Knights of Honor Books 1-10: A Medieval Romance Series Bundle

by Alexa Aston

  “I still cannot reveal why I kissed you,” he said. “Only that something compelled me to do so.” He gave her a tender smile.

  She returned it. “I am glad you did, for I have never been kissed before. I did not know I could feel such a way.”

  Part of him swelled with pride, knowing his kisses had been her first. An even stronger part of him wanted to be the last man she would ever kiss. But Rosalyne did not even know his true name. She had no idea that he was a knight of the realm, in service to the king as a member of his royal guard.

  And from the little that he knew of her, she would not take kindly to having been lied to.

  His thumb caressed her cheek, reluctant to release her. He wished he could show her that kissing was only a small part of what a man and woman could share between them. He longed to take her to bed and remove each layer of clothing she wore and touch every part of this woman.

  But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

  Edward dropped his hands and stared at her for a long moment.

  Rosalyne said in a shaking voice, “I am glad to have shared these kisses with you, Edward, but I fear you must make haste. I know you are eager to get to the wall and find work.”

  That was the last thing he wanted to do, despite the fact that being at the wall and observing what went on there was his sole mission while in Canterbury.

  Instead, he countered with, “The wall will wait. They have worked on it for years. Another couple of days without me there won’t make a difference. Besides, I have saved up enough coin. I am not desperate for work just yet.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked, frowning at him.

  “I am the one who caused you to injure yourself. You cannot help your uncle because of it. I plan to devote a few days to helping the two of you. You can instruct me what to do and I will act as your hands in readying the wood and paints.”

  She hesitated, mulling over his offer. Edward thought to sweeten the pot and nudged her by saying, “I am sure the archbishop expects the panel to be finished by a certain time. Men in his position have little patience. You would not want to disappoint him, Rosalyne, and affect the reputation of your uncle by delaying the panel’s completion.”

  She sighed. “Archbishop Courtenay is the second most powerful man in all of England, next to the king. He has given Uncle Temp the date he wishes the panel to be placed inside the chapel. I would not want Uncle to let him down.” Rosalyne paused. “All right. You may assist me so everything will be ready when the time comes.”

  “And I believe that I can help your Uncle with his cough,” Edward volunteered. “But first, I shall have to go to the market.”

  “Why? How will you help him?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Remember, I explained to you that my sister practiced the healing arts on me while we were growing up. A severe cough was one of the complaints I acted out on several occasions. I coughed better than Hal or Ancel, making it sound both deep and nasty.”

  Edward demonstrated as Rosalyne laughed. “You sound worse than Uncle Temp!”

  He loved hearing her laugh, so carefree and unpracticed, unlike the women at court.

  “I might have missed my calling as an actor,” he offered. “Still, when Alys ministered to me, Mother always had Alys speak aloud what was wrong with her patient and how she would remedy the illness. I actually learned quite a bit over the years and would like to treat your uncle’s cough if you will allow me to do so.”

  “What would it involve?”

  He thought a moment. “I will need to mix horehound with diapenidion.”

  Rosalyne cocked her head. “I have little knowledge of those things. What are they?”

  “Horehound is an herb. A plant that is a member of the mint family, which makes it ideal to treat coughs.”

  “And dia . . . diapenidion?”

  “That is a confection made up of barley water, sugar, and the whites of eggs. I will draw it out into slender threads, like strands of fine hair and have your uncle eat it. The sweetness of the sugar, along with the mint, gives it a pleasant taste.” He chuckled. “I never complained when Alys made me ingest it.”

  “I can boil the barley water for you and I can also collect the eggs from our hens for you to use.”

  “Then all I need to purchase is the horehound and sugar. I can leave now and head to the market. It shouldn’t take me long. I will return shortly. I hope that the concoction will calm Temp’s cough. If it does, it may also help the tremors to subside and he will be able to return to his painting sooner rather than later.”

  This time, Edward refrained from kissing Rosalyne, though he wanted to very badly. He opened the door to the cottage and gave her a friendly wave.

  As he stepped into the May morning, he tried to push the memory of their kisses from his mind and remember why he’d been sent to Canterbury in the first place.

  *

  Rosalyne checked on Uncle Temp and found him resting comfortably, though he coughed in his sleep as both hands trembled slightly. She closed his chamber door and went outside since it was her usual time to gather the eggs from her hens. Placing the basket over her arm which was in the sling didn’t work, so she rested it on the ground and collected the eggs with her good hand and placed them in the basket. Once she had gathered all the hens had laid, she scattered feed across the yard and then leaned against the fence as they ate.

  Her best thinking occurred as she watched her feathered friends eat. But today, all her thoughts seemed more scrambled than any egg ever had been.

  It was all because of Edward’s kisses.

  She gave in to the sweet memories, closing her eyes and reliving different moments. The first kisses startled her. Rosalyne hadn’t known she was supposed to open her mouth to him. She had only seen a few married couples peck each other on the cheek or briefly on the lips. What she and Edward had done went far beyond that.

  Only now, away from his presence, did she feel her body finally cool from the fiery heat that had possessed her from the inside and spread outward to flush her skin and make her flustered. She brought her fingertips to her lips and touched them, knowing Edward’s lips had been against hers a short while ago.

  It felt as if he consumed her whole during that first round of kisses. They couldn’t get enough of each other. A fervor raged inside her as they seemed to go up in flames. She longed to crawl inside his gypon and run her hands across his bare flesh, half-believing her fingers would be scorched by the contact between them.

  When he kissed her a second time, the desire still remained—banked, smoldering, until his slow examination of her mouth brought intense waves of need within her.

  Rosalyne had enjoyed both kinds of kisses. She desperately wanted Edward to do it again.

  And even more.

  It was the more that troubled her. She had no idea what that might entail. She knew what she felt like doing—stripping her clothing off and tossing it aside so she could press her flesh against his. Rosalyne wanted to remove the layers between them. Curl up in his lap. Kiss him. Not just his lips, but him. She wanted to run her mouth along his muscled arms and chest and have him do the same to her.

  Just the thought of his mouth on her bare flesh made her tremble. A wicked, wicked thought came to her.

  What if Edward kissed her breasts?

  As they’d pressed against him, she felt them growing in size. Her nipples ached as she rubbed them against him. Suddenly, Rosalyne pictured his large hand on her breast, stroking it. His lips teasing her nipple. His tongue licking it. She began to burn with need.

  And shame.

  Only an evil woman would have such terrible thoughts, ones that made her breasts tingle and her nether regions start to pound. Rosalyne wanted to touch herself down there and fought the urge to do so.

  What had Edward done to her?

  She pushed off the fence and returned to the kitchen with her basket of eggs. She would put the barley water on to boil. That would keep her busy. But as Rosalyne waited
for the water to boil and then cool, her thoughts returned to the image of the man who kept pushing himself inside her head, invading every thought she had. Breathing now even seemed different, thanks to her experience in Edward’s arms. He’d stolen the very breath from her with his constant kisses yet somehow she had survived.

  And Rosalyne wanted more of it. And him. Much, much more.

  She heard the door to the cottage open and tamped down the excitement that flooded her, knowing he had returned.

  “I found what we needed,” Edward said, looming large in the doorway.

  Rosalyne glanced up at him and looked away. Already in his presence again, her heart slammed against her ribs. It seemed harder to breathe. A fluttering in her belly and chest made her want to scream. She wanted to hurl herself at him and devour him.

  He came and stood next to her. “Let me.” He took the pot in which she’d boiled the barley water and dropped some of the herb he’d brought back into it.

  “It needs to rest there for a few minutes.”

  Edward busied himself, adding a small amount of sugar a bit at a time and, soon, his created concoction was ready for her uncle to sample. Rosalyne went and woke Uncle Temp, who looked better than he had when he first rose this morning. She led him to the table, where Edward explained what he had made and why he did so.

  “I believe this will calm your cough if not rid you of it outright. That way, you can return to working on the panel for the chapel. In the meantime, while you and Rosalyne both heal, she will instruct me on how to ready the wood and paints for you so that no time will be wasted.”

  Uncle Temp smiled at their guest. “You are an interesting man, Edward Munn. Who knew when we took you in that you had healing powers?”

  “I only hope this will help you,” Edward said modestly. “If so, ’tis because of what I learned from my mother and sister. They are both remarkable women, strong in their convictions and two of the most intelligent people I have known.”

  “I feel the same about Rosalyne,” Uncle Temp said, giving her a smile. “She is talented in many ways.”

  She felt a blush heat her cheeks as her uncle digested Edward’s blend.

  “This is most delightful. Even if it does not cure me, I will still enjoy drinking it.”

  “This mixture of sugar and mint flavor is pleasant,” Edward pointed out. “Not all of Alys’ brews were so tasty. My sister often had me drink horrible potions, all in the name of perfecting her craft.”

  Uncle Temp finished and said, “I think I will go back to my bed. Already, the tickling in my throat has subsided.”

  “That is good news, Uncle.” She led him back and settled him in bed, plumping his pillows.

  “I am glad you suggested that Edward stay with us,” he said. “The coin he provides will be helpful but his company is even better.”

  Rosalyne tossed the bedclothes over him. “His offer to help with the wood and paints will make sure that we are back on schedule. I should be able to produce the panel in the timeframe the archbishop requires.”

  His eyes began to droop. She excused herself and left the room, already hearing his soft snores start up as she shut the door.

  Edward was nowhere to be found when she returned to the kitchen. He wasn’t seated at the table. Then she heard a noise and went to her uncle’s studio. She found him there, sifting through various lengths of wood.

  He looked up, giving her a smile that warmed her in a way nothing had before.

  “So, where do we begin?”

  Chapter 9

  Edward watched Rosalyne sort through various stacks of wood using the arm not in a sling, enjoying the view of her rounded bottom against the soft wool of her gown as she bent over and tossed planks here and there.

  “Tell me about what you are looking for and what your uncle’s panel will involve,” he suggested. “Remember, I am to be your hands for the next couple of days until your wrist mends and you can return to your normal activities.”

  She moved a few pieces of wood to the side. “Painted panels can be one piece or involve multiple pieces. Uncle has created some altarpiece art in the past, which hangs over the altar in a church or chapel. He has done diptych and triptych, which are two- and three-panel works. Polyptych panels are truly complicated, for they involve multiple panels and many hinged joints.”

  “Which one did Temp promise the archbishop he will produce?”

  Rosalyne shifted and dropped to her knees as she examined a large plank, running her hand against the grain of the wood. “This commission is for a triptych, so it will have a large painted panel in the center and two related but smaller panels, on each side.”

  “Is there a certain type wood needed?” Edward asked, moving closer to her. “I see many different kinds here in his workshop.”

  She leaned back on her heels. “Uncle studied art—painting, in particular—for two years in Florence. The Italians prefer to paint panels and portraits on white poplar but most European artists tend to use oak.”

  “Oak is plentiful here in England. I see many fine pieces of it present.”

  “True. And uncle uses many other woods in his work. Walnut. Beech. Even spruce. But I know he’ll wish to use the poplar for this commission. It is one of the most important—if not the most important—that he has ever accepted.” She touched her right hand to a piece next to her. “It looks like this. If you can help me remove all the planks of this type, we can lay them out and see what we have and then consider the dimensions of the space which the panel will occupy.”

  He helped her sort through the various woods. Soon, they had a hefty stack of white poplar, which he separated by size and placed every piece in a row.

  Rosalyne’s brow crinkled in thought as she studied what was available. She had him move pieces around, eliminating some and keeping others, till she chose what she wanted.

  She pointed to the planks on the left. “These are the ones that we will use. They must all be sanded smooth and flat.”

  “What should I do?”

  “You must saw through some of the wood so that every piece is the size of this one.” She indicated the one that would be the model for him to use. “Once they are of equal length, I will select the ones that will need to be reduced again for the two side panels, which will be smaller in size. After that, you can use my plane to smooth and scrape the wood. No bumps can remain because they could affect the integrity of the work.”

  Edward busied himself, sawing through the longer planks and lining each bit of wood beside the next until every bit of the approved poplar proved equal in size. Rosalyne studied the wood and told him which to leave in the center and what pieces should be moved to the left and right. Once he completed that task, Edward sawed through them in order to reduce the size for the remaining wood.

  Rosalyne gave him shave-grass and he rubbed the herb into the wood and smoothed and scraped it with the plane till no flaws remained. He began to sweat and wished he could remove his gypon, as he did when he trained with his sword and other weapons. Instead, he mopped his brow with a sleeve and opened the door that led from the workshop to outside, hoping to catch a breeze from the sultry May day.

  Next, she instructed him on how to mix the glue and had Edward join the edges of different boards together, pressing them tightly so that the glue would hold the wood in place.

  “You can rest for a while,” she said once he completed the lengthy task. “Let me get you some ale to drink. The day has grown quite warm.”

  Edward followed her to the small kitchen and insisted he pour ale for both of them since he saw it was still awkward for her to work with only one good hand.

  “Shall we sit for a bit?” he asked and took their cups to the table.

  “Let me check on Uncle first.”

  After a few moments, she returned and said, “He is peacefully asleep. No coughing at all. Your potion has done wonders, Edward. I wish I had known to give it to him before.”

  “I am happy to help him. Tem
p is an interesting man. What was it like being raised by him?”

  A dreamy smile crossed Rosalyne’s face. Edward wanted to reach out and run his thumb over her full, bottom lip. He kept his hands in his lap, exercising control he did not know he possessed.

  “I have never heard a cross word come from Uncle Temp’s lips. He loves everyone he meets and relishes each day.” She chuckled. “At least after he rises. It is hard to get him to leave his bed in the mornings. He claims it goes back to his days in Florence, where he would paint far into the night and then not arise until long after the sun came up. But my childhood was one of happiness. Uncle taught me how to look at an object and see it, really see it, and how to draw and then paint it.”

  “So, you have been an artist yourself from an early age?”

  She nodded. “I cannot remember a time when I didn’t have a brush in my hands. Art is what Uncle Temp knows through and through and he passed his love of it along to me.”

  “You said he also paints portraits sometimes.”

  “Aye, it has become a large part of how he earns his living. I suppose noblemen fancy letting future generations see how they looked, for Uncle has been kept busy painting their likenesses the last several years.”

  “You mentioned before that you accompany him.”

  “I do. My friend, Metylda, feeds the chickens we leave behind but we take some with us so that we have their eggs to use in creating the tempera paints.”

  “Describe how you create the paints,” he urged. “This is all so new to me.”

  Rosalyne smiled. “Uncle Temp prefers a pure egg tempera, which is egg yolk mixed with a pigment. ’Tis what the Florentines that he studied under always used. Before tempera painting, Byzantine panels only contained darker colors. With tempera paints, an artist can give an impression that daylight is falling across a scene. The colors created with tempera are also incredibly vivid and bright and last for an incredibly long time.”

  She sipped her ale and continued, her eyes bright and eager as she said, “The Latin word temperare means ‘to mix in proportion’. But Uncle says that the verb temper means ‘to bring to a desired consistency’. So from the two words, we get tempera. An artist must take dry pigments and temper them with a binding agent, such as egg yolk. Only then can the paints be used to bring people and objects to life.”