Endearing (Knight Everlasting Book 1)

by Cassidy Cayman

  She also had someone else she couldn’t get out of her head. Someone who seemed to have completely forgotten about her. She hadn’t heard a peep from their neighbor to the north. If it hadn’t been for Sir Walter’s men returning from successfully helping to vanquish yet another attempt to wrest Sir Tristan’s land from him, she might have thought he was dead.

  And Batty had received two letters from Brom, one of which had a song he’d written for her in it. She’d listened while Batty slowly read it to her and Catherine. The words were so lovely and romantic she’d wanted to weep. Catherine had said it was the prettiest thing she’d ever heard and pronounced the squire in the wrong profession.

  “I do think he wanted to be a bard, but as he’s so strong and tall and, of course, he was raised to be a knight …” Batty blathered on about him for at least five minutes longer while she let baby Robert gum on her pinky finger.

  Fay hadn’t thought she was upset about Brom’s blatant affection and ability to show it through correspondence, until poor, wee Mary squeaked uncomfortably and she realized she’d been holding her too tightly. Catherine tsked, thinking she was hungry, but Fay had been ashamed at her jealousy. It was the letter she was envious of and Batty must have seen it, for she patted Fay sympathetically.

  “It might be that Sir Tristan isn’t good with words,” she said. “It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.”

  It raised her spirits for about a second, until she realized that was exactly what it meant. If Brom had the time and the inclination to write multi-paged missives, Tristan could put a few words to parchment himself. If he wanted to, which he clearly didn’t.

  Dragging herself back to the present, she pushed herself forcefully out of her chair and looked at her sister, who poked at a bit of embroidery. She longed to go outside and splash in the puddles and twirl in the downpour with her arms outstretched. But Batty was fussier than a hen when it came to water, and Fay didn’t want to risk Anne getting a chill. She eyed Marjorie with some hopefulness, but knew it would be a waste of time to ask her.

  “When is the tournament?” she asked, giving up on going outside and deciding to talk about an adventure they all looked forward to instead. “Will we still be able to go if the weather stays like this?”

  “Will they still have it?” Batty worried.

  “That’s still a month from now,” Anne said, then paused to think. “Wait, how long exactly have we been cooped up in here with this weather?”

  “Ages,” Marjorie said. “But you forgot about when you were so terribly ill. You slept a great deal of the spring away. If it’s not cancelled, the tournament is in but a fortnight.”

  “Did they shear the sheep without me?” Anne asked, looking devastated.

  “No, you haven’t missed that,” Marjorie assured her, breaking into a smile. “I can’t wait to see the lambs. Ugh, this weather. We’ve barely been to chapel it’s so wet everywhere.”

  “Yes, it’s terribly negligent of us. We should wrap ourselves up and go say some prayers.” Anne sounded diligent enough, but didn’t move from her chair.

  Fay thought about the trek through the outer bailey that seemed a mile long, leading to the leaky chapel. It was beautiful in sunny weather when the light hit the two stained glass windows, but in the damp or cold, it was a dreary place. Still, she would happily goad them with fear for their everlasting souls if it got her out of that room for a while.

  A timid knock made the four of them turn to Anne’s door. A tousled, ginger head inched its way around, revealing one of the pages.

  “Weren’t you out training?” Fay asked him, almost sure his name was Clive. “You look too dry to have been scuffling out there today.”

  He shook his head. “Kitchen today, Lady Fay. I was just serving Sir Walter some fresh ginger pancakes that Cook was quite proud of when he asked me to bring you to him.”

  “Me? Oh, okay, let me find my shawl.” Fay had a feeling her time was up. Her mind thrashed around, still trying to make a decision her heart and the curse could live with.

  “Where are our cakes?” Anne asked teasingly.

  “I’ll ask Cook, Lady Anne, and bring them up at once.” He bowed and then gazed at her as if she were the Madonna.

  “Never mind, Clive. We were just looking for a reason to leave this chamber. And I think you’ve given us the perfect one.”

  “Glad to be of service, Lady Anne.”

  Fay told them to save some for her, not sure if she’d have any appetite. She followed Clive to her father’s throne room. The giant chair was pushed close to a desk. Sir Walter leaned over some letters, straining to read by the light of a lone candle.

  “Let me read them for you,” Fay said. “It’s so dark, you’ll strain your eyes.”

  “No matter, Fay,” he sighed. “I’ve worked out the gist of it. Have a seat, dear child.”

  “Is the letter from Lord Drayton?” she asked, diving right in.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, making his somewhat bushy eyebrows ripple up and down. “Unfortunately no. This is from Lady Alise. You met her when you were a small child, do you remember? She is the owner of the bit of land that runs between ours to the west and the village of Cambrey.”

  “I don’t remember her, no. Is there something I can do for her?” The thought of a possible trip to meet someone new perked her right up. Maybe this wasn’t about Lord Drayton at all.

  “No. She was writing to express her good wishes for your marriage.” He rubbed his whole forehead now and ran his hands through his white mane of hair. “It seems Lord Drayton has been spreading it around the countryside that your engagement is official.” Fay gasped. What did that mean? Her father continued, and she worried for his hair follicles the way he was clutching at his scalp. “I do not like having my hand forced like this. Please don’t cry again, Fay.”

  Oh, she wasn’t on the verge of tears this time. She was too occupied with deciding where to punch Lord Drayton the next time she saw him. She prayed she’d never have to see him again and, the way she felt right then, she thought he should pray for the same thing. For his own safety.

  “Father, I’m sorry I waited so long to give you my answer. I was a coward and feared disappointing you. But I can’t—I really cannot—please don’t make me marry Lord Drayton.”

  It was still a very real possibility that Sir Walter would make her marry him, especially now if he didn’t want their name sullied with talk of a failed match. No one would wonder what was wrong with Lord Drayton, they’d wonder what was wrong with her. It would make it all the harder for her to find a new suitor as rejected goods. Oh, God, had Tristan heard of her so-called engagement? She sank to the edge of her chair, thinking she may throw up.

  “Child, I would never force you to marry someone you didn’t love. It would break my heart to see you unhappy. And I do believe your dear mother would haunt me.”

  “You believe in love, then?” she asked.

  He smiled ruefully. “Indeed. When I was your age I didn’t. I only wanted land and glory. I got those and found I wasn’t as happy as I thought I would be. Until, of course, I met your mother. Ah, but you know the story, she told it to you so many times when you two girls were small. I won’t bother you with repeating it.”

  She longed to hear the story she was supposed to have heard so many times, but there was no way she could ask him. He’d only worry more than he did now. “I tried,” she said. “It’s another reason I waited so long. I promise I tried to only think of his good qualities, tried to picture a life with him.”

  “But your heart won’t hear of it?” he asked in all sincerity.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. Sorry she wasn’t his real daughter, mostly. Glad he thought she was. “What will happen now?”

  “Don’t worry yourself over that,” he said briskly. His face had cleared of its worry and she could see shades of the fierce warrior he’d once been. It seemed where his daughters were concerned, he would always be. “Go gather your sister and anyon
e else you can find and hie yourselves to the chapel to pray that this rain finally ceases.”

  She stood and curtseyed, then took a risk and pressed a kiss to his bristly cheek. “I wish you really were my father,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t hear the words she actually spoke.

  “And I love you, my dear. Make sure Anne is properly bundled, we can’t have her sick again.”

  She nodded and scampered off, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

  Chapter 21

  Tristan stared at his flickering candle before returning to the maps in front of him. He should have been outside on the training field, either praising or shouting at his men. But here he was, stewing over maps. There were many new responsibilities that he’d had to get used to doing, such as visiting the farmers. He’d done that the day before and now he was worried about the incessant rain, something he’d never thought to worry about before. Now, his concerns ran the gamut from not getting his rents to another famine sweeping the land.

  Another thing he’d been stewing about was the disturbing news that finally reached his far-flung lands. He tried to push it out of his mind and concentrate on the maps, but found they were a mass of useless squiggles in his state. He’d been threatening to knight Brom for at least two years, but his squire had balked each time, insisting he liked the simple life he currently led.

  “I would be grateful to continue to serve you until one of us dies. May it be me who goes first, of course,” he’d said, maddeningly ingratiating.

  Now, though, Brom had been mildly hinting at it and Tristan knew it had to do with his infatuation with Batty. Thinking of Lady Fay’s maid brought Lady Fay to his mind, which brought the disturbing news back to the front as well. He gave up on trying to pick out a small tract of land to bestow upon Brom when he knighted him and trudged to the small slot window.

  One of his squires, a promising young man of eighteen, hurled an axe perfectly. It landed with a satisfying thunk in its target and he could hear the smatter of applause from his prison. He had a steward now. He would assign that poor man the task of choosing some land appropriate for Brom. The way he’d seen Batty looking at his squire, it could end up being the worst bit of marsh and she’d still be happy to live there with him. He’d never do that to Brom though, nor would he ever admit he wished he’d seen a similar look on Fay’s face, only aimed in his own direction.

  He cursed everything leading up to him stewing in his chamber at that moment. He should have returned to Grancourt Castle, should have sent a message, but when he’d learned of the news … It had been a crushing blow, much like what he wished to give Lord Drayton.

  So the man had won Fay’s hand after all. He hadn’t wanted to believe it when he first heard the gossip that traveled with minstrels and tradesmen, but it had been circulating for so long now, it had to be true or Sir Walter would have publicly refuted it.

  “What are you stewing about now?”

  He turned to find Brom standing in the doorway and reconsidered the marshland. The man was eerie with his ability to read his thoughts. “The weather. The tenants.”

  “Lady Fay’s engagement to Lord Drayton?” Brom asked with a smirk.

  “What?” Tristan played dumb. “I hadn’t heard such a thing.”

  “Batty swears it isn’t true and it will be proven at the tournament.”

  “Which we won’t be going to,” Tristan said.

  He wanted to believe what Batty told Brom was true, but it was probably a silly maiden’s wish that her mistress wouldn’t be unhappy. Another thing he wanted to believe was that Fay didn’t want to marry Drayton, but her father had decided it would be a better match. Tristan laughed bitterly to himself. Even he knew it was a better match. Yes, he wanted to believe that, but he knew it wasn’t true. Fay had told him to wait to speak to her father, but had given Lord Drayton express permission to go ahead. That made it clear to him what life she wanted.

  To save himself the pain her rejection caused him, he comforted himself that perhaps her mental degeneration had caused her to be confused. Maybe she didn’t know what she wanted. In all honesty, those thoughts only hurt more. He’d wanted to save her from her deadly habits and had failed. Now she was lost to him forever.

  “What do you mean we won’t be going? The men will rise up against you for this, see if they don’t.”

  “What’s so special about this tournament?” Tristan asked, almost wanting his men to try and say a word out of line. He was in the mood to crack some heads. “They moaned and complained at being dragged to the last one.”

  “That was because the last one’s prizes were so stingy. Take a look at this proclamation. The prizes for this one, especially the main purse, could make a man’s fortune for a good long time.”

  He waved the sheet of parchment until Tristan took it and smoothed it on his table. The headline was large and showy, then there was a dark scrawl of letters smashed together in seemingly endless lines. No wonder this activity caused Lady Fay to go mad. It was making him want to throw something after only ten seconds. He skimmed until he came to a row of numbers and his eyebrows shot up.

  “That is, indeed, impressive,” he said, feeling his resolve swaying. He couldn’t keep his men from trying for such amounts of gold and silver. “Who is confirmed to compete? Do any of the men stand a chance at these prizes?”

  Brom rattled off a list of names and Tristan nodded, his own competitive juices beginning to flow. He knew he was better than most of them, as were Brom and several of his other squires. “You could beat half those men in your sleep,” he said to Brom.

  “Exactly why we all want to go so badly. Sir Drayton will also be there, with several of his knights competing. If you don’t go, he’ll spread the news that you’re afraid to face his men in a proper setting. You know he’s still upset you broke a lance on that giant of his.”

  If Lord Drayton was going there, so too would Lady Fay. As much as he wanted to completely defeat the one, seeing the other might mean his own demise. He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of his hands against her skin. Fresh anger arose. She’d shared herself with him, then chosen another who had more land and money. He would put her from his mind as surely as if he’d never known her and win against Lord Drayton, at least on the tournament field. As much as that other man seemed to hate to lose, that would have to be enough. Tristan would make it enough.

  “We’ll go to the tournament,” he said. He gave up on the maps for the moment and gestured for his squire to go ahead of him. “Let us practice well, for complete and utter victory.”

  He would settle for nothing less than to crush each and every one of Lord Drayton’s men, revenge for his crushed heart.

  Chapter 22

  Fay’s bum hurt but her spirits were high as the massive entourage of Sir Walter and his family made their way to the tournament. This would be the last day of riding. They’d get to stay in a friend’s home in Bimford Village instead of another manky inn. She didn’t know where the men would end up staying, but they seemed adept at finding places to rest their heads. The rain had let up a few days before they departed and, while the weather could in no way be called pleasant, they were dry when they were on their horses. The poor horses and the men on foot had to slog through all the leftover mud, which made their journey slower than it should have been, according to Anne.

  “It’s a shame the inn in Gordham had so depreciated,” she said, rubbing her back as she stretched in the saddle. “I do declare it would have been more comfortable to sleep in the barn on the hay than it was on that lumpy mattress.”

  “You may be right, Lady Anne,” Batty agreed from her pony, several feet behind them. “I slept on the floor and I feel fine this morning. Lady Fay, do you recall the fine breakfast we had the last time we all traveled through this area and stayed at the Gordham? It was barely more than greasy sausage and day old bread this time.”

  “Shameful,” Fay said, trying to crack her own back.

  While she had no such re
collection of the last trip through, the stay at the Gordham the night before hadn’t been pleasant. She’d been spoiled with the extreme attention to cleanliness and comfort at Grancourt Castle and was shocked to get a more realistic taste of medieval hospitality. On top of the lumpy mattresses, she was completely out of shape when it came to riding. They’d gone eight hours the first day, six the second and, according to Anne, “only” had five more to go today. That was what they considered a short journey.

  Despite the aches and pains, she couldn’t wait to see the splendor of the tournament. She’d been soaking in the others’ reminiscences as they rode, and knew they would have a special box of honor to sit in while they watched the competitions. If it was anything like Batty and Marjorie remembered the last tournament they all went to, it would either be festooned with bunting and roses or ivy and banners. Anne thought it was a platform with a snowy white tent shading them from the sun but, no matter how they remembered it, they all agreed those moments were some of the best days of their lives.

  “Do you think another knight will fall in love with you, Anne?” Batty asked.

  Marjorie scowled and tried to reach from her horse to pinch Batty, but was too far away. Fay nearly gave herself whiplash turning around to get the story.

  “A knight fell in love with Anne? Who was it? What happened?” She immediately clamped her lips together. As usual, she recalled too late that it was something she probably ought to know already. There was nothing she could do to backtrack. She took the concerned stares and head shaking until Batty started to tell the story.

  “It was Sir Harold of Kings Way Keep, almost as far south as London,” she said. “He was a bit older, but so handsome and refined. His beard was the most beautiful shade of golden red, and his hair was a bit darker, and he wore it shorter than the fashion—you don’t remember any of this at all?”