Return to Honor (Knights of Honor Book 10)

by Alexa Aston

  As she walked to the stage, Jessimond inhaled deeply. Autumn had always been her favorite season. She enjoyed the cool, crisp air and changes in the foliage. She thought about the harvest occurring at Kinwick now and how, within a few weeks, she would be back with her family.

  She hadn’t spoken to Marcus of her feelings for him, despite Auriol’s urging. If he would have indicated he still possessed strong feelings for her, she would have in a heartbeat. Instead, the only kiss they’d shared since the accident had been when he’d awakened after his fever broke. Even then, she’d been the one to kiss him. It was brief and sweet but nothing like what they had previously shared.

  Since Marcus didn’t seem inclined to touch her anymore, Jessimond assumed he was doing what he thought best. The season would soon end. They would be going their separate ways. It would be wrong of her to press him for some kind of commitment. Marcus and Rand would return to their liege lord’s estate and whatever duties awaited them. She would take up her old life.

  And be miserable, pining for Marcus every day for a lifetime.

  Bartholomew awaited her backstage. He handed over his lute and picked up the two stools they would sit upon. Jessimond still felt guilty sometimes when they performed together. She understood how much Bartholomew enjoyed the crowd’s attention and hated that Elias and Moss insisted they continue to sing together. Still, Bartholomew was always pleasant to her and never brought up how she had been forced upon him.

  Jessimond joined the troubadour, handing his lute to him, and they sat. By now, they could communicate without words, their voices blending seamlessly. Bartholomew continued to select the songs they sang together, while she chose some of her original compositions for when she sang alone. They always closed together with a sweet ballad.

  She’d finally grown accustomed to looking out at the audience during the performance. It was hard to imagine only a couple of months ago how frightened she’d been that first time she joined Bartholomew on stage. Sitting with the troubadour and performing before large groups of people now seemed like second nature.

  As her partner began plucking his strings, Jessimond noticed a tall man standing near the back of the crowd. His intense gaze caused an eerie chill to creep up her spine. Even as she joined in the song, she continued to sense the heat of his stare boring into her from across the way.

  Jessimond forced herself to remain focused on their songs. She looked across the crowd every now and then but never back to where she knew the man stood, not wanting to be distracted. Finally, they ended with a last song and exited the stage. Hamlyn brushed by them and launched into his narrative as Agatha readied the mummers to take the stage.

  She decided to return to the camp and finish the gown she’d begun from the material Marcus had purchased for her. The soft, red wool would be a combination of a tunic that mere Jess Gilpin would wear and a cotehardie that Jessimond de Montfort would slip into. She hoped to wear the creation at least once so that Marcus could see her in it. Once she returned to Kinwick, she doubted she would wear it again. It would be too painful to don because it would bring about too many memories of this time with the mummers and the knight who had claimed her heart.

  “May I leave my lute with you, Agatha?”

  “I’ll take it, Jess.” Her friend slipped the lute between two crates. “It will be safe there.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jessimond started back to the mummers’ tents. She decided to stroll through the faire before she did so. It had been several days since she had and was always something she enjoyed doing, meeting new people and viewing their wares.

  Then the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She looked over her shoulder and saw the man from before. He was about her father’s age and dressed as a knight. Mayhap, it was someone who had visited at Kinwick and recognized her. Jessimond decided she should speak to him before he might question anyone else in the troupe about her.

  Motioning to him, she moved away from the stalls. She remained in view, though, in case she needed to summon anyone. After all, this man was a stranger to her.

  As he approached, Jessimond asked, “Do we know each other?” She had an odd feeling that somehow they did.

  He gave her a wistful smile. “Greetings, my lady. I am Sir Rodric Shelley, in service to the Baron of Netherfield.”

  She didn’t recognize the name or face—yet something told her she knew this man.

  “I am no lady, Sir Rodric,” she replied. “My name is Jess Gilpin. I am with the mummers’ troupe.”

  “Aye. I heard you sing. You look and sound like an angel.”

  “Thank you. I have not been singing for long. I am a seamstress for the company.” She had no wish to share her true past with this stranger.

  “They do not need the other troubadour. You outshine him in every way.”

  “I am happy to share the stage with Bartholomew,” she said testily.

  “Will you be singing again?” he asked hopefully.

  “Aye. I do a few songs with Bartholomew before each play.”

  “Then I look forward to hearing you again, Jess. I will also bring the baron with me. He will want to hear you perform.”

  “You are welcomed to do so, Sir Rodric. We will be at Denwell the rest of this week.”

  Jessimond turned and left the knight. She longed to look back over her shoulder but didn’t want him to think she was curious about him. Returning to camp, she put the encounter from her mind and was able to complete her outfit over the next two hours. Deciding to wear it for the first time, she slipped it on and returned to the stage. Smoothing the fine wool over her undertunic, Jessimond felt pretty and confident.

  Agatha came up to her. “This is beautiful, Jess. Where did you get it?”

  “Marcus bought the material for me several weeks ago. I finally had time to make it up.”

  “You are so talented. When we reach Kinwick, will you teach me how to sew? I know the basics but nothing ever comes out right.”

  She hugged Agatha. “I’d be happy to do so.”

  Once more, Jessimond joined Bartholomew. She decided not to look for Sir Rodric, doubting he would have returned to the faire so quickly, much less with his liege lord. They completed their set and acknowledged the crowd’s enthusiastic applause. Since the play following would be the last of the day, she kept her lute and started back for camp. She wanted to add a few leeks and spices to the evening stew that she’d left simmering.

  Jessimond passed the area where Marcus and Rand sparred. She stopped and watched the pair at a distance. This was the first stop they had gone against one another again since the accident because Jessimond had not wanted Marcus to burst his stitches. Instead, Peter had taken Marcus’ place and done a wonderful job in replacing the knight. Peter had told her while he enjoyed swordplay, he was more than happy to allow Marcus to return to it because what he really liked was participating in the plays. She had teased him about wanting to become a mummer instead of remaining a blacksmith. Peter told her this was his youthful time of adventure and he would be more than willing to settle into life working next to his father. Jessimond thought part of that was because Agatha would return with them to Kinwick, and Peter would not want to go off and leave her behind.

  “Celia! Celia, wait!”

  Jessimond heard a voice frantically calling and glanced around. She saw no other woman nearby and wondered who the man might be addressing. Stopping, she saw two men rushing toward her.

  One was Sir Rodric. The other was a nobleman with dark blond hair edged with silver. As they drew near, she saw he was just over two score and of medium height. His dark brown eyes widened as he came to a halt in front of her.

  “God in His Heavens. I cannot believe it.” The nobleman shook his head in disbelief and looked to his companion. “Rodric, you weren’t mistaken. She is Celia made over.”

  Jessimond looked at them in confusion. “Who is this Celia, my lord? I am Jess Gilpin, not whom you seek.”

  He swall
owed, a pained yet hopeful expression on his face. “I am Gregory de Challon, Baron of Netherfield. I think . . . nay, I believe . . . that you are my daughter.”

  Chapter 16

  Jessimond’s jaw dropped. Could it be? Had this nobleman fathered her? She found no resemblance between them.

  The baron took a step toward her, as if to embrace her. She quickly backed away.

  “Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Let me . . . at least let me speak with you a moment.”

  Warily, she crossed her arms in front of her and held her ground, her lute acting as a further barrier between them.

  Seeing that she wouldn’t flee, the baron said, “I am ashamed to tell you that as a young man, I was most selfish. I would not have wanted you to know me then. I never thought of others. I sought pleasure through women and drink, never wondering what tomorrow might bring.”

  He raked a hand through his thick hair. “And then I met Celia. Your mother.”

  Those two words made her knees turn to water. Jessimond locked them to keep from collapsing.

  “Celia was the loveliest woman I’d ever seen when she arrived at the royal court. Nay, she was still a girl. Only six and ten. So beautiful and full of light and sweetness. I wanted her like no one before.”

  “You seduced her,” Jessimond said flatly.

  Lord Gregory winced. “Aye. I thought I merely would charm her. Steal a few tender kisses. I never set out to deflower her.” He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath before opening them. “Celia stole my heart, though. One kiss wasn’t enough. Suddenly, I thought of nothing else, night and day. Every waking moment seemed consumed with thoughts of her.”

  She could understand what the nobleman said, having been taken with Marcus in the same way.

  “Kisses turned into more passionate actions. Before I knew it, Celia was with child.”

  Something told Jessimond that she was the child this man spoke of.

  “Why didn’t you wed her?” she asked. “It sounds as though you loved her.”

  Tears swam in Lord Gregory’s eyes. “I did love her. Deeply. I couldn’t imagine a life without her.” His voice broke. His hands covered his eyes.

  Sir Rodric spoke up. “The baron was already betrothed. Had been for years. He couldn’t have wed Lady Celia even if he’d wanted to. And believe me, he did. Legally, though, he already had a wife. The nuptial mass was strictly a formality.”

  Jessimond’s heart ached for this broken man who stood before her and even more for the woman he’d obviously left behind.

  The nobleman cleared his throat. “I loved Celia Achard. I abandoned her. ’Tis my biggest regret in life, a sin I can never wash from my soul.” He sighed. “I wed as my father expected me to. I tried to be a good husband to Egelina and an even better father to our children.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. Children?

  “They know about you,” the nobleman said. “My wife died many years ago. I told them then of their half-sister. They’ve wanted me to fetch you ever since.”

  He’d known where she was all this time? Jessimond couldn’t speak. It was as if this man had punched her in the belly and all air fled from her. Anger replaced the sympathy she’d felt for him.

  Sir Rodric took up the tale. “After Lady Celia gave birth to you, Lord Gregory charged me to take her from London to her home. Her father and brothers were away that summer. She’d told them she was visiting a friend so no family would be at Sturnwick when we returned.”

  She wondered how Celia would have explained a baby to her family and decided the young noblewoman would have done what others before her had done, and found a family nearby to take on the babe and raise it as theirs.

  “Lady Celia died on the journey home,” Sir Rodric continued.

  It was another blow to Jessimond. Already, she’d had fantasies of seeking out her birth mother.

  “We were near de Montfort lands by that point, still several days away from Sturnwick. I had met Lord Geoffrey and Lady Merryn at court and knew of their reputation of generosity with their people. I thought it best to leave you on Kinwick lands, my lady,” the knight said. “I hoped a family there would take you in, especially when they found the amethyst brooch I left wrapped inside your blanket. Lord Gregory had gifted it to Lady Celia. I thought you would fare better there than if I turned up at Sturnwick with the daughter of the house dead and her week-old babe. The servants wouldn’t have known what to do.”

  Jessimond’s head reeled with all of this news. Sir Rodric mentioning the brooch let her know beyond a doubt that she was the daughter of this nobleman and Lady Celia.

  “I changed after that,” Lord Gregory told her. “I quit putting myself first and looked to do for others. I’ve made a difference at Netherfield, Jess.” He paused. “Now, I want to make a difference in your life.

  “Come home with me,” he pleaded. “Your brother and two sisters long to meet you. If you’ve left Kinwick and joined this mummers’ troupe, it means you were searching for something that you couldn’t find there.”

  She started to speak but Lord Gregory raised his hand. “I know what I did was awful. I know I can never replace the people who took you in. Who loved you. But you have another family, Jess, and they wish to know you. You could live in luxury and be recognized as the lady you are. I will find a husband for you, one nearby so that we can see you often.”

  He took her hand. “Please. Come home to Netherfield. At least try to get to know us. I beg you.”

  Jessimond jerked her hand from his. “You know nothing about me, Lord Gregory. Who I am. Who my family is. Even if I come from the place you claim Sir Rodric left me.” Rage poured through her. “I don’t care who you are or who you think I am. I am not your child and never will be.”

  She whirled and saw Moss standing nearby, watching over her while she spoke to men he didn’t know. He hurried toward her.

  “I need Peter,” she cried.

  “He’s back at camp,” Moss said.

  Jessimond lifted her skirts and ran. She didn’t dare look back. Tears of anger streamed down her cheeks. How dare this man appear and claim her as his, especially after what he did to her mother. As she raced away, her anger melted and turned to sorrow for the lost innocence of her young mother at the hands of that knave. Gregory de Challon had plied an inexperienced young woman with sweet words and sweeter kisses, claiming to love her even as he deserted her and made a life on his own. He’d kept his title, gained a wife, and had children—while Celia Achard had died on the road with Jessimond by her side.

  She wondered what her mother had named her. Though she wished she could ask Sir Rodric, Jessimond determined never to reveal to him or the baron that she was, indeed, that babe.

  Arriving at camp out of breath, she saw Peter entering with a stack of firewood in his arms. One look at her and he dropped it, hurrying toward her.

  Her friend didn’t ask what was wrong. He merely enfolded her in his arms and held her. Jessimond cried a river of tears for the mother she’d lost and would never know. Finally, her sobs subsided.

  “Is it Marcus?” he finally asked.

  “Nay. Oh, Peter. ’Twas my father.”

  “Lord Geoffrey is here? I thought we wouldn’t see him until we arrived at Lord Ancel’s estate.”

  Jessimond composed herself. “Not my father. The man . . . the man who . . .” She couldn’t continue.

  Somehow, Peter understood and wrapped his arms about her again. Jessimond let him rock her. The steady motion calmed her.

  “Lord Geoffrey is your father, Jess. Lady Merryn is your mother. The de Montforts are your family,” Peter softly insisted. “Nothing—no one—will ever take you away from them. You are a de Montfort daughter as much as Lady Alys and Lady Nan are. No matter who claimed to have fathered you and what woman birthed you, you have been a de Montfort since you were only a few days old. Lord Geoffrey and Lady Merryn and all of your brothers and sisters love you and cherish you.

  “Sit,” he encouraged. “Tell m
e everything that happened.”

  Slowly, Jessimond recounted the entire incident. Peter kept quiet throughout, merely nodding as she spoke.

  “I wish never to see him again,” she said vehemently. “Not after what he did to her.”

  Peter said, “I wouldn’t judge Lord Gregory too harshly, Jess.”

  When she began to protest, he silenced her. “He was young himself. Foolhardy. Selfish. And betrothed. It sounds as if he did love Lady Celia and regrets his actions. If you choose to have nothing to do with him or your half-brother and half-sisters, that is up to you. At least you now know your background.

  “And if you change your mind, you know where to seek him.”

  A numbness overtook Jessimond. “I think I will lie down. Could you see to the stew?”

  “Of course.”

  She stumbled to her tent and collapsed upon the pallet. More tears came as she thought over what Peter said.

  Her mother and father had been young. Reckless. They hadn’t thought through the consequences of their coupling. They’d been caught up in loving one another.

  She thought of what might have happened if she and Marcus had continued in their love play. Each time he touched her and brought her to new heights of pleasure, she realized how much control he must have exercised in not taking things further. If he had, Jessimond might have found herself in the same position as her mother. Alone. Unwed. With child.

  Sitting up, she scooped water from the small bowl next to her bed and splashed it across her face. She breathed deeply and evenly, until she knew she was in control of her emotions once more. Leaving the tent, Jessimond walked determinedly back toward the faire.