The Ever Knight

Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2011 Georgia Fox

ISBN:
978-1-926950-61-7

Cover Artist: LF Designs

Editor: Marie Buttineau

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Alex

THE EVER KNIGHT

Georgia Fox

Copyright © 2011

Chapter One

All Hallow’s Eve, England 1078

“Which one, Jisella? Your turn.”

The only dark-haired girl in the small group around the window, she looked out and pointed. “That one,” she said decisively. “The one with the scar on his thigh and the close shaven head. I’d fuck him.”

No one flinched. Jisella said “fuck” a vast deal. She found it particularly thrilling for that to-the-point brevity and slightly brutal quality.

“Filthy Norman devils,” her closest friend Deorwynn growled, fighting for space at the window. “The rotten enemy. Pigs!” She spat through the air. “We ought to poison their supper.”

“War is over,” Jisella replied. “Didn’t you hear? They won. The fuckers.”

It was, in fact, twelve years since the battle of Hastings, when William of Normandy vanquished King Harold of Britain. The women around that window were only children when they were conquered, but Saxon resentment ran deep and they grew up listening to their men-folk deride anything Norman. Today, however, what they gazed upon was not merely the enemy, but some rather splendid specimens of manhood. A sight they’d been without for a large part of their lives.

“Whatever else they are,” said another wistfully, speaking her thoughts aloud, “they’re men. Strong, healthy, young men.”

Thanks to frequent war and disease there was a shortage of young males in general, but for these women, shut up in a convent by their families until they could be married off, it was literally a famine. Spying on these vital male creatures—friend or enemy—was an opportunity they couldn’t pass up.

Below in the courtyard the rowdy group of Norman soldiers washed off in the horse troughs, unaware of their audience. Despite the brisk October weather some of the men were completely naked, much to the horrified delight of the ladies spying on them from high above.

Jisella had cast her eyes, and even further-reaching senses, over each man solemnly, making her selection with much greater thought than it might appear to the others. The warrior she’d picked out was scrubbing the bristles of his head with a brush commonly used for grooming a horse. He’d caught her notice in the same way that a stray, boldly playful, rough-and-tumble pup would claim her attention amid a litter of superior pedigree. The bitter chill, she noted, did not affect his equipage as it did some of the others. There was too much of it to shrivel away and hide.

One of her companions exclaimed, “You wouldn’t know what to do with all that, Jisella.”

The others chuckled at this, Deorwynn remarking that her friend had eyes bigger than her belly. Jisella’s excessive appetite for puddings, tarts and other sweet things was well known.

“Laugh all you please, ladies,” she replied, chin high. “I know what I want in a man.”

“Aye. The flattest stomach, broadest shoulders and biggest cock,” said Deorwynn, on tip toe as she, the shortest there, struggled to look down. She was so eager to view the naked “filthy Norman pigs”, she almost took a few eyeballs out with her elbow.

“It’s not how big it is, it’s what they do with it.” Jisella pushed the shutters open another half inch—a chancy operation, for the rusted hinge could squeal and expose their spying. “And what
we
do with it,” she added.

The others looked at her, but she clamped her lips shut. Her education in these matters was a hastily patched quilt, sewn together with a great deal of imagination and supposition. But they weren’t to know how much of it she made up.

A biting breeze blew in through the window, nibbling at her warm cheeks. “I heard Sister Annunica say they’re only here for tonight.”

“What’s the matter?” Deorwynn teased. “Afraid?”

Someone smothered a giggle.

Jisella took a stout breath and straightened her spine. “Not in the least. I accept your challenge, Deorwynn of Wexford.” The two young women spat on their hands and shook firmly. Spitting was one of Deorwynn’s favorite habits, just as saying “fuck” was Jisella’s.

“But your husband is already coming,” a bouncing red-head reminded her. “You’re not allowed to look at other men, let alone go near one.”

She shrugged, having no intention of trotting off meekly to marry the man her father had bargained for. Since the age of thirteen she’d been shut away here, kept out of trouble and hidden away from the world. Her father, a Saxon thane with lands now forfeit to the Norman King, had no qualm about using her in his wheedling schemes to win favor with the new ruling dynasty. Unlike many of his peers he knew when he was conquered. He was a man of ruthless pragmatism, a survivor. Now, six years and several stalled attempts later, he’d finally found his only daughter a husband from among the Norman hierarchy. Jisella would be sent for soon, to become the wife of a stranger. Not that the strangeness mattered. Since her mother died when Jisella was a child, there had never been much affection in her life. The girls here in this convent were the closest thing she had to family.

In her father’s eyes she was nothing more than a possession, often a burden. Embarrassed by her healing gift, he shrank away from her, bearing his hurt rather than let Jisella cure him with her “witches spells”. It was a talent she inherited from her mother—a woman he’d killed with his own sword because she chose love over him—and as a consequence, he could barely bring himself to look at Jisella. He didn’t even remember how old she was. Recently he sent her a gift, a wedding gown that might have fit her when she was thirteen. Might have. He’d left her with the nuns in this place, entrusting them to keep safe her precious virginity and tutor her in the ways of being a good, pious wife. Now he could blame them if it all turned out horribly wrong, couldn’t he?

She looked out through the shutters again, studying the warrior below.

He stood in the water, lifting both arms to stretch leisurely, treating his audience to an unobstructed view of that breathtaking musculature and the long, thick object between his thighs.

One of the women crossed herself. Another clasped her hands over her mouth. But they all continued watching. No one blinked.

The warrior chatted to one of his comrades in that quick Norman tongue and from his gestures it was obviously a filthy tale he told. His hearty, deep laughter rocked the stone walls of the convent and trembled under Jisella’s feet. Apparently he didn’t care that this was a place of worship. He didn’t have to care. Only here for one night, unlike Jisella and her companions, he was not a prisoner, exiled to this cold, dreary fortress, waiting interminably like spirits trapped in a spell, with nothing to do but pray, eat and sew. And set the occasional wager. Anything to pass the time.

Today this group of battle-weary soldiers had arrived to take shelter within these strong castle walls. It was a wet, cold All Hallow’s Eve and one man in particular had no idea what lay in wait for him.

Hands pressed to her galloping heart, Jisella closed her eyes tight. Deorwynn’s challenge had lit a fire in her belly.

She could still hear his humming as he washed the sweat off his body in the horse trough. Even from that distance he filled her senses. The smell of him was all male heat, lusty and impatient. As she breathed it in, the scent turned to liquid and lay in her throat, her first taste of him.

He needed her and he didn’t know it yet.

Remy was his name apparently. She’d heard it shouted across the yard a few times since the men arrived that afternoon. He was wounded in the leg. She witnessed him flinch occasionally, but he laughed a lot, not letting anyone see his pain. A man who spent his life on the battlefield would not set his weapons down easily for any reason. Admittance of pain would be a sign of weakness in his eyes. When he stepped from the trough, she saw his struggle to overcome another twinge. He touched his thigh briefly and the muscle tensed. She made herself attuned to it. Attuned to him. Her gaze drifted down over his manhood. It was half-reared up already, unless it was always in that state of fullness. The tip was broad and dark, the shaft long and so wide that her finger and thumb would not meet around it. Like the rest of him it was alert and lively. His was not the first prick she’d seen, but it was the largest. Certainly a good deal more meat upon his proud cockerel than she’d viewed upon those of her father’s serfs, when she once watched them bathing in the stream at home.

Remy. A warhorse of a man, thick-headed, stubborn as a weed, strong as two oxen, fierce as the flames of a dragon’s breath.

But Remy was a walking dead man. The infected wound would strike this proud warrior to his knees in a matter of hours and take his last breath in two days from now. Jisella, a Child of the Full Moon, saw it. The pixies had brought him here on this day, when her powers were at their peak and tonight the moon would be whole. All was in alignment.

He needed her and she needed him.

This soldier was not merely a dare for Jisella; he was the one who would rescue her. The moment she saw him she knew he was her Ever Knight

* * * *

Remy stabbed his knife into the slab of roast beef, just as another man made a reach for it. He was damned hungry and no one better get in his way. The other hand was hastily withdrawn and he greedily shoveled the meat into his mouth, never looking up to see who had challenged him. They’d know better next time.

The nuns here were reluctant with their hospitality, sparing only a few dishes from their cookhouse—mostly burnt, spoiled and tasteless. Probably the scraps that would otherwise have gone to beggars at the gate tonight, or else the pigs in the yard, he thought wryly. But he’d swallow anything when he was this hungry. Exhausted and victorious from routing another stronghold of determined Saxons, his men were thankful to rest a while and fill their bellies with anything warm. Pity there were no whores here. Just his luck, he mused. He was in dire need of a wench and the only ones at hand were untouchable ‘Brides of Christ’ and a bunch of coddled little girls, all virgins.