The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Stop,” he whispered in her ear.

  She stilled in his arms. He released her and looked to the king.

  Edward sat, shaking his head. “I know not what to do,” he admitted. He looked at Benedict. “This man has been nothing but loyal to me and has served me well over the years. I have never caught him in a lie nor seen any disreputable behavior on his part. But what you say troubles me. Especially since I have no proof of these atrocities.”

  The king rubbed his chin, frowning as he concentrated.

  “Do you think Geoffrey locked himself in a dungeon cell?” Merryn demanded. “I found him after my son told me he’d seen his father with Symond Benedict. If Ancel had not witnessed this man dragging my unconscious husband along, I might never have gone the way Ancel suggested. I discovered Geoffrey in the dungeon, not a light in sight and no keys anywhere. He would have starved to death, Sire! It took our men several hours to cut through the iron bars to free him.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “You need to punish this man to the full extent of the law.”

  Geoffrey reeled her back in. She began shaking in his arms. He didn’t know if it was from her rage or fear from the way she had addressed the king.

  Edward closed his eyes for some minutes. No one uttered a word. Finally, he opened them and rose to his feet.

  “The only way to solve this is through a challenge. We must hold a trial by battle between the men.”

  “No!” Merryn cried. “You know Geoffrey is a man of honor. Bound by his word as a knight. He would never lie to you. Never! Your own son trusts him beyond measure. I told my son—my son—that both his king and prince held his father’s word in high esteem.”

  She fell to her knees. “Please, your majesty. Do not act in this manner. Hold Symond Benedict responsible for the crimes he has committed.”

  Geoffrey knew of the king’s fondness for Merryn, but he saw that his wife had pushed the man too far. Edward’s jaw tightened as he rose to his feet.

  “’Tis my decision to make, Lady Merryn,” he snapped. “Not yours. I command we conduct a wager of battle at noon tomorrow.”

  A chill ran through Geoffrey. Things had come full circle.

  Chapter 36

  Geoffrey stood in the hot June sun, sweat gathering under his mail coif and hauberk. The king had allowed both combatants to wear heavier protective gear, unlike the time Geoffrey had bested Barrett in France in a simple padded jerkin.

  It surprised him when Edward announced that each man could have the use of two different weapons in today’s duel. When Geoffrey had faced Berold’s oldest son, both men fought with only a pole in hand.

  Approaching the field, Geoffrey noticed Benedict’s second held an arming sword, for thrusting and cutting, as well as a baselard for the knight to use. Geoffrey had almost chosen the short dagger himself. Instead, he’d decided to strap a graffe, a smaller dagger, to his lower right calf. His chief weapon of choice would be the bastard sword that Gilbert now held for him. Its weight took two hands to control, but Geoffrey believed the weapon would be more effective in the long run.

  As before, a battlefield of sixty square feet had been marked off outside the gates of Southwark. Members of the king’s royal guard stood at each corner. The large crowd of onlookers included courtiers in the king’s royal progress, occupants at Southwark, and the two hundred soldiers that had accompanied Geoffrey.

  And Merryn.

  He glanced at his wife, taking pride in her height and graceful posture as much as the chestnut hair that lit up like fire in the bright sunlight. She had grown wise in the years that great responsibility had been thrust upon her. His countess had earned the love of the tenants at Kinwick—and his. By God, she had all of his love.

  As they lay awake most of the night, Geoffrey had enfolded Merryn in his arms, drawing strength from her presence. Losing to Benedict would be unthinkable. If he did, it meant the royal guardsman would take his place as lord of Kinwick. Geoffrey couldn’t stomach the thought of that monster in charge of his people, much less taking Merryn to bed.

  Remembering the knight’s threat of harming Ancel brought fresh waves of anger. Geoffrey realized he must harness it and not let his emotions cause him to become careless during the contest.

  Merryn had argued that the king should have put Benedict through an ordeal by fire or water, but Geoffrey told her that process was most often used for commoners. In truth, Edward could have called for a trial by jury if he did not want to punish Benedict himself or render a verdict. But it might set a bad precedent for any member of the king’s royal guard if they were accused of a crime. Geoffrey understood why Edward decided to go with a judicially sanctioned duel in front of a field of witnesses.

  The time had come. Geoffrey went and stood in front of the king. Benedict joined him.

  The king inspected each man at length. In a loud voice that carried across the field, Edward said, “We will commence a wager of battle.”

  This was a different term than the Black Prince had used when Geoffrey had engaged Barrett. When the king uttered the phrase last night, Geoffrey’s heart sank since he knew what it entailed.

  “Lord Geoffrey de Montfort, Earl of Kinwick, will battle Sir Symond Benedict, member of the king’s royal guard. The fight will be to the death.”

  The crowd gasped to hear such harsh terms spoken by their liege. Geoffrey avoided Merryn’s eyes though he felt her gaze burning into him.

  Edward continued. “If either man utters the phrase Craven, the contest will end at once.”

  Geoffrey vowed never to speak the French word, which translated as broken. If he did, it would signal he was vanquished and the fight done. Benedict would not only claim victory, but by law, Geoffrey would be deprived of his legal rights. Any man might kill him on sight.

  Without doubt, Symond Benedict would take advantage of that.

  They went through the same familiar ritual. Both declared they had nothing to do with witchcraft or sorcery. Their seconds handed them their weapons of choice. Both men marched side by side toward the center of the field.

  As they moved away from the others, Benedict told him, “Your land and your lady will be mine for the taking, de Montfort. I cannot wait to couple with Merryn and hear her scream my name in pleasure.”

  Geoffrey ignored the bastard’s bold words. He focused on one thing alone.

  Killing Symond Benedict.

  They came to a halt at the middle of the field and turned. Each took ten steps away and then faced one another as they had been instructed. Geoffrey glanced down to make certain his graffe was in place as he gripped the hilt of his sword in both hands. Benedict held his sword in his right and the dagger in his left. Hate poured from his eyes.

  “Let the contest begin!” the king’s voice rang out, cutting through the silence which blanketed the area.

  Geoffrey had the advantage of height. He was several inches taller than Benedict. His arms would reach longer and his sword could move more closely to the red-bearded knight. Yet he knew being taller and more broad-shouldered could be a disadvantage because there was more of him to attack. He had speed on his side, for he had always been quick with a sword and his feet. His biggest advantage was the burning need to protect his loved ones.

  The summer day’s peace shattered as their swords clanged against one another. Geoffrey paced himself, knowing they might war against each other for hours. The chances of him tiring first were greater because of the weight of his weapon. He still believed the bastard sword would prove more deadly in the end.

  They dipped and thrust at one another. Geoffrey sliced Benedict’s lower thigh twice in a row. He took pleasure in the loud grunt that came from the man as blood spurted from the wounds. Twisting, he made contact a third time with a deep slash against Benedict’s other thigh.

  In a weakened state, the other knight seemed unsteady on his feet. Geoffrey took full advantage, managing a deep gash on his enemy’s upper left arm. Shock radiated from the royal guardsman.
He growled like an animal and charged at Geoffrey. Though Geoffrey spun away, he suffered a gash on his left forearm.

  After that lone injury, Benedict didn’t come close.

  Geoffrey continued to slash and nick his opponent at every opportunity. The summer heat burned through him and his hands began to drip with sweat. He feared losing his grip on the sword’s hilt. Sweat also poured from under the mail coif into his eyes, burning them. He backed away from his opponent and wiped it away with a brush of his arm. Still, it continued to stream from his head, disrupting his concentration.

  With a quick parry, he whipped to his left and as he took a few steps away from Benedict. Geoffrey used his left hand to tear the mail coif from his head and toss it aside. The crowd gasped. True, his head would be more vulnerable now, but the slight breeze of the day cooled him and helped him to regroup.

  Benedict dropped his dagger to the ground to rip off his own mail coif. Instead of casting it to the ground, he threw it at Geoffrey. The heavy mail hit Geoffrey square in the face. He stumbled back a few steps as Benedict bent and retrieved his dagger.

  In France, the combatants had been told they could use their poles and anything else on their bodies. They could kick, punch, or even bite their enemy if they came close enough. Nothing had been said about that at the start of today’s contest. Since no one stopped them, Geoffrey assumed Benedict’s action was allowable.

  Blood trickled from his nose. It had taken the brunt of the coif’s hit. He shook his head and charged full force toward Benedict, his sword steady in his hands. Geoffrey needed to take advantage of the knight’s bare head. Benedict blocked his first wave, but Geoffrey quickly raised his sword again and sliced downward, next to the soldier’s head. An ear came cleanly off, falling to the ground. Blood gushed from where the ear had sat only moments earlier.

  Benedict roared an obscenity and hurdled toward him. Geoffrey swiped his sword across the man’s chest. Benedict careened toward the ground. He hit it hard, rolling to his back. Geoffrey moved swiftly to press his advantage. As he came close, Benedict’s dagger shot out. He rammed it into Geoffrey’s calf.

  Geoffrey danced away, the dagger protruding from his leg. No pain came as a wave of energy soared through him. Jerking his own dagger from its sheath, he threw it with all his might. The knife landed in Benedict’s throat.

  Now blood poured from two places on the knight’s head and neck and dribbled from beneath the chain mail. Geoffrey yanked Benedict’s baselard from his own leg and steadily moved toward his enemy.

  Benedict pushed himself to his feet with the aid of his arming sword. The dagger remained in his throat as he staggered about. Geoffrey knew if Benedict removed it, the wound would prove instantly fatal. The knight had no way to staunch the heavy blood loss.

  With a final effort, his opponent charged at him as a mad boar stampeding through the forest, a guttural cry passing his lips. Geoffrey saw the swirling pageantry of colors that surrounded the field and heard no sound other than Benedict’s pounding feet as he approached. He tasted the blood that dripped from his nose and knew he had to end this contest. Now.

  Wielding his sword, his hand firm around the hilt, he planted his feet. Geoffrey saw in his enemy’s eyes that the knight knew defeat to be merely moments away. As he reached Geoffrey, Benedict closed his eyes.

  He never saw the arc of the sword coming.

  Epilogue

  Christmas—1371

  “Does Cook have the Yule dolls ready?” Geoffrey asked Tilda.

  “Aye, my lord. The little gingerbread people are ready for their heads to be ripped off and gobbled up.”

  “Father!”

  He turned and saw Ancel striding through the great hall. Now a lad of fourteen, he was nearly as tall as his father.

  Geoffrey embraced him, holding his boy tightly, but Ancel did not protest. They had made their peace long ago and now were as close as a father and son could be.

  “How is the Earl of Winterbourne treating you these days?” he asked.

  Ancel’s face lit up. “Very well, Father. He is pleased with me and has called me the best of squires.”

  Pride rushed through him.

  “Ancel!”

  Alys came running toward them. The twins hugged.

  “You look quite grown up, little sister.”

  Alys beamed at his compliment. She twirled in a circle. “Do you like this color on me?” she asked both of them.

  “You look as if you came straight from court,” Geoffrey teased. “Far too fancy for our paltry festivities at Kinwick.”

  She punched her father in the arm. “I did enjoy my time fostering at court,” she said. “Queen Philippa was a most marvelous woman. Elegant and refined, yet kind and wise. But cousin Avelyn helped me sew this cotehardie. She is quite the seamstress.”

  Merryn joined them, their youngest child in her arms. She passed two-year-old Nan to her sister and greeted her son with a kiss to each cheek.

  “I’m happy to have you home for Christmas. Did Hardie bring his family?”

  Ancel nodded. “Lord Hardwin and Lady Johamma are chasing their boys up and down the stairs to the keep. I should probably go help them. The imps actually follow me about like lost lambs.”

  “I’m sure they look upon you as an older sibling,” Merryn said. “I know you set a good example for them.”

  At that moment, Geoffrey noticed that Hardie entered the great hall, his four-year-old tucked under one arm as he chased after his six-year-old. Ancel grabbed the loose child and took the younger one off the earl’s hands.

  “Come,” he told the boys. “Let’s go look for my brothers.”

  “They’re upstairs in their bedchamber,” Geoffrey called after him.

  Hardie puffed out his cheeks as he let a long breath escape. “Those boys will be the death of me.”

  “And just think,” Geoffrey told him. “You’ll be taking on seven-year-old Hal after this holiday. You will certainly have your hands full with that one, Hardie.”

  “Hal leaving Kinwick is going to break his little brother’s heart,” Merryn added. “Mayhap you’d like to add another one to foster in your household?” she teased. “Edward is only five but already tall for his age.”

  Hardie laughed. “I doubt you’d let him come to me that early, Merryn. ’Twould only leave you with your two girls.”

  Geoffrey put an arm about his wife’s waist. “Ah, we can always work on adding to our fold.” He kissed her temple, inhaling her vanilla scent. He wished they could excuse themselves so he could bed her. Making love to this woman would never grow old.

  She caressed his cheek, a twinkle in her eye, as if she knew his very thoughts.

  “Enough of that, you two,” Johamma exclaimed as she joined their circle. “I would swear if a stranger met you, he’d insist you were newly wedded.”

  Merryn placed a hand upon his chest. “I cannot help it, Johamma. Geoffrey is the love of my life.” She beamed. “I do not care who knows.”

  “Greetings!” Hugh called out. He and Milla crossed the great hall, their two children looking about.

  “Alys, take your sister and cousins upstairs to play. We’ll call you when it’s time for the feast and games to begin.”

  Alys put Nan down and let the child toddle toward her older cousins before she led the group from the room.

  Geoffrey watched them leave, thinking how blessed he was to have five healthy children and good friends and family in their midst to celebrate the beginning of the Christmas season. He turned and spoke to Hugh and Milla as Tilda brought a tray of mulled wine for the adults to share. They adjourned to a trestle table and spoke of their children and news that had come their way from court.

  As Geoffrey basked in the warmth of the nearby fire and listened to the conversation, Merryn slipped her hand in his.

  Geoffrey gazed down at his wife—the woman whose image had kept him going during his years of battle in France and while imprisoned at Winterbourne. The one he had always loved
from childhood. The one who would remain beautiful to him, even when her chestnut hair had turned gray and wrinkles from laughter lined her face.

  He bent and said in her ear, “We are most fortunate, my love. We were a love match from the first.”

  “And we will stay a love match until the grave and beyond,” Merryn replied, entwining her fingers through his.

  Geoffrey touched his mouth to hers for a lingering kiss. The taste of her mouth would always mean coming home.

  Coming home to love forever and always.

  The End

  Knights of Honor Series

  Word of Honor

  Marked by Honor

  Code of Honor

  Journey to Honor

  Heart of Honor

  Bold in Honor

  Love and Honor

  Gift of Honor

  Path to Honor

  Return to Honor

  About Alexa Aston

  Award-winning and international bestselling author Alexa Aston’s historical romances use history as a backdrop to place her characters in extraordinary circumstances, where their intense desire for one another grows into the treasured gift of love.

  She is the author of Medieval and Regency romance, including The Knights of Honor, The King’s Cousins, The St Clairs, and The de Wolfes of Esterley Castle.

  A native Texan, Alexa lives with her husband in a Dallas suburb, where she eats her fair share of dark chocolate and plots out stories while she walks every morning. She enjoys reading, Netflix binge-watching, and can’t get enough of Survivor, The Crown, or Game of Thrones.

  Website

  Newsletter Sign-Up

  Facebook

  Twitter

  Email

  BookBub

  Amazon Author Page

  Goodreads Author Page

  The Guardian

  Of Might & Manners

  Highland Heroes

  Book One