An Outlaw’s
Honor
A Midsummer
Knights Romance
by
TERRI BRISBIN
An Outlaw’s Honor
A Midsummer Knights Romance
Copyright ©2020 by Theresa S. Brisbin
Published by Luckenbooth Press. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. With the exception of short quotes for reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-949425-01-7
Book Cover Design: Dar Albert of Wicked Smart Designs
Formatting: Nina Pierce of Seaside Publications
Editing: Quillfire Author Services
A Midsummer Knights Romance
A Midsummer Knights Romance: A Tournament World of Chivalry, Intrigue, and Passion
Summer, 1193. England is in turmoil, and a great tournament is scheduled near the border of Scotland and England. The greatest knights and lords from England, Scotland, Ireland, and France have gathered to compete for a great prize. There will be celebrations and jousts and feasting. It will an exhibition of chivalry and warrior skills, a breeding ground for treason…and for love.
An Outlaw’s Honor
Thomas Brisbois of Kelso has only one goal when he arrives at the tournament--to defeat the only knight who ever bested him in battle. If he succeeds, the Scottish king will return to him his lands, his honor and his life. He has little interest in other prizes, and even less when he learns that the lord for whom his rival fights has included a daughter among the spoils at stake in their contest-- a lovely daughter with no desire to play the pawn, or to see her father's champion win. She is a distraction, all the more after she explains her own ideas about which knight shall have her, and how and when.
Lady Annora de Umfraville may be a pawn in her father’s plans but she has no intention of letting that happen without a fight of her own. When she sees the frank desire in Thomas’ gaze for her, she makes her own offer—she’ll help him win if he’ll let her go… after he beds her. Her plans go awry when she discovers the truth of the man beneath the armor. The man who had lost everything and struggles to regain his life.
When the only man she can trust is known for his dishonorable past, what could go wrong?
~ Other books in the series ~
Forbidden Warrior by Kris Kennedy
The Highlander's Lady Knight by Madeline Martin
The Highlander's Dare by Eliza Knight
The Highland Knight's Revenge by Lori Ann Bailey
My Victorious Knight by Laurel O'Donnell
An Outlaw's Honor by Terri Brisbin
Never If Not Now by Madeline Hunter
Contents
About An Outlaw’s Honor * Books in the Midsummer Knights Series * Copyright
Chapter One * Chapter Two * Chapter Three * Chapter Four * Chapter Five * Chapter Six * Chapter Seven * Chapter Eight * Chapter Nine * Chapter Ten * Chapter Eleven * Chapter Twelve * Chapter Thirteen * Chapter Fourteen * Chapter Fifteen * Chapter Sixteen * Chapter Seventeen * Chapter Eighteen * Chapter Nineteen * Epilogue
From the Author * Meet the Author * Other Books by Terri Brisbin
Chapter One
Edinburgh Castle
Scotland
Early March, In the Year of Our Lord 1193
Thomas of Kelso, though lately of the castle’s best dungeon cell, moved his gaze from the door to the large rodent that sat in the corner opposite him and back to the door. Both of them waited on the same thing—the bucket of slops that would be brought in shortly. The rat had gained in boldness with each passing day, and now it no longer hid in the shadows. Its snout wrinkled and wiggled, clearly smelling the coming meal before Thomas even heard the guard’s approach.
“Not this day,” he whispered in warning to his competitor. “Not this day.” Attempts to kill the vermin had been unsuccessful so far. Between Thomas’s waning strength and the rat’s speed and ability to escape through the small breaks in the stones, he knew the rat would survive him in this place.
The rat had learned to knock over the bucket once it was placed inside the cell, spilling its meager contents onto the putrid mess of the floor. Thomas was hungry enough to eat the scraps off the king’s tables, but not off the disgusting mud and straw that lined this room. Though he might be desperate, he would not sink to that...not yet. Another few days without food? Well, he might do things a bit differently then.
When the door at the end of the corridor opened, Thomas crouched down, rocking on his feet to be ready. He remained in the opposite corner, away from the door, or the gaoler would not open it. He counted the steps, knowing it was but six paces to reach this cell. Pulling in a breath, he held it when the guard took that sixth stride that placed him outside the cell.
“Now, laddie, we will see which of us is the faster this day,” he whispered to the rat.
Nodding his head at the creature, Thomas readied for the task. The rat began chattering then, as though in reply to his challenge. Or mayhap, the creature was just as hungry as he was. Thomas’s long-empty stomach rumbled then, a reminder that the animal had beaten him the last three days. His dry mouth watered at the thought of any bit of sustenance he could grab, be it stale or rank or rancid. It mattered not, for Thomas must win this battle to live another day.
The guard stopped and slammed his gauntleted hand on the wooden door, the only warning Thomas would get to move away. More than once, he had not, and the guard made free with that gauntlet on Thomas each time. The rat now rose on its hind legs at the sound. The door swung open, revealing the guard there...the empty-handed guard. Thomas looked up from the guard’s hands to his face.
“Put out yer hands,” the guard ordered.
So attentive to the demands of his belly, Thomas never noticed the second guard until he held out his hands. The other one watched as cuffs were locked around Thomas’s wrists, and he was tugged out of his cell by the short piece of chain connecting them. The scratching of the rat’s claws on the stones in the corridor made Thomas look back.
“You lose, laddie,” Thomas said before the guard slammed a fist against his head.
“Silence!” the guard yelled.
At that, he was grabbed by both guards and hastened along the hallway, up a steep flight of steps and into a large chamber. By then, his strength gone, the guards simply dragged him. When they went through a doorway, the brilliant light from the sun made him throw his hands up to block his eyes from the stabbing pain of it. The movement caught them unawares and they dropped him onto the ground at their feet.
Even that did little to slow their pace, for they half-carried him once more, relentlessly on to some place or person. Shame coursed through him at how low he had sunk in life. Once a mighty warrior, fierce and unwavering, to a traitorous criminal, left to starve to death in the king’s dungeon. He had not even the strength to defeat a wily rat or to stand and walk to his fate like a man.
The only good thing now was that, if he were going to his end now, it would be quicker and less painful than starvation.
Their progress took them back inside, and Thomas could open his eyes. Drawing on his last reserves, he stumbled to his feet and walked the final steps to the door ahead. They paused while the guard knocked, this time politely, and waited for perm
ission from someone within. Once granted, they brought him in and held him in their grasp before the man who stood there. The very image of power and wealth, this tall, muscular, red-haired nobleman arrayed in costly robes studied him for several moments in silence.
“Brisbois?” the man asked, staring first at the guards and then at him. One guard shoved a fist into his ribs.
“Aye.” ’Twas all he could manage after that punch knocked the breath from him, and the question shocked him. No one had called him “Brisbois” since well, since his father yet lived. The legacy of his father’s family who began as the royal torturers—bone breakers—when that first Norman king came to Scotland generations ago. Sucking in against the pain, he nodded. “We have been called that in the past.”
“Leave us,” the man ordered, dismissing the guards.
And they did, as though the hounds of hell nipped at their heels. Thomas faced the man who held such power and wondered if he was some minister or courtier of the king. Once the door closed, the man motioned to the corner of the room where Thomas now saw a table...laden with food. Bowls, plates, cups and more. His stomach cramped at the sight and worsened when the aromas of the fare reached him and overcame the stench of his own body.
“I have been told that the hospitality in my dungeon is somewhat lacking.”
Holy Christ, this was...the king? King William. Of Scotland. The man his father had betrayed. The king.
Thomas delayed not, dropping to his knees and lowering his head. No matter that he was no longer knight or noble. No matter that he had sinned against this man and his kingdom. A man did not stand before the king of Scotland.
“Your Grace,” he whispered.
“Rise, Thomas, and partake in the food there.”
“Your Grace? I do not understand,” he admitted, not lifting his head, and without moving from his knees.
“The table. The food. Eat.”
“Aye, Your Grace,” he said as he struggled to his feet.
It took only a moment, it seemed, to cross the chamber to the table. A single place had been set there, so he looked at the king before sitting. When the king did not deign to respond, Thomas accepted the invitation and indeed the order and filled the metal plate there with some of the roasted meat and bread and cheese. He counseled himself not to gorge, but his belly, aching with emptiness and need, controlled his actions.
All it took was those first few mouthfuls, barely chewed when they landed in his stomach, to begin the rebellion. Cramps spread through his gut as his body rejected the first good food he’d had in... a fortnight or two. Roiling and burning followed until he fell off the chair, heaving into the corner.
Bloody hell! Could his humiliation get any worse? Thomas wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and rested back on his heels, not daring to look over at the king. Only when a goblet was held out before him did he glance over his shoulder to see the king standing next to him, offering him the cup.
“Rinse your mouth,” the king said. A hint of sympathy filled his tone, and he nodded to someone else. “Sit at the table.”
Servants appeared where none had been and with quiet, effective actions, cleaned up the mess he’d made. They left without a word or glance at him. Now, when his stomach grumbled in hunger once more, in clear disregard for what had just happened, Thomas resisted its call. Another cup, this one filled with wine, appeared on the table before him.
“Dip a chunk of the bread’s crust in this and chew it slowly.”
The king playing serving maid to him? How could this be happening? Surely, he must be in that dungeon cell, having visions brought on by starvation and weeks and weeks in the dark and cold.
Thomas pushed his disheveled hair out of his face, and with trembling hands, he did as the king instructed. After the first bite and then another, the wine-soaked bread seemed to be tolerated. How long would the king stand idly by while his prisoner ate? Was this the last meal for him? Would the king declare his fate as calmly as he’d offered advice about eating while starving?
When he had devoured several pieces, Thomas swallowed a mouthful of the wine and then stood, facing the king.
“Your Grace.”
“I have heard that you are undefeated in battle, whether on the field of war or honor. Is that true?” The king watched him with an intent stare even as he drank from his cup at ease.
“Though not of late,” Thomas replied. Then he nodded. “Aye.”
Once declared outlaw, Thomas had kept alive by moving around the country and continent, earning his way without a name by selling his sword to anyone who would pay in gold with no questions asked. Only when his prowess on the field became the talk of gossips and the court had his identity been discovered, and imprisonment on the orders of the Scottish king had followed. He’d not fought in months—his horse, his armor and his hard-won gold all taken on his arrest.
“I am in need of someone to carry out a task for me.”
Thomas could not breathe. His chest refused to take in air. Hope swirled around him, and he struggled against the urge to seize it. He was a yet-walking-dead man, ordered to be executed at the king’s pleasure and held starving in the dungeon while the king dealt with matters more important than a traitorous knight from a minor, though treasonous, family. Yet, the king’s words inspired him.
Nay! He would not fall fool for a hint of something. For all he knew, the king was simply inflicting more pain and suffering on him before the final blow. Offering food to a starving man who would but die in another manner sooner was not kindness or benevolence. ’Twas cruelty, and well-deserved at that.
The king let out a loud breath and slammed his cup on the table. “I would have thought you would be pleased by the offer of a way to avoid sure death at the hands of my executioner, and instead face one that you might avoid by using your reputed skills on the field.” In his confusion, Thomas searched for the correct words to say. He stood to his full height and nodded at the king.
“I serve at the pleasure of the king, Your Grace.”
“That is what I hoped to hear, Thomas Brisbois of Kelso.” The king walked to the door, and it opened for him. Attendants were listening to accommodate their king’s needs without a word spoken. “See to his comfort.” Servants poured into the chamber then, and the king turned to leave.
“Your Grace? The task?”
“At my pleasure, Thomas. At my pleasure.”
The king walked from the chamber, and Thomas found himself in a whirling storm of well-trained servants following orders. It was days later when the king called Thomas before him to explain exactly what his task would be.
As the next weeks passed in preparation, Thomas wondered if death by the king’s executioner would have indeed been easier.
Chapter Two
Prudhoe Castle
Northumberland, England
Late in the month of May, in the year of Our Lord 1193
Annora watched as another messenger, this one wearing the livery of a noble house she did not recognize, arrived in the Great Hall and was escorted to the chamber where her father waited. Something strange was afoot, and Lord Robert de Umfraville was deep in the middle of it. This had been happening for weeks now, and yet her father had not spoken a word to her about it. Standing now and pacing before the huge hearth there, she wondered where the steward was.
“What is bothering you, child?” Her elderly aunt came to her side and took her hand. “Come, sit. I will ask them to bring some warmed wine to settle your spirits.”
“Pray you to pardon me for disturbing your needlework, Aunt Eldrida.” She patted her aunt’s hand and led her back to her chair near the hearth. No matter that spring had arrived here in Northumberland, ’twas damp and cold inside the keep of Prudhoe Castle. “Here, remain nearer the heat.”
There were times when her late mother’s oldest sister seemed to lose her wits and her way, but once seated, Aunt Eldrida astonished Annora.
“I suspe
ct your father is negotiating some sort of treaty or bargain that involves the king, or mayhap, his brother.” Her aunt leaned closer to Annora and whispered then, “The ones who arrive without markings are usually from Prince John. He likes to hide what he does behind the king’s back.”
“Aunt Eldrida!” she said, drawing her aunt even nearer. “You must have a care not to say such things aloud. Especially when there are so many strangers coming and going.” Annora trusted those few servants who saw to her needs, but not any of the others who worked in the household or visited.
Not in times like these that saw the king being held for ransom in foreign lands, and attempts to free him seemed to be the last thing on his brother, the prince’s, mind. The nobles and merchants had been drawn into the battle between the Plantagenets for years, as the powerful dynasty fought amongst themselves for control of lands near and far. Her father had, as far as she’d been able to learn over the last two years since her mother’s passing, supported the missing king.
And yet, with all these messengers lately, Annora wondered if he’d changed alliances.
Her aunt waved her hand at the remaining servants, sending them off. Eldrida of Northumberland had something to say and wanted no one to hear it.
Annora sat next to her and leaned in, waiting. Her hands were damp and left moisture where they rested on the front of her gown. This was not one of great value—’twas one she wore when seeing to the tasks of running the household—so a stain or mark would not be amiss.
“Have a care, Niece,” Eldrida began. “Your father is playing a dangerous game between the king and his brother. He proclaims loyalty to his liege lord Richard while giving support and more to John.”
Annora suspected as much, for she’d heard that many nobles did the same. The king had been gone on Crusade for years and never seemed to have a care for his people here in England, except when he needed their gold. His brother was the same, but John, son of Henry Plantagenet and Annora’s legendary namesake Eleanor of Aquitaine, divided his time and attention between the Plantagenet lands on the continent and their kingdom in England. Some thought too much time in England, but ’twas clear to anyone aware of the situation and the ebb and flow of support that he was looking to the future and consolidating his power now. No one spoke of it openly, for to do so would gain his attention and animosity, and both of those could be dangerous if not deadly.
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