Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “It was a more memorable moment in my history,” Maris admitted with a wry smile, “though I would never choose the words ‘tripping blithely’ to describe our hasty departure.” She took a sip of wine, wondering that Dirick had such familiarity with the queen that he should tell her of his own misfortune. ’Twas a testament to his own cocksureness that he would freely share of an event in which he was bested by a woman. “My lady, how may I assist you?”

  “’Tis a minor affliction, Lady Maris—naught but an ache to my ear. I often have the same complaint during the winter months, and most often, the leeches or physicians direct me to soak my feet in a bath of hot water with ground mustard seeds.” She settled back into her chair, her gaze direct upon Maris whilst her fingers stroked the tassel of her girdle. “‘Tis not the most convenient treatment and I but search for another answer to this illness.”

  Maris nodded her head in understanding. She found it not at all surprising that the beautiful and regal Eleanor of Aquitaine would not wish to do something as ungainly as to soak her bare feet, particularly among her ladies and courtiers. “Tell me, does the pain in your ear feel like the beat of a drum, or more like a sharp pinch of pain?”

  “’Tis most like the beat of a drum, far inside my ear.”

  “Is it accompanied with a sound like the peal of a bell as well?”

  “Nay.”

  “And, tell me, your majesty, have you any other complaints at the same time you have this ache of the ear?”

  “Nay.”

  Maris rose. “With your permission, I’ll prepare a remedy that will be easily and discreetly administered, and mayhap even decrease the frequency of the affliction.”

  Eleanor nodded, watching with hawk eyes as Maris delved into her leather satchel, and then into the smooth wooden box. She withdrew a small knife, a small, empty bottle with a tight cork stopper, a second, larger bottle, and a fruit that looked like a small, bulging onion. Watching Maris peel the crisp, white skin from the onion, Eleanor asked, “Is that not a garlic?”

  “Aye,” Maris looked up in surprise. “’Tis not a common fruit here in England, though it is popular near the Holy Lands. Other healers I haven spoke with complain of its rank smell, though I rather like it. It has many uses aside of which I will show you today.”

  “I have seen it on my own Crusade to the Holy Land,” the queen told her as Maris used the little knife to crush then chop a clove of garlic. A pungent smell pervaded the room.

  Maris adjusted her long sleeve and reached for the large bottle. “Your majesty, I’ll pour a small amount of this oil over the chopped garlic in a small vial. You should pour a tiny drop of this oil into the ear which pains you one time in the morning, and one time in the evening until the ache is gone.” She scraped the chopped garlic into the smaller bottle, then added a generous amount of oil. Using the cork to stop the vial, she shook it briskly, then offered it to the queen.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Eleanor took the bottle, studied it, then set it upon the table next to her.

  Expecting to be dismissed, Maris gathered up her equipment and packed it away.

  Thus, the queen’s words took her by surprise. “Dirick of Derkland speaks well of you, Lady Maris.”

  Unable to control the color that once more rose in her face, Maris kept her attention on the silken cord she wrapped around her wooden box. Her fingers became clumsy and would not cooperate as she sought to tie the knot. She did not know how to respond to the queen. Indeed, she was not altogether sure that Eleanor required a response.

  It seemed that she did not. “Are you promised, Lady Maris?”

  Maris looked up into an intent gaze. “My father arranged a betrothal but he was killed before the ceremony could take place. I do not know—I do not believe that the contracts were signed.”

  Eleanor steepled her fingers. “Very good. I thank you for your service. Payment shall be rendered to you.” She smiled. “You may go.”

  Maris pushed back her hood, letting the spring breeze caress her face. She tilted her face toward the sun, eyes closed. It felt heavenly to be out of the dark castle and away from the busy, smelly streets of London.

  Hickory nickered next to her, as if to agree with her mistress’s unspoken thoughts. They were wading through the tall grass of a meadow just outside of the city, harvesting herbs to replenish the ones Maris had used throughout the winter. Sir Raymond of Vermille, along with three other men‑at‑arms from Langumont, stood in the road at the edge of the meadow, idly watching over his mistress.

  Pleased to see that the bright blue chicory was already blooming, Maris pulled several plants from the soil, shaking dirt from the heavy roots. They were sturdy plants with bristly leaves and finely‑haired stems and were good for many uses. She cut the roots and wrapped them in thick cotton sleeves to later be brewed into a light tonic, then stuffed the leaves into a different cotton bag. The leaves were useless when dried, so fresh ones were always of value when available.

  She strolled further across the meadow, toward a smattering of trees where she suspected raspberry bushes grew. Those leaves created the best tea, along with peppermint, for breeding women. The tea eased nausea and helped the babe root itself firmly inside the mother. As she reached the line of shade from tall oak trees with branches that spread across the sky, she noticed the shiny, dark green leaves and pale pink buds of a familiar herb.

  Maris stopped, crouching in the cluster of the ground‑covering plant, and stilled her hands. Bearberry, the leaves of which she and Sir Dirick had gathered one chill winter afternoon. The scene, with all of its vibrant color, had imprinted itself upon her memory: she’d been clutching those thick, padded leaves, and he’d tossed the bright red berries over the snow before drawing her to his mouth for the warmth of a first kiss.

  A pang of heat hummed through her as she remembered the sweetness and fire of that meeting of mouths…and how on later occasions the demands of his lips had coaxed a more compelling response, her limbs becoming liquid and her heart thudding heavily in her breast. Drawing a shaky breath, Maris plucked a few leaves, running her calloused finger over their smoothness.

  Try as she might, as furious as she might be with him, Sir Dirick’s face and presence had not been far from her mind since…aye, since the eve he’d nearly trampled her with his prized destrier. She lowered her rump to the ground, sitting surrounded by tall grasses and shaded by the oak trees. Her fingers were busy, tearing the leaves into halves and pulling the petals from the flower buds, even as her thoughts rambled through the range of emotions he evoked in her: anger at his complicity with Bon de Savrille…warmth and passion from his kisses…laughter and smiles from their bantering in the stables…and, increasingly, an unsettling fear for the depth of her emotions, from her inability to forget Dirick for more than a short time.

  Was it possible? Could she love him?

  Maris closed her eyes tightly, trying to block away the unwelcome thought. Even if she did—God in heaven!—love him, even if it were true, there was naught she could do about it. Her life and lands belonged to King Henry to do with as he would. He’d never bestow the well‑landed heiress of Langumont upon a mere knight—no matter how much Dirick amused him.

  Something obstructed the glare of the sun, and her eyes sprang open. A figure, a man, sat on a horse just in front of her, casting his shadow over her. Blinded by the blazing sun, at first she did not recognize him—but then he spoke.

  “Lady Maris,” his voice was familiar, purring—and unwelcome. “May I assist you to your feet?”

  Bon de Savrille!

  Strangling a cry of surprise, Maris started to her feet, caught herself in her skirts, and tumbled back into the tall grasses. Lord Bon loomed over her, but she still could not see his features for the glare of the sun behind him. A large, blunt‑fingered hand reached down from the saddle and clasped her arm, pulling her easily to stand.

  “Where did you come from?” she spoke at last, looking surreptitiously about for Sir Raymond. />
  “Do you not fear,” Bon said as his mount danced aside, blocking the sun so that she could see him. “Your men-at-arms are near—I did not come from the road, but through the forest whence I saw you start across the meadow.”

  “What do you here in London?” Maris was not able to comprehend his sudden appearance.

  “My lady, you are never far from my thoughts…an’ in turn, I did not wish to be far from your person.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Only you, my lady.”

  “Bon, I—”

  A far‑off shout reached their ears, and both turned to see Sir Raymond and his companions galloping across the field toward them.

  “Ah, your saviors come.” Before she could react, Bon took one of her hands and, inclining his head, brought her fingers swiftly to his lips. “I’ll have you, my lady, if ’tis the last action I make on this earth. I find I cannot live without you. Though you nearly murdered me with your poisons, you are the water this thirsty man must sip, the meat this starving man must partake…and, make no mistake, you will be mine—lands or no.”

  And with that, just as her escort came thundering up, Bon wheeled his mount and cantered off into the forest.

  “My lady, are you hurt? Shall we go after him?” Raymond reined in next to her.

  “Nay, I am well,” Maris replied, still stunned at Bon’s sudden appearance and disappearance.

  “Did you know that man?”

  She nodded. “Aye, that was none other than Bon de Savrille of Breakston.”

  “What?” Raymond would have started after him had Maris not raised her hand to halt him.

  “Nay, Raymond, do you not trouble yourself. He did not harm me, or even threaten me—except with his desire to have my person.” She giggled, as much with relief as mirth. “I do believe Lord Bon is quite harmless, as he could easily have swept me up and away with him. And, in truth, I prefer him to wed over Lord Victor.” Her smile faded at the ugly memory of his advances two nights earlier.

  “Will Lord Victor press his suit with the king?” Sir Raymond asked, alighting from his steed. He stood close to Maris, protectively, and they stepped away from the other three men.

  She drew in a deep breath. “Pray God he does not, else I’d as lief be a traitor or a murderess before I’ll share his bed!”

  Raymond dashed a glance about, as if to be aware of unseen ears. “Nay, Lady, ne’er should you compromise yourself thus. ’Tis I who would free you from such an unwelcome match, know you this.” His gaze did not waver. “I should be branded murderer in your stead.”

  “Sir Raymond—”

  “It was your father’s wish, lady.”

  She looked up a him, confused. “What say you, sir? It was my father who arranged for my contract with Victor d’Arcy.”

  Raymond shielded his eyes from the sun that glared from behind her. His rugged face settled into serious lines and he drew her further from the rest of her escort. “Lady, your papa saw his error in promising you to Victor and had taken steps to reverse his offer whence we came to free you from Breakston. He sent me with a missive to his majesty on the chance that he’d not live through the battle ahead to retract the betrothal himself.”

  “An’ he did not.” Maris’s words were pained. Tears welled in her eyes for the loss of the person she’d loved most in the world.

  “Nay, he did not…an’ I am thus torn that I was not there to cover his back in the battle, brief though ’twas, for they opened the gates as soon as the men nocked their bows. But instead of being there, I brought the message to the king. I was your father’s man, and I am now your man for my life.”

  She rested a hand on his muscular arm. “Thank you, Raymond, I thank you for your words. I could not bear to think that I would go against my father’s wishes if I were to fight the betrothal contract. Now, at the least, I know that his spirit is with me ere I do.”

  He squinted into the lowering sun. “Let us back to the castle, my lady. Eventide draws near.”

  She nodded, suddenly elated at the thought of returning to the city. Doubtless, she would share the evening meal with her friends Judith and Madelyne…and, mayhap, chance to speak with Dirick of Derkland.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Sir Dirick, would you not play the lute for us?” Lady Gladys simpered, looking at him over the rim of her goblet. “Her Majesty praises your talent.”

  He forced his attention from the entrance to the Great Hall. Why had Maris not come to dinner? “Aye, my lady, how could one not have great talent when faced with such inspiration?” His lips curved into a smile that he did not feel as he pulled a leg from the goose offered by a page. The leg twisted easily from the roasted fowl, juices running down into the trencher he shared with Gladys. “Do you wish some, my lady?” he asked, avoiding a commitment to honor her request.

  “Aye, my lord, as you prepare it so prettily.” She gave him a coy glance that failed to stir even the slightest response from him, and tore a small piece of bread from the trencher.

  Even as he passed the meat to his dining companion, Dirick’s gaze scanned the room, searching yet again for the absent Maris. He sought, and found, Lord Victor and his father, who sat several tables further from the royal dais than he did. Their presence, at the least, soothed some of his concern as to why she was not at dinner. But, just as he brought his wine to his mouth, he noticed a man seated near the rear of the hall, where naught but the meanest men-at-arms were seated. Dirick froze and returned the goblet to the table, rising to his full height in surprise. Aye, ’twas him. Bon de Savrille.

  The bastard should have been disseizened from Breakston after his abduction of Maris, but the king had yet to do so—a fact that annoyed Dirick to no end.

  And what in the name of Christ was the man doing here, when he hadn’t been to court for years? Dirick was certain he knew the answer.

  “What is it, Sir Dirick?” Gladys asked from next to him.

  He barely heard her as he stepped over the trestle bench with the barest glance at her. “Pardon, my ladies,” he muttered to the table at large, pushing hastily around a page holding a pitcher of wine.

  Dirick made his way to Bon de Savrille’s side in moments, ignoring the surprised murmurs of the other man’s table companions when he barged along behind them. “What do you here?” he demanded, placing a firm hand on Bon’s soft, broad shoulder

  The other man craned his head around, then nearly fell back off the bench in surprise. “You!”

  Dirick did not remove his hand. Instead, he slid his grip down to Bon’s upper arm and propelled him away from his dinner seat. “What have you done with her?”

  “Take your hands from my person,” growled Bon, making a great show of brushing crumbs of bread from his tunic. When he finished arranging his clothing, he held a dagger in one hand.

  Dirick stilled. Blood rushed through his limbs and he became aware that the attention of several men-at-arms from the table was focused upon them. A glint of steel winked in the torchlight, barely flickering as Bon held the blade steadily under his nose. Dirick forced himself to breathe normally, gathering his wits enough to look at the handle of the knife gripped tightly in the hand of the combative man before him.

  “What say you sir?” sneered Bon. “You demand answers from me when ’tis you who availed yourself of my hospitality under false pretenses.”

  Dirick jerked his gaze to a point behind Bon, reaching to the side as if to catch something. The ruse worked and the other man lost concentration, letting his glance shift away from Dirick for the barest of moments. It was enough to suit Dirick’s purpose as he lifted his knee in a powerful thrust, ramming Bon’s wrist and sending the dagger scuttling to the floor. He stepped closer to him, setting his jaw and muttering between clenched teeth, “What have you done with her?”

  Bon grasped the front of Dirick’s tunic and shoved him aside. “Leave me to finish my meal.”

  Before Bon could return to his seat, Dirick clamped a hand on his should
er and yanked him back. “Where is Lady Maris?”

  “Step back, cockspittle.” He shook off Dirick’s hand and swung.

  Dirick ducked, aware that more attention had turned to them. He grabbed Bon’s tunic and dragged him so that they were chest to chest. Ale from his breath blasted into his face, and Dirick could see a piece of meat stuck between Bon’s two front teeth. “By God’s bones, man, tell me what you’ve done with Lady Maris.”

  Bon shoved hard and succeeded in pushing Dirick off-balance. “I’ve naught to say to you, sirrah, that cannot be said with the steel of my knife. An’ I’ll gladly speak to you with that.”

  “I vow, if you’ve laid a finger on her person, I’ll carve you into little pieces—”

  “’Tis just as well my person is fine and fit,” came a musical voice from behind him, “else His Majesty’s meal would most certainly be ruined by the bloodshed!”

  Dirick dropped his hand from Bon and turned to find Maris, flanked by Sir Raymond and another man-at-arms, with an amused, quirked mouth. She was unharmed, he noted immediately, and she was also laughing at him with those beautiful green and gold eyes. Laughing.

  An annoyed flush rose to his cheeks and he realized that more spectators had been drawn to the watch the altercation, and that even the attention of the king and queen had come to rest upon them. The hall, usually so loud that the barking of a dog or the dropping of a platter went unnoticed, breathed as close to silence as a crowded chamber could.

  “My lady.” He gave a stiff bow and didn’t quite meet Maris’s laughing eyes. “’Tis glad I am that you are unharmed.” He bent to retrieve Bon’s dagger, noting its unexceptional wooden handle, and returned it to the other man. “Unharmed. And she had best remain thus,” he said, his eyes boring into the other man’s dark gaze.