Spring 921 MC
Sir Richard Fitzwilliam, Knight of the Sword, emptied his tankard, slamming it down on the table.
“Well done, lad!” said Sir Alzor. “You do your brothers proud.”
Another knight stood, somewhat unsteadily, and turned towards the king, who sat at the head of the table.
“To Your Majesty’s health,” he said.
Everyone save the king stood, raising their cups hurriedly.
“The king,” they all shouted.
Richard, his cup refilled, completed the toast, only a short breath later, then poured the red-hued liquid down his throat. His head was spinning, and he sat down quickly to prevent himself from toppling over.
Someone beside him was refilling his cup once more, Sir Horace, he thought, but the names and faces were becoming a blur. He looked around for Sir Harold, but the knight had
