Her Gallant Knight: A Medieval Romance Novella

by Catherine Kean

  “W-what is happening?” Nanette asked.

  “We are slowing.” A ghastly chill rippled through Amelia. They wouldn’t be stopping unless the captain-of-the-guard and the four armed riders who had been assigned to escort the carriage had been defeated.

  Nanette shuddered. “W-why—?”

  “Is your dagger within easy reach?” Amelia’s late mother had insisted a lady should keep a knife concealed in her garments at all times, and ’twas a rule Amelia never failed to follow.

  “I do have my knife, but I am no warrior.”

  “Today, you need to be.”

  The carriage ground to a halt.

  Honor rose on all fours. Staring at the door, the wolfhound growled.

  Rising as well, Amelia slipped her fingers down the front of her bodice to take out the small, thin knife she’d tucked between her breasts earlier. Nanette also retrieved her dagger from her cleavage. They stood in silence. Waiting.

  Amelia strained to hear the words being exchanged outside.

  “You, inside the carriage,” a man called. His gravelly tone didn’t sound natural; he was attempting to disguise his voice. As she wondered why—Had he recognized the coat of arms on the carriage and believed the occupants might know him?—he shouted, “Come out. Now.”

  Nanette moaned and glanced at Amelia.

  She shook her head. “We are safer in here.” They not only had knives, but they had Honor. The big dog was extremely protective.

  “I will not ask again,” said the outlaw.

  “Eat toads, you coward,” Amelia said under her breath.

  Knife at the ready, Nanette giggled nervously.

  One heartbeat, two, and then the carriage door flew open, admitting a flood of sunshine.

  Amelia squinted against the light. A man wielding a sword stood outside. He wore a bulky, brown woolen cloak, a garment sold in most town markets and worn by commoners. A leather mask covered his head and face down to his neck.

  Honor snarled and barked.

  The outlaw’s eyes, visible through slits in the mask, gleamed as his gaze shifted from the dog to Amelia, and then Nanette. “Good day, fair ladies.”

  “Leave us alone.” Amelia thrust her knife at him. “We will not let you rob or harm us.”

  “Leave you alone? After stopping your carriage? I think not, Lady Bainbridge.”

  The outlaw knew her name. The attackers had indeed recognized the carriage’s coat of arms.

  Yet, a more horrifying realization formed in her mind: The man with the sword wasn’t low-born. He spoke too well. He wasn’t a town merchant, then, from whom her brother had purchased goods. Nor was he a tradesman. He was a nobleman.

  Oh, God—

  The outlaw suddenly glanced away.

  Amelia also heard the noise: Hoofbeats.

  ***

  A breeze sighed through the tree boughs overhead and scattered fallen leaves and sunlit shadows across the forest road. All quite pleasant, but as Ryder rode through the woods with his fourteen men-at-arms, on his way home to Brindston Keep, he could not find any enjoyment in the journey.

  After helping an ally capture thieves, he’d taken the long route back to his fortress, which had been awarded to him by the crown in honor of his fighting on Crusade. He’d inquired at five jewelers’ shops, in hopes of finding the ring that had been stolen from him—a ring he had to recover, for he’d vowed to protect it for the Templar Order.

  None of the jewelers had seen the ring.

  He’d failed to get it back it. Again.

  The golden hues of the shadows ahead drew his thoughts back to the East….

  “Why have we been summoned here?” the bearded knight standing beside Ryder asked, his gaze shifting to Gladwin, Stephen, Tilden, and the other Templars gathered around the table.

  “I will show you,” said Edsel. Candlelight gleamed on the riches he tipped out of the leather bag onto the table: a dagger with a jewel-encrusted hilt, gold necklaces and rings, silver goblets, and cloak pins. Ryder knew ’twas but a very small portion of the riches given to the Templars by folk who’d undertaken pilgrimages to the Holy Land; ’twas all that could be quickly brought by Edsel that night, to avoid arousing suspicion.

  “Why show us these riches?” the bearded knight asked.

  “The Saracens are a resourceful foe. We cannot let them capture these treasures,” Ryder said. He, Edsel, and several others had already decided the items couldn’t simply be hidden at Acre; ’twas all too likely they would be found by the infidel.

  “The riches also must not fall to the king’s other enemies,” Tilden said quietly.

  “Other enemies?” a Templar asked.

  Ryder nodded. “Warriors who fight in these Eastern lands for King Richard, but who want his brother to take the English throne.”

  “You speak of treason.” The bearded man sounded uneasy.

  “Regrettably, I do. The traitors could carry riches like these back to England, sell them, and use the coin to incite rebellion.”

  “What will you have us do?” the bearded knight asked.

  “We must each take a piece of treasure. Other trusted Templar knights will also take riches. ’Twill be our avowed duty to keep safe what we take. When a good hiding place has been found in England, we will be called upon to reunite our piece with the rest of the hoard.”

  Silence stretched in the chamber.

  “If any man does not wish to take part, he must speak up now.”

  Still, silence.

  Edsel turned to Tilden and handed him a quill and ink. “Make a list of the treasure received by each man. We will start with you, Ryder. You will take this gold ring….

  He’d gotten the ring safely to England and protected it for months, but then had decided to resign from the Order. He’d sent a missive to the Master of England by way of the Temple Church in London, and had promised to surrender the ring, along with his Templar weapons and trappings. After sending the resignation, he’d shaved off his long Templar beard.

  And then, the jewel had been stolen.

  By God, he would get it back. He would fulfill his duty—

  Ryder’s focus returned to the forest, for sounds carried from the road ahead: the rumbling of a hurtling wagon, frantic shouting, and the clash of weapons. There was no mistaking what he was hearing: An attack.

  This particular stretch of woods had been relatively safe until now. The outlaws were growing bolder.

  Anger boiled inside Ryder. If he could spare today’s travelers the torment of being robbed, he would do so.

  “Be ready to fight,” he called to his guards then spurred his destrier to a gallop. He raced down the road, his men-at-arms close behind.

  A carriage with a rounded top and four lathered horses hitched to the front came into view. The vehicle had halted near the weed-choked verge. Men stood nearby, some wearing leather masks that covered their heads and faces but had slits for them to see through. Others were lying injured or kneeling on the dirt, their weapons on the ground.

  Ryder recognized the coat of arms painted on the side of the carriage. He’d ridden in the contraption not long after Tilden had purchased it.

  Was she inside?

  If Amelia was in the vehicle, chivalry required that he ensure her safety before his own…although she’d likely prefer to perish than have to accept his help. She’d avoided him for years, after all, even though he’d tried more than once to see her.

  Several outlaws ran toward Ryder and his men. A thug reached for the carriage door and yanked it open. A dog barked inside the vehicle, the sound ferocious. Protective.

  Ryder wondered if the dog could be the wolfhound he’d given Amelia, while he signaled to his men to intercept the approaching outlaws. He’d conquer the thug at the carriage.

  Suddenly, a gray wolfhound leapt out and sank its teeth into the thug’s left forearm.

  The man cried out in pain; lashed out with his sword.

  “Nay!” a woman within the carriage shrieked.


  The dog, unharmed, let go of the man.

  The thug bolted.

  “Surrender, outlaws,” Ryder yelled, “or you will be killed.”

  Several of the kneeling men, clearly taking advantage of the distraction Ryder and his men had provided, lunged to their feet. Fists flew. Swords clanged together.

  “Retreat,” an outlaw yelled.

  The thugs fled.

  “Follow them,” Ryder bellowed, sending all but four of his men into the forest in pursuit. Those remaining he ordered to tend to the wounded, including the captain-of-the-guard, whom Ryder recognized.

  “Milord,” the man said with a grateful nod.

  Ryder nodded in return. He dismounted close to the carriage and strode to it, dirt crunching beneath his boots. The wolfhound stood guard in the doorway. Ready to attack if necessary, the dog watched him approach.

  “I am very glad we were not ravished,” a woman said from inside the vehicle.

  “I told you all would be well,” another female answered.

  Amelia.

  Ah, God, he’d know her voice anywhere; he heard it in his dreams.

  “You did indeed say all would be fine,” the woman he hadn’t met before answered, “but I did not—”

  The wolfhound growled at Ryder.

  “Honor,” he scolded.

  The dog hesitated then barked.

  Ryder slowly stretched out his hand so the animal could sniff it. As the dog’s damp nose touched his fingers, he said, “I am a friend. I promise.”

  “Oh, God. Nay.” Amelia’s hushed words were just audible.

  “What is wrong?” the other female whispered.

  “I know that man.”

  Ryder resisted a grin and carefully lifted his hand to touch the dog’s head. The wolfhound allowed him several pats before the tip of his shaggy tail swished to and fro.

  A gasp carried from inside the vehicle. “Honor, you traitor!”

  While he continued to bestow affection upon the dog, Ryder looked up into the carriage. He didn’t recognize the blonde who eyed him with equal measures of relief, wariness, and interest. As his attention shifted to Amelia, memories of her at Merringstow rushed into his mind: yearnings and thoughts that had been most unworthy of a pious Templar who’d taken vows of chastity.

  Turmoil stirred within him once again, for he’d always thought her beautiful. Yet, she’d matured into a willowy, chestnut-haired siren. While wisps of hair had come loose in places from her waist-length braid, and her silk gown appeared rumpled, she was still the most fetching woman he’d seen in a long while.

  Misgiving gleamed in her eyes, but he’d expected to see distrust. Mayhap one day, she’d gaze upon him with an expression other than suspicion or resentment.

  “Are you both all right?” he asked.

  “We are fine, milord,” the blonde said with a brilliant smile. “Are you responsible for our gallant rescue?”

  “I am ’Tis an honor to have been able to help, milady.”

  The blonde fluttered her eyelashes at him, and he executed an elegant bow. As he straightened, his gaze locked with Amelia’s.

  “Ryder,” she murmured.

  “Amelia. What a pleasure to see you again.”

  Chapter Three

  Ryder was even more handsome than Amelia remembered.

  When he straightened from his bow and swept his woolen cloak back over his shoulder, a sinful heat bloomed within her. His face was leaner and more sun-bronzed than years ago, and a few days’ worth of stubble darkened his jaw and chin, making him look rather roguish. His piercing eyes gleamed with both intelligence and awareness of how momentous this moment was between them.

  Even as she admired his masculine beauty, however, anger welled within her. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—forget all that lay between them, including the way he’d humiliated her in front of Lord Palmer at Merringstow.

  She’d rather not face him now, but he had just saved her and Nanette from peril. Moreover, the only way out of the carriage was through the doorway where he stood.

  She was going to have to tolerate him. For now.

  Honor licked Ryder’s hand and then jumped down from the carriage to sniff the grass.

  “Amelia and I have met before,” Ryder said to Nanette, “but regrettably, I do not know you.”

  The young woman blushed. “My name is Nanette, milord. And you are?”

  “Ryder Stanbury.”

  “I do not know what we would have done without your help. Thank you for saving us.”

  “Aye,” Amelia reluctantly conceded. “Thank you.”

  Ryder’s gaze shifted to her, and he smiled. “’Tis a knight’s duty to protect damsels.”

  His words reminded her of the afternoon long ago when he and Tilden had fashioned swords from sticks bound together with twine. They’d undertaken a make-believe quest along the lakeshore to recover the Holy Grail, which had been stolen by a dragon. She’d wanted to be a knight too, but they’d refused, because she was female, and thus had to play the swooning damsel being held captive in the dragon’s lair. In the end, she’d stormed off in tears.

  Amelia wished Nanette hadn’t implied they had been helpless before Ryder had intervened. Such implications only served to feed his arrogance.

  “We are indeed most grateful for your help,” she said, refusing to avert her gaze, “although we were managing just fine on our own.”

  Nanette made a choking sound.

  Ryder’s mouth twitched, as though he fought not to laugh. “Were you, now?”

  Amelia gestured to her dagger, hoping he didn’t see how unsteady her hands were. “We have weapons.”

  “So I see.”

  “Nanette and I would have attacked together.”

  “Of course.” Ryder’s smile broadened. “Very wise.”

  Aye, he was definitely trying not to laugh. The knave.

  “Honor would have helped us,” Amelia insisted.

  Ryder chortled.

  Amelia scowled, for while she hadn’t attacked anyone before—and she doubted Nanette had, either—it couldn’t be that difficult. Could it?

  “At least you found that amusing,” she muttered.

  Grinning, he shook his head. “You never change.”

  What did that mean? “I have changed since you last saw me.”

  His expression softened a little. “I dare say, mayhap we both have.”

  She hesitated, for an odd note tinged his words. Even as she wondered if what she heard was remorse, he gestured to her knife. “You do not need that anymore. You should put it away, before you cut yourself.”

  Her fingers tightened on the knife’s hilt. “Why would I cut myself?”

  “Not intentionally,” he added.

  “By accident, then?”

  “Accidents can easily happen.”

  They could. He’d gotten that scar at his right eyebrow by accident. During his and Tilden’s search for the Holy Grail, Ryder had slipped and fallen on wet rocks. Still…. “Are you suggesting I do not know how to handle a knife?”

  “Amelia—”

  “Truly, I am curious to know your thoughts.”

  “I appreciate you are curious,” Ryder replied, clearly choosing his words with care. “However, there are more important matters that require our attention right now. Several of your men are injured. The carriage should also be inspected to ensure ’tis still safe for travel.”

  Shame rippled through Amelia, for she should have recognized those concerns herself. “Are my men going to be all right?”

  “I believe so, but you will want to check on them yourself.” Ryder gestured to her dagger. “If you put the knife away, I can help you out of the carriage.”

  “That makes sense,” Nanette said, glancing at Amelia.

  Indeed, it did. “All right. Ryder, turn your back so we can tuck our daggers away.”

  “Turn my back on you, Amelia? That sounds dangerous.”

  Nanette giggled, as though he’d made a mar
velous jest. Before Amelia could think of a suitable retort, he’d turned his back as she’d requested.

  Nanette reached down the front of her gown to return her dagger to its sheath. Amelia glowered at the back of Ryder’s head before she pulled at the snug fabric of her bodice to stow her knife. Not a quick or simple task, when her hand was still unsteady, and she had to slip the dagger between her breasts.

  Nanette smoothed her bodice. “Done.”

  “Already?” Peering down at her bosom, Amelia tried to get the point of the knife to the right angle. She didn’t want to nick her skin and draw blood, not in front of Ryder.

  His head tilted. “Finished?”

  “Wait. I—”

  Too late. He’d already turned to face them. His gaze riveted to her hand, holding the dagger halfway down her cleavage.

  Heat smoldered in his eyes. A muscle leapt in his jaw.

  Her face grew hot. Surely what she saw in his eyes wasn’t sexual interest. He’d joined the Templars after completing his knight’s training at Merringstow. He’d taken his vows in London at the same time as her brother, Gladwin, and Stephen: vows that had required them to live as monks.

  “You keep your knife there?” he rasped.

  How keenly she felt his scalding gaze upon her bosom. Painful recollections stirred, and anguish spread through her.

  “Why not just give me the knife, Amelia?”

  Nay. ’Twould be akin to admitting she couldn’t put the weapon away, and that simply wouldn’t do. He stretched up his hand, but she pushed down on the knife and it slipped into its sheath.

  A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding broke from her.

  “Well done,” Ryder said. “Now, take hold of my hand.”

  ***

  God’s Holy Bones. Seeing the sharp blade so close to Amelia’s creamy skin had almost driven Ryder to leap into the carriage and snatch the weapon away from her. Before he could act on that impulse, she’d succeeded in putting away the dagger.

  He’d been vulnerable, though, for that brief moment. He didn’t like losing control of his emotions.

  Even more irritating, she hadn’t moved to accept his offer of aid.

  “Come on. Give me your hand,” he said, his tone gruffer than intended.