The Christmas Knight (40 page)

“Those scars you disdain so saved my life,” Henry interrupted. Both Queen Eleanor and Bronwyn’s eyes popped open wide in surprise. “I was but nine years old when I came to Bristol for further education. A fire broke out on the second floor of the abbey and Ranulf came to make sure I got out. As we rushed to escape, a beam started to crack and as a young boy I panicked. Ranulf pushed me into safety, but a beam supporting the ceiling split, swinging down and striking him. He should have died.
I
should have died, but by the grace of God, we did not. Ranulf recovered, and despite an injury that would have broken most men, he trained and became one of my most effective commanders, a hell of an archer, and without question, one of my most loyal nobles.”

The king paused to see how the baron was digesting this newfound information. Bronwyn was shocked and stood there with her mouth slightly open, staring at her husband. From the corner of her eye, she could see the queen and the king’s advisors were just as astonished by the admission, their eyes shifting from Henry to Ranulf and back again. Even the crowd was hushed with awe. Only Craven scowled, his hatred consuming him.

King Henry’s jaw clenched with anger. “Baron Craven, I strip you of your title, lands, and wealth. Your castle is to be razed, if Ranulf hasn’t done it already. Your survival is up to you, but you will have no power over others to enact my laws and ensure my will with my people. Be gone.”

Sheer fright swept through Craven’s features. “But…but…”

“Another word and I shall have you drawn and quartered for what you did. I am not one to show mercy often.”

Stumbling backward, Craven opened and closed his mouth several more times before turning and quickly exiting, with a final unintelligible shout.

Grimacing, the king then returned his attention to Ranulf. “Ranulf, my debt to you is now paid. As far as your actions of late, I want it to be known that you acted as I would have wanted and would have supported
with the exception
of starting a battle when you should have fought Craven in single-man combat. And yet, as your wife so eloquently pointed out, I also cannot deny that peace in the north is now more likely,” Henry said with a sigh, glimpsing the crumbs of the bean cake in someone’s hands. “And though I do not approve of your appropriation of the Bean King tradition”—he paused to find and issue a pointed glare at his favorite baker—“your scheme to reveal Baron Craven’s true character worked. But let it be known that the next time any man raises arms without proof of the reason or my approval
will answer to me
.”

King Henry moved to sit back down, but it was clear he was not done speaking. “No man or noble is to take the law in his own hands. Not even you, Ranulf, even though I know you to be fair and impartial. But as you have demonstrated—there are circumstances—or people,” he said, gesturing to Bronwyn, “that can interfere with one’s ability to rule without emotion.
Only this royal court
will decide cases involving the ownership of freehold property, which this certainly was about. The stability and the securing of property rights will help end the strife of the English people. It is important for everyone—especially nobles—to resort to a court of law rather than violence, trial by ordeal, or oftentimes, incorrect noble-based ruling.”

Henry leaned back against his chair and realized everyone in the room had been listening to him think his thoughts aloud. With a wave of his arm, he called out, “Resume the festivities!”

Eleanor reached over and stroked his forearm.

“Was I fair?” Henry whispered.

She nodded. “Very. Besides, I think our Ranulf gave you the justification for some of the changes you have been considering. Perhaps a court of law is needed.”

“He did. And besides it was all highly entertaining. I had to bite my tongue when Craven started all that nonsense about Ranulf trying to kill him with an arrow.”

“So you knew from the beginning…” Eleanor murmured in partial disbelief and admiration.

“That Ranulf was up to something? The man would never let anyone—even me—insult his honor without response. It was hard to wait until the oaf finished everything Ranulf needed him to say…and come to think of it…it was very convenient for Lady Bronwyn to be in disguise. How is it that you did not inform me earlier of what was to happen?”

“I did not know,” Eleanor rejoined quickly. “I met with his wife, who never owned to her true identity…but I liked her and suspected she would enjoy the night much better as one of my ladies-in-waiting. It is a great honor, you know.”

“And the idea of coming in masquerade?”

“Well, it has been dull lately.”

“And you never knew who she was. Never thought to tell me you suspected Lady Bronwyn was not whom she professed to be.”

“I only knew for sure that I liked her and that she was Laon’s daughter. And as for the masquerade, I did it for you, my king.”

“Me?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Eleanor purred against his ear. “I know how very much you like to be entertained.”

“And that it was. Quite diverting. Never thought to see the day where Ranulf would be at ease in a crowd—or so demonstrative,” Henry said, pointing at the joined couple.

“He’s in love, my king. Just like I am. Perhaps someday I’ll do something about your men and their rough-mannered ways. Maybe I will convene my own court—the court of love.”

“I think that babe in your womb has made you soft in the head,” Henry teased.

“Maybe,” Eleanor sighed as she sat back in her chair with a smile that spoke of a mind whirling with ideas.

As soon as Ranulf reached the rear of the Hall, he swung Bronwyn behind the screened passage and closed his mouth roughly over hers, searing her lips to his. Ignoring the servants around them busily preparing food and drink, Bronwyn wrapped her arms around his neck and melted, leaning into him, kissing him back with growing eagerness.

He felt a shudder pass through her and reluctantly eased himself away before his control was completely shattered by her soft ragged moans. Another shout could be heard in the Hall as the crowd erupted again with cheers. Ranulf smiled against Bronwyn’s lips and then placed a soft peck on the tip of her nose.

“Who would have thought you had so many supporters?” she whispered.

“Not mine, my love. Yours. I had not a one till you started speaking and now I am the envy of every man present.”

Bronwyn laughed and the sound of her sheer joy lit him up as nothing could. A frisson of longing rippled through him and an undeniable need to taste her once more took over. Tipping her chin up with a single fingertip, he kissed her again, slower this time, letting his hand fall to the small of her back, molding her to him. He inhaled and her female scent filled his senses, drugging him until his will was no longer his own.

When their mouths eventually parted, Bronwyn placed her cheek on his chest and sighed with absolute contentment. “If you are to remain the envy of all present, we cannot remain hidden all night.”

“You’re right. Let’s leave,” he answered thickly.

Bronwyn laughed again and playfully swatted his chest, taking a step backward. “You, my lord, are going out in that throng and will enjoy yourself immensely. I do not think there is a woman in the room who would deny being your partner this eve.”

“For you, I will go out, but only if you remain by my side.”

Bronwyn willingly agreed and soon found herself whisked out into the crowd. Together, they danced, drank, and enjoyed the generosity of their king. Never had a Twelfth Night been more festive or enjoyable.

“Let’s go.”

Ranulf’s husky breath tickled Bronwyn’s ear. Desire surged through her and the room was suddenly confining. She wanted nothing more than to be at the inn and in his arms. “Let me find Lily.”

At once, Ranulf began to pull her through the crowd, anticipation hastening his every step. After several deft moves, Bronwyn found her sister in front of her. “Lily,” she started, breathing rapidly, “we would like to leave. Can you get your things?”

Licking her lips, Lily glanced back at one woman elaborately dressed in golds and greens who nodded enthusiastically. “I think I might remain here. The festivities are not close to over and Lady Tarolind said that I could stay at the palace with her.”

Bronwyn studied Lily for a second, sensing her sister’s unease. “Are you sure you really want to?”

Leaning in so that only Bronwyn could hear, Lily whispered, “I am quite divided. Some of the ladies are friendly while others are rather silly and childish. But…” She paused to wring her hands.

Understanding dawned on Bronwyn. “But it might be your only chance to stay in the palace.”

Relief flooded Lily’s gray eyes. “Exactly! Forever I will be able to say that I was a guest of the court! That I slept in the palace!”

Bronwyn fought back a chuckle. Lily was growing up. She was starting to recognize the shallow traits in others, but she had yet to realize that she still possessed them herself. Bronwyn leaned in and gave Lily a quick peck on the cheek. “Be ready to leave early on the morrow.”

A grin spread across Lily’s face. “Thank you! I will be, I promise. One night is all I need, and though you might not believe me, I am ready to go home.”

Bronwyn leaned back into Ranulf and watched her sister disappear into the crowd as the lure of court’s trappings once again tugged at Lily’s vain heart.

Ranulf bent his head and slyly began to nibble on Bronwyn’s ear. “That leaves you and me and I know of a warm little inn where we can celebrate Twelfth Night.”

“In a fun way?” she asked mischievously.

“In a most delectable and fun way,” Ranulf purred against her neck.

Bronwyn spun around and with a twinkle in her eye gestured toward the exit. “Then let us not tarry, my lord.”

Ranulf needed no further encouragement. He led them out of the palace grounds and decided that it would take less time to walk the few blocks to the inn than to find the stable boy in the mayhem and get a horse. People were everywhere, but most were drunk, unaware or uncaring of them. Ranulf curled his arm protectively around her and they walked side by side thinking only of each other and the inviting bed only minutes away. A battle could have erupted in the streets and he would have been oblivious. His life was perfect.

Then without warning, a sharp, excruciating pain ricocheted through his skull. Someone had clubbed him.

Years of training and fighting experience took over. Instinctively, he swung around, not using his sight but his senses, and pummeled whoever had hit him, uncaring if it was an accident or intentional. His fist collided with what felt to be a jaw.

The man fell forward, causing Ranulf to misstep and lose his balance. Ranulf instinctively clenched his grip on Bronwyn’s arm and she cried out, reaching for him but unable to break his fall. His right knee hit the ground hard and he heard himself grunt. The attack was no accident.

Pushing himself back up to his feet, he reached out for Bronwyn, finding her hand. Her white-knuckle grip told him that it was far from over. Cursing his limited vision, he examined his surroundings as best he could. A partial moon lit up the main street, but they were next to one of the larger buildings casting dark shadows. Just behind them was a small alley. Ranulf looked back and saw three tall dark figures emerge. They were moving toward them and they were not merrymakers.

“Run,” Ranulf ordered. “The inn is just around that corner. Find my men.”

Bronwyn immediately left Ranulf and darted for help, but she had not gone forty feet when a familiar silhouette appeared. Luc Craven’s tall hard form was unmistakable. His smile was mocking and his ice blue eyes pierced the darkness, promising retribution. His lips twisted into a cynical smile. “Lady Bronwyn.”

Bronwyn slipped her hand into the hidden slit in the front of her gown and gripped the handle of her dagger. That afternoon she had almost yielded to the seamstress’s complaints and not added the small pocket. But without the familiar weight at her left side, the gown had felt awkward, despite its beauty. So she had held firm and said that if they were going to make alterations, one of them was to be a small sleeve for her dagger.

“Choose,” Luc hissed. “Life or its ugly alternative.”

“I choose death,” Bronwyn said, clutching the dagger. She slipped it out and spun it in her hand until her thumb hit its mark. The streets that once seemed crowded were now devoid of life. Time stopped and an eternity passed as she waited for him to move out of the shadows and into the moonlight. Finally, he did and the dagger left her fingertips heading for its mark.

Bronwyn watched as the baron’s form went rigid. A second later it crumpled on the ground. She held her breath. It was too dark to know if her aim had been true or if Luc was feigning so that she would come near.

Arms enclosed her, bringing life back into her numb limbs. She threw her elbow back as hard as she could but her assailant must have been ready. Before the sharp bone made contact, it was captured in a vise grip.

“It’s me, love. It’s me.”

At the sound of Ranulf’s soft reassuring voice, she collapsed in his arms. “What about the others?” she asked, even though deep down she knew the answer. Ranulf wouldn’t be at her side if they were still in danger.

“Dead or fleeing.”

Slowly her shakes diminished and Ranulf let her go to examine the dark unmoving form.

“Is Luc dead?”

“Yes,” Ranulf replied. “Where did you aim?”

Bronwyn swallowed, remembering. “His neck. I didn’t know if he would be wearing mail under his tunic.”

“Then your aim was true,” Ranulf said, pulling back the top of the baron’s garment. “And he
was
wearing mail.”

Bronwyn started shaking again.

Ranulf pushed himself up, grimacing as he leaned against his hurt knee. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Bronwyn blinked. The astonishment in his voice was enough to rally her senses. “I told you I knew how to protect myself, and that I could and would use my knife.”

Ranulf pulled her into his arms, hoping never again to feel the fear of losing her. “Aye, love, you did.”