Castles, Knights, and Chivalry: 4 Medieval Romance Novels

by Ruth Kaufman

  Smiling, he parried the blow and continued his battle. She smiled, too.

  As Amice tied her overgown over her kirtle of pale blue the next morning, she heard a knock. Who could it be at such an early hour, and who would come to her chamber? Word from the king? Had Harry escaped again? A sense of foreboding filled her as she opened the door.

  “My shirt has a tear.” Nicholas walked into her room as though it was a perfectly normal thing to do. He looked quite offended as he pointed to the back of his shoulder at the sleeve’s seam, as though the shirt had torn itself on purpose.

  A gasp of relief preceded her peal of laughter. “Let me see it.” Amice approached, feeling heat emanating from him. She jumped as the feel of him sent a shiver through her finger to the rest of her, and looked at her finger in surprise.

  “What is it?”

  Amice’s hand flew to her side. “Just a small tear. I can mend it.”

  Nicholas pulled the shirt over his head and turned to hand it to her. They were alone in her bedroom and he was shirtless. They stood, staring at each other, the shirt still in his outstretched hand. The sound of her breathing seemed loud in the quiet room.

  His hair, a few shades darker than hers, shone as the rising sun streamed through the window. She couldn’t ignore the lure of his blue eyes. His scent, now familiar and welcome, floated into her senses. A simple need brought him to her. Suddenly mundane sewing turned into something special.

  It seemed natural for them to be standing so close.

  Amice had seen him shirtless from afar, and thought that was wonderful. But it was nothing compared to him up close. She saw the contours of each muscle, the black hair on his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. His chest rose and fell with each breath, making her want to lay her head against it to know the warmth of his skin, hear the beat of his heart.

  She couldn’t meet his gaze any longer, so she looked down. A mistake, for she wound up gaping at his lower half. His legs were encased in tight cotton hose and worn thigh-high leather boots. Without a shirt or tunic, his powerful thighs were on display. As was the outline of his manhood. Her cheeks flushed.

  What would he do if she touched him? Could she be so bold? She moved her hand toward him, anticipating the feel of his skin against hers.

  “Amice, I’ve wanted to tell you something.” She froze as he looked at his feet. Swallowed. What was making such a confident, well-spoken man hesitate? “I—”

  Robert raced into the room at full speed and ran straight into Nicholas.

  “Oof!” Nicholas caught his balance before toppling onto her.

  “Oh, here you are,” Robert said. “I didn’t hear you awaken. I went to the stables and Merlin was still there, I went to the hall, the bailey….”

  Amice bit back a smile. Robert worried his hero would leave and do something exciting without him. Confusion wrinkled his brow, perhaps because the two of them had been alone in her chamber. But he was too well-mannered to ask questions.

  Amice glanced at Nicholas. The mood was broken. What might have happened had Robert not interrupted them? What might either of them have said or done? She yearned to know.

  “I tore my shirt and brought it to Lady Amice to repair.” Nicholas ruffled the lad’s hair.

  Amice fetched her sewing basket from her coffer. After preparing a length of thread and a needle, she took the shirt from Nicholas and set to work. She tried to focus on the torn fabric, resisting the temptation to look at him instead.

  Ginelle poked her head into the room, her red hair tucked demurely into a simple headdress.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, her eyes opening wide as she took in the scene before her. “Oh,” she repeated, noticing Robert behind Nicholas. “Maia wanted to know how much white bread you wanted her to make today.”

  “I’ll speak to her in a few minutes.”

  Ginelle nodded and left.

  Amice turned to Robert. “Don’t you have lessons with Father Heydon this morning?”

  The guilty look on his face answered the question. He dutifully started toward the door. “What are you doing today, Sir Nicholas?”

  “If Father Heydon tells me you worked hard on your studies, you may come hunting with me this afternoon.”

  Robert’s face brightened and he ran off.

  They were alone again. What had he been about to say? She wanted to tell him how she felt, because she might not have another opportunity. But what purpose would it serve? If she knew he felt the same, each glance, each word would be bittersweet. Maybe the knowing would bring them closer together. But again, to what purpose…to be wrenched apart when she was handed to another?

  Amice broke the thread. That’s all that held them. A mere thread of interest. No point trying to strengthen it. “Here.”

  He examined her handiwork, running a finger over the tiny stitches. She imagined that finger on her arm.

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, but turned and left.

  It was for the best.

  Keeping secret her interest in Nicholas went against her nature. Perhaps because she couldn’t discuss the issue, it took on excessive importance. Like the last bolt of silk at a fair. After purchasing several she wanted, somehow the last bolt she didn’t buy and now couldn’t afford seemed all the more desirable. Of course, she could exchange one bolt for another.

  She still couldn’t see a way to change her situation. And any day, she could run out of time.

  That evening, Amice tried to concentrate on Cyril’s tallies and supply orders as she sat in her solar, but her thoughts kept straying like wayward sheep. When would news arrive? Who would the king…? No. Focus on salted meat. Rye and wheat flour. Peas and beans. Then if—when—she had to go to court, Castle Rising would fare well in her absence. She didn’t want to worry about her home in addition to her future.

  She set down her quill and idly rubbed her tight neck. Closing her eyes, she savored a rare moment of privacy. Of quiet. The quiet before the storm.

  Her mind wandered. She saw Nicholas seated at her table. Talking, laughing, his smile illuminating his strong features, setting his blue eyes asparkle. She hadn’t wanted him there, not at first, because he was an intruder. Now she wished he’d leave because she admired and was attracted to him. If she had to wed, a man such as he might not be a hindrance, but an asset.

  She didn’t want merely a man such as he. She wanted him.

  Amice sat up straight. What if she could wed Nicholas? Her people already liked him. She already liked him. More than she should. The way he made her feel….

  It wasn’t too soon to consider this plan. She didn’t know how much time she had. And many matches were made without the bride and groom knowing each other well, or at all.

  He might not hold a high enough rank, the king might have other plans for him, but it was worth a try. She’d write the king again and amend her request. Shoving the tally book aside, she reached for a piece of parchment, hope filling her heart for the first time since Nicholas revealed his news.

  Eagerly, she dipped her quill.

  A foul-smelling hand grabbed her mouth, pulling her tight against a bony chest. Nails dug into her cheeks. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t wriggle free.

  “I will have you to wife, Sir Nicholas and his men or no.”

  Harry.

  Her heart battering her ribs, she jabbed the quill into his hand. Ink splattered her eyes. She blinked against the sting.

  “Aaaah!” He stumbled back.

  She jumped to her feet and headed for the door.

  He grabbed her skirts, pulling her off balance. She crashed to the floor. Pain burst through her hip as she fought for breath.

  “Help! Hel—!”

  Harry scrambled atop her, pressing her down. She couldn’t draw in air.

  His uninjured hand slapped over her mouth. “I will have you. You belong—”

  Suddenly his weight was yanked from her. She sucked in a huge breath.

  Nicholas, fury in his gaze. He punched Har
ry in the jaw. Harry dropped, making the wood boards shake beneath her. Two of Nicholas’s men dragged him out.

  Amice sighed with relief as Nicholas reached for her and helped her to her feet. His hands were warm and reassuring in hers, which were ice-cold. She didn’t want to let go. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her, keep her safe and—

  “Are you all right? You’re shaking.”

  Her hip ached and she’d bruise, but she was otherwise unharmed. Her body, at least. Fear nipped at her heart. She nodded, not yet able to find her voice.

  “I don’t know how he freed himself, but I’ll ensure that he’s locked up tight this time. I’ll send for the sheriff.” Nicholas helped her to a chair by the fire. He drew the matching chair close and sat beside her, a comforting arm around her waist.

  She breathed in his scent, her soap mixed with his essence. Warmth, not just from the fire, filled her. She resisted the urge to move her chair closer still.

  He wiped ink from her cheek. The gentle tracing made her feel cared for. Protected. She wanted him to do it again.

  “How can I thank you?” Amice asked. “I shudder to think what would’ve happened if the king hadn’t sent you. It didn’t occur to me to hire guards after Edwin died. If I’d known Harry was lying in wait, a snake ready to pounce….” Another shiver racked her. “His determination frightens me.”

  “You’re safe now. He won’t harm you again.”

  He wrapped his arm tighter around her waist. She so wanted to rest her head on his shoulder. To rely on his strength and trust that somehow all would be well.

  “I admit that I wasn’t pleased with this assignment,” Nicholas said. “I thought I could better serve the king at court, protecting him from his enemies. But now that I’ve met you, spent some time with you…lived in a home rather than moving from castle to castle or with no roof over my head while at war…. I want you to know that I’ve enjoyed being here more than I expected.”

  “I’ve enjoyed having you here,” she admitted.

  His eyes were dark as the ink. Intense. After a long moment, she broke the connection.

  She’d make sure to send that second letter to the king. Today.

  Chapter 4

  Then Maud decided to visit Castle Rising. At first Amice was overjoyed to see her cousin, also recently widowed.

  Maud was tall and fair, with the palest skin, facts Amice had known but not paid much attention to until she saw her laughing with Nicholas over a cup of wine. Did he prefer women closer to his height? Did he prefer flaxen hair?

  The way Maud latched onto Nicholas as a drowning man clutches a passing branch made Amice’s chest burn. But she had no right to wish Nicholas smiled at her, not her cousin. No matter how much she’d enjoyed their conversations and having him here, Nicholas was in no way hers. Nor could he be unless the king acquiesced to her wishes. She hadn’t even been brave enough to tell him how she felt.

  He could be Maud’s. The thought rankled, persisting like a nagging cough. If Cromwell decided he was a suitable choice for Maud’s second husband, she didn’t know how she would bear it.

  Every morsel of Maia’s normally flavorful meals tasted the same. No activity, not even writing, held her attention for long. Because her thoughts kept turning to a certain dark-haired man and his annoyingly beauteous and pleasant companion.

  Each moment he spent with Maud was one less he could spend with her. His hours at Castle Rising were running short.

  The next afternoon, Amice was engrossed in dying wool. She sought a special deep blue that met her exacting specifications, a combination of the right amount of woad with orchil to add a hint of purple. She’d have denied it if anyone suggested she tried to match Nicholas’s eyes.

  Dyed wool and people were very much alike. Expose people to new influences, and they changed, just as wool changed with the application of dye. But if there were too many colors in the mixture or the fabric was soaked too many times, you could wind up with a shade you didn’t intend or like.

  Amice felt like over-dyed wool. Her usually pleasant humor turned to moodiness and rancor. Ever since Nicholas arrived, she’d been plagued with want for what couldn’t be. That desire, which had begun sweetly, as a touch of blue might remind one of the palest sky, had darkened into irritability. Nicholas was the excess dye that turned her from her favorite purple into a grim black.

  She moved around the large vat atop its fire, stirring the wet cloth with a tall wooden pole. Hot and sweaty, two conditions which did nothing to improve her mood, she raised a spotted blue hand to push a damply recalcitrant curl off her forehead.

  Nicholas and Maud returned from a ride, faces flushed from their exertions. Maud walked toward the keep, waving and laughing her farewell. Nicholas handed the reins to Harold.

  Possessiveness seethed in Amice, steamy as the water in her vat. She stomped toward him. Much like a fish, her mouth opened and closed. Everything she thought of to say seemed childish.

  “You aren’t here to dally with my cousin. You go riding when things need to be done. Shall I inform the king you’ve been lax in your duties?” She wanted to be calm, to show she had no interest in him. But she couldn’t prevent the stream of complaints from leaving her lips, knowing all the while she sounded the shrew.

  “What things?” He stepped closer.

  Each was momentarily silenced as the heat radiating from their bodies met with a clash. Being susceptible to him fueled her anger.

  Shaking her dripping pole, she continued, “I’ve barely been able to get a word with you since Maud arrived. There are important things to discuss, and you’ve been too busy with her.” Her cheeks colored from more than the flames’ heat. She’d not only sounded childish, she’d basically confessed her jealousy.

  “What things?” Nicholas repeated. He stepped closer, grabbing Amice’s pole so she couldn’t accidentally whack him in the head in her fury.

  What angered her so? Bits of hair curled on her reddened cheeks, begging him to push them away. Her green eyes sparked with gold as she glared at him. Even Amice’s fury enticed him.

  Exactly why Nicholas had welcomed Maud’s arrival. He could talk to Maud without wanting to hold her hand or hold her, without stirrings of desire. Without being sad when their time together ended. Yet he’d missed Amice. His friend. His…what?

  One of his hands closed over hers. The simple contact elicited a rush of longing, almost making him relinquish his grip. Why did he react to her so strongly?

  “Going riding with Maud, as though you had nothing better….”

  Without thinking, he stopped her reproach with his mouth. He’d wanted to do that for so long. The sweet taste of her heightened his excitement.

  This, at last, was what he’d waited for, swirling vibrations of yearning, as he kissed her in the bailey.

  In the bailey! Instantly, his passion cooled. They were in plain view. Fortunately, no one seemed to be paying attention.

  “How dare you kiss me?” she hissed. “If you try that again, this will stop you.” She brandished her pole as she hurried back to her vat.

  Nicholas concealed a grin as he watched Amice poke viciously at the wet wool. His impulse to smile vanished. Henry and Margaret trusted him to safeguard Amice until they agreed on a groom. Compromising her in any way was unforgivable. Yet Amice had but to enter a room and all activities but being with her lost their luster. Being inches away from her lovely face, her slender body, made him lose control. Unforgivable.

  He’d conquer his desire with the same determination he’d used to fight those who trespassed on English soil. His weapon against invaders was his sword. Against the lure of Amice, he’d have to rely on self-discipline and denial.

  “The wool is too dark now. I’ll have to start over,” Amice called as Nicholas walked away.

  Her flushed cheeks stood testament to interrupted desire, but Amice hoped he thought her heightened color was due to the heat.

  With his warm lips moving upon hers, longing for more h
ad filled Amice so that she’d barely been able to stand. She’d wanted to melt into him, let him whisk her to her room. Surprise at her strong reaction, at being kissed in public, led her to snap at him rather than indulge further.

  Better he believed she had no interest in him. Leading him to think otherwise could only result in disaster.

  Hours later, Robert ran into the hall, shouting, “My lady, my lady, the watchman says a messenger approaches. ’Tis believed he wears the king’s livery!”

  Though her heart skipped a beat and dread flooded her, Amice fought to keep her face calm for the benefit of those watching. She took another stitch of her embroidery as if nothing were amiss. “Thank you, Robert.”

  “He’s expected anon.” The boy puffed out his chest and stood proudly at attention a short distance from Amice.

  Other servants hurried into the hall.

  Despite her suddenly dry mouth, she said, “Maia, prepare food for our visitor. I’m sure he’ll be hungry and parched.”

  She tightened her hold on the cloth to keep herself from wringing her hands or throwing them into the air. Tears came to her eyes, but pride forced them back. She wouldn’t cry in front of her people or Nicholas. Of all, she didn’t want him to think her defeated.

  Hope flared. What if the messenger brought a response to the letter she’d sent the king, not a summons to court?

  Servants paused where they stood, arms filled with clean linens or dirty ones, brooms halted mid-sweep. Eerie silence permeated the hall until the messenger was announced.

  “I bear a message from His Grace Henry VI for the Lady Amice Winfield and Sir Nicholas Grey,” the thin, balding man proclaimed loudly for all to hear.

  Nicholas and Amice stepped forward as one. “I am Sir Nicholas and this is Lady Winfield. The message is for both of us?”

  “Aye, my lord.” He handed Nicholas a parchment sealed with thick red wax.