Matchmade Hearts
Holiday Knights Series Book 2 - Valentine’s Day
Elizabeth Rose
RoseScribe Media Inc.
Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Rose Krejcik
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual organizations or persons living or deceased is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form whatsoever without the author’s written permission.
Cover created by Elizabeth Rose Krejcik
Edited by Scott Moreland
Contents
Prologue
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
From the Author
About Elizabeth
Also by Elizabeth Rose
Prologue
The Boar’s Tusk Tavern, 14th Century, France
Downing his twelfth dram of whiskey, Lord Étienne de Beynac slammed the drinking vessel down on the wooden table so hard that the coins that were stacked up between him and the tavern’s new drinking champion toppled over.
“I did it!” he announced, licking his lips, looking the brute right in the eyes. “Now, give me my money.”
“Not yet,” growled the large man, motioning with a nod for the tavern maid to refill his cup once again. His big, bald head seemed to swell out in both directions. Or, mayhap, it was only the fact that Étienne could no longer see straight after the amount of alcohol he’d consumed in the past ten minutes. “We’ll go another round.”
A group of drunken men that made up the tavern’s usual customers as well as a handful of prostitutes crowded around the table, making it hard for Étienne to breathe.
“Not before we add to the pot,” said Étienne, pulling out another coin from his pouch, sliding it onto the worn table that reeked from old alcohol and spilled leftover pottage. He had the man right where he wanted him. No peasant would be able to match his bet. The man would have to back down.
“That’s a gold crown!” gasped one of the strumpets, leaning over to see it. In doing so, she gave Étienne a full view down her bodice whether she meant to do it or not. Étienne instantly felt randy and decided he’d have a romp with her before he headed back to the castle. He’d often paid for the company of whores during one of his frequent visits to the neighboring taverns.
“Let me see it,” said a young boy, pushing his way through the crowd, leaning his hands on the table. His dirt-streaked face lifted up and his blue eyes opened wide. The poor thing was dressed in naught but rags and he stunk like a street rat. Étienne recognized him as an orphan who often came to beg at the gates of his father’s castle, Chateau de Beynac.
“I don’t have any more money and you know it,” growled the man sitting opposite to him.
“I see.” Étienne held back a belch, tasting the whiskey for a second time as it rose up as bile to burn like fire at the back of his throat. “Then, I suppose there is naught else to do but to collect my winnings and leave.” He reached out to scoop up the coins from the table, but the brute’s hand swiftly moved to his waist belt. He was going for his dagger!
In one quick motion, Étienne drew his sword from under his long cloak and jumped to his feet, knocking over the table in the process. One of the women screamed and the crowd backed away from the impending fight. The coins from the table hit the floor with a loud clinking noise and started to roll in all directions. The patrons bent over to steal as many of them as they could, stuffing them into the pockets of their ragged clothing.
“Lord Étienne is drunk and goin’ to fight again,” called out someone who knew what usually happened when Étienne made a visit here.
“Nay, not again! Please,” called out the proprietor of the tavern, already clenching a broom in his hands for protection or, perhaps, to clean up the mess.
Étienne’s leg shot forward, kicking his opponent to the ground. The action caused something to fall from the man’s hand to the floor. Étienne pushed the tip of his sword against the man’s neck. “Don’t even think about trying to kill me because one more move and I will thrust this blade right through your throat.”
The door to the tavern opened just then, a breeze blowing in to cut through the stale, warm air. It felt good, but did nothing to help clear his head. Keeping the blade steady at the man’s throat, Étienne cringed when he heard his father’s voice from behind him.
“Bid the devil, Son, put down the blade! What are you thinking?” His father, Earl Jean-Pierre de Beynac, entered the establishment with two of Étienne’s five brothers right on his heels.
“I told you we’d find him here,” said his eldest brother, Marcouf, obviously revealing to their father where Étienne spent his idle time.
“He’s at it again,” added his brother, Giles, not helping the situation any.
His father grunted and shook his head. “Boys, get the fool out of here before he kills someone. He’s soused again and swindling these poor peasants out of all of their hard earned money. When will it ever stop?”
“Nay, it’s not what you think.” Étienne did not like the fact that he was being referred to as a drunk and a cheat by his own family and in front of everyone, nevertheless. The only reason he came to the tavern in the first place was to get away from his hardheaded father who thought Étienne was naught but a worthless sot. In his father’s eyes, Étienne was the black sheep of the family. He was told he would never amount to anything since he was the youngest and smallest of the earl’s six sons.
His father had never even knighted him like his brothers, even though Étienne was now of age at one and twenty years. Étienne had often trained with his brothers and acted as squire to each one of them through the years. He was just as good with a blade as any of them. Too bad his father never noticed.
Being shorter than his brothers, and since it took longer for his muscles to develop than the rest, he’d been teased and called the runt of the litter most of his life. But Étienne worked harder than anyone at learning what was expected of a knight. He would even practice in private, always wanting to be better than the rest. Étienne never backed down from a fight and would take on any of his brothers at the drop of a glove. Sometimes he even won. His only means of defense was fighting, and he wasn’t afraid to use it.
“Come on, you addled simpkin,” snarled his brother, Giles who was two years older than him. Giles grabbed one of Étienne’s arms and pulled him away from the bald man. Étienne stumbled, still trying to stand straight from drinking so much whiskey. If he had been more stable on his feet, he would have punched Giles in the jaw for calling him names in front of everyone. However, at the moment, that wasn’t a priority since he felt as if he were going to retch.
“How many times must we save your worthless hide?” grumbled Marcouf, extending his hand to Étienne’s challenger, helping him to his feet.
“I was only protecting myself,” spat Étienne. “That man reached for his dagger to kill me.” He pointed across the room, his finger wandering since he couldn’t even point straight right now.
“Nay, I didn’t,” protested
the man. “I was goin’ for my weddin’ ring that I had planned to add to the bid. Look,” he said, bending down and picking up the ring from the rushes, showing it to the men.
“A ring?” Giles stared at the jewelry in disbelief. “My brother was going to kill you because you reached for a ring?” He then chuckled under his breath.
“Husband, how could ye?” came the shrewd voice of a village woman, pushing her way to the front of the crowd.
“It was for you and the baby that I did it,” explained the man, almost sounding like he meant it. “Besides, I was sure I could win.”
Étienne looked over to the man’s wife, eying up her protruding belly. The man seemed to speak the truth. It seems Étienne had almost taken his life for nothing. A knot twisted in Étienne’s stomach when he realized that because of him the woman was almost a widow. With her husband dead, she would have had to raise her baby on her own. The orphan boy from the crowd walked over and took the woman’s hand. That told him that he’d been mistaken about the boy as well. He wasn’t an orphan. He had parents but begged because he had to, in order to try to help his family survive.
“Take him to the Dordogne River and throw him in to sober him up,” commanded his father.
“Aye, Father,” said Giles, hauling him to the door.
“I can walk by myself,” spat Étienne, pushing his brother away from him and sheathing his sword. He looked down to the ground to see his gold piece at his feet, half-hidden in the rushes. Bending over, almost toppling over, he picked it up and held it up to his face to inspect it.
“Let’s go,” growled Marcouf from behind him. “Your reputation here is making us all look bad.”
“Wait.” Étienne looked over to the beggar boy and tossed him the gold crown. The boy caught the coin, and their eyes met. Étienne found himself wondering if this poor boy had ever had a hot meal, a bath, or a warm bed. He recognized the despair in the child’s eyes. He knew it well because his life had been filled with despair also. Even though Étienne had so much more than the lad, he had nothing as long as he didn’t have his father’s respect.
Half an hour later, Étienne emerged from the river, shaking his head and trying to ignore the shock of the cold water against his hot skin. Slowly, he made his way to the bank with his brothers waiting for him on shore. His father sat atop his horse watching.
“I’ve made a decision, Étienne,” announced his father.
“What decision?” Étienne wrung the water from his tunic, feeling a shiver run up his spine that had nothing to do with his dip in the river.
“I am sending you away so you will never be able to bring shame to our family’s name again.”
“Sending me away?” asked Étienne. At first, he was furious. But then he started thinking this might be a good thing after all. If he were to enter another lord’s household, he would at least be treated like a noble and trained as a knight.
“I have an old friend in England,” his father explained. “I think it is time you go see him.”
“An English friend?” This made Étienne curious since the English and French were still at war. But alliances were not uncommon. “Who is he?”
“His name is Brother Paul. He is a monk at Alkborough Priory.”
“A monk.” Étienne chuckled. “Why would I want to see him?”
“You will be staying at the priory, Son.”
“Whatever for? What would I do there? Monks don’t fight, drink, or gamble. It sounds extremely dull to me.”
“That’s the point.” His father shifted atop his horse, the animal beneath him seeming as anxious as Étienne felt. “You are going to be living there now because I refuse to let you come back to the castle.”
“What are you saying?” Étienne pushed a lock of long, wet hair from his eyes. “You are throwing me out of my own home?”
“That’s right.”
“Then I’ll go live with one of my brothers instead.” He looked over to Giles and Marcouf who were staring at the ground and looking out over the water just so they wouldn’t have to look his way. “Marcouf? Giles? What do you say?”
“I’m living at another lord’s castle and don’t have one of my own,” said Giles. “It would be impossible.”
“What about you, Marcouf?” asked Étienne. “You have a manor house. Let me stay with you.”
“Sorry, Étienne. There is really no room. Besides, I am first in line to inherit Chateau de Beynac. And I assure you, I don’t want you there or anywhere causing a ruckus. I am going to uphold the good standing of the family name.”
“Well, mayhap one of my other brothers will take me in then. I will send missives to Hubert, Rogier, and Wace.”
“They won’t,” said his father in a stern voice from atop his horse. “They wouldn’t dare because I told them if they did, they would forfeit their inheritance.”
Étienne couldn’t believe this was happening. His own family had turned against him. If his mother were still alive, things would be different, he was sure. She would never let this happen to one of her sons.
“Then give me my share of the inheritance now,” Étienne told his father. “That way I will at least have money to buy food and have something to live on.”
“You’ll not inherit a penny from me,” came his father’s final words. “You have disgraced me for the last time, and will never be rewarded for that type of behavior.”
Upon hearing this, Étienne’s head swarmed with confusion. Had his actions really gotten that far out of hand that his entire family was about to disown him?
“I don’t care,” he ground out, clenching his jaw as well as his fists, ready for a fight. “I’ll hire out my sword and be a mercenary then.”
“Hah!” blurted out Marcouf. “No one will hire you, knowing who you are and your reputation.”
“Besides, you’re not even a knight,” Giles so graciously pointed out.
“You weren’t even any good as my squire,” said Marcouf, laughing at him.
“Perhaps if you pray day and night you will be forgiven for your sins,” said his father. “God knows I have tried to guide you on the right path, but I no longer have patience for this.”
“The right path?” asked Étienne. “What are you trying to say? You never even allowed me to be fostered, and neither did you make me a knight. You never showed me any kindness or compassion. You are a mean, ornery, boastful man who favors five of his sons but hates the sixth. I will leave France. You can count on that. I no longer want to stay here or with any of you.” He grabbed his sword from the ground and donned his weapon belt.
“You won’t need your weapons where you’re going,” chuckled Marcouf.
“You won’t need those fine clothes either,” added Giles with a grin.
“Why not?” Étienne stilled his actions and looked up at the three of them, having a feeling something worse was coming, if that could possibly be true. “Traveling knights stay at monasteries all the time so I am sure it won’t matter if I bring my weapons inside the priory walls. Plus, I can protect the monks if need be.”
“You don’t understand, Étienne,” said his father. “You are not just living there until you repent. I have enrolled you in the monastery as a novice.”
“A n-novice?” Étienne faked a laughed. “Now I know you are jesting.”
“I assure you, I’m not.” The scowl on his father’s face told Étienne it was true. “In one year from now, you will become a monk.”
Étienne couldn’t believe his ears. Could his father really be doing this to him? “Nay. I won’t do it,” he protested.
“It’s for the best,” answered his father, turning his horse. “There is no place for you in France anymore, thanks to your choices. Becoming a monk is the only way honor will ever be brought back to the de Beynac family name again.”
Étienne had no words to speak. His world just came crashing down around him and he felt as if he wanted to die. His father was an earl and his orders could not be denied. No one would go
against him. Earl Jean-Pierre de Beynac’s decision for Étienne was a fate worse than death, and he had no choice in the matter. Without his family’s support, Étienne wouldn’t survive in France. His father was much too powerful, and no lord would go against him by taking in his exiled son. He would be an outcast forever.
Despair mixed with anger pushed through his veins. Didn’t they see that trapping him behind holy walls wasn’t going to change who he was? Étienne took a deep breath and then released it, pondering over the absurd idea. Although his head felt as if it were splitting wide open, one small ray of light managed to break through the fog in his brain. Mayhap, something good would come from being a monk across the channel after all. That is, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as being hated, taunted, rejected, and disowned by his own family.
Chapter 1
Candlemas, Lincolnshire England, six months later
A soft, encompassing glow from dozens of lit candles filled the cold, stone church bringing a spark of hope into the hearts of the weary.
Candlemas was nearly over, but Lady Philippa Willoughby hadn’t heard a word of the mass. She’d paid no attention to the priest blessing and passing out candles to the parishioners of St. Anne’s Church in Lincolnshire, because she had more important things on her mind. Hope might have filled everyone else’s heart on this day, but she didn’t need it. Philippa created her own destiny and also helped shape the destinies of others.
Smiling in pure satisfaction, Philippa prided herself on what she did best – playing matchmaker to the villagers and the servants of her father’s demesne. If the nobles weren’t so adamant about betrothals and having to marry for alliances, she would have played matchmaker to the upper class as well.
Matchmade Hearts: Holiday Knights Series Book 2 - Valentine’s Day Page 1
