How to Train Your Knight: A Medieval Romance Novel (20 page)

Julienne spoke first. “
Mon ami
? My men and I are just here to join in the festivities, no? Edward will vouch for us. Or mayhap, you know too well of our jousting prowess and are afraid we will take all the purses?”

The man looked about from face to face, terribly confused. “The king won’t be here until the morrow. Have you registered?”

Julienne passed him a gold coin almost as large as her ancient Roman ones. Apparently, that was all it took. The man put his tooth to the coin, grinned widely, and pointed to a plot of land where squares were marked out with pegs of wood and twine.

The efficiency with which the knights made camp was astounding. The task was complete before the sun was at its high point. Ann wondered if the remaining men would make trouble. Apparently Julienne worried, too.

He mounted his charger. “Come along, you wastrels! To the joust, to bet on
moi
! I’ll stake each of you with a coin. The rest is yours to keep. Your lords are bedded down comfortably with nuns. Let them lie. What harm could it do to have some fun for a few days? I’ll swear to God himself that I kept you at knife point and forced you to compete.”

Once the wagon was unloaded, and their goods set upon long planks of wood, Ann said to Marcus in a bit of a whisper, “I’m worried about the glass. What if there’s a Venetian in this crowd who recognizes the work?”

“I’ve a plan. When a lovely woman embraces you as cousin, later in the day, make sure you play it well. Be alert. Stand close. Those are the king’s men that come.”

Two men wearing red tunics, embroidered with three gold lions, approached their wagon. The heaviest, wearing a grand gold necklace with a large red stone, spoke first. “Who are you, good sir?”

“I’m Lord of the Green Meadows, formerly known as The Beast of Thornhill.” Marcus gave a polite bow.

“Truly not possible. Why would someone like the bea—”

The heavier nudged the other and bowed. “Forgive my subordinate. That’s Sir Barstow. I’m Sir Stanton. Buyers for the king. Edward told me to search you out first.”

Marcus nodded curtly, grabbed a bolt of blue wool from the make-shift table, and rolled it out. Both men gasped. They fondled the material and inspected it with near reverence.

“Most unusual,” said Stanton. “So deep, so soft.”

“Meet my wife, the Lady Ann. It is her doing.” Marcus pulled her forward and she curtsied slightly when they shifted their attention. Sally stepped quietly back with eyes averted, as she’d been schooled.

Stanton put the cloth to his cheek and held it up to the sun. “It rivals the blue of the French court.”

“You do us much favor by your comparison.” Always the warrior, her husband bowed, but his eyes never left their hands.

Barstow waved his as if it were a
fait accompli
. “Royalty favors blue. We’ll take it all.”

“We wouldn’t want any grievances, if others chose to wear it.” Stanton explained with a short shrug.

“In order to insure continued service from the house of The Green Meadow, we would ask a small boon in return.”

“And what would that be?” Barstow opened the strings of a satchel tied to his waist and pulled out parchment and ink. Using a plume tucked behind his ear, and Stanton’s back for a table, he readied to scratch out their agreement.

“I’d ask for the king’s guard for our journey home. The local roads, this day, have been quite treacherous.”

Barstow made a grand gesture of creating a check mark. “Easily done. What else have you for sale?”

Ann picked up the glass vase from the table, hid it behind her back, but she was too late.
Damnation.

The quick eye of the king’s buyer took it from her hand. “You’ve Venetian Glass. Does it come with a glazier?” His eyes shifted back and forth between her and Marcus. She shivered.

Marcus put his hand to the small of her back and raised one eyebrow. “Those tradesmen are locked up in an isle in Venice as I hear it, are they not? These are just trinkets from my wife’s cousin. They trade freely between themselves.”

“Trinkets? By God, no. Rarer than rubies.” Barstow held the glass up to the sun’s light.

Ann’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Certainly it was all right to lie to the local buying populace, but here in London? To the king’s men? Marcus had lost his wits.

A foreign woman, dressed in silks and fine ropes of jewels, rushed up with a hug so fierce, she couldn’t inhale. Giant pearl earrings bounced upon her face. Abundant lace from a pink hat with three points blinded her. Mounds of dark curls all, but suffocated. Ann’s first response was to curtsy, but then she remembered the ruse when Marcus gave her a quick wink.

“Cousin! I had no idea you’d be here.” She managed to find a polite smile and back out of the embrace.

With an exaggerated accent, the woman said, “But yes, of course, my family loves to travel and I beg to come. Dear cousin. Will you not introduce me to your new husband?”

“Sir Marcus Blackwell, second son of the Earl of Thornhill, now Lord of the Green Meadows, please meet my dearest cousin . . .”

Good god, what was the woman’s name?
The king’s men looked on, waiting for her to continue. How in the heavens would she know an appropriate Venetian name?

“This must be your cousin, Lady Marcella d’Oncello.” His accent was perfect and he smiled confidently. Turning to the king’s men, he said, “My wife is speechless, overcome by her surprise. She’s such a delicate flower.”

He chuckled under his breath and bowed in a courtly manner to the beautiful woman. He kissed her hand and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “You must join us and dine in our tent,
cogina.
”

She responded with a perfectly balanced curtsey and clung to his hand. “
Si, si
. Of course.”

A toothy smile, a wink, and a knowing glance told a story of secrets between the two of them. Ann knew enough of the way of men. Wives were bedded for heirs, and beautiful women were for more, much more. Her heart ached and her head began to throb.

No doubt once he had her pregnant, he’d come into
this
woman’s arms and into her bed for comfort. That was the real reason he had insisted they come to sell their wares in London. He missed his mistress. She glanced down at her dirty yellow tunic and simple hairnet. No wonder he wanted more.

The king’s men, too, found themselves mesmerized by Lady Marcella’s beauty and grace. As if coming to the decision simultaneously they said, “You dine with
us
, tonight.”

The lady looked to Marcus for an answer, remaining silent and demure. Truly, she had the manners any man would yearn for.

Stanton winked, bowed, and removed his cap with a flourish. “We’ll insist if we must. His Grace loves fine foreign company and to hear tales of other regions.”

Barstow chimed in, “The Lady Ann, too, has an interesting bewitching reputation. It is said she cursed the Bishop himself.”

She gasped.

“Careful, sir.” Marcus growled, moved her behind him, and reached for his sword. “That’s my wife you speak of. I’m not known for an abundance of patience.”

“Gracious.” Stanton raised his arms and threw an angry glance at his partner. “He meant no insult. I apologize.”

“She does dress more like a . . . I mean, she’s haggling with the tradesmen. The stories one hears. Curses and witches. Anyone could forget she’s nobility. I truly meant no dishonor.”

Ann feared for Barstow’s life as he continued to dig a deeper grave.

“I apologize, my dear,” the man said, in the least apologetic tone she’d ever heard.

Her husband’s arm flexed and Ann placed her hand upon it. “Marcus, find no fault, please.”

She let her breath out when his arm relaxed and he released the fierce grip on his sword hilt. A fight with the king’s men would come to no good. She tried to mimic Marcus’ haughty air. “Apology accepted. Of course we’ll attend.”

She turned on her heel and ducked into the tent with her eyes stinging and face burning. Sally followed, cursing freely under her breath.

Marcus finished their barter, bent under the flap, and squatted on his haunches.

“Who’s watching our wares?” she asked surly.

“Thomas can handle it.”

“But there’s much he doesn’t know. I should go back out.”

He reached under his frog, pulled out a leather purse, and handed a large gold piece to Sally. “Take this and leave us. Thomas will find you escort.”

Once her maid was gone, he pulled her down to him, his hands wrapped around her waist. “Do you suppose Thomas and I would have lasted long in the Holy Lands, could we not both barter for food and goods? Do you think I plundered for the riches I returned home with?”

“What riches? What did you trade in?”

“Myself for hire, at the start, yet I came back to England a wealthy man.” He gave her that I-dare-you-to-disagree-with-me look. It was an odd combination of an eyebrow raised, his chin stuck out, and eyelids half-closed.

She couldn’t help, but smile. “I truly had no idea you brought wealth with you.”

“I have my uses, other than as your personal guard and heir-maker.” He chucked her under her chin, frowned, and settled his derriere down on the rug. He rummaged for a bit of dried meat in one of the sheepskin bags. “Why the wet eyes?”

“They insulted me. You almost came to blows.”

He shrugged “The men were brutes. Low characters. What they say has no matter. They aren’t worth your tears or my sword. I’d not have wounded them much, at least not fatally.”

“My mother was Lady Carrington. My father was a noble knight. They had no right. Then they asked me to court to dine with that beautiful Venetian woman.” She played with a piece of frayed yarn in the rug. “Will you sleep with her?”

His gray eyes turned stormy. “By God, Ann. Why would you say such a thing?”

She scooted away from him. “But isn’t that what men do? A beautiful woman like that is a comfort and a joy just to behold. A wife is merely a trade of goods. An extra thrown in with the land. A vessel for his heir.”

“Is that what you think of our marriage? A bad trade? Is your heart made of lead, Ann? Have I done nothing, but shower you with kindness?”

“On my wedding day, you tied me up and threw me on the floor in my nightshirt.”

“And since then?” He stood and towered over her. “Since then, have I done anything to warrant this? You would try the patience of a saint. Have I not listened to you? Protected you? Treated you like a lady? Comforted you? And still, still, it is not enough. Will it ever be enough?”

“Everything that was mine, you took from me.”

His face grew red with fury and she wished she could retract the words. The argument had become a bad habit every time her confidence felt threatened. She wasn’t sure if any of this even bothered her anymore.

He cursed and threw his hands up in the air in supplication to God. On instinct, she went to her knees in front of him and covered her head. Best be prepared. She had spoken too freely. Would she never learn to stop her mouth?

“By God, get off your knees and stand up to talk with me.” He crossed his large arms.

She shook her head, balled up tighter, and refused to take the bait. She would not look up, only to meet the blows of an angry man.

“Well then, if you won’t speak with me, there’s much trading going on and that seems to be what you enjoy most. At least then you won’t find it necessary to duck the blows I’ve never administered!” He swung at the tent flap and it ripped to the ground. “Thomas, watch over our wares. I’ve a dangerous thirst.”

When his shadow passed away, Thomas entered the tent with eyes darker than she’d ever seen.

“You heard everything?” She slid her legs around to sit.

He squatted and met her eye to eye. “Yes.”

“He’s angry.” She couldn’t meet his gaze so she stared at her thumbnails stained with blue dye.

“You’ve insulted him. I won’t have any more of it.” His breath smelled of mead and meat pies.

“I didn’t mean to. I’m never sure how our polite conversations turn to battle.”

“Women never do. Makes no difference. Fix it.” He put his hand under her chin and forced her to look upon him.

“How?”

“Never been married. I don’t know.” He cursed in some foreign language and let go of her face.

Her chin stung from his rough pinch and she stuck it out again. “You know me not. My mother died young. I never learned the ways of women. It seems it is a talent, such as needlework, that must be taught and passed on.”

“You’ll get no sympathy from me. From whom did you learn that waspish tongue? I’ve never seen my friend stung so.”

“He’s a warrior and I a mere woman. How could I—”

“He’s not made of armor. He’s an honorable man and you wound him. Find him. You’ve been ordered to dine before the king, and it won’t do to have him knee deep in ale. You’ll both need your wits about you if you want to return with your heads attached. Go.” He stood, pulled her up with him, and pushed her out of the tent.