Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Maris wrapped a light cloth around her shoulders and curled on the edge of the bed. “He is my father,” she told him unsteadily.

  Dirick pulled her to rest her head on his chest. “I learned that only yesterday. I’m sorry that I did not know sooner.”

  “He killed my father—Merle.”

  “I know that, or suspected that, as well. He is the man who killed my father—the one that I spoke of to you.” Dirick tightened his lips. “I will not rest until he is found.”

  Maris pulled away, sitting up to look down at him. “You will have a care, Dirick. You will not put yourself in danger. Michael has killed so many—”

  “I cannot let him go unpunished.” He searched her face with his gaze, seeing the love and respect that shone in her green and gold eyes. “You must know by now that I love you, Maris. I never thought to feel this way about any one woman, but you have driven me so mad that I realized I could not live without you…and I must ensure that the one who would see you dead is also gone. And then I can have no fear that you will be taken from me by a crazed madman.”

  Her fingers smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “How lucky I am that my papa chose to repudiate my betrothal to Victor…else I would surely be a murderess on this morn.”

  Dirick smiled. “Had that happened, I would have spirited you away before the ceremony that bound you to him…or after you had done the deed, I’d have been your escape route.” He frowned. “But even if I did that, there was no certainty you would have accepted my help—as you refused it once before. I must know, now—why would you think I could have been party to your kidnapping by Bon?”

  “What else was I to think when I tumbled onto the floor and looked up to see you staring down upon me?” Maris asked indignantly.

  “But…I thought you’d known me better than that…and, Maris, how could I have stolen you for someone else when I wanted you for myself? Did you not know that I wanted you? That was why I had to leave Langumont so suddenly—I could not bear to see you given to another.”

  She looked at him with wondering eyes. “I did not know, truly. At the time, I could only think you had wooed me to your side so as to make your abduction of me easier. I thought ’twas you who wrapped me in that cloth and carried me to Breakston.”

  “Oh, nay, Maris. On the night we first met, I wanted you…and that desire grew, and so did the despair that I could never have you. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when Henry betrothed us…and then he showed me the missive from your father.

  “In that missive, not only did he repudiate your betrothal with Victor,” Dirick said, unable to hold back a grin, “but he also requested that, if the king agreed, I should be your husband and Lord of Langumont.”

  She gaped at him. “It was my papa’s wish that we should wed?”

  “Aye, my lady, and ’twas also the wish of my father that one of his sons should wed with you as well.”

  “Aye, I certainly remember that incident. I met your brother Bernard, and although he was very kind…” Maris seemed to be considering her thoughts. “…I do not think we would have suited.”

  “Thank fortune you did not,” Dirick said vehemently. Then he smiled. “He and Joanna are like moon-faces about each other all of the time. Completely besotted.”

  “Aye,” she replied, with just as much spirit. “But of course, neither of us will ever look at the other in such a foolish way.”

  Dirick couldn’t hold back a rueful laugh. “Mayhap that is true for you, my beloved, but I fear ’tis too late for me. The queen has already seen my moon-face, and it is because of her meddling, I think, that we are in this bed together.”

  Her cheeks pinkened and she looked up at him almost bashfully. Then her eyes glinted with determination. “Our fathers have exacted a sort of revenge upon Michael d’Arcy, then.”

  “Aye, they have. Yet, I still must see this through to its end,” he told her firmly.

  “Dirick, you must take care…please,” she looked up at him so earnestly and sweetly, with tears pooling in her eyes, that he felt his heart jerk at the emotion there.

  “Aye, my love, I will take care. After all,” he pulled her fingers to his lips, “I have everything to live for. I have everything I could ever want. It is a miracle to me. And I have no intention of letting it go.”

  Epilogue

  Two days later

  Langumont Keep

  “Come, my love.” Michael grasped Allegra’s hand and drew her up the tall, curving stairwell.

  She followed him willingly—as she had ever done, and always would, until the end of time.

  The tower was cool and damp. It was a part of the keep that she rarely accessed, and which normally sent chills down her spine…but today, it didn’t matter. Today, she was with Michael.

  Her skirt trailed in the dust as they clambered up more steps and more steps, holding hands, silent.

  When they reached the top, he opened the door and allowed her to step out onto the balcony of the tower ahead of him. She felt his strong, sturdy body behind her, solid and fearless in its warmth. The wind was stronger at this height, and the view of the blue sea sparkling to the west was expansive. The sound of the surf was lost in the breeze, lending a hollow, windy sound and giving the impression that they were separated from the rest of the world.

  They were.

  She looked over the lands of Langumont, seeing the village, the bailey of the keep below, noticing the thickness of the forest to the east and the varying shades of green meadow to the north and south.

  She’d been happy here.

  Though her heart had always been with Michael, she’d been happy. Merle had been a good husband to her. She had betrayed him in so many ways, and now he was dead…by the hand of the man she loved.

  Michael had told her of his part in Merle’s death…yet, she still loved him. ’Twas her great sin, her great weakness that she would follow him willingly, anywhere, until the end of time.

  “Are you frightened?” he asked suddenly, his voice rumbling in her ear.

  “When I am with you—nay, never,” she told him, turning to face him. They could not be together here, she knew. This was their only chance.

  “Come, Allegra, let us go.”

  He took her hands in his, facing her fully, and looking down at her with those blue eyes lit with an odd, unsettling light.

  She moved willingly with him to the edge of the tower’s railing, stepping up on it in tandem with him. “I love you,” she told him.

  “I love you.”

  And then it was over.

  Books by

  Colleen Gleason

  Don’t miss the other books in Colleen Gleason's

  Medieval Herb Garden series:

  Lavender Vows

  The story of Dirick’s brother Bernard of Derkland and the woman he loves, Lady Joanna Swerthmore. We also meet Maris of Langumont for the first time when her father tries to match-make her with Bernard.

  Buy for Kindle

  * * *

  Sanctuary of Roses

  Lord Gavin Mal Verne wants revenge on Fantin de Belgrume, and he’ll stop at nothing to get it…even seizing Fantin’s daughter Madelyne from an abbey.

  Buy for Kindle

  * * *

  A Lily on the Heath

  Lady Judith of Kentworth is a confidante of the queen, but she wants more than anything to return home and wed. But the queen relies on her too much to allow her to leave….

  Buy for Kindle

  About the Author

  Colleen Gleason is a New York Times best-selling author with more than twenty novels in print. Her international bestselling series, the Gardella Vampire Chronicles, is a historical urban fantasy about a female vampire hunter who lives during the time of Jane Austen. Her first novel, The Rest Falls Away, was released to acclaim in 2007.

  Since then, she has published more than twenty novels with New American Library, MIRA Books, Chronicle Books, and HarperCollins (writing as Joss Ware). Her books hav
e been translated into more than seven languages and are available worldwide.

  Visit Colleen at:

  colleengleason.com

  facebook.com/colleen.gleason.author

  My Warrior © 2001 by Glynnis Campbell

  All rights reserved by the author.

  This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover art by Richard Campbell

  P. O. Box 341144

  Arleta, California 91331

  ISBN-10: 1938114027

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938114-02-1

  Contact:glynnis@glynnis.net

  Dedication

  For my father,

  who raised me on

  King Arthur and Zorro,

  Robin Hood and Black Bart,

  and taught me how to

  buckle a swash

  Acknowledgments

  With special thanks to

  Helen and Cindy,

  My sisters at OCC/RWA,

  And women warriors everywhere

  Prologue

  March 1333

  Holden de Ware stretched his long legs out toward the dying fire, stared up at the clear night sky salted with brilliant stars, and shook his head sadly. “We’ve lost him then?”

  His half brother Garth nodded from his makeshift seat on a pine stump, gazing silently into his foamy cup of ale.

  “Poor Duncan,” Holden continued. “It’s a wretched thing when a man falls to such a foe, to be cut down in his youth before he’s―“

  “Oh, for the love of...” Sir Guy grumbled, spitting onto the coals so they crackled and hissed. “Your brother’s not dead. He’s only taken himself a wife, for God’s sake.” He continued muttering into his black beard and irritably took himself off to bed in one of the several pavilions of the encampment, leaving the two brothers alone.

  “It’s easy for him to make little of it,” Holden confided to Garth. “He’s not a de Ware.” He picked up a long stick and poked distractedly at the embers. “A de Ware lives for the feel of a fine blade in his hand, a trusty steed between his legs, and the wind of adventure blowing through his hair.”

  Garth had his own opinions about that, but said nothing, only sipping from his cup of ale.

  “But a wife,” Holden said on a heavy sigh.

  The brothers sat in silence while an owl hooted from the wood and one of Holden’s retinue coughed in his sleep.

  “You know what I mean, don’t you?” Holden said, turning toward his younger brother with new respect. “The holy orders have it right. You’ve managed to avoid entanglements of the heart altogether, what with your priestly pursuits. You’ve stayed chaste and true, and look what you’ve achieved.”

  Garth paused with his cup halfway to his lips and looked over at Holden as if questioning that himself.

  Holden cuffed him companionably on the shoulder. “Come now, brother. You are indisputably the most learned lad in our father’s household. Do you honestly think you could have attained half as much if your heart were enslaved to a woman?”

  Garth lowered his cup and dropped his gaze, staring into the glow of the fire, his eyes uncharacteristically moody tonight, much like their father’s. “Then why am I not content?”

  Holden leaned forward in surprise. Garth was a man of few words. When he spoke, it was usually significant. “You’re not content?”

  Garth frowned, gathering his thoughts. “Not as content as I think I should be.”

  Holden stroked his chin, rough now with a day’s growth of beard. “How so?”

  Garth set his cup on the ground and rested his elbows on his spread knees. “At Duncan’s wedding feast...” He clasped his hands before him as if to pray, a gesture that was habit with him now. “When his bride sat beside him, there was something in his eyes. A light. Warmth? Calmness? Joy? I’m not certain. But it transformed him. And I knew in that moment that no matter how many rousing sermons I delivered, no matter how many psalms I copied or how many souls I shrived, I would never feel that.”

  Holden whistled out a weighty breath. He’d had no idea. Garth had always been so solemn, so busy with his studies, so reluctant to join his older brothers in their battle sport. It was almost as if none of the de Ware blood flowed through his veins, as if he were cut of different cloth than Duncan and him, who would sooner strut about without their breeches than without their swords. But now, what he was hearing...

  Holden ran his fingers through his mussed hair and glanced at Garth from the corner of his eye, entertaining a daring possibility. He’d lost Duncan. But perhaps it wasn’t too late for his little half brother. Perhaps he could rescue Garth from his saintly doom and introduce him to the heady pleasures of life and freedom and an open road.

  “Garth!” he said, clapping the lad on the knee and nearly startling him from his perch. “Travel with me.”

  “What?”

  “Join my retinue. Edward can use another sword arm, if yours hasn’t gone to rust.” He rubbed his hands together. The more he thought about it, the better it sounded. “Travel on campaign with me. Taste life. See the countryside.” He laughed. “Tame wenches and slay dragons.”

  “But my studies...”

  “Pah! Do you think they’ll add a new book to the Bible while you’re away?”

  Garth’s brow looked troubled, but there was a spark in his eyes now, a spark that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  “It’s your last chance, lad,” Holden coaxed.

  Garth chewed his lip in indecision.

  “If I don’t have your blood coursing and fire in your eye after this campaign,” Holden promised, “you can go back home to your books.” He stood and extended his right arm toward Garth. “What do you say, Garth? Aye or nay?”

  After long consideration, Garth came to his feet and solemnly offered his hand. “Aye.”

  “Good.” They clasped forearms. “I’ll teach you everything I know,” Holden promised, wrapping an arm around Garth’s shoulders as they ambled toward the serge tents. “How to conquer fear, how to inspire loyalty, how to rule men with an iron hand and a just heart, how to seduce wenches, how to besiege castles...”

  Garth stopped in his tracks and looked dubiously up at Holden.

  “Aye, even that,” he vowed. “It’s not as difficult as you’d imagine, lad. Indeed, most of them are more than willing to surrender. One knock at their barbican and the drawbridge comes winding down. They change masters as often as the moon changes its face, and they’re easily won.” He gazed dreamily off into the night. “Others are untouchable, flawlessly constructed. They’ll never be possessed. Such perfection you must be content to gaze upon from afar.” He thumped Garth on the chest. “Now the most challenging and rewarding conquest is the one that puts up a good fight. You win, of course. De Wares always win. But the taste of victory is so much sweeter when... What?”

  Garth was staring at him as if he were addled in the head. “This will be my first campaign. I don’t think I’ll be besieging many castles.”

  “Besieging castles”? Holden said, chuckling. “Who’s talking about besieging castles?” He hauled Garth off with him toward the pavilions. “I’m speaking of seducing women.”

  Chapter One

  A brindled rabbit sat up on its haunches, sniffing warily at the cold, crisp air. The sun caressed a leaf here and there, steaming the moisture from the mossy trees. The sparrows had yet to rise, and an owl flew home on soundless wings. For a moment, the irresistible scent of tender green shoots beckoned from a nearby meadow. But then a faint, unfamiliar odor wafted by. The rabbit froze.

  The si
lence of the morning was broken abruptly by the sharp whisper of an arrow slicing neatly through the mist to embed itself in the damp earth. In a flurry of leaves, the rabbit scampered away into the brake, more startled by the loud oath that rent the air than by the wayward shaft.

  “Damn him! Damn that brainless ox of a fletcher!”

  The hunter’s azure eyes, as bright as a Highland stream, narrowed in disgust as the rabbit made its escape.

  The ash longbow, flung in anger, bounced upon the ground, followed by the quiver of ill-fletched arrows that spilled out over well-worn leather boots. In a sweep of russet brown, the hunter’s cloak swirled like a storm cloud. The hood fell back, spilling out long chestnut hair burnished red-gold by the early sunlight.

  Nearby, Laird Angus Gavin chuckled, his voice both rough and warm, like strong mulled wine. “Temper, lass, temper.”

  Cambria expelled a foggy puff of air and glared at her father over an indignant shoulder. He was a fine one to talk. She hadn’t inherited her fiery temperament from her timid deer of a mother, God rest her soul.

  “I told that bloody addlepate to check the balance of the shafts this time before he gave them to me,” she fumed, swatting her hair back from her face. “These are utterly useless!”

  Her father nodded and wrapped a consoling arm around her. “I’ll speak to him, lass.”

  “I’d have skewered that one,” she muttered, vengefully kicking over a toadstool.

  She knew she was right. Although Malcolm the Steward oft complained about her distasteful penchant for what the old boar referred to as hunting, hawking, and hacking, even he had to admit she possessed considerable skill with the longbow.