Chivalrous (13 page)

“The law is not just,” declared the duke. “Therefore it begs reconsideration.”

Ensconced in his first official council meeting, Allen studied the reactions of the men surrounding the huge round table, reminiscent of King Arthur's legendary one. He longed to understand his place on this council and contribute in a meaningful manner.

The bishop stood. “But it has been the law for nigh on twenty years. Surely this alone proves that it is a just and worthy statute.”

“A law is just because it is the law? That is no sort of logic at all.” Lord Fulton, the historian, launched into a long tirade on the philosophy of law making, but Allen could not bring himself to focus any longer.

The past five days had proven a whirlwind of excitement. Becoming better acquainted with Gwendolyn, moving into his new quarters in the garrison, adjusting to the training regimen of the knights of Duke Justus, and now acclimating himself to
his new duties on the council, which met weekly to review laws, budgets, and judicial decisions.

During the rest of the week, each man was free to commence with his individual duties, be he merchant, nobleman, or priest. Most of them lived in homes throughout the city or in nearby castles. To Allen's knowledge, he was the only council member other than the clergy who did not hold land, as well as the only member new to the area. He still could not quite fathom the honor that had been bestowed upon the lowly Allen of Ellsworth.

His next goal would be to find a permanent home for himself, although he did not yet know how he might accomplish it. His salary as a knight would be generous, but it might take him years to earn enough for a house befitting . . . He could hardly believe he was even considering the thought, but now that he had joined the council he felt that he could. He dreamed of acquiring a house befitting a lady. He could only hope to win the duke's favor yet again and be granted his own holdings.

The Lady Gwendolyn's lovely face floated through his thoughts, as tended to happen these days when he considered future or marriage. She had found her way into his heart during their days together. He could no longer consider her merely a friend.

But his more rational mind maintained huge concerns about his relationship with Gwendolyn. As they spoke at length, he began to wonder if she was a Christian believer at all. He could never tie himself to a woman who did not share his love for God. It seemed Duke Justus's grand system for religious education had somehow bypassed—or rather been intentionally routed from—the Castle Barnes. Gwendolyn had a strong sense of justice, and the version of God she had been offered did not fit with her high ideals.

A shift in the conversation caught Allen's attention. Some
thing about children. “I am so sorry, Your Grace, but could you please repeat that?”

“I am glad to know I was not the only one to nod off during Fulton's lecture.” The duke chuckled.

Lord Fulton huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

“We are discussing some rather new business concerning the children of a village called Seaside,” the duke said. “A pox swept through that area in the early summer and wiped out primarily adults, leaving an unprecedented number of orphans. Nigh on thirty. Their neighbors have been caring for them as best they can, but we need a lasting solution.”

Allen's heart clenched for those children. He had been such a child.

“If we spread them about the region, it would only add a child or two to each church orphanage,” said the nobleman with the plumed hat, whom Allen was beginning to understand had a strong opinion about everything. Today he wore a particularly outrageous outfit of bright blue, green, and purple, which taken along with his hat, gave the impression of a preening peacock. Swap the hat for a jester's cap with tinkling bells, and the outfit would be complete.

“Our orphanages are overtaxed as matters stand.” The bishop's eyes bespoke compassion. “But I suppose we would do our best.”

“Perhaps we can send extra funds from the city coffers,” the duke offered.

“Your Grace, we cannot simply throw money at every problem,” said the black-bearded minister of finance.

The bishop waved a hand to dismiss the idea. “The Lord will provide. I just hate to see so many children growing up that way. It is not the same as a loving home.”

No, it would not be at all the same. How Allen wished he
could bring them into his home, but he was naught but an unwed knight. At that thought, an idea sparked to life in his mind. He sat forward to speak, but Fulton and the bishop had commenced bickering once again.

The duke raised a single hand, and everyone fell silent. “I believe Sir Allen wishes to contribute to the conversation. This is rather an area of expertise for you. Is it not, Sir Allen?”

A grizzled, grey-haired knight pushed out his chair and rose to his feet, his face so mottled and twisted that it looked as though he might have a fit of apoplexy. “I object! This man was brought on to the council without a full vote. Some of us were never consulted at all. I thought he was to be but a statement against Ethelbaum's outlandish behavior. And now you ask his advice?”

Allen's nerves pulled taut. Of course this had been too good to be possible. He should have suspected, but he never thought it might all come crashing down quite so quickly.

The duke likewise stood and stared down the man, but he remained calm. “I see. I was not aware that you objected so strongly, Sir Gaillard. But let us put it to a vote, right here and right now.” The duke swept the table with a cool, imperious gaze. “All those in favor of adding Sir Allen of Ellsworth as a member of our council—a full and active member of our council—please raise your right hand.”

Immediately five hands, the hands of those men Allen had noted to be close to the duke, including Fulton and the bishop, lifted into the air.

But that would not be nearly enough.

Allen's stomach plummeted.

Many of the men studied Allen, seeming to take his measure.

He gulped down a huge lump from his throat and wiped drops of newly formed sweat from his brow. Then one by one, more hands lifted, until only three dissenters remained.

Still, Allen did not know the rules of the vote in this place.

“That is more than the two-thirds majority needed,” said the duke. “Sir Gaillard, have you further objection?”

“I . . . but . . .” the man stuttered. Clearly he had objections aplenty, but he had lost this match. “I have had it with the lot of you and your progressive nonsense. You have taken matters too far this time!”

“Then you are free to take your leave.” The duke waved to the door.

After another stuttering fit, the man stormed out.

The two other dissenters kept their peace, each nodding to the duke. Allen took a deep breath, as the knots in his shoulders and twist in his gut unwound.

“As you were saying, Sir Allen.”

What had he been saying? Something important surely.
Father God, please give me
your words.
As they came back to him, he managed to push them past the lump that yet blocked his throat. “When the bishop mentioned loving homes, it gave me an idea. Lord Linden and his wife had no children, and so they found great delight in helping the orphans of our former village. In fact, as some of you are aware, they claimed me as their own ward.”

“That is all well and good once you have met a child and grown to care about him,” the bishop said, “but we cannot expect our noblemen to take in a passel of peasants out of the sheer goodness of their hearts.”

“Many childless couples would do anything to have a family. I realize that adopting an orphan as one's own has not been accepted in England, but the Scriptures speak favorably of it.” A little shiver shot through Allen.

He felt he spoke not only his own words, but words inspired from above. “According to the book of Romans, God himself has adopted us as His heirs. Can His followers not do the same?”

Every man in the room stared directly at him, and not a one seemed inclined to interrupt.

So Allen continued. “We could separate the children into small family groups and find couples to adopt them. Perhaps nobles, or if that presents too many impediments, then well-to-do freemen with much love to give.”

The duke considered the proposition for a moment. “That is precisely the sort of forward thinking I was hoping to hear from you, Sir Allen.”

“It is interesting,” said the bishop. “Although, as he pointed out, adoption has not been practiced in England for . . . well, perhaps ever.”

“We would not wish to stir up trouble with the new king,” the minister of finance said.

“There is precedent against adoption, due mainly to inheritance issues, but I do not know if there is any written statute prohibiting it.” The old historian rubbed his chin as he considered the matter. “I must check the laws. The newly reissued Great Charter has changed matters.”

“For now we shall take it under advisement.” The duke leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “If there are no specific religious or legal impediments, I am in favor of carrying out this plan according to Sir Allen's recommendations.”

“Hear, hear!” the bishop hollered, and several others followed suit.

“But I hope I can assume there will be a proper vote this time,” grumbled one of the dissenters.

“Of course there shall be, and I do apologize for rushing into matters with Sir Allen. Hopefully now we can continue in full agreement on the issue. I believe that concludes our business for the day.” The duke stood to his feet and stretched. “I for one am ready for my supper.”

Allen stood as well, and to his surprise, several of the council members approached to thump him on the back and offer congratulations for his fine idea. He had not expected to perform so well on his very first day, especially not after that fiasco with Sir Gaillard.

It seemed once again that God smiled upon him. And did he not deserve God's favor? He had studied the Scriptures and lived a holy life. He had fought admirably against the finest knights in the land. Merry might not have taken note of his skills, but they were finally being acknowledged properly.

As the men filtered out, the duke still stood by his cushioned chair. “Sir Allen, will you sit by me at supper? I should like to discuss this issue with you further, and get to know you better, of course.”

And why not? Allen—just as he had again and again during his time in the forest—had saved the day. “Of course, Your Grace. It would be a pleasure.”

The duke looped his arm around Allen's shoulder. “For starters, tell me what it was like living in the forest. However did you manage to hide for two full years?”

As they walked through the shadowy corridor, Allen switched to storyteller, a role that well suited him. He was beginning to feel a part of this land already. They wanted him here, and more than that, they needed him. He would do his best to bring his wisdom and experience to North Britannia—perhaps be the voice of God to these people who, though indeed admirable, were not quite as righteous nor as holy as he might have imagined.

His chest puffed as he spoke, but surely it could not be pride. Just intense satisfaction and great joy. He could hardly wait to see where God might lead him next. Perhaps even into the arms of the lovely Lady Gwendolyn.

“Gwendolyn!” Father's angry bellow preceded crashing footsteps up the stairs.

Suffocating fear caught in Gwen's chest. She watched as Rosalind froze midstroke with the brush poised over Gwen's blond hair.

“Oh dear! Perhaps you should leave,” Gwen offered. How she wished she could escape Father's temper. He had a special way of making her feel trapped, like a deer staring down an arrow in a deadly bow. But they had been getting along so well of late. Perhaps she could pacify him.

The pounding footsteps grew closer and louder. On second thought, she did not truly wish to be left alone with him.

“I . . . perhaps. . . .” Rosalind's gaze darted from Gwen to the door and back again.

Father thrust the door open with a bang. “Out!” he shouted at Rosalind, pointing to the hallway.

The normally confident Rosalind scurried away like Angel had at a similar command not long before.

Gathering every ounce of her courage, Gwen forced a smile and a light giggle. “Father, do be kind to her. Rosalind so wishes to please you. She has not yet grown accustomed to your surly ways and does not understand that beneath it all you are a wonderful man who loves his family and only wants the best for them.”

Her father's face lightened in shade from bright red to a pinkish flush, and that telltale vein she dreaded shrunk to half the size. “I have no complaint with your maid.
She
did a commendable job in Edendale. I am glad that
someone
wishes to please me.”

Gwen walked to him with her hands outstretched, as Mother would do in such an instance. “Goodness, whatever has gotten you into such a dither?” She took her father's hands and led him to sit on the bed. “Let us talk about this. Surely we can find a solution. If I have offended you in some way, I deeply apologize.”

There. That did not hurt so much. Perhaps she could handle this feminine manipulation act. And in truth, she never did anything out of spite toward her father, although she often managed to displease him in the general being of herself.

“Perhaps I misunderstood,” Father said. “To see you now, so gracious and so kind . . . But I thought you realized that it was Gawain I wished you to woo. Sir Allen is entirely unacceptable. And I hear that after I was sent away, you spent extensive time with that peasant upstart.”

Gwen stuffed down her anger. She managed such an excellent beginning to this conversation. She must not muck up matters now.

Swallowing the biting tone she wished to use, she employed a gentle one instead. “Father, I am confused. I know you introduced me to Sir Gawain, but the situation has changed. Sir Allen has been chosen to the council. He showed such chivalry
upon the battlefield, and earned great favor in the eyes of the duke. I thought that by winning his attention, I would bring honor to you. Was I wrong?”

Gwen topped off her ludicrous performance by looking demurely down at their joined hands and batting her lashes.

Father patted her hand. “Oh, my naïve little Gwendolyn. You do not yet understand the ways of the world. This Allen has no property. No connections. It is your duty to bring not only honor to our family, but wealth and power as well.”

“Would not being wed to a member of the council bring power?”

Father gripped her hand too tight, and she winced against the pain.

“Do not speak of wedding that whelp ever again. This Sir Allen is nothing but a passing fancy of the duke's. Sir Gawain is from a strong family with roots and tradition and several fine holdings. Centuries from now the Ethelbaums will remain important in this region. What shall Sir Allen of Ellsworth be?”

Father spit on the floor in a rather unchivalrous display. “Nothing but dust in the ground.”

Her anger flared now. The world seeped to red all about her as her heart pounded hard in her chest, but still she maintained a civil tongue. “I do see your point, but matters could change. Sir Allen could grow in favor and holdings.”

“I doubt it.” Father sneered. “He is a nobody, and he is likely to remain such.”

Gwen could no longer keep the pleading desperation from her voice. “He is not a nobody to me. Do my opinions count for nothing? I have no points of common interest with Sir Gawain. He has yet to speak a civil sentence to me, but with Sir Allen I felt at home and conversed with ease. This is my life, my future we are discussing.”

“Your family is your life. I am your life, and soon your husband shall be! I have chosen Gawain for you, and now 'tis your job to charm him into desiring you.” Father's face turned red again, and the throbbing vein protruded from his temple.

Gwen's own anger built inside her head, like a steaming kettle threatening to explode. Through gritted teeth, she said, “I will not marry Gawain. He is a beast. Anyone but him.”

Father thrust her hands away and stood to his feet. His arms flailed about him as he yelled, “You will marry whom I tell you to marry! I will not stand for your rebellious fits. I was right to pick Gawain. He alone can tame your wild ways. You are a child—a girl child, no less. Weak and stupid. You are not fit to run your life!”

“Weak! Stupid!” Gwen stood as well, too furious to be afraid. “You did not find me weak nor stupid when I faced Sir Allen in the tournament.”

Too late Gwen clapped her hands over her gaping mouth. She did not just say that. Surely she had imagined the words but never spoken them. Except that Father's stunned stillness told her she had.

Dear God in heaven, please wipe the last ten seconds
away.
Nausea overtook her stomach. Perhaps if she threw herself from her window, death would come swiftly. But with her luck, she would land like a cat without a scratch.

She cowered away from her father and hid her face in her hands.

He sank back to the bed. “It all makes sense now. Your stomach ailment. How young Lachapelle appeared for his supposed experience. I felt certain I knew him from somewhere. But . . . but . . . you would not . . . You could not . . .” Confusion gripped his face and turned it deathly pale.

Gwen seized to that small hope. She let out a nervous, garbled giggle and tugged inanely at her curls. “Of course I could not.
I have no idea why I said that. I am just a foolish girl, as you mentioned. Such silly notions overtake me at times. Of course it was not true. Will you please forgive me?”

“No.” Father shook his head slowly. “No. It was you. I am sure it was.” His hands began to quake. The vein looked as though it might burst at any moment. He stood and growled, “Do not ever lie to me again.”

He reached for her and grabbed her shoulders.

She squealed.

“I cannot believe you would commit such outrages.” He shook her violently, but she was too numb with fear to feel the pain. “Dressing like a man! Committing perjury to fight in a tournament! Does your rebellion know no bounds? I . . . I do not even know what to say.”

Father pushed her away. She stumbled back several feet before crouching low to the floor. Her fighting instincts welled up within her. If he attacked again, she would not idly play the victim.

His eyes turned hard and cold. “You disgust me. I cannot imagine the shame, the humiliation you nearly brought upon this family. You are not to leave this chamber for a week. Rosalind may visit once a day to bring you water and a single crust of bread. I shall send the priest daily as well. You had best pray, and pray hard. If I cannot find a suitable husband for you, I might just throttle you yet.”

Dear God in heaven, what had she done?

Father walked out the door and turned the key in the lock. She sank to the floor and cried as she had not cried since she was a child, hoping against hope that somehow Allen and his God might save her from this desolation.

Warner ran his finger along the blade of his jeweled dagger and could not hold back a chuckle. The time had finally come. For nearly two decades he had fantasized about this moment. The dukedom would be his, as it always should have been.

His father should have been heir to his grandfather, Gregory DeMontfort, for the old duke did not trust his eldest son, Christian, to rule the region with the iron fist he expected. Duke Gregory had written his wishes into an official edict, but his councilors had deemed him senile in his old age. With the support of the dowager duchess and the people, the title had been given to Warner's uncle, Christian DeMontfort, after all.

Christian, with his ridiculous precepts of law and justice for all. Of equality and joint leadership. Such rubbish! Warner's father had rebelled, had tried to seize what should have been his, but he failed and was banished as a mere knight to his wife's dower lands outside of North Britannia for good.

And so Warner had been born barely a nobleman at all, rather than a future duke, as he rightfully should have been. Instead, Christian DeMontfort grew in favor and in madness, passing his ludicrous government on to his son, Justus, when he died. Warner's idiot cousin had expanded on his father's absurd ideals for the past fifteen years.

Meanwhile, Warner remained a poor and vanquished knight. But enough was enough! Many noblemen on the outskirts of the region now sided with him against Duke Justus the Imbecile and longed to return to the old ways. With the new king and regent headed their direction, the time for change was nigh. They must supplant the supplanter now!

The fact that the duke had not yet produced an heir would secure the title for Warner. And while William Marshall might not overthrow the duke outright to put Warner in his place, surely he would support Warner if he held the title when the
king's contingent arrived. Perhaps Warner might take the striking duchess as his wife just for the added pleasure of stealing yet another prize from his hated cousin.

He smiled with satisfaction and tucked the dagger into his boot. Entering the castle kitchen, he took the tray that had been arranged for him to deliver to the duke as the idiot took his private afternoon rest. Dressed in livery of ivory, crimson, and black, Warner blended with the other servants of the castle. And because he had spent his life banished from this dukedom, he needed not even hide his face.

With full confidence he strode from the kitchen, across the courtyard, and past several of the duke's strong knights. One nodded him through the portal.

He glided across the great hall smooth as could be.

As he rounded the corner a nobleman came flying at him from nowhere and nearly tumbled his tray, but Warner performed an evasive maneuver worthy of a swordsman and rescued the wine and bread with nary a slosh.

“I'm so sorry.” The preening fellow with his foppish plumed hat and peacock attire straightened the stack of parchments he had nearly dropped. “Please excuse me. My mind was elsewhere.”

“No trouble, all is well,” Warner said with an easy smile.

This was almost too simple.

Almost.

But he would take his victory any way it came.

Gwendolyn's belly clenched from emptiness. She had never before experienced these awful sensations. Father had always just whipped her with a leather strap and been done with it. Such ostracism and hunger were worse punishments by far.
The red welts she'd endured as a child had been easier to ignore than the ravenous bird claws scratching mercilessly at the pit of her abdomen now.

During her five days of imprisonment, she had been left with little to do other than pray and read the book of sermons Father had thankfully failed to confiscate. Sitting next to the window for what slivers of sunshine she could gather into herself through the small opening was the only thing that kept her from complete despair.

A part of her was tempted to climb down the side of the castle and over the wall to her favorite tree. But she dared not risk increasing her father's wrath. Instead she created a world in her mind where she might escape to battles and glory. A bright, colorful world where she would protect the weak and the innocent. A world full of stories she had escaped to all of her life.