Chivalrous (14 page)

Yet there were new stories as well. Stories of kisses and embraces. Of a little manor home with Sir Allen and a passel of children who sported his warm hazel eyes.

One way or the other, she needed to be far, far away from here.

If only she had been thrown in the dungeon like a proper prisoner, she could easily escape. She and her brothers had always suspected Father was capable of imprisoning them, and had made a game of planning several escape routes. But if she ran away now, it would have to be for good, and she was not that desperate . . . yet.

These past days she had been left with far too much time to think, and to regret. But while she regretted losing control with her father, she still felt she was right in her stance to refuse Gawain. And her prayers and reading of the sermons only solidified her conviction.

A tap upon her door jolted her from her thoughts. She had
not expected Rosalind until the evening. But any company—other than Father—would bring a welcome respite. “Come in.”

Mother swept regally through the door, followed by Rosalind, who carried a heaping tray of bread, fruit, cheese, and even a huge roasted goose leg. Angel and Mischief trotted into the room at their heels. Spotting Gwen, the dogs ran to her and whined as she petted and kissed them in greeting.

“Set the tray on the bedside table.” Mother took charge before Gwen had fully processed the situation. “Gwendolyn, you must eat slowly at first. You do not wish to shock your stomach.”

“But . . . but what about Father? My week is not yet finished.” Gwen fought confusion. Perhaps this was not real. Perhaps her hunger-clouded mind had conjured them from her imagination.

“Your father had an urgent summons to the castle.” Mother's hand upon Gwen's shoulder felt so warm and real. This could not be mere daydreaming. “But never fear. We shall keep this a secret so that he does not add to your sentence. Be sure to feign hunger and weakness when he returns.”

Gwen reached for a handful of berries. Those would be light and fresh to start her first real meal in over five days. Angel stared up longingly at the food. “Not today, you little beggar.”

The tart sweetness burst in Gwen's mouth as she bit into the fruit. She sighed in delight. “Oh, Mother, I cannot thank you enough. I thought I might lose my mind. And I vow I shall never see a single peasant go hungry if I can do anything to help it.”

Mother pulled over a chair and sat beside her, while Rosalind stood attendance nearby. “I tried to tell you. There are worse things in life than being bullied into a noble marriage by a father who, in his own way, loves you and wishes the best for you. And who chose a rather handsome young man for you, might I add.”

“Ha!” Gwen would have argued that Gawain was no such thing, except that she would rather eat. She tried to start slowly,
but her very marrow cried out for sustenance. She quickly devoured a piece of warm, soft bread and took several gulps of wine. Angel jumped onto the bed and sidled up next to her as if to cuddle. But as Gwen reached to pat her head, she ducked under Gwen's arm and stole a berry.

“Cease!” Gwen said. “That is my food, you thief.”

Mischief eyed her warily from the hearth.

“So now you want one too? 'Tis only fair, I suppose.” She tossed a berry to him.

He sniffed it, then turned up his nose in disdain and walked back to the hearth. Angel, the consummate opportunist, jumped from the bed, snatched it up, and joined him by the warm fire.

Rosalind just shook her head as she always did when Gwen spoiled her pups so.

“Foolish creatures,” Mother said, but she smiled at them nonetheless.

Gwen sighed. Despite the distraction of the dogs, she could not put off this conversation any longer. “I suppose Father told you everything.”

Mother shook her head and smirked. “Indeed he did,
Sir Geoffrey
. I know not whether to burst out laughing, bow in awe, or throttle you.”

“Father seemed fairly clear that throttling was the preferred course of action.”

That evoked the laughter Mother had fought to hold back, but it was short-lived. “Truly, Gwendolyn, 'tis not seemly for a young lady to function in a man's role. I confess to knowing that you have often romped about the countryside playing with swords and bows. But truly, I never for one moment suspected you had intentions to fight in a tournament. This is not pleasing in God's sight.”

Mother sighed. “But you know all of this.”

“I do. And yet I do not. Oh, Mother, I wish I could convey to you how wonderful it is staring down an opponent over the tip of a lance. The rush of exhilaration that comes in battle. 'Tis nothing short of heavenly.”

Mother tapped her chin with her finger. “And what has your role been in all of this, Rosalind?”

Rosalind lifted her gaze to the ceiling and rocked back and forth upon her heels.

Gwen gripped her mother's arm. “Leave Rosalind out of this. She has only ever obeyed me as a proper lady's maid should. This is my fault alone.”

Mother sat pondering for a moment. A bemused smile turned her pretty pink lips. “You were amazing in that arena. There is no denying that. Why, you might have come in third or fourth had you not been pitted against Sir Allen from the start.”

“She is indeed a sight to behold.” Rosalind finally dared to speak. “Strong and determined, like the goddess Athena.”

“Like the famed Amazon warriors of old,” Mother said.

“So you understand, then? A little?” Gwen prayed it might be true.

“Only a little.” Mother shot her a hard glare. “You could have disgraced our family. And I have no idea how offensive a sin this might be.”

“According to Father Michael, I have committed the sins of deception, pride, covetousness, and disobedience, not to mention the more repulsive sin of dressing outside my gender. But I put little faith in his opinions. After much searching of my motives, the only part I truly feel remorseful about is the deception. Although I long to be obedient, 'tis difficult when one's father is a tyrant with moods like a tempest.”

A subtle sadness swept Mother's features. “Yes, but you could
obey me. I do my best to soften Father's moods and protect you from the worst of his temper.”

Gwen had always suspected her mother's bruises had more to do with standing up for her children than anything else. Otherwise, she would just charm or relent as always.

“I am sorry. I will do my best to obey you from now on, and to not let bitterness keep me from obeying Father in the areas that I can. But I must also stand up for myself when it comes to issues that affect my entire future. Like marriage.”

Mother beseeched Gwen with open palms. “We have told you again and again. You must marry. There is no way around it.”

Gwen set aside her half-empty plate as a wave of nausea swept over her. Her mother had been right about not eating too fast. In fact, Mother was right about a surprising number of issues. “I am adjusting to the idea of marriage. But I wish to marry a kind man, a man like Sir Allen of Ellsworth. Not a brute like Sir Gawain.”

Mother smiled. “We shall work on your father together. I have already heard rumors that Sir Allen is growing in favor. And truth be told, I prefer him for you as well.”

“Thank you, Mother. Oh thank you!” Gwen fell to her knees upon the floor and threw her arms around her mother's neck, hugging her smaller frame tight to her own hulking one.

Mother kissed her atop her head and held her far enough away to look her in the eye. “I said I would try. But I make no promises.”

“That is all I could ever ask.” Gwen returned to her chair. The food caught her attention again, and she stared at the goose longingly as its scent wafted toward her, tempting her against her better judgment.

“I will leave you to eat. Keep the tray until this evening. There is no chance of your father returning until nightfall, and more likely it will be in a day or two.”

“Thank you again.”

Her mother left and closed the door behind her. Gwen wondered how she had dealt with the guard beyond it, but Mother had her own way of maneuvering people.

“I am so relieved to see you happy!” Rosalind said.

“Perhaps after I have finished dinner, I can read you my book, as I promised.”

“Of course, and after that we might sneak through the window and out to your favorite tree. Most of the guards have left with your father, and not a one of them is pleased with the way he has been treating you. And I've brought your pipe.”

Gwen marveled at how well her maid knew her thoughts. “That is precisely the thing to cheer me. Oh, Rosalind, I know I should not say it, but you are the best friend I have ever had.”

Rosalind sat in the open chair and took Gwen's hand. “You are mine as well, but you must promise never to let your father know.”

Gwen winced. “Yet another secret we shall keep safe from him. Although I wish I could trust him and tell him all.”

“Of course you do, but it is a child's wish. A man as selfish and cruel as your father cannot be trusted. Forgiven, yes, for the good of your own soul. But not trusted.”

Gwen would have thought she had cried out a year's worth of tears during the past days, and yet a few more found their way to her eyes. “I wish he did not hold my fate in his hands.”

“He does not.” Rosalind gripped tighter to her hands. “God holds your fate in His hands. You need only to trust and follow God's leading in your heart. Is that not what your book says?”

How Gwen wished it might be true. Deep within, she suspected that Allen of Ellsworth might be the only man for her. She would spend the rest of her imprisonment praying—nay, crying her heart out to God—that somehow, someway, matters might work out for the good.

After one final reverberating clash, the blood-encrusted man crouching before Allen sidled backward and took Allen's measure.

Within the setting rays of the sun, a lifetime of emotions flashed through the man's eyes. Then his foe shouted to his comrades, “Retreat!” and made a mad dash for his horse. Several men followed, rushing into the trees, shadows in the grey haze of smoke against a backdrop of blood-red sky.

Allen's focus narrowed back to the space before him—the split second ahead of him. In battle, there was only here, only now. He turned a circle and slashed his sword but at long last met no resistance. The past fifteen minutes had been a constant onslaught of blades, slow-moving weeks of time—yet none at all.

Sweat poured down his soot-covered face as he sucked in huge gulps of acrid air. Looking down, he noted his chain mail splashed with crimson. His own blood or that of his foes, he could not yet say. Fierce energy yet surged through his body, blocking out all pain.

He scanned the area surrounding him and distinguished a nearby shriek of fear from the ruckus. Dashing toward the noise, he found a huge bandit with his sword raised over the head of a young peasant who had not quite grown to manhood.

Without a second thought, Allen threw his sword like a javelin through the back of the marauder. The man slumped to the ground with a groan. Paying little heed to the fallen villain, Allen withdrew his sword and helped the young villager to his feet. He did not relish killing, as every life mattered in light of eternity, but he would never apologize for stopping evil and protecting the innocent.

He checked the vicinity one more time. “I think it is over.”

“Thank you, sir. I feared I was about to meet my Maker.”

Allen nodded. His senses remained sharpened to high alert. His heart pounded with an odd exhilaration he had never before experienced. His first real battle.

Truly, this was what he had been designed for. As he fought, he had sensed God's pleasure despite the sadness of the occasion. He had sensed an affinity with David, with Joshua, with Samson and Gideon. Mighty men of God throughout the ages.

All sounds of battle had finally ceased. His men had prevailed. They gathered about him in the open circle at the center of the village, strong knights all, in the duke's crimson-and-black colors.

Allen surveyed the smoking ruins. With the battle now over, horrid memories of his own flattened village threatened to overtake him. Sharp pain gouged at him from the edges of his consciousness, but he must push that all aside. He could not wallow in the past at a time like this, for he had a duty to complete.

The duke had sent him out with all haste to lead his first mission. Though the central portion of small North Britannia was held safe by the duke's army, villages along the outskirts
often fell prey to bandits or invading Scotsmen from farther north—even greedy noblemen from England at times.

Allen rubbed a hand over his face. At once pride in his accomplishment this day buoyed him and sadness at the depravity of mankind weighed him down. He stared at the charred ruins of what had once been someone's home, their sanctuary. It might have been far worse had the duke not been tipped off to the raid by one of his many supporters.

As that fierce energy subsided, a deep ache poured through the muscles of Allen's entire body and a clear stinging sensation overtook his upper left arm. Glancing down, he deemed it a mere flesh wound, but several of the knights had injuries that required immediate attention. And one seemed to be missing. Allen prayed he would join them soon and not be found dead amidst the rubble.

His troop had arrived just as the violence broke forth. Yes, the night could have been much worse. He whispered up his thanks that God had given him the courage and clarity to act decisively and wisely.

The door of the church cracked open, and a lone, old man stepped forth. “Is it over?” he called.

“It is over. You are safe.” Relief washed over Allen as joy lit the man's face.

“'Tis over!” he hollered to the others, and they streamed from the church in a flood.

Allen pulled off his helmet, put his sword in its sheath, and prepared to meet them. Crying women hugged him. Old men thumped him on the back. Soon enough they would realize that several of their houses had been destroyed and that some of their sons, husbands, and fathers were dead, but he would let them enjoy the moment.

A young boy tugged at Allen's fine surcoat featuring the
duke's ivory falcon crest. “Thank you, sir knight! You have saved us all.”

Unable to resist, Allen swept him from the ground and into his arms. He felt compelled to speak true. “I wish I could have saved every single person, but I'm afraid a few men died in the fighting.”

The freckle-faced lad with his gap-toothed grin smiled up at him.

Allen wondered if someday he might have such an adorable child himself, and he could not help but picture Gwendolyn as the child's mother. Together they would breed lovely daughters and fine strong sons who would be champions, for certain. Heat crept up his face at the thought of how such children might come to be, but he pushed such notions aside and focused on the boy.

The lad ran his grubby hand over the rough planes of Allen's face. “But you saved me. You saved all of us who could not save ourselves.”

A tide of warmth crashed over Allen and nearly swept him from his feet. He held tightly to the child to keep his bearings. His protective instincts had never felt so keen, so sharp. This was all he had ever dreamed of doing with his life. Protecting the weak. Using his God-given skill and strength to make a difference in this world.

A woman he assumed to be the child's mother scooped him away. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much. Leave the fine knight be now, Charles, for he has much yet to do.”

His duty now was to clean up, bury the dead, and perhaps help with building some temporary shelters and patching cottages that might yet be salvaged. But before he could start determining the details of his plan, a lone rider in the duke's colors galloped down the lane straight toward him.

The fellow dismounted and removed his helmet. Allen recalled him from one of his later battles in the tournament as well as from the garrison. Sir Randel Penigree. A fine, chivalrous knight from everything Allen could surmise.

Sir Randel approached. “Sir Allen, I have an urgent message for you from the council. You must return to the castle at once.”

“But my mission here . . . ?” Allen's gaze swept the smoking village and the peasants, many of whom now wept as they assessed their losses.

Sir Randel clasped Allen's arm. “Never fear. I shall take over matters. I might not stand a chance against you with a sword or lance, but I am quite adept at logistical issues.”

Allen detected intelligence and compassion swirling behind the man's eyes. “I thank you, then. These people will need much assistance and encouragement. But I have a feeling you can handle that.”

Randel nodded. “I can. As I have too many times in the past.” He glanced about the village. “I have seen worse.”

“I only wish we had arrived sooner. We might have routed the whole incident.”

“You did well. But you must make haste. Lord Fulton was in quite a dither when he sent me to find you.”

“Then I bid you farewell.” Allen hurried to his horse and cantered off in the direction of the castle.

What important mission might the duke have for him now? Allen had managed to make himself quite indispensable in a mere fortnight. Before long he just might attain a position that would allow him to offer for Gwendolyn's hand and protect her from Gawain. Allen rode away from the smoking ruins and into the bright future that stretched ahead.

Shortly after dawn the next morning, an exhausted Allen stared at the council gathered about the large round table.

Bizarre words, impossible words filled the room and swirled around him. The duke. Dead. Murdered in cold blood. Killer roamed free. It was not possible. He could not bring himself to believe it.

Yet the pale faces and shaking hands of the normally robust council members attested to the truth of the matter. As did the duchess weeping quietly in the corner upon the shoulder of her maidservant.

Lord Fulton brought the group to order once again. “I realize we are grieving, but now that we are all here, we must settle the issue of succession quickly. Before matters are taken from our hands.”

“Hold!” Sir Gaillard stood. “There is yet one person who should be consulted. And since no one here is thinking rationally, I have invited the man myself.”

He strode to the door, anger fairly seeping from him, and swung it open.

In swaggered a man perhaps in his forties, of middling size and height with dark hair and a face that some might consider appealing—though Allen found him too charming, and his instincts put him immediately upon his guard.

“I am sorry,” Fulton, the senior advisor of the council said. “I do not believe we have met.”

“Allow me to introduce Sir Warner DeMontfort.” Sir Gaillard led the man to the table. “Or, as we all know should be the case, the new Duke Warner DeMontfort, for the line of succession is quite clear.”

“How dare you show yourself here!” Fulton's face mottled red, although he was a cerebral sort, and Allen had never seen him so angry before.

“I have come to claim what is rightfully mine. I can hardly do so from outside the borders.” Warner's lips tipped in a lazy grin, but the council did not seem to be accepting his act.

Several of the knights among the group now stood with their hands to their sword hilts. Allen wondered if he should follow suit, but not understanding the details of the situation, decided to await further instruction.

“I believe I speak for the council when I say we do not see it that way.” Fulton glared at the man. “In fact, we shall be investigating your part in this murder.”

“Do not be ridiculous.” DeMontfort maintained his relaxed demeanor.

“You do not speak for me, Lord Fulton!” Sir Gaillard cried even as DeMontfort spoke.

“Nor me!” Another nobleman rose to his feet.

“Nor me!” A third man crossed his arms over his chest.

“Then let me hasten matters and proceed as I know our dearly departed duke would in this case.” Fulton gripped the table and raised his voice. “Those in favor of considering Warner DeMontfort as successor to the Duke of North Britannia, please raise your right hands.”

Only the three dissenters did so.

“Then we have our answer.”

“But wait,” Warner protested. “You have not given me an opportunity to speak on my own behalf. You call this place a fair and just dukedom. Do not punish me for my father's sin.”

“You have committed plenty of your own, by my reckoning. All in favor of throwing Warner DeMontfort out of the dukedom immediately and casting him into prison if he attempts to enter again, raise your right hands.” Fulton began to shake, and fire seared from his eyes.

This time every hand except for Sir Gaillard and the other
two dissenters, including Allen's, went into the air. If Fulton felt so passionately on this issue, that was good enough for him.

“If he is leaving, I am leaving with him!” Sir Gaillard shouted.

“With my blessings, for you are now on my list of murder suspects as well. Sir Cedric, Sir Percivale,” Fulton called to the guards by the door, “please see Sir Warner beyond the borders. Sir Gaillard may accompany him if he likes, as he is still a member of this council, although we shall take that matter under reconsideration as well.”

Warner surveyed the room with deadly silence, then huffed and moved toward the door. The guards flanked him on both sides, grasping his arms and leading him out as Sir Gaillard followed in defeat.

The place went wild with grumbling and accusations, but Fulton managed to bring them back into order. “I am glad we are in agreement on this DeMontfort issue, but now we must move forward and plan for the future.”

The man who generally wore the plumed hat, whom Allen now knew to be a merchant named Hemsley, was dressed soberly this day. “We may not have proof that Sir Warner was behind the murder, but he has likely stirred up much of the trouble at the borders. If our suspicions hold true, we do not wish to reward him with the title. Besides which, he is out of touch with our policies and our way of life.”

“But I am afraid the DeMontforts have not been as hearty or fruitful as they have been wise,” Fulton added. The other men grumbled their assent to this sad truth.

“Perhaps we have been rash,” said the black-bearded minister of finance. “I was as angry as anyone that he showed up unannounced, but we have no other prospects. If we do not follow our own laws on this issue, the people will lose trust in us. We must maintain stability in the region above all else.”

The bishop stood. “I say the duchess is the obvious choice. As the duke's third cousin and a DeMontfort in her own right, she is from the family next in line for the title after Sir Warner, and the people already adore her. His family has been vanquished for many decades. No one will trust him. But the duchess has shown strength, wisdom, and dedication during her time in power. She is the one we need to keep North Britannia strong.”