by Eliza Knight
“Garde, watch over my daughter,” King Henry VII said. From here, the king would return to Richmond Palace, allowing the Earl of Surrey and his countess to take the lead on their progress, with Alaric as head of security.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Alaric said. “You have my word that no harm shall come to your daughter, or any in her party.”
But that was the only pledge Alaric was willing to make. He couldn’t vouch for one damn Scot once they crossed the border. If all hell broke loose—Alaric would send the devils back to their maker.
Lamberton Kirk
Scottish Borders
August, 1503
Heaven help her.
Alex blew out a breath and smoothed her trembling fingers over her new emerald green satin gown, embroidered with tiny, purple, velvet thistles, commissioned by her mother for just this occasion. And also as a reminder of what she was supposed to do once in Princess Margaret’s confidence.
She curled her toes in her new slippers, standing among a crowd of a thousand or more Scottish peers waiting for the arrival of their king’s new bride. Nervous energy flowed through the crowd. They pressed in on one another, the heat stifling. Sweat slicked over her skin beneath her gown and she started to feel a little faint. If only she’d thought to bring her waterskin with her. She was so parched.
Alex bit her lip, the same anxiousness flowing through the crowd was also coursing through her veins, though for different reasons.
She didn’t want to be here.
She wanted to go home.
She hated her gown and what it stood for.
She had not one friend amongst this crowd, save for the stuffy countess she’d been introduced to, but just briefly, before her mother thrust her aside. The Countess of Home, who would be her chaperone at court, married to the Lord Chamberlain of Scotland, the Earl of Home, had far more important things to do than deal with her distantly related cousin’s daughter. Why had she agreed to do it? Most likely because when Mother wanted something, she didn’t hold back until the answer was aye, even if that affirmative was false. Wasn’t Alex proof enough of that?
Already, the Countess had wondered off, not giving a heap for Lord Maxwell’s daughter.
So, Alex was alone, standing in a crowd of tittering ladies and grunting nobleman and several menacing lairds of the north. The clash of bodies was a sight to see, especially for a lass away from home for the first time. Some were dressed like queens and kings themselves. Others—those from the Highlands—dressed in thick, colorful tartans, swathed over their bodies.
Though Mother had assured her that the gowns she’d had commissioned would be more than acceptable for court, Alex wasn’t so certain. The gown she wore now was stiff, poofy and heavy. If the king’s bride didn’t arrive soon, she’d drop like a heap of satin to the ground.
How would she ever get through her time at court? Standing for hours on end. And the talking… Those around her had not ceased wagging their tongues for at least an hour.
Mother had barely prepared Alex for this moment. All the things she’d told her had been such a blur. Would the refined Princess of England, soon to be Queen of Scotland, toss Alex out as her own siblings had done? Say she had nothing of significance to offer?
Alex twisted her fingers into her skirts, feeling the fine fabric crinkle. She straightened her fingers immediately, afraid of ruining the gown and gaining a scolding from Lady Home if she ever appeared again.
Closing her eyes briefly, she sent up a prayer to the heavens to help her get through the coming days without a blunder.
Being the youngest child in a rather large family, much of Alex’s training had come from watching her elder siblings—who were not particularly nice to her, nor was she fond of them. They often tossed her out on her ear, too little for this and too little for that. Too loud. Too annoying. Too naïve. Too childish. Too dirty.
She’d not truly fit anywhere in her family. Mother was too exhausted to pay her much attention and Father had spent much of his time in service to the king.
And now, the only person she’d hoped to gain some training from, the Countess of Home, she didn’t even remember what the lady looked like, had gone off.
When Alex’s chin started to tremble, she gritted her teeth. She squared her shoulders. This simply wouldn’t do. If her parents wanted to thrust her into court, to toss her to the wolves, then she’d not simply lie down while they tore at her. She had to be strong. She had to figure this out. There were some good things to be had. No longer was she under her mother’s thumb or her father’s glower. No longer did she have to deal with Isobel and Katherine’s pinches and taunts. This was her time to find freedom, to become her own person. To seek adventure.
Her little pep talk was interrupted by the sound of trumpets blowing in with the breeze.
“They come!” someone shouted.
Beside her, and she dared not look to see who, someone grumbled, “Damned Sassenachs.”
’Twould appear that not everyone was pleased with the king’s choice of bride. Alex didn’t like the English, either. They’d tormented her people, and when she was young, had ruined much of her entertainment. But for now, she mostly disliked them because they would make her false to Scotland. Aye, ’twas the bloody English’s fault that she was here and about to commit treason by stealing something from the king’s bride. If only the ninny had stayed in England where she belonged, Alex wouldn’t even be in this position.
“Move over.” The mumbles and shoves started from behind as the crowd shifted, trying to get a closer look.
Alex strained to see above their heads. Tugging her skirts out of the way of her feet when she tried to find her balance. English flags waved from long poles as knights walked and others rode on horseback. The trumpets and drums grew louder.
A gilded litter came into view, the sounds of ladies chirping from atop palfreys. They were dressed in voluminous gowns of satin, lace and velvet. Every color of the rainbow, with jeweled hoods to match, and gloves and boots of the finest leather. Raised on her tiptoes, Alex could barely see beyond the fabric. She desperately wanted to get a look at the woman she was going to rob in the name of retribution for her parents.
Moving with the shifting crowd, she strained to remain upright as well as to see.
And then her eyes locked on the most fearsome sight.
A knight.
He was large. Thick with muscle, and he sat his horse tall. How tall was he? Well over six feet if she had to guess. Plated armor covered his chest, arms, legs, the sun hitting the steel making it glint almost gold. Though his weapons were sheathed, there was no mistaking his deadly force. He wore a helm that covered the entirety of his face, leaving only slits where his eyes were. They had to be black. Black as his fierce heart.
The helmet turned and she could swear he was looking at her. But how could he see her through the crowd?
The shifting of the horde of Scottish aristocrats jerked forward suddenly, throwing Alex off balance and through the front of the crowd. Eyes widened, she stretched out her arms, feeling herself pitching forward.
“Oh!” she cried out. Someone was stepping on the back of her dress, which didn’t help her to gain her footing. And then she was, indeed, pitching forward.
Cold, gauntleted hands caught her just before she fully hit the ground.
Alex stared up into the metal face of the knight who’d been on his horse not a second before. Reflexes of a Highland cat, he had. Pretty impressive for an Englishman. How could he move so swiftly in such heavy metal?
She had the sudden irrational desire to see his eyes.
“Thank ye,” she murmured.
He lifted the front plate of his helmet, hazel eyes penetrating hers. “A lady should never have to feel the crush of a crowd or the dust of the road on her face.”
Alex was at a loss for words. How could a knight as fierce as he was speak such lovely words? Furthermore, how could a man be so beautiful? High arched cheeks, a strong jaw. A mout
h that curled softly into a subtle, teasing smile. Dark tendrils of hair touched his forehead. She could get lost in the way his eyes resembled the moors.
A little flutter turned her belly and, just as quickly, soured it. Disgusting! Her family would have her stoned if they could just see her now. Batting her lashes at a Sassenach!
Alex tried to stand, but her dress was still caught.
“Move,” the knight said, his voice deep and commanding to the lord standing behind her, crushing the precious fabric of her new gown.
The Scot sneered at the English knight and then stepped aside. “Apologies,” he muttered to Alex, but it did not feel at all like an apology.
How was it that her own countryman treated her so rudely?
“Savages,” the knight proclaimed.
Alex pushed his cold, metal hands away and rose to her feet. She was not a savage. Even if the servants at Caerlaverock Castle had called her that often enough when she went out to dance in the rain.
Then she noticed that the entire caravan had stopped the moment the knight leapt from his horse. At least a dozen metal-clad men stood at attention.
“I’m no longer in need of yer assistance,” Alex said, raising her chin and hating that all eyes were on her. As a second thought, she added, “And I shouldn’t like to keep His Majesty’s bride waiting.”
The Countess of Home was surely regretting her decision to help Alex now.
The knight bowed, then returned to his horse, his faceplate still up, the way he watched her as he rode on did not go unnoticed by her—or anyone else.
Just as she suspected, a pinch on her arm alerted her to the Countess’ presence. “Stupid, lass, have ye no decorum?”
Alex looked to the ground, hoping to appear meek, but that only made her angry. When she’d left Caerlaverock, she’d left the insults behind. Or so she’d hoped. She jerked her gaze up at the Countess, and said, “I was pushed and not one of my own countrymen came to my aid. Nay, I had to be lifted by a dreaded English knight.”
So dreaded that he’d made her belly flutter and left her with thoughts of his lips and the slight curl of a smile she’d seen on them as he’d ridden away.
Chapter Two
Alaric walked the perimeter of the grounds at Fast Castle where the caravan had stopped to make camp for the night. Tents had been set up by the dozens, white flaps blowing in the wind revealing where the Scottish and English members of the new court would reside for the night. On the morrow, they’d continue on to Dalkeith Castle where Princess Margaret would soon meet her new husband.
Her ladies-in-waiting, both English and Scottish, had been housed at nearby Coldingham Abbey, save for one to help her to bed that evening.
Already the princess was within the Great Hall where a grand feast had been prepared in celebration of her arrival, hosted by the Earl and Countess of Home. The noble Scottish couple had taken great pride in their position as host to their future queen. The best wines had been uncorked for those in the Great Hall and great barrels had been rolled out to those who remained outdoors. The place was filled with the scent of the bonfire and delicious food. And rife with the sounds of celebration. Alaric gave it two hours before some sort of debauchery ensued.
As he walked the grounds, speaking with his own men and conferring with King James’ and the Home’s guards, he couldn’t stop thinking about the Scottish wench he’d leapt from his horse to keep her pretty head from hitting the ground. What had made him react so quickly? Aye, she was a beauty, and her gaze on his had been both intrigued and forlorn at the same time. And there was also the fact that he spoke the truth to her, that no lady should have to fall. He was able-bodied and quick enough to keep it from happening. Not that the bastard savage behind her had cared a fig for her safety.
Anger burned anew in his veins. How could his king expect the Scots to keep up their end of the treaty when they treated their own so badly? And he was well aware that one instance did not name the lot of them cruel, but it certainly did put the first twists of doubt in his mind.
Another flash of enchanting eyes came to his mind.
Alaric had not caught her name, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was as wild and savage as the land, as fiery and untamed as her eyes.
Lord help him, why was he being so damned poetic about her?
Alaric gazed up at the wall, counting the number of men who walked the battlements.
She was nothing more than a mere woman. A Scottish woman to be precise. A harridan. A nuisance, and as soon as he saw Princess Margaret secured in her new household, he was that much closer to returning to England and to Castle De Garde in Northumbria, the seat of his ancestors and his older brother, Darius.
He’d not been home in many months and King Henry had agreed that on his return from his duties, he could return to his home and see about his own personal duties.
A break from court.
A break from battle.
A break from all the drama and angst that both entailed.
Darius could most likely use help training his men.
The sun was beginning to set over the vast lands and Alaric shuddered. Soon darkness would reign. Many years had passed since he’d last spent a night on Scottish soil and the last time—not including his stay with his brother at Faodail Tower—provided no pleasant memories. Just being here now, raised the flesh on his arms, and at any moment he expected to ward off an enemy.
The treaty of peace was in place theoretically, but was it truly in place?
What would happen if one of the men interpreted an action of another’s in a way that was offensive? Would a brawl break out and then a fray and then a bloody battle?
“Stay calm, no matter what,” Alaric warned his men when he returned to the tent just near the Earl and Countess of Surrey’s, where the English garrison was making camp outside the walls. “The air is filled with strain.”
His men nodded and mouthed their agreement.
“All is secure, my lord?” one knight asked.
“Aye. I am going in to the feast to keep an eye on Princess Margaret.”
Alaric trudged over the ground, the grass slippery and displaced from the large gathering. Inside the walls, the bailey teamed with tension as both Scots and English knights eyed each other from opposite sides. Torches were jammed into the ground lighting up the courtyard. Alaric nodded to his men and continued up the stairs of the keep and into the Great Hall. Candelabras had been set up in clusters every dozen paces. It was nearly brighter inside than it had been when the sun was out. Minstrels played music in the corner and the scents of roasted meat, stewed vegetables, fresh baked bread, savory pies and sugared fruit tarts were an enticing combination.
Scanning the hall, he found his mistress seated at the dais beside the Earl and Countess of Home, a smile of joy on her face as she watched a cluster of ladies dancing. A wine glass in one hand, she held an apricot in her other and appeared to be much more at ease than Alaric was, for certain.
The wooden floor was covered in tapestries and fresh flowers adorned every corner and ran the length of the tables, keeping the scent closer to that of the blooms than the crush of sweating bodies.
Princess Margaret caught his eye and beckoned him forward.
Alaric nodded and headed toward his king’s daughter, only to watch as the very woman he couldn’t get out of his mind took a seat beside his princess.
She wore the same gown from earlier, though she looked as though she’d refreshed herself. Creamy skin, pinkened cheeks, pretty, red lips. Flawless. There was no need for her to cake on powder and rouge. Her fiery hair was tugged neatly into a twist with just a few curls framing her face. He’d not ever seen a shade of hair like hers. Ready to catch flame.
Catching himself staring, Alaric quickly bowed before the dais.
How was she here? She should have been at the abbey with the rest of the ladies. Was she the one who’d been asked to escort the princess?
What was her name?
“Sir
Alaric de Garde of Northumbria,” Margaret said with a smile. She waved her hand toward the lady in question. “Meet one of my new ladies-in-waiting. I was in luck that her family asked Lady Home to be her chaperone at court. Now she will attend me here this night.”
Alaric half-bowed to the Homes and to the beauty. She kept her blue eyes steadily on his, sending a thrill into his chest. “A lovely addition,” he said, but his eyes were locked on the flame-haired chit. “I believe we’ve already met, my lady, but I did not catch your name.”
“Lady Alexandra Maxwell,” Princess Margaret interrupted.
Alexandra? A prim and proper name to be sure, and not at all what he’d imagined, but he found he quite liked it, for ’twas a trick. A game to be played.
The princess leaned in close to Lady Alexandra. “De Garde is famous in England, as has been every de Garde before him. A mighty knight. Not yet bested in a tournament nor a battle. Not even by his elder brothers, though they come rather close.”
Lady Alexandra’s eyes roved over him and he felt the pride of his name, his accomplishments rushing through him, but at the same time, he knew that if he were to impress her, it would not be with feats of war or showmanship. This lady, this enchanting female, begged to be wooed in other ways.
Alaric could have smacked himself. He wasn’t going to be doing any wooing. And yet…
“My lady,” Alaric reached for the hand that Alexandra reluctantly held toward him. Her fingers were dainty. He found her reluctance intriguing. He wanted to know more about her. “I trust you’ve not met with any other disasters?”
Her lovely cheeks pinkened more. “Not yet, Sir Alaric.”
Lady Home frowned, but then turned her attention elsewhere. The countess did not seem overjoyed at the prospect of having a ward, and Alaric had seen her treat Alexandra rather rudely when he’d helped her to stand at Lamberton. The poor chit was without many friends, it would seem, though she’d impressed the princess rather quickly.
