Knight of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  “That is a risk we run,” Ravensworth allowed. “But a widow still has more options and power than a maiden, and you’ll have the resources of my estate as well in that case. Besides, we’re not defeated yet.”

  The minister reached for her hand and patted it kindly. “I know of the sterling reputation of der Wolfram and can vouch for his honor. Everyone in this part of Germany knows of the Black Knight. The people revere him. The House of Wolfsbach is one of the most ancient and respected of all the German noble families.”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard—free imperial knight, and all such,” she replied.

  The good vicar straightened with a disapproving look. “Perhaps you don’t realize, meine Dame, but der Wolfram is the last living male descendant of one of the most ancient lines of Reichsritter. His family has served Germany as noble warriors for almost eight hundred years. It is precisely because the title is so ancient that the last emperor couldn’t let it go extinct,” the minister explained earnestly. “You see, Joachim, the previous Freiherr von Wolfsbach, fathered only one child, his daughter Baroness Magdalena. Luckily, unlike you British, we follow the Semi-Salic law here, whereby descent is possible through the female line in cases where not even the collateral lines offer a legitimate male heir.”

  “How fortunate for the earl,” she muttered.

  “Exactly,” the Pfarrer agreed. “His grandfather was able to pass the title through his daughter to her son”—the vicar gestured proudly across the table—“to der Wolfram. None uphold the values of loyalty, faith, courage, and honor better than the Wolfsbach knights. They are the very embodiment of the courtly Christian warrior.”

  “The very embodiment, you say? How lucky we all are to even sit in the Freiherr’s presence, never mind be commanded to marry him.” She cocked an eyebrow at the earl, daring him to take offense.

  “Indeed, Dame Lenora.” The minister nodded vigorously, oblivious to any irony in the exchange. “The Reichsritter held a privileged status under German feudal law. While other nobles fell under the authority of their local prince or grand duke, the knights reported directly to the emperor alone. Of course, the House of Wolfsbach lost this imperial immediacy when the Holy Roman Empire ended after Napoleon. But although the title was mediatized, the other sovereigns of the confederation all agreed that in compensation the knights should be elevated in noble stature to full equality with the sovereign rulers. So if it’s the Freiherr’s rank that concerns you, you may be assured that his title is much more ancient than that of Prinz Kurt and that their stature as nobility is equal.”

  She let the minister prattle on. Her eyes locked with the earl’s. That open blue gaze of his seemed so guileless, warm as a cloudless summer sky. The edges of his eyes crinkled up in an amused smile as the minister continued to expound in scholastic detail on the glorious history of the long line of Wolfsbach Reichsritter knights and on the rights and privileges of the title today.

  The earl uncurled her fingers from around her mug of cider to warm them within his hands instead. Her own hands quite disappeared within his large grasp. In the daylight, his battered knuckles showed the torn red skin of yesterday’s skirmish, as did the long scrape already scabbing over on his skull. He’d come to their wedding with a sword scabbard strapped around his waist.

  This man fought hard. But a giant warrior-knight, no matter how chivalric, was not what she’d planned for in a mate.

  Nor what she wanted in her bed.

  She pulled her hand away.

  None of this discussion mattered. She was willing to admit that the earl—the knight—held an ancient and exalted title. Were the circumstances different, her father might well deem him a fit suitor. But the point was that she did not seek a husband. She did not trust this particular man as husband, no matter how well recommended he came as protector of the people. And she refused to accept the argument that she needed a husband. She preferred to take her chances with fate and the German revolution.

  She turned to the vicar. “Herr Pfarrer, I did not ask for this man’s protection. And I cannot accept the terms under which that protection is offered.”

  “But what is there to doubt?” the man asked, clearly baffled by her continued refusal. “He is der Wolfram, the Black Knight of Wolfsbach!”

  With a muffled curse at the minister’s blind loyalty, she pushed to her feet and made one last try. “I wear breeches and a boy’s shirt,” she said, waving a hand across her toilette. “You gentlemen cannot wish the shameful disgrace of a wedding ceremony with a woman dressed as a street boy. We must wait until we reach some town where I can acquire a proper gown.” A town where she might slip away in a crowd and escape these madmen.

  The earl stood as well. He bowed to her with a grace that belied his size and a flourish worthy of a foppish French courtier. “You could be dressed in sackcloth and I would see only your beauty, Liebling. We will not wait.”

  She glowered at him, at them all, knowing when she was defeated. “My opinion clearly counts for naught in this discussion. Go ahead, then, with your sham ceremony. If ever I get out of this godforsaken land, my family’s lawyers will undo this mockery.”

  The minister’s eyes rounded at her blasphemy. “Meine Dame, I assure you that God has not forsaken Germany. The revolution brings God’s justice back to the people. Sainted men like your husband here do the Lord’s work.”

  She rolled her eyes. Knight errant and saint now, too?

  Lord help us, indeed.

  The earl motioned to Lord Becker, who presented her with a document that it apparently amused the earl to call their marriage contract. The single sheet of paper signed over to her as dower the entirety of Lord Ravensworth’s nonentailed wealth. The wording made the sum total, minus entailments to the title, of all his investments, rents, properties, and goods—both in the German Confederation and in England—hers as dower upon his death for the duration of her lifetime, thereafter to revert to their heirs. The quarterly allowance he assigned her was of similarly unusual generosity. She laughed upon reading the clauses, not believing a word. An easy document to draft on a battlefield and then to pretend never existed. She continued to roll her eyes as Ravensworth had Becker and the minister witness copies and as the earl made the minister solemnly promise to file copies in the village church registry and at the town hall.

  Ravensworth then called to all of his men who were scattered around the encampment practicing their battle drills and cleaning weaponry. The men gathered with much curiosity and good-natured ribbing to witness their Freiherr recite his vows. Ravensworth arranged his senior officers Lord Becker, Müller, Horwitz, and Krause in two flanks next to her and the minister. The earl waved the Pfarrer through the preliminary bits of the ceremony, but then insisted that he, as groom, recite for all to hear his full marriage lines:

  “I, Wolfram Charles Randolf von Wolfsbach und Ravensworth, seventh Earl Ravensworth, Free Imperial Knight of the House of Wolfsbach, take thee, Lady Lenora Trevelyan of the Duchy of Sherbrooke, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  Ravensworth started to add lines of his own: “I pledge thee my sword arm— ”

  “Here he goes again,” Becker muttered to no one in particular.

  “—as thy protection. I take thy honor as my own. I dower thee with all my worldly goods not entailed to the title. I swear to be faithful to our marriage bed. I pledge thee these vows in front of God and these witnesses, with a free and loving heart, from this day forward, as long as we both shall live. All this is my word of honor.”

  Lenora drew breath to protest such ridiculous drama, but Becker laid a restraining hand on her arm. “He can’t help himself,” Becker whispered in her ear, shaking his head. “He’s der Wolfram, riding to your rescue. Let him have his say.”

&n
bsp; When they got to her part, Ravensworth leaned in toward the minister. Lenora caught the phrase Just the one line.

  The minister cleared his throat and faced her. “Dame Lenora, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband? Wilt thou love him, honor him, cherish and sustain him, in joy and in sorrow, in plenty and in want, in sickness and in health, and be faithful unto him, so long as you both shall live?”

  A hush fell over the men gathered as witnesses.

  She planted both hands on her hips and tapped a foot. “I think that’s a bit much to ask under the circumstances, don’t you?”

  Ravensworth swept his sword to one side and dropped down to his knee in front of her. He caught her right hand in his grip. “Will you have me as your protector and champion?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, man! Must you be such an ass?” she exclaimed.

  Becker choked back a guffaw behind a quickly raised fist.

  “Meine Dame!” exclaimed the minister. “We might not be in church, but we are still assembled in the sight of God for the holy estate of marriage!”

  “This ceremony is a sham, and well you all know it. Now, get up!” She tried to shake her hand free from Ravensworth’s grasp, but the man would not release her.

  “Not until you answer me, Lenora.” He knelt at her feet, looking up with that clear blue gaze, a happy smile softening his fierce warrior’s face. The man was enjoying himself! She considered slapping him again with her free hand but had the absurd thought it would rank with abusing a puppy.

  “Why do you need my agreement anyway?” She tugged hard at her hand. “You’ll see your will done no matter what I say!”

  He rubbed his lips across her knuckles. “Say yes, Lenora. Be my wedded wife, my cherished bride. Allow me to be your protector.”

  She flushed, flustered. “Oh, fine, then! But, no—I don’t know!”

  He heaved to his feet and brushed off his uniform breeches. She stumbled back at his abrupt release and would have fallen had not the minister steadied her.

  “I think that will do, then. Let us move on,” Ravensworth said smoothly. He lifted her hand to slip onto her finger the fine gold band that Becker hastily handed him. “With this ring I thee wed.” Ravensworth brushed another kiss over her knuckles.

  For good measure, she supposed—the silly fool.

  The minister rushed through some final benediction before slamming shut his black leather Book of Worship and scurrying back to the village on his pony.

  And then it was over. She was wed.

  Maybe.

  “Becker sends you a wedding present.” Ravensworth walked into the tent later that evening after spending time with his men at the wedding feast she’d refused to attend. Gunther had brought her a tray instead; the boy had come back a while ago to clear it and leave in its place a German dessert wine and two small glasses.

  On the table in front of her, Ravensworth laid the dagger he’d first given her back at Rotenburg. “With his compliments. My cousin also bid me to convey”—the earl’s lip twisted in a wry smile—“his very best wishes for a lifetime of married bliss.”

  With a deep sigh, she set down the book she’d found by the earl’s trunk and ran her fingers down the scrolling of the scabbard. She knew not what to make of this strange man, nor of the situation. He was surely not her husband. Was he her enemy? She rubbed her forehead.

  “Ah, you’ve been reading my Parzival,” he noted, shrugging out of his heavy coat. “Do you enjoy epic German poetry?”

  It seemed a safe enough topic as she worked to figure out how to deal with him. She straightened. “I have heard of Wolfram von Eschenbach,” she said, “but never read him. He was a medieval knight, wasn’t he, as well as a poet?”

  The earl nodded. “He wrote Minnesang, too. His lyrics are beautiful. I could play some of them for you,” he suggested brightly, reaching for his lute. “It would be quite fitting, don’t you think, for our wedding night?”

  She held up her hands. “No! Love poems sung in medieval German?” She shuddered. “Thank you, but I think not.” To distract him, she asked, “You have the same Christian name as Eschenbach and are both hereditary knights. Are your family lines related?”

  The earl unstrapped his sword belt and set it on the trunk. “A very early forebear, from a collateral family branch.” He shrugged modestly but picked up the book with some reverence to smooth a hand across the gilt-illustrated leather cover.

  She stood to look with him at the golden chalice on the cover. “The story of Sir Percival’s quest for the Holy Grail. Is it from this Wolfram whose name you bear, my lord, that you derive your belief in chivalry and true love?” She kept her tone light and mocking.

  But he would have none of it. “No, not from him.” He put down the book and turned to her with steady and serious eyes. “From you, Lenora. I know true love is real because of you.”

  She pursed her lips, annoyed and oddly chastened at the same time. “I never thanked you for this blade.” She picked it up. “Nor for the service you did me that day.” Perhaps a little civility would not be amiss.

  He shook his head at the mention of thanks. “Did Kurt leave you alone after that? We tried to keep him busy and away from the Schloss.”

  She looked up in surprise. “That was you? Your men caused those local revolts?”

  He lifted one massive shoulder. “We played some role in it.”

  “My thanks for that service as well, then; his preoccupation did allow me to lay plans for escape.”

  The earl pulled out her chair again. “Come, sit,” he invited. “Let me pour you some of the Eiswein. Tell me how you managed to get away from Rotenburg.”

  The dessert wine was another marvelous delicacy for a military campaign. The earl, it seemed, traveled with quite the wine cellar. With its grapes picked after a winter frost to concentrate the flavors, the ice wine tasted of intense fruit and honey—an ambrosia of the gods.

  Because she was weary of fighting with him and had had no one to talk with for weeks, she found herself telling him about the assistance rendered by Franz’s family and the herbs she’d used to drug her maids. He poured her more wine, offered his box of chocolates again, and listened attentively.

  “Good girl,” he said, as she concluded. “You don’t know how I worried about leaving you there. If I could have rescued you that night, Lenora, I swear I would have. But the risks to you were too great. The least I can do is rescue you now.”

  “I don’t need rescuing!” she said tiredly, for what felt like the twelfth time. “And I don’t want a husband.”

  “I know, I know,” he murmured in reassurance, pushing the chocolates back across the table toward her. “You needn’t think of me as your real husband, if you prefer. Just a temporary one to get you through this moment of rather tumultuous history.”

  “Do you mean that we could seek an annulment once we are back in England?”

  He paused. “If you wished to seek a divorce once you were safe in England, I would work with you to bring it about. Or you may get lucky, and I’ll leave you a widow here in Germany. You could claim your dower and be free of me at the same time. But, Lenora”—he paused again to gather her hands in his; it seemed a predilection of his—“there can be no annulment. I must bed you tonight.”

  His baldly stated intent froze her in her chair. “What?” Somehow she hadn’t allowed herself to think of this. The marriage had been enough to deal with. She had assumed he would leave her alone, as he had the night before. Her stomach began to clench into a painful fist.

  “The marriage must be real, Liebling, or Kurt could steal you back and claim you himself.” He rubbed at her fingers, which had turned cold as ice. “Tell me this—are you a virgin still?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “How dare you ask such a question!?”

  “It’s important, Lenora. Is your maidenhead still intact? If a doctor were to perform an examination, would he conclude you were still a virgin?”

  His question brought
back a horror of memories. “You have no right to ask such things!”

  “Did he force you?”

  She knew not how to answer, even if she were inclined to discuss such things with this man. Kurt had forced her in many sick ways.

  “If Kurt left you a virgin and he then captures you back,” the earl continued, “he’ll order such an examination. I know him—he’ll want to see if his property is sullied.”

  “Sullied!?” Her breath hitched in her chest, caught on a ragged edge of anger and panic. “I fear I am sullied, indeed, my lord. If I were your bride in truth, you would find yourself badly cheated out of an untouched innocent for your bed. My maidenhead may be intact, but I am no virgin prize.”

  “You are a prize, Liebling—a treasure, a princess to be cherished.” His deep baritone was so gentle—and so incongruous, to have gentleness coming from that giant form.

  “You’re saying that you must protect me by deflowering me? What self-serving insanity is that?”

  “Indeed. Your virginity is a great liability at the moment,” he said with a straight face. “It renders you a valuable prize of war in this rebellion. I must bed you, Lenora, to consummate our marriage. After tonight, if you wish it, I won’t approach you again, not until we settle things better between us.”

  “No.” Her voice shook. “I do not consent to consummating this false marriage, Ravensworth. Surely you would not force yourself on me.”

  “Lenora, let us not have it come to that. If the marriage is not consummated and Kurt recaptures you, he can have our union annulled and force you back as his wife. There would be no point to all we’ve done today.”

  “Such a scenario strikes me as highly unlikely.”

  “All the noble families and landed gentry hereabouts are in league with Kurt against the revolutionaries. If we are not well and truly wed, the scenario is likely indeed.”