Emerald Knight

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Ginevra didn’t leave her brother’s side in the long sennights it took for him to heal. He had been stuck in the side. It was an ugly festering wound that stretched across his ribs and had to be constantly drained of infection. She slept by him in a hard chair during the night, devotedly changing the cool cloths on his head. By day she would talk to him and tend his bandaged side. At first he didn’t speak, only mumbled in feverish rants. But, slowly, his speech came back to him and his eyes cleared of the fever.

  “Ho, Gin,” Robert mumbled weakly, drawing her suddenly from deep thought.

  Instantly, she was at his side. A fireplace dimly lighted the chamber. Tapestries lined the walls of stone as fur rugs hugged the hard floor. Sitting next to him on the poster bed, she pulled the skirt of her tunic gown out of her way. Lovingly, she brushed back a lock of his hair. A smile lined her mouth as she looked at him.

  “How you have grown in the last five years, little Gin,” he chuckled softly. He winced at the pain the movement caused him. As his breathing settled, his eyes softened toward her as if they had only been parted a day. Gently, he added, “And your hair. I have envisioned it purple all these years. The king still speaks fondly of it to the men. Yea, I envisioned you with purple hair and running about barefoot in a pair of my old breeches.”

  “The purple lasted nigh a year. Mother made me lie in the sun to bleach it, and then finally she cut it.” She turned to show him that it was once again blonde, though it had darkened from the white blonde of early childhood. Her cheeks had also thinned to show more definition of face. Although she was still young, she was growing to be a fine woman. Robert nodded in approval. She continued in a confident whisper, “And as to the gowns, I suppose I had to grow up sometime. Besides, you were no longer here to steal breeches from.”

  Robert laughed lightly.

  “And, Wolfram? Does he still sport the green?” she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “Nay, he too cut off his locks nigh four years past,” Robert answered, before inquiring curiously, “How did you manage it? He never did tell me.”

  “I sneaked into his chamber the morn of the king’s visit and put dye into his hair wash right afore his bath.” Ginevra giggled as if it was yesterday. They had made quite an odd pair that night. “I can still see mother’s face when he knocked the veil from my head.”

  Robert closed his eyes with a smile. Taking deep breaths, as a wave of pain assaulted his senses, he lay completely still. Ginevra waited for him to recover before continuing.

  “So, what did you bring me from your travels? You realize it has been almost six months since I have heard from you. I was beginning to feel neglected,” she pretended to pout, but couldn’t convince the smile to leave her eyes. “I thought you forgot about me.”

  “Forget little Gin?” he shot back in feigned horror. Robert’s voice was weak and drew out in pants. Ginevra didn’t care. She waited for him patiently. “Go get my satchel. I do have something to give you.”

  “What is it?” She squirmed in excitement.

  “Go get it and you will see,” he whispered with a smile, as he closed his eyes to the pain that his laughter caused him. Dutifully, Ginevra obeyed. Going to his trunk, she lifted his satchel and carried it to him.

  Digging inside the leather pouch, he pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment. Handing it to her, he said, “This is from Wolfe. He wanted to keep his promise to write at least once a year.”

  “Keep his promise? He was supposed to be here a year ago for our wedding,” Ginevra returned quietly. She fingered the wrinkled parchment lightly as she pouted. Indeed, Wolfe had managed to write her once a year like he had said he’d do all those years ago. But the letters were always the same. I am here. I am fighting for Henry. Can’t make it back. Take care, Wolfe. And there were never any tender sentiments. A bit bitterly, she grumbled, “Mother had a gown sewn. Already I have outgrown it.”

  “You can’t blame him, Gin. I thought he wrote to explain.” Guiltily, he didn’t meet his sister’s eyes. He knew that Wolfe was not ready for marriage, though he had been given his whole life to prepare for it. Robert knew his friend also still thought of his little sister as just that, a little sister to his good friend. He thought of the slew of mistresses Wolfe had taken over the years. Robert knew Wolfe to be a man of many insatiably carnal appetites and he wasn’t sure he wanted him trying them with his little, innocent sister. Clearing his throat, he said, “I didn’t think you would be so ready for marriage. There was a time that you cursed the decision.”

  “I’m not really. It’s just that, it’s embarrassing to be kept waiting. I’m nearly fourteen years already, practically an old maid. And mother says I can’t leave to go anywhere until I’m married. Then I’ll be able to leave Southaven. You don’t know what it’s like to be trapped in the same place always!” Ginevra pushed her lips into a sullen pout. “At least as a man you get to travel. I’m stuck here. My biggest adventure is when father sneaks me out of the keep and lets me ride through the forest at night with him. Mother would die if she found out.”

  Robert smiled kindly, but hid his chuckle. Even in light of his wounds, he wouldn’t trade places with his sister. He couldn’t blame her for her discontentment either. She had always been a bit of a free spirit. Lightly, he answered, “Wolfe has been busy. Don’t think harshly on him. He did save my life.”

  She felt a tremble in her limbs. Time faded much of what she remembered of Wolfe’s face. She knew that five years was a long time and would undoubtedly change a man. But there had been stories of him--fascinating tales of bravery and valor. Feeling a little sick to her stomach, she asked weakly, “Was he hurt?”

  “Nay, not bad, mostly they were superficial cuts. Though he blames himself for Thomas,” Robert admitted. “He was assisting me when Thomas fell.”

  “And the men who hurt you?” Ginevra asked in a hush, as she studied the missive. She set it aside, pretending not to be interested in its contents.

  Robert watched her keep an eye on the parchment from the corner of her down-turned lashes. He wasn’t too sick to see the light blush that fanned his sister’s young features. Wondering at it, he murmured darkly, “They are dead. Those who weren’t slain in battle, Wolfe went back and took care of. So you have no need to worry. They won’t threaten us again.”

  In fact, Wolfe had delivered his brother’s body and Robert to the safety of the fortress before heading out alone after the raiders. When he returned nearly a day and a half later, his armor and hair had been drenched in drying blood. Without a word, he delivered the dark swordsman’s head to his father. The earl blessed his son with his silent approval. The countess spit on the severed head and retreated to her chamber, where she remained in mourning for a sennight. As to the rest of the raiders, they lay dead. Their horses were brought back with Wolfe and put into the stables with the rest of the stock.

  Robert refused to tell his sister the whole tale. She wouldn’t understand the realities of battle and honor. To women, honor and valor were concepts of such noble undertakings. They didn’t know that such concepts were won on the blood of another. To Robert’s thinking, they didn’t need to.

  “What of my gift?” she inquired, wondering about the frown that marred his face.

  “Oh,” Robert sighed. Digging in his satchel, he pulled out a gift wrapped in silky material.

  Ginevra unrolled the silk to find a beautiful necklace of rare pearls. Gasping, she turned to look at her brother in awe. Breathless, she whispered, “Thank you.”

  “They’re not really jewels and definitely not the sword you requested, but when I saw them I thought of you.” Robert sighed, as he lifted his hand to touch her rosy cheek. “It’ll be something to wear on your wedding day.”

  Ginevra nodded as she hung the strand proudly about her neck. Robert smiled his approval, only to frown when she muttered, “Whenever that will be.”

  “Leave me be for a bit, Gin.” He motioned gently to the door. He hid his grief by closin
g his eyes. To him, the loss of Thomas was still new. He’d grown up around the Whetshire boys and thought of them as family. “You’ve been locked away in here with me for too many days. Go get some air.”

  Ginevra touched the string of pearls about her neck and picked up the missive. She tucked it into the sleeve of her gown. Then, leaning to kiss Robert on the forehead, she whispered, “All right, Rob. I won’t be gone too long. When I return, I’ll bring you a bowl of stew and a hot apple tart, stolen fresh from cook’s fire.”

  Ginevra walked to the door. Stopping by the oak barrier, she said into the oak wood, “It’s glad I am that you are home, Robert.”

  “Yea, Gin. It’s glad I am to be here,” Robert mumbled before falling back asleep.

  As soon as she left her brother in his chamber, Ginevra rushed through the halls of the castle to the shaded platform by the battlements. Taking a deep breath of morning air as it whistled under the covering, she pulled the letter from her sleeve. She studied the familiar seal emblazoned with a phoenix before cracking it open.

  Already, she could see that more words were written than ever before. Her heart raced in excitement. Moving to the light, she held the paper tight in both hands to keep it from blowing away. Inhaling, she poured over the tight, fine script of her intended.

  Ginevra,

  I am sorry this comes with such tragic news. I pray that Robert will recover quickly and soon be able to join us. As you might have heard, Thomas is lost to us. This changes everything. My father has named me the heir of Whetshire and his title. His expectations for you are higher now, as are mine. Do not disappoint us. You will be a countess, I expect you to carry yourself as such.

  Wolfram

  “He writes to me as if I am a child in need of a scolding,” Ginevra said as she finished his cold missive. She’d thought, even hoped, that there would be some tender sentiment or thought now that she was of age for such attentions. Crumpling up the letter, she frowned. “He treats me like an infant.”

  Ignoring her disappointment with the kindling of her anger, she ran full tilt to her bedchamber. Once there, she rifled through her trunk until she found a lock of her purple hair. She didn’t know why she kept it, only that it had become a humorous memory.

  Without stopping to think of her actions, she went to her writing table. Jotting a quick note on the inside of the parchment, she smiled as she signed her name with a stroke of bold flourish. She poured sand over the sheepskin to dry the ink. Then, folding the hair up inside her missive, she smiled mischievously. She sealed it quickly before running to find a courier to deliver her message to her intended.

  Wolfe fingered the pink lock of hair grimly before turning his eyes to the parchment. Sitting up on his bed, he turned it to the fire to better read the print. Written in a small, feminine hand full of loops and swirls read,

  Lord Wolfram,

  Robert recovers nicely though it may be some time afore he is well enough to join you. I have included a locket of my hair to keep you safe in your journeys. Unfortunately, since you pushed me into the dye, my hair hasn’t grown back the same and in some places not at all. On a different matter, I received your missive and will do my best to act a lady for you. I have ordered that gowns be sewn for me instead of breeches. Whereas mother has said there is naught to be done for my missing front tooth (a horse kicked me in the chin last winter and knocked me quite senseless) or the complexion of my skin, I don’t believe her. Regardless of what you may have heard in respect to it, I will endeavor to find a cure. I hope to make you proud.

  Yours,

  Ginevra

  Wolfe shuddered in horror and almost dropped the missive on the floor. Turning to the awaiting courier, he looked at the man in stunned abhorrence.

  “M’lord.” The servant bowed gallantly. He wore the crest of Southaven boldly on his chest. Wolfe stared at it, unable to look the man in the eye. Nausea curled in the young nobleman’s throat. “Will there be a reply?”

  Wolfe shook his head in denial, unable to speak as he lifted a hand in brusque dismissal. Rubbing the back of his stiff neck, his features curled into a repulsed scowl. When the courier left, Wolfe threw the coverlet off his naked body. Stalking over to the fireplace, he threw the offending parchment into the flames. He watched it ignite and turn black before disappearing altogether. The token of braided pink hair he unwillingly slipped onto the stone mantel.

  He heard Sarra move behind him, as the chamber door closed. She’d been hiding under the furs. Turning, he smiled at her lush, naked body awaiting his attentions. A half-smile curled the woman’s mouth. Her brownish-red hair glowed in the firelight and the firelight glowed from her almond-shaped brown eyes.

  Growling, Wolfe leapt onto the bed. Sarra giggled, as he came over her, her hands instantly finding the heated pleasure of his flesh. Wolfe fell into her willing body, nuzzling her neck with his rough kisses, trying to forget the frightening image of what he was to be married to.

  Chapter Three

  Whetshire Fortress, 1186 A.D.

  Ginevra 15 years of age, Wolfe 23 years of age

  The chilling winds of fall whipped around the traveling party as they slowly made their way up the rocky incline to the rectangular shaped tower keep of Whetshire. Several carts, loaded full of womanly possessions, lumbered in slow progression behind the mounted travelers. The front gate to the castle was barred closed, its iron posts denying entry to those not welcome. Enclosed in its own stone archway, the main gate led to a second inner gate that was also barred.

  In awe of the impressive fortress, Ginevra pulled the soft hood edged with the fur of a white wolf from her head, exposing her covered hair. A thick veil of white fleece hid her tightly bound locks from view, as was the fashion her mother insisted upon. Over her neck and ears was fitted a tightly placed barbette that wound underneath her chin, so only the oval shape of her face was allowed to show. A flimsier short veil fluttered on her head but didn’t shake loose as Ginevra looked about.

  She lifted her eyes to the imposing castle that was to be her new home. Inside, she trembled. Patting Purch on the neck to calm him, she quickly withdrew her gloved hand into the warmth of her cloak. She tightened her grip on the reins as she led him up the incline. In front of her was her father. She could barely make out his form, as he too was covered. Beside him, a few armored men of his manor rode as protection. And behind her on a rickety cart sat her mother, also guarded.

  Lady Jayne refused to ride a horse, telling her daughter that it was undignified for ladies to ride with something as coarse as an animal betwixt their legs--even if her legs were off to the side. Whenever the baroness gave such instruction, Ginevra nodded politely and dutifully agreed. But, inside, she figured it was because her mother was afraid of horses that she didn’t ride, just like the noblewoman was frightened by everything else.

  Grabbing the embroidered edges of her long, flowing cloak she tugged them closer together. The wind thrashed the fastening cord over her shoulder, loosening it from the decorative brooch. She hated to admit it, but the chills that racked her body were not due to the cold.

  Ginevra was on her way to her wedding and to again see Wolfe. It had been seven long years since he turned her purple. She wondered if he would be pleased with the changes she made for him.

  Since receiving his missive two years past, he hadn’t written to her again. As she did often, she cursed her rash action in dispatching the joke she played in return. She knew surely Robert would have set him straight. They had been at tournament together ever since Robert recovered from his wounds. Proudly, she thought of how they both had made names for themselves across Briton, France and Germany--just as they’d sworn to do as children.

  Ginevra trembled as the gates creaked open. The sound was ominous in the afternoon air. Whetshire was quiet, being that there was no activity inside the empty courtyard. She couldn’t help but notice that the keep was well maintained, clean and impressively secure from attackers.

  Underneath her cloak,
she pulled frantically at her gloves, letting the reins fall to her lap as Purch followed her father. Closing her eyes briefly, she said a quick prayer that Wolfe would be pleased with her. Since his instructions, which she had taken to heart and read a million times, she endeavored to learn all she could to make him proud. She even submitted to the torturous lessons of her mother. Whereas she still owned one pair of breeches that she would use at night when she rode Purch with her gently understanding father, she’d not donned a pair in public notice since.

  She’d eaten less, so that her figure would be more pleasingly slender. Ginevra even learned how to sew. She didn’t care much for the task, but found she had an adequate enough hand at it.

  Purch slowed his step even more as he trotted under the open gateway. Looking up, Ginevra felt a shiver rack the length of her body. Strong walls that were about twelve feet in thickness surrounded the courtyard. Slender buttresses held up the walls all around and grew above the corners to form turrets. The turrets had spiral staircases inside to reach the various leveled floors, roof and battlements. She could see small entryways leading inside varied parts of the wall and knew that they no doubt led to guardrooms, storage and weapons chambers, privies, servants’ bedchambers, and even a small kitchen.