Margo Maguire

by The Virtuous Knight

  She looked stunned,

  her eyes large and blue, the gold lashes tipped by fiery red. “There is so much to do—”

  “It will get done,” he said, frowning at her stubbornness. Then he rubbed the oily salve into the skin of one small hand. Her bones were delicate, but the flesh was firm and well seasoned by work.

  He finished with the first hand, then had started to work on the second when her chest suddenly rose and a distinctly feminine sound escaped her. Her eyes were closed and she bore an expression he had not seen in years. ’Twas one of ecstasy.

  Arousal hit him like a punch.

  Her cheeks were flushed and her lips slightly parted. Waves of golden hair framed her face and her pulse beat rapidly in her throat. Still holding her hand, Alex moved closer, feeling quite certain that his very existence depended upon tasting her mouth….

  The Virtuous Knight

  Harlequin Historical #681

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  This book is dedicated to my middle child, Joseph, as he embarks on his college career.

  Good luck, Joe—and be happy!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The Holy Land, April, 1257

  Blood pumped from the fresh wound in Alexander Breton’s upper arm, staining his sleeve crimson. Ignoring the pain, Sir Alex pulled Roger Kendal—his friend and mentor—from the field of battle. The other knights gave cover as he moved, turning to force the battle away from their fallen comrade.

  Using the body of a slaughtered horse to shield them, Alex tore away the edge of his tunic and quickly tied it around the wound in his arm, stanching the flow of blood. Then he leaned over Brother Roger, the monk with whom he had traveled a thousand miles on a sacred mission.

  During their journey from France to the Holy Land, Alex had learned of piety and sacrifice beyond what was expected of any knight. He’d witnessed Roger’s charity and his humility. And Alexander had decided that when he returned to the monastery at Cluny, he would take the vows that would make him a Benedictine monk.

  “Roger,” Alex said, his voice low and urgent. “We must get you away from here! To the caves!”

  Roger’s eyes opened. No longer were they the clear, vibrant blue of the Jerusalem sky, but cloudy and stained, dark with death. Yet they focused intently upon Alex.

  “My scabbard…” Roger’s voice rasped. His thick, blond hair was muddy with red sand and sweat. Blood gushed from the wound in his side.

  “You cannot think to take up arms, Roger,” Alex said. The thought of his friend dying was intolerable. He must do something. He must get Roger away from the battle and see to his wound.

  Alex glanced ’round. The distance to the caves was great, but he was certain he could carry Roger in spite of the deep wound in his arm.

  “Nay, Alex…you must take my…” Roger swallowed dryly. “Take the silver scabbard….”

  Alex pulled the waterskin from the saddle and moistened a bit of cloth. Then he lifted Roger’s head and wet his lips. “The scabbard we were to take back to Cluny? We will speak of it lat—”

  “Aye,” Roger said, struggling for breath. His eyes drifted closed, and Alex took note of the weak, fluttering pulse visible in his neck. There was no time to waste with words, yet Roger continued to speak. “It contains… ’Tis a sacred relic…. Take the scabbard, the sword…to England. To my brother, John of Eryngton… ’Tis too dangerous to take it to France…. That is where… Skelton will expect…”

  An alarming rattling emanated from Roger’s throat.

  “Roger, I’m going to move you away from the fray,” Alex said. He kept his voice level and calm, even though he urgently felt the need to get Roger to a safe place.

  “Keep it hidden…. There are those who suspect…Lord Skelton will try…to take it from you….” Roger continued in a rasping voice, as if he’d not heard Alex’s words. He grimaced with pain and made another ominous sound as he opened his eyes. “Keep it safe, Alex,” he gasped, taking hold of Alex’s tunic. “Do not let it fall…into the wrong hands.”

  “Roger,” Alex said, taking hold of the older knight’s arms, “you must brace yourself, I’ll carry you—”

  “Nay,” Roger protested weakly. “Do not waste the effort. I am a dead man. Listen.”

  Alex stopped momentarily, fully intending to move his friend as soon as he said what preyed on his mind.

  “God go with you, Alex,” Roger said. “You are a good man…but ’tis not clear that you were meant…for the Benedictines. ’Twas your wife’s death…that drove you to us….” Roger struggled for breath as the light faded from his eyes. “Do not…I beseech you, do not make your vows…until after you’ve returned from England.”

  “Roger—”

  “When you return to Cluny, if you still…wish to pledge your life…to the Order…”

  “Save your breath, Roger,” Alex said.

  “Nay,” Roger said urgently. “Promise me. ’Tis a dying man’s wish.”

  Alex looked away for an instant, taking in the bright sky, the brilliant sunlight, the sand-washed land. ’Twas a harsh place in which to die. He turned back to Roger with resignation. “Aye, you have it. My promise to take the scabbard to your brother.”

  “And…your vows… Promise me you will wait until your return to Cluny….”

  “Aye,” Sir Alexander replied. He took hold of Roger’s hands and made his promise, then watched as his most revered friend in all the world commended his soul to heaven.

  Chapter One

  October 1257

  Lucy Kendal rode in the back of the supply wagon and tipped her head, watching the clouds gather overhead. She tried to shut out the sound of Lady Elsbeth’s voice, but was unable to eliminate it entirely. Elsbeth always managed to find something to complain of, no matter what her situation, and this lovely
morn was no exception.

  “You should never have made us ride off without our escort, Sister Gunnora,” Elsbeth said from her perch high upon her poor mount. She was the only one of the party riding horseback. “’Tis dangerous to be on the road without prop—”

  “We’re better off without the drunken oafs,” the stern old nun replied. “Such a worthless pair of heathens I should ever hope to…” she muttered, her voice trailing off.

  While Lucy reveled in these few days of freedom from the strict rules of Craghaven Abbey, Elsbeth did not care for the ride, or the weather or the food. The lady disliked the company, the pitted road and the poor horse she’d been forced to ride on their journey to the new abbey in Yorkshire. She deplored the mean inns where they’d been required to pass the nights, and scorned the lackluster service they’d received in those inns.

  And Elsbeth took every possible opportunity to berate her spiteful, ungrateful husband, who had banished her from The World, as she called it, to the abbey for her many infidelities.

  “Just think, Lady Elsbeth,” Lucy said, carefully choosing her words. The abbess had rebuked her all too often for her reckless tongue. “Tonight there will be no impertinent servants, nor bitter mead. We will cook our own provisions and sleep under the stars.”

  “The clouds, more like,” Elsbeth replied with disdain. “And rain. Sleeping out of doors,” she scoffed. “’Tis inhumane, forcing us to spend the night without shelter.”

  Lucy smiled, breathing deeply of the fresh air, full of the promise of a cleansing shower. Rain did not bother her. Being caged behind the cloister walls like some housewife’s fowl, and having every day of her life regimented to prayers—Matins in the morn, Lauds and Terce, then Vespers and Complines—did little for Lucy’s soul. Aye, she well knew that all these prayers should enrich her soul, but they did not.

  Certainly she prayed to Almighty God, and she was as devout as any good Christian, but there were so many other things in The World that manifested God’s glory. The beautiful, shimmering, golden elm that stood outside the abbey wall was an exquisite example of God’s power and majesty. The ungainly first steps of a newborn lamb, the sound of Sister Maria’s voice, raised in song, the color of the sky at sunrise… In Lucy’s opinion, ’twas the appreciation of these fine things that gave God his due, so much more than any meager words she uttered while on her knees.

  And ’twas this very attitude that made Lucy wholly unsuitable as a nun. She had lived in the abbey in Leicestershire since her twelfth year, but had managed to avoid taking her vows for all these years. And during her time at the abbey, she’d spent many an hour imagining what her life could be, outside the walls.

  Lucy was painfully aware that she had no alternative but to remain a part of the nunnery. Still, she had no wish to cloister herself behind the high walls of the new abbey. Holywake, ’twas called, and the new abbey in Yorkshire was said to be even more secluded than Craghaven, which had become overcrowded. The very thought of another thirty or forty hollow years, secluded and barren at Holywake, gave her unease.

  “I suppose you care not if you get soaked to the skin tonight,” Elsbeth said, “though a person with your infirmities ought to be concerned.”

  Lucy laughed. She was lame, that’s all. She had been sickly as a child, but she’d outgrown it, and become healthy at Craghaven. She had naught to fear from a simple autumn rain.

  Lady Elsbeth frowned at her, glancing ’round nervously as if someone might hear Lucy’s sparkling laughter. The proud lady had performed many a harsh penance since her banishment to the abbey, but Lucy did not believe the woman had changed in the least. Prayer and suffering had done naught to improve her. Lady Elsbeth had merely become cautious.

  “You should be glad the abbess is far away and unable to hear such frivolity from you,” Elsbeth said. “’Tis not—”

  “Please, Elsbeth,” Lucy said. “The abbess is far away and…” A strange thought crept into her mind.

  What if Lucy went away, and stayed away? What if she made certain that the abbess never had dominion over her again? She might even leave tonight, while the others were sleeping. She had no particular attachment to Lady Elsbeth or any of these nuns—the women of the cloister barely knew each other. They were encouraged to keep apart, and silence was the rule. They would hardly miss her, were she gone from their midst.

  What if she made her way to the nearest town or village, or to a manor house or castle? Would she be able to make her way in The World alone? Surely she could she gain employment as a nurse to some noble children, or as a castle seamstress. Mayhap she could earn her way helping a town brewer, or hiring herself out for other domestic jobs.

  Lucy bit one corner of her lower lip. Such dreams were impossible, and she knew it. She was a cripple, and though she was the daughter of an earl, he was long dead, as were her brothers. The cousin who had inherited her father’s title had sent her to Craghaven Abbey to absolve himself of responsibility for her. She had no distinguishing skills, and knew naught of The World outside the cloister—other than the intriguing tales of love and lust that Elsbeth had told in secret.

  Resigned to her fate, Lucy said, “We have only a few days until we reach Holywake. Let us spend them in peace and in the enjoyment of our free—”

  “You two would do well,” said Sister Avice, “to engage yourselves in a few moments of prayerful silence.”

  “’Tis well past time for Terce now anyhow,” Sister Gunnora said sternly, as if Lucy did not know their daily routine, as if she had not participated in these prayers every day since she’d recovered from the illness that had caused her cousin to send her to Craghaven.

  At that moment, Lucy made her decision. She would go this very night. This would be the last time she ever stopped what she was doing in order to pray Terce.

  Sister Gunnora spoke again. “Pull the wagon to the side, Sister Avice, and we—” A startled scream ended the woman’s words abruptly, and she collapsed across the bench.

  Before Lucy and Elsbeth could comprehend what had happened, the horses bolted and Sister Gunnora was thrown from her seat. Elsbeth screamed. Lucy held on as the wagon careened down the path.

  Men on horseback chased them. Lucy could not spare a moment to look behind, for she knew that if the horses continued at this rate, she and Sister Avice would be thrown from the wagon and break their necks. She had to climb to the front and help the old woman regain control of the horses.

  An arrow whizzed past Lucy’s ear, and she ducked down into the wagon bed. Suddenly, the wagon became airborne. Lucy could no longer feel every bump in the road, and she knew that the worst possible thing had happened. She was not going to look for her freedom tonight. She was going to die.

  Sir Alexander Breton heard a commotion somewhere on the road behind him, and turned to see a rough wagon careening toward him, out of control. Then a saddled, riderless horse galloped past him. Two mounted men in decrepit knights’ hauberks and helms rode in pursuit of the wagon. ’Twas clear that the men were miscreants, and the women on the wagon their intended victims.

  They were obviously not Lord Skelton’s well-equipped knights whom he had evaded yestereve at Doncaster.

  The wagon hit a deep pit in the road and flew into the air. Horses screamed, and the women were thrown. Alex drew his sword, kicked his heels into his mount and dashed toward the knaves who had caused this disaster. He would secure justice for these women, even though ’twas too little, done too late.

  The two scoundrels had a mere fraction of the skill and experience that was possessed by a knight of Alex’s stature. Even with a lingering soreness from the wound in his arm, he had no trouble dispatching the two men quickly, and without regret. He took a deep breath, glanced up at the cloud-filled sky, then went to look for survivors.

  Alex found the first body near the wagon. The woman had been elderly, and was clearly a nun though she carried a pouch of coins. The second one lay at the base of a giant oak, her neck broken. He looked ’round fo
r the other two—he was certain there had been at least one more body thrown from the wagon, and one from the horse.

  He heard a groan.

  Quickly following the sound, he came upon a much younger nun, pulling herself out of a murky fen, some twenty paces from the road. ’Twas likely her fall into the bog had saved her life.

  She was soaked with the brackish water, her body clearly defined through the worn cloth of her kirtle. Her skin was so pale, ’twas nearly transparent. Her stunned blue eyes stood out starkly—providing the only color in her face, other than a purpling bruise upon her chin. Even her lips were white with shock, but she moved with courage and purpose.

  Alex stood with his fists clenched at his sides. Raw emotion knifed through him as he looked at the woman moving clumsily up the soggy bank. ’Twas impossible that he should feel so awkward now, so affected by her feminine vulnerability. This situation was no different from the multitude of times he’d gone to battle in defense of his liege lord, or of the monks at Cluny. And in his recent travels he had defended many a good woman on pilgrimage.

  Yet this was different. It seemed all too personal this time, and his intense urge to protect and admire her ran contrary to the numbness he’d felt in the three years since the death of his wife, Isabella, and their infant son.

  “Pater Noster,” he said under his breath, forcing himself to pray rather than gaze upon the woman’s comely form, “qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.”

  The Latin words calmed him, gave him the peace and detachment he craved. He could touch this woman, he could gaze upon her gentle features and feel naught. “Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.”

  Even more composed now, he gave her his hand and pulled her the rest of the way out of the water. She collapsed on dry land and rolled her legs up into her chest, shaking violently. And she said naught. Moisture filled her eyes, yet she did not weep. Light brows, delicately arched, came together in puzzlement as she looked up at him.