The Maiden and Her Knight

by Margaret Moore

  “You have not heard of me?”

  His question made her hesitate. “Should I have?”

  “If you have not by now, you will tomorrow when I win.”

  She had heard braggarts many times, but his tone was different. He was not boasting so much as stating a fact. “What will I hear?”

  His eyes seemed even more engulfed in shadow. “Something that will not be in my favor.”

  Strange that he would admit that. “Will it be true?”

  He answered like a witness giving evidence in the king’s court. “Partly, I expect, but not the whole truth.”

  “What is the whole truth?”

  His deep voice softened again. “That would take some time to explain.” He came nearer.

  She could not seem to think or even breathe, everything else subverted by the new and wondrous excitement and curiosity this man created within her.

  Margaret Moore

  The Maiden and Her Knight

  For Mom

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  He did not belong there.

  Chapter 2

  “You would all be better off if I were dead,”…

  Chapter 3

  Rennick DeFrouchette swatted the head of his squire as Percival…

  Chapter 4

  Mounted on his destrier, Connor patiently waited for the charge…

  Chapter 5

  Allis recognized the look in Sir Connor’s eyes—the resolute refusal…

  Chapter 6

  “At last,” Rennick said, as his whole face shone with…

  Chapter 7

  Connor moaned. His mouth was as dry as the dust…

  Chapter 8

  Connor drew backed abruptly, as if she had hit him.

  Chapter 9

  As he stepped through the tent flap, Connor hoped Lady…

  Chapter 10

  Late that night, Rennick looked around the chapel, assuring himself…

  Chapter 11

  Standing beside his tent in the ward, Connor watched the…

  Chapter 12

  At the sound of a commotion at the entrance to…

  Chapter 13

  “You’re a marvelous teacher, Sir Connor,” Isabelle enthused from her…

  Chapter 14

  As they dressed for the evening meal later that day,…

  Chapter 15

  In the still, dark hours of the night, Allis sat…

  Chapter 16

  The sun was still low in the morning sky as…

  Chapter 17

  After the noon meal, Connor waited expectantly as one of…

  Chapter 18

  “No, Auberan, I do not want to kiss you,” Isabelle…

  Chapter 19

  As Allis hurried inside the hut, Connor tethered the horses…

  Chapter 20

  A trickle of dread went down Allis’s spine at the…

  Chapter 21

  “Sit down and stop pacing, Sir Connor,” Lord Oswald ordered.

  Chapter 22

  After Rennick’s departure, Allis and Isabelle stood listening to his…

  Chapter 23

  Careful not to wrench his left arm, Connor tore out…

  Chapter 24

  Caught. Caught like a criminal at the gate of her…

  Chapter 25

  Tired and hungry, his knees aching and his shoulder throbbing…

  Chapter 26

  Footsteps. Boots coming down the stairs. Her legs weak and…

  Chapter 27

  “Assassin!” The word burst from Connor’s lips as he lunged…

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  He did not belong there.

  Seated in the shadows cast by the pillars of her father’s hall, the man’s unfamiliar, stern face flickered in the light of the torch above him as if he were more spirit than mortal, and sent to sit in judgment on them all.

  Who was he to come to Montclair Castle and regard them thus? Lady Allis wondered. He was no great and powerful nobleman, or he would not be alone, with no squire or page to serve him. He was not wealthy, for his clothing was plain, made of wool and leather, not fine silks, brocades and damasks. Most strange of all, he wore his long, dark hair loose about his shoulders like some kind of savage.

  He moved his head to look at the high table, and Allis quickly turned toward her father, the earl of Montclair. He sat motionless, staring down at the untouched trencher before him. He said nothing, noted nothing, ate and drank nothing, when she had so hoped hosting this tournament would rally him and restore something of his former vitality.

  “Again you do the honors well as the lady of Montclair Castle,” Rennick DeFrouchette murmured beside her, his voice smooth and slick as oil.

  Although he was tall, lean, rich and good-looking, the baron’s handsome features could not disguise the greed that gleamed in his cold blue eyes, or the cruelty in the scornful curl of his lip when he regarded all those he considered beneath him, in status or in wealth.

  He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed an unwelcome kiss upon it, while his gaze flicked to her breasts. “Your father is very proud of you.”

  “I hope so, Baron,” she replied with a small smile, playing this game because she must.

  Turning away, she surveyed the many trestle tables set up in the hall and covered with white linen, candles blazing in holders upon them, or in stands near the walls. In the hearth, a fire burned, providing light and warmth against the April evening’s chill.

  “You are a most dutiful daughter.”

  She smiled once more and fought the urge to tell him exactly what she thought of him. She had heard of his harsh punishments for the least offence on his estate and the danger of being a maidservant in his household.

  Even sitting this close to him was enough to rob her of her appetite.

  “Yet surely every woman longs to be an equally dutiful wife in her own home,” the baron continued, toying with the jeweled rings on his left hand, “especially one such as a man like myself can provide. I would see that your father is well cared for, too.”

  Watched over as if he were a prisoner, as she would be, and her brother and sister, as well.

  Once more hiding her disgust, her gaze wandered to the silent man who studied those around him as if he had never seen Normans before. He must have, or he would not be here.

  Judging by the breadth of his shoulders and chest, as well as his muscular arms, this man made his living by fighting.

  He must not be very successful. He was older than most of the knights gathered here. A man his age should have earned an estate by now, or at least found a place in a lord’s service, unless he preferred the freedom of a life unbound by daily duties and responsibilities. He was free to go where he would, and do as he wished. If she were free, she would tell DeFrouchette to go to the devil.

  Merva, full figured and of middle years, her brown hair possessing the color and gloss of chestnuts, sauntered into view. She headed toward a group of young knights closest to the stranger.

  Merva was not pretty, but she was frank, earthy and loved to jest with the young men. She liked to do more with the young men, too, and as long as that didn’t interfere with her duties, Allis turned a blind eye.

  The maidservant laughed, a deep, throaty gurgle that drew the stranger’s attention. He smiled a small, secretive little smile that lit his formerly grim visage.

  Allis wished she had been the one to inspire that smile, to be like Merva for just a little while—bold and carefree, making suggestive remarks with a wink and a smile, all but demanding what she wanted. She would walk right up to that stranger and ask him if he thought he was Samson to hav
e such hair. Perhaps he would smile and suggest she be his Delilah. They would laugh and look meaningfully at each other, and share more banter and maybe he would maneuver her into that dark corner and try to steal a kiss—playfully, of course, and yet how her blood would race…just as it was now as she imagined being in his arms.

  Baron DeFrouchette squeezed her hand, hard enough to hurt. “My lady, I fear you are ignoring me.”

  She gently extricated her hand from his grasp. “I was looking for my brother.”

  “He is listening to the squires boast.”

  She followed the baron’s gesture and spotted twelve-year-old Edmond with the young men who were in a knight’s service until they themselves were knighted. Not surprisingly, her brother had a rapturous expression on his face. Nothing would please him more than to be a squire and then a knight.

  “Your sister is likewise enjoying herself.”

  He nodded toward Isabelle, who sat nearby, surreptitiously watching the squires. Her fifteen-year-old sister wore her finest gown of rich emerald-green cendal that shone in the flickering lights, and her most precious jewelry, a pendant of gold and emeralds that had been their mother’s. Her long blond hair, a shade darker than Allis’s, was woven into two braids, and the ends encased in pointed silver casings. In deference to her age and station as chatelaine, Allis wore her hair coiled close about her head and covered with a white silk scarf held in place by a thin band of gold. A barbette, also of white silk, went beneath her chin. Unlike Isabelle, she did not sport her best gown; nevertheless, the one she wore had been costly enough, for it was made of ruby-red brocade, shot through with gold. About her waist she wore a girdle of gilded leather.

  “A pretty woman, your sister,” DeFrouchette observed.

  “She is more child than woman yet.”

  “It will be only a little while before your father receives requests for her hand in marriage. She should make a good match.”

  Fetch a good price, he seemed to be saying. “Perhaps.”

  “I would think as her elder sister, you would want to be married first,” the baron said, his long fingers wrapping around his silver goblet. It was easy to imagine those fingers wrapped around her throat, strangling her. She shivered at the thought and crossed her arms for warmth, as well as to shield herself from his lascivious gaze.

  “I always thought it was considered impolite to remind a lady of her age.”

  “I meant no offense, my lady. I confess I grow weary of waiting. Your father agrees it is time you were married.”

  If he were in a melancholy mood, as he usually was, her father would agree with almost anything.

  But she didn’t say that.

  She knew the trap was closing on her, and she had no escape. As much as the idea repelled her, as a woman she had few alternatives. Any choice but marriage to the baron could mean she would have to live far away. At least the baron’s estate was close to home. Therefore, if marriage to the baron was the only way she would be able to remain nearby and protect her family, that is what she would do.

  “I appreciate your patience, Baron,” she said as she looked about the hall—her home and her cage—then toward Merva, who still laughed and joked with the knights.

  The stranger now sat leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the wench and the knights with genial amusement.

  Despite his apparent lack of interest, Merva had obviously set her sights on the aloof stranger. If she had, she would quite probably get what she wanted. Merva did not often take no for an answer, and did not often get refused, either.

  What would he be like with a woman? Would he be as fierce with his passion as she suspected he would be upon the battlefield? Would he take a woman swiftly, with virile demand, or would he be slow, meting out pleasure until a woman begged for more?

  “I have taken the liberty of claiming the heriot from the widow of the charcoal burner,” DeFrouchette said, drawing her attention yet again.

  At least he was not pressing her more on the subject of a betrothal.

  “It is not much of a cow, unfortunately.”

  “It was my understanding they had but one.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you not hear Brother Jonathan say that their youngest child was sickly and would need fresh milk?”

  Obviously unconcerned by the hardship his enforcement of the lord’s right would cause, the baron dipped his fingers in the basin near his left elbow. “Then I suppose they had better buy another cow.”

  “The widow is too poor. We don’t need their only beast.”

  DeFrouchette frowned as he wiped his fingers one by one on a linen napkin. “It is your father’s right to claim the best animal from the widow of his tenant. It is not my fault the fellow had but one.”

  “I would rather you had consulted with us first.”

  DeFrouchette’s frown became a patronizing smile. “I assure you, he would have agreed, even if you do not. This is why women do not run estates. They are too tenderhearted.”

  “While some men apparently have no heart,” she muttered under her breath.

  At that precise moment, the unknown knight stopped watching Merva and looked at the high table.

  At her.

  Their gazes met and held—and in that instant, she suddenly felt that she had no secrets from him, that he knew her innermost feelings. That he could see into her lonely, hopeless heart.

  She tore her gaze from him and stared down at the table, just like her father. Surely she was imagining things. She was fatigued, tired after a long day and worried about her family. There could be no way under heaven that a man she had never met could comprehend her feelings.

  Nevertheless, she abruptly shoved back her heavy chair and got to her feet. The hound nearby scrounging for scraps from the table yipped with surprise, and the baron looked equally startled.

  “If you will excuse me, my lord, I believe I should see to the preparations for Lord Oswald’s arrival tomorrow. He sent word he will be here after the noon, and I should make certain all is ready now. Tomorrow morning I may not have time.”

  “Very well,” the baron replied. He was obviously annoyed, but she was already leaving.

  She took a moment to pause beside her father and press a kiss upon his cheek. He merely nodded and continued to stare down at his untouched food.

  O’r annwyl, Connor thought in Welsh as he watched the lady hurry away. She loathes the man who was sitting beside her to the core of her heart, just as she loves her ailing father dear.

  The love for a father he could easily understand, for he had loved his own and mourned his death yet. But the loathing—that was interesting, considering that the fellow was seated between the lady and her father in a place of great honor that would lead one to suspect a betrothal was imminent.

  If that were so, the man would do well to reconsider. Not only did the earl’s daughter hate him, she didn’t look the kind to be easily persuaded to a change of mind. He had seen that expression often enough on his sister’s face to know that it bespoke an independence of thought not considered proper in well-bred ladies.

  He could just imagine what Cordelia would say if she were forced to sit beside a man who inspired such a look of disgust. Obviously, Lady Allis was more polite, or perhaps less stubborn.

  Still, he couldn’t blame the fellow for wanting the lady. She was lovely, with dark eyes beneath shapely brows, her skin smooth and pinkly flushed either from excitement or the heat of the hall, and her lips full and inviting. The plain white scarf that covered her hair seemed somewhat austere, as if she were a novice in a convent—but the rich, red gown belied that impression, as did the proud carriage of her head. No humble bride of Christ she.

  Yet she was not simply the spoiled, pampered daughter of a wealthy man. He had not been long in the hall before he realized who ruled the servants and the household, although Lady Allis looked no more than twenty.

  Nearby, a group of young knights laughed raucously, interrupting his musin
gs.

  Connor regarded them indulgently, as he might a gaggle of children. They were obviously noblemen’s sons who came to play at battle when they were not drinking themselves into a stupor or trying to seduce the servants. So he had been in the days of his youth—a lifetime ago.

  He was not here for mere sport, as they were. He was here to win, for the object of this sort of event was to capture one’s opponent and demand a ransom. In this way a landless knight could earn a living, and hopefully more than that.

  Once more he glanced at the high table, and studied the wealthy man seated beside the earl. While he had a breadth of shoulder that was impressive, the older man’s flesh was too soft to have spent much time engaged in actual fighting, or even tournaments. He would likely have finer equipment, yet in all other matters such as skill and training and especially experience, Connor was sure he was his better. He was also certain he had a better mount, for Demetrius was as battle-hardened as his master.

  The buxom, middle-aged serving wench came again to fill the goblets of the young knights. She laughed lustily and it was clear by her bright eyes that she was enjoying their attention. He would not be surprised to learn she would welcome one of those young knights into her bed tonight. Maybe even two.

  “You’re a quiet one, I must say,” she noted, coming toward him with her hips swaying seductively. “I don’t know but that the quiet ones are the best after all. Save their vitality for something other than talking, they do.”

  That elicited another hoot of laughter.

  Connor smiled and crooked his finger, indicating that he wanted to speak with her.

  Merva grinned and leaned down so far, he had an excellent view of nearly the whole of her breasts. “Yes, sir knight?”