Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  "He is a vicious man, Michael. But do you really think he would attack his own village?"

  He stood and shrugged. "I think he would do a lot of things. He doesn't care for human life, only for power. If it makes him look more powerful to defeat a band of outlaws, aye. If it makes him look more powerful for me to fail and for himself to succeed, then aye." He put his dirk back into the loop at his hip. "No matter, I've posted men as scouts, and men are out on patrol as we speak. I have masons working on reinforcing the walls and the gate. I've talked to the fletcher and the blacksmith who are both at work creating new weapons. We shall be ready if another attack comes."

  "And the men, do they work with you?"

  "A little more than half are now with me. Those who aren't do so begrudgingly, save a couple who outright refuse to listen. But I shall continue to work with them on their fighting skills. I will train them until they break and see that I am their leader, that they answer to me."

  Elena smiled. "I have no doubt you will win them over soon."

  He lifted his chin toward the keep. "And the wounded, how do they fare?"

  "We lost one in the night. Several have succumbed to fever and infection, but Mercy is working hard to get them all well again. I think it will be at least a week or two before we can say for sure."

  A shout from the men atop the outer wall diverted Michael's attention. He signaled with his hands, and then turned back to Elena.

  "I must go. But I will see you soon." He bowed to her before turning to attend his men.

  Elena stood watching for a moment longer and then turned toward the chapel. She did indeed need the solace and peace of God, for she wished more than anything that Michael would pick her up and carry her away, Kent be damned.

  Kent ordered the sick out of his great hall.

  Servants bustled to and fro with supplies and cleaning, as the soldiers carried the wounded down to the dungeon.

  "Get them out of here! They are stinking up my hall. Take them to the dungeon!" Kent bellowed.

  No one dared question him. He would only retaliate with his fists if they did. After three days of the wounded taking away his space, the lord was through with it. He tripped over one of the wounded in his drunken stupor and ended up nearly beating the man to death before he realized it was an unconscious soldier and not someone out to get him.

  For the past three days Elena had avoided Kent at all costs taking her meals in her room. She stole from her room to tend to the sick early in the morning and late at night when Kent would most likely still be suffering from too much ale.

  This night she'd crept down well after the sun set, but she'd come too early, for Kent bellowed and cursed for the sick to be removed.

  "Elena!" he roared in her direction. "Did you order this? Did you tell them to put these beggars in my hall?"

  Anger seethed inside her at what he was doing. These men should not be moved until they were well. They'd risked their lives for their lord and he repaid them by having them sent to the dank and dark dungeon to recover? They would most likely die within the week if they were kept there.

  She dared to answer, but she did not meet his eyes. "They are your men, my lord. They suffered wounds when the castle was attacked. You ordered them to be placed here to be tended."

  Several servants stopped what they were doing to watch. Their eyes darted from lord to lady in distressed silence. Elena took a chance to spy Kent's face. His eyes bulged, his face was puffy and red, and his mouth moved into a silent snarl. He stalked forward and his thick fingers pressed painfully to her chin as he lifted her face to his.

  "What did you just say to me, you insolent wench?" He shook her face, and pain seared within her head at the jolt. "Dare you question me? Try to make me look like a fool? You're the fool. I should beat you for talking to me like that," he threatened.

  Fear trickled along her spine. Where was Michael? How she wished he could come and whisk her away. She hadn't spoken to him since the few days prior in the bailey, both of them so busy with trying to get the village and castle back to rights after the attack.

  "Answer me!" he bellowed. Spittle landed on her cheeks, the scent of stale ale and rotting meat coming with it.

  She tried not to vomit, and instead took in a deep breath. "I would never question you, my lord," she managed.

  He let go of her face with a little shove, which sent her stumbling backward. She stretched her jaw from side to side, knowing there would be bruised fingerprints on her chin by morning. No one in the great hall moved. She didn't think they were even breathing, wanting to melt into the floor just as much as she did.

  "Want to play mistress with me, eh?" His voice was deadly low as he looked at her with contempt. He lunged forward and grabbed her by the hair, dragged her over to a nearby table, stumbling as he went, so deep in his cups was he. He thrust her face down on the table, the wood top of a loose peg jamming into your cheekbone. She hissed in pain and fisted her hands. He leaned over her, his putrid mouth against her cheek. "You're a little bitch, you know that? You need to be taught a lesson."

  He ground his pelvis into her backside as he spoke. "Shall I teach you a lesson in front of everyone?"

  A tear trickled out of Elena's eye, over her nose and onto the table. Kent had humiliated her before but never like this. Would he truly rape her in front of all the servants? She wouldn't be able to bear it. If it came to that she would run up to the top of the parapet and throw herself to the ground below.

  "My lord," came a steady, strong male voice from the direction of the main entrance.

  Michael.

  Relief washed over her for a moment, and at the same time, utter shame. Tears fell from her eyes, as she silently sobbed. She didn't want him to see her like this.

  Kent stood up, no longer touching her. Elena wanted to stand, but she couldn't move. Her legs trembled, and she thought if she did stand she would vomit. In fact, the table, at that moment, was the only thing keeping her from crumpling to the floor.

  "What the hell do you want, Devereux?" Kent bellowed. "Can't you see I am in the middle of disciplining my wife?"

  Elena closed her eyes tightly. How she wanted Michael to split her husband in two, and how much she knew he couldn't do it, else face the executioner's blade.

  She could hear the clicking of boots as Michael walked toward them. "There is something I want to show you."

  "It will have to wait. I am in the middle of teaching this bitch a lesson."

  "It cannot wait, my lord." Michael's voice was filled with authority.

  "You have some nerve interrupting me." Kent's voice was filled with anger, his words slurred.

  "Under normal circumstances, my lord, I would never dare. 'Tis simply a matter of safety, and I would see to it that Kent is safe, and thy lordship safe, for if you were to tarry here, there is no telling what might happen."

  "What do you mean by that?" Kent sounded confused now, not sure if Michael's words were a threat or not.

  "Come with me, I shall show you."

  With a resigned and annoyed sigh, Kent followed Michael out of the great hall. When the doors banged shut, what felt like a thousand murmurs and hands were on Elena lifting her from the table and taking her to her room. She wasn't sure who they all were, only that it was more than just her ladies. The servants helped her, cooed to her, all having witnessed the brutality and cruelty of their master to a woman who cared so much about them.

  From the hell Kent put her through, came a beacon of light. The people respected her. They loved her.

  And once again, the Black Knight had saved her.

  Pure rage wrangled within Michael. He wanted to reach out beside him and rip Kent limb from limb, feed his parts to the wolves. And he would relish it.

  Their booted feet clomped in the dirt and grass of the bailey. Kent's breathing was loud and heavy, like he was still calming himself from the exertion of mistreating his wife.

  My God, Elena!

  Michael closed his eyes while
they walked and took steady breaths. He didn't really have anything to show Kent, and hoped by the time they reached the main gate that he'd come up with something, and that Kent would be too tired to really care.

  When he'd walked into the great hall, he'd done so in order to see Elena. He knew she'd been tending to the sick at night and he wanted desperately to see her. It had been days since they'd made love, since he'd seen her in the bailey, and he wanted to lay eyes on her. Have her look at him again in a way that sent his blood pulsing through his limbs, just so he could know it was real.

  The last thing he expected was to see her lying face down on a table while her husband abused her. Rage swept through him anew. To see Kent as he slammed her head down, see him begin to hike up her skirts like he would take her right there in front of everyone…

  Michael balled his hands into fists again.

  Aye, this control he had was taking quite a toll on him. Instead of heading to the main gate they ended up at the chapel door. A small light shimmered underneath, probably from candles lit on the altar. He needed to seek consolation from God. He needed patience to deal with this man, to not shred him from head to toe—that wouldn't help Elena at all.

  "Why've you brought me to the chapel?" Kent snarled.

  To make you pray for your sins. "My lord, there is a tunnel which leads from the chapel to the castle, and then also from the chapel to outside the village walls."

  Kent rolled his eyes, annoyed. "Aye, and?"

  "I wasn't made aware of it when I arrived."

  Kent's hands landed on his hips and he swayed a bit with the movement. "What of it?"

  "My lord, with all due respect, if I am to keep this village, your people, you safe, I must know all the tunnels which could be infiltrated by an enemy."

  Kent pressed his lips together as if contemplating what Michael said and then folded his arms over his chest. Wisps of his stringy, ashen hair fluttered in the wind. His eyelids began to droop a bit, and he was silent for so long, Michael wondered if he was going to fall asleep where he stood before answering the question.

  "There are others," he finally said.

  "Will you show me where they are located?"

  Kent's arms flew out all the sudden as he lost his balance and pitched forward. Michael regretfully caught him, but much rather wished the imbecile had landed face first in the dirt.

  "On the morrow, knight. I find I am very tired all of a sudden." He righted himself and yanked at his clothing as if it were too tight.

  "Right, my lord." But he knew Kent would probably not have any recollection of their meeting tonight, and as a result would most likely forget to show him the tunnels. Best if he sought out Elena in the morning to see if she knew.

  He walked Kent back to the castle, and was slightly disappointed to find Elena was not about. Then again he was relieved. He hoped she was locked away tight in her chamber with all her ladies about her.

  The great hall floor was bare as the servants had indeed done what their master asked and removed the wounded to the dungeon.

  "Where is everybody?" Kent slurred.

  "Who, my lord?"

  "My wounded soldiers. Are they all well now?"

  Michael glanced at Kent who headed for the table to swig some ale from an abandoned tankard. "They are in the dungeon, my lord."

  "What the hell are they doing in the dungeon? Have they gone corrupt, then?"

  Michael resisted the urge to roll his eyes and throw his hands up in the air. He wished there was some way he could tell the entire staff and village to pay no mind to their master since he obviously was not in his right mind, but that would only get back to Kent and Michael's own head would end up rolling in the straw.

  "No, my lord. You ordered them taken there."

  Kent slammed down his tankard and lurched to the side. "Insolent! That's what you are! You had them removed, I know it. You're against me. You want my title and my wife! That's why you've come here. Irish swine you are! Why—" But he didn't continue his sentence as his body lurched again and he fell backward, unconscious.

  Even though his ranting had only been the rage of a drunken man, his words rang all too clear—at least the part about Elena. Michael would have to tread carefully, for even though the earl would most likely not remember his words in the morning, they had taken root in his mind somehow.

  Michael had to get her away. Soon. One of these days he wouldn't be able to stop the abuse she was taking. And hadn't Elena sent for him to protect her?

  It took all of his might not to walk over to the drooped body of the earl and press his boot to his throat. Just a few short minutes of pressure on the windpipe and the earl would be gone from this earth. No one would suspect anything. The man was always deep in his cups. They'd think he died from drinking too much.

  Michael stepped forward, the desire to end this despicable, rotten, evil soul, overpowering. Just a few minutes…

  "Michael." Elena's soft voice stopped him.

  He jerked toward the sound of her voice. She hid in the shadows, but stepped out into the light enough for him to see one side of her face bruised and swollen. She opened her mouth, a small sob escaping, and he ran to her, pulled her into his arms and she sank against him, her tears wetting his tunic.

  "Oh, Elena," he whispered and stroked her hair, kissed her head.

  Then he realized what they were doing. They were so exposed, even if on the edge of the great hall.

  He pulled away. "Not here, my love. Let us find some private place."

  She nodded, and slid her hand into his. Michael squeezed her fingers and led her out of the great hall, up the spiral staircase. On the ramparts they would be alone, and it would be dark.

  As they passed out of the great hall, shadows lurked everywhere, as if even they plotted and planned.

  Wind whipped Elena's locks around her head and her skirts around her feet. She leaned her head back to look at the night sky—black with a thousand tiny lights sprinkling its surface. The moon was just a sliver, like the tip of a fingernail.

  Michael stood behind her, his hands rested on her hips and his lips nibbled gently at her neck. She leaned against him, secure in his comfort, secure in the weight and bulk of him. They were alone, not a guard atop this part of the parapets, and all around them the village slumbered.

  "Thank you," she murmured, leaning her head to the right so he might continue to kiss the length of her neck.

  His hands slipped all the way around her waist and he held her close. "You needn't thank me, Elena. The man is a monster."

  He took a deep ragged breath behind her. "I want to take you away from here. I want to do it soon."

  She took her gaze off the sky and looked down at the surrounding village. "Kent would go to the ends of the earth to find me—and kill me. You, too. My ladies would be tortured if I were to leave. And you…it would only bring shame to you and your family." She frowned. "I can't leave the people. Who would tend to the sick? The starving? I am their mistress, and already they have a tyrant for a master. If I can ease their burden in just a small way, I have to."

  "Take your ladies with you then, we shall plan it so no one knows. The servants can well manage themselves."

  She shook her head. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't. Too many people depended on her. To make matters worse, it would only ruin Michael's life. He would be hunted down, and with the number of spies Kent employed, he'd be found. Already Kent suspected something. The king was likely to make Michael a titled man in his own right for his service as a knight, but not if he were to steal her away. Any future Michael had would be destroyed, and all because of Elena.

  Michael's broad chest expanded against her back with his heavy sigh. "At least think about it. I want to get you away from the man—he is an abomination to all things human."

  "I will think about it." But she had no plans to contemplate it. Not now anyway. As much as her husband humiliated and hurt her, she would have to endure it a while longer.

 
Michael turned her to face him, his fingers tracing the outline of her chin. His touch was gentle, so much so that she didn't even wince when his fingers glided over her bruised cheek.

  "I wanted to murder him tonight. I wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp."

  "I know." She'd seen the look in his eyes.

  "You saved him, you know." His voice was filled with irony.

  "How so?"

  "When you walked into the great hall…" His forehead dropped to hers, and she could see in the faint moonlight that he'd closed his eyes. "I was going to kill him. When you walked in, I stopped."

  She'd thought as much. After Michael had taken Kent and she'd gone to her chambers to calm herself, she'd snuck back down to the great hall. She wasn't sure for what. Perhaps she'd been intent on murdering him herself while he drowned in his cups, or maybe she'd hoped to find Michael so she might gain comfort from his embrace. Whatever she'd looked for, seeing him had given her a moment of such relief and joy. But then she'd seen his face, so intent, serious, murder pooling in his eyes.

  Part of her wished he had gone ahead and done the deed, the other part of her was glad that he hadn't. How would she endure another day married to the devil incarnate? Confusion warred within her. She wanted desperately to get away, but knew it was impossible. At least she and Michael had each other now—if in secret—and an ocean no longer separated them. She supposed she'd have to do what she always did: retire to her rooms until the bruises healed. But for now, alone on the parapets with only the stars as witnesses, she wanted to forget her life at Kent. She wanted to be with the man she loved, even if only to pretend that it was their castle they stood atop of.

  "Kiss me, Michael." She tilted her head up, eyes closed and waited.

  But she didn't have to wait long. Soon his lips brushed over hers with such tenderness she choked on a sob.

  "Shh… Don't , my love," he murmured against her lips as he nuzzled her. The pads of his thumbs brushed away her tears, and his fingers threaded through her hair.

  She stepped closer to him, wanting to meld with his body, and he answered her silent gesture, by sliding his hands down her back and tucking her closer. The power and warmth of him, his gentle yet passionate nature, all surrounded her in a cocoon she never wanted to break free from.