Page 56 of Forgotten Secrets (Secrets of the Heart 4)

Bedivere headed to the back of the stable, keeping to the shadows as he looked for the so-called Sir Raft. Then he saw the man. Dressed in a mail shirt open at the arms, but with no plate armor, this couldn’t be a real knight. And as Bedivere snuck closer, he could see the man tying a sharp blade to the tip of his lance. To make matters worse, he was talking with Lord Whitmore.

“Don’t let anyone see you do it, and get out as fast as you can afterward,” instructed Whitmore.

Bedivere had to strain his ears, but he saw and heard Whitmore giving the assassin instructions.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be out of here before he hits the ground,” snarled the man.

“Good. Now go.” Whitmore headed away while the man picked up his helm from the ground.

It was deserted behind the stable, too mucky and with too much filth for anyone to want to come here on purpose. There was no one here now but the assassin with his lance and horse. Bedivere knew what he had to do and didn’t think twice.

The assassin rested his lance against the building to put on his helm. He was about get on his horse when Bedivere made his presence known.

“You are not going anywhere and I will die before I let you kill Sir Rook.” He stepped out of the shadow with his sword in one hand and a long blade in the other.

The man didn’t say a word but, instead, reached for his throwing knife and flung it at Bedivere.

Bedivere moved quickly to the side, getting nicked in the shoulder as the blade stuck into the wall. He looked down to see his torn tunic and blood oozing from his arm.

“Well, if that’s the way you want to play it,” said Bedivere, lunging at the man with his sword leading the way. Metal clashed against metal and Bedivere kept the man at bay. He was fast with a blade and skilled enough to easily disarm the man. When the assassin reached for two blades at once and rushed forward, Bedivere made his move. He silently shoved his blade under the armhole of the chain mail and right through the assassin’s heart. The assassin fell limp to the ground, his helm falling off in the process.

The straight trumpet split the air and the herald announced that Rook and Sir Raft would be jousting, warning them to line up at the list or forfeit. Bedivere had to think fast. If the phony Sir Raft didn’t show up, someone would come looking for him.

Pulling the dead man across the ground and depositing him in a ditch filled with manure, he quickly covered the body with hay. He had to keep anyone from coming back to find him or there would be chaos when they found him dead. Bedivere would be arrested and no one would ever know that there was an assassin who almost killed Sir Rook.

There was only one thing to do. Bedivere was going to have to pretend to be Sir Raft. He took hold of the helm, and climbed atop the horse. After putting on the headpiece he directed the horse to the wall, grabbing the lance. He couldn’t use it since it wasn’t blunted so he knocked the tip hard against the wall, breaking off the assassin’s blade. “That’s better,” he said with a nod, heading to the practice yard.

Lowering his visor, he looked out to see the herald waving a flag from the center of the rail. Then the sound of thundering hoofbeats upon the ground directed his attention to the powerful Sir Rook. The bastard triplet charged down the list with his shield in hand and his lance pointed straight at Bedivere.

“God’s eyes,” Bedivere ground out, realizing he didn’t have a shield or armor of any kind. He was about to be killed by the man he was trying to protect.

“Don’t forget your shield, my lord,” called out a boy, handing one up to him at the last second.

Grasping the shield tightly in one hand and the lance in the other, he did all he could to hold on to the horse. His steed took off at a run, heading straight for Rook. Bedivere had never been fond of the joust and neither had he been a knight long enough to be any good at it.

It took all his attention just to hold the shield steady and keep the lance from falling. Plus, he had a hard time staying seated in the saddle. As they met, Rook’s lance crashed into his shoulder, and Bedivere shouted out in pain being unseated, hitting the ground hard.

The crowd shouted and cheered for Rook.

Rook jumped off his horse and ran over, extending his arm to help him up. “Allow me to help you, Sir Raft,” said Rook. “I didn’t realize you weren’t wearing armor or I never would have hit you.”

“Thank you,” said Bedivere, leaving his helm in place so Rook wouldn’t know it was him.

“You took a nasty blow to the shoulder.” Rook noticed the blood. “I’ll call for the healer.” When Rook turned around to summon his squire to send the message, Bedivere hurried back behind the stable, taking off the helm.

“Sir Raft? Are you back here?” Rook rounded the building just as Bedivere threw his helm into the back of a cart of manure. “Sir Bedivere,” said Rook. “I’m looking for the man I injured in the joust. Have you seen him?”

Bedivere clutched his cloak around him, hiding his bleeding shoulder. “He just left and said he wouldn’t be back.”

“He did?” Rook squinted and looked in the other direction. “He must move fast, I don’t even see him. Well, how about a bite to eat now? I’ve worked up an appetite.”

When Rook turned back, Bedivere was already out of sight and heading back to the keep.

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