by Alexa Aston
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
Marked By Honor
Knights Of Honor
Book Two
Alexa Aston
Chapter 1
Southern England—1363
She couldn’t wait to ride again. She pulled free of her mother’s hand and raced across the meadow. Warm summer sun caressed her back. Blaze galloped through the green grass, carrying her father. She ran in his direction as fast as her legs would carry her.
He spotted her and smiled, turning the horse toward her. She knew what to do next. Standing as still as she could, she held her arms wide. The beating hooves came her way as she held her breath. Her father scooped her up in one swift motion, seating her in front of him. The scent of leather and horse swirled in the air as his arms encircled her. She loved being close to him. He was a bear of a man who became gentle as a lamb whenever near his daughter or wife.
“Go fast,” she demanded.
As always, the horse responded to her father’s wordless commands. Blaze took off full speed. She squealed in delight as the wind whipped her hair about. From up high, she could see the castle in the distance and all their surrounding land.
They flashed past her waving mother. The world became a blur of colors as the horse went faster and faster.
Her father’s laughter came from deep within his belly, filling the air around her. She joined in, delighted to spend this special time together. As he gazed down at her with adoration and love, she knew she was his special girl. Then Blaze stumbled.
Suddenly, she was sailing through the air like a bird. Her father gripped her tightly, but his expression scared her. He managed to twist them around before they hit the ground hard. Fear rippled through her as she hovered above her father, knowing he’d intentionally cushioned her fall. She wanted to cry but couldn’t. It was too hard to suck in a full breath. When she was finally able to breathe, her father’s strong arms fell away, releasing her. She rolled to her side and curled into a ball, trembling—frightened to look at him again.
A loud shriek sounded and her mother ran toward them. Falling to her knees, her mother ripped at her hair. Did her mother blame her for the accident? She pushed herself into a sitting position and glanced over at her father. His head rested in an unnatural position, but their eyes met momentarily and she could see the panic in them. Fear spiked inside her again. Couldn’t he get up? The light in his eyes faded.
She screamed.
*
Beatrice shot up in bed and bunched the bedcovers against her mouth. The thick material muffled the small scream that erupted from deep within her.
She fell back against the pillows. Every time she awakened from a nightmare, her body was drenched with sweat. She tried to relax, but the knot in her stomach ached. She forced herself to breathe slowly. Finally, the last remnants of horror began to fade.
She pushed away the thoughts of her father and the last time they were together. It did no good to think about him. He’d been gone ten and seven years, and her life had changed drastically.
Beatrice tossed aside the covers and swung her legs to the floor. They still shook, so she didn’t trust standing just yet. Instead, she focused on the day ahead. A day which would be like yesterday. And the one that came tomorrow.
Every day blended together, from tending to her mother’s needs to mending, washing, and cooking. If it was a good day, her mother wouldn’t be ill-tempered. She would listen quietly as Beatrice played her a few songs on the lute. Hopefully, her mother would manage to eat something without vomiting it back up and then nap for the remainder of the day. Only then would Beatrice get most of the household work done.
Once evening came, she looked forward to the time spent with her grandfather, who would share stories of the past about his own life and England’s glory. Often, they played several games of tables or read together from the Bible before their nightly prayers.
Beatrice wondered how different life might have been if her father had lived. Or if her mother had been able to have more children—especially an heir. Instead, she grew up in her grandfather’s rented manor house with no luxuries, isolated from children her own age. As the years passed, her mother lost the will to live and gradually became bedridden. Beatrice became responsible for keeping their small household running and she’d learned to make what little they had last. Life had gone on this way for many years, but now her grandfather’s health was in question.
She pushed that thought aside, not wanting to deal with it, and dressed for the day in her smock and kirtle. Beatrice unbound the straight, dark brown hair which fell to her waist and combed through it before braiding it again in a single plait. Now ready for the day, she stirred the embers of the kitchen fire and fed more wood into it before going outside to gather eggs from their two hens. After completing those tasks, she joined her grandfather for their morning devotional. The old man already knelt in prayer, his head bowed and gnarled hands wrapped around one another. She joined in the Latin that he’d taught her, the words flowing easily after so many years of practice. As she spoke, she stole a glance at him.
Over the years, his thick thatch of hair had turned white, but these days Beatrice worried about his trembling hands. Twice this week he’d lost his balance and stumbled into the furniture. Though she’d voiced her concerns, he shrugged them off, saying that she worried too much.
Their prayers came to a close. Beatrice rose and grasped his arm in order to help him stand. She released her hold on him once he seemed steady on his feet. He rewarded her with a sweet, knowing smile. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of her mother in that smile and it tugged at her heart.
“Shall we break our fast, Granddaughter?” He offered her his arm.
She slipped her hand through th
e crook and led them to the kitchen, glad that he allowed her to help support him. As he took a seat at the small wooden table, she pulled out the bread she had baked yesterday afternoon and retrieved some cool ale for them to drink.
“Have we any raspberry jam?” he asked hopefully.
“For you and your sweet tooth? Always.” Bringing the crock to the table, she watched him liberally smear his bread with the fruit preserve.
They ate in companionable silence, content in one another’s company. Beatrice noticed that the tremors seemed worse this morning as he brought the pewter cup to his mouth.
He caught her eye. “We need to talk, child.”
His serious tone made her wince. She worried the discussion would involve their lack of coin.
“We talk all the time, Grandfather.”
He squeezed her hand. “And I am happy for that. You have been a blessing to me in my old age, Beatrice, though I regret the circumstances that brought you to me. I appreciate you as my blood relative, but you’ve always been an interesting companion.” He paused. “But it’s time that we speak of important matters.”
Beatrice bit her lip. Somehow, she had a feeling she wouldn’t like what he wanted to share with her.
“I know you’ve been concerned for my health. I am willing to admit that I fear my time draws near.”
She protested. “But Grandfather, I—”
“Nay. Let me finish.” He took a deep breath. “We must face reality, Beatrice. I need to see you are cared for once I am gone. I have written to my oldest friend about the situation. You’ve heard me speak of Sir Henry Stollers many times. I hope to hear from him soon.”
His words aroused her curiosity. “What might Sir Henry have to do with me, Grandfather?”
He brushed her words aside. “Not now, child. We will speak of the matter once I’ve received his reply. I only wanted you to know that I am preparing for your future.” He rose gingerly from his seat. “Tolly and I are going to hunt this morning while you care for your mother. I hope we’ll find good meat to put on our table.” He brushed cool lips against her forehead and left the room.