A Knight in Central Park(91)

“I have heard enough,” she blurted, nestling once again into the crook of his good arm. “But verily I do not lie when I tell you that I did not plan for things to happen as they did. I never believed Grandfather’s tales until his stones brought me to you. But now that you are here,” she said, “everything feels as it should be, as if destiny truly does know best.”

“People make their own destiny.”

A rooster crowed in the distant hills.

“Whatever happens,” Alexandra said, choosing to ignore his statement, “say that you will savor the time we have left. Promise me that.”

His fingers brushed against her face as if he were hoping to forever remember the angles of her cheeks and the shape of her lips.

“I will cherish every moment,” he said at last, “I swear.”





Chapter Twenty-Five



Better break your word than do worse in keeping it.

—Thomas Fuller

Spring was well over, but Alexandra felt as fresh as the dawning of a new day as she watched Sir Joe kneel before the king. Alexandra could not recall ever being more proud than she was at this moment. Her hero from Central Park was being dubbed a true knight by the King of England himself.

“A defender of the weak and unsuspecting. Merciful, bold and courageous you have proven yourself to be,” the herald said before the king’s assemblage of a few select lords and ladies.

Alexandra’s sister, Mary, and Sir Richard, the Lady and Lord of Radmore’s Keep stood nearby. How very strange, Alexandra thought, to be within Sir Richard’s fortress, seeing her sister at his side, his gaze falling lovingly upon his new wife. It would take some getting used to this new brother-in-law of hers...but if her sister was truly happy, then what more could she ask for?

“Sir Joe, are you prepared to accept the accolade of knighthood this day?” King Henry asked from his velvet cushioned high-back chair.

“I am.”

“Well then I give you these spurs.”

A young squire knelt before Sir Joe and fastened spurs to his leather boots.

“These spurs,” the herald said next, “represent the right of a true knight to ride unhindered throughout the land, protecting the weak, defending the defenseless, and helping the needy. And adorning this belt,” the herald went on as the squire fastened the belt about Sir Joe’s waist, “are blue stones representing the Virgin Mary, reminding every Knight to be ever faithful in his duties, to be pure of heart, and to be respectful in his actions and his deeds.”

“Choose death before dishonor,” the squire said before stepping back and making room for King Henry to come forth.

“Never draw this in anger,” the king said as he placed a mighty broadsword in Sir Joe’s hands. “This sword represents the Knight’s right to dispense justice. The double edge of the blade ever reminds you, brave Knight, to temper justice with mercy. As the steel of the Sword must be tempered in fire and water, so must the soul of the Knight be tempered by adversity and compassion.”

As the herald asked Sir Joe to swear his oath of fealty and service, Alexandra held tightly to Sir Joe’s leather satchel; inside of which was the last stone. By entrusting it with her, he had in a sense, entrusted her also with his own destiny.

Sir Joe spoke as if he was not sure of his love for her.

But she knew otherwise.

She did not need to hear the words to know that he loved her. She saw the love he held for her every day in the way he looked at her, in the way he worried over her siblings, and in the way he so plainly trusted her without fault.

Verily she wanted naught more than to throw the stone into the black hole within the garderobe. He was no wandering troubadour, no simple man. He was her knight. And it dawned on her suddenly that mayhap he knew her better than she knew herself, for suddenly she felt sure he had given her his satchel, knowing she would want naught more than to throw it into the moat.

And how very tempting the notion was.

Carefully tugging on the ties, she pried the bag loose and reached within until she felt the stone’s rough edges upon her fingertips. Odd, she thought, for the stones she had carried had been as smooth and as cold as marble.

Her mouth felt suddenly dry as she realized this was not the rock Sir Joe thought it to be. Grandfather!

Hastily, she pulled the rock out into the light. She did not have to see the dull white veins running through the stone to know that it was not the true stone. She gaped in stunned silence at Sir Joe as he knelt before the King of England.