England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She watched his face as he spoke, and eventually sighed with reluctance and resignation. She knew he was looking for a positive response, anything that would indicate she was ready to move forward, but she simply couldn’t do it. The mere thought sickened her. And with Brogan’s appearance this day, she was more reluctant than ever to give Aubrey false hope. She didn’t want to hurt the man, but she clearly had no intention of setting a wedding date.

  “My lord,” she said after a moment, gazing back down at the ring now on her thumb. “I am most flattered by your attention and eagerness. And I am not oblivious to the fact that you are eager for us to wed, truly. I believe you are a very kind man, as well as a very talented one. But… but I am still growing accustomed to all of this. I am sorry if it is taking longer than you had hoped.”

  The faint smile faded from Charles’ lips. His fidgeting hands grew worse. “I am not asking to marry you tomorrow, my lady. But if we could only set a date, then it would….”

  She bolted to her feet, turning her back on him. “I cannot,” she said before he could finish his sentence. “Most betrothals have years to become accustomed to the idea. You and I were given minutes. I do apologize if I have not readily accepted the idea as you have, but I cannot help what I feel.”

  He was trying not to become upset. “I do not blame you for what you feel, for clearly, I am getting the better end of this bargain. But whether we marry next week or next year, still, some day we must marry. What difference does it make if it is tomorrow or in five years?”

  She looked at him, then. “The difference is that I am not ready for it right now. You must allow me to settle in to this idea, my lord.”

  His flabby jaw began to tick and he rose on his big legs. “May I ask something of you, then?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would… would it be possible to not have Inglesbatch hanging over you night and day? I would like to spend some time with you and this cannot be accomplished with is constant presence.”

  “William is not only my knight; he is my friend. I feel safe when he is near.”

  “But no harm can come to you in my presence, my lady, I swear it. Will you at least consider it?”

  He was pleading and her guilt was magnified. Whether or not she meant to be cruel to the man, she was being so nonetheless. She walked over to him, gazing into his fat face, his sincere brown eyes. She felt a good deal of pity for him. Impulsively, she put a hand on his sweaty cheek.

  “You are a good man, my lord,” she said softly. “I thank you for your patience. I would ask for a little more.”

  The hand on his cheek undid him. He closed his eyes to her touch, having waited a very long time for contact of this magnitude. He instinctively put his fat hand over hers, feeling a very great longing at that moment.

  “I know I am not the prize you had hoped for, Avalyn,” he said quietly. “I am not a handsome man, nor finely mannered, nor even great at conversation. But I promise I will make the best husband that I can possibly make.”

  She smiled; she couldn’t help it. He so desperately wanted to please her. “You are all of those things, my lord,” she said softly. “You must not diminish yourself.”

  He gazed deeply into her soft golden eyes. “May I ask another question?”

  “Aye.”

  “I pray that you will not become upset by it, for I do not mean it in a slanderous manner.”

  “I will not know until you ask.”

  He took a deep breath. “Inglesbatch… is there something more to your relationship with him? I only ask because…”

  The golden eyes flashed and she pulled her hand away. Charles could see, instantly, that he’d made a grave mistake. Avalyn took several steps back from him, her eyes blazing.

  “What must you think of me if you must ask that question?” she hissed. “You know very well that my heart belongs to someone and it certainly is not Inglesbatch. Do you think I give my favors and emotions so freely to more than one man?”

  He shook his head so hard that his jowls wobbled. “Nay, my lady, of course not. ’Tis just that Inglesbatch is always with you and your uncle told me that he carries feelings for you. I simply thought that…”

  “You thought what?”

  His ruddy face was scarlet. He put up his hands in surrender. “My lady, I truly meant no offense. But your reluctance to wed has my mind uncertain and unsteady. My imagination is running wild with me, perhaps, but I truly never meant to slander you. I am simply looking for a reason for your resistance, foolish though it might be on my part.”

  Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer before turning away. “I believe the continuation of this conversation can only do more damage,” she said stiffly. “If you would be so kind as to leave me, my lord, I will prepare for your feast.”

  “Avalyn, please,” he said beseechingly. “I did not mean to insult you. I was asking an honest question.”

  “And you received an honest answer.” She still did not look at him, pretending to busy herself with the jewelry box he had given her. “Good eve to you, my lord.”

  With a heavy, heartfelt sigh, Charles turned for the door. He turned to gaze at her lowered head, feeling sick inside. He’d taken a great chance asking the question and received exactly what he had not hoped for; her animosity. He was positive she hated him now and if that was the case, he couldn’t possibly do more damage than he already had. In a surprising show of resolve, he spoke to her before he quit the room.

  “It is my wish that we marry come the next full moon,” he said, his hand on the iron door latch. “That date is three weeks away come tomorrow. I will send word to your uncle.”

  He didn’t give her time to argue, and Avalyn didn’t reply. As the door shut softly with Charles’ departure, she felt an odd sense of relief. Now she had a date, a target by which to make plans. She and Brogan would have to be well on their way before that date. They had less than three weeks. Three weeks and she would begin her new life with him.

  A strange sense of excitement swept over her.

  *

  Charles wasn’t surprised when she didn’t appear at the feast. Inglesbatch, St. John, and Gervaise were already there, imbibing the fine port he had purchased last year on a trip to Lisbon. He held the food as long as he dared but finally ordered everything served, and served it was in elaborate fashion. He finally sent Barton up to the lady’s bower to discover what was taking her so long, but she sent Barton back to the great hall with orders to send Inglesbatch to her. William, seated at the edge of the long dais, promptly put his chalice down and left the hall. Charles watched the man go with a great deal of jealousy.

  Brogan watched William leave with a certain amount of curiosity. He was concerned that Avalyn was ill, having no idea of the conversation between her and Aubrey earlier. He had been waiting with baited breath for her appearance, having suffered through an afternoon without seeing her. He’d brought St. Alban with him to the feast, the old knight sitting quietly at his right. St. Alban thought it risky enough to bring him into Aubrey’s stronghold, but Brogan saw nothing wrong with bringing his ‘father’ with him to the feast. Even now, the old man’s eyes surveyed the room; Brogan could focus only on Avalyn’s absence.

  “You make yourself suspicious staring at the stairwell,” St. Alban said quietly as he lifted his chalice. “Pay no mind to where William went. Watch the room and speak with me instead.”

  Brogan’s gaze returned to the table reluctantly. “What do you suppose is wrong?”

  “If anything, William will take care of her. You mustn’t worry.”

  Brogan drank deeply of the rich red Port; it was his third chalice and he was beginning to feel it in his veins. “Did you see the way Aubrey looks at William? There is no love for the man in his gaze.”

  “I noticed,” St. Alban said casually. “I wonder what has happened.”

  Brogan could only shake his head. “He behaved in the same fashion earlier in the stables when William was tending her horse.
He does not like William.”

  “Perhaps because William is sent by de Neville to protect the lady?” St. Alban wondered aloud. He shoveled a large bite of beef into his mouth. “Perhaps William has been making a nuisance of himself.”

  “Doing what?”

  St. Alban shrugged. “Perhaps keeping an amorous groom at bay?”

  Brogan lifted an eyebrow, glaring at the old man. But in the same breath, he knew that he could very well be correct. William had promised Brogan that he would protect Avalyn, even if that meant protecting her from her betrothed. Brogan didn’t know if he felt better or worse. Having not been privy to knowing the activity between Avalyn and Aubrey over the past few weeks, he could only imagine what might have gone on.

  St. Alban could read the man’s mind; it wasn’t difficult. Brogan had never learned to hide his feelings as true knights would have. He poured the man more wine.

  “William will bring her to the feast, have no fear,” he said, attempting to shift the focus of conversation. “Meanwhile, has St. John given you your duties?”

  Brogan took another drink, nodding, though his mind was still lingering on Avalyn. “I am in charge of the armory. I must inventory and repair the weapons.”

  “Excellent,” the old man replied. “’Twill be an easy but exacting task.”

  Brogan didn’t say any more. He wasn’t hungry, but St. Alban kept pushing his trencher at him, so he ate. Over to his left, Aubrey and St. John were shoving food into their mouths, talking animatedly about something Brogan couldn’t quite hear. Neither man had made a move to talk to him or St. Alban, of which he was grateful. He didn’t feel like conversing. He wondered what was taking William so long when the knight suddenly reappeared, with Thel in tow, and went directly for Aubrey. Brogan’s ears perked.

  “The lady does not feel well, my lord,” he said. “She begs your pardon for not attending your feast. She has sent her lady to bring her meal to her.”

  Charles’ fat face was a mask of disappointment. He knew why the lady was ill and he furthermore knew that he had caused it. He shouldn’t have asked such a foolish question about her and Inglesbatch. St. John had told him that he did not believe there was anything between the lady and her knight, and Charles should have believed him. Furthermore, he should not have set a wedding date without her consent or input. It had been wrong and impulsive of him. The courage he had felt so recently drained away, leaving a pliant and indecisive man in its wake.

  “I see,” he said, having difficulty holding William’s gaze. He wondered if the lady had told the knight of his suspicions. “I do hope it is nothing serious.”

  William shook his head; he had indeed heard of the baron’s question and it was a struggle not to let his distaste show. “Nothing serious that I could sense, my lord,” he said. “I am sure that tomorrow will see her well enough.”

  There was nothing more for Charles to say, although St. John and William exchanged glances. St. John just shook his head, imperceptible though it might have been. He was coming to increasingly disapprove of the lady’s behavior, but it was not his place to say so. William went back to his seat.

  Meanwhile, Thel had made her way over to the opposite edge of the table, speaking quietly to a servant. Brogan’s eyes tracked her; to anyone else, it might have seemed he was simply interested in the dark-eyed wench, but to St. Alban, it seemed as if Brogan was going to jump out of his chair and grab her. He wanted news of Avalyn so badly that he was nearly crazed, but if Thel noticed his stare, she never let on. She stood near the edge of the table, waiting patiently until the servant returned from the kitchens with a trencher for the lady. Thel thanked the man, took the trencher and passed to the rear of St. Alban and Brogan on her way from the hall. But she made sure to pass close enough to St. Alban that he could hear her whisper.

  “Stables,” she murmured. “One hour.”

  St. Alban barely heard her. Brogan only heard hissing. Thel continued on her way, slipping from the hall virtually unnoticed. St. Alban leaned casually in Brogan’s direction.

  “The stable,” he said, taking a bite of bread. “One hour.”

  Brogan’s stomach was in knots. He couldn’t eat, but he continued to drink. St. Alban had to eventually take his chalice from him to prevent him from inebriating himself. It was the longest hour of his life.

  As Brogan drank, Aubrey brooded, and Inglesbatch pondered, the rest of the room was in fine form. Several senior soldiers milled about, enjoying the fare and pinching the serving wenches when they walked by. Near the massive hearth, the man who had been field marshal and his companion, the sergeant, sat at the edge of a cluttered table, enjoying their brew and watching two of their men arm wrestle. They could see the activity on the dais on the opposite side of the room, watching knights come and go. There seemed to be quite a bit of activity.

  “I wonder where the lady is?” the sergeant wondered.

  The field marshal shrugged. “She’s not made her presence well known since her arrival,” he said. “Too bad, too. She’s a lovely thing. But I hear she’s de Neville.”

  “Then she probably thinks she’s too good for the rest of the rabble,” the sergeant snorted into his cup. “They’re a pompous lot.”

  The field marshal popped a piece of apple into his mouth. “You fought for de Neville, did you not?”

  “I did. At Wakefield.”

  The sergeant was about to take another sip from his wooden cup when he suddenly froze. “Wakefield,” he murmured. His eyes widened and slowly, with great intent, moved to the dais. Specifically, his gaze lingered on the end of the table where the new Germanic knight sat with a fat old man. He stared hard at the knight. At his side, the field marshal noticed his expression.

  “What is the matter with you?” he asked. “Is your drink suddenly foul?”

  The sergeant shook his head. He put the cup down and sat forward, his eyes still on the distant table. “That knight,” he muttered after a moment. “I recognize him now. He was at Wakefield.”

  The field marshal passed an unconcerned glance at the head table. “So? Many men were at Wakefield.”

  The sergeant was growing more animated as he spoke. “I realize that, but that knight… he wasn’t a knight. He was a foot soldier. Aye, I remember him clearly now. Enemy and ally alike were afraid of him. He fought like an animal, just as you saw him do today.” He was silent a moment, his mind working furiously to remember the name he had heard, long ago. It was almost on the tip of his tongue. “But I cannot remember his name.”

  “It’s Gervaise,” the field marshal failed to see any concern.

  “Nay,” the sergeant shook his head. “It wasn’t Gervaise. It was something else. It will come to me.”

  Lacking any interest whatsoever, the field marshal convinced the sergeant to play a game of cards. But it didn’t divert the sergeant’s attention entirely; he knew that knight was not a knight, but he could not recall the man’s name. All he remembered of him was fear.

  He began to wonder if his liege knew who his new pledge really was. When the big knight left the hall a half hour later, the sergeant followed.

  *

  Avalyn was waiting for him.

  The stable was dark, musty with hay and urine, as Brogan entered the stalls where she kept her big bay colt. The horses shifted in their stalls, snorting softly, and he caught sight of a dark figure at the end near the bay colt. He went straight to her, taking her in his arms before he uttered a word. Avalyn threw her arms around his neck, holding him tightly.

  “Oh, Brogan,” she breathed in his ear. “I’ve missed you.”

  He kissed her neck, her ear, finally lingering tenderly on her lips. “As I have missed you,” he murmured. “Are you well? William said that you were ill.”

  She shook her head. “I am fine,” she said. “I simply did not want to spend the evening with Charles. Brogan… we must leave this place as soon as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Charles has set our wedding
date. Three weeks from tomorrow.”

  Brogan lifted an eyebrow. “I see,” he said slowly. “Then we must indeed leave as soon as possible. When will you be ready?”

  “I am ready with the clothes on my back. Can we leave tonight?”

  “I believe so. But I must get St. Alban and The Sirens to safety before I take you. Aubrey’s wrath would more than likely fall on them when you and I are discovered missing.”

  “Of course,” she said as she touched his face, running her fingers along his stubble. “Where is Lake? We must take her with us.”

  “She is with my mother, in the little village just south of here,” he said. “We will indeed take her.”

  Avalyn looked up at him. “Your mother is here, too?”

  He smiled wanly. “Everyone who cares about us has come with me. I brought quite a troop.”

  She returned his smile, still touching his face. “How will your mother get back to London, then? Or will we take her with us?”

  He shook his head, his body growing increasingly warm from her tender touch. “St. Alban will escort her and The Sirens back to London. All will be well. You mustn’t worry.”

  She was trying not to, but there were so many people involved that she had to make sure no one was left behind to suffer when she and Brogan made their move. As she nodded her head compliantly, Brogan swooped down and slanted his lips over hers, suckling fiercely. Passion flared in her slender body and she allowed herself to be upswept in his power and virility. They’d had so little time together; she’d never truly enjoyed or explored the man. Every moment like this was more precious than the last.

  In a fused pair, they sank back into the stall where the bay colt chewed lazily on his feed. And in the shadows outside the stable, the sergeant who had fought the Battle of Wakefield with the man they called ‘The Monster’ had heard everything.