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

by Alexa Aston

  At least she wouldn’t have much to do with them. More than likely, they both enjoyed swapping stories with the men in the company and spent time wooing the few women in the troupe until they stopped on an estate. She could see the two cozying up to local women, young and old alike, especially since they had both already vied for her attention. Let them concentrate on the females in the areas the mummers stopped. Jessimond had better things to do.

  They reached the keep and she stopped a servant, asking her for a meal to be brought to the solar, and then accompanied the Vawdrys upstairs. She knocked upon the solar’s door and was granted permission to enter by her father. Ushering in the two owners, Jessimond hoped by the time they left that her next few months would be settled.

  Geoffrey de Montfort offered the men a seat, while Merryn de Montfort assessed both brothers as she poured wine for everyone.

  “Thank you for coming,” her father told them. Looking to her, Geoffrey said, “Jessimond, fetch Peter Gilpin at once.”

  When she hesitated, he smiled. “Don’t worry. We won’t talk of anything significant until the two of you return.”

  Jessimond left to find the blacksmith’s son, who’d been a childhood playmate of hers.

  Why on earth did her father wish for Peter to be present?

  Chapter 4

  Jessimond went to the blacksmith’s shed and saw Peter and his father hard at work. Peter held a sword’s blade in the fire and then lifted it out, placing it on an anvil. He pounded the heated metal, shaping it with his hammer and subtle turns. He raised it and frowned. Once more, he dipped the blade back into the flames and returned it to the iron block, slamming the hammer down several more times. After lifting it, Jessimond saw the satisfied smile touch his lips as he inspected the sword. Peter turned and plunged the hot steel into water.

  She stepped into the shed and immediately felt the blast of heat hit her in a wave.

  “Peter!” she called loudly since his father also hammered on the far side of the shed.

  Peter turned and grinned. Jessimond motioned him to come away from the fire and moved back into the bailey. She inhaled deeply, drawing fresh, cooler air into her lungs.

  Peter joined her, a rag in his hand. He wiped the sweat from his face and took a deep breath.

  “I admire you for being able to work next to such heat,” she said. “You seemed pleased with the sword you were working on.”

  He ran the cloth over his neck and bare chest. “It can get hot, I’ll grant you that, my lady. But I love what I do.” He paused. “What brings you here?”

  “Father wants to see you. Now.”

  “Now? Hmm. Let me tell Father.”

  Peter returned to the shed and touched the older man’s shoulder. “The earl has need of me, Father.”

  “Then wash off, Son. And put on a clean tunic.” The smithy saw Jessimond standing there and gave her a nod. “Good day to you, my lady.”

  She returned the greeting as Peter stepped to the trough just outside the shed. He plunged his head in and quickly withdrew it, shaking his head like a wet dog would.

  “Be right back,” he told her.

  Moments later, Peter appeared in a new tunic, his face dry but his mop of brown curls still damp.

  “Your hair is going every which way,” she cautioned him. “Run your fingers through to tame it.”

  He did as she asked and then grinned. “’Tis more fun when one of the girls from the village combs their fingers through my hair.”

  Jessimond punched him hard in the shoulder and then began walking toward the keep. Peter fell into step beside her.

  She glanced up at him, realizing that he must have his fair share of attention from women. At ten and eight, he was very tall and strong, thanks to the time spent swinging his hammer. He had a strong jaw and warm, brown eyes that forever seem to twinkle. His thick, curly hair would certainly be tempting to any female who caught sight of it. If Jessimond hadn’t looked upon Peter as one of her brothers, she could see it would be easy to be attracted to his good looks.

  “What do you think your father wants of me?”

  In truth, she had already figured out Geoffrey de Montfort’s plan. While Jessimond would have vetoed sending one of Kinwick’s knights along with her, she could understand her father wanting to have Peter accompany her when she joined the mummers on the road. He would be useful to the Vawdrys in many ways and could still keep an eye on Jessimond. They had been playmates from an early age and Peter remained protective of her, even now.

  “I have an idea but I think Father should explain it to you.”

  They returned to the keep and went straight to the solar. Opening the door, Jessimond saw that a meal had been brought in her absence and the four gathered now sat at the large table. She bit back a laugh as she heard Peter’s stomach gurgle noisily.

  “Come and have a seat,” Merryn urged as she began piling food high on a plate, which she handed to Peter.

  “Thank you, my lady.” He looked at the plate and back at the countess.

  “Go ahead, Peter. Eat,” she urged.

  As he dug in to his food, Geoffrey said, “These are the Vawdry brothers, Peter. Elias and Moss. Their mummers will be at Kinwick this week and then continue their travels during the rest of summer and into autumn.”

  Peter swallowed. “I go every year to the faire, my lord. I enjoy watching the plays.”

  “I have a special request, Peter,” Geoffrey continued. “You may refuse me and remain at Kinwick without fear of reprisal, but I hope you’ll look upon it as an opportunity.”

  Peter nodded. “I’ll do whatever you wish, my lord,” he replied and took a large bite from a roasted chicken leg.

  “My daughter will be traveling with the mummers for the next few months. I would like you to accompany her on the road. You will remain in my employ and I will pay you but you will do as the brothers here bid—and watch over Jessimond at the same time.”

  Jessimond listened as her father explained to Peter how no one was to know about Jessimond’s background. To his credit, her friend took it all in stride.

  When Geoffrey finished, Peter said, “You know I am loyal to you, my lord, and I will be to Lady Jessimond, too. She is my lady—but she has also been a good friend to me. I would give my life for her.”

  Merryn said, “Let’s hope it never comes to that, Peter. I do thank you for guarding Jessimond.” She looked to her daughter. “Anything to add?”

  “You’ll need to start calling me Jess, Peter. Jessimond is very formal. I want the troupe to accept me as one of their members.”

  He nodded in understanding. “So no one will know you are a de Montfort.” Peter grinned. “Do you have a new last name?”

  “Vernon.”

  “I have a better one. Gilpin,” he suggested.

  Jessimond frowned. “But that is your name.”

  “And yours as well.” Peter’s grin broadened. “Sister.”

  “An excellent idea,” Geoffrey declared. “That will explain Peter’s presence and why he would be interested in safeguarding you. The two of you are leaving service at Kinwick to seek your fortunes elsewhere. I quite like it.”

  Jessimond smiled. “It makes perfect sense.” She looked to the Vawdrys. “Does everything meet your expectations?”

  Elias took a swig of wine. “Aye. We are happy with the arrangements. We gain a strapping young man’s labor for free and the troupe will have a new seamstress and healer.”

  “The Vawdrys will accompany you back to the blacksmith shed,” Geoffrey said to Peter. “Gather your things and wait there for . . . Jess. Tell your parents farewell and that you’ll see them come late autumn.”

  “Aye, my lord. And thank you for having faith in me. I will make sure Jess enjoys her time on the road and contributes to the troupe.” Peter caught Jessimond’s eye and winked at her.

  The three left the solar and Jessimond rose. It was time to say her goodbyes. Her throat grew thick with unshed tears. Her mother embraced
her.

  “You won’t be able to take quill and parchment on the road, I’m afraid. Jess Gilpin would not know how to read, much less write a missive to her family back at Kinwick.” Merryn kissed both her cheeks. “Stick close to the truth, Jessimond. Make Peter’s family your own so that you each tell the same stories. You will be in my prayers every day, my sweet.”

  Geoffrey enfolded her in his arms, the place Jessimond had always felt most protected from her earliest memories. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “The Vawdrys finish their season at an estate near Ancel’s. You and Peter go to Bexley when the troupe disbands for the winter. Stay a week or so and then have Ancel send you home with an escort.”

  “I have a better idea, Geoffrey,” Merryn interjected. “Jessimond can write to us once she arrives at Ancel’s. Then we can go to claim her. I would love to see Ancel and Margery and we can all return to Kinwick together afterward.”

  Her father released her and wrapped his arms around his wife. “I knew I married you for good reason. Your ideas are always better than mine,” he said huskily.

  “Oh, I know that look in your eyes,” Jessimond said, laughing. “I will go and gather my things and head to the blacksmith’s to meet the others. And remember—if you two can break away long enough from one another and actually attend the faire—I am not your daughter. I am a former servant in the keep at Kinwick.”

  Her parents laughed, their arms now entwined around one another.

  Jessimond left them and returned a last time to her bedchamber, quickly gathering her spare tunics, a comb, and her case full of medicinal herbs. Everything else would be left behind. She glanced around the room and changed her mind, retrieving her precious lute. It might come in handy. She then hurried to meet up with her employers and new brother.

  *

  Marcus and Rand finished unloading the wagons and began pitching the tents that the troupe would sleep in. The work was physical but allowed his mind to wander.

  Unlike battle.

  Part of Marcus experienced guilt at walking away from Hartefield. He’d trained to be a knight his entire life and then had led others on the battlefield. His knightly code of honor—dedicating himself to king, country, and family—had been rudely shoved aside when he rode away from Harte Castle six weeks ago. His emotions that day proved raw and uncompromising. Marcus knew that if he didn’t leave the castle grounds he might kill his father.

  No love had ever existed between the two men. Charles de Harte took every opportunity to belittle his son, claiming his harsh words and even harsher fists would toughen the boy up. Marcus had first feared his father and then grew to despise him as time unfolded. He couldn’t remember a civil conversation between them in all his years. His father barked orders and Marcus obeyed them without flinching. For the most part, the two men avoided one another.

  He had known unconditional love from his mother. Margaret de Harte was a wise woman from a young age, full of grace and dignity. Though she adored her only child, she never spoiled him. Her high expectations and calm demeanor brought a balance into his life. Marcus had learned what he needed to know about running Hartefield from her.

  And now she was gone.

  News of her death had set him off. Rage followed the numbness that first set in. That’s when he knew he had to escape. Be on his own for a while. Falling in with the mummers only two days after he’d left Hartefield had proven to be a godsend. The Vawdrys needed someone suited to physical labor and Marcus needed an outlet for his immense anger.

  It helped that Rand accompanied him as he searched for who he was without his mother. Marcus knew the kind of man she had raised him to become and, more than anything, he wanted to be that man. He promised himself he would be the best baron that Hartefield had ever seen once his time to lead it arrived.

  But not now. Now, he wanted liberation from all responsibilities. For just a few months—a single season—he wanted to be selfish and think only of himself. Deep in his heart, he knew he would return and face his responsibilities. Be the good son, the good knight, the good heir that everyone expected.

  In the meantime, he would sow a few wild oats and return home, ready to wed and begin his own family. Marcus planned to be a husband who showed respect to his wife. One who would love his children beyond measure. And in time, he would become the nobleman that others looked to in order to lead them to prosperity.

  Marcus finished erecting his tent and glanced to where Rand labored on the last, largest tent, the one that would house the costumes and props of the plays the mummers put on for the crowds. When he returned to Hartefield, he would insist Rand come with him. Since the knight had not spoken to his liege lord, much less been granted permission to be away from the estate, Marcus knew his father would want to cut Rand loose, hacking his spurs from the knight’s boots in a show of shame.

  But Rand Trammel had been the closest thing Marcus had to a brother. He would insist Rand remained at Hartefield as if no disobedience had occurred, despite any misgivings from Charles de Harte. When Marcus became Baron of Harteley, Rand would serve as his right hand in all things. Even if he had to beat his father into submission, as Charles had done to him countless times, Marcus would make certain that Rand kept his place as a knight of Harte Castle.

  His friend had definitely exposed Marcus to a different, lighter, and wilder side of life. Where Marcus had been all about war and serving his king and living up to his responsibilities, Rand—though a seasoned knight and the best swordsman Marcus had seen—enjoyed life to its fullest.

  And that meant women. Lots and lots of women.

  In their time on the road with the mummers, Marcus had followed Rand’s lead and flirted with anything in a skirt. He’d coupled with more village women and servants in two months than he had in the previous half a score. At first, it had been in good fun. A different woman every night in the towns and estates they’d traveled to. Lately, though, Marcus grew tired of it. ’Tis why he knew the urge to settle down with one woman was real. Mayhap, he wanted to show his father what a good marriage entailed.

  Marcus did worry about returning home and living in close quarters with his father again, though he wondered how many years Charles de Harte had left. The nobleman had looked ill in the brief time Marcus had seen him upon his return after two years at war. Also, Marcus would have to consider that caring for his stepmother and his half-sisters would become his responsibility once his father passed. How ironic that the very woman once meant to be his wife now served as his stepmother. More than likely, he would request that the king find a new husband for Lady Ailith. Since neither of her children had been sons, there would be no reason for the girls to remain behind at Hartefield when their mother left.

  He joined Rand, picking up a stake to help secure the tent to the ground. The men worked in amiable silence until the tent stood tall and sturdy. Several of the mummers then helped them bring the many trunks inside as Agatha began organizing all of the costumes. At least she was better at this than cooking their meals. As the troupe’s only woman, the cooking had fallen to her. Agatha came up short every time. He and Rand ate as often as they could from the various food booths set up at the faire so they wouldn’t have to partake of Agatha’s tasteless cooking.

  Marcus returned to the outside. Though the air was fresher than inside the tent, the heat and exertion had sapped his strength.

  “Would you like to wash?” Jopp asked. “There’s a nearby brook the earl allows us to use. I can take you and Rand there.”

  “Rand!” called Marcus, motioning his friend over. To Jopp, he said, “Lead the way.”

  The boy hurried away, eager to show them the stream. Marcus had taken to the ten-year-old, whose father, Ralph, was the lead actor of the mummers. Jopp did a bit of everything around the camp and was a favorite of everyone.

  As they followed the boy, Rand said, “You certainly staked your claim quickly to the prettiest girl we’ve yet seen. Nay, not the prettiest. A rare beauty, that one. Does the heavenly c
reature have a name?”

  Marcus thought of the fresh-faced woman he’d accompanied earlier to the Vawdrys’ tent. Her heart-shaped face and smooth, porcelain skin had called out to his fingers and he’d fought the urge to graze her cheeks with them. Eyes he’d never seen before had stared at him, a deep amethyst unlike any color he’d known in another. He’d been tempted to grab her long, golden braid so he could unwind it and loosen waves of hair the color of summer wheat.

  But it was her lips that had entranced him. Plump and berry-colored. Begging to be kissed.

  “Jess Vernon,” he replied. “Though she’s a prickly one.”

  “I’d thought one so petite would have a higher voice,” Rand said, “but hers was deep and rich. Like honey.” He waggled his brows. “And tasting just as sweet, I’m sure.”

  Marcus chuckled. “That’s because you didn’t hear how her tone could cut sharp as a knife.”

  “Ah. So the beautiful Jess wasn’t willing to fall into your arms immediately. Good. I like to know that you’ll have to actually work at this one.”

  He doubted Jess Vernon would couple easily with a man. As it was, he didn’t know if she was married or had a sweetheart. That’s where Marcus drew a firm line. He refused to encroach on another man’s property and only engaged in love play with willing, unattached females.

  “Here it is!” Jopp ran down the bank and into the water, splashing.

  They followed him in once they’d shed their boots. Marcus cupped his hands and drank from the cold water before throwing a handful Jopp’s way. Soon, all three of them were soaked from their impromptu water fight and climbed from the brook.

  Marcus raked his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. The water had revived his flagging strength. They headed back to the area where the tents stood, Jopp scurrying in front of them.