Read King's Man for Free Online

like a pillar of seasoned oak; it was an unnerving quality in one so young. ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance,’ he said gravely. Then he added: ‘Sir, may I ask, are you Alan Dale the swordsman?’

    I nodded, struck by his total self-assurance. He was interrogating me! ‘I have occasionally been called that,’ I admitted.
    ‘Then might I ask a great boon?’ this extraordinary boy continued. ‘Would you condescend to exchange a few passes with me one day, and perhaps show me something of your prowess? I wish to learn how to fight, and I have been told that you are one of the best men with a blade in England.’
    ‘It seems that you already know how to fight,’ I said, inclining my head at the tall boy he had recently bested, who was now limping into the makeshift schoolhouse.
    He shrugged: ‘That was just boyish nonsense, merely a kind of wrestling that I am attempting to devise; I wish to learn to fight like a proper soldier.’
    His air of cool maturity was so pronounced that it was almost laughable. I was looking at a boy who could not be much more than eleven, and yet he spoke like a man in his prime. But, in truth, I sensed he would be a difficult fellow to laugh at; his stance, his stare, his whole being demanded that he be taken seriously.
    ‘If we survive this coming battle against Ralph Murdac’s men, I will gladly exchange a few passes with you, assuming you still wish to do so – but on one condition,’ I said, matching his solemn tone.
    ‘Sir?’ he said inquiringly.
    ‘That you teach me the trick with which you tumbled the taller boy.’ I smiled at him. ‘Fellow warriors should teach each other their skills, don’t you think? That way we all learn to be better men.’
    He was taken aback by my words, I could see, but to his credit he hardly showed it; it was almost as if he were used tobeing addressed as an equal by full-grown men-at-arms. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said gravely. ‘I shall look forward to that day.’ And he bowed deeply from the waist and, turning, jogged off towards the school shed.
    I turned to Tuck: ‘What an extraordinary lad! Wherever did you find him?’
    ‘That, my friend, is Thomas ap Lloyd,’ said Tuck. ‘Does the name seem familiar?’
    I just looked at him blankly.
    ‘He’s the son of Lloyd ap Gruffyd. Surely you remember him?’
    I had no recollection of anyone by that name.
    Tuck laughed at me, but the sound was coloured with a strange sadness. ‘Have you killed so many, Alan, that their names no longer mean anything to you?’ he said. ‘Oh, Alan, we must look to your soul before too long. I fear the blood of so many slaughtered men may have stained it permanently.’ And he walked away, shaking his head gently, making for the schoolhouse, which was now packed with chattering youths and children of both sexes.
    And then I knew who the boy’s father was: the Welsh archer who had tried to kill Robin before we left for Outremer. Hoping to claim Murdac’s bounty, he had crept into Robin’s chamber one night and found me asleep there, waiting to deliver a message to my master. Mistaking me for Robin, the bowman attacked. After a short, terrifying fight in the darkness, I had killed the fellow. The boy, I recalled, this Thomas ap Lloyd whom I had just met, had subsequently been taken into the castle for his own protection. There was a strange logic in this act of Christian kindness, and I felt Tuck’s influence: ‘The sins of the father must not be visited on the son,’ the formermonk had once quoted to me, and I saw that he had put his principle into action.
    But a chilling thought hit me, carried into my mind on the back of the last: would the son one day feel the need to seek revenge for his father’s death? If he did, I would, reluctantly, have to cut him down. I knew in my heart that, young as Thomas was, I could and would do the deed – if, as Robin would have put it, it was necessary.
    What was I turning into? Would I become like my