Knights of Honor Books 1-10: A Medieval Romance Series Bundle

by Alexa Aston

  Leaving the stables, she decided to exit through the postern gate, hoping no one was there, and seek the road that lay past the wheat fields. The thought of wheat made her stomach gurgle. Hours had passed since she’d last eaten this morning but she was afraid to reenter the keep to search for food in case she came across more angry serfs.

  The bright moonlight continued to light her way as she hurried across the bailey. Thanks to it, she saw the still body lying in her path. As she skirted it, Margery halted in her tracks.

  Clothing she was all too familiar with draped the dead man in the dirt. He’d been disemboweled. Both legs protruded at odd angles. Scattered fingers lay in the dust surrounding him. A dark pool of blood oozed from beneath him. Worst of all, Umfrey Vivers’ corpse was headless.

  No one deserved this kind of torture, not even her cruel stepfather. Margery retched again but nothing came up. Then she heard the hum of many voices carried on the wind and she knew it wasn’t safe to linger. The sound came from the direction of the postern gate, so she abandoned that route of escape and rushed back to the stables to hide in its shadows.

  She watched as a group of people carrying torches traveled through the open area. Horror numbed her as she spied the baron’s head impaled on a spike that bobbed up and down in the midst of the assembled group. They passed by, not seeing her, most looking up at the nobleman’s face, the last moments of terror emblazed upon it. They continued marching and singing to the front gates and Margery knew they would mount the head at the entrance for all who passed by to see it as some twisted lesson.

  Thoughts of fleeing tonight died within her. She would never be able to get past the out of control mob. The safest place to hide to prevent being discovered would be inside the secret walkway. Hurrying back toward the keep, she hoped everyone would be celebrating the baron’s death, and she was right. The great hall was empty, its fire burned down to embers.

  Margery rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a basket, throwing a small round of cheese, a half-loaf of bread, and two pears into it. She slinked up the stairs and back to the bedchamber she’d shared with her mother. She hadn’t bolted the secret door there as she had the one in the solar. Guilt flooded her at what had happened to Lord Umfrey due to her refusal to admit him.

  She deliberately kept her eyes away from the bed where her mother’s lifeless body lay and went to the tapestry that concealed the entry to the hidden passage. Entering it, she secured the bar behind her so no one could follow her that way. Once more, she crouched as she felt her way without the use of a candle and took the right fork until she reached the end where she’d recently exited. Using her hands, they roamed until they found the bar and slid it into place.

  Now, she was locked in for the night. Margery slid her back against the wall until she sat in the dirt again and devoured the food she’d brought with her. Only after she’d eaten it all did she regret not saving any for whatever journey she embarked upon tomorrow. She hoped she could leave in daylight before anyone stirred. Being out in the dark tonight had frightened her.

  Curling into a tight ball, Margery wrapped her cloak about her and fell into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter 4

  Ancel awoke from the nightmare, sweat dripping from his body. He sat up and gazed around the armed camp. Darkness still hung over the earth. Dawn would not occur for several more hours. He lay down again, his mind whirling with the events of the last two weeks.

  The plot to end the rebellion had taken longer than any of them had thought possible. The day after Ancel had returned to the horrors in London, he accompanied the king to a meeting with Wat Tyler and his rebel force, which numbered in the thousands. The Essex rebels, satisfied with the charter King Richard signed, had dispersed for the most part—but Tyler wanted more.

  Much more. And it had cost Tyler his life.

  The rebel leader had greeted the king with a familiarity that didn’t sit well with the noblemen and soldiers gathered at Smithfield. Wat Tyler had addressed the monarch as “Brother” and offered promises of friendship between the two of them. Then Tyler demanded in rapid succession the end of the tithe system, abolition of the bishops, a redistribution of wealth, and equality for all before the law. The peasant rounded out his list of demands with insisting on the freedom to kill animals in the royal forests and then calmly requested refreshments be brought to him.

  Before a shocked Richard could reply, William Walworth waved about his sword, trying to intimidate the brash peasant. Tyler attacked London’s angry mayor and Walworth repeatedly stabbed the rebel, aided by a royal squire.

  Ancel thought for sure that carnage would break out immediately and drew his own sword but, somehow, the fast-thinking monarch defused the situation. Riding to the middle of the gathered rebellion, he shouted for the mob to follow him and he led them to Clerkenwell Fields in central London. A bold move by the boy king but it worked. The mass followed him without question and Walworth somehow managed to gather the city’s militia and disperse the poorly-equipped peasants after they arrived. By the end of the day, the London rebellion had collapsed—and Wat Tyler’s head adorned a pole.

  Skirmishes had popped up outside the city and into the countryside north and east of London and the king had led his troops against them ever since. Richard had confided to Ancel that he never meant to honor the pledge he’d signed, only doing so to buy time so that he could regroup his army. The king’s superior army had pushed the dwindling force of ill-equipped Essex rebels closer together until the entire group fled to the woods northeast of the town of Billericay. Come dawn, the attack would begin.

  Ancel would never be able to fall back asleep at this point. He rose and walked to the west, where he could stretch his legs while feeding his belly, then he would prepare his mind for the battle ahead.

  As he reached the fire where a huge cauldron of stew simmered constantly, he spotted a familiar figure scooping food into a bowl.

  “Greetings, my lord,” he said to Thomas of Woodstock, the Earl of Buckingham. Buckingham and Sir Thomas Percy had been chosen to lead the king’s forces against the rebels.

  “Ah, de Montfort. Couldn’t sleep?” Buckingham handed the steaming bowl to Ancel and retrieved another one for himself.

  “Nay, my lord.” He brought the bowl to his lips and tilted it, tasting venison and onions.

  “I never do the night before battle,” the nobleman confided. “I’m on edge and can never relax.” He turned the wooden bowl up and slurped some of the stew from it.

  “Do you think it will end tomorrow?” Ancel asked. “This rebellion against the Crown?”

  “Here in Essex? Aye, I do,” Buckingham confirmed. “More peasants have run off every day and the ones we’ve trapped are weak and hungry, not to mention lacking weapons and training.” He eyed Ancel carefully. “But you are close to the king, so I know you have heard that the movement has spread beyond this region. We may quell revolution in Kent and Essex today on the battlefield but it has gone beyond where we stand.”

  Ancel nodded. “I listened as the king read the dispatches aloud in his tent tonight,” he confirmed. “Word came a few hours ago that the unrest in East Anglia has been curbed, which was good news, indeed. Did you know a mob attacked at the University of Cambridge and killed the royal officials present?”

  Buckingham grunted. “Was it le Despenser who put an end to things?”

  “Aye, he led the king’s forces at Walsham in Norfolk County. All is quiet there now.”

  Buckingham looked grim as he said, “I fear this movement will reach as far north as York and all the way west to Somerset.”

  “If you are right, then it will be dealt with harshly,” Ancel replied. “The king, though young in years, will not back down. He will mobilize whatever army is necessary to end the rebellion, no matter how far it stretches. I have found him to be mature beyond his years.”

  “What about Lancaster?”

  Ancel grew thoughtful. Though Buckingham was a trusted nobleman and part
of the king’s inner circle, he still wanted to be discreet.

  “The king has bided his time since he came to the throne at ten years of age. But I will say that with the bravery and determination he’s shown these past two weeks, he is certainly coming into his own. Richard won’t necessarily need his uncle to guide him much longer.”

  Buckingham nodded in agreement. “One thing these peasants have gotten right is that John of Gaunt is a corrupt, despicable man. Though royal blood runs through his veins, the king would be smart to rid himself of his uncle’s presence and send Lancaster far away from court.” He paused. “That is, if Lancaster survives. Many of his retainers and close friends have perished by the peasants’ hands already. I am surprised the duke hasn’t met a similar fate.”

  “He’s a wily one, my lord. If anything, Lancaster will land on his feet, much like a cat tossed out a window, full of hellfire and using up another of its nine lives,” Ancel observed.

  The earl grunted and they returned to their stew, finishing in silence.

  Ancel returned his empty bowl to a pile on the ground. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I plan to stretch my legs and clear my head before donning my armor.”

  “Wait.”

  He stood still, wondering what Buckingham might want.

  “You have been with young Richard from the beginning, have you not?”

  “Aye. His grandfather, the old king, worried about what would happen to his grandson after his death. King Edward trusted my father, Geoffrey de Montfort, and he extended that trust to me. I have been close to the king since before he came to the throne. Though officially I am a member of the royal guard, my role goes far beyond those duties. I am the king’s eyes and ears in places he cannot go and I will do anything to protect him from his enemies—be they on the battlefield or in hidden alcoves at the royal court.”

  Buckingham smiled. “I like loyalty in a man. The king does not plan to ride into battle this morning. Do you plan to remain by his side?”

  “Nay, my lord. The rest of his royal guard will see to him. No enemy will come close to approaching the king when he is ringed by their protection. My talents will be best utilized on the field.”

  “Then may I invite you to my side when it is time to ride forth into battle?”

  Pride swelled within Ancel. “I would be most honored, my lord.”

  “Collect your armor and meet me at my tent in an hour.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Ancel hurried back to where he had bedded down and roused a young squire named Will that he’d come to like.

  The boy sleepily rubbed his eyes and brushed back his hair from his face. “You have need of me, my lord?”

  “I require assistance with my armor, Will.”

  The squire didn’t question him about why he would don his armor so early and Ancel liked that about the boy. He was always eager to please and asked thoughtful questions, storing away the nuggets of knowledge. Though Will helped several of the knights associated with the royal guard, Ancel decided he would ask the king if he could take Will under his protection so that the lad could serve Ancel exclusively. His gut told him the squire could be trusted and that he would make a good knight someday if given the proper instruction.

  A quarter of an hour later, Ancel was ready to ride into battle. Only his horse needed to be readied.

  “Will, please prepare Storm and bring him to me. I’ll be at Buckingham’s tent, which is next to the king’s.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Will frowned slightly and turned to leave.

  “Anything wrong?” Ancel asked. He guessed what the boy might say.

  The squire squirmed under his scrutiny. “It’s just that . . . well, Storm is a handful. And that’s on a good day, my lord. But I will do my best to see him prepared.”

  “I still have time before I plan to meet up with Buckingham. Would you like me to accompany you? I might be able to give you some ideas on how to handle Storm and other horses that tend to have minds of their own.”

  “Would you, my lord? I’d be ever so grateful,” Will said, the relief obvious on his face.

  “Come. We’ll take on the task together.”

  *

  Margery awoke, this time knowing exactly where she was. She unfurled the cloak from her body and sat up. Her belly remained full from last night’s late meal but she knew it wouldn’t remain that way for long. She pushed her hand into her pocket, fingering the ring and necklace that she’d placed there only yesterday afternoon. Her fingers then went to her neck and the silver chain there. She felt for the pendant and thought it wise to slip it inside her kirtle to keep it from view.

  She leaned against the wall a moment. This was the first time she’d had to think about her mother’s final words to her—that Lord Joseph Ormond wasn’t her true father. Margery knew she had been born during the first year of her parents’ marriage. No other children came after her arrival. She could remember a fragment of an argument between her parents regarding children, though she’d been too young to understand it at the time. Now she wondered if her father—no, her mother’s husband—had suspected that his wife came to the marriage bed already with child.

  And if Lord Joseph wasn’t her father, then who might be? Why hadn’t her mother married him instead?

  The answer was obvious. Margery’s parents had been betrothed from a young age. She supposed her mother had fallen in love with another man. Mayhap he, too, had been promised to someone else. What a tragic set of circumstances. Her mother had spent her life with one husband who gambled his fortune away and killed himself, only to wed a second one who was cruel in both word and deed.

  But who could her true father be?

  Then she understood that her father might not come from the nobility. Her mother could have coupled with a stable hand or a steward. Any man on her father’s land. If so, then Margery’s blood might be no better than what ran through the peasants that now attacked Highfield and beyond.

  No, that couldn’t be. If it were true that her father wanted her to have the silver pendant when she came of age, he must have been a man of some means. Silver was a valuable metal and the garnets in the pendant were both large and numerous. To give her mother a parting gift of such value, her true father had to be a man with money behind his name.

  If only Margery had a few moments longer to spend with her mother. Marian Vivers had started to reveal her lover’s identity and been cut off by the pressing circumstances.

  Now, Margery would never know of her true origins.

  She needed to quit wasting time fretting over things from the past that were beyond her control. What was important at the moment was to leave Highfield. The peasants had already murdered her mother and stepfather, along with others. If she fell into their hands, she would certainly meet the same fate they had.

  She decided to return to the secret door in the solar and unbar it in case she needed another quick escape route into the passageway if she ran into the angry peasants again. She made her way through the dark passage to the solar door and slipped the bar free. Once she had done that, she returned to the door leading outside. Her fingers reached out and located the bar that locked the outside world away. Gingerly, Margery slid it aside and cracked open the door a sliver. Darkness greeted her, a stillness hanging heavily in the sweet air but she sensed dawn was not far off. She slipped from the secret hideaway which had saved her life, her feet landing on the ground. Sealing the door, she gathered the cloak Sarah had provided about her and made her way across the bailey, scanning the yard for any movement. She came across the discarded, lifeless body of her stepfather again and steeled herself. Passing it, she picked her way carefully in order to avoid the other dead bodies scattered about, the shapes of the soldiers who had remained at Highfield. These men had even taken over the harvest since so many local serfs had abandoned the fields in order to join in the rebellion. She guessed either they must have been caught unaware or been overpowered by the greater numbers of peasants who had swar
med the estate yesterday.

  Margery couldn’t do anything for the dead now, not even her beloved mother. Father Martyn would have to see to the Christian burials of all the dead at Highfield, though he was old and doddering. She wondered who might dig the graves for so many and decided she couldn’t worry about it because it might drive her mad. Her focus needed to be on walking toward Billericay, the nearest town to Highfield. All Margery knew was that the city sat to the east of where Highfield stood. From there, she would need to learn where London lay.

  As she headed toward the gates, Margery sent a prayer to the Virgin Mary, asking the Blessed Mother for her guidance and protection from any violence while on the road. Surely, she would come across a convent at some point on her journey toward London. The good sisters should be willing to take her in because of the events occurring throughout the countryside. She would remain behind the convent’s walls till the insurrection died down. Hopefully, that would give her time to figure out where she could go.

  Reaching the gates, she found them hurled wide open. Not a soul was in sight, either on the ground or up on the wall walk. Before she hurried through and set out on the road that ran between the fields of wheat, she decided to search the last body left at the entrance to Highfield. By his dress and the sword resting near his side, Margery knew the man had been a soldier. Already a rotten stench wafted up from him. She held her breath while she searched him and found what she was looking for. Holding up the baselard, she inspected it. The blade seemed sharp and would give her something to use to defend herself if needed. She’d been around kitchen knives for years, chopping onions and separating parts of chickens to roast. Surely, this small dagger wouldn’t be any different to use.