England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Kellen knelt down and expertly started the fire where his daughter had struggled. As the rather large hearth began to burn, he lay a good deal of wood and peat on top of it to spark up the blaze. The kitchen began to fill with warmth and light, illuminating a rather cramped and evidently well-stocked kitchen. There was food in its raw form everywhere.

  “I will see what I can do for you,” he said. “If I cannot find any soap, then I will send one of my men into town for it.”

  Courtly pleaded with him. “Then why not do that now?” she asked. “Do not waste time searching Kennington when Auntie has probably hid all of the soap, anyway. She knew we needed it.”

  Kellen nodded as he headed for the door. “Very well,” he said. “Is there anything else you require?”

  Courtly began to look around the kitchen. Fowl hung from the ceiling overhead, tied with hemp to the beams, and there was a massive, cooked leg of pork propped on a table that was shoved into a corner of the room. Furthermore, she could see sacks of something underneath another table and she went to it, opening the sack to find dried multi-colored beans inside. Another sack had sand-colored flour, half-empty. Quickly, she began calculating what she had to work with.

  “Give me a few moments before you send the man off,” she said to her father. “I may need something from town but, as of yet, I am not sure.”

  Kellen stood in the doorway. “Then I will wait,” he said. “What do you intend to do?”

  Courtly pointed at the leg of pork. “I can boil that with the beans to make a stew,” she said. “There is flour here to make bread, but I need a few more things for the bread before I can actually make it. Papa, would you check and see if you can find a store of wine or ale? If not, then we will have to find some quickly.”

  Kellen went on the hunt as Courtly began pulling out the sacks from beneath the table. Isadora still stood over near the hearth, uncertain as she watched her sister work, and Courtly turned to the girl.

  “Issie,” she said. “Go and see if you can find any cheese or butter or even milk. I would hope there is some. And I need eggs. Find as many eggs as you can. Will you please do this?”

  Isadora nodded and began her search, sticking her head under tables and into crevices as Courtly pulled a very large pot out from underneath a table and dragged it over to the hearth. There was a big, iron arm affixed to the mortar of the hearth, made to hold big pots, and she heaved the pot onto the arm. Now, it was time to go to work.

  The well for the manor was just outside the door and Courtly filled several buckets, pouring the water into the pot and putting several pounds of beans in to soak. She managed to find great bunches of vegetables near a half-filled bowl of dirty water, baskets of carrots and little, brown onions that had been harvested but not cleaned. They were covered in mud. She set about cleaning them in the water she had drawn from the well, washing and re-washing until the dirt came off.

  With the only knife she could find, she then chopped up the carrots and onions, putting the chunks of vegetables into the pot along with the beans. As she worked on the stew, Isadora returned with her hands full of small, brown eggs. She had located the chicken coop and had collected all of the eggs she could carry, but Courtly sent her back for more. Isadora fled out the door, frenzied, as only a young girl could be.

  It was fortunate that Ellice’s kitchen was well-stocked. Courtly was very thankful to come across a bag of salt and another sack half-full of peppercorns. Salt and peppercorns, smashed with the bottom of a small, iron pot, went into the stew pot, which was now starting to steam. The feast was on the fire but Courtly was feeling a distinct sense of urgency as she turned her attention towards the leg of pork. The guests would be arriving at any moment and the stew would take time to cook, so she fed off her sense of urgency, hurrying to put the meal together.

  Using the dull knife she had used to chop up the vegetables, Courtly began cutting pieces of pork off of the leg and putting it all into the pot of beans and vegetables. The meat was shriveled and looked as if the household had been eating off of it for some time, but she didn’t care. At this point, some meat was better than no meat, and she hoped that cooking it with the beans would give the pork new life. Throwing in more salt, she watched as the pot began to bubble.

  As she watched the roiling in the pot grow livelier, she couldn’t even think about disappointing a man she wanted to impress. She simply had to move onward and hope she could produce an appetizing and even tasty meal. As she continued to cut off more pork and Isadora shuffled back and forth between the chicken pen and the kitchen, bringing in more eggs, a timid servant girl appeared and declared that she had been sent by Kellen. Courtly put the woman in charge of making the bread, something she evidently knew nothing about, so Courtly switched places with her. As the servant gingerly cut away at the pork leg and threw the meat into the pot, Courtly went about trying to remember how to make bread.

  Although Lady d’Umfraville had instructed her charges in how to run a kitchen and even how to cook items, Courtly’s strong point had never been making bread. She knew that bread needed to be made with two- or three-day-old bread dough, so that it would rise, but neither she nor the servant girl could find anything that resembled old bread dough. The woman that usually worked in the kitchen was missing, obviously kept away by Ellice, so there was nothing to do but try to make a fair semblance of bread. Courtly prayed it would be acceptable. She had one chance to impress Sir Maximus and everything in the world seemed to be against her – her dress, her lack of an opportunity to clean herself or even brush her hair, and now the food. Everything was against her. But she wasn’t going to give up, not in the least.

  Pushing up the sleeves of her smoke-scented surcoat, she went to work.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “This belongs to de Lara?” Tiberius asked as they came upon the compact manor house, the windows emitting a glowing light in the dark of night. “This hardly looks like a property for the great marcher lords.”

  Maximus’ gaze moved over the house. Surrounded by a wall that was part timber and part stone, the house itself was oddly shaped and rather small. There was a two-storied structure that he could see and then another single-storied wing that attached to it. He pulled his black and white Spanish Jennet to a halt and the knights around him followed suit. He and Tiberius sat a moment, looking at the distant structure, the only point of light and shelter in miles of darkened landscape.

  “This has to be it,” Maximus finally said. “The priest on the south side of Oxford said he knew the house and directed us down this road. There is nothing else but this house, so this has to be it.”

  Tiberius shrugged. He was hungry and somewhat irritable, so he spurred his big, brown warmblood forward.

  “Come on, then,” he said. “I am famished. I must eat before I collapse. But from the looks of that place, I don’t suppose they will provide us more than a crust of bread and the dregs of the wine.”

  Maximus and the knights followed, loping down the road and closing the distance between them and the manor house. As they drew closer, the structure seemed to become somewhat bigger, but certainly not what they had expected from a great marcher lord. It was run-down and the walls seemed hardly enough to hold back an army of children, much less men with wicked intentions. The gate itself was very large and seemed to be made strictly of wide, hammered, iron strips that were held together with big, iron bolts. One could see right through the slats into the yard beyond, which would have been a horrible feature in the event of an attack. Arrows, arms, and weapons could come right through the gaps at the inhabitants inside.

  Maximus and Tiberius dismounted their horses and approached the odd gate, looking inquisitively at the gathering of men beyond. There were a couple of fires and men milling about, tending horses or sitting by the fire mending clothes or weapons. It was all quite casual, as if they hadn’t a care in the word. No sentries on duty, no guards. Tiberius and Maximus looked at each other curiously, shrugged, and then Maximus ca
lled out to the men.

  “Greetings,” he bellowed in the loud, deep voice that Maximus was so capable of. “I am de Shera. I have come at the invitation of Kellen de Lara.”

  Every man in the ward looked over at the gate as Maximus’ voice echoed off the buildings. A few of the men even stood up, as if a challenge had been issued. Clearly, Maximus’ voice was loud enough that it could be startling and he always sounded as if he were bellowing commands in battle. It was just his nature. But one of the men broke off from the group, a big, blond devil, and headed to the gate at a clipped pace. As he approached, he lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Lord de Lara is expecting you,” he said. “You will leave your weapons at the gate.”

  Maximus’ expression was steely. “I will leave them inside the gate and not outside.”

  The man didn’t reply other than to throw the big, iron bolts on the gate and yank it open. Creaking and groaning, the gate slowly opened as the man heaved.

  Not wanting to seem as if they were trying to bust into the ward, Maximus didn’t help the man as he struggled with the very big, very heavy gate. Finally, he opened it enough so that men were able to pass through, and Maximus and Tiberius did, followed by their knights. But once they were all inside the gate, they immediately began removing weapons.

  “You will place someone to guard our possessions and weapons,” Maximus instructed de Lara’s man. “I do not want to return to find things missing.”

  De Lara’s knight whistled sharply between his teeth and two men came away from the group in the ward, making their way over. The knight issued a few orders to the pair before returning his focus to Maximus.

  “My name is St. Héver,” the knight said. “I am Lord de Lara’s second.”

  Maximus cocked an eyebrow. “The house of St. Héver?”

  “Aye.”

  “I have heard of it.”

  The big knight dipped his head politely. “I am honored, my lord.”

  Maximus eyed the knight. He’d seen this man, too. He was a fighting man, a knight on the front lines, and Maximus remembered hearing somewhere that Kirk St. Héver was a fearsome fighter. He certainly seemed big and professional enough. After a moment of scrutinizing St. Héver, Maximus began to look around at the manor complex.

  “Where is de Lara?” he asked. “Surely he was expecting me sooner than this. We were delayed when one of the horses came up lame and we had to return to the livery for another.”

  Kirk pointed to the long, single-storied building behind them by several dozen yards. It was at the far end of the ward.

  “He is in the hall,” he replied. “You may go to him.”

  Maximus pushed past the knight, heading towards the building indicated. He and his men had to pass by de Lara’s men as they went and there were looks bordering on hostility as they passed. Maximus ignored them but Tiberius went so far as to sneer at a pair of young knights who were posturing angrily. He leaned into his brother’s ear.

  “Why are these men so hostile?” he hissed. “Have we unknowingly offended them?”

  Maximus didn’t know and he surely didn’t care. “Idiots,” he replied under his breath. “De Lara had better have a good meal to make up for the bad manners of his men.”

  Tiberius glanced over at the host of unfriendly faces. “We are allied with de Lara, are we not?”

  “Both de Lara and I support de Montfort, so we are, in theory.”

  “I do not think his men know that.”

  Maximus wouldn’t give a second thought to the soldiers who were watching him and his party trudge across the bailey towards the hall. While the bailey itself smelled of men and animals, of urine and animal dung, they were catching wafts of smells that were emerging from the hall and the scents upon the air were most appealing. He could most definitely smell bread and he thought he even smelled meat.

  He was famished, that was true, but his stomach seemed to be nervous for other reasons. Every time he thought of that phial of rose oil in his tunic, that secret precious bottle, thoughts of the lovely Courtly filled his mind and he realized that he was anxious to see her again. Fearful, even. He wondered if she had only been kind to him at their first meeting earlier that day because he saved her life.

  Self-doubt clutched at him as he patted the rose oil, wondering if he had acted too hastily in purchasing it. What if her smiles and pleasant conversation had only been out of gratitude and nothing more? Maximus wasn’t in the habit of being attracted to women on a daily basis, so when he was attracted to one, it meant something to him. Certainly, other knights took whores or wives. Tiberius had a glut of women who lived or died by his smile and Gallus was now married, but Maximus had always been a warrior’s warrior. He was a knight, a fighter, and that was what filled his time – thoughts and practice of how he could better himself as a warrior. His time had never been filled with the opposite sex. Until now. He secretly hoped that was about to change.

  Entering the arched doorway that opened into Kennington’s hall, he was met with a rather small and narrow common room with a dramatically arched ceiling constructed of big timbers. Immediately to his left was an alcove with a feasting table, evidently meant for the lord of Kennington and his family, and then there were two long, feasting tables, side by side, in the room. Instead of a hearth, there was a fire pit at one end of the room and the pitched roof had holes in it so that smoke could escape. The fire was lit and the room was quite warm, and quite pleasant, as Maximus and his men moved into the hall.

  “Sir Maximus!”

  The call came from the end of the hall with the fire pit and Maximus saw Kellen emerging from a small door. Dogs trailed after him as he headed in Maximus’ direction, his expression far more pleasant than the expressions his men had presented outside.

  “You have arrived,” Kellen said, somewhat happily. “I am glad you could come. We have been looking forward to supping with you this eve. And you have brought your men?”

  Maximus nodded, indicating the men to his right. “I do not believe you have met my brother, Tiberius,” he said, indicating the tall, dark-haired brother. “And these are my knights, the de Wolfe brothers, de Moray, and du Bois.”

  Kellen’s smile faded somewhat as he looked at the collection of knights. “De Wolfe?” he repeated. “William de Wolfe?”

  Scott nodded. “Indeed, my lord,” he said. “He is our father.”

  Kellen was visibly impressed. “Then the honor is mine to have the sons of the illustrious Wolfe under my roof,” he said. Then, he indicated the tables. “Please sit. Food shall be brought about shortly.”

  Maximus and his men moved to the closest table. There was a wooden tray that had a pile of what looked to be some kind of dense, cream-colored bread upon it. That was where the heavy smell of bread was coming from. As Maximus took a seat, Tiberius reached out and took a hot piece of the bread, sniffing at it.

  “What manner of bread is this?” Tiberius asked, biting into it. It was puffy, rather dense, and had an abundance of salt in it and on top of it. “It is delicious.”

  With that, the other knights grabbed at it, taking hunks for themselves. Kellen sat opposite Maximus and next to Troy de Wolfe. He seemed rather confused by the question.

  “It is… truthfully, I am not sure,” he said. “I will have to ask my daughter.”

  Maximus peered at the plate of bread. “Did she instruct the servants to bake it thusly?”

  Kellen appeared uncomfortable in the slightest. “She created the recipe,” he said, avoiding the question. He didn’t want de Shera to know that his daughter had been working like a slave in the kitchen for the past two hours because Ellice was hiding most of the servants from him. The man didn’t need to know his family’s problems and, frankly, he was embarrassed by it. “Courtly fostered at Prudhoe Castle in the north and the lady of the castle was evidently quite adept in cookery. She learned in France and passed her knowledge along to my daughter. Therefore, my daughter is skilled in the art of fine cookery. You will
be sampling it tonight.”

  That seemed to impress Maximus. “Where is your daughter?” he asked, looking around the room. “Will she join us?”

  Kellen’s discomfort grew. “She will, eventually,” he said, trying to be delicate on how he explained things. “There was some trouble with the servants this evening and she is in the kitchen at the moment, overseeing things. But she will join us at some point.”

  Maximus watched Kellen as the man fidgeted a bit and had difficulty meeting his eye. He wondered why. Reaching out, he took a piece of the flat bread and bit into it. Tiberius had been correct. It was quite delicious.

  “How are your daughters after their experience today?” he asked, chewing. “I hope they suffered no ill effects.”

  Kellen shook his head. “Fortunately not,” he replied. “But all of their clothing and possessions were burned, so I will apologize in advance that neither one has had the opportunity to change into more appropriate clothing. Until I can secure a seamstress or material for them, they are forced to make do.”

  Maximus finished one piece of bread and reached for another. “That is very unfortunate,” he said. “Had I known, I would have brought material with me. I would assume your daughters can sew.”

  Kellen nodded. “They can,” he said. “Courtly can, anyway. Isadora does not have much interest in it.”

  “Oh?” Maximus said. “Why not?”

  Before Kellen could reply, Isadora emerged from the small doorway on the other side of the fire pit, a pitcher in one hand and several small wooden cups in the other. She was trying to be very careful about not dropping anything and when Maximus saw her, he jumped up and went to her.

  “Here, lady,” he said, taking the pitcher. “Allow me to help you. I fear the pitcher is much too heavy for you.”

  Isadora gazed up at the man who had a hand in saving her young life. She hadn’t a chance to speak with him at all earlier, as Courtly had seemed to do all of the talking for them, so she was a bit shy to speak with him, and his chivalrous gesture had her cheeks flushing.