The Return of Her Lost Knight

by Melissa Oliver

  ‘Well, I do not know about that.’ She chuckled, softly. ‘But it was by sheer luck that I had the opportunity to learn.’

  She watched his long fingers brush along the surface of the parchment, making Gwen swallow uncomfortably. The memory of how they touched her fingers in the moonlight still lingered. The warmth, so very palpable. She absently rubbed her fingers together before clenching her fist.

  ‘I was lucky to have been part of the Marshal household, as I mentioned, after I managed to escape Kinnerton. One summer I accompanied my lady, the Countess of Pembroke, who travelled with her husband on pilgrimage. En route we stayed in St Albans Abbey.’ She turned and gave him a small shy smile. ‘The scriptorium at the abbey—oh, Ralph, it was the most splendid place that I have ever beheld.’

  He grinned. ‘I can see that it must have been, just by the way your eyes have lit up.’

  ‘It was and it was here that we met Matthew Paris, a young talented Benedictine monk, who was very attentive.’

  Ralph folded his arms across his chest and raised his brows. ‘Was he now?’

  She nodded. ‘He showed us each different process to create the manuscript codices. From how the feather quills were prepared, creating oak gall ink and all the various coloured pigment to scribe and paint, and how the parchment and vellum were cleaned, stretched and prepared.’ She inhaled before continuing. ‘But my favourite part was gilding and binding each page to create the manuscripts.’

  ‘It must have been fascinating.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said on a sigh. ‘It really was.’ Gwen ran her fingers across the decorative jewel-coloured letter at the side of the parchment with bold gilded edges. ‘The process for applying the colour and the thin gold leaf has over six intricate stages. Outlining the design using minium—here, can you see these faint orangey lines?’

  He nodded, his attention on the artwork.

  ‘Then adding the gesso, which raises the surface on the skin and is used wherever there is gold on the design. After which colour is added, using pigments made from lapis lazuli, woad and even dragon’s blood.’

  ‘Dragon’s blood, eh?’

  ‘Indeed—and used for the base, tints and shades, to highlight, and finally the black-edged outline is applied in stages.’

  ‘Fascinating. And you learnt all of this from one visit to the scriptorium at the Abbey?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘The Earl invited a few monks to Caversham Manor to employ them in recording his family’s history. I became an apt student and soon was allowed to finish some of the pages.’

  ‘Quite the apprentice, my lady.’ His fingers touched along the long thin stem of the quill. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Here, let me show you how you can make a mark on this parchment.’

  Ralph held up his left hand. ‘I can only use this one though, remember.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She wrapped her fingers over his much larger left hand over the quill and gently guided it in the inkwell, dipping it in the brownish liquid before making long sweeping brushstrokes on the parchment.

  ‘It must have been difficult having to do everything with your left hand.’

  He was standing so close that his masculine warmth enveloped her, sending a frisson of awareness down her spine.

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Ralph shifted and shrugged at her question before exhaling irritably. ‘I cannot even clench my right hand properly any longer, however hard I try.’

  He tried to close his other hand, but his movement was limited and jerky.

  Gwen reached out and brushed her hand over the rough mangled skin. ‘Rest easy, Ralph. I can see how difficult it is.’

  ‘It’s more frustrating than anything although I do try to use it wherever I can. But, yes, I had to learn everything anew with my left hand. From wielding a sword to now holding this quill.’

  ‘And doing remarkably well. Don’t ever forget that, Ralph,’ she added softly.

  Their joined hands continued to make long, fluid shapes.

  ‘I can see why you enjoy this. There’s something quite soothing about making these marks.’

  There was also something quite wonderful being this close to Ralph and being the one to guide his huge, strong hand. She watched the thick taut hand in fascination as his fingers flexed and stretched around the quill, yet creating light, fluid strokes.

  ‘I suppose, but for me it is a little more than that.’ She lessened the grip, allowing the shapes being created by the ink to flow through the nib evenly and allowing Ralph to take the lead.

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘I have always enjoyed this...creating and making things that give me pleasure.’ She shrugged. ‘Or try to evoke that same pleasure in others.’

  His hand stilled mid-air.

  ‘You do not need to try, my lady,’ he whispered.

  ‘Sometimes.’ Gwen darted her gaze at their laced fingers and her work strewn around the coffer. ‘It feels as though that I am leaving little pieces of myself in what I create.’

  She heard him take a slow breath and drop the quill. His hand turned palm against palm, his fingers curling around hers. She watched, mesmerised, as the pad of his thumb stroked her skin in a circular motion. Over and over again.

  Dear God.

  Without looking up, Gwen knew that his breathing had quickened, but then so had hers. She untangled her hand from his and took a step back, smoothing down her kirtle skirt.

  ‘I seem to have got a little ink on my skirt. That teaches me to forget to wear an overskirt.’

  ‘Gwen.’ Her name reverberated in the chamber. She lifted her head and met his eyes, filled with confusion and barely concealed longing. They stood staring at each other for a moment. But it would not do. These feelings and emotions were ones that she could no longer afford to have.

  ‘It grows late,’ Ralph murmured, breaking the silence and seemingly this growing tension between them. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Before you go, I want to give you something.’

  ‘You do not need to.’

  ‘I know, but it’s something I would like you to have, especially as I will not be able to give you my token openly tomorrow.’ She strode to the coffer and opened a small wooden box, pulling out a length of green-coloured linen. ‘I would like to be able to give you it now, as a symbol of our renewed friendship. Please...’ she held out her hand ‘...I embroidered it myself.’

  For a brief moment Gwen thought he would not take it, but his damaged hand reached out and caught it. She placed her other hand over the top and gave it a gentle squeeze, hoping he understood.

  Friendship was all she could offer now. Nothing more.

  Ralph bowed over their entwined hands, clutching her gift, and then turned, leaving the same way he came in, by climbing out of the arched window, without a second glance.

  Gwen stared and stood in the empty, silent space, as a rush of tears filled her eyes.

  Tears?

  No, she would not allow these feelings that she had long forsaken to rise once again.

  A knock at the door made her jump, breaching her miserable reflections. These futile worthless emotions that caused nothing but regret and misery. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand quickly and pasted a ready smile on her face.

  ‘Is that you, Brida?’ Thank God her voice sounded measured and light. ‘Come in.’

  Her friend walked into the chamber, closing the wooden door behind her. ‘I did not wish to intrude but I thought that mayhap now... Oh, Gwen, what has happened?’

  She sat on the edge of her bed and sniffed. ‘Nothing. I’m perfectly well.’

  ‘You do not look well, my lady. Did you and Sir Ralph quarrel?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that. We talked and, well...that was all.’

  Yet it was more than that. Gwen had shown him some of her m
ost valued earthly possessions and spoke in detail of how she created them and the small pleasures they evoked.

  ‘You told him?’ Brida asked slowly. ‘You told him everything?’

  ‘No, no...of course not. Our conversation, thankfully, never dwelled there—in that terrible, awful darkness.’

  ‘Then what is it?’ She looked a little confused. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Truly, it’s nothing, Brida. I am just a little fatigued.’ And disheartened, desolate as well as so many other things she would rather not contemplate.

  Hopes and dreams...

  Well, hers had all but faded, replaced with revulsion coiled and knotted in her stomach for ever.

  Brida sat beside her. ‘It must be very difficult seeing him, knowing all that you have lost.’

  ‘Yes, more than you can imagine.’ Gwen leant her head on her friend’s shoulder.

  ‘Then why do you not tell Sir Ralph everything? Trust that he might understand,’ she said softly, as they both stared at the fire spit and crackle in the hearth.

  ‘No,’ Gwen choked out, screwing her eyes shut. ‘I cannot do that.’

  ‘But he may just surprise you.’

  ‘I do not want his pity.’ Never that... ‘Besides, this is not about any possible concern I may have relating to Ralph’s feelings once he finds out the truth and what happened after he left Kinnerton. Only how it all affects me...still, after all this time.’

  Gwen stood up and walked to the stone wall, leaning the back of her head against it. ‘I can never countenance the terrible event from that time, only to acknowledge that it did happen and somehow I lived with it.’ She rubbed her forehead and exhaled through her teeth.

  ‘I can only imagine how hard it must have been. But never forget that you helped a good man escape certain death.’

  ‘Oh, Brida, don’t you see that, despite knowing that what I did back then helped Ralph get away, I still allowed Stephen le Gros to touch me, defile me, mark me. I would always carry that stain with me because I let him, Brida. I allowed that man to do it.’

  Her fingers touched the base of her neck where Stephen had left the now faint scar that never failed to torment her. A permanent reminder of that harrowing time.

  ‘It was a sacrifice that you were forced to make, Gwen. You would do it again, too, if it meant you had to save Ralph de Kinnerton. Would you not?’

  Yes, God help her, she would. In a heartbeat. Even though it meant that she would then live with the shame in perpetuity. As she was now.

  ‘I would,’ she whispered.

  It had almost destroyed her before when she thought that it had all been for nought. When she had believed Ralph to be dead. Terrible as her actions had been, it had given Ralph a chance to get away...to live. To survive. And she had tried so much in vain to forget what had happened.

  ‘And you are still a maid, my lady. Stephen le Gros did not take that from you.’

  ‘Not for want of trying.’ Gwen’s lips twisted in disgust. ‘And thank God, otherwise the man’s claim on me would have been far greater and harder to refute. It was only by the grace of God that that did not happen and I managed to escape Kinnerton with the help of a few locals, otherwise the situation would have been far more dire.’

  Yet Stephen had taken much from her. So much more than Gwen would ever care to examine. ‘Either way, Brida, I do not want Ralph to know the sordid reasons why I must take the veil, however understanding he might or might not be. I cannot have him know the shameful side to what happened all those years ago. I could not bear it.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  With all things considered, it might have been better if Gwen had not agreed to Ralph’s escort to the safe confines of the convent walls in Ireland. It had been her pragmatic side that had conceded the need for more caution as well as the necessity for a strong warrior to accompany them. Had she known, however, that these unwanted emotions would once again resurface, she would not have agreed to Ralph’s offer. Either way, Gwen must push them away, for his sake and her own.

  Chapter Eleven

  The following morn, after a restless night’s sleep, Gwen found herself nervously watching the knights’ procession before the start of the mêlée à pied in the royal spectators’ dais. She wrung the material of her kirtle tightly in her hands in anticipation, knowing that it would commence soon. The dull thud in her chest quickened as she caught a glimpse of Ralph in full armour acting as Sir Thomas, in among the de Clancey knights. From afar, he seemed to have spotted Gwen as he inclined his head in her direction, raising his sword arm for her to see the narrow length of the token she had given him, tied firmly around the hilt of his sword. Why that gesture made her heart soar she did not wish to consider. She only knew that it did—very much.

  Gwen had been so caught up in her musing that she had not realised Stephen le Gros’s approach.

  ‘My Lady Gwenllian, I hope I find you well on this bright morning?’

  Yet she should have detected his reprehensible stench anywhere. ‘Sir Stephen,’ she managed to say, hoping for something akin to a composed courtesy when in truth she wanted to rage at him as she always did when he was close to her.

  ‘I came in the hope that I could gain a favour, a token from such a fair lady before the start of this mêlée.’ He knelt on one knee below her, to her utter dismay.

  Gwen knew that this performance was as much for her benefit as it was for the royal court in attendance, but the very idea that she would willingly give anything that belonged to her to this man was repugnant.

  ‘I beg pardon, sir, but I sadly have no favours to give,’ she said, the smile brittle on her lips. ‘However, I hope you find success in...your endeavours.’ She lowered her head, hoping that Stephen would now go and ready himself for the mêlée, but instead he crept a little closer.

  ‘Do you? Well, I must say that is good to know.’

  Her jaw clenched so tightly that she almost ground her teeth together. She snapped her head away, ignoring him, hoping he’d leave, but it was wishful thinking. His very nearness made her want to retch violently. He always had this effect on her, making her feel the need to cleanse every part of her that came into contact with him.

  He pinched her chin, turning her head around to face him again. ‘Careful, Gwen. You wouldn’t want anyone to think that you are opposed to your intended.’

  ‘You are not my intended, sir.’

  ‘Ah, but you very soon would be.’

  She jerked her head away, not wanting his hand anywhere near her. She must not allow herself to rise to his jibes, knowing that was what the man craved.

  ‘Come now, my dear. Anything would do.’ Stephen grabbed her hand, clasping it tightly in his.

  ‘I have nothing to offer you, sir, as I have explained.’

  ‘Oh, but you must have something. No need to be coy.’ His laughter seemed to turn into a snarl.

  ‘I do not think so, sir. My conscience would never allow it,’ she said through gritted teeth, trying to pull her hand free.

  ‘Oh, would it not?’ His fingernails dug into her wrist. ‘You really are a tease, my lovely Gwen. Any other man might wither and run with their tail dangling from the legs, but not I. I find that your animosity and this reluctance to see sense, although beneath you, strangely heightens my desire for you.’ He pulled her towards him, making it seem that they were having a quiet private moment. ‘And you know I cannot wait until I bed you properly. Such a shame we were disturbed before.’

  Gwen bit down on her lips hard, in the attempt to stop herself from screaming at Stephen. ‘Unhand me. People are watching.’

  ‘Let them.’ He shrugged. ‘It matters not since you shall soon belong to me anyway. But I’d wager that they believed we were having a more amorous discussion with our heads bent together so, anyway.’

  ‘Stop this, Stephen. You are making a fool of
yourself.’

  ‘Alas, I always seem to, fair Gwenllian. Especially when it comes to you.’ His grip on her tightened once more. ‘But be warned, my dear. It has not escaped my attention that you seem a little enamoured of Thomas Lovent. Your eyes follow his progress whenever he is near. And while I may be a patient man, far more than most, I am not one to be averse to jealousy...but of course that may be your intention.’

  The beat in her chest hammered faster. God, but she could not allow Stephen’s notice of Sir Thomas otherwise he might soon realise the truth. That he wasn’t whom Stephen le Gros thought him to be. It would be a disaster if he found out about Ralph before he should and Gwen would not endanger Ralph’s plans for the world...

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Your imagination has run away with you.’

  ‘I do hope so, Gwen, for you would not want me to wreak my foolish jealousy on that young knight.’

  ‘I hope that you are not threatening Thomas Lovent?’ She narrowed her eyes.

  ‘No.’ He kissed the back of her hand before standing to his full height. ‘Just a warning...for now, but heed my words, my sweet.’

  * * *

  Ralph could sense from a distance that all was not well with Gwenllian. She had sat with her back rigid, her jaw set and her face devoid of any colour. But it was only when Ralph spotted his deplorable cousin that he knew instantly the reason of her distress.

  By God, but Ralph had had enough of the bastard’s menacing, possessive behaviour towards Gwen. He would take any necessary means to stop Stephen if he did not cease with his intimidation.

  Ralph pushed forward towards the dais in long strides when he saw that the man had moved away, to his relief, otherwise he would have had to see to Gwen’s comfort and damn the consequences. The uneasiness that Ralph felt was still raw, still palpable.

  There was something not quite as it should be with Gwen and his cousin. Oh, her revulsion and dislike of him was both visceral and intense, matching his own, but there was something else—a strange familiarity that revealed something far darker and more potent. Whatever it was, Ralph was determined to find out the truth in the hope he could somehow help alleviate Gwen’s anguish. Stephen le Gros would not assert and impose himself on her even if he did believe himself to be her betrothed. Either way, it did not matter what Stephen believed, but Gwen would not be harassed and threatened by the man. That he would swear to. He had, after all, sworn he would protect her. Ralph would think about the situation again later, now that his cousin had moved away from her.