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Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

Page 42

by Jill Elaine Hughes


  “Only a promise of jewels?” Robert tittered. “Not the jewels themselves?”

  “Well—“ Sabina stammered. “I have the promised jewels upon my person now. Or rather, on Arthur’s person—I mean, in a hidden pocket on Arthur’s saddle.”

  “I suppose that’s better than nothing,” Robert said. “Though chances are the abbess never got your message in the first place. Even if your messenger arrived safely, the monks who guard the abbey gates are under direct orders from the abbess to turn away all unannounced visitors. Except those bearing appropriate gifts, of course. Abbeys across the whole of England are being overrun by desperate maidens and long-suffering wives seeking escape from their marriages these days. And the abbeys can’t exactly afford to take in too many damsels in distress at present, what with King Henry cutting off all royal funds to the abbeys and monasteries as he reforms his Exchequer. Things became terribly corrupt when Henry’s idiot older brother was in charge, you see. No wonder even the abbess of mighty Glastonbury is known to take a bribe or two.”

  “You are very well-spoken and knowledgeable for a common mercenary,” Sabina remarked, insulting his occupation for the umpteenth time. But even she knew by now that Robert de Tyre was no commoner; clearly he was well-educated even by noble standards. “How do you come to know such things as this?”

  “’Tis part and parcel of my profession to know anything and everything about the circles of power in this country,” he explained. “Or any country, for that matter. I can hardly know how best to make my living if I don’t know where to find the best potential employers.” He paused, turned around in the saddle to gaze upon her. “Or where to find the information that my employers pay me to find.”

  Sabina’s upper lip curled in distaste. “So I suppose that means you’re a spy as well?”

  “I am whatever my employers require me to be, madam. My profession requires versatility above all other things.”

  “Your profession requires vile baseness above all things,” Sabina snarled. “Have you any morals at all?”

  “Yes, madam. Many. Especially where ladies are concerned. But then again, your position as a lady is, shall we say, somewhat uncertain at present. Therefore I cannot be held responsible for my actions if I forget to behave like a gentleman.”

  “Whatever do you mean, my position as a lady is uncertain? My God man, is there nothing about me you will not debase and insult?”

  Robert turned back around and faced forward. “I mean, madam, that when I heard no eligible Norman in all of England save for our dear misshapen friend Lord Reginald would have you in marriage, I assumed it was because you were grossly deformed, perhaps with a harelip or a humpback yourself, or possibly because you were pockmarked, or had the leprosy. But now I know it is not your appearance that men find so repulsive. Nay, it is obviously your foul mouth and ill-tempered, unladylike disposition. I pity any man who must spend his life tethered to you.”

  “You are impossible! My father will have your head on a stake!”

  “Nay, madam, it was your father who hired me. Indirectly, of course. But it was he who directed my employer to spare neither expense nor resources in finding you.”

  “So my father has betrayed me yet again,” Sabina mused. “I curse the day I was ever born a woman! If only I were a man, then I could control my own destiny instead of being thrown about the country like dice on a table.”

  She was silent then. Robert rode on, thanking God under his breath for finally clamping the infernal woman’s mouth shut. Lady Sabina of Angwyld would try any man’s patience. No wonder her father was willing to make such a bad match for her. The woman might speak highly of her father, but truth be told the Duke was probably as desperate to get his daughter out from under his roof as Robert was to get her off his horse.

  Still, there was something intriguing about his captive, however irritating she might be. He was surprised at how attractive she was, for one. In fact, Lady Sabina was beautiful—not at all what he’d expected. He’d expected a homely, portly woman at the very least, or possibly even a deformed hag—why else had she not been able to make a suitable marriage with anyone save Lord Reginald? Sure, she was a Saxon, and a willful one at that—but that alone shouldn’t have been enough to prevent her from obtaining multiple marriage proposals given her remarkable beauty. There had to be something else to the story.

  Of her parentage and family, Robert knew little save for what Lord Reginald had told him, along with what was common knowledge throughout the countryside. He knew that the Duke of Angwyld was a strong, educated, and intelligent man who spoke multiple languages and possessed a degree of political cunning unmatched by most anyone in England, save for Lord Reginald and the King himself. He also knew that the Angwyld lands were much coveted by King Henry and the rest of his loyal nobles for their fertile farmlands, hunting grounds, and proximity to the Welsh border.

  It was also common knowledge throughout the realm that Henry had his eye on conquering Wales. That posed a problem for the Duke, who was of Welsh descent and as such had negotiated a truce with Powys ap Mawr, the Welsh baron who controlled lands just to Angwyld’s west. The Duke was a man of his word, and directed his best vassals to protect the integrity of the border against any and all invaders, even if they came under the King’s direct orders. He had even gone so far as to turn away a garrison of royal footsoldiers and cavalrymen from entering his lands when he learned the King had sent them to scout the border for possible entrypoints in a Welsh invasion.

  No wonder the Duke’s back is against the wall, Robert thought. He cared more for his own treaties with a minor Welsh nobleman than for the King’s lawful decrees and military campaigns. The Duke’s only hope for security was to latch himself onto a man even the King knew better than to trifle with. Lord Reginald cared little for royal titles, especially considering that they changed hands so easily these days. A generation ago, William the Conqueror usurped King Harald with a small mounted army, and then Henry wrenched the crown away from William’s eldest son just last year. William II had died in the forest of an arrow through the lung while hunting. The story went that an arrow shot by one of William’s trusted advisors glanced off a tree trunk and ricocheted into the king’s chest, though no one, Robert included, believed that account. No one ever officially said so, but it was common knowledge that Henry had William murdered so he could take the throne in his stead.

  And who knew how long Henry would manage to hold onto his crown before someone tried to wrest it away from him? There were plenty of others who had claim to it, including his elder brother Robert, who was still away on the Crusades but could reappear in England at any time to claim his birthright. Power was a fickle thing in England; it was far better for all concerned to be under the protection of someone who was ruthless and feared by all than someone who was kind, gracious and benevolent. These days, grace and benevolence just got one killed.

  The Lady Sabina was nothing if not idealistic. She honestly seemed to believe that true love really existed, and had chosen an austere life devoted to God and prayer rather than live with someone she did not love. That meant the woman obviously hadn’t been raised properly. Everyone knew that noblewomen never experienced true love. True love was a fantasy that only happened in fairy tales and bards’ ballads. And besides, only landless peasants married for love. Anyone of any importance married only for power. Or else never married at all.

  Robert de Tyre was of the latter sort. He had little use for women, and even less for marriage. If ever he had need of a woman, he could visit a brothel. There were plenty of them scattered throughout the countryside. And failing that, he encountered plenty of lonely widows in his line of work. Even if spending long weeks and months in the field with Lord Reginald got his blood running hard and hot for female comfort, he always knew that the comfort of a woman would always be as close as the nearest wenching tavern on his next night off.

  Robert had always been able to keep his masculine needs under control. He ne
ver lost his head over a woman, never got one with child or came down with the pox (being a Norman and therefore French, he knew to use the “French letter” device whenever he bedded anyone). He had no use for romance or courtly love; he thought the troubadours of his homeland were nothing but prissy annoyances. Courtly love and romance were for idle, effeminate men with too much time on their hands. Robert was a mercenary soldier; he had no time for such things. Women were simply receptacles who were easily discarded when one was finished with them. Any man who fawned and pined over a woman, who let her dominate his thoughts and actions, was obviously a weakling. Or so Robert had once believed.

  All at once, those steadfast beliefs of his seemed hollow. Because like it or not, Lady Sabina of Angwyld had managed to get under Robert’s skin. Try as he might to clear his head of carnal thoughts about her naked body or his heart of its growing desire to cherish and protect her, they held steady.

  It was absurd. It was impossible. Robert de Tyre cared nothing for women. Never had. Never would. And yet, in just a few short hours, Lady Sabina of Angwyld had managed to break through all of his deeply-held notions and touch his heart.

  He would have to put a stop to that, however. Lady Sabina simply wasn’t his to claim. She belonged to his employer. And that made her off-limits. Which was precisely why they were headed to the abbey at Glastonbury. Robert knew that he had to get Sabina to a safe place where she would be looked after and protected until he could arrange for Lord Reginald’s garrison to come and retrieve her. Somewhere there was no chance that they would ever be alone together, somewhere he would never again be tempted by her beauty, or even her sharp tongue. Although he’d never admit it out loud, it was her sharp tongue and unladylike disposition that attracted him to her the most. She annoyed him and tried his patience to be sure, but there was a part of him that enjoyed that part of her immensely. He had no idea why. Sabina’s willful, impudent nature represented everything that he’d always been taught to detest in women—and instead, it just made him desire her even more.

  All the more reason to get the wench safely locked in a cell behind Glastonbury’s walls, post-haste.

  Fortunately for him, Lord Reginald had made a substantial donation of gold, wheat, and barley to Glastonbury just a few months before, so it was likely the abbess would do him a return favor. Robert’s master was no devout religious man, but he understood the influence the monks and nuns at Glastonbury had with the Crown, and placed his bets accordingly. At this point Lord Reginald had little faith that Henry’s crown would stick, especially if his older brother Robert Curthose returned from the Crusades anytime soon. His master knew well that keeping the princes and princesses of the Church happy always paid political dividends, even if you detested everything the Church stood for. Henry was keeping the Church poor in his realm for a carefully calculated reason, after all. The Church would surely play a major role in England yet again if Henry’s elder brother Robert Curthose ever returned victorious from his Crusade, and Lord Reginald, in his typical political maneuvering, wanted to be prepared for it.

  The heavy gates of Glastonbury were finally in sight. Robert led both horses up to the holy fortress’ walls and rapped on the heavy iron gate with his sword hilt. After a long moment, a tiny slit in the gate popped open, revealing a single set of eyes.

  “Who goes there?” asked a raspy, ancient-sounding voice—likely one of the ascetic Benedictine monks that staffed the adjoining monastery.

  “It is Master Robert de Tyre, commander of Lord Reginald de Guillaume’s personal cavalry,” Robert replied. “I wish to see the abbess.”

  “The abbess does not receive visitors unannounced,” came the old monk’s reply, just as Robert had expected it would.

  “Please inform the abbess that Lord Reginald of Guillaume sent me to check on the very substantial gift he made to the nuns’ abbey this spring,” Robert said. “And perhaps even to take it back by force, should the abbess not honor my request for an audience.”

  Robert chuckled as Sabina let out a soft gasp just behind him. Threatening a horde of defenseless nuns and toothless monks wasn’t exactly gentlemanly behavior, of course. But Robert’s years as a mercenary had taught him that whenever a door is slammed in your face, it never hurts to grease the hinges a little.

  The monk coughed loudly. “One moment, please sir,” he said, and the slit in the gate slammed shut with a metal bang.

  Almost ten minutes later, the monk returned. “The abbess has agreed to admit you, Master Robert,” he called through the slit in the gate. “Please stand clear while I open the gates.”

  Robert guided the horses backward a few yards, and the gates slowly creaked open, revealing a rusty iron portcullis. The ancient monk grunted with effort as he turned a heavy iron wheel, and the portcullis rose just enough to let Robert and Sabina through on foot. “You will leave your horses behind, sir,” the monk instructed. “Our stable master will be through to fetch and shelter them momentarily. They will be fed and watered.”

  Robert nodded his understanding, and proceeded to unlash Sabina from Amir’s back. He untied her and set her down carefully, but still left a length of rope attached to her waist so she couldn’t run away. He tied the other end to his wrist. “Go retrieve your jewels from Arthur’s saddle,” he instructed her. “Likely we’ll have need of them. And you wouldn’t want to risk a stable boy finding them, either.”

  Sabina begrudgingly did as she was told, though she hated being tethered to a leash like a dog. Still, here she was at Glastonbury. Perhaps there was still a chance she could plead her case for the abbess and escape this hell once and for all. And yet a tiny part of her hoped that Robert de Tyre would stay here at the abbey with her. It was a strange and absurd hope, to be sure, but Sabina couldn’t deny that it existed.

  They passed through the abbey gates, and the old monk lowered the portcullis. He eyed Sabina lasciviously as he did so; she could feel his old, rheumy eyes upon her body. The old monk likely seldom laid eyes on any woman who wasn’t covered from head to toe in a shapeless black habit, and here Sabina was, her traveling clothes soaked through with mud and rain and clinging to every inch of her body. She was probably the closest thing the monk had seen to a nude woman in half a lifetime. Sabina stared back at him hard; the monk finally checked himself and looked away. “Three novices will greet you at the abbey entrance,” he said. “They will provide you with meals, lodgings and fresh clothes before your audience with the abbess this evening after vespers.” He made a subtle motion at Sabina’s filthy gown and Robert’s dusty traveling garb. “You are not fit to go before her now. Go rest, and enjoy the meager comforts that the abbey provides. The abbess will hear your requests in due time.” With that, the old monk returned to his post.

  Robert untied the rope from Sabina’s waist and let her walk freely. “Well, we’re locked inside the abbey walls, so I don’t have to worry about you running away for the moment. So enjoy your freedom, Your Ladyship. While you still have it.”

  Sabina stared at him with narrowed eyes that flashed blue fire. “If things go my way, Robert, I shall always have my freedom. Regardless of whatever you might say about it.”

  “Whatever you choose to believe is your affair, Lady Sabina—whether or not it has any basis in reality.” He gestured for Sabina to take the lead. “But as a gentlemanly gesture, I shall let you take the front position for once.”

  Sabina stood stock still, her feet frozen to the ground. She didn’t move a muscle.

  Robert sighed and shook his head. “Suit yourself, then. Come along, Your Ladyship. Methinks the Abbess will require us both to take a bath before we grace her with our presence.” He sauntered off towards the abbey entrance, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see if Sabina followed him. She didn’t. He shrugged his shoulders and kept going.

  A group of six white-robed novices greeted him by the main entrance of the outer cloister. The inner cloister was off-limits to visitors, of course, but these young women had not yet
taken their final vows and therefore weren’t confined to the locked and mostly silent inner cloister. Robert scanned their faces—the only parts of their bodies that showed underneath their severe wimples and robes—and saw that the youngest among them couldn’t be more than twelve.

  The oldest among the novices—a plain, grey-eyed girl about the same age as Sabina, stepped forward. “Good my lord, we shall show you and your lady to your rooms. My novice sisters and I shall bathe and dress your lady, while you shall be assisted by one of our Benedictine brothers in their own cloister. I hope this is an acceptable arrangement for you.”

  “Perfectly acceptable, madam. May I ask your name?”

  The girl blushed. “My novice sisters and I have no names as of yet. We relinquished our Christian given names upon taking our first vows. We have no names until our final vows, when Reverend Mother gives us our new and holy ones. For now you and your lady may address us as all as Sisters in Christ.” She leaned her head to the side a bit to glance around Robert’s shoulder. “Why does your lady not follow you, sir? That is peculiar. And she does not look well. Is she ill?”

  “She is filthy and dressed like a common harlot,” sneered one of the other novices. The rest of them tittered and whispered among themselves.

  “First of all, Sister, she not my lady. I merely accompanied her here. She is the lawful fiancé of Lord Reginald de Guillaume, who recently made a very generous financial gift to your abbey. So I think it goes without saying that you show her the appropriate respect.”

  The lead novice blanched even paler. “Forgive my youngest Sister, sir. She must learn to hold her tongue. We of course will provide our highest comfort and respect to the betrothed bride our great and blessed benefactor, Lord Reginald.” She paused, gave him a slight nod of respect. “And to his servant as well.

  “Thank you, Sister. But focus your attentions on the lady, please. You needn’t worry about me.”

 

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