Once Upon a Christmas Past

by Regan Walker

  Holden tugged down his tunic sleeves. His gaze shifted to Mary, watching him, her face pale, and resolve settled in his gut. Regardless of why he’d been chosen, he was not going to waste the opportunity. He was going to enjoy being the Lord of Misrule, and above all, use it to meet Mary.

  If Lord Westbrook had a nasty reason for wanting Holden to be picked, Holden would find a way to outwit the man. Holden had, after all, on his own initiative, earned a position as squire to one of the richest, most powerful lords in England.

  Heading for the dais, Holden strode past cheering men, women, and children.

  “Hol-den. Hol-den!” they cried in unison.

  They were cheering for him. Him!

  Their voices were as loud and jubilant as if he’d returned from a knight’s quest, hailed by all as a hero.

  Here, now, he was a hero.

  Revel in the glory. Savor every moment. Penley and Selden would.

  Holden’s strides slowed to a roguish swagger, and he winked at a pretty maidservant, who shrieked in delight. Emboldened, his focus shifted again to Mary. Her luscious bosom, so perfectly displayed by the v-shaped neckline of her gown, rose and fell on her startled breath. Ignoring her sire’s glower, Holden approached the dais, halted in front of her, and dropped into a low bow. More whistling and cheering carried through the hall.

  He straightened then strode to the dais and stepped up onto it. Head held high, he walked behind Mary, her sire, and Lord Rowell until he reached the high-backed chair with intricate carving that was forbidden to all but his lord.

  Setting down her goblet of wine, Lady de Lanceau smiled up at him. “Congratulations, Holden.”

  “Thank you, milady.”

  He clenched and unclenched his hands and glanced at Lord Rowell to his left, who acknowledged his victory with a nod. Holden then gazed out across the hall, where folk still celebrated his victory…and him. He couldn’t resist a triumphant grin. How many other rulers of Branton Keep through the years—centuries—had stood in the exact same place he was now?

  De Lanceau, beside the imposing chair, motioned for Holden to sit.

  God’s blood! He was going to sit in the lord’s chair!

  If only his father could see him now.

  Holden slowly sat, the chair creaking as it took his weight. De Lanceau picked up a crown wrought from twigs, mistletoe, and holly tied together with ribbon and set it on Holden’s head before stepping back.

  Holden curled his hands on the cool, carved armrests and stared out at the excited folk below the dais. A hot fire burned within him; the glorious feeling of power.

  His power, to use as he liked.

  “Lord Kendall,” Penley hollered from the table of squires. “What is your first order?”

  Holden stood and picked up de Lanceau’s engraved silver goblet. “To start, I want more wine!”

  Hearty roars spread through the crowd. Maidservants hurried to the lord’s table to deliver filled wine jugs.

  “What about us?” someone shouted. He recognized Selden’s voice.

  “Wine for everyone else, too. Extra for that table,” he said, pointing to the squires.

  His colleagues and friends bellowed, and the maidservants hurried to do his bidding. Holden laughed and dared to sip from the heavy, gleaming goblet that was probably worth more coin than he’d ever see in his lifetime. As he swallowed the mouthful of wine, he glanced at his liege, sitting beside his wife, his arm around her as he watched Holden with amusement.

  “Your next order?” a woman yelled.

  The noise in the hall diminished. Folk gazed at him expectantly.

  His heart thundered. He’d only be the Lord of Misrule for a short while. Best not to delay what he really wanted, although in truth, he had little experience wooing the fairer sex, especially ladies.

  He’d kissed women before, mainly at Christmas and because his brothers or friends had brought about the kisses with mistletoe. Most of what Holden knew of courtship, though, he’d gleaned from the men-at-arms, who enjoyed boasting about their conquests. He remembered one of them saying the fairer sex liked to be shown who was in charge.

  As the Lord of Misrule, he was in charge of everyone at the castle, including her.

  Holden’s hand tightened on the goblet. His gaze shifted to Mary. “You.”

  “M-milord?” she said, wide-eyed.

  Was she dreading what he’d ask of her? Since he was lord, she couldn’t refuse him. The marvelous feeling of power intensified. “Come stand beside me.”

  She looked to her father, who frowned, but nodded once. She rose from her chair then walked to stand between Holden and Lord Rowell.

  She was near enough that Holden caught her scent. Her sweet fragrance reminded him of a meadow filled with summer blooms. Before he could compliment her perfume, she dipped her head and curtsied.

  The way she moved…. His mouth went dry. He shouldn’t ogle, but he couldn’t help it.

  As she straightened, the slender column of her throat moved with a swallow. Her gaze slowly flicked up to meet his. Her eyes, framed by long lashes, were brown. Uncertainty shimmered in their depths, but also curiosity.

  “’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Lady Westbrook.”

  Holy Mother of God.

  The squire was even more handsome up close. With his jaw lightly shadowed by stubble and his hair over-long and in need of combing, he looked a little wild, as if he’d be as content to race his horse across uncharted lands as he would to sup at a nobleman’s table.

  Being so near to him was causing her to experience the oddest sensations: heat, shooting across her throat and bosom, as though from a fire throwing sparks; cold, as though unseen snowflakes battled to quell the warmth.

  His mouth curved up at the right corner. His eyes, as blue as the shards of old Roman glass she’d found once, glinted, as if he knew exactly how he was affecting her.

  The hall had become very quiet. Everyone seemed to be fascinated by her and Holden. Her father’s stare bored into her back, a reminder of why she’d accompanied him: not for this young man, but another.

  Holden, though, with his unkempt hair and intelligent gaze, intrigued her. Aye, he unnerved her, but she sensed he might share her enjoyment of rainy days spent reading books, romantic tales, and chansons. No lad had stirred such astonishing, compelling feelings within her before, and she’d like to know why.

  With so many folk bearing witness, though, she mustn’t upset her sire. If she didn’t meet his expectations, he could—and would—deprive her of food again, if not at Branton Keep then when she got home. Panic fluttered within her, but she forced it down.

  Holden’s brows rose. He clearly expected something from her.

  Oh! She hadn’t yet formally acknowledged him. “I am honored to meet you as well, Lord Kendall.” She curtsied again for good measure.

  “Call me Holden.”

  “Aye, as you—”

  “Say it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Say my name.”

  Swallowing hard, she wondered why he would insist on such, and in such a brusque tone. “Holden,” she murmured.

  “Your given name is Mary.”

  Surprise flickered—she hadn’t told him her name—but she nodded.

  “How old are you, Mary?”

  “Thirteen, milord.”

  “Are you betrothed?”

  Astonishment whipped through her, rendering her momentarily speechless.

  Muffled snickering carried from down the hall, no doubt from the table where Holden’s friends sat. Indignation welled, but she resolved to remain reserved and polite, as she’d been taught.

  “I ask again,” Holden said, more firmly. “Are you betrothed?”

  “Nay, milord.”

  “Good.”

  His determined expression made her pulse quicken with both anticipation and dread.

  Her sire made a sound of disapproval. “Lord Kendall—”

  “Mary,” Holden cut in,
“as lord of Branton Keep, I order you to kiss me. On the mouth.”

  Roars and delighted giggles rippled through the hall.

  Kiss him on the mouth? A lord and lady kissing in front of witnesses could be considered a binding promise of marriage.

  Wood scraped on stone; her father had pushed his chair back and risen. “Wait just one moment. I will not—”

  “I am the Lord of Misrule.” Holden glanced at Lord de Lanceau. “Do I not have the authority to command a kiss from her?”

  An awful feeing of entrapment gripped Mary.

  After a silence, de Lanceau said: “You are, indeed, entitled to such requests.”

  Holden grinned, while Mary’s heart sank. She couldn’t kiss him. She simply couldn’t.

  What was she going to do?

  “With respect, milord, a kiss can be considered a promise of betrothal.” Her father’s voice crackled with fury. “I will not allow this lad to kiss my daughter then try later to claim her hand in marriage, all because of some Christmas tradition.”

  Lord Rowell shook his head and set down his wine. “Under the circumstances, we can all agree the kiss is only a bit of fun—not any kind of commitment. ’Twill be as if they kissed under mistletoe, aye?”

  Mary fought the cry welling within her. The men spoke as though she wasn’t even there. Why did no one ever care to ask what she wanted?

  How tired she was of being hungry and anxious, of losing sleep, and of being helpless to determine her own life.

  Triumph etched Holden’s features. “I will have your kiss now, milady.”

  “Will you?” The words slipped out, impossible to stop.

  Holden blinked, obviously surprised by her retort. Mary felt her father’s, Lord de Lanceau’s, and Lord Rowell’s startled gazes upon her. Muttering carried from the hall, as well as chortles.

  The laughter clearly bothered Holden, for his expression hardened. “You will kiss me, Mary, or there will be consequences.”

  She could not, would not, be forced to kiss him. Whatever the consequences, they couldn’t be worse than what her sire had done to her.

  “Lady Westbrook,” Holden commanded.

  “Nay.”

  “Nay?”

  Despite her trembling, she lifted her chin a fraction higher. “I will not kiss you.”

  Chapter 2

  I will not kiss you.

  Holden gritted his teeth while embarrassment and anger warred within him. How dare Mary say such?

  How dare she make a mockery of him and ruin the glory to which he was entitled?

  Lord Westbrook smirked, clearly pleased by his daughter’s refusal. Folk in the hall were laughing even louder than before; they found the lady’s refusal delightfully entertaining. His fellow squires, and likely the men-at-arms as well, would tease him later that he couldn’t get kissed even when he’d ordered a woman to kiss him.

  He would not stand for it. His demands as Lord of Misrule were to be obeyed. If he let her get away with refusing him, the incident could become one of the tales told around the garrison fire every Christmastime. Folk would mock his name, laugh at how he, the reigning Lord of Misrule, had lost to a woman.

  Holden scowled. “You cannot deny me, milady.”

  Mary dropped her gaze. “I must.”

  “Must?” The word suggested honor was involved. Was she betrothed after all, even though she’d said she wasn’t? She might have entered into a secret arrangement, unknown to even her father. However, that seemed unlikely.

  Hellfire, Holden wasn’t asking much of her. Just a kiss.

  Judging by how nervous she seemed, she wanted to bolt. Good. If he continued to pressure her, she’d have no choice but to yield. “I command you—”

  “I will still refuse, milord.”

  Lord Westbrook snorted, as though unsuccessful at stifling a laugh. Were the other lords also laughing at Holden’s predicament? What did de Lanceau think of Holden’s failure to win Mary’s kiss? His lordship’s opinion of him meant a great deal to Holden.

  Frustration became an ache in Holden’s chest. How tempted he was to haul Mary into his arms and kiss her, whether she wanted it or not. Done with enough gallant flair, he could have the whole room cheering for him again.

  As though attuned to his thoughts, she gestured across the hall. “There are countless other women you could ask for a kiss.”

  “I do not want kisses from them.”

  She inhaled sharply. “Only me?”

  “Only you.”

  Her expression registered shock and the faintest trace of pleasure. Her slender hand flitted to her throat, flattened there.

  “I would ask, milady, your reasons for disobeying me.”

  Her shoulders rose and fell on another heaved breath. “I hardly know you.”

  “’Tis not a reason. A kiss does not require knowing one another, only the meeting of mouths.”

  “I respectfully disagree, milord.”

  “Explain.”

  “A kiss….” She bit down on her bottom lip.

  “A kiss,” he coaxed.

  “…is special. Sacred.”

  Holden ignored the chortles of folk nearby.

  “Who told you such?” he asked, rather curious now.

  “I have heard chansons. I have also read the old tales.”

  So had he. His favorites were the stories of the long-ago Celtic king named Arthur and his loyal knights.

  “A kiss on the mouth,” she continued, “is a pledge of true love.”

  Across the hall, several men laughed. “For God’s sake, just kiss her,” Penley yelled, to a round of bawdy whistling.

  “Since we are not courting, and we are most certainly not in love, I cannot kiss you. Not on the lips, as you ordered.”

  Part of Holden found her words endearing; another part of him seethed. She was clearly winning this battle of words. He must do more to show her he was in charge.

  “While I respect what you have told me,” he said, “a lord’s order still must be honored over one’s own beliefs.”

  She swallowed hard. “I should not have to kiss you if I do not want to.”

  “Still, she disobeys,” a man shouted.

  “She should be punished,” another yelled.

  Her worried gaze flicked out into the hall.

  Holden would give her one last chance. “Kiss me, as I ordered,” he said sternly.

  Glancing back at him, she shook her head.

  “Very well. For your disobedience, I sentence you to the dungeon.”

  The dungeon?

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Mary had never been in a dungeon before. Never, in her life, had she expected to. Dungeons were dark, dank, foul places where the worst criminals were imprisoned, not gently-bred ladies.

  Intertwined with her shock, though, was a deep sense of having been wronged. She hadn’t committed a crime that warranted a stay in the dungeon. Others bearing witness surely agreed.

  The folk in the hall, though, seemed to approve of Holden’s decision. They bellowed and cheered, their faces flushed from drink.

  Her head spun, and she fought the very real threat of a faint by stumbling forward and gripping the polished edge of the table. Holden caught her arm, but when she glanced up at him, she didn’t see compassion in his eyes, only determination. His strong, unyielding grip heated her skin through her silk sleeve.

  She caught snatches of her father’s voice and Lord de Lanceau’s, but couldn’t hear what was being said over the noise of the throng.

  “You cannot imprison me!” she cried.

  Holden leaned in, his voice rumbling close to her ear. “I can.”

  “’Tis wrong! I am not a criminal.” Turning her head, she tried to catch her father’s attention, but Lord Rowell stood in the way.

  “Geoffrey,” Lady de Lanceau said, as the cacophony dimmed a bit. “You must not allow this.”

  Please, Mary silently pleaded. Do not let Holden carry out his threat.

  Lord de Lance
au shook his head. “As I just told Lord Westbrook, I will not challenge Holden’s decision.”

  His wife frowned. “For Heaven’s—”

  “If I do, ’twill set a precedent.” When Lady de Lanceau scowled, his mouth curved in a faint smile. “When we were younger, I imprisoned you. Things did not turn out so badly, did they?”

  A flush colored his wife’s cheeks. “The circumstances were quite different.”

  “True, but I trust Holden. He is a good lad. Lady Westbrook will not come to harm or be imprisoned for long. Right?” his lordship said to Holden.

  Holden nodded.

  Mary moaned. “Please.” She struggled and yanked her arm back, but couldn’t break free of Holden’s grip.

  “Guards,” he yelled.

  Her stomach clenched as two broad-shouldered men-at-arms approached the dais.

  “Follow us to the dungeon,” Holden ordered. He pulled her to a walk.

  Castle folk swarmed toward the dais. Fear coursed through her, but Holden ordered the guards to keep the crowd back. She could barely keep up with his brisk strides as he hauled her down from the dais and through the hall. “Penley,” he called, and a young man hurried over from the table of squires and fell in alongside them.

  “You are very commanding. You make a good lord,” Penley said, grinning. Darting ahead, he shouted for folk to keep out of the way.

  Holden pulled Mary down the forebuilding’s uneven stone steps, through the doorway at the bottom, and out into the crisp afternoon sunlight. The smell of smoke, likely from a fire somewhere on the castle grounds, tinged the afternoon breeze.

  Holden tugged Mary toward the dungeon’s wooden door.

  Shivering, she glared at his back. “Why are you being so horrible?”

  He halted, so suddenly she almost ran into him. Facing her, he said, “Am I? All you had to do was kiss me.”

  “Not difficult,” Penley muttered from beside Holden.

  Even the two men-at-arms, following a short distance behind, looked unsympathetic.

  Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “I explained why—”

  “You humiliated me, in front of my friends and my lord,” Holden growled.