How to Train Your Knight: A Medieval Romance Novel (21 page)

“It’s that serious?” She smoothed down her tunic and pulled her hair back into her net.

“Aye. Find him.”

“Where’d he go?”

“I’ll have Bart take you. Don’t wander off by yourself. Are we clear?”

“Yes. I thank you.”

“It’s not for you that I do this. It’s for my friend.” He shouted for Bart.

She whispered into the empty tent, “I understand, but thank you just the same.”

After wandering up and down the aisles of wares, Bart pointed Marcus out, sitting astride a wide plank next to a large barrel with not even a table. Three men and two loose women sat next to him, trying to engage him in conversation. He just stared at his hands morosely, then drained the liquid, put his mug under the spigot, and filled it again.

Bracing herself for a tough fight, she came up behind him and said, “I beg you, leave with me.”

“With you? With you, wife? I think not. I’m here to remove myself from your company.” He gulped and topped the cup again with eyes that dared her to speak of it.

“Please. Put that down and come away.”

“No. You see, no one here expects me to beat them.” When he slammed the pottery down on the bench, sticky liquid went everywhere, including her not-very-yellow tunic.

Mayhap Thomas was right. She’d meant to wound him with how he’d stolen her lands, but for that, he was impervious. Instead, it was that she’d expected him to beat her that wounded him most. She grimaced. “I’d beg you come back to the tent so we could talk in private.”

“Nothing is private in a cloth tent. Believe me, I’ve lived in one for years.”

“Would you walk with me, then?”

He put down a coin and downed another. At this rate, he’d not be able to stand, soon. How would she get him back to their camp? “Be gone. Why do you continue to vex me? You ruin my drinking.”

Her heart pounded with panic until Bart cleared his throat, only feet behind her. At least she’d be able to send for help. A sliver bit into her behind as she sat.
Damn.
Turning, she tried to pick it out of her dress. “So be it. Move over.”

Marcus nodded to the barrel’s owner, held out a hand for another mug, and filled it under the tap. He gave the other patrons a look that would kill and they wandered off. No doubt to find another barrel. Handing the irate merchant several coins, he said, “Go away and take the wenches with you. We’ll be done shortly.”

He turned to Ann. “You have your way, again, as always. Talk.”

She downed her drink as she’d seen him do. A fierce burn oozed down her throat, along with an odd buzz that rushed to her head. Good heavens, this wasn’t the gentle brew she made for meals.
What in God’s name was this?
She coughed and gasped for air. Nothing came in.

“What the devil?” He slapped her on the back as he held her from tipping over. “You can’t put down a draught like that.”

Fire burned the entirety of her food tunnel and she fought for breath. Holding the brown mug up for perusal, she gave it a fierce scowl. “What
are
we drinking?”

He smiled just a mite. “Apparently what you’re not used to. Are you all right?”

“I think so.” She coughed again and cleared her throat, more to keep his attention than in real need.

“So, Ann of the green and most verdant meadows. I’m listening.” Her inebriated husband stared at her breasts and undressed her with his eyes.

She took another sip from her mug and leaned in like she’d seen the harlots do. “I’m so, so, sorry I offended you. I really didn’t mean to. Well, mayhap that’s not quite right. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

Getting lost in his gray eyes with the dark centers, she kissed him. Her body sang when he reached behind her head to hold her in place and took it deeper. When they stopped to breathe, she said, “Very well, to be completely honest, I did mean to offend you about taking my lands, but I think that doesn’t offend you. I’m quite sure, although I don’t know why, because they were my lands. But then there was the beautiful Venetian woman. She was so wonderful and graceful and I could tell you knew her and were fond of her, and she wore jewels and a beautiful hat and lace and I . . .”

She took another deep swallow and coughed once again.

“Enough.” He took the cup out of her hand and placed it on the bench, out of her reach.

“So I assumed that the lady had been in your bed or that you would bed her again, and that you might leave me for her and—”

“You were jealous, m’lady?” His eyes went wide and he grinned.

“I suppose that might be what I was feeling.” It was hard to think clearly through the thickening fog in her head.

Leaning in closer, he breathed into her ear, and said, “Pray continue.”

She fanned herself with her hand. “Has it grown warm? Well, and with that, there was what the king’s traders said about my lineage. And then that woman. I was worried you would leave me once you had an heir.”

“Is that what you want?” Her husband’s warm lips were close enough to kiss again. So she did.

“No, not at all. You know I’ve grown very fond of having you in my bed.”

“Fond of my bedding? Is that all it is?” His brows furrowed so she kissed them, too.

“No, no. Of course not. I, well . . . I welcome your rescues.” She shifted her weight on the bench. “And your good counsel and how you got the men to get blue flowers for our dye, and the new loom that is coming soon from the East, and coming to London, and . . .”

Stretching over his lap, she grabbed her cup, and took another deep swallow. The whole fair disappeared, but for her husband. Gentle crinkles graced the sides of his eyes and his lips curled up at the corners. She reached her hand up to his beard, loving how it scratched her palm. Taking a deep breath, she said, “You see, I love you.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Really? How then is it that you expect me to beat you? That’s an odd sort of love, is it not?”

Damn. He didn’t believe her.

She shrugged and watched a juggler toss three balls in the air as he walked up to them. She sighed. “It can’t be helped. My father had no patience. He had a fierce right hand—fast and unexpected. He got a perverse joy when he could reach me before I ducked.”

Touching her nose, she said, “It used to be straighter.”

He tapped his own. “I used to be able to duck quite well myself. Maybe we’re two of a kind.”

“Mayhap.” The ragged juggler held his hand out for money and left to find another audience when Marcus handed him a coin.

Her husband pulled her upon his lap as if she were one of those wanton wenches. His thumbs caressed the underside of her breast, the way he loved to tease them. “Maybe that’s why it pains me so that you would think of me as a monster, like my father or your dead husband, or even your own father.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, plunged her hands into his hair, and enjoyed the anonymity of the fair. “Oh, no. I don’t think that at all. It’s purely a learned response. As if pulling one’s hand back from the fire or when you wake up from a dream and find your sword in your hand.”

“You’ve seen that, eh?”

“It was a little disturbing at first.” She let a moment pass while a group of men in jousting attire walked by. “Can I ask you a question? Who was that woman?”

“Ann, Ann, Ann.” He gave her a fierce hug around the waist. “You have a mind that never sways. She’s my mother’s sister’s daughter. My first cousin. I would not sleep with her. However, right now, I’d like to sink my sword deep into you.”

She gasped at her body’s response to his coarse speech. “So when you’re done with me, you won’t come back to live in London?”

“Done with you?”

“Well, yes. I remember fully that conversation. One of the options was bed me, have heirs, and kill me, which I don’t believe you will do. But please don’t leave me. I believe that fate might be even worse.”

He folded her closer into his body smelling of ale and wool; of steel and sweat. He kissed her ear and whispered, “I didn’t know you, then, wife, when I said those things. It was cruel. I’d never leave you. Not now.”

“I feel a little dizzy.”

“I think we’re done talking, m’lady. And drinking. We’ll walk until you feel better.” He rose, gave a shrill whistle, the owner returned, and Marcus threw down another coin.

A bit of panic set in as the booths spun in circles around her and the ground went topsy-turvy under her feet. “We’re ex-ex-spested at court to dine tonight.”

He steadied her. “Don’t worry. You’ll feel better by then.”

“I’ve no f-f-fine tunic, n-nor hat with points, nor veils or sh-slippers. Look at me. I’m a complete mess.”

The ever-watchful Bart jumped when Marcus shouted. “Go back and tell Thomas that I say he’s become an old gossip of a woman and that I’ll be back with my wife after we’ve spent some time shopping.”

Bart grinned, nodded, and jaunted away.

An unsteady step failed and he grabbed her firmly about the waist. The ground felt not a bit more solid under her feet. “How is it the strong drink affects you not?”

“I’m a bit larger than you. Come. We’ll find you something to wear. Drink this.” Laughing, he handed her a skin of water.

After viewing every booth, with every kind of ware under the sun, they entered their own tent and she plopped down on a thick fur rug. Marcus left for a moment and came back with a trunk. “Open it.”

Slowly, she lifted the lid of the battered wood box and old iron hinges squeaked. She gasped. On top, a large, clear, brilliantly polished crystal gem rested in the middle of a circle of emeralds. The stones hung on a strong gold chain. She lifted the necklace and it shimmered in the light. Inside the diamond, an angel danced. Nay, not a gem, a miracle.

“Oh, this can’t be for me.” She tried to give the necklace back, but his hand folded around hers, shutting it tight around the gem.

“But what if someone tries to take it from me? I could never live with that. Maybe we could sell it and buy—”

“Thou art a diamond in the midst of green meadows. I had this made especially for you. It wouldn’t dance for anyone else.” He went down on one knee and laid his sword in front of her. “With it comes my vow to stay with you and protect you and our children, and their children for a lifetime.”

She reached her arms across the sword, around her strange and wonderful husband’s neck, and kissed him. “I’m yours. You know you’ve stolen my heart.”

Mayhap he would never love her back, but he was most fond of her and now promised never to leave. That was more than she’d ever dared hope for.

“I know you wish to hear loving words from my lips, but I’m an honest and simple warrior. My body aches for you and I want you always by my side. Of love, I know naught.”

“Tis enough, husband,” she whispered and hugged him tighter to her breast.

“I also had this made for you.” He pulled her arms away from his neck and reached again into the trunk, moving aside the necklace. A long dress of the softest material moved across her hand as if alive. It was colored of the green of early spring.

“What is this?” She reverently let the material slip through her hands like sand.

“Silk from the East.”

“This is not like your battle silk. What’s it made of?”

“The thread from a worm.”

“Truly?”
Was he jesting?
His face looked sincere enough. “Sounds more like a troubadour’s tale.”

He reached lower into the trunk and pulled out a wool outer tunic, embroidered with his crest, made of their land’s own soft wool. “It’s not blue, but I favor the color of your eyes.”

“It is all so, so . . .”

“Tongue stuck in the honey?” He laughed.

“Aye.” She sat cross-legged and gazed in wonder at her fine wardrobe. Would she be able to compete with women like his cousin? “Oh, I’ll need slippers, and a hat.”

“Sally will be back shortly with all that. Don’t worry. Just rest until we’re called to court. Are you feeling any better?”

On her stomach, the thick fur warmed one side of her face. “Maybe. The tent is not running around in my head anymore. Are we really in trouble? Have you truly fallen out of Edward’s favor?”

He raked his fingers through his hair before lying down beside her. One hand caressed the globes of her bottom when he spoke. “I’ve put a bishop in jail, attacked my neighbor for stealing sheep, married a witch and murderess, and put a knife to the throat of the Earl of Thornhill, not to mention harbored an escaped Venetian glazier in my village. Oh, yes, also, I’m supposed to have a treasure trove of Roman coin which I’ve hidden from His Grace, and not paid just due taxes. What do you think?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds like we’re headed for the gallows.” Her heart sank.

He straddled her back, reached under her to cup her breasts, and his manhood poked at her behind. “Don’t fret. But you must promise not to question anything I do and follow my instructions to the letter, no matter what. Can you do that?”

Before she could nod in agreement, he groaned. “I need to have you.”

“Here?” She glanced around the tent. Just outside, people meandered and bartered with Thomas for their goods.

“I can’t stay in heat like a randy goat.” He jumped up, opened the tent flap, and gave Thomas nothing more than a brief nod, then returned to her side.

“How do you do that? Say nothing and mean something?”

He settled down next to her. “We’ve been together many years.”

“Is Thomas your servant?” Her husband’s beard scratched along her neck, then his soft, wet lips caressed the raw area. He blew onto the damp skin, chicken bumps went up and down her body, and the area between her legs creamed.

His hands went up and under her tunic, caressing. “He’s a free man who stays with me. I don’t wish to talk about him. I apologize, but this must be quick.”

He twisted her onto her back, straddled her, and his rod sprang to life next to her opening. She arched up to meet him, and he grew larger still under his clothing. He cursed something in Arabic and held her to the floor. “Wait.”

One of his hands lifted her and the other pulled her tunics above her waist. He grew impatient with her breast bindings and went to his boot knife to cut the cloth open. He licked and pinched until they hardened.

She moaned and his hand went to her mouth to quiet her. She evilly sucked at one of his fingers and played it with her tongue, then
he
was the one who moaned.