Read The Christmas Knight Online
Authors: Michele Sinclair
The Christmas Knight (3 page)
“Then why does fear hide in those blue depths of yours, Laon? Do you think if my men become farmers, they won’t respond to a military threat?”
“I do not fear for myself, but my daughters.”
“I will protect them from the evils of the world.”
“The evils of the world they have seen and felt. The evils of men, however…”
Ranulf finally grasped Laon’s concern, but his previous comment gave him pause.
The evils of the world they have seen and felt
…? Ranulf found it hard to believe the old man would allow any harm to even come near his daughters. He wondered just what Laon had meant. “You have spoken very little of them.”
“You have asked even less,” Laon countered simply as he moved to get out of several deckhands’ way. The breeze had shifted slightly and they were adjusting the large mast as best they could to ensure nature’s force was captured. Too many times in the past few days had the wind turned south, forcing them to bring down the sail until a northern gust returned.
Ranulf walked over to a less busy part of the ship and leaned against a stack of crates, temporarily piled high to provide more maneuvering room on the deck. Laon was right. Ranulf had not asked about his daughters. He had inquired about Hunswick, Laon’s keep, the lands, the region, the weather…everything but the three things the wizened knight prized the most. “So tell me about your eldest daughter. I assume you will say she is blond, blue-eyed, and beautiful beyond compare.”
“Ranulf, you are far too cynical.”
“You have said so before. So speak. Tell me of your temptresses and how their beauty can ensnare my men with a mere glimpse.”
“And for that last sarcastic remark, I shall describe them in detail, and maybe someday you, too, will have daughters and understand the fear that lurks in my aged heart.”
And so Ranulf listened as Laon spoke of each one. As it turned out, he had been wrong about their appearance, for if Laon’s description of them held even slight accuracy, not a one was blond and only the eldest possessed the same deep blue eyes of her father.
“Bronwyn is very much like myself, in both looks and temperament.”
“Then she likes to command and manipulate those around her,” Ranulf interjected to prove he was listening.
Laon sent him a slicing glance before answering. “Aye, and if you think me stubborn and relentless, you will rediscover the meaning if you and my eldest daughter ever disagree upon something. And prepare to lose, for even if you are right, she will wear you down until you find yourself acquiescing on the one point you swore never to concede,” Laon cackled, obviously recalling one or two times in which she had bested him. Then his voice changed. “But I thank the Lord for her steadfastness and prudence. With my absence, I suspect all have been looking to her for guidance, and they were right to do so,” he breathed softly. “Though no man would want her, she is strong in spirit and in mind and the only person I would trust to ensure her sisters are safe and well.”
“Which one is Eydthe?”
“My middle child. She is small, but don’t let that deceive you when you meet her. She inherited her Scottish grandmother’s temper as well as her dark red hair. Of all of my daughters, her mind is the sharpest, but so is her tongue. It is my youngest, Lily, that I worry about the most when it comes to your men,” Laon sighed. “She is the spitting image of her mother. Tall and slender with long dark raven hair and gray eyes, she snatches the soul of every man who looks upon her.”
And as if he could read Ranulf’s mind, he added, “And her disposition is just as sweet. She sees only the good things in life and, as a consequence, brings joy wherever she goes.”
Ranulf conscientiously fought to refrain from showing his true reaction—nausea. He had no doubt that Laon believed every word he spoke, but beautiful, kind, understanding, and smart? He had yet to see such a combination and he had encountered many, many women at court. Either Laon’s daughters were not half the beauties he claimed them to be or they were far from the sweet creatures he described. Such women did not exist.
“As far as your eye patch…”
Ranulf blinked and tried to recall just how and when Laon had changed the subject. “I don’t wear one.”
“I noticed and I have also seen how it affects those around you.”
Ranulf felt a coldness enter his veins he hadn’t felt in days. He had been a fool to believe Laon indifferent to his injury, uncaring of appearances. The time had come, as it always did, when curiosity could no longer be ignored and questions would be asked. “Your meaning?”
“A simple exchange, my lord. You wish to ignore a topic and I wish to discuss it. I should have brought it up before, but was hoping you would.”
Ranulf clenched his jaw. “I don’t talk about my eye because there is nothing to discuss. It is gone and I am not going to wear a horrid piece of leather to make those around me comfortable.”
Including your daughters
, he added to himself.
They, like the rest of the world, would have to get used to him or, even better yet, stay away from Hunswick Castle altogether. They had a home and there was no reason the four of them ever had to meet. “Eye patches,” Ranulf huffed. “Damn things are a nuisance. In order to keep them from slipping, they have to be so tight a headache is inevitable. And trust me, they are not the secret to making those around me feel at ease,” Ranulf added, repeating the rationale he had spouted for years to the duke and his men.
“Good reasons, though I doubt one of them is the real motive behind your refusal.” Laon paused long enough for Ranulf to counter. When it became obvious that silence was going to be his only response, Laon went ahead and answered the looming un-asked question. “I think you use people’s reactions as a test…And it is unfair.”
Unfair!
The man had no idea what the word meant. He possessed his limbs and all his senses. He had a beautiful life, friends, and family. Ranulf neither sought nor wanted pity, for life could have issued a much harsher sentence to be endured, but neither did he need the scorn and antipathy that came from people’s unreasonable fear. And if boldly displaying his injury kept people away, the better. “A test that you might have prematurely passed,” Ranulf gritted out.
“Your eye did not matter to me then nor does it now,” Laon declared, ignoring the tension growing in his friend, “then again, I have seen bad injuries, disfiguring ones like yours. Most, especially the coddled women and men of court, have not. I have watched you, my lord, and have concluded that you are uncomfortable with your limitations and therefore desire to make others just as uncomfortable. You drive people away just so you don’t have to watch them squirm, shrink in fear, or just stare outright. You do it to protect yourself.”
“What do you want from me?” Ranulf growled. He steeled his face from emotion, clamping his mouth and gritting his teeth, but it belied the truth. He had been flung back in time, to the day, to the very hour, that changed what he was to those around him.
“I just want you to be honest with yourself, my lord. Until then you won’t be free of your past and neither will those who are around you.”
Ranulf shot Laon a penetrating look. He wasn’t ready to consider the nagging man’s comments or admit the truth to them. “I think, knight, we have conversed enough for one trip. And since you will want to go directly home upon our arrival and I will be staying for the coronation, it may be some time before we will have the opportunity to speak again. Until then, Sir le Breton,” Ranulf finished and, then with a quick nod, pivoted to walk away.
Riggers were swinging above and Ranulf ducked to avoid the massive ropes that were falling to the deck as they were adjusting the sails once again. A warning shout bellowed from behind him, echoed by several loud rebukes to move. Ranulf whipped around to search for the danger and issue a warning of his own for addressing him in such a way when he realized he wasn’t the one being shouted at.
The solid beam used to manipulate the sail had come loose from the cordage holding it in place. Every available seaman had been called and was working feverishly to secure the spar. Even riggers had left their positions, leaving lines unsecured in the wind.
Ranulf was about to continue his march back to his cabin when he spied one of the free lines tossing precariously close to a young deckhand no more than eleven or twelve at the ship’s edge. Ranulf hollered at him, but the aspiring seaman was struggling to push back heavy crates that had fallen and were getting drenched by the crashing waves against the rail. The boat swayed and a rope with a large heavy iron hook flew up in the air and was about to crush the boy as gravity pulled it back down. Ranulf reacted. He dove, sliding across the wet deck, yanking the slender form out of the hook’s deadly path just in time. Their bodies slammed into a stack of crates. The top box wobbled for a moment and then crashed down on the other side.
Ranulf let go a sigh of relief and eased his grip on the boy, who was himself visibly trembling, realizing just how close to death he had come. Ranulf patted his arm as blood began flowing within it again and stood up just as another wave crashed over the side, soaking his clothes. Grabbing the hem of his wool tunic, he twisted the dark red material and wrung out the freezing seawater, knowing the activity was fruitless. He would have to change and quickly before he became chilled.
He was about to return to his cabin when out of habit, he glanced to his left to see what others would have registered in their peripheral vision. The men, who had been steadying the spar, were now gathered around the spot where the top crate had actually fallen.
He had escaped death, but someone else had not been so fortunate.
One of the men looked up and glanced his way. Ranulf, seeing the stricken expression, suddenly knew who had been standing on the other side.
Forcing his limbs to move, Ranulf staggered around the cluster of men to see Laon lying on his back with shards of broken wood around him. The old man was struggling for breath. He was not dead, but would be soon.
Loss was never easy, but the old knight’s would be especially difficult to handle. Ranulf had friends; some he trusted with his life. One was already in England, waiting for his arrival. Ranulf had been looking forward to introducing Laon to Tyr, eager to hear their blunt exchange. But it was not to be. Ranulf knew he would never meet another who would dare to be not just candid, but honest on topics no one ever ventured.
Kneeling, Ranulf raised Laon’s head and clutched his hand. The dying knight squeezed as pain ripped through him. “I’m here, Laon.”
The old man opened his eyes and rasped, “Promise me, Ranulf, promise me you’ll marry her.”
“I’ll take care of them. This I promise. All your daughters will be safe. I swear it on my life.”
Laon squeezed Ranulf’s fingers as he clung to life. “I need you to promise me you will marry her.”
“Marry who?”
“Lily, the youngest,” Laon gasped. “She is so lovely and so young. She will learn to love you and make you a good wife as my Aline was to me.”
Ranulf instinctively let go and tried to release his hand from Laon’s grip. He had no intentions of marrying anyone and a dying request was not going to change his mind. “I made you a promise, Laon. I cannot do more.”
But the fading knight was not appeased. He reached out and seized Ranulf’s wet tunic, giving him the choice to either forcibly remove the dying man’s grip or come closer. “You don’t understand. Marriage is the only way you can protect them all from—” And the rest was drowned out by gruesome coughs that accompanied internal bleeding.
Ranulf struggled to understand why Laon believed only marriage could protect his daughters and said so, but his fading friend refused to release his painful hold on life. “Family. Must be family. Do this one thing for me…and…for yourself. Be my son. Marry her…marry my Lily.”
Agony coursed through Laon’s face and every man around him knew that Ranulf held the manner of the old, admired knight’s passing in his hands. “I’ll marry her, Laon. Your family will be safe, and if that is what needs to be done, then it will be done. I promise.”
Calmed by the vow, Laon closed his eyes and gave a brief nod. A second later, his hand dropped to the deck as he exhaled his final breath.
Never before had guilt or pressure swayed Ranulf’s decisions, and although it might have appeared otherwise to those men who heard the exchange, neither emotion drove his promise. Ranulf doubted few could understand the real reason he had agreed, but in those last few seconds, Laon was not just a man, a vassal, or even a friend. He was a father, and to Laon, Ranulf was a son. Such requests could never be denied and so Ranulf had agreed.
He just hoped that the duke saw reason and would refuse to allow the match. Because Ranulf was
not
going to get married, and he was damn sure not going to be snared for life to a shallow creature the world doted on because of her beauty.
S
UNDAY
, D
ECEMBER
19, 1154
T
HE
C
ORONATION OF
K
ING
H
ENRY
II
Though crowned in October after King Stephen’s death, Henry II wasn’t coronated the king of England until December 19, 1154, in the Westminster Abbey. Appearing at his coronation dressed in a doublet and short Angevin cloak earned him his immortal nickname “Curtmantle.” Eleven years his senior, his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, was absent from the event due to being heavily pregnant with their second son, Henry III, causing her own coronation to be postponed for four years, taking place in December 1158 at Worcester Cathedral. Marrying Eleanor, a power and influential figure, made Henry the largest landowner in France, including King Louis VII, his longtime rival and Eleanor’s first husband.
Bronwyn reached back to close the small cottage door behind her and sighed regretfully as the warm sun beat down on her face. She had put on her heaviest bliaut and now was uncomfortably hot with only herself to blame. Minimizing castle staff had meant she and her sisters had to share an already overworked chambermaid. So to help, they all agreed to assume additional responsibilities, including taking their clothes to the laundress and bringing them back, something about which Bronwyn had been frightfully negligent. Today she was paying the price.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if the warm wind that blew through the wooded hills was what a December breeze should be, chilly or even cool. Never had a fall lasted so long or a winter arrived so late. If the weather continued its rebellious mood, the bonfires during this year’s Twelfthtide would have to be drearily small, maybe even nonexistent; otherwise everyone attending the festivities would be roasted alive.
Bronwyn picked up her pace and joined her two younger sisters just in time for another squabble to begin.
“If your sheer presence has such miraculous healing abilities, Lily, then you should have stayed. For until Tomas is well, his daughters won’t be coming back to Hunswick and I am telling you right now, that abusing poor Charity and having
her
continue with
your
chores needs to stop.” Edythe paused and waited for affirmation, but Bronwyn remained mum. She had stopped playing the role of peacemaker long ago, for it never worked.
Realizing that her older sister was not going to lend any support, Edythe proceeded with her censure. “Besides, everyone knows that Tomas will continue to feel poorly until just after Father Morrell finishes his lengthy Christmas sermon. Very soon afterward there will be a miracle recovery in full—
whether you’re there or not
.”
Lily’s gray eyes flashed. “No wonder Father Morrell doesn’t visit more often. Why should he with you around to lecture everyone? And you need not be so smug, Edythe.
No one
fails to come to Hunswick for Twelfthtide, even if they are ill. You’re just jealous I was able to cheer Tomas’s spirits when you could not.” Lily jutted out her chin in a challenging way, knowing Edythe would rise to the bait.
“I’m glad you cheered someone then because your mournful moods of late have been near intolerable,” Edythe replied as she sauntered haughtily past her sister.
Lily ran to catch up, her dark hair bouncing behind her. “That’s unfair, Edythe!” she cried, not denying the truth of the barb. “Father
would
have taken me to London. And you know it. My one chance to see a king be crowned,” she moaned, “and I’m here. Can you imagine the celebration that followed? It is probably happening right now. The dresses, the food, and the men! Eligible, wealthy lords, and barons and knights everywhere!”
“Good Lord, you love to be dramatic,” Edythe snorted, her bright blue eyes sparkling with condescension. “And you are incredibly naïve if you think Father would have allowed you to go to Westminster. You would have made a nuisance out of yourself with all your flirtations and silly little giggles. It’s repulsive how you act around every two-legged mammal with a beard.”
“But it works,” Lily returned with a large smile she knew would aggravate her sister. “You should try it, Edythe. God gave you everything needed to capture a man’s eye, but then you open your mouth and drive anyone interested in you my way. If you could just learn to keep quiet.”
“Amazing, Lily, for that’s
my
advice to
you
. And as far as driving men away, first there would have to
be
someone to repel. Not one man of marrying age or eligibility has visited since Father left, and secondly, if a man can be so easily intimidated, I wouldn’t want him for a dinner companion, let alone a husband.”
Lily rolled her eyes, their light shadowy color made only more piercing by her fair skin and dark hair. “You don’t intimidate, Edythe. You insult.”
“And you, Lily, think anything that isn’t dripping with flattery and praise is an insult. Father, Bronwyn, and I have protected you far too long from the realities of the world and soon you will have to pay the price.”
Lily blinked her eyes in an effort to look bored. “There you go again. When have you ever protected me from anything?”
Edythe yawned and Bronwyn almost joined her. The argument had evolved into a standard battle between the two strong-willed personalities. The conversation would progress as they all did, with either Bronwyn intervening or them sniping at each other for hours until one accidentally pricked more than just pride.
Edythe opened her mouth and Bronwyn shot her a “you know better than to pull me into one of your petty squabbles” glance. Edythe closed her lips and shrugged, finally deciding that she had had enough of arguing with her little sister.
Bronwyn fought back a sigh of relief and lifted her dark gold hair off her neck to allow the slight breeze coming off the hills to cool her skin. She had washed her hair earlier that morning, and when they had left to make their visits, her semidamp locks had kept her cool and comfortable. Now she longed for a knitted snood to hold the unruly wavy mass up and off her back.
“Why do we fight so much these days, Bronwyn?” Lily asked.
Because you both are scared
, Bronwyn thought. “You and Edythe see and live life in different ways. You perceive things as they could be and Edythe as they are. I, on the other hand,” she sighed, “seem to want to hold on to the past and keep things as they once were.”
Bronwyn knew her voice had grown melancholy at the end. If she continued walking with them, they would grow suspicious of her quiet behavior and pummel her with questions until they discovered what was troubling her. “There’s my favorite tree, and with Father gone and all the preparations for Twelfthtide, I have abandoned it for too long. Please tell Constance I will be back before dinner so she won’t worry.”
Edythe paused to stare at the huge, leafless alder. Its dense branches stretched outward in all directions in a tangled mass. Her face took on a brief look of bewilderment. “I think I’m the only one in this family who isn’t prone to fanciful indulgences,” she murmured and then waved good-bye as she headed back to Hunswick.
Lily leaned forward and gave Bronwyn a quick peck on the cheek. “Enjoy your walk. Edythe and I will see that nothing is amiss until your return.” And before Bronwyn could reply, Lily spun around and dashed out of site, as if she were still a child on an exciting mission.
Bronwyn leaned back against the callused bark and looked east, toward Torrens, the hill she had named as a child after one of her father’s dogs. When she had needed a companion the most, Torrens had been there. For every tear, every painful step, frightening moment, or period of loneliness, that shaggy gray wolfhound had been at her side.
Sitting on top of the hill was her childhood home, Syndlear. Constructed early during the Saxon rule, the large tower keep had been the area’s focal point for years. Situated high on the crest of Torrens, it possessed a great vantage of the valley and the hills beyond, giving the owner forewarning of oncoming enemies. It looked to be much closer than it was, but a skilled rider who knew the terrain could travel from the valley below to the elevated keep in a half day.
To her right, was Bassellmere, one of the most exquisite lakes in Cumbria. The mountains surrounding it reached into the sky and both were reflected off its deep, dark rippling waters. With woodlands blanketing the surrounding foothills, Bronwyn could not imagine a place that could touch Bassellmere’s beauty. Ahead was Hunswick Castle, one of the first to be transformed from wood to stone in northern England. Its odd shape and incomplete curtain walls and towers kept it from being of any note or true protection, but Bronwyn didn’t care. To her, Hunswick was home.
Unfortunately, it belonged to someone else.
Bronwyn took a deep breath and exhaled as the sad feeling that had been creeping upon her took hold. The sweet smell of witch hazel was in the air. The odor-filled flower had been her mother’s favorite. Memories of her loss suddenly flooded Bronwyn and she began to hum the verse her mother had sung by her bedside hour after hour, day after day as they lay together, clinging for life. The simple haunting melody had helped her endure life’s most painful events and Bronwyn knew deep down that soon she and her sisters would be mourning the loss of their father.
He should have been back by now. His last communication had been weeks ago with the joyful news he was returning. But he never arrived and Bronwyn knew deep down that something had happened.
Her sisters refused to acknowledge what was in their hearts, but Bronwyn had learned the hard way to face life with no pretenses. If their father had been injured, a message would have been delivered by now. Only bad news took so long to arrive.
“Still trying to sing that haunting little tune, angel?”
Bronwyn froze. The voice was deep and smooth and dripping with male charm. The last time she had heard it, it had belonged to a child turning into a man. The pitch had been slightly higher and with unexpected and humiliating croaks that caused him to grow angry and lash out at those around. Her heart started beating faster at the unwanted memory. Why now? Why had Luc Craven decided to break his banishment now?
“I told you last time we saw each other to never call me ‘angel’ again.” Because of him, she hated the endearment—even from her own family.
Luc faked a bristle and stepped into her view. “I thought you might have changed your mind. I am not the boy you once knew.”
He was right. Last time she had seen Luc Craven, he had been a skinny weak boy with bright white hair, a sharp pointed nose, and overly long limbs. Someone with whom she had been carefree. They had played together almost daily when they were children. He had always been possessive and willful, trying to dictate everything they did or said. Most of the time she had gone along with his wishes, but oftentimes she had done the opposite just for fun. Then one day the fun had abruptly ended and he had been forced to leave and never come back.
Recent rumors that had crossed the short distance between their households had not done Luc justice. She had heard him called handsome, and Bronwyn could not deny that he was indeed very good-looking. Shoulder-length golden hair, sky blue eyes framed in dark lashes, and a granite jaw that matched the rest of his hard, muscular body were indeed attributes most women would consider appealing. But those women were not from Cumbria…and they did not know Luc. For those who were familiar with him didn’t see a handsome man, but a cruel one, without compassion or remorse. And looking into the bright crystal blue eyes staring at her, Bronwyn knew Luc Craven had not changed even a little bit in the past ten years.
“I have not changed my mind, Luc. About the nickname or about you.”
Instantly, Luc’s face hardened and Bronwyn felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. He took a step closer, and outstretched one arm against the tree as he bent over her. “I am a baron now, angel. A man to be respected and obeyed.”
His mouth came toward her and Bronwyn turned her head away so his lips grazed only her cheek. “It has been a long time since we last spoke,” she hissed, “but do not think that I have changed so greatly. I took no orders from you then, and I will not now. Especially not here. We are on Anscombe land and you have no power here.”
The scowl on Luc’s face transformed into a broad, genuine smile. “Maybe not now, but soon, angel. Soon.”
“Not soon, Luc. Never. My father found the new lord of Bassellmere and Hunswick. He is coming.”
“Maybe he is, but not your father.”
Bronwyn’s deep misty blue eyes searched Luc’s face and saw only cruel sincerity staring back at her. “No,” she whispered.
With his free hand, Luc grabbed a lock of her light brown hair and caressed it with his fingers. “Yes, angel. And that makes you mine.”
Bronwyn’s eyes flashed and she pushed as hard as she could against his chest in an effort to get him to move back. But it was like beating solid, immovable rock. “But King Stephen. My father. Lord Anscombe…”
“All dead.”
“But the king promised…”
“That was ten years ago, angel. A long time to be harboring such ill feelings. After my father died this summer, I journeyed to see King Stephen. He was most willing to forgive the innocent transgressions of a young boy in love.”
Bronwyn felt all the rage, all the betrayal, from those years ago surge in her veins. “You didn’t intend love. You intended rape.”
Unexpected, Luc threw back his head and laughed. Bronwyn tried to duck under his arm, but he caught her elbow just in time and squeezed. “King Stephen didn’t remember it that way and thought it a wise idea to mend the feud between our families. I was given leave to choose any of Sir Laon le Breton’s unwed daughters after the New Year, and
I want you
.”
“You can’t have me,” Bronwyn snarled. “My father…”