Emerald Knight

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Ginevra smiled in wonder, as Wolfe led her under the stars, looking about in amazement. The night sky was filled with the tiny specks of light that stretched out over the distance. Torches were set up to form a walkway from the tents to the bonfire so that one could easily find their way in the darkened night.

  “Is this what you have been doing these past years?”

  Was it just him or did she sound jealous? He could understand. She’d been trapped inside a castle, sewing and directing servants. But, such was a woman’s life. Wolfe smiled down at her. Her hair was outlined with the orange of fire and her pretty, perfect features looked as if he were the only one in the world.

  “Nay, nothing so glamorous I’m afraid. Mostly we have been to battle with the French over English territory. And, when at tournament, we dine alone or in a small castle hall. Never under the beauty of the starry night,” he whispered. Suddenly, Wolfe thought of all the other women he had been within the last three years. Forcing the guilt out of his chest, he led her forward to the dining tables that were beginning to fill with people. As he walked, he nodded his head at several knights that paid them notice. He wasn’t unaware of their jealous stares, as he led his beautiful wife past many of the unmarried and married men alike.

  Ginevra had changed into a silken tunic gown of light blue. A cream-colored chemise showed from underneath the tunic, peeking through at the sides underneath her arms and at the wrist where they hugged her tightly in small wrinkles. Her hands were left bare. Her fingers trembled as they lay on his arm. A golden-chained belt wove around her narrow waist, pleasingly drawing the eye to her slender hips. Her hair was pulled up at the sides to fall in glorious waves of gold down her back to touch the enticing curve of her bottom. Whereas many noblewomen wore headdresses and veils, she left her tresses plain with only a circlet of gold intertwined within the locks.

  But Wolfe knew it was more than the way she looked that drew the men’s attention. It was the innocent impish smile on her face and the unaffected light in her emerald eyes. She seemed such a strong woman, independent, but at the same time she made you want to protect her, and she seemed completely unaware of the stares she received.

  Not like the ladies that normally follow the tournaments. They seek the attention with their forced charm and fake intellect, Wolfe thought in disgust. Unconsciously, he drew his wife closer to him.

  The noblewomen of court didn’t care if they had husbands. They flirted and hopped from bedchamber to tent and back again with nary a backward glance. Although Wolfe found carnal pleasure numerous times with such women, the thought suddenly paled in comparison to the woman his bride had become. Gone was the shivering child that had been sent to his chamber. Drunkenly, he had wanted her then, but knew he would forever regret such an action. The war raged violently within him until he knew it best to stay away from her.

  Ginevra smiled joyously up at him. Wolfe had bathed and taken off his armor. He wore a long overtunic of dark blue that fell to his ankles. His garments unintentionally blended well with her gown. The tunic was edged with gold at the slanted neckline, wrists and hem. The cream-colored undertunic of linen peeked out from under his shirt and through the slit that parted in front of his legs.

  Ginevra’s lashes dipped over her sultry gaze, as she turned to watch a musician with a lute. Leaning toward Wolfe, she admitted shyly, “I always wanted to be a musician, but I have no talent for it.”

  “I remember,” he answered enthralled by her nearness. “You told me that you wouldn’t take the children I brought home for you because you were going to travel the world with minstrels.”

  Surprised, Ginevra blushed and couldn’t look at him. With a nervous laugh, she shook her head. “What a fool you must have thought me. I also wanted to be your squire and go to war with you.”

  “Tell me,” he asked lightly as he led her past another table toward the center. Wolfe was thoroughly captivated. “...for I have often wondered. Do you still wear breeches or did your mother succeed in turning you into a lady? I see that you have no veil yet again.”

  Ginevra’s face drew blank as she glanced up at him. Abruptly, she stopped with a frown edging her composed features. “I hate veils and headdresses.”

  “Yea, I remember as much. The night I saved your life.”

  “I wasn’t going to jump, m’lord! I only almost fell because of your meddling. I maintain that you tried to push me that night,” she said, not realizing he teased her. “And if you must insist on knowing, yea, I do own a pair of breeches and I wear them often. In fact, I stole them from your old trunk that your mother gave me. A few alterations and they fit perfectly.”

  Wolfe didn’t see the stares they received or the narrow-minded points of jealous ladies. He stood with his beautiful wife, outlined by bonfire. Smiling at her defiant expression, he whispered, “I don’t care what you wear, Ginevra, so long as it’s a smile when you look at me.”

  As if suddenly realizing that he was goading her, she rolled her eyes at his charming grin and sighed. Not falling for his sweet words, she turned away from him. She began to walk, but before she could step her foot came down on a toe and she had to stumble back to keep from bumping into a chest.

  “Forgive me, m’lord.”

  “Well done!” the man yelled drawing the attention to the center of the tables. He threw back his head and laughed heartily. Placing his hands on his hips, he leaned forward to whisper, “Spectacular performance, Lord Wolfram. Shall you be giving another on the morrow?”

  Wolfe watched his wife. Ginevra’s eyes focused first on the man’s face. His easy smile shone and his brown eyes squinted with merriment, and then her eyes traveled to the top of his brown hair. There, atop his head, sat a royal crown. Instantly, she glanced down to his tunic. There was the crest of the king.

  “King Richard,” she gasped, pulling her arm away from Wolfe to curtsy. The king smiled as Wolfe also belatedly bowed.

  “Wolfe, won’t you introduce me to the Sparkling Emerald I’ve been hearing so much about this eve?” The king motioned for Ginevra to stand. “I say she has been causing quite a commotion amongst the men.”

  “Emerald?” Ginevra looked at Wolfe in question. He grimaced. The king chuckled in self-amusement.

  “Majesty,” Wolfe said stiffly, “this is my wife, Lady Ginevra of Whetshire.”

  “Lady Ginevra,” the king repeated thoughtfully. Easily, he took Ginevra’s hand and placed it on his arm. Suddenly, a light dawned on his face and he laughed. “I remember my father telling an endearing tale of a purple girl-child and her green-haired escort.”

  Ginevra paled and looked at Wolfe for help. Her hand reached doubtfully for him only to sway in the air and fall back at her side.

  Obligingly, Wolfe said, “Yea. That was my wife. She fell into a dye bath when we were young. It stained her golden locks to a purplish hue.”

  Ginevra gasped and covered her mouth. Turning her appalled expression to the king, she appealed for his understanding. “That isn’t what happened, majesty. He pushed me into the dye bath.”

  Wolfe eyed her grimly. “You fell into the dye bath. If you wouldn’t have charged me, you wouldn’t have tripped.”

  “What? A lady doesn’t charge, m’lord,” Ginevra sputtered in growing horror.

  The king watched in utter delight, instantly taken with the woman on his arm. With a carefully placed smirk, he inquired, “And the green hair, Lord Wolfe? How did that come about?”

  “Someone,” Wolfe emphasized with a pointed look to his wife, “put green cloth dye in my hair cleanser.”

  “I have no idea who could have done it,” Ginevra said with a straight face. She smiled angelically. Suddenly, she shook her head as Wolfe mused at the distant memory. Waving her hand in dismissal, she said flippantly, “Well you still started it, m’lord.”

  Wolfe laughed, not bothering to deny her claim.

  “Honestly,” she rolled her eyes, pretending to be exasperated. “Who would you believe? A genteel girl of
only eight years or a sixteen-year-old boy about to become a knight and bent on tormenting me?”

  “There’s no contest m’lady, for I have known your husband well this last year. I believe he dunked you in the dye bath and held you under,” the king offered his summation gallantly.

  Ginevra glanced at Wolfe like a victorious child. All of a sudden, he grew uncomfortable. Already he could see the king’s manly appreciation. He knew how men in power easily swayed women to their beds. Had he not wielded such persuasive powers himself? Coming forward, he swooped up Ginevra’s hand and placed it on his own arm. Without missing a beat, she dropped her hand politely from the king.

  “Don’t believe her,” Wolfe said with a possessive edge to his words. “She wasn’t as innocent as she claims.”

  The king hid his disappointment as the Sparkling Emerald was taken from his grasp. A veil dropped over his eyes and he nodded.

  “Well, pleasure as this is, I have other guests I must attend.” The king bowed. His eyes sparkled as his lips skimmed over her fingers. Ginevra blushed at the attention, noticing the stares she received on the arm of a king.

  Wolfe stiffened and nodded before drawing her quickly away.

  Ginevra frowned at his hasty departure, but said nothing as he led her toward the dining table far away from the king’s seat. Pulling her past the bonfire, he kept his grip tightly on her hand, lest she thought of slipping away. She seemed content to be led about on his arm.

  “I forget sometimes how unlike strangers we are,” she began in a whimsical voice, “and yet--”

  “Lord Wolfe!” came a womanly cry, shrill in its effeminate sulk. Ginevra tensed. “You naughty boy, where have you been hiding? I looked for you everywhere after your last bout. Marvelously done, I might add. I was wondering if you’d like to be my champion. Strangely enough, I noticed that you wore no token on your armor, and well I arrived too late to pass my token to another.”

  Wolfe stiffened. His eyes closed briefly, willing the sound away. Ginevra stopped and turned thoughtfully to him. Holding still, she forced Wolfe to stop and face his summoner. She said nothing as the woman came up to them.

  Ginevra turned to a woman dressed all in ghastly overdone scarlet. Her cheeks were painted with a sort of cream that made them an unnatural pink and her eyes were smudged with black kohl.

  The woman looked expectantly at Ginevra. Her eyes narrowed a bit in displeasure. Then, an unexpected smile came across the painted woman’s features. Her words were a rush, as she babbled, “You must be Lady Helena. Your brother has told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you. If you like, you can sit with me on the morrow. I have a seat just behind the king. My father, you know, is an important man of the king’s and he’s looking for a bride. Would it not be great if we could become sisters? I mean, we don’t know each other, but I know your brother extremely well.”

  Ginevra blinked rapidly at the excessive energy the blundering woman put off. Under what had to be a sheer force of will, her smile stayed intact. Lightly, she responded, “I’m sorry, m’lady. But I’m not Lord Wolfe’s sister. Helena is currently at my family home of Southaven. She is to be married to my brother, Lord Robert.”

  “Ginevra, this is Lady Helewysa of Beckenridge,” Wolfe put in wearily. He realized he was late with the introduction. Neither lady deemed to notice. He saw his wife’s annoyed expression, though she kept her face pleasant. “Lady Helewysa, this is my wife, Lady Ginevra.”

  Helewysa balked openly. She looked at Wolfe from a sea of outrage. Then, breathing heavily, she said, “I didn’t know you’d gotten married.”

  “It was quite some years ago,” Ginevra put in. Her smile stayed royally intact, but her gaze was cold. “You know how it is when you’re betrothed since birth. It’s almost like you are destined to be together from the beginning that, when the wedding comes, there’s no big fuss to be made about it.”

  Wolfe likened Helewysa’s gaze to that of a viperous snake. He took in Ginevra’s easy smile as she quickly dismissed the woman with a few simple words. Helewysa had no choice but to belatedly congratulate them on their union before leaving. When she was gone, Ginevra’s eyes dulled a bit, and they continued to dull as the evening wore on, as woman after woman made the same sort of bold approach toward her husband. The women who didn’t approach gave her husband looks of open invitation, all the while glowering at her with disdain.

  The feast was grand and lasted well into the late night hours. Despite the constant interruptions and side conversations, Ginevra began to relax. Wolfe was charming and attentive. And, when he looked at her, his eyes held pretty compliments that she couldn’t easily understand.

  Every time she saw Helewysa, she couldn’t help the small flag of victory that waved in her chest, no matter how bitterly that flag was staked. The woman’s possessive look when she turned to her husband was not lost on Ginevra, and she already had proof that Wolfe hadn’t been faithful to her since the very first night. She’d seen it with her own eyes and had no reason to believe that he had changed. But for him to have relations with such a hideous woman as this one? She wanted to retch.

  Ginevra blushed as a servant refilled her goblet with a sweet berry wine. Her head swam from the heady effects of the liquor and she giggled. Wolfe looked at her expectantly when he heard the sound. Ginevra licked her lips. Her husband was so close, so incredibly handsome. Her eyes trailed to his mouth and the half smile that lingered there.

  “I think I should go back to my tent. It’s late and I have drunk overmuch,” she said.

  Wolfe nodded. Gently, he lifted her by the arm. She swayed on her unsteady feet with a giggle. He led her behind the dining tables on the edge of firelight.

  “Ah, I believe Lady Ginevra has never graced us with a song!”

  Ginevra froze in horror, snapping her head about to look at Helewysa. The woman smiled victoriously as Ginevra paled. Several others turned to her at the request. She was about to speak when, without warning, Wolfe wrapped his arm about her waist, holding her steady.

  “Lady Ginevra?” the boisterous Helewysa called, licking her lips like a cat circling a defeated mouse. “We’re waiting.”

  Ginevra flinched. She looked helplessly at Wolfe, her mouth working.

  “Death to English tyranny!” Out of the darkness, like a flash of light, came a ferocious battle cry. A peasant, wielding a blade, darted toward the back of the king.

  Ginevra jumped in alarm. King Richard swung around, stunned. His goblet fell over on his lap. The music died with an abrupt chord and the many astonished faces of the drunken crowd turned at the noise.

  Instantly, Wolfe dropped his wife’s arm, swirling her out of the way of harm. Ginevra spun in a circle as her feet tried to gain hold. Falling against a chair back, she righted herself with a push to an odious man’s shoulders. Striking out his hand, Wolfe grabbed the peasant’s wrist and twisted him viciously in the air until his arm was folded behind him and his chest was pressed up against his. Crushing his fingers around the crude blade, Wolfe forced the man to loosen his grip. It was over before it began.

  Ginevra gasped, her eyes clearing at Wolfe’s deadly force of power combined with the relief at being saved from Helewysa’s attack. A strange sensation unfurled in her stomach to heat her body. Her husband constrained the man to the ground, his knee pressed into the attacker’s back. The man struggled and swore his French curses the whole way.

  The king’s guard hurried forward to relieve Wolfe of his prisoner. Standing, completely unaffected, Wolfe turned to Richard with a dutiful bow.

  The king instantly went to him, his hand held out in appreciation. Patting him on the back, he said, “Well done.”

  A murmur rose over the crowd, spreading quickly over from the nobles to the peasant bonfires. Ginevra hurried to her husband’s side, her eyes round with worry. She searched his emotionless face. It was a side she hadn’t seen in him before--a deadly side.

  “Guards!” the king yelled. “Escort Lady Ginevra to Lord Wol
fram’s tent. Make sure she’s unharmed. Stand outside this night so no injury befalls either of them for this great deed done England.”

  The guard nodded, his stoic face turning watchfully to Lady Ginevra. As she walked, awestruck, another guard fell into step in front of her, leading her away. With a backward glance at Wolfe, she had no choice but to follow.

  “I owe you my life,” the king said without preamble. “Thank you.”

  “I just happened to be nearby, majesty,” Wolfe answered obediently. His eyes strayed to Ginevra’s backside and the gentle swaying of her hips. She walked on slightly unsteady feet. Again, she glanced back to stare at him, her face tightened with apprehension.

  “You have leave to call me Richard,” the king bestowed graciously. “It’s the least I can do for such a noble effort.”

  “Yea, Richard,” Wolfe obliged, easily falling into step next to the king.

  Sighing, Richard turned to the guard who hovered protectively behind him. With a growl, he bellowed, “It’s too late for that, back away!”

  The guard nodded and did as he was ordered.

  “Wolfe,” Richard stated when they were away from prying ears. “As I said, I owe you my life and I’m not one to forget my debts. I only hope that, someday, I’ll be able to repay you in kind.”

  Wolfe nodded. “May I speak plainly?”

  “Please, by all means,” Richard allowed. He scratched his head beneath his crown.

  “The only repayment I ask is that you take no liking to my wife. I know how ... innocently charming she can be.” Wolfe paused, before carefully adding, “Not that you would.”

  Richard chuckled. “Yea, I would. I have. But consider it done. There are many women for me to choose from. I can leave you yours. Besides, seeing how you looked at your wife this eve, I can imagine a great many women are going to be left with freer nights.”