Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  As he spoke those words, the attention of the diners returned to their meals as if the entertainment had never occurred. With one more glance at Maris, who watched him with an unfathomable expression, Dirick turned to make his way back to his place at the front of the hall.

  Somehow, amid the din that had started back up to accompany the meal, he heard her gasp. He spun about in time to see Bon’s dagger slashing down upon him. Dirick instinctively raised his arm and the blade, which had been meant for his back, sliced through the woolen tunic, along the back of his shoulder. With a howl of rage, he leaped at Bon, knocking him to the floor.

  Kneeling over the stocky man, he pinned one thick arm in the sweet rushes and grappled with the other that held the dagger.

  “I did not ever,” he grunted, “have the occasion to repay the hospitality which—” Dirick’s breath was cut off by a knee shoved into his ribs, but that effort cost Bon the battle for the knife. “—The hospitality which you provided to Lady Maris.”

  The brief, close struggle ended with the point of the blade very near Bon’s throat, and a crowd of men pressing in upon the scene. Dirick pulled himself to his feet, slightly winded but enlivened from the sudden intensity of the quarrel. “Get you out of my sight, else I will well and truly repay your graciousness to the lady. And know this—you need have no fear of turning your back to me, Bon de Savrille, for when I mean to strike you, there will be no need for stealth.”

  His face distorted with rage, Bon pulled himself to his feet and pushed through the cluster of spectators. Again, as the altercation dissipated, so did the viewers, returning to their interrupted meals with the aplomb of long‑acceptance of such scenes.

  “You’ll have a care in the dark hallways, anon,” murmured a voice behind Dirick.

  He turned to Maris. Her smirk had been replaced by a frown that creased her forehead. “The man is a buffoon,” he said carelessly. She stood close to him, her long cuff brushing against the hem of his tunic, and he did not move away.

  “Ah, buffoon though he is, ’tis he who walked away unscathed and you who have the wound.” Concern lurked under her nonchalance as she rose on her toes to look at his shoulder. Dirick became aware of the spreading dampness of warm blood and a throbbing pain beneath it. “Come, I’ll see to your ill, as you made the fool of yourself on my behalf.”

  Her brisk voice dampened any tenderness that may have been in her eyes and Dirick was strangely annoyed. “Nay, lady, I’ll not keep you from your meal.”

  Maris tilted an eyebrow, looking up at him. “I have little hunger left, as your talk of bloodshed sapped my desire for food. Come, if I am skilled enough to treat the queen, verily I can do you little harm. And while you stand there and dawdle, your tunic is getting soiled!”

  He muttered that she could indeed inflict harm upon him, as he had the memory of an agonizing night on a cold floor to prove it, but in the end, he followed her from the hall. Sir Raymond dogged their footsteps as Maris led the way toward the main hallway to the other side of Westminster.

  “I will watch over your mistress, Raymond, you may return to the hall for your meal.” The other man ignored Dirick’s comment while Maris stopped short and turned a cool look on him. “My men take orders from no one but me, Sir Dirick.” Then she turned to Sir Raymond. “Nevertheless, the man is in the right. Raymond, you may return and join the others for dinner. Though he has a wounded shoulder, I vow Dirick will allow no harm to come to me.”

  “My lady,” Raymond began hesitantly, then tried again. “But Lady Maris, you cannot take him to your chamber! ’Twould be but more fuel to the fire already started back there!”

  Maris shook her head, “Agnes awaits me—we’ll not be alone. I’ll give him a poultice and send him on his way before anyone is the wiser. Now, go you.”

  They were silent for the remainder of the long walk to her chamber. When they reached the heavy oaken door, Dirick opened it and preceded her in.

  Maris stood in the entrance, watching as he scouted the room with a sharp gaze. His attention went from the smoldering fire to the trunks lined neatly along one short wall, to the narrow bed piled with pillows from her own bedchamber at Langumont.

  “Your maidservant is not here.” He’d moved back to the door and stood half in and half out of the room.

  “I did not expect her to be,” she said, dismissing the thought with a wave of her hand. “Come within.”

  She pushed the door closed, nudging him out of the way, then knelt beside a trunk, untying its leather straps and flinging its lid open. As she rummaged through cloths and small bags, the hem of her veil fell forward and tangled in the contents of the trunk. With a mutter of frustration, she yanked it off, uncovering the four thick braids that were looped up at her crown. Tossing the wimple aside, she delved once more into the depths of the trunk and at last retrieved a small pouch. She set it aside, rummaged further, and withdrew a small square of folded cloth.

  When Maris pulled to her feet, she found Dirick poking at the fire, his back to her. The dark red stain on his shoulder had seeped further, but not alarmingly so. She reached to shift the cloth away from the wound, but he moved just as she touched him. “You must remove your tunic and shirt,” she told him.

  He hesitated as his gaze rested on her unveiled head, then dropped to her hands holding the leather pouch. “Aye.”

  She waited for a moment, but when he did not move, she stepped toward him. “Does it pain you to move? Let me help you.”

  “Nay.” He stopped her. “It does not pain me overmuch. Mayhap—” he craned his head at an odd angle, twisting to see the blood stain, “mayhap it has stopped bleeding and I do not need nursing.”

  “Dirick, do not be foolish. ’Twas a deep enough cut and I’ve seen many lesser wounds fester. Take off your tunic and I will see to it.” She gestured to a three‑legged stool in front of the fireplace. “You must sit, as I’ll not be able to see well at your height.”

  Maris frowned at him until he acquiesced and began to struggle out of the tunic. As he sat on the stool, clad only in a thin linen shirt and breeches, she turned to find another candle. Lighting the tallow, she placed it on one of the trunks where it would cast a ready light on his shoulder. Then, she added water to a small pot hanging over the fire. At last, she returned her attention to him just as he slowly pulled off the linen shirt.

  Her breath slowed, shallowed, and caught when she saw his sleek, muscled back and broad bare shoulders. She must have gasped, for he turned from his contemplation of the fire to look at her with half‑hooded eyes.

  For a moment, she could not speak. The fire played golden and rust shadows over the planes of his arms, caressing the dip in his shoulder and the hollow of his collarbone. It tipped the curling ends of his thick hair with sunlight, smoothing over the jut of angular cheekbones and square chin. Shadows mingled with the thick covering of hair that grew from the widest part of his chest down…down to a place she could not see.…to where heavy, muscled arms rested between his knees.

  She had seen many a bare torso in her work as a healer, and also as Lady of Langumont. But she had not expected to find herself so…aware…of this one.

  Maris forced herself to recover. “Ah, the stab—’tis worse than I’d thought.” She moved toward him and he turned back to look at the crackling fire. She’d treated countless injuries of this type. The only cause of her sudden nervousness was that they were alone in her chamber. Pushing aside these thoughts, she bent to examine the laceration.

  No sooner had she turned her attention to him than she realized this was not the same as any other time. He was not merely a patient to her, a wound to be healed, a bit of skin to be cleansed.

  And that thought made her all the more aware of what she was about to do.

  His skin was warm and taut, with a few wiry hairs scattered over the curve of his shoulder. There were many, many other scars healed into pale puckers of skin…and some that were purple or red, ugly and jagged. Maris wanted to touch them al
l, to smooth over the remnants of the dangers he’d faced in the service of the king, to be certain they were as healed as possible.

  Her fingers trembled as they brushed over Dirick’s shoulder blade and little bumps erupted over his skin. One of her braids fell from its mooring and thunked onto his shoulder, and Dirick started so that it slid down his back and rested along his spine.

  She felt him draw a breath when she dabbed a damp cloth over the cut, then poked gently at it. It was a clean cut from a very sharp dagger, not deep enough to slice through the tendons, but enough that it would take some time to heal. Some threads from his shirt had caught in the coagulating blood and Maris used a bit of the heating water to wash them free. As she became more engrossed in her work, he seemed to sense it and released a long, slow breath.

  When she left his side to prepare the poultice, Dirick shifted on the stool, watching her. Her fingers seemed to have grown twice as long and thrice as fat, as first they dropped the leather pouch, and then could not undo its knot. And finally, when she pulled a handful of dried woad leaves forth, her fingers did not hold them tightly enough and the leaves scattered over the floor and table.

  Muttering to herself, Maris stooped to scrape up the dried herb, taking care not to crumble the fragile leaves further. By the time she gathered them into a small wooden bowl, the water on the fire was bubbling and steaming. When she glanced over to check it, Dirick noticed, offering, “I’ll get that for you.”

  She nodded and returned to her work. The dried woad, at one time a pretty blue‑green color, but now dried into a dull black, crumbled in the bowl. She took a handful of dried chamomile flowers from a different leather pouch and added them to the woad. Dirick stood at her side, holding the hot water, and she gestured for him to add some to the herbs. He poured gently, taking care not to splash it, and when the water embraced the flowers and leaves, a pungent but pleasing scent filled the air.

  Maris brushed past him, lightly touching his bare arm as she reached for the square of cloth. He stiffened, stepping out of her way, and returned to his seat on the stool. She stirred the contents of the bowl, unfolded the cloth into a long strip, then turned back to her patient. The bleeding had slowed to a mere ooze, and she washed the cut once more.

  Then, using a flat wooden utensil, she scooped up the mass of herbs and water and murmured, “It will be warm.” Dirick did indeed start when she smoothed the poultice onto his injury, but she felt him relax as the treatment began to work to soothe the pain and cleanse the cut. Maris placed the cloth over his shoulder, lifting his heavy, muscular arm to wrap the bandage.

  Once it was in place, she patted the poultice gently, checked that none of the herbs were leaking from beneath, and tied the cloth into place.

  Then, her hands did not want to leave him: they brushed his thick hair from the nape of his neck, pulled a few strands from under the bandage, and smoothed over his uninjured shoulder. Dirick’s chest rose as he drew in a single, ragged breath, and then he stilled.

  “You have many hurts,” Maris said, tracing a finger over one scar, and then another, and another…. His skin was warm and smooth, the little bumps erupting wherever she touched him.

  “And none tended as carefully as this one.” His voice was rough. Reaching over his good shoulder, he captured her hand and pulled it forward, turning his head to place a kiss on her knuckle, and pressing her palm to the center of his chest..

  The front of him was hot from the proximity of the fire. She smoothed her hand through wiry hair over the hard swell of muscle, brushing a flat nipple and tracing the ridge of bone down his center. The tingling that began in her fingers flushed through her body, culminating in a pool in her middle that warmed and stirred her entire being. Her chest rose, breasts pushing against his back, and her breathing became shallow and labored.

  She wanted more. She wanted all of him.

  Maris gasped at the thought, pulling her hand away, and stepped back. Before she could speak, to explain, Dirick whirled off the stool, turning onto her with dark, glittering eyes and a taut mouth.

  “Jesù, Maris,” he breathed, reaching for her. He was beautiful, dark, masculine: all muscle and thick, wild hair, haloed by the dancing fire, towering over her.

  She did not resist when he pulled her flush to the long, hard length of his body. Sinking against him, fingers closing over his shoulders, she tilted her head back to receive his kiss. His mouth covered hers, desperate and hungry, and Maris felt herself swept into a maelstrom of heat and energy, kissing him back, forgetting where she was, that she had to breathe….

  The warmth of his bare chest, the texture of wiry hair and heated skin, the sleek bulge of muscle…all of him pressed against her, burning through the thin cloth of her gown. Her breasts felt tight, straining against him, her core tight and swelling and damp. When she eased a hand up into his thick hair, and the other back down over his chest, he pulled away enough to look down at her.

  The intensity in his eyes, the deep need there, caused a great tightening in her middle. She met his gaze, reaching up to touch his parted lips with trembling fingers. “’Tis not right,” Maris whispered in a shaken voice.

  He wrapped his fingers around her hand, pressing his lips to its sensitive wrist. His mouth closed over the thick pad of her palm, biting gently, sliding full lips over the inside of her hand. His tongue slipped out to thrust slick and wet between two fingers, and Maris closed her eyes, sagging against him as the sharp stab of pleasure arrowed into the pit of her belly and lower.

  His fingers closed over her shoulders. “I want you,” his words were forced, harsh, as if wrung from his very depths. “I have no claim to you, but God above, I want you.”

  She shook her head, forcing herself to ease away despite the need trammeling through her body. “Nay. I cannot give what belongs to the king.”

  His eyes darkened to black and his face settled, livid with shock. “Henry?”

  Maris realized his mistake. “Nay, Dirick, you mistook my meaning,” she pulled firmly from him, aware that her breathing was too rapid, too shallow, and that her entire being suddenly felt bereft and empty. “I am the king’s ward, to do with what he will. And I must pledge all to him on the morrow.”

  The fury drained from his face. “Aye.” His eyes still glittered with desire as his gaze swept over her. “Maris,” he said, low and deep.

  She had to turn away, else she would drag him to the pillow-strewn bed. “’Tis my fate to be used as a pawn, dangled as a prize, no doubt, for some well‑landed baron close to the king,” she said bitterly. “And of all men in this kingdom, it could not be you, as you’ve naught to bring to the great lands of Langumont.”

  Dirick stepped back as if slapped. “Aye, ’tis true, I’ve naught to bring to your great lands,” he said caustically. “And I doubt you’d lower your great self to be given to one as mean as I, even if you did not answer to the king.”

  He stalked to the door, pausing to give a mocking bow before he opened it. “Good night, my Lady Maris. And thank you for your services.” With a sharp gesture to his bandage, he turned and walked through the door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Maris knelt in front of King Henry, holding an old, dried bit of bone that the bishop claimed to be a finger of Saint Peter. The king closed his hands over hers, drawing them under his mantle, as he looked down at her with steely blue eyes.

  “I become thy woman of such tenement to be holden of thee.” Maris spoke clearly so as to be heard above all the rustling of the crowded abbey. “To bear thee and thine heirs faith of life, and member, and earthly worship against all men who can live and die on this earth, in the name of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” She bent her head to kiss his hands.

  “We renew upon thee thy vassalage to the lands of Langumont, Cleonis, Firmain, and all such properties encompassed by the baronage of Langumont.” Henry pulled her to her feet, pressing a dry kiss to her cheek.

  Maris gave a short curtsey, then moved aside
and off the dais, turning to watch as the Lord of Southampton took her place opposite the king. The bishop took Saint Peter’s finger bone from her with reverence, and she shifted so that she could see the crowd filling the abbey.

  Her gaze wandered the many faces, looking for whom or what she did not know, and rested at last upon two silver‑beaconed heads near the front of the chamber. The Lords Victor and Michael d’Arcy looked back at her with twin pairs of shimmering eyes, purposeful and glinting with anger.

  Suppressing a shudder, she turned her attention away. Clenching her fingers so hard that her ragged nails bit into her palms, Maris closed her eyes for a moment. She feared those two men as she’d never feared before…but she could not understand why they should strike such loathing in her heart. Lord Victor was her intended betrothed, but surely he was not an evil man.

  Then the memory of his brutal lips and grasping hands returned, and she felt nauseated. If he wasn’t truly evil, at the least he was greatly reprehensible. She renewed her private vow that if she were unfortunate enough to be bound to him, if he raised a hand to her or otherwise used force, he’d not live past their first moon of wedded bliss.

  When she opened her eyes, Maris’s gaze fell upon a tall, dark‑haired man no more than a few rows from the dais. Dirick’s handsome, unshaven face as appeared to be carved of stone, and his stare was trained upon her. Abruptly, he turned away, bowing his head slightly.

  A tremor of heat rushed up her spine even as her lips pursed in anger. Aye, the man could melt her with his kisses and the strength of his large, powerful hands—

  “Maris of Langumont.”

  The sound of her name ringing out jerked Maris’s attention back to the altar, where the king stood, looking expectantly at her. The bishop gave her a none‑too‑gentle push and she caught her balance before she stumbled onto the dais.

  What was this? She had already pledged her fealty. What was happening now? Gathering up her skirts, she took two steps onto the altar.