first Reynold refused. ‘I am going on a pilgrimage, not a quest,’ he said through gritted teeth. But a sound from somewhere in the bailey made him hesitate to linger, so he looped the gift around his belt. Then he looked down at the two eccentric females who were the only family to mark his departure and felt a sudden thickness in his throat. He eyed them for a long moment, knowing he had a final opportunity to leave a message for his sire, but in the end, he said only what was uppermost in his mind.

      ‘Don’t let them come after me.’

      Tugging on the reins, he headed toward the gates of Campion without a backward glance.

      ‘Reynold is gone?’ Lady Joy de Burgh spoke without her usual composure as she stood at the head of the high table, holding the parchment that her husband had wordlessly passed to her. She read the words, but was unable to believe what was written there. Without waiting for a reply, she sank down into the intricately carved chair nearby.

      ‘This is my doing,’ she whispered, hardly daring to voice aloud the concerns that had plagued her after she impetuously married the Earl of Campion. ‘He’s left because of me,’ she said, lifting her gaze to her husband, but afraid to see a confirmation in his own.

      ‘No,’ Campion said as he took his seat. ‘This has been long in coming.’

      Joy might have questioned her husband further, but for the appearance of his son Nicholas, who missed nothing of what was happening around him.

      ‘Reynold’s gone?’ he asked. ‘Where did he go?’

      Campion picked up the parchment that had fallen from Joy’s fingers and handed it to the youngest of the strapping de Burghs.

      Nicholas read the missive quickly, then gave his father a questioning glance. ‘But why didn’t he tell me? Why wouldn’t he take me along? I’m eager for an adventure.’ That was obvious to anyone who took one look at the tall, dark-haired young man who was growing up—and growing restless.

      ‘I don’t think you’re the pilgrimage type,’ Campion said drily.

      ‘But why would he go alone?’ Nicholas said.

      That worried Joy as well. Pilgrims, even knightly ones, travelling singly were prey to all manner of villains, from common thieves to murderous innkeepers. The de Burghs all thought themselves invincible, but one man could not best a host of attackers or foil kidnapping, piracy, injury, illness …

      ‘He didn’t go alone. Peregrine went with him.’

      Joy looked up in surprise to see one of the l’Estrange sisters standing before them and glanced toward her husband. Peregrine? Was that the youngster the sisters had brought with them on this visit to Campion Castle? He seemed little more than a boy.

      ‘He did, did he?’ Campion asked, his expression thoughtful.

      ‘I don’t see what help a child will be,’ Nicholas said, scoffing.

      ‘You never know,’ Cafell said with one of her mysterious smiles. She looked as though she would say more, but her sister Armes tugged at her arm, pulling her away from the high table, the tinkling of bells signalling their passage from the hall.

      ‘Do we even know this Peregrine?’ Nicholas demanded.

      ‘Better a squire than no one,’ Campion said, obviously unwilling to debate the merits of the youth. And what was the point? No matter who Reynold had taken with him, they were only two people travelling alone on often treacherous roads.

      ‘What pilgrimage will he make?’ Joy asked. Durham, Glastonbury, Walsingham and Canterbury were far away, Santiago de Compostela and Rome even further. ‘Surely he isn’t going to the Holy Land?’ The thought of that longest and most dangerous of journeys stole her breath, for she remembered when King Edward, then a prince, had marched in a crusade on those foreign lands.

      Silence reigned between the three de Burghs as Campion shook his head, unable to provide an answer. Joy studied her husband, but he gave no outward signs of distress, only wore that thoughtful expression she knew so well.

      ‘You can send someone after him,’ she suggested.

      ‘I’ll go,’ Nicholas said, eagerly.

      But Campion shook his head.

      ‘He must do what he must do.’

      Joy knew that her husband wasn’t infallible, but the certainty in his voice comforted her and she reached for his hand. Although Reynold was not as grim and bitter as she had once thought him, he was the unhappiest of Campion’s