Knight's Blood by Julianne Lee Page A

on keeping himself off the ground. Then, though he knew it was risky, he took a step. The leg failed, and he went to one knee. Okay, it was going to be harder than he’d thought. Once more he struggled to both feet, then took another step. This time he was able to keep from falling. Another step, and again he didn’t fall.
     
    It was going to be a long walk at this rate. But he took another step, knowing if he didn’t the alternative was to lie on the grass and die of the cold. He kept going.
     
    The rain was relentless, leaching from him the little heat his body was able to produce. He stuffed his hands into his armpits and huddled his arms against himself, but it made little difference, as exposed as he was. He followed his old running trail toward the castle, and it heartened him that it seemed unchanged from the last time he’d come through here, in 1315.
     
    Hours passed. A couple of times he knelt to rest, but the cold at his core encouraged him to press onward. Mud at his feet became slippery, and that made his progress more difficult. His concentration focused on putting one foot in front of the other. His entire existence narrowed to the single task. Soon it seemed he’d never done anything else but this and would never do anything else again as long as he lived. But he hoped that would be longer than just today.
     
    A glance at the dimming sky told him the afternoon was nearly over, and soon it would be dark. He stepped up his pace.
     
    Finally, just as the darkness was about to swallow Eilean Aonarach, he emerged from the forest and onto the plain that lay before the inland gate of his castle. Almost immediately there was a shout from the crenellated battlement ahead. The castle was occupied. On one hand that might be good, but on the other it could mean his death. Painfully he made his way across the field, hoping that if they killed him it would be quickly. Just then hell sounded toasty warm and inviting.
     
    By the time he reached the portcullis, a line of silhouettes in the dusk had gathered along the battlement, most of them bearing crossbows. None of them were pointed at him yet, and Alex figured he wasn’t such a threat in his state of dress. The gathering was probably more curious than alarmed at a naked man wandering about in the rain. He halted at a distance and eyed them carefully, but knew if he was close enough to be heard he was close enough to be shot. The men up high waited, letting him make the first hail. He obliged right away, for there was little time for him to be fooling around.
     
    He ventured in Middle English, “Ho! Castle!”
     
    “Who goes there?”
     
    Alex might have just blurted his name, but wanted first to know how it would be received. With all the strength he had left, he stood as straight and confident as he could. His vulnerability was obvious; bluff was his only option. He didn’t even bother to put a hand over his crotch, but stood as if he had no need for the clothing he so plainly lacked. He responded in a voice that rattled with shivering, “Give me your name, guard, so I can praise you to your master for your alertness. You saw me the very moment I came from the forest.” His eyes shut against the rain and against his own exhaustion, then he looked up again to the dark shapes above.
     
    The guard had a nonplussed moment. Alex saw he was scanning the forest edge, more than likely in search of any indication this stranger was a decoy bringing invaders to attack if the gate should be opened. But then the watch shouted, “Sir Henry Ellot, stranger. And, as my master is away, I think you’ll tell him naught.”
     
    Relief washed over Alex and he nearly collapsed for it. Ellot was one of his own household guard, from the Lowlands and brought to the island by himself after Bannockburn. He nearly laughed. Those blasted faeries had come through, in their own, weird way. He swayed as he shouted, “Open the gate, Sir Henry! Your master has