Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Nay. Nay,” Allegra forced herself to sound calm, forced the spots that danced before her eyes to disappear. She could not bring Maris into this mess until she thought how to handle it. “Maris is in the Village,” she explained, “And the ache in my head has gone.” She made a smile of her lips, and bravely turned to look at Michael.

  Oh, God, it’s Michael. After so many years, how have You delivered him to me?

  “May I offer my lord to bathe?” she said, trying not to sound too eager. “You are likely weary from your long journey.”

  “Aye, a bath would be more than I could hope for!”

  Allegra remembered their other guest and turned to the younger man. “I cannot attend thee myself, Sir Victor, but a bath will be prepared for you as well.”

  “’Twould be most welcome. Mayhaps Lady Maris could attend me,” Victor suggested.

  Merle spoke. “Maris is in the village, tending to the sick. I’ve sent a man‑at‑arms to fetch her, but likely she will not return until the evening meal.”

  “Very well,” Victor replied, his disappointment obvious.

  But Allegra gave little care to young man’s discomfort. One of the maids could see to him; there were plenty who would do. She had only one thought in her mind, and that was of Michael.

  Here. Now.

  Praying that her face didn’t show the high color that heated it, and that her husband had noticed nothing untoward, she led their guest out of the great hall to one of the large guest chambers.

  Moments later, they were alone except for the serfs, bringing buckets upon buckets of steaming water for his bath.

  Allegra could not stop her fingers from shaking as she unlaced Michael’s cross‑garters. She had to force her attention to the task, else her fingers would travel up the curve of his calves to relearn their strength.

  To touch him.

  How can this be? How can this be? Her mind chanted the phrase, echoing the incredulity that swept through her each time she looked at the man she had pined for, fantasized about, and begged God for since marrying Lord Merle more than seventeen years ago. How could he come here, be here…and plan to marry his son to his own daughter?

  Allegra tamped back the panic and instead centered her thoughts on the fact that he had finally come to her. That he was here.

  For of course. Michael did not know that Maris was his daughter. She’d tell him and then all would be well. And then, mayhap she could find some way to suggest Bon as a husband…. Nay. That she could not do. There would be another solution.

  Michael would see to it.

  A maidservant bustled about the small chamber, laying out a tunic and hose from Merle’s trunks to clothe Michael after his bath. Boys from the kitchen came and went with buckets of steaming water. Maella sprinkled dried lavender over the filling tub. The room was busy and crowded, so much so that it played upon Allegra’s nerves and it was all she could do to keep from screaming at them all to leave…to leave her alone with Michael.

  “Maella, go you to see that Verna has found the other tub and is serving Sir Victor,” she said at last, uncaring of the shrewd look her maidservant flashed at her.

  “Aye, my lady.” Maella reluctantly turned to leave, glancing at the two other maidservants who still assisted her mistress.

  No sooner had Maella brushed out the doorway than Allegra found other contrived excuses to send the remaining servants away…and at last she found herself alone with Michael.

  He rested comfortably in the tub that had been fashioned to hold a body as large as Merle’s, eyes closed restfully. A wad of soft linen propped his neck up from the rough wooden edge of the oval tub. Allegra knelt, folding his tunic, and watched as steam rose from the water. His fine blond hair was plastered to his neck, and the fine features she’d never forgotten were flushed with the heat. He breathed easily, and she allowed herself the luxury of remembering the warmth of his smooth, muscular chest.

  As she watched, one ice‑blue eye slowly opened and his gaze rested knowingly upon her. “At last,” he murmured as a smile quirked his generous mouth. “I’d given up hope that we should be alone.”

  “Aye,” Allegra breathed, clasping her hands in her lap to keep from stroking a thick lock of hair from his forehead.

  His eyes, both fully opened now, greedily looked over his former lover. She knew she was still a very beautiful woman, and when he shifted in the tub, turning slightly to the side she was gratified that his response to her was as obvious and immediate as it had been eighteen years ago. “You’ve not changed much at all, Allegra,” he said quietly.

  “Nor have thee.” Her chest swelled with love and affection, making it quite difficult to breathe.

  “Come, soap my back,” he invited, and sat fully upright.

  Allegra’s hands trembled as she drew a fine linen cloth from the water and over the large expanse of his back. There were more scars that marred its golden surface, and the ridges of muscle that she remembered were not as pronounced. But it was Michael.

  The strong lye soap that was usually used for bathing had been replaced by one of Maris’s specialties: a rosemary‑basil scented soap. Its minty smell pervaded the air, accented by the steam rising from the scented bathwater. Michael eased back into the tub so that Allegra could massage his hair with the same soap. And when he closed his eyes, she wanted nothing more than to lean over and press a kiss to his lips.

  She didn’t speak to him until she was nearly done scrubbing his body. Relearning every area, finding every new scar and marking.

  At last she broke the silence. “Michael, did you—did you not know that Merle is my husband? Did you not know whence you came that I would be here?”

  He stood at that moment, water cascading down the length of his slim, wiry body. Allegra’s breath caught in her throat, and she turned quickly to retrieve a cloth that had been warming by the fire. As he stepped onto a thick wool rug in front of the fireplace, he spoke, “Aye, my love, I’d hoped to see you again.”

  Her hands, wrapped in the towel, smoothed over his legs and upward to his buttocks. She could not think, could not make sense of what he was doing here….

  When she reached his chest, she caressed his shoulders with the towel. “Allegra,” he said softly.

  She tilted her head up and his arms suddenly wrapped around her waist, pulling her up against his body as he lowered his mouth to hers. With a moan of relief, she dropped the towel and found herself in his embrace. His damp body pressed into her bliaut and left marks at her breasts and thighs, and his arms slid into a taut band around her waist.

  She’d felt nothing like this in her years of marriage to Merle. Aye, he’d been patient and slow when he thought she was a virgin, and, aye, he’d been tender with her and passionate during the nights they coupled…but he’d not been able to spark her insides as Michael had ever done.

  His hands were on her breasts now, and his mouth left a moist trail on her neck. She felt his need pulsing against her thigh, and her hand slipped to touch him. Suddenly, they were on the floor in front of the fireplace, and she felt his hands moving up her legs. Michael’s weight pressed her head back onto the floor as he kissed her thoroughly. She was raising her hips to him even as he pushed her bliaut up to take two handfuls of bare breast and bring a nipple to his mouth. Allegra nearly screamed at the pleasure of it, her breath coming in small little pants.

  At last. At last.

  At the urging of his wicked fingers, she spread her legs and suddenly he filled her as he’d done eighteen years earlier. He breathed her name as his fingers threaded through the mass of curls that was her hair. Allegra raked her fingers down the length of his back, gouging his skin when she felt him climax, shuddering against her.

  Tears shimmered in her eyes when they opened as he pulled away to sit up moments later. “Michael…I have missed thee so,” she told him.

  He didn’t have a chance to answer, for at that moment Maella burst into the room, stopping short at the sight that greeted her. A
llegra had rolled to her knees as Michael left her body, but her hair and clothing were disheveled and there were wet marks on her bliaut.

  “Aye, Maella?” Allegra asked sharply to hide her guilt. She hadn’t thought to bolt the door, it had all happened so quickly. Her lips tight, she struggled to her feet. Knowing that her maidservant was loyal to her above all gave her the courage to act as if nothing had happened.

  “My lord Merle wishes to see you in the hall,” her servant told her pointedly. “He bade me finish bathing Lord d’Arcy and send you to speak with him.”

  “My lord Michael’s tunic and hose rest by the fire,” Allegra said with as much grace as she could muster as she fled the room.

  Maella, in turn, gave Michael a hard look as she proceeded to clothe him in silence.

  Chapter Eight

  That evening, Maris returned from the village in just enough time to change from an herb‑stained over‑tunic to a well‑laced bliaut of cinnamon‑colored wool with gold embroidery.

  Her day had been a fine one for the sun had shone gloriously, melting the snow into wet, sticky masses. She’d spent the morning in the herbary, preparing tonics and poultices for her latest trip into the Village. Then, her leather bag filled with dried herbs and small bottles of medicines and tonics, she slipped out of the dark keep into the sharp, clean air.

  Drawing a deep breath, Maris started across the bailey with brisk steps. The morning sun in her eyes, she nevertheless noticed her father’s men gathered to practice their art of warfare. She would have passed them by with naught but a bare glance except that her gaze was drawn to one mock battle.

  Maris stopped, curious, and recognized Dirick matched against Raymond of Vermille. Dirick had tossed his dark tunic aside and wore only a sleeveless linen pelisson and close‑fitting woolen chausses. The swords flashed, catching the rays of the sun with each twist and thrust, arms and legs moving in perfect accord.

  In spite of her other tasks, Maris’s attention focused on Dirick, admiring his grace and relentless power as he drove her father’s best swordsman back into the crowd of bystanders.

  She leaned against the stone wall, watching from the shadows. She couldn’t help but study every fluid motion as Dirick’s breeches clung and loosened, embraced and released his powerful legs. When the chausses tightened over his thighs during one forceful lunge, she swallowed deeply, her hand clutching the leather sack.

  Sweat gleamed on his tanned arms, trickling over the ridges of muscle and tendon to fling into the air as he parried Raymond’s skillful sword. Sun and shadow played over his huge arms and glistened on hair‑sprinkled forearms. Maris’s throat grated when she tried to swallow. He was beautiful, godlike, graceful…masculine.

  She could not pull her attention away, even when she felt her father’s gaze shift briefly to her. The dark‑haired warrior fought on, ignoring the bystanders, unaware of Maris’s own presence—even disregarding the thick hank of hair that dripped sweat into his eyes. Intensity furrowed his face. His eyes, hooded from the sun, did not waver from his opponent. Dirick’s full lips—those same ones that had so sweetly kissed her—were now tight with concentration, perfectly sculpted in his granite face. Chin thrust forward, he pushed a grunt of exertion from his chest, and veins and tendons coursed his neck as he rounded ferociously upon Raymond, driving him back, back, back—in one powerful pass.

  A sword clattered to the ground and with a bellow of triumph, Dirick raised his own weapon aloft, then dropped his arms to his sides and stood, breathing heavily. A victorious grin lit his face and he swiped the hair out of his eyes amid the whoops and hollers of the spectators.

  As he turned to acknowledge the ring of men clustered around him, Maris spun on her heel, hurrying away before he could notice her goggling at him. She rushed out of the bailey, barely greeting the guards at the portcullis, and hastened into the Village.

  Though she busied herself for the rest of the day by visiting the ill and making suggestions to the village goodwives, Maris’s thoughts returned again and again to the powerful, agile knight. She’d spent time with him, teasing and conversing as if he were little but a squire or an ordinary man-at-arms…but now…now she could see him as naught but a fierce warrior, harsh and ruthless, relentless…formidable…manly.

  Her breaths became shallow. A warrior had kissed her with gentleness. ’Twas impossible to reconcile the tenderness and warmth of that kiss after seeing what great strength he owned.

  Maris brushed her fingers over her own lips, remembering the surprise of desire welling inside her on that crisp, cold day. Even the memory of it made her fingers tremble. And she knew he would kiss her again, given the chance. That truth had been evident in his gaze yesterday, when she sat to play chess with him. She swallowed, remembering the heat smoldering in those thick‑lashed, silver‑black eyes.

  Another truth became known to her, suddenly and with a shock of heat. Should he try to kiss her again, she would not deny him. Maris shivered.

  A noise behind her jerked Maris’s thoughts back to the present, back to her chamber, where she was dressing for dinner.

  Verna stood beside her, offering a wimple and looking at her with an odd expression. Pulling to her feet, she took the wisp of cloth and started from her chamber.

  Hurrying down the dark stone stairs, she tucked her thick hair into the sheer wimple, and entered the hall just as the meal began. As she pushed her way among the serfs that served the food, and between the rows of trestle tables, Maris saw the two strange men sitting with her parents and Sir Dirick on the dais. Her heart leapt into her throat and she almost stopped in the center of the hall. Could the man her father intended for her have arrived so soon?

  Merle rose as Maris approached the table. “Ah, at last, my daughter joins us.”

  “I’m sorry to be late, Papa,” she said as she made a neat curtsey. Although she didn’t look up, she felt the absence of Dirick’s attention on her, and at the same time, the weight of attention from the newcomers.

  “Come dearling, let me make you known to Lord Michael d’Arcy of Gladwythe,” and he continued, “…and his son, Sir Victor.”

  The emphasis Merle placed on those last words was enough to confirm her suspicion. Victor d’Arcy was the man he’d chosen for her betrothed. The band of discomfort tightened around her chest and she found herself hardly able to swallow past the lump in her throat.

  When she glanced at her father before turning to greet the men, she saw a hint of warning in his eyes, an expectation that she should act accordingly.

  Maris masked her anxiety and extended her hand first to Lord Michael and then to his son. The elder d’Arcy seemed to hold her fingers longer than necessary before pressing a kiss to her palm.

  Victor clasped her hand lightly, and his lips brushed the inside of her wrist. “My lady, I have already prepared the most tender pieces of capon and removed all bones from the fish,” he told her, patting the seat between himself and her father.

  Maris leaned over before taking her seat to greet the other guest at table. “Good evening, Sir Dirick,” she said.

  “My lady,” he replied. His gaze was cool and flat, as if they were strangers and had never even spoken.

  Stung by his curtness, Maris sank onto her seat next to Victor and forced herself to smile at him. Steeling all of her composure, she gathered her wits and courage and dutifully began to play the part in which she’d been cast.

  Edwin Baegot entered the great hall of Breakston’s keep to find his friend and lord, Bon de Savrille, in an uproar.

  “At last he deigns to grace us with his presence!” Bon bellowed drunkenly when Edwin was announced.

  The man was sprawled on a heavy oaken chair that would have rivaled Henry Plantagenet’s throne had someone the urge to move them side by side. His buff‑colored tunic, embroidered with red stags and stallions, was stained and hung haphazardly over his broad shoulders. The cross‑garters that should have kept the hose fitted to his legs had drooped into a pile just above
his ankles.

  “Greetings, my lord,” Edwin gave a short little bow, then turned to help himself to a cup of ale.

  “What news of my bride have you?” demanded Bon, sitting straighter in his chair. “It has been a se’ennight since I left you in Langumont.”

  “My lord,” Edwin paused and swallowed. The news he bore would not be well-received. He looked about to see what might be within arms’ reach of his friend and could be flung at him.

  But before he could speak, Bon shouted, “My lute, Agnes, fetch me my lute!”

  A curvaceous young woman with a long purple scar on her face hurried to do his bidding. She brought the instrument forward and knelt at his feet, rubbing her head against his leg as a kitten.

  “Ah, my lady love…” Bon sighed, his bleary eyes gazing into the distance. “How I pine for her! Edwin, by my troth, I cannot wait for much longer to have my hands on that delicious piece.” He strummed a chord on the lute, his face taking on a mournful expression. “’Twas, at the first, her lands—my lands—that I wished to regain. But now” —another chord accompanied his wistful words— “’tis more than mere wealth.”

  There was silence as Bon slopped another long gulp of wine down his throat, nevertheless taking care not to spill any on the beautifully carved lute. He pulled the goblet away with a gusty sigh. “My lust for material goods has grown to full, mature love, Edwin,” Bon told him earnestly, his lips and tongue thick with drink, his gaze foggy. “I cannot live without her….”

  Edwin rolled his eyes and finished off more ale. He might as well drink and relax, for the bad news would wait on the morrow.

  Although, come to think of it, telling Bon that Lady Maris was to be wed to a man of Merle Lareux’s choice on the morrow when the man was recovering from tonight’s overindulgence could be painful.

  Edwin looked up. God’s bones, his master was a pussy when he imbibed in too much wine. He would have to ask the castellan to stop importing that red wine from Bordeaux—it made Bon impossible to live with. He was glad English‑brewed ale did not affect his master in such a way.