One Knight's Kiss: A Medieval Romance Novella

by Catherine Kean

“He is.” Honoria adjusted her grip on her horse’s reins. “You were rather forward, though, in the market.”

  “I was being friendly.”

  “You had only just met him—”

  “—but I intend to get to know him very well over Christmas.”

  The last time Cornelia had pursued a lord, she’d ended up in tears for days. Honoria, hating to see her friend so miserable, had done her best to comfort the younger woman, even offered to read her some of the old tales from her book, but Cornelia had preferred to sulk.

  Honoria must have made some small sound of dismay, for the younger woman giggled. “Do not be so concerned.”

  “I am worried about you.”

  “Worried?” Cornelia snorted. “I am ten-and-six. Many ladies my age—and yours—are already married and bearing babes. They are overseeing castles for their rich husbands and being invited to feasts and other marvelous celebrations. I want that for myself.”

  What lady didn’t want to be in that position? ’Twas the perfect life, if she and her husband were deeply in love. The holiday season would be especially wonderful. Honoria glanced out into the forest again, her eyes burning. Her sire had told her more than once that he looked forward to the day he’d grant her hand in marriage to a lord who’d cherish her. Her father had died with her unwed and without a suitor.

  “Why have you gone quiet? Do you disapprove of what I want for my life?”

  “Of course not.” Honoria managed a smile. “I hope you will find true love and be very happy.”

  The younger woman’s expression turned sly. “What if I find those things with Tristan?”

  Honoria suppressed another unwelcome stirring of jealousy. She didn’t have any claim to Tristan; he might already be betrothed and soon to wed. “I do not know if he is seeking a wife or not. Yet, if he ends up being the right man for you, then your love was obviously destined to be.”

  “Like the romances in your musty old book?”

  The tome wasn’t musty, but Honoria chose not to correct Cornelia. “Exactly like those stories.”

  The younger woman smoothed her hair. “Well, I cannot wait to see what happens in the next few days.”

  ***

  “I did not realize the situation with your father was so dire,” Radley said.

  Tristan’s leather glove creaked as he clenched his hand, resting on his thigh, into a fist. “I have not spoken to my sire in many weeks. The last time I saw him, he told me he was gravely disappointed in my actions, and that I was a disgrace to the de Champagne family.”

  Radley whistled softly. “Even though you were not the one at fault?”

  “Aye.” Memories of the night he’d walked in on Odelia and her lover, half-naked and locked in a passionate embrace, were burned in Tristan’s mind. He’d never forget the moment she’d torn her mouth from the young lord’s. She’d been so calm and self-righteous when she’d straightened her gown, as if she’d had every right to do what she pleased—despite knowing that Tristan had planned to ask her father for her hand in marriage the following morning.

  It had taken tremendous effort for Tristan to walk away, rather than pummel the other man until he’d collapsed unconscious on the floorboards. Tristan hadn’t told her sire of the incident; a knight never besmirched a lady’s reputation. Tristan hadn’t intended to tell his own father the truth, except that his sire had goaded it out of him.

  “My father insisted I should have married Odelia anyway,” Tristan said with a harsh laugh. “If she was with child, I should have claimed the babe as my own, especially if ’twas a son.”

  “God’s blood. Why?”

  “I would have had a legal heir, and thereby would have secured the de Champagne estates.”

  “’Twas the only reason? To secure your family’s legacy?”

  “Not quite. Since Odelia’s sire and four brothers are well-known in London, my father…said their influence would have been of great benefit to our family.”

  “Ah.” Radley spoke the word as if it tasted vile.

  “I have no doubt my sire expected, once she and I were wed, that I would help secure favorable positions for my own brothers.”

  Radley shook his head. “Your father expected too much.”

  “He does not believe so.”

  “You were naught but chivalrous in your relationship with Odelia, and she betrayed you.”

  She had indeed. But, she’d also taught him a valuable lesson. He had no control over someone else’s decisions, but he could damn well govern his own. His duty had never failed him—and being married to his career was far safer than risking betrayal again. His sire expected his sons to excel in their careers; one day, he would understand and accept Tristan’s reasons for rejecting Odelia.

  “What do your brothers think about this situation?”

  Tristan’s father was a formidable, domineering man who could bring seasoned warriors to tears; he knew how to keep his sons under his control. “My siblings, at least for now, are not choosing sides. I do not believe they agree with my sire, but they are also reluctant to challenge him.”

  “Well, I say ’tis bloody rotten of them not to rally behind you.”

  Warmth spread through Tristan’s chest. He’d always be grateful for Radley’s loyalty and friendship. “You see now why I did not want to spend the holidays at my sire’s castle.”

  Radley grinned. “’Tis his loss. We will have a fine celebration at Ellingstow. ’Twill be the rowdiest, most memorable Christmas ever.”

  Tristan chuckled and looked ahead at the two ladies. Honoria’s braided brown hair fell in a glossy rope down the back of her cloak, and her face was turned to him in profile as she spoke to Cornelia. God’s bones, but Honoria was lovely. Her features weren’t as perfect as Cornelia’s, but she had her own unique beauty, and she intrigued him.

  Yearning again wove through him before he hardened his heart against the foolish emotion. Of one thing he was certain: This Christmas would not see him caught up in a new romance.

  ***

  Honoria’s gray-haired mother was walking across the bailey, her blue cloak drifting in the late afternoon breeze, as they rode out of the shadows of the gatehouse. Her ladyship smiled and waved. Honoria waved back, pleased to see that Willow, her late sire’s wolfhound that had become Honoria’s beloved pet, was at her mother’s side. Honoria had told the dog earlier to stay close to her parent.

  “I am so glad you are home,” Lady Whitford said, as Honoria and Cornelia halted their mares. The others reined in their horses, and stable hands set down wooden blocks to help them dismount.

  Honoria held her book flat against her bosom; she didn’t want to accidentally drop it. She slid down from her horse to join Cornelia.

  “Mother.” Radley kissed Lady Whitford’s cheek. “May I present my dear friend, Tristan de Champagne.”

  “’Tis a pleasure.” Her ladyship dropped into a curtsy.

  Tristan bowed. “I am honored to meet you. Thank you for letting me impose upon you at Christmas.”

  Lady Whitford laughed. “You are not imposing.”

  “Of course he is not,” Cornelia cooed. When Tristan glanced at her, she beamed.

  Radley scratched Willow’s ear that had been slashed when she’d defended their sire during the attack. “All went well today, Mother?”

  “Aye. I just came from discussing the Christmas Day feast with the cook.”

  “Ah. And?”

  “He is preparing seven separate courses, and will cook frumenty and other dishes that will go with the boar you will be hunting on the morrow. He is also creating a subtlety for the final course. He is calling it the Winter Swan. ’Tis the most impressive sculpture of pastry and marzipan I have seen in a while.”

  “You clearly have matters well in hand,” Radley said.

  “Well, I am happy to organize the feast, since I did so when your sire was lord. Sydney has also been busy overseeing the collection of rents.” She gestured to the steward, near the kitchens wit
h the captain of the guard and several men-at-arms; they were helping folk who’d brought loaves of bread, chickens in twig cages, and earthenware jugs of ale—fare owed to Radley by all of his tenants at Christmas. The food would in turn be used to make a meal at the fortress for the peasants on Christmas Day.

  A chill wind gusted through the bailey, and Honoria worried for her mother, who drank infusions every day to ease her aching joints and had been told by the castle’s healer to stay indoors as much as possible. “Why do we not go sit by the hearth? We can warm up while we talk.”

  “What a good idea,” Lady Whitford agreed.

  “I will show Tristan to his chamber, so he can unpack,” Radley said. “Then we will meet you in the great hall.”

  “All right.” Honoria slid her arm into her mother’s, because sometimes her parent needed help climbing the forebuilding stairs.

  Honoria’s skin suddenly prickled with goose bumps; she knew Tristan was watching her. When she glanced at him, his mouth ticked up at the corner—not an arrogant smile, but one tinged with admiration.

  She’d thought he couldn’t possibly be any more handsome, but right now….

  Heat pooled in her belly, the sensation unfamiliar but thrilling. She longed to speak, to break the charged silence, but didn’t know quite what to say.

  Whining, Willow pushed her nose against Honoria’s free hand.

  As though the dog had broken some kind of spell, Tristan turned and strode to his destrier, with Radley and Cornelia following close behind.

  ***

  Tristan patted his horse’s lathered neck then set to work untying his saddlebag. Honoria’s loveliness lingered in his mind. Even more compelling, she was a compassionate soul who cared very much for her mother—yet another thing he admired about her.

  ’Twas a dilemma how much Honoria intrigued him. He didn’t want a relationship, so why did he feel so strongly about her? What mysterious hold did she have over him?

  Stealing a glance at the keep, he saw her and her mother enter the forebuilding and the iron-banded door shut behind them. His own mother had perished from sickness when he was six years old. He could no longer recall her features, but remembered how her smile had comforted him, and how her hugs and kisses had been bestowed with much love.

  Eighteen months after she’d died, his sire had wed a younger lady who had tried her best to be a mother to her husband’s three sons, but was more interested in her social engagements than parenting, even after giving birth to a daughter. Tristan’s sire, however, had ensured that his children received the strict upbringing he’d envisioned for them.

  As Cornelia tittered like a naughty girl, Tristan handed off his horse to a stable hand. The younger woman’s gaze again traveled brazenly over him as he neared her and Radley, but he pretended not to have noticed.

  “There you are,” Radley said to him. “I will show you to your room.”

  “I will come with you.” The younger woman hurried to keep up with their strides.

  “No need.” Radley said. “Why not wait with Mother and Honoria?”

  “I can help you.”

  Help? What kind of aide did she think she could give two trained warriors? Refusing to acknowledge the bawdy thoughts that came to mind, Tristan said, “You are very kind, but I would like to wash before I go to the hall. I feel a bit grubby after my travels today, and I do want to be the perfect guest.”

  “You already are.”

  “Cornelia,” Radley insisted, “you will wait in the hall.”

  She pouted. “I have hardly seen you in the past few days, since you have been busy with one matter or another. Also, Tristan’s visit is the most exciting thing to have happened in weeks.”

  Tristan acknowledged a flare of sympathy. His half-sister had often complained about being born a noblewoman: the tiresome lessons in ladylike posture, needlework, etiquette, grooming, and household management that went on and on. She’d vowed she might die of sheer boredom. Of course, she hadn’t; she was now married and expecting her first child. Mayhap once Cornelia had enjoyed their company for a bit, she’d be content to occupy herself elsewhere.

  She was, after all, the daughter of a prominent lord who’d been of immense help to Radley. Tristan would be wise to ensure he didn’t upset or disappoint her, not when he’d be introduced to Lord de Bretagne on the morrow.

  As Tristan’s career advanced, he might one day need to ask a favor of his lordship.

  “We will not be too long upstairs,” Tristan promised. “Once we join you in the hall, we will tell you of some of our adventures together. If you would like that, of course.”

  “Oh, I most certainly would.”

  Chapter Three

  “Tristan has such aristocratic features,” Lady Whitford said, once the forebuilding door had shut behind them.

  “He does,” Honoria agreed, while Willow raced up the stairwell to the great hall, no doubt heading for the hearth.

  The air in the forebuilding smelled dank after the freshness of outside. Burning reed torches along the walls banished some but not all of the murky shadows as Honoria helped her mother up the uneven stone steps.

  “I wonder if Tristan is married.”

  Honoria silently groaned. Not this conversation again.

  For years, her mother had been trying to see her wed. Despite the numerous suitors who’d visited the castle and whom Honoria had met at tournaments, feasts, and other events, none had seemed quite right for her. That feeling of “rightness” was crucial; the knights and damsels in the old stories knew when they’d found their soul-mates, and that’s what she aspired to, too.

  “Did Radley mention if Tristan is wed or betrothed?” her mother pressed.

  “He did not.” Thankfully, there were only a few more steps until they reached the hall.

  “I will try to find a way to ask.”

  “Please do not meddle. I do not need help finding a husband.”

  “Honoria—”

  “I will marry when I have found the right man.” She would have added ‘as Father agreed,’ but it didn’t seem fair to bring her deceased sire into the discussion just yet.

  They reached the vast expanse of the hall. In the sunlight filtering in through the high, animal-horn-covered windows, Lady Whitford paused and studied Honoria—a look that still had the power to make Honoria feel five years old and inadequate.

  Maidservants at the rows of oak trestle tables were setting out jugs of wine and ale in readiness for the evening meal. The table nearest the hearth was still heaped with the branches of evergreens, pine cones, twine, and red silk ribbon that Honoria had been using to decorate the hall.

  Aware that her mother’s gaze hadn’t wavered, Honoria said quietly, “Father said I did not have to wed until I wished to.”

  “I remember. I only want what is best for you. I want you to live, to experience love, and not merely in the pages of your books.”

  Honoria did tend to escape into her tomes, but she simply couldn’t help it. Her father had read some of the stories to her when she was a girl, and the tales kept his memory alive. When she read the words on the parchment pages, she heard her sire’s voice and felt his arm around her as she snuggled in close.

  A draft swept across the hall floor; someone had opened the outer door to the bailey.

  Lady Whitford shivered. “Please, help me to the hearth. I need to sit by the fire.”

  “Of course.” Honoria slid her arm around her mother’s waist and guided her toward the blaze, where Willow was dozing.

  “You have done a fine job of the decorating,” her ladyship murmured as she sank down into a carved oak chair. Firelight flickered on the evergreen boughs tied with clusters of pine cones and red ribbon bows that swept around the massive stone hearth. Honoria had also looped evergreens around most of the iron brackets holding the wall torches, and the piquant scents of pine and fir now lingered in the air.

  Honoria smiled, for she was pleased with the decorations. Her father would ha
ve liked them, too—and would have hidden wrapped sweets amongst the evergreens for the servants’ children to find and enjoy. “There is still more to do, but I am hoping Cornelia will help me.”

  Male voices echoed in the forebuilding, along with girlish laughter. Radley, Tristan, and Cornelia emerged into the hall. The men were carrying weapons and saddlebags. Cornelia was clearly trying to snare Tristan’s attention.

  He glanced over the hall and then found Honoria. Her body immediately recalled when their gazes had locked outside, and a peculiar heat whipped through her, a sensation akin to standing too close to the flames.

  How annoying that he should affect her so.

  She swiftly turned to pick up the fire poker and jab it in the blaze, dislodging one of the logs and stirring up a cloud of sparks.

  “Careful, Sis,” Radley said as they walked past. “You might set the garland alight.”

  Tristan tsked. “She might set herself alight.”

  Cornelia giggled.

  “I am not a fool.” Honoria hated that her cheeks grew hot. “I have tended a fire before.” Keeping the fires going was one of the servants’ tasks, but still, she’d added logs to the hearth in her chamber now and again, especially on freezing cold nights.

  Tristan faced her. Regret touched his gaze as he said, “Forgive me. I did not mean any offense.” He smiled in a most charming, boyish way, and she suddenly felt a bit lightheaded. “What I should have said is that ’twould be a shame if your costly garments were damaged by sparks, or if you suffered a burn on your fair skin.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t realized he’d been concerned. She had indeed seen burn marks, caused by wayward sparks, on servants’ clothes. “Well, you are most kind.”

  He nodded, an elegant dip of his dark head. “Damsels are to be protected, after all.”

  As Cornelia moved in to warm her hands at the fire, Tristan again fell in alongside Radley and they climbed the wooden stairs up to the landing overlooking the hall. They disappeared into the upper corridor leading to Radley’s solar, the chambers belonging to the rest of the family, and the guest rooms.

  “Well,” Lady Whitford said with an astonished smile.