Back The Exiled Heir
Chapters (31)
  1. D EDICATION
  2. P ROLOGUE
  3. O NE
  4. T WO
  5. T HREE
  6. F OUR
  7. F IVE
  8. S IX
  9. S EVEN
  10. E IGHT
  11. N INE
  12. T EN
  13. E LEVEN
  14. T WELVE
  15. T HIRTEEN
  16. F OURTEEN
  17. F IFTEEN
  18. S IXTEEN
  19. S EVENTEEN
  20. E IGHTEEN
  21. N INETEEN
  22. T WENTY
  23. T WENTY O NE
  24. T WENTY T WO
  25. T WENTY T HREE
  26. T WENTY F OUR
  27. T WENTY F IVE
  28. T WENTY S IX
  29. E PILOGUE
  30. A CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  31. A BOUT THE A UTHOR

Pocket could not help but smile. He pulled on the guide rope and Backbone responded, plodding dutifully along. Flyn walked next to him, using his quarterstaff as a walking stick, the great blade propped up on his shoulder.

“I fear I owe you an apology,” he said after a dozen paces.

Pocket furled his brow. “Me?”

Flyn smiled. “Well, the mule has nothing but to thank me. I lightened his load, after all. So yes, my apology is for you.”

“For what?”

“You served the squires at Coalspur’s funeral. I’m afraid I was responsible for that nasty fall of yours…or rather my leg was. Very sorry about that.”

Pocket remembered feeling such shame at the time. It all seemed so petty now. “It’s fine.”

“I thank you for your pardon,” Flyn said. “If it is any consolation, I fell many times myself that night and unlike you, I have no one but myself to blame.”

Pocket smiled again. It was hard not to in Flyn’s presence.

“What shall I call you, my generous little friend?”

“Pocket.”

“Very well, Pocket. And you may call me Flyn…or Bantam Flyn if you prefer. In fact, I think that’s what I prefer. Yes. And why not? All the greatest knights have titles and it appears I am the greatest of all squires! Best to embrace it, eh? After all, I am to be the wayward babe in this trio of travelers. And we certainly have our wet nurse.” Pocket followed Flyn’s gaze up to where Sir Corc marched well ahead. Flyn laughed and gently bumped Pocket with his staff. “I hope that does not make you the whipping boy!”

“I am the page,” Pocket said.

Flyn looked down at him, his face a mask of exuberant curiosity. “Indeed?”

Pocket gave a deep, assured nod of his chin. “Yes.” He pointed at Sir Corc, then at Flyn and finally at himself. “Knight. Squire. Page. As it should be.”

Flyn repeated Pocket’s indications with his staff, but he said “Wet-nurse. Stripling. Whipping boy.” And they both laughed. “No, I jest! You have the right of it. Much more suitable, Master Page. Well then, do you know any songs?”

“A few,” Pocked replied.

“Excellent! You will teach me your few and then I shall teach you my many dozens!”