Once Upon a Knight

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  This was a strange man clad in a rich blue tunic and mantle, carrying, of all things, a potted rose. His look was familiar, though had he not been carrying the rose, she might have been frightened. But the miniature rose, along with his resemblance to Aleth, gave his identity away. At once, she recalled him from her first visit to Lontaine. A smile came to her instantly, acknowledging his heartfelt gift, for despite that Adelaine was gone, he had kept his promise to her.

  “I bring good tidings and a belated gift,” the man said with a smile.

  “Dear Rolfe, you have my gratitude,” she told him. “Though I plan to put the rose upon Adelaine’s grave when I may.”

  “I thought to do that myself,” he returned, “but in the end decided that honor belongs to ye, my lady.”

  She peered about, searching for his men, searching for Aleth perhaps, but it seemed he had come alone. Chrestien wondered if he had come along with Henry and his men. Her brow furrowed. “Did you arrive with Henry perhaps?”

  He shook his head, smiling as he neared. Once he was beside her, he handed her the rose, turning to look in the direction of Lontaine where the sun was setting behind the high tower.

  It was then Chrestien spied the scar upon his cheek. It lay just below the high cheekbone and was pink and newly healed.

  Aubert’s words came to her suddenly, ringing in her ears: ’Twas a nasty gash ye gave him, Chrestien—just below the eye. Another inch and ye would have plucked out his black eye.

  She looked into his eyes. They were black.

  “It was you,” she said with sudden comprehension.

  Clearly, he understood what she was saying, for a wicked smile turned the corners of his mouth and without warning, he reached out to snatch her from her mount. The pot of roses fell from her grasp, crashing to the ground.

  The great hall was filled to overflowing with the king’s company. There were more men about than it seemed possible for the moderate-sized hall to accommodate.

  Weston eyed the circular staircase, hoping to see Chrestien emerge from the arched entrance. He knew she was no longer in her father’s chamber, because when he took Henry to it to show him where his quarters would be, he was surprised to find it impeccable and prepared with fresh rushes and new wood in the brazier. It was a gesture he didn’t mistake and appreciated beyond measure. He knew how difficult it must be to accept Henry into her good graces despite the enmity she must feel for him.

  He’d thought to go up to her chamber and announce her grandsire’s arrival, but decided against it. She would still be angry, if he knew Chrestien—and he fancied he did. And he did not wish to subject her grandsire to an unseemly quarrel. Nay, it was better to give her time to calm herself and then reason with her later. But an hour had gone by without an appearance from her and Weston knew she must have heard the clamor below by now.

  “Will my granddaughter be down soon? I am anxious to see her,” Grey asked.

  “We didn’t come all this way just to see your pretty face,” Henry jested.

  Michel laughed heartily, and Weston chuckled, motioning for Aubert to come up from the lower tables. “I was thinking the same. But never fear, I shall have her brother fetch her straightaway. ’Tis about time you met the lad.”

  “Excellent,” Grey said, his eyes widening at Aubert’s approach. “Good God! He is indeed Gilbert’s son,” he said as Aubert stepped upon the dais.

  Weston smiled knowingly. “Aubert, this man to my left is Chrestien’s grandsire, Baron Grey.”

  Though surprise lit his eyes, Aubert acknowledged the older man with a smile and a tip of his head.

  “We have much to speak about,” Grey interjected.

  “I would have you fetch Chrestien,” Weston said, then drew Aubert closer and whispered for his ears alone, “Please tell her privately about her grandsire—that he has come. And tell her that, if she will but smile through this evening, I shall owe her her heart’s desire.”

  “Do you mean to bribe her?” Michel teased, overhearing.

  Weston frowned at his good friend. “We’ll not use that word, but aye, do it, Aubert.”

  Aubert nodded, and made his way through the tangle of tables. As Weston watched him retreat, he dared to hope Chrestien would submit to this one request. His thoughts drifted to his wife as he’d left her in the morn.

  He had not seen her since their argument and this moment, he craved her face more than he did his next breath. Impossible to have guessed how much she would come to mean to him and he knew in his heart that he would find a way to do all within his power to please her—unfortunately, that didn’t include keeping their guests out of her father’s chamber.

  He winced as he recalled her anger, but it was followed quickly by a smile, for despite her fury, she had comported herself as a lady should, preparing her father’s room for their guest. For that, he would reward her generously… and he knew precisely how to please her… while pleasing himself in the meantime. He couldn’t wait to taste the nectar of her sweet body.

  Henry’s voice broke into his reverie. “I can see you are quite contented, my friend. Do you thank me now, or will you be stubborn as ever and deny that you are pleased?”

  “He will be stubborn, of course, Your Majesty,” Michel said, goading Weston, even in the presence of their king.

  Weston took a swig of ale before answering, letting the curiosity fester. “Sorry to disappoint, but I will not be stubborn,” he imparted, eyeing Michel. Now that they were all face-to-face, he would know the truth. “But tell me, Your Majesty... what prompted you to command such an edict?”

  Henry’s eyes twinkled. “Alas, as much as I know you would like to blame Michel, it was his idea originally.” He waved a hand at Baron Grey. “The man has no heirs. That is, no sons, and his eldest daughter died years ago in childbirth—her lord husband is a lily-livered coward.”

  The baron sighed, and continued, “Alas, my second daughter perished of a wasting illness… and my third is pledged to the Church. I have been cursed, but the fault is my own.” His eyes fell into the goblet he held and he drained his cup, seemingly unable to continue.

  Henry gave Weston a knowing look. “Chrestien’s mother was his fourth child, and until now… it seemed there would be no one to hold his title.”

  “I am dying,” the old man said without preamble. “My days are marked.”

  “I am sorry,” Weston offered.

  “Do not be.” Grey set his goblet down and indicated for a servant to refill it. “I deserve all that I have been plagued with. The truth is I never acknowledged Elizabeth’s daughters,” he admitted with marked regret. “I never forgave Gilbert for her death. She was my favorite, you see. I let her marry de Lontaine because... well, because whatever my Elizabeth would ask of me, I could not deny her. And once she was gone from this life, I could not bear to be reminded of her.”

  “Elizabeth was quite beautiful,” Henry interjected. “I cannot wait to see her daughter. In any case… Baron Grey needed a strong hand to protect his lands... and, well, you were as yet unwed. ’Twas destiny at hand,” he avowed. “For your letter arrived as the good baron and I were determining the girl’s future and the fate of his lands.”

  “I have many regrets, FitzStephen. For one, would that I had come sooner,” Grey lamented. “For I wish I could have known Adelaine as well.” His eyes grew melancholy. “But what is done, is done, and I’d make it up to Chrestien... for all that I have done—and all that I have not done.”

  Aubert appeared at Weston’s side then, without Chrestien and Weston immediately assumed she’d denied his request.

  But Aubert’s grim expression told him there was more to the story. “She is gone,” he said, with a worried catch to his voice even before he reached the dais.

  “What do you mean gone?” Weston repeated incredulously.

  Aubert shook his head. “Not there, my lord. I was told she was seen leaving the castle more than two hours past.”

  Weston launched from his seat. “I
swear to God! I will have someone’s arse for not telling me sooner!” He shot out the door, retrieved his mount from the stable and stopped only long enough to question the gatekeeper. “Since my lady was a child, she has ridden out daily to visit the villein and to ride her gelding,” the gatekeeper said. “I did not believe there was aught amiss, my lord.”

  “You'd best pray she finds herself well,” he told the man. The look on his face was full of fear, but Weston felt his own fear rise up from the pit of his belly.

  Today was different, he sensed. Knowing they were expecting guests, she should have returned long before now. He did not believe she was so belligerent as to leave him to entertain their guests alone, no matter how she felt about the king.

  The sky was darkening and the wind turned bitter. At heart he realized that it made little sense that she would plan a sumptuous meal and set Henry’s chamber to rights then miss the evening meal simply to spite him.

  Something was wrong.

  With a feeling of dread, Weston rode from the gates as though the devil himself were at his heels, taking the lead and leaving all in his wake as he rode.

  The meadow was devoid of life. The parklands seemed forsaken beyond the glow of Lontaine's torches. A chill had entered the night air and the sky had darkened to violet against the horizon.

  To his dismay, he found Lightning untethered by a small copse of trees, wandering alone. She would never leave him, he knew.

  And then his heart stopped when he spied the red puddle on the ground a few yards away. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was not blood, but a rose.

  Aubert reined in beside him, his face pale. “My lord… Chrestien would never abandon her horse.” He stared at the rose petals. “She’s in danger. I sense it.”

  Henry, Michel, and Baron Grey surrounded him as the breeze picked up, causing the tiny petals to swirl into the breeze. As Weston stood there, watching their bright color stir from the colorless ground, he knew fear for the first time in his life.

  The room was dark, lit only by a sliver of moonlight shining through a tiny tower window. But the silvery light fell well away from Chrestien, leaving her seated in the shadows and illuminating naught but a bare section of wall.

  There was little she could see to help her determine her whereabouts. It was night, she knew, but that was all she could discern. But how long had she been here? She could not recall. Rolfe had cuffed her upon the head and then had carried her to some place she did not know. This was certainly not Lontaine, nor was it Montagneaux. And clearly, he had not been sent by Weston.

  Instinctively, she tried to move her hand to soothe her aching head and it was then she realized her hands were bound with heavy rope. The coarseness of it bit into her benumbed flesh when she pulled at it and she resigned herself to the wait as she attempted to calm the melee in her head.

  She concentrated on what she did know: She was lying upon a dirty bed in a dark room somewhere she didn’t recognize. It was night. Weston should by now have realized she was gone and he would be searching for her. Even if her absence from Lontaine did not sound alarm, they would find her mount and know she would never leave her cherished gelding. At least Aubert would know. And the villein would tell them that she had not visited them, for her mood had been too sour to afflict it upon the innocents.

  How much time had passed?

  Her belly grumbled fiercely in protest, although she could not say she was hungry in the least. In truth, she felt sick to her stomach and afraid for her life.

  Mayhap Rolfe had not killed Adelaine with his bare hands, but he had certainly intended them harm—as he had the first time—and no one suspected him. But why? What had she done to him? Naught that she could discern. And Adelaine had spoken well of him, so he could have had no quarrel with her gentle sister.

  The answers all eluded her.

  But it wasn’t long before her captor made his appearance.

  The door creaked in warning and Chrestien closed her eyes and prayed.

  His footsteps were heavy. The sound echoed cruelly in her ears. When they stopped so near, she knew he was looking down upon her. Bright light danced beyond her closed lids. A rush of air fled past her cheek as something soft fluttered onto the bed.

  Sweet Jesu, she prayed. Give me strength!

  Somehow, despite her fear, she managed to peer through her lids just enough to see him hazily, but the slight flitter of her lashes gave her away, even in the grim shadows.

  “So we’ve come back to the living, have we?” Rolfe’s voice was a sneer, and when she opened her eyes, she could see him clearly by the light of the pitch torch he held in his hand. The light brought swirls of color before her weary eyes.

  “I thought I’d killed ye,” he said simply, without a trace of emotion. In fact, he sounded much as though he thought her more trouble than she was worth. “I’ve brought ye a change of clothing... there on the bed.” He indicated a pile of cloth that lay beside her.

  A flash of silver swept before her eyes and she dodged it, blinking instinctively to avoid it. “Why have you brought me here?”

  She moaned, closing her eyes against the pain in her head and the nausea that threatened to rise with her fear.

  “Because this is where ye belong, my lady,” he said, with so much emphasis upon the word my that it made her stomach roil.

  With the poniard he held in his hand, he proceeded to sever the cord binding her wrist and she winced. The flesh of her arms tingled oddly, and she tried to rub them, but somehow could not. She had little control over her benumbed hands. It was as though they belonged to someone else.

  How long had she been here?

  “You should have been mine,” he told her simply. “Ye should have come to me... and were I lord of Montagneaux, ye would have been offered to me first.”

  “Nay,” she countered, “I would have gone to no man as my father pledged me to the Church.”

  “Ah, yes, and is that why you let Henry’s Wolf put his cock inside you? Because you were pledged to Holy Church?”

  Chrestien shuddered over the way he looked at her. “You are vile!” she spat.

  Rolfe’s answering laughter was wild, without reason, and Chrestien decided she would not argue with him further. The man was mad!

  His laughter ceased abruptly and he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “At any rate, if not you, it would have been your sister. There is naught different between the two of ye... save that now she is dead and ye are not.”

  Tears welled in Chrestien’s eyes. “You killed her!” she accused him. “And for what?”

  He shrugged. “For Lontaine, of course. It was my birthright and your whoreson father stole it from me.”

  “You lie! Aleth bequeathed it to my father.”

  He smiled thinly, ignoring the truth. “I think it only fitting that Gilbert's daughter should repay his debts. Don’t you?”

  “What do you have to gain through me?” Chrestien asked him. “I have already taken my vows and King Henry will never give you what you want.”

  He smiled again, and for a fleeting moment his eyes took on a gentle, yearning look. “I’ll not harm ye,” he promised, his fingers coming to rest upon her cheek.

  It was all Chrestien could do to keep from recoiling at his touch as he fondled her cheek with his thumb. She cringed, the muscles in her neck tightening with fear.

  “Mayhap I cannot wed with ye, but you will be all to me a ladywife should,” he said wistfully.

  Chrestien shook her head, horrified by the prospect. “I am already wed!”

  He seized her by the hair. “You will obey me,” he demanded angrily.

  Dear God, he did not mean to ransom her. He intended to keep her here. “Nay, I’ll not!” she swore and would have screamed, but knew the futility of it, for she knew instinctively that wherever he had brought her, there would be no ears to hear her screams. And from the looks of the room he had placed her, this demesne had not seen the warmth of love in decades.

  “A
h, but ye will,” he swore. “Time will make ye mine, Chrestien... for you will never leave these tower walls.”

  “You cannot keep me locked away forever,” she said, unable to mask the contempt she felt. As the prickling sensation ebbed from her wrists, she felt a sudden rush of pain and cried out. But she would not cry—refused to give him the satisfaction of breaking her spirit. Somehow she would find a way to escape from here. Somehow.

  “’Tis merely the blood rushing back into your wrists,” he revealed. “The feeling will pass.”

  His hand returned to her cheek and she turned her face from him. Once again his hand wound itself in a lock of her hair, jerking her closer. “Never turn from me again!” he warned. Then he suddenly released her and sat beside her upon the bed. His voice was a pleading whisper, as he brought his lips to her face, his mood changing abruptly without reason.

  He bent his head to hers and tears flooded her eyes as he tried to pry her mouth open with his tongue, forcefully bringing its disgusting wetness into her mouth. When she would not yield sufficiently, he bit down upon her lip with blade-sharp teeth, cutting until she could taste the salt of her own blood. She opened to him then with a cry of fright and his kiss turned gentle, belying the roughness of his handling. It did naught to ignite the fire she had known with Weston. She cringed when he moved to her neck, exploring there…

  “Please,” she begged, and when it seemed he would not cease, she began to sob in earnest and his kisses ceased abruptly. He buried his face in her hair, straining to control his desire, trembling with the potency of it. She recognized that now.

  Once he composed himself again there was no tenderness in his gaze. His teeth were clenched and his twitching lip betrayed his barely contained fury. “There will be a time, Chrestien, when you will welcome my touch—plead for it, even. There will be a time,” he warned. “Because, indeed, ye will never leave here,” he reiterated as he rose.

  And he turned away, giving a sudden peal of laughter that chilled her to the bone.

  “Weston will come for me,” she assured him with more confidence than she felt. “And when he does, he will kill you.”