Once Upon a Knight

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  She shook her head at once. "Only my heart," she admitted, looking grief-stricken. "He... he..." Her eyes closed, and Blaec thought he'd spare her the grief of recounting the tale just now. Some other time he would hear it... when she was ready to speak it.

  Providing she didn't leave him. She was by no means obligated to stay. Stephen would surely welcome her as his ward—would leap at the opportunity, in fact, to offer both Dominique and Amdel to some fortunate man.

  And any man would gladly accept them.

  Over his dead body.

  He gritted his teeth. "I already know, Dominique," he said softly. "Alyss told me everything."

  She nodded, and seemed to be battling her emotions. "Blaec," she began.

  "You need not say it," he reassured her.

  Her eyes gleamed with tears. "I love you."

  He stiffened. "What did you say?"

  "I... I said that I love you." She spoke the words like a child standing in the shadows, afraid of the dark.

  Joy rolled through him like thunder. He swallowed convulsively. "You love me?" he asked, choking on the question.

  Dominique nodded uncertainly, blinking back the tears from her eyes.

  His voice was gruff with emotion. "Come here, Dominique."

  She did as he bade her, hesitating only an instant before coming around the table to his side. Without a word, Blaec removed the candlestick from her grasp and set it down upon the table, sliding it down out of their way. He then lifted her up, and sat her, too, upon the table before him. She gasped in surprise, but remained, nevertheless, with nary a protest, though she appeared never more bewildered.

  He gazed into her beautiful blue eyes, and bent to grasp her ankles dangling before him. Cradling them, he brushed at her flesh gently with his thumb, and then moved up to caress her calves beneath her gown, raising it slightly in the process. "Do you know how badly I wanted to do this the first time that I saw them exposed?" he asked her, caressing her legs. "Do you remember, Dominique... when you caught your gown dismounting?"

  Dominique felt as though her heart would stop at his touch. His attentions never ceased to steal her breath away. She nodded mutely, her heart tripping as he moved his fingers slightly higher.

  "Now repeat to me what you said mere moments ago," he demanded silkily, "lest I misunderstood you..."

  Dominique caught her breath sharply. He was scandalous and domineering... and oh, so strong... yet he possessed such a gentle touch. "God's truth, but you are an arrogant brute," she told him.

  "Am I?" he asked, unrepentant. He lifted her gown to her thigh. "And..."

  "And I love you, even so," she relented at last, frowning down at him as she endeavored to lower her gown. She slapped his hand beneath her dress, laughing. "You are incorrigible," she swore vehemently.

  He grinned, his teeth flashing white, and his eyes sparkling devilishly. "Since when?" he asked, spreading her legs suddenly, and settling himself between them.

  "Blaec!" she gasped, and frowned down at him, scandalized that he would take such liberties here within the hall. "Not here!" she cried softly, and peered over her shoulder.

  "No one is watching, Dominique. I only wish to hold you, at any rate," he reassured her, his tone as innocent as that of a little boy as he wrapped his arms about her waist. "Now tell me, when did you first know?"

  She shivered within his arms, loving the feel of him so near. Wicked though it might be, there was something delicious about the way he was settled between her thighs. "Since the moment I fell in love with you, of course!" she answered flippantly, entwining her fingers within his silky hair.

  He gazed up at her, persisting, "And when was that?"

  Dominique sighed breathlessly, her heart racing with his nearness. "In the forest... I first knew it then," she confessed, her voice husky and slightly flustered. He bit gently at her breast and she gasped. "You are a wicked, insatiable man," she accused him, but she wrapped her legs about him, nevertheless.

  He inhaled sharply, and tugged her down to sit upon his lap. Dominique cried out, laughing. "And you are a tease," he returned huskily, leaning to touch the warmth of his mouth to hers. It seemed as though when their lips met, a chorus rang out in Dominique's head, a symphony of heavenly voices that deafened her and infused her heart with joy.

  "Stay with me, Dominique," he rasped, "be my bride... 'Tis God's truth that I do love you, as well," he murmured against her mouth.

  As she heard his profession of love, Dominique's heart flowered with a gladness unlike any she'd ever known. "I will," she said, wrapping her arms about his neck, embracing him, clinging to the promise of his words. "Only tell me, my lord," she ventured haughtily, "when did you first know?"

  "Know what?" he teased.

  ‘That you loved me, of course!"

  "Hmmmm... did I say I did?" He peered into her eyes, mischief dancing in his own.

  Dominique laughed and smacked the back of his head with her open palm—and none too softly. "Only just now!" she berated him.

  "Aye! Now I recall," he said, reaching back and rubbing his head. "Mind you, demoiselle, that I am a wounded man!" he added plaintively, but he chuckled richly.

  Laughter bubbled up from the depths of her.

  "When did I first know that I loved you?" He repeated the question to himself, sighing. "'Tis quite simple." He grinned, forgetting his head and holding her close once more. He tightened his arms about her, and lowered his head, nestling the scarred side of his cheek against the pulse at her throat, listening to the quickening beat that matched his own. And for an instant he merely held her that way, savoring the simple pleasure of holding the woman he loved within his arms. He sighed then, and relented at last, "There, too, in the forest... once upon a kiss..."

  Dominique pouted. "Are you certain it was not sooner?" she asked, her brows knitting. "Graeham said 'twas when you first spied me."

  He chuckled softly. "Ah... well, did he now? That, I fear, was but a healthy dose of lust."

  She gasped indignantly, lowering her lip. "And how is it you know the difference now, my lord?" she asked petulantly.

  "Simple," he revealed, his voice husky. "Because I would be as content to hold you just so, Dominique... for the rest of my given days." And then he proceeded to prove his point, though he had designs in haunting his own keep this night. He held her fast, till even the torchlight exhausted and guttered, flickering out.

  And still he held her in the soft light of the candle that burned at their side; two figures entwined, sharing the same heartbeat.

  Farther up the stairwell, in the darkness, two indistinguishable figures watched unobserved. And then even the two wearied, and smiling, turned and mounted the tower steps.

  "You did well, m'lord," whispered the one.

  "Aye," agreed the other. "And now I deserve my reward..."

  There was a smile in the soft feminine voice as she replied, "Again, m'lord? You will kill yourself yet."

  "And die a happy man," he returned.

  Quiet laughter drifted down after them, even as their paces quickened upward, leaving the two below to follow their own amorous pursuits.

  THE END

  Next in the Daughters of Avalon series…

  A Winter’s Rose

  Don’t miss the next installment in the exciting new Daughters of Avalon series by Tanya Anne Crosby. A Winter’s Rose is now available for preorder.

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  Prologue

  A Winter’s Rose

  “Destiny is what I make it.”

  —Morwen Pendragon

  * * *

  Returning from assignment in the wee hours of the morn, Wilhelm of Warkworth reined in his mount, motioning for his companions to do the same.

  The southern woods were dense with mist, and, at first glance it would appear a heavy fog had crept up from the shore, thick as usual on a balmy morning, but the taste on his lips was not salt, but ash, and the odor that flared his nostrils recalled him to the stench of gre
asy pork blistering on a spit.

  A sense of premonition shook him as he and his men leapt down from their mounts and ventured silently forward, emerging from the woodlands to a landscape painted black.

  Summer was gone; so was every trace of green that heralded that season. But the eerie silence and coal-black fields were not natural. Neither was the absence of leaf-litter, broom and mulch. In the distance, smoke curled upward from twisted piles of embers, filling the air with a stench that permeated everything it touched.

  Gone.

  Everything was gone.

  The devastation was staggering. Every alder, ash and elm within range of the castle had burnt to nubs, some still nurturing flames. The castle on the motte had been a temporary measure, constructed mostly of pinewood and spruce, making use of the area’s most prominent woods. Sparing only the outbuildings surrounding it, the edifice was consumed.

  Only six months ago, they’d begun construction on a new stone wall to replace the wood palisade; now that was all that remained. And, if there was life to be found within a hundred yards of the motte, it wasn’t immediately evident. It was only after the trio ascended the hillock and Wilhelm picked his way through simmering ruins that he spied movement inside the bailey. Survivors lifted ash-covered faces as he approached, pausing from their searches to reveal eyes that were red-rimmed from tears and smoke. But it was the cook he happened upon first. Bearing a carcass atop his bent shoulders, he came marching out of the ruins.

  “What happened here?”

  “They came like thieves in the night,” said the old man.

  “Who?”

  “The Count of Mortain with his Welsh witch.”

  Morwen Pendragon.

  Terror shook Wilhelm to his bones. “My fa—Lord de Vere? Where is he?”

  The elder man lifted a bony shoulder, peering back into the destruction in a gesture that sank Wilhelm’s soul. He turned again, and the old man’s dirty lips quivered as he hoisted down his burden, laying the ravaged young woman down amidst a growing pile of dead. He straightened the woman’s twisted body, then smoothed her half-charred dress. “I found her in the motte,” he said.

  His heart wrenching painfully, Wilhelm looked closer. Oh, nay, nay, nay…

  Lady Ayleth.

  He recognized her only by the silver cross she wore—a cross he, himself, had given her as a consolation when Giles de Vere left for the seminary—not that Wilhelm would ever dare covet the lady for himself. He simply hadn’t liked to see her pining so long over Giles. He’d hoped the cross would give her comfort. Now, the horror of her condition brought a lump of bile to the back of his throat. Her once lovely face was covered with ash, half peeling away. At the grisly sight, some unnamed emotion overtook him, and he felt like ripping the cross from her neck. But he did not. Hardening his heart and ordering his companions to help, he abandoned his horse where it stood and marched into the ruins himself, reassured that no one would dare relieve Lady Ayleth of her valuables. At six-feet-five and weighing more than sixteen stone, Wilhelm Fitz Richard, bastard son of Richard de Vere, and Hammer of Warkworth, was no man to be trifled with—particularly not today, when everything he’d held so dear had been wrenched from his life.

  The scent of death rose with the morning sun, the odor of decay growing thick with the humidity, until the stench was caked into every fiber of his being. Alas, as the day wore on, he continued to drag out bodies, putting them aside to be given a proper burial. Skin charred and sliding off bones, it gave him a heave to the belly every time he hauled out another, but he was duty bound to persevere—at least until he found his lord sire and brother. And then, though sadness might have easily consumed his resolve, he felt the burden of responsibility. At forty, he had been the youngest of his father’s sons, save for Giles, and in one fell swoop, he’d become the eldest, with two half-sisters gone, and an older brother as well.

  Roger de Vere had been the pride of his father’s heart. Now, the firstborn son of Warkworth lay desecrated beside their lord father, and it fell to Wilhelm to look after Giles—St. Giles, they’d called him, not because he was a saint, but because, as a boy, Giles de Vere was more in love with his books than he was with his steel. Unlike Roger, Giles had never aspired to lead Warkworth’s armies, nor did he concern himself with carrying on his sire’s name. But he was the only one who could. Neither Wilhelm nor his progeny could inherit these lands, nor did he bear the lord’s name. His mother had been a lowly servant—well-loved after the death of de Vere’s first wife. His second wife—bless her soul—lived but long enough to give birth to Giles. And the third… here she lay.

  Wilhelm dropped his mistress’s fragile arms, wondering how her Scots-loving sire would fare with news of her death. Their youngest daughter—younger than de Vere’s youngest child—was good and dead. Arms akimbo, he glared down at the lady’s body, scarcely recognizable in its wasted state, but suddenly, he spied the gleam of silver clinging to her charred finger and he bent to retrieve the sigil—a lion sejant holding in his dexter-paw an axe, and in the sinister, a tilting-spear. It was a perfect match to his father’s, a smaller, more delicate version of the lord’s ring. Both now belonged to Giles—the weedy brother he hadn’t seen in years and who’d broken Lady Ayleth’s heart.

  Examining the ring—a sigil that would never belong to Lady Ayleth—he stood considering the brother who’d never loved her and felt a prickle of envy… and… a needling sensation at the back of his neck, almost as though someone could be watching… and then laughter. Hideous laughter. Distant and spine-chilling, the sound clearly mocked him.

  You will never inherit, because you are unworthy… from dust you were born, to dust you will return… forgotten.

  Closing his fist about the silver and gold bejeweled sigil, Wilhelm’s dark eyes studied the landscape—the still smoking fields, the distant glitter of the ocean…

  There was nothing out there… nothing… and yet, as the ring cut into the tender flesh of his soot-stained palm, he still heard it… the tittering of fate for a man who’d dared to love where he should not…

  Unworthy, the voice said. Forgotten.

  “What is it?” asked Edmond, who’d ridden back with him from Reading and then worked tirelessly beside him all night long.

  “’Tis naught,” Wilhelm said, shaking it off, attributing the gloom to his grief. And still, he felt a hovering darkness that unsettled him to his bones. “I would have you ride for a priest,” he said. “St. Giles must be told, but I cannot scribe the letter myself.”

  “Bamburgh?”

  “Might as well.”

  “Will he come?”

  The glow of the raging fire must have lit the night sky for leagues, and yet, no more than six leagues away, the lord of Bamburgh had never bothered to dispatch men to their aid—not even for the sake of his daughter.

  “He’ll come,” said Wilhelm. “If only to shrive his daughter. ’Tis Lady Margaret who lies at my feet.”

  Both men peered down at the fire-wasted body, and when Edmond lifted his gaze, Wilhelm nodded, opening his fist to reveal her sigil ring. “All accounted for now,” he said. “Lucy, Alice, Roger, my Lord de Vere, and…” He looked down at the barely recognizable corpse, giving it a nod. “…Lady Margaret. No one has survived.”

  For all the hope his father bore, Warkworth was now without a lord. Even if the Church agreed to dispense Giles, there was no guarantee King Stephen would give him the seat, not if his father had been declared an enemy to the crown.

  Edmond scratched his head, averting his gaze, looking as though he might weep and perhaps, he would, because his thoughts had clearly ventured in the same vein Wilhelm’s had: They were lost without a lord. Edmond returned his watery gaze to Wilhelm, and said, “Well… we still have Giles, right?”

  There was little wonder it was phrased as a question. Despite that this was now Giles de Vere’s birthright, he might not agree to leave his Church, not for a pile of rubble and bones.

  “Go on… fetch th
e priest,” Wilhelm said, with no small measure of disgust. “Then, while you’re at it, get on your knees and pray to God Giles has what it takes to see our lord avenged.”

  Only after Edmond was gone did he mutter for his ears alone, “If he does not, I will.” And he glared at the motto on the lady’s ring. It read: virtute duce comite fortuna—led by virtue, with great fortune.

  It was their family dictum.

  But not anymore.

  Chapter One

  London, January 5, 1149

  Flanked by two of his men, William d'Aubigny, the earl of Arundel marched into the King’s Stables. Not only was he Stephen’s loyal man, he had doubtless had some hand in the burning of Warkworth, and realizing as much, Giles de Vere stopped short of the stable yard, eyeing his elder half-brother with no small measure of concern. He slid off his mount, intending to avoid a confrontation at all costs. So much as he loved his sable, a row with Arundel would prove infinitely more troublesome. His brother would tear the king’s pet apart and their dispensation would be denied long before their bargain could be ratified.

  Thankfully, Wilhelm didn’t notice the man. “We can’t leave the horses here,” his brother complained. “We’re not so poor we can’t spend the coin to stable them properly.”

  “They’ll be fine,” Giles reassured, although he wasn’t entirely certain that would be the case. “We’ll be in and out before the sun sets.” Anyway, he reasoned, the stable hands were well accustomed to handling the surplus. Already, a stableboy had spotted them and was on his way.

  By the saints, his brother was as loyal as they came, but already he had a bee up his bum. If Wilhelm were to have his way, they would walk into the king’s hall, wielding torches, and set the entire palace to flame—an eye for an eye. But patience and cunning were far better options. Such things were better finessed.