Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  "There is to be a hanging this afternoon. A thief has pilfered food from my tent. Likely to be lively entertainment before the feast begins. You will join me."

  Elena swallowed her disgust. Her husband knew she hated to watch the death sentences being carried out, and forced her to attend whenever one occurred.

  "May I beg leave of going? My woman's—"

  "Do not flaunt your disgusting bodily offenses to me and do not make excuses for doing your duty. You are a worthless woman. Show your lord respect and show your people thievery will not be tolerated. You will be there, or I shall see the boy is drawn on the rack before we hang him."

  "Aye, my lord husband." If attending the hanging meant sparing the poor thief further torment then she would. Dear Lord in Heaven, forgive me.

  He snorted and came close behind her again. His fingers gripped the strings of her stays and yanked, tying her up much tighter than she usually was. A sharp squeak of pain escaped her. Air scarcely filled her lungs. The thick bones of the stays dug into her skin.

  "If you're going to wear the ridiculous contraption, you'll wear it with pain." This time when he pressed against her, he was aroused.

  Elena bent forward as much her stays allowed and vomited.

  "My lady, pray forgive me for sharing your secret. Thomas would never do you harm. He only wishes to help." Raelyn pleaded on her knees, her head resting in Elena's lap. Elena hadn't spoken to her since their last conversation.

  Elena grimaced, attempting to remove the sordid image of the youth's dangling legs from her mind. Her cries for mercy from Kent had gone unheeded.

  "How do you know? Why would you divulge my secrets to him without my permission?" Elena resisted the urge to stroke her dear friend's head in forgiveness.

  "Thomas is the reason Michael is here."

  "What do you mean?"

  Michael had not been at the hanging. But why would he be? It was a grotesque display of violence and power from her husband. Michael would never agree with it. Or at least the Michael she thought she knew… She'd yet had a chance to speak with about his abominable behavior from this morning.

  Raelyn raised her glistening eyes to Elena's. "Why, in addition to your own message, Thomas sent an anonymous note, giving him word of the tournament, urging Sir Devereux to join the lists. Thomas entered the games himself to make sure Michael won."

  "Why would he do such a thing? It is dangerous for him, even though he will one day be Earl of Warwick."

  "For love, my lady. There is nothing more powerful."

  "There is revenge, there is hate, and my lord husband lives on both." Elena wrapped her arms around her belly. Her stays dug in around her hips, pinching her skin. "Does Thomas love you so much he would risk a war? The wrath of his king for marrying a woman not of the king's choosing?"

  Elena's words were a harsh reminder that Raelyn wasn't chosen by the king. While she said them to pain her lady, it was also a harsh reminder to herself that she was without the one she loved.

  "Thomas has told me he loves me more than life itself. He wants me at his side, but I have sworn to never leave you, until you are safe. This was his way of ensuring it." Raelyn sat back on her heels and grasped Elena's hands away from her waist. "King Henry and Thomas are close. He feels he could talk the anger out of Henry when things are said and done. He told me himself just this morning that he trusts Michael, that he knows the man will do right by you."

  Elena shuddered as she pictured herself burning at the stake for adultery, flames licking and curling up her ankles and shins. Kent would burn her just for looking at Michael. If she didn't get away soon and Michael suffered for it, death may be an all welcoming haven.

  She stroked Raelyn's hair. "I'm sorry. I hope your Thomas is right."

  The celebration was in full swing by the time Elena and her ladies arrived. Michael was seated at the table enjoying a particularly tasty mulled cider. If he'd thought the first night's food and drink to be opulent, tonight was even more so.

  "About time you showed up, wife." Kent sneered in her direction, his words were already slurred and they hadn't quite made it past the first course.

  Elena dipped into a low curtsy, her waifish figure near to floating in the emerald gown she wore. The high square neck was out of fashion, but still she mesmerized Michael. So regal, so beautiful. How she kept her mind solid with all she'd gone through he'd never know. He only wished to see her smile once again. He had a newfound respect for the woman she'd grown up to be.

  She appeared even thinner than she had when he'd first seen her before the joust. Was she eating at all? He'd make sure she feasted tonight—put some meat on her bones. If she blew away with the wind before they reached Kent Castle, he'd never be able to keep her safe.

  She sat down next to him, without so much as a glance his way. She was stiff, unapproachable. What had changed?

  "How goes it this evening, my lady?" he asked in conversation, hoping to open her up.

  "For me, 'tis satisfactory, but I'm not so sure I can say the same about your squire." Her ire was up, lips thinned, brows delicately raised in challenge. Lord, she was a spirited one.

  Michael turned to hide the smile that crept over his lips. She was disappointed in him, but he was glad to see she still had some spirit. She still trusted in him.

  "I meant to speak with you about that."

  "Oh, did you? I failed to see your attempts."

  Michael chuckled. Her cheeks flamed red, lips pursed.

  "My dear lady, I did that for your benefit."

  Emerald eyes widened. Her mouth formed an O. "My benefit? Please excuse my ignorance, but I am confused as to how beating on a poor lad could have helped me in the least?"

  "Jon knew of my actions, and played along. I couldn't stand to see your husband berate you any longer—and he looked as if he might strike you."

  Elena sucked in her breath. Her gaze pierced his very soul.

  "You mean to say, 'twas all an act?"

  "Aye."

  Her features softened a fraction. "Thank you, Michael."

  "You need not thank me."

  "But I must. You do not understand to what magnitude your coming has affected me. I—" Her voice broke.

  She turned away, but not before he saw tears shimmering in her eyes. His heart ached for her. All he wanted to do was embrace her. Instead, he found her hands folded in her lap under the table and squeezed.

  "Do not feel the need to explain to me. I would do anything for you." His gaze traveled around the room to make sure no one was the wiser to their conversation.

  She nodded. "I have much to tell you."

  The court fool came upon the trestle table, throwing grapes into the air, flipping around once and catching the fruit in his mouth. Delight filled Elena's face as she watched, and Michael dared not disrupt her happiness. He was glad she felt comfortable opening up to him.

  During the remainder of the meal and the play that followed, they spoke little, but beneath the table Michael held her hand, their fingers entwined. Her slim, warm hand appeared so small within his grasp. Every once in a while she'd squeeze, perhaps reassuring herself that he was still there. He could not conceive of what unexplainable horrors had occurred since she'd left Ireland.

  When the play depicting the sword fight ended and a bawdier enactment started, Elena turned to him.

  "Come to me tonight, we must talk," she whispered.

  Michael nodded. She stood. Like flowers leaning toward the sun, her ladies stood as well.

  "My lord husband," she dipped her head, not waiting for permission to leave.

  Kent didn't so much as look at her, only muttered something about a no good whore and her whorelings.

  Michael balled his hands into fists and had to use all of his willpower not to pummel the man to the ground.

  "Sir Devereux, you honor us by serving Kent as the new Captain of the Guard. Until tomorrow." She held out her hand.

  Michael grasped her fingers in his and kissed the a
ir above her knuckles. Disappointment flickered in her eyes, but he dare not show any more affection than that. Too many eyes, too many ears, too many traitorous souls.

  Michael glanced up from examining his sword as one of Kent's men entered his tent.

  "Lord Kent would have words with you."

  Michael nodded, having expected this meeting to take place at some point. He'd won the tournament, and as yet, had not met with his new liege.

  He tucked his sword into the scabbard at his side and exited the tent beside Kent's man.

  "I'm eager to begin," he said. "What's your name?"

  The knight ignored him, a snort his only answer.

  Michael narrowed his eyes. He could not have the men disrespecting him. He supposed pleasantries would not work with Kent's men—he should have known. He stopped in his tracks, gripped the knight's arm so he stopped and faced him.

  "I asked you for your name, knight." His voice held a chill, but he let go of the other man's arm.

  "Bernard," he growled.

  "I am Michael." He held out his arm, waiting for the knight to grip his in a show of esteem. Moments passed as the man eyed Michael's outstretched arm suspiciously. At long last, he gripped it, albeit quickly, and with eyes darting to see who had observed them.

  "Sir." Bernard nodded, then took his arm back as though he'd been bitten. Without another word he turned on his heel and headed in the direction of Kent's tent.

  Michael followed, shaking his head. He was in for a tough time it appeared. But it was worth it.

  They entered the tent, the scents of meat and wine strong. Kent sat at a high table, gorging on legs of fowl, crusts of bread and sugared tarts. He slurped wine from a pewter goblet, getting more on his chin and neck then into his mouth.

  "Sir Michael," he bellowed, before belching loudly. "Come stand before me, so that I may see who will lead my guard."

  The man was a pompous, disgusting excuse for a human being—and he would have thought that even if he didn't know the depths of Kent's cruel nature.

  Michael stepped to the table, and knelt, placing his hand over his heart. "You have my loyalty, my lord. I shall lead your men as you would see fit, and safeguard all that is yours."

  Kent grunted. "You will, or it will be your head. My men need a steady hand to guide them. There are a few who've gotten out of hand as of late—thinking themselves above me." The man shook his head, and took a large bite of an onion, chewing loudly. "You'll have to keep them in line. And be warned—I've many spies. Many ears and eyes to tell me all that goes on within my walls, my lands."

  The man was mistrustful. And with good reason, it would seem. Most everyone feared him—save the few knights he spoke of. Who were the knights he claimed put themselves above their liege lord? Men whose grandiose thoughts put them above their leaders should not be trusted.

  "My lord!" Bernard burst through the opening of the tent. He bowed his head, then before Kent beckoned him, the man came forth. "There is news. A raid upon the village last night. Two hovels were burned and a number of cows and sheep stolen."

  Kent growled. "Did they make way to the keep?"

  His fear and need for spies became even more apparent. His own people despised him.

  "No, my lord."

  Kent waved the man away. "What do I care then?"

  Bernard's face flashed disbelief before becoming placid. "My lord." He bowed and left, his gait stiff and belying his easy acceptance.

  "Sir Michael, we have numerous raids often. Kent is surrounded by heathens." The man took a gulp of wine and then burped, his lips quivering from the exertion.

  "What of your people?" Michael tried to keep the incredulity from his voice.

  "They can fend for themselves. I give them land to work, they should be pleased enough to protect what is mine."

  Bloody hell! The situation was worse than Michael thought. The man cared naught for his people at all.

  He had to try to gain as much information as he could, or he would be useless. "My lord, who are the heathens? The men who raid the village?"

  "Outlaws, the lot of them. Mostly starving peasants and disgruntled old servants or soldiers who I tossed off the land for their impudence."

  The man dealt fiercely and unjustly with his people. Was it a wonder they turned to attack their own when hungry? But why did they burn the hovels? Would they want those that suffered now, just as they once did, to agonize with further injustice?

  "And the knights who've disrespected you?"

  "Been dealt with."

  "Begging your pardon, my lord, but how can I protect your people if I know not who they are?"

  "They've been sufficiently chastised. You shall have to prove your worth, Sir Michael. You are captain now, earn their respect—earn mine. Go now and speak to Lady Kent. Inform her we leave at first light."

  "My lord." Michael bowed, glad for the excuse to leave the man's presence, and for the order to see to Elena.

  "One more thing, Devereux."

  Michael turned toward his new liege. "Aye, my lord?"

  "Keep your hands off my wife."

  Elena paced the small length of her tent awaiting word on their departure. Few stars shined in the black sky, covered by a haze of thin clouds. She had much to tell Michael before they departed to Kent Castle on the morrow, and she hoped to see him before they embarked.

  Outside the revelers were rowdier than ever trying to milk every last drop of the tourney that they could. She didn't blame them. If she could have enjoyed the festivities as they did she was sure to have been right in the thick of it. As it was, her stomach was tied into knots, and her head had long since gone numb from the ache.

  A rustle at the front of her tent drew her attention. Her ladies all turned wide eyes in the direction as Michael stepped into the tent.

  "Mi—" She stopped short, her heart ready to leap from her chest. Anyone could have seen him come inside. He risked too much. Her mouth went dry with fear.

  He smiled disarmingly. "There is no need to fear, my lady. Lord Kent has sent me to inform you we leave at first light."

  "Oh," she sighed. She stepped forward, her hand of its own volition stroking over his chest, before pulling back as though she'd been burned.

  Her ladies discreetly hid their faces and pretended nothing was amiss.

  "I shall ride near you on the morrow, provide as your escort," he said, his voice gravelly. "But for now, I must prepare my men, and make acquaintance with Kent's knights, which will prove to be a challenge, I'm sure. There was a raid on the village last night. We must take extra precaution with our caravan."

  Elena nodded. "There are often raids. I think you shall be shocked at the state of Kent Castle when we arrive."

  "I am not so sure I will, my lady." He stroked her cheek. "Seeing Kent away from his home, I imagine it is much worse on his own grounds."

  He leaned close as if he would kiss her, but bypassed her lips altogether. Instead, he whispered in her ear, "He's warned me away from you. We must be careful."

  And then he was gone. The tent was empty and cold without him, despite her six ladies and the small fire that warmed them.

  The following morning, a spring rain fell in a light drizzle, as though Mother Nature waited until the drunken revelry was over to wash the mess away.

  Michael sat atop Black, his muscular thighs hugging the sides of the horse, and his arms deftly maneuvering the reins. The man was truly a master at his craft.

  Elena pictured his hands as they stroked along her arms, the small of her back. Heat rushed to her cheeks and she glanced away, thankful for the small breeze that cooled her.

  Her mare shook her mane bringing Elena back to the present. Michael rode beside her. Her ladies rode at her back, Michael's three men behind them. Her husband and his men were well ahead of them, having ridden out at first light, leaving Michael to escort Elena back to Kent Castle. Although she was grateful for the privacy and time with Michael, she was all too aware of spying eyes along the
road. One never knew with Kent how many spies watched. How many spies waited to tell him lies and false secrets. More than one of her beatings had been from a lie pulled from the tortured lips of a servant.

  "Tell me, my lady, why was the tournament so far from Kent Castle?" Michael asked.

  "My lord husband feared a riot, and should we be far enough away from Kent, the castle and surroundings wouldn't suffer for it."

  "A riot? Do his people riot often?"

  "Not just his people—anyone. Men can become quite insensible with enough provocation and ale."

  Michael suppressed a harsh laugh at the offhanded comment. To Elena, the words she spoke were true and his laughter would not be welcome. She had suffered greatly at the hands of Kent's men, and Kent himself.

  "I see. 'Tis smart of his lordship. I suppose your people are happy he would protect them in such a way."

  Elena narrowed her brows at him. "Protect them?" She snorted. "They are more likely to riot than anyone else. Do you not recall he murdered a young boy yesterday? He protects only himself."

  Michael nodded grimly. He did remember. He'd purposefully not attended. As the new Captain of the Guard, he wanted to make it clear where he stood. Surely his actions had not gone unnoticed.

  "My apologies, Sir Michael. I fear I've become quite bitter over the last few years."

  "No need to apologize, my lady." Michael needed to change the subject. This ride to Kent would be another three hours and he wanted to see Elena happy. "I have news from Enniscorthy."

  Her face lit up for a moment and then faded. "What news?"

  "Your brother Richard has married young Lady Alyssa, they are expecting their first babe sometime around Michaelmas."

  A smile touched the corner of her lips, and she bowed her head, examining her hands. "He must be very happy and proud. Ho—how is my father?"

  Michael bit the inside of his cheek. What a fool he was to bring up the topic of home when it would surely bring her only more pain. "He is doing well, my lady."

  She nodded, jutting out her chin. "You can tell me the truth Michael. He was not himself when I left."