Word of Honor (Knights of Valor Book 1)

by Lauren Linwood

  The king considered his words and then nodded sagely. “I shall grant your request, Lord Geoffrey, because you have aroused my curiosity.” He looked up at Benedict. “You shall never speak of what you hear.”

  Geoffrey went in for the kill. “Oh, but this knight already knows what I want to share with you, sire.”

  Edward whipped his head around. Confusion wrinkled his brow. “He knows? And yet you have not shared with me?” His face grew red.

  “My story starts back in France,” Geoffrey began smoothly, ignoring the king’s rising anger.

  He briefly told of what the king already knew—his role in bringing a traitor to justice. Then he revealed the conversation he’d had with Lord Berold after Barrett’s execution for treason, and how the nobleman told him he would one day make him suffer in a similar manner.

  Geoffrey explained of being pinned to a tree by an arrow and how his bride of less than a day went for help. How men seized him and brought him to Winterbourne. He spoke of the earl murdering those two knights, leaving their bodies to rot.

  And the living nightmare of being the earl’s captive for over six and a half years.

  Edward slammed a fist upon the table next to him. “To think this occurred in my kingdom! Without my knowledge or consent.” His eyes narrowed as his voice became a low growl. “If Winterbourne were still alive, I would have him flayed and his hot bowels torn from his body and spilled to the ground. I would have his head removed and mounted upon a pike. I would place it atop the wall of the Tower and let it rot for twenty years.”

  The king sprang from his chair and began pacing the solar. Both Raynor and Hugh stepped back, allowing the path to be open. Edward marched back and forth for some minutes, mumbling to himself.

  Then he pulled up in front of Geoffrey. “And you do not wish vengeance upon the House of Winterbourne?”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “Nay, sire. Young Hardwin brought me food and visited me many times over the years without his father’s knowledge. Once Lord Berold died, he freed me.”

  Understanding flashed in Edward’s eyes. “But the cost of freedom was your sworn oath of silence regarding what his father did.”

  He nodded, not trusting his voice. He already found it hard to describe the unspeakable things that had occurred, in front of family he loved and the king that he served.

  The monarch placed a hand upon his shoulder and gave him an encouraging squeeze. “You are a better man than most, Geoffrey de Montfort. I do not know many who would have suffered in silence as you have, nor had the fortitude to hold true to their word.” He paused, and Geoffrey saw him trying to put the pieces together.

  “But you say my guardsman knows of this? How—”

  Merryn stepped forward. “The new earl confessed all to me when I cared for his injuries from the joust, sire. Sir Symond was in the room, guarding the earl as you had ordered.” Geoffrey watched her mouth harden. “But he stood in the shadows. I doubt Hardi realized he was there. I know I did not.”

  The king looked puzzled. “How does this concern me?”

  Geoffrey went to stand by Merryn. He took her hand. As their fingers laced together, he sensed the love and strength pour from her into him, giving him the courage to continue.

  “I came to the solar immediately after Hardi’s confession, sire. Merryn and I talked of the unfortunate circumstances.” He tossed his head at Benedict. “He would have heard our entire conversation.”

  Edward waved a hand dismissively. “So my royal guardsman is an eavesdropper. Has he spread the news of your tale around? Is this his unspeakable behavior? Gossip?” He looked at Benedict, who remained stoically silent.

  “Nay, sire,” Geoffrey continued. “He did much worse. Symond Benedict waylaid me. Knocked me unconscious. I awoke—in my own dungeon.”

  The king jumped in reaction to his words. He stumbled to a nearby chair and fell into it, his jaw slack.

  “You had promised Merryn in marriage to this knight, thinking I was dead,” Geoffrey continued. “My return ruined those plans. But Symond Benedict decided he wanted Kinwick—and my wife. And that he would do anything to obtain the two things he most desired.

  “He imprisoned me in my own home and left me to die. Benedict knew if you’d once granted him the right to Kinwick, you would do so again. He assured me he would be lord to my lady in good time.”

  Silence hung in the room.

  And then Symond Benedict burst out in laughter.

  “’Tis quite a preposterous tale you’ve spun, Geoffrey de Montfort. I have no idea why you hold me in such utter contempt, other than I was to be husband to your lady and run your estates by the king’s command.” He stroked his bushy, red beard. “But to think I would do such a beastly thing? And cause Merryn so much suffering? ‘Tis impossible.”

  Before Geoffrey could react to the monstrous lies, Merryn darted forward and slapped Symond Benedict. He spun half around at the angry blow. He turned, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. And smiled.

  Geoffrey caught his wife in his arms and drew her to him. She struggled, wanting to attack the dishonorable knight again.

  “Stop,” he whispered in her ear.

  She stilled in his arms. He released her and looked to the king.

  Edward sat, shaking his head. “I know not what to do,” he admitted. He looked at Benedict. “This man has been nothing but loyal to me. He has served me well over the years. I have never caught him in a lie nor seen any disreputable behavior on his part. But what you say troubles me. Especially since I have no proof of these atrocities.”

  The king rubbed his chin, frowning as he concentrated.

  “Do you think Geoffrey locked himself in a dungeon cell?” Merryn demanded. “I found him after my son told me he’d seen his father with Symond Benedict. If Ancel had not witnessed this man dragging my husband along, I might never have gone the way Ancel suggested. I found Geoffrey in the dungeon, not a light in sight, and no keys anywhere. He would have starved to death, sire! It took our men several hours to cut through the iron bars and free him.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “You need to punish this man to the full extent of the law.”

  Geoffrey reeled her back in. She began shaking in his arms. He didn’t know if it was from her rage or fear of the way she had addressed the king.

  Edward closed his eyes for some minutes. Not a word was uttered during that time.

  Finally, he opened them and rose to his feet.

  “The only way to solve this is through a challenge. We must hold a trial by battle between the men.”

  “No!” Merryn cried. “You know Geoffrey is a man of honor. Bound by his word as a knight. He would never lie to you. Never! Your own son trusts him beyond measure. I told my son—my son—that both his king and prince held his father’s word in high esteem.”

  She fell to her knees. “Please, your majesty. Do not act in this manner. Hold Symond Benedict responsible for the crimes he has committed.”

  Geoffrey knew of the king’s fondness for Merryn, but he saw she had pushed the man too far. His jaw tightened as he rose to his feet.

  “’Tis my decision to make, Lady Merryn,” he snapped. “Not yours. I command we conduct a wager of battle on the morrow at noon.”

  A chill ran through Geoffrey. Things had come full circle.

  CHAPTER 36

  Geoffrey stood in the hot June sun, sweat already gathering under his mail coif and hauberk. The king had allowed both combatants to wear heavier protective gear, unlike the time Geoffrey had bested Barrett in France in a simple padded jerkin.

  Also different from that trial by battle was allowing each man his choice of different weapons. Geoffrey had fought Berold’s oldest son with only a pole in hand. This time, Edward announced they could have two weapons of attack.

  As he’d approached the field, he noticed Benedict’s second held an arming sword, for thrusting and cutting, as well as a baselard for the knight to use. Geoffrey had almost chosen the short dagg
er himself. Instead, he decided to strap a graffe, a smaller dagger, to his lower right calf. His chief weapon of choice would be the bastard sword that Gilbert now held for him. Its weight took two hands to control, but he believed it more powerful and effective in the long run.

  As before, a battlefield of sixty square feet had been marked off outside the gates of Southwark. Four of the king’s royal guard stood at each corner. The onlookers gathered to watch included a large crowd made of up the king’s royal progress, the occupants at Southwark, and the two hundred soldiers brought by Geoffrey and Hugh.

  And Merryn.

  He glanced over at his wife, taking pride in her height and graceful posture as much as the chestnut hair that lit up like fire in the bright sunlight. She had grown so wise in the years that great responsibility had been thrust upon her. She had the love of the tenants at Kinwick.

  And his. By God, she had all of his love.

  Geoffrey had lain awake most of the night, Merryn enfolded in his arms. Losing to Symond Benedict could not be an option. If he did, it meant the royal guardsman would take his place as lord of Kinwick. He couldn’t stomach the thought of that monster in charge of his people, much less taking Merryn to bed.

  And his threat of harming Ancel brought fresh waves of anger. Geoffrey realized he must harness it and not let his emotions get the best of him.

  Merryn had argued that the king should have put Benedict through an ordeal by fire or water, but he told her that was more for commoners. In truth, Edward could have called for a trial by jury if he did not want to punish Benedict himself or render a verdict. But it could have set a bad precedent for any member of the king’s royal guard if accused of a crime, so Geoffrey understood why Edward decided to go with a judicially sanctioned duel in front of a field of witnesses.

  He’d actually referred to their meeting as a wager of battle, a different term than the Black Prince had used. Because of that, it did not surprise him when the king announced they would fight till the death. The crowd gasped at hearing the harsh terms spoken by their liege. Geoffrey avoided Merryn’s eyes though he felt her gaze burning into him. Edward added the option of uttering the phrase Craven, which translated from the French as broken.

  Geoffrey vowed never to speak that word. If he did, it would signal he was vanquished and the fight done. Benedict would not only claim victory, but by law, Geoffrey would be deprived of his legal rights. Any man might kill him on sight.

  And he knew Symond Benedict would take advantage of that.

  They went through the same ritual where they both declared they had nothing to do with witchcraft or sorcery. Their seconds handed them their weapons of choice. Both men marched side by side toward the center of the field.

  As they moved away from the others, Benedict boldly told him, “Your land and your lady will be mine for the taking, de Montfort. I cannot wait to couple with Merryn and hear her scream my name in pleasure.”

  Geoffrey refused to respond as he continued ahead. He would focus on defeating Symond Benedict. It was kill or be killed—no in-between.

  They came to a halt at the middle of the field and turned, taking ten steps away and facing one another as they had been instructed. Geoffrey glanced down to make sure his graffe was in place as he gripped the hilt of his sword in both hands. Benedict held his sword in his right and the dagger in his left. Hate poured from his eyes.

  “Let the contest begin!” The king’s voice rang out, cutting through the silence which blanketed the area.

  Geoffrey had the advantage of height by several inches. His arms would reach longer, and his sword could move more closely to the red-bearded knight. Yet being taller and more broad-shouldered could be a disadvantage as there was more of him to attack. He had speed on his side, though, having always been quick with a sword and his feet.

  And he had a heart bursting with the need to protect his loved ones.

  He would win. Anything less was unacceptable.

  The summer day’s peace was shattered by the clanging of swords. Geoffrey paced himself, knowing they could be at the contest some hours. The chances of him tiring first were greater because of the weight of his weapon, but the bastard sword would also prove more deadly in the end.

  An hour passed as they dipped and thrust at one another. Geoffrey had thrice sliced Benedict’s lower thighs, which his hauberk did not protect, and managed a deep cut on the man’s upper left arm. In turn, he had suffered a gash in his own left forearm. Benedict hadn’t gotten close since that lone injury occurred.

  The heat burned through him. Geoffrey found his hands dripping with sweat. He did not want to lose the grip on his hilt. Sweat also poured from under the mail coif into his eyes. He backed off from his opponent and wiped it away with a brush of his arm. Still, it continued to stream from his head, disrupting his concentration.

  With a quick parry, he whipped to his left and as he took a few steps away from Benedict, Geoffrey used his left hand to tear the mail coif from his head. He tossed it aside. The crowd gasped. True, his head would be more vulnerable now, but already the slight breeze of the day began cooling him, allowing him to regroup.

  His opponent dropped his dagger to the ground and ripped his own mail coif off. Instead of casting it to the ground, he threw it at Geoffrey. The heavy mail hit him square in the face, causing him to stumble a few steps back as Benedict bent and retrieved his dagger.

  In France, the combatants had been told they could use their poles—and anything else on their bodies. They could kick, punch, even bite their opponent if they came close enough. Nothing had been said about that at the start of today’s contest, but Geoffrey assumed Benedict’s action was allowable since no one had stopped the contest.

  Blood trickled from his nose, which had taken the brunt of the coif’s hit. He shook his head and charged, full force toward Benedict, his sword steady in his hands. He needed to take advantage of the knight’s bare head. Benedict blocked his first wave, but Geoffrey quickly raised his sword again and sliced downward, next to the soldier’s head. An ear came cleanly off, falling to the ground. Blood immediately gushed from where the ear had sat only moments earlier.

  Benedict roared an obscenity and hurdled toward him. Geoffrey swiped his sword across the man’s chest. Benedict careened toward the ground. He hit it hard, rolling to his back. Geoffrey moved swiftly to press his advantage. As he came close, Benedict’s dagger shot out. He rammed it into Geoffrey’s calf.

  Geoffrey staggered away, the dagger protruding from his leg. No pain came as the adrenaline soared through him. He removed his own dagger from its sheath and threw it hard. It landed in Benedict’s throat, directly under where his ear had been.

  Now blood poured from two places on Benedict’s head and neck and dribbled from beneath the mail, a much less serious wound. Geoffrey yanked the baselard from his own leg and steadily moved toward his enemy.

  Benedict pushed himself to his feet with the aid of his arming sword. He left the dagger in his throat as he staggered about. Geoffrey knew if Benedict removed it, the wound would prove instantly fatal since the knight had no way to staunch the heavy blood loss.

  With a final effort, Symond Benedict charged at him as a mad boar stampeding through the forest, a guttural cry passing his lips. Geoffrey saw the swirling pageantry of colors that surrounded the field. Heard no sound other than Benedict’s pounding feet as he approached. Tasted the blood that dripped from his nose.

  And knew he had to end the contest. Now.

  He wielded his sword, his hands firm around the hilt, and planted his feet. Geoffrey saw in his opponent’s eyes as he came closer that the knight knew defeat to be merely moments away. As he reached Geoffrey, Benedict closed his eyes. He never saw the arc of the sword coming.

  EPILOGUE

  Christmas, 1371

  “Does Cook have the Yule dolls ready?” Geoffrey asked Tilda.

  “Aye, my lord. The little gingerbread people are ready for their heads to be ripped off and dined upon.”<
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  “Father!”

  He turned and saw Ancel striding through the Great Hall. Now a lad of fourteen, he was nearly as tall as his father.

  Geoffrey embraced him, holding his boy tightly for mayhap a moment too long, but Ancel did not protest. They had made their peace long ago and now were as close as a father and son could be.

  “How is Lord Winterbourne treating you these days?” he asked.

  Ancel’s face lit up. “Very well, Father. He is pleased with me and has called me the best of squires.”

  Geoffrey captured his son in a bear hug, pride rushing through him.

  “Ancel!”

  Alys came running toward them. The twins embraced.

  “You look quite grown up, little sister.”

  Alys beamed at his compliment. She twirled in a circle. “Do you like this color on me?” she asked both of them.

  “You look as if you came straight from court,” Geoffrey teased. “Far too fancy for our paltry festivities at Kinwick.”

  She punched her father in the arm. “I did enjoy my time fostering at court,” she said. “Queen Philippa was a most marvelous woman. Elegant and refined, yet kind and wise. But Avelyn helped me sew this cote-hardie. She is quite the seamstress.”

  Merryn joined them, their youngest child in her arms. She passed the two-year-old girl to her sister and greeted her son with a kiss to each cheek.

  “’Tis good to have you home for Christmas. Did Hardi come with you?”

  Ancel nodded. “Lord and Lady Winterbourne are chasing their boys up and down the stairs to the keep. I should probably go help them. The imps actually follow me about like lost lambs.”

  “I’m sure they look upon you as an older sibling,” Merryn said. “I know you set a good example for them.”

  At that moment, Hardi entered the Great Hall, his four-year-old tucked under one arm as he chased after his six-year-old. Ancel grabbed the loose child and took the younger one off the earl’s hands.