England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Keir had charge of the portcullis and the great iron and wooden grate had been heavily bombarded by flame, followed by the battering ram to twist the heated iron. Keir was methodical and skilled in his approach and made sure to keep the enemy soldiers on the battlements above the gate out of range by regular barrages from the archers. Over the course of the two days, wild wind and driving rain, Keir and his men were able to bend the portcullis enough so that two men at a time could squeeze through, and that was exactly what Baron Coverdale had in mind.

  By dawn of the third day, the castle was finally breached. Now, Coverdale was shouting orders to Keir who was extremely reluctant to do as he was told. But Baron Coverdale, Lord Byron de Tiegh, was in no mood for disobedient knights. He was ready to be finished with this obligatory support of Exelby and return home to a warm fire and his young wife with her big, warm breasts.

  “Take Pembury and de Velt with you,” Coverdale barked again, scratching at his dirty, wet scalp before pulling his hauberk back on. “Get inside and get those women or Lord de Geld will lose his entire family. Of all people, surely you can understand what it means to face the loss of one’s family, St. Héver.”

  It was a tactless remark, one that had Keir’s unusually cool temper rising. He felt disgusted and sick. Coverdale was a good commander but an insensitive man. Frustrated but driven by his sense of duty, Keir stormed off with Pembury and de Velt following, marching across the muck, puddles of urine and rivers of blood, until he came within range of the gatehouse. Keir’s men were already gathered there, all one hundred and nine of them, awaiting direction from their liege.

  Keir reached his men, standing beneath a pair of denuded oak trees, and bellowed orders to them, courtesy of Coverdale. They were to breach the keep and find Lord de Geld’s wife and two daughters. De Geld was the lord of Exelby, his castle having been attacked and overrun in nearly the same situation that Pendragon had been those years ago. A neighboring war lord, covetous of de Geld’s very rich castle and lands, had waited until the old man was away on business before laying siege and conquering. Coverdale, an old friend of de Geld’s, had been tasked with regaining the fortress.

  Infuriated and exhausted, St. Héver was the first man through the twisted wreckage of the portcullis. He was immediately set upon by defenders but Keir had the advantage of tremendous size, strength and height. He was moderately tall, but the sheer breadth and circumference of his arms and chest made him a man above men. As he plowed his way through the gatehouse, he used his sword and fists to drive away attackers. Pembury and de Velt were right behind him, powerful and skilled men in their own right.

  Miraculously, they made it through the gate house without injury. Considering those who held the castle were using the murder holes in the gatehouse entry to their advantage, it was something of a feat. Bursting into the cluttered and muddy bailey, which was oddly empty, Keir directed more than half of his men to take the walls while he took another twenty men with him and headed towards the keep.

  They fought their way through enemy soldiers, having suddenly appeared from the interior of the keep. The soldiers came rushing down at them from the keep entry, down the narrow wooden retractable stairs that were half-burned, and Keir found himself slugging men in the face and throwing them over the railing.

  Because the stairs were so precarious, they could only mount them in single file and Keir was at the head, taking the brunt of the warriors coming at them. At one point, an enemy soldier managed to send him off-balance and he gripped the railing, almost falling fifteen or so feet down to the muddy bailey, but he managed to hold on to the broken railing even in the wet rain that was making everything dangerously slippery. Pembury, a mountain of a man with enormous fists, pushed forward and took the lead, throwing men aside with his colossal strength. De Velt pulled Keir away from the edge and steadied him and the three knights, along with their men-at-arms, continued up the stairs and eventually into the keep.

  As Keir slugged men with his big fists and fought off broadswords that were flying at him, he let his rage and frustration get the better of him. He didn’t want to be here in the midst of this stupid skirmish and he certainly didn’t want to be tasked with rescuing women. He didn’t want to rescue anyone. He wanted to get out of this mess and return to Pendragon and resume his patrols for Coverdale. A siege is the last thing he wanted to participate in, much less be charged with. As he plowed his way into the keep and met with more violent resistance, he could only think one thing.

  Damn Coverdale, he hissed to himself. Damn the man to hell.

  *

  She was waiting for them.

  Braced in the large bedchamber at the top of Exelby’s towering keep, she was waiting with an enormous piece of wood in her hands, the only weapon they could find in the room. It was her parents’ chamber, a luxurious place with fine silks, furniture and under normal circumstances, a warm fire, but this day saw the chamber something of a gloomy and fearful place.

  Chloë de Geld could hear men on the other side of the chamber door. They had been attempting to open it for the better part of two days but the panel was made from heavy oak reinforced with strips of iron, bolted together so that it formed a sort of net. The enemy had tried to burn away part of the door but it was so dense and old that it simply smoldered and glowed, falling away piece by piece and filling the chamber with a thin layer of smoke that hung near the ceiling. Yet even when the door burned away, the strips of iron would hold fast and would not allow the door to be opened. At least, that was the theory. Up until today, the theory had never been tested.

  So Chloë stood against the wall near the door, club held at the ready and struggling to keep her sister calm. Cassandra was the skittish sort, like their father, whereas Chloë was calm and composed, like their mother. Even now, Lady Blanche de Geld sat in the corner and worked her needle and thread against an elaborately embroidered piece of linen, as cool as a lazy cat on a warm summer day.

  Chloë stood near the door, preparing to beat to death anyone who entered the chamber and wondering if her mother even understood what was happening. There was calm composure and then there was pure apathy. Chloë had to shake her head at her mother, wondering which one it really was.

  The door panel suddenly shook heavily, as if something had been thrown against it. Chloë and Cassandra shrieked with fear while their mother barely looked up from her needlework. The door rattled again and a huge chunk of it fell away, revealing those on both sides of the door. Gloved fingers began to poke through the iron grate, moving for the lock, and Chloë began clubbing the fingers with wild abandon.

  Someone on the opposite side of the door grunted with pain as his fingers were smacked. He tried to thrust his fingers through again and Chloë bashed his fingers furiously.

  “Nay!” she shrieked, punctuating each word with a smack from the club. “Nay, nay, nay!”

  “Lady!” the knight on the other side of the door roared. “Cease! I am here to rescue you!”

  Chloë didn’t believe him for a moment. More fingers were coming through the grate and she smashed at them as if killing ugly spiders on the wall. Smack, smack, smack!

  “Nay!” she barked. “Go away!”

  As Chloë bashed at the grate with her club, convinced that she was the only thing that stood between her family and complete obliteration, Keir was tired of getting his fingers smashed so he shoved de Velt forward.

  “Open the door,” he growled.

  Lucan looked at him as if he were mad. “Nay, you open the door. I do not want my fingers broken.”

  Frustrated, Keir grabbed him by the neck as Pembury charged at the door, shoving them both out of the way. He grabbed at the iron grate and got his fingers smashed for his trouble. He drew his hands back, shaking out his bashed fingers.

  “Foolish wench,” he yelled at Chloë. “That bloody well hurt.”

  On the other side of the blackened iron, Chloë was unrepentant. “Touch this door again and I will pound your fingers into
dust.”

  Michael stared at her in disbelief; he could see a portion of her face through the grate and long, shimmering sheets of deep red hair. One big brown eye was gazing back at him.

  “Do you not understand that we are trying to save you?” he asked, incredulous.

  On the opposite side of the door, Chloë shook her head, gripping the club with white knuckles. “You are attempting to coerce me into opening this door,” she spat. “I am not so idiotic that I would believe you.”

  “But it is true.”

  “Liar!”

  Michael put his hands on his hips, looking to Keir. “Well?” he lifted a frustrated hand at the half-demolished door. “What do you want to do?”

  Keir’s frustration was driven beyond endurance. He was struggling to accomplish an unwanted assignment and meeting with great resistance. It would have been extremely easy to walk away and tell Coverdale that the women were beyond recovery. But he gave it one last try. He’d come this far. Moreover, he wasn’t accustomed to failure and to walk away would mean surrender. He moved to the grate, shoving Michael aside.

  “Listen to me and listen well,” he growled to the brown eye staring back at him. “My name is Keir St. Héver and I have been battling to free Exelby for the better part of two days. We have chased off, killed or captured most of the fools who invaded your castle and the last thing I need is a foolish wench resisting my efforts to help her. I can just as easily walk away and leave you here to rot if that is your wish.”

  “Walk away, then! We do not need or want your help!”

  Keir clenched his teeth, struggling with his temper. “You are behaving most ungratefully towards men who have risked their lives to save you.”

  As Keir spoke, Lucan moved up on his right side and, with stealth, reached for the iron grate. As Keir held the frightened lady’s attention, Lucan managed to get his fingers through the grate with great care and carefully lift the bolt. Keir was barely finished with what he had to say when Lucan suddenly threw his big shoulder into the door and the panel popped open.

  Cassandra screamed as Chloë began swinging the club with all her might. She caught Lucan on the back of the head, sending the man to the ground.

  Keir charged in and made a swipe for the weapon, but Chloë was fast and she darted out of his range, jumping on the fluffy bed in the middle of the chamber and swinging the club with all her might. Keir put up an arm to deflect the blow but she still managed to clip not only his elbow but his head.

  Furious, Keir grabbed the club from her hand and tossed it away, hitting Pembury in the process. As Michael grunted from the blow to his chest, Keir leapt onto the bed as Chloë tried to jump to the floor. He caught her around the waist, a wisp of a woman with a head full of intense red hair that tumbled to her knees. The straight, silky strands were over them both as he lost his balance and fell back onto the straw-stuffed bed. In fact, there was hair in his mouth and all over his face as he struggled to get hold of Chloë as she fought for her life.

  “Lady,” he grunted as she twisted and fought. “Cease your struggles. I swear that you will come to no harm. We serve Lord Coverdale and have come to rescue you.”

  Chloë was in a world of panic. The knight that had her was easily three times her size and she managed to turn in his arms, throwing a hand up into the open faceplate of his visor. Hit in the face by her fist, Keir did nothing more than grunt. He tried to stand up with the snarling wildcat in his grip but he ended up tripping on her surcoat and they both fell to the floor.

  Keir fell on top of Chloë, who ended up on her back. It was a hard fall that momentarily stunned her. Moreover, Keir was an enormous man and his full weight came down on her, armor and all. Suddenly, they were in a very intimate position and when Chloë regained her senses, she went mad, beating at his head and shoulders with her little fists.

  “Get off me!” she howled. “You foul beast, get off!”

  Keir was trying to capture the fifty slapping hands that were flying at his face from all directions. He managed to capture one only to be struck by another. Chloë began gouging at his eyes and he closed them both, pressing his face into her chest as he grabbed for that one final hand in the darkness. Beneath him, the lady’s body was soft and supple, but he wasn’t thinking about that. He was thinking about trying not to go blind from her frantic fingers.

  “Cease!” he finally roared as he captured the last errant hand. He pinned her arms on either side of her slender body, daring to open his eyes and gaze down into her hair-covered face. “Did you not understand me? We are here to rescue you. We are not here to harm you in any way but from the way you are fighting, it will more than likely be me who ends up injured.”

  Chloë wasn’t ready to surrender to the strange knight with the smooth, deep voice. “Get off,” she commanded.

  “Not until you stop fighting me. I have no desire to be maimed by a foolish girl.”

  “I am not foolish,” she grunted as she tried to dislodge him.

  He watched her face contort with effort. “You are indeed foolish when you fight against someone who is attempting to help you.”

  She looked at him, baring her straight white teeth. “I do not know you. You could be lying for all I know, an enemy with the devil’s tongue.”

  “Yet I am not,” he said as he cocked an eyebrow at her. “I told you who I am – I am Keir St. Héver, a much decorated warrior who has served Edward Longshanks in the wars in Wales. I am an honorable knight from a long line of honorable knights and your refusal to believe my word is a direct insult. I do not lie and I certainly would not lie to a lady. In any case, you are trapped by a man who is a good deal larger and stronger than you are so if I were you, I would no longer resist. It is futile.”

  Chloë’s struggle ground to a halt and she gazed up at Keir with baleful eyes. He could only see two big brown orbs through the mess of long red hair that was all over them both. Keir could see the turmoil in the brown depths, swirling like a maelstrom, but in that same thought, it occurred to him that they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. The thought startled him.

  “Do you understand what I have told you?” he asked again, somewhat less hostile, wondering why he was so mesmerized by those eyes.

  Chloë nodded unsteadily. “Are you going to strike me again?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Keir immediately let go of her arms and, out of necessity, began pulling strands of long red hair out of his mail so he could stand up and not pull hair from her scalp. Chloë watched him with some fear as he pushed himself off of her. Then he took her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet.

  Now that the atmosphere was somewhat calmer and the women realized that the enemy had not captured them after two days of hell, Chloë seemed rather weak and unsteady. It was as if the fight had taken everything out of her. She slumped against the wall, exhaling heavily as she pushed her hair from her face and tried to smooth it down. The long, luxurious red hair was her pride and joy, something she was almost as well known for in the shire as her beauty. To those in West Yorkshire, Chloë de Geld’s radiance was the stuff of legends.

  It was something that had not escaped Keir’s notice, try as he might. He was still frustrated, angry and exhausted, but somewhere in the mix, he realized that he had interest in the lady’s fine looks. Rescuing a hag would have been a duty but rescuing an angel was something entirely different. He should have had the same opinion for either, but the truth was most men would prefer to associate with a lovely young lady to an old haggard one. It was beastly but true.

  The lady in front of him was average in height but slender in build, with large soft breasts that he had felt against him when he had fallen on top of her. Even through the mail and layers of tunics, he had felt them. Her skin was pale, like cream, and she had a perfectly formed face with porcelain skin and full pink lips. But the eyes that gazed back at him had his attention, a shade of brown that was as deep and brilliant as a gemstone. They were big and beautiful. Keir watched
the woman as she struggled to recover her composure.

  “What is your name?” he finally asked.

  She looked up at him. “I am the Lady Chloë de Geld,” she murmured in a sweet, silky voice. “My father is Anton de Geld, Baron Kirklington. This is my mother, the Lady Blanche, and my sister, the Lady Cassandra.”

  Chloë. It was all Keir heard. The rest sounded like mumble after that – I am the Lady Chloë blah, blah, blah. He snapped his fingers at Pembury and de Velt, indicating that each man take a lady in hand, and the two of them rushed to see who would be the one to escort the Lady Cassandra, a pretty blond with her sister’s big brown eyes. Michael was a shade faster than Lucan, collecting the lady by the elbow and sneering at Lucan over the top of her head.

  Truth was, Pembury was a massive man of great power and even Lucan de Velt, a man of considering strength and skill himself, would not voluntarily tangle with him. So he grudgingly took charge of the mother, an older woman who had sat in the corner doing her needlework while a battle raged on around her. During the entire time Chloë and Keir had scuffled, the woman hadn’t moved.

  Quietly, Lucan helped the old woman to stand, even helped her with her sewing, which he found a rather ridiculous hobby in the midst of a battle, and followed Pembury from the chamber. He even smacked the man in the back of the head when no one was looking.

  With everyone gone and the noise from the fighting faded into nothingness, the chamber was suddenly very still. Chloë was still leaning against the wall, feeling weak and weary as Keir moved to the door, adjusting the helm on his head that she had so furiously smacked. As he fumbled with the hauberk beneath it, adjusting it, he turned to Chloë.

  “Come along, my lady,” he said quietly.

  She looked up from where she had been staring the floor. “Where are you taking us?”

  “That is for Lord Coverdale and your father to decide.”