A Dishonorable Knight

by Michelle Morrison

  The Dishonorable Knight

  by

  Michelle Morrison

  Text Copyright 2012 Michelle Morrison

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  One thousand candles lit the great hall of Middleham Castle for the King was in residence and shadows had no place in his court.

  Servants stumbled over each other in their haste to bring heavy trays of food to the thick wood tables. Nobles from England, Wales, and even Scotland gathered ‘round those tables and they could not want for so much as a morsel of venison or a joint of goose. The wine flowed ceaselessly and the rich aroma of fresh-baked pies and thick stews competed with the smoke from the great fireplace and the sweat of men who had ridden hard hours to break bread with their sovereign.

  At the head table, King Richard III's closest advisors and most powerful allies jested with each other and drank to his health.

  Richard surveyed the assembly with pleasure. A well run court and a sumptuous feast would do much to assure those gathered that he held the throne securely; that no man, least of all some Welsh bastard who had been in exile for a decade, could challenge him. Still, would that he could be sure of support from the man sitting next to him. The smile on his face quickly faded and Richard turned to the man seated at his right, Edmund, Earl of Brackley.

  "Know you not that I reward my supporters well?" the king asked, his voice tight. He sought the earl’s unqualified pledge of support should the Earl of Richmond, Henry Tudor, try to take his throne.

  Brackley laid down the bone upon which he had been gnawing, but did not bother to wipe the grease from his florid face or thick hands. Stout as well as heavily muscled, the earl’s dark, hooded eyes peered from a harshly sculpted face. The earl was once handsome, but cruelty was stamped in his features, leaving them coarse and unappealing. That and the mutton grease glowing wetly on his chin contrived to squelch any comeliness the earl might have had. "What need have you to reward me?"

  Richard's right hand fumbled with the hilt of his jeweled dagger, sliding it halfway out of its sheath before shoving it back in its golden casing. Deliberately, he grasped his right hand with his left under the table to still its nervous movements. "That hell-spawned Richmond will surely try to invade England again and I would have your pledge of troops to crush him. It is but what you owe me as my vassal."

  Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, Brackley leaned forward and grasped his goblet, taking a deep draught before turning back to Richard. "Of course it is. But my men wish to be home, working their fields. It will take much to pull them from their families. Should I manage to persuade them, how would I be compensated?"

  Richard knew Brackley employed a force of mercenary troops who had never touched a plow, but he was not in a position to argue. He had received word just this day of another defection from one of his marsh lords to the west. He thought frantically for a title or property he could bequeath the earl, but his resources were heavily tapped, having given away many crown lands to ensure the cooperation of other powerful lords. He tugged on the high velvet collar of his fitted cotehardie and smoothed the fur lining of his cloak--for all outward appearances, a calm, powerful sovereign.

  "Tis said you are seeking a young wealthy wife as your last was a sickly woman."

  Brackley laughed heartily, holding his goblet out to be refilled by a passing serving maid. "Nay, she lasted barely two years and her fortune even less. But I've seen naught at this gathering to catch my eye. A wealthy wife is important, but that she be comely is just as important."

  And strong, thought Richard, considering the rumors he'd heard of the earl's physical abuse of his two past wives, both of whom died a few short years after wedding the man.

  Glancing back at the earl, Richard saw the man’s goblet pause halfway to his mouth as he stared across the great hall. Turning, Richard spotted Elena de Vignon, one of his ladies-in-waiting standing at the top of the staircase leading into the hall. She was a beautiful and amusing woman and Richard had decided to keep her with his retinue after his wife had died some months back. She had a sharp wit, which she cleverly hid behind her comely face and delightful figure. She now served his niece, the Princess Elizabeth, who was visiting Middleham.

  "Now she might be enough to keep a man loyal to Satan himself," Brackley murmured.

  Richard quickly calculated the benefits of offering Elena to Brackley. She was one of his favorite court ladies and he had been prepared this very night to betroth her to Lord Edgeford, a handsome young fop who would inherit a fortune as soon as his sickly father passed away. Richard knew that the girl had been eyeing the young nobleman for months, carefully enticing him. Richard was amused and slightly impressed with the determination and shrewdness with which she pursued the insipid lordling.

  With a flick of his nervous fingers, the king batted away the young woman’s wishes. Clever favorite or no, the safety of his crown was of greater importance than the marital whims of one young woman. Richard turned back to Brackley with a careful smile, his fingers alternately ruffling and smoothing the fur at his cuffs.

  "Yes, but would she keep you loyal to the King of England?" he asked in a low, harsh voice.

  The earl glanced sharply at Richard and then slowly leaned back to consider Richard's hasty offer, his bulk causing the dried wood of the chair to creak in protest.

  "She's got ties to the Lancasters, but she has a tidy dowry set aside which I would be willing to pad." Richard warned himself not to appear too desperate, but he was not a man to underestimate his enemies and he wanted to guarantee that the Earl of Richmond had a force to reckon with should he have the nerve to invade England.

  Richmond was a distant relative of the Lancasters, the rival branch of Edward III's descendants who had been battling with the York household for England’s throne for generations. Richard stood confident in his claim to the throne, but Henry Tudor's popularity continued to grow, especially in that troublesome region of Wales. For the earl was Welsh and that infernal tribe clung to its own. No, he would not underestimate his enemy. Richard glanced to the young woman on the landing and then looked back to the earl.

  Brackley watched the girl descend the staircase, and the king knew what he was thinking as if the earl had spoken the words aloud. What a rash fool you are, Richard, the king read. The earl no doubt realized that the girl had family who would be more than happy to have connections to an earl—he didn't need Richard's permission to wed her, not really. Richard bit the inside of his lip and prayed Brackley would overlook that fact. Richmond's claims were ludicrous and his chances of actually winning the crown from Richard were next to nil. The earl really had nothing to lose.

  "I accept, Your Grace."

  Richard ra
n his hand along his forehead, grimacing when he discovered the cold sweat there, but as he watched Brackley, relief filled him and his confidence returned. He would be victorious, regardless of the cost! Rising to seek out the other men whose loyalty—and troops—he would need to keep the throne should Richmond invade, Richard scanned the room. Spotting a man he had not expected to attend the hunting and feasting activities, he stepped off the dais and made his way to the fireplace.

  ***

  Across the huge room, a man Richard did not count among the important and powerful, Sir Gareth ap Morgan, stared moodily into his mug. His grey eyes cloudy, he ignored the drunken laughter of his childhood friends, Cynan and Bryant. A scowl marred his forehead, but was partially covered by the dark brown hair that fell in an unruly wave across his brow. His full mouth pursed in a grimace and his strong, square jaw was hidden behind the hand in which it dejectedly sat.

  What was he doing with his life? he thought disgustedly. Since he had become a knight nearly a year before, he had milled about Richard's court, hoping for a noble assignment which would put his courage and skill to the test. But the most important task he had as yet received was to deliver a missive to the dead Queen's cousin. Gareth rode to Bedford, carefully protecting the document thinking it to be a matter of state only to discover it contained an invitation to join the King here at Middleham to enjoy the hunting. Taking a deep pull from the strong ale, he did not pay attention to the jest Cynan made regarding his dark visage.

  "He keeps scowling as such and 'twill soon be me fetching the maids to him instead of the other way around!"

  Bryant, slight of build and fair of skin but with inky black hair, burst out laughing at the image his friend evoked: that of the craggy faced Cynan wooing young women. Though the same coloring as Gareth, Cynan's face showed the evidence of too many boyhood brawls. On more than one occasion in their youth, Gareth had wooed a serving wench with his good looks into a dark corner where Cynan had taken over with whispered flattery, the woman never the wiser.

  "If that be the case, he'd best be joining the monastery at Dolwyddelan!" said Bryant with a laugh as he nudged Gareth.

  Jostled out of his reverie, Gareth shook his head in mock reproach at the ale-sodden wits of his friends. The three had been close since they were but young striplings in the mountains of Gwynedd in northern Wales. Their fathers were herdsmen and both Cynan and Bryant had been content to follow in their fathers' footsteps. But Gareth had always thirsted for adventure and grew up convinced that his destiny lay elsewhere. After much badgering, his father agreed to call upon an old family friend with some influence among England’s nobility who had placed him in the service of a lord for knightly training.

  "Don't you even think of chasing a skirt while you're here, Cynan, or I'll be telling Enid and you'll have no peace!" he said, forcing a teasing tone to his voice.

  "It's not peace I'm worried about losing should my wife think I was straying," said Cynan with a comic glance at his lap.

  Laughing hard, Bryant gasped out, "The folk would definitely have a hard time believing you're as stalwart as you boast if they saw you running from your wife with your tail between your legs!"

  Gareth chuckled at the thought as he raised his mug to his lips, but his hand froze in mid-air as his eyes swept over the crowd to the top of the broad stone staircase. Cynan followed his line of sight and let out a low whistle. "Now there's a woman who might even change the mind of such a determined bachelor as you, Gareth."

  Bryant craned his neck to see at who they were looking. "I could definitely change my mind about red hair on a woman."

  "It's not red, you oaf,” Cynan argued. It's more to copper, or--"

  "Chestnut," Gareth broke in.

  "Exactly," Cynan said expansively as he filled his mug from a large pitcher on the table. "Chestnut. The exact color of the horse I wanted when I was ten years old. Do you remember that?"

  Bryant made a joking remark but Gareth did not hear it. Never before had he been struck by a woman as he was by this one who looked around the room from her high vantage point. Perhaps the troubadours knew something after all when they sang of love at a glance. As the woman slowly made her way down the steps, Gareth took in her creamy complexion and slender figure, both of which were complemented by the dark green gown she wore. Velvet, he thought. She's a lady of great standing to wear velvet. With a sigh, he watched her make her graceful descent. No lady of great standing would give a second glance at a mere knight from Wales. Still, he would give much for the chance to at least talk to her. Perhaps she was interested in more than a title and a position in court.

  ***

  From the top of the flight of stairs leading into the great hall, Elena de Vignon surveyed the noisy gathering, her cinnamon-brown eyes searching for Lord Edgeford, sparkling with determination when they alighted on his tall figure. Pinching her cheeks to make sure they were enchantingly pink (had not Lord Edgeford used those very words himself?), Elena slowly descended the staircase, grateful, as the pungent smell of the hall reached her nose, that she had elected to eat in the privacy of her room.

  Carefully lifting the embroidered hem of her forest-green cotehardie from the soiled rushes that covered the floor, she joined the group of young women who sat at the table to the right of the king’s seat. Not once did she allow her gaze to stray again to the table where she knew Edgeford sat.

  Selecting a seat where she was sure he would have a clear view of her, she carefully arranged her heavy velvet skirts before turning her attention to the conversation at the table.

  "...the fact remains that marrying Anne brought him a great deal of wealth, Catherine, and the sooner you realize that is all your husband will care about--"

  Catherine, short, slender, and incurably romantic turned and wailed, "Elena, please tell Margaret to stop her tiresome lectures. I came to court to escape such lectures from my mother and nurse!"

  "Liar," Elena laughed. "You came to court to find a wealthy husband!"

  "Is that not all you are here for?" asked Margaret scathingly.

  Elena turned to face the dark-haired girl who, even seated, was tall. "I shall not settle for a husband who is merely wealthy."

  "What other requisites must he possess," Margaret asked, her blue eyes narrowing with cynicism.

  Elena stared across the table. "What matter is it to you? I thought you do not even wish to wed. Are you not planning on devoting you life to God?"

  "'Tis the only occupation where a woman has any say in her future."

  "As long as that future obeys the dictates of the pope and every bishop and priest from here to Rome,” Elena retorted.

  "And I suppose Lord Edgeford will give you free reign to do whatever you desire."

  Elena smiled. "Within reason, I am sure."

  "And he probably will not even mind that your father is a Lancastrian earl or that your discretion where men are concerned is less than immaculate."

  "I believe King Richard favors me well enough," Elena said tightly, abruptly turning her back on Margaret. Elena had always believed that sheer determination could make any dream a reality. Her father, upon realizing she was to be his only child, had lavished upon her the knowledge and schooling usually reserved for sons. She was determined to use both her intelligence and her wits to make Edgeford her husband. She had overcome her father’s ties to the Lancasters, now she had only to overcome the gossip that had plagued her for the past year.

  Casually glancing in her lord's direction, she discovered him still seated in the middle of the great hall, but now his hair was tousled, his cheeks were flushed, and he seemed engrossed in a very private discussion with a shapely brunette, their heads nearly touching as they spoke. Something the woman said must have amused him because he threw back his head with laughter before grabbing the woman's hand and pressing a fervent kiss to her knuckles.

  Elena scowled in anger. Men were so simple, she thought. Out of sight, out of mind, wasn't that what her cousin Sarah always sa
id? Just this morning when Elena had walked with him in the orchard, he told her that hers was the most beautiful laugh he had ever heard and all other women's laughter would forever fall discordantly on his ears. Fortunately, she was not naive enough to believe everything men told her.

  Upon first coming to court, she had quickly fallen in love with one of the king’s advisors, Lord Marchon. He was polished and worldly, handsome and dashing. They spent hours in the king’s private gardens, talking about books and kingdom politics, music and poetry. He sent her crystal bottles of perfume, posies of flowers, handkerchiefs of silk. Elena had believed his devotions of love and his promise for a beautiful life together. So fervently had she believed that she did not cry out when he woke her in her bed. The court was in York and Elena’s bed was but a hard pallet in a curtained alcove off the main hall. It scarcely offered privacy, but Marchon’s kisses were persuasive and if they could be married immediately, there would be no real harm in consummating their love, could there?

  “Married?” he asked, a confused frown marring his handsome brow. “But I thought you understood, my sweet.” And in cold hard terms, he spelled out his idea for their “future together.” She would become his mistress and live in a rented house in London, available to him at his every whim, forbidden, unfortunately, from being seen with him in public, much less at court.

  Elena was so angry, she shrieked and struck at him, raking his face with her nails. When she reared back to throw her fists at him again, she succeeded only in throwing herself out of the bed, out into the main hall where men were drinking, serving wenches on their laps. The uproar her arrival started only intensified when Lord Marchon stepped out of the alcove, adjusted his clothing, and left. For the rumors that flew through the court over the next fortnight, she may as well have given her virtue over. And just when she thought her shame could grow no heavier, Margaret told her about his wife.

  “His wife?” Elena asked, her hopes crumbling about her hem. Margaret nodded sympathetically.