Heart of a Knight (A Medieval Romance Novella)

by Dana D'Angelo

  The boy stared at him, his eyes nearly coming out of its sockets. “I’ll put the candles back,” he said hastily. Yanking at Geoffrey’s hand, he tried in vain to get out of the grip. “We can pretend that I never took them.”

  “’Tis too late for that, I’m afraid. I saw the candles fall out from your belt. But I might give you some leniency if you answer a question to my satisfaction.” He gave the boy a penetrating stare. “Tell me. Who sent you here?”

  “No one,” the boy said, although this time his defiance seemed less convincing.

  With one hand still clutching the boy’s collar, Geoffrey bent down and picked up one of the candles that had fallen. He brought it up and sniffed it.

  “I’m not certain that the royal warden would believe your tale.”

  The boy ceased his squirming. Geoffrey continued to observe the boy, waiting for him to speak. And he didn’t have to wait long.

  “I — I’m not supposed to tell,” the boy said finally.

  “Not supposed to tell what?”

  “I’m not supposed to say who he is.”

  Geoffrey regarded the boy thoughtfully. “How much money did he offer you?”

  The boy hesitated for a second before saying, “A copper coin. He just wanted two candles.”

  “I’ll give you three copper coins if you tell me who sent you here,” a soft voice said at the door.

  “Widow Karina,” the boy gasped, realizing at that instance that his situation had gotten more complicated.

  Karina walked into the room and looked curiously at the intruder.

  The boy pushed a shaky hand through his dirty hair, and gave her a pleading look. “Please, mistress. I didn’t mean to take your candles. I —”

  “I don’t want to hear any more tales,” Geoffrey said, sharply. “Tell the truth.”

  “He’ll kill me, you know.”

  “No one will be killing anyone,” Karina said, her tone calm. “What are you called, boy?”

  “Elistair,” he said, reluctantly. “But people call me Eli.”

  “Rest assured, Eli, I won’t let anyone hurt you.” She looked over at Geoffrey and gestured for him to release the boy.

  The fear drained from Eli’s body as he realized that Karina had no intentions of harming him. And when Geoffrey dropped him to the ground, he scrambled up, brushing the dirt from his tunic. He took a step back and looked longingly at the exit. Still, he was smart enough to know that he couldn’t run to the door without getting caught.

  But when he glanced back at them, Geoffrey saw an assessing glint forming in his eyes. “Can I move in here so I can be certain of your protection, mistress?”

  Karina was startled by his question. After a moment, she said, “What about your family?”

  “I have no family. They’re all dead.”

  Karina carefully studied the boy for a long moment. “All right,” she said, making her decision. “You may stay here and assist Geoffrey with the horses. But I have one condition,” she leaned forward and poked a finger at the boy’s chest. “You must tell me who hired you to steal my candles.”

  The initial grin on Eli’s face quickly faded. His gaze went swiftly to door as if to assure himself that the wooden barrier was firmly closed. Then in a barely audible voice, he said, “’Twas Goodman Osbert who sent me.”

  She leaned back on her heels. “The guild master’s eldest son.” Then lacing her slender fingers behind her back, she tipped her head up to the ceiling. A frown formed on her pretty lips. “Now, why doesn’t this surprise me?” she asked no one in particular. “Master Warin and his son won’t buy my candles, yet they would send a boy to steal them.”

  “Why are they so intent in ruining your business, ma dame?” Geoffrey asked.

  “’Tis the scented candles that they’re after,” she said, giving him a wry smile. “I’ve discovered a process that will keep the scent in my candles even while they burn.” She reached up and began to stroke the tip of her chin. “Aye, they want to know my secret method.” A new sense of determination reflected in her eyes. “Fortunately no one will ever acquire this process, for ‘tis locked inside my head. And I don’t plan to reveal it to anyone.”

  Chapter 4

  “Take a seat over there,” the serving wench said over the din of conversation in the small tavern. She glanced curiously at Geoffrey’s legs as he limped to the empty seat. He moved past a cluster of men who were either talking loudly amongst themselves, or staring down into the bottom of their tankards. A couple of drunken men slumped along the back wall, likely dumped there to free up space for new customers.

  As he hobbled to his stool, a man glanced up at him. He looked down at Geoffrey’s defective limb, and then averted his face, dismissing him. The heat of embarrassment rose up to his neck, and he felt the tension begin to gather in his shoulders.

  When he finally found his seat, the serving wench came over. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Your strongest ale,” he answered, placing a copper coin on the chipped wooden table. “Bring me two.”

  The woman took the coin and was about to leave when Geoffrey caught her arm.

  She turned to him, her lips curved downward. “What else do you want?” she snapped.

  “I want information,” he said.

  Tugging at her arm, she glared at him. “I have other patrons to serve,” she said, haughtily. “As you can see, I’m the only server in this tavern. I can’t waste my time talking to just one man.”

  “Please,” he dropped his hand to his lap. “I only require a moment of your time.” Hope flared in his chest when he saw that he now held her attention. Then quickly, before she lost interest, he continued, “I’m searching for a man — a king’s guard. Treville isn’t far from the palace, and I thought —”

  “The king’s men come to Treville often enough, although they go to the tavern down the street,” she said, cutting him off. Twisting her lips sourly, she narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “What do you want with this king’s guard?”

  “We have unfinished business,” he shrugged.

  “You have unfinished business with a king’s guard?” she scoffed. “You must be as delusional as the rest of the men here. I doubt that any of the king’s men would have anything to do with a cripple like you.”

  Geoffrey’s fists curled underneath the table. “Never mind,” he said, smiling tightly. “Perhaps you’re right, and I’m delusional.”

  A man from the other side of the room shouted for more ale. The woman released a puff of air from her nostrils before turning to heed the customer’s call.

  As Geoffrey watched her go, he brought up one hand and began to massage the back of his neck. Obtaining information about Pyers had never been easy. Reaching for the tankard, he took a swig of the sour ale. He should give up on inquiring after the bastard since he planned to confront him soon enough. But it was difficult to stem his frustration. Entering into ale houses churned up memories of happier times, reminding him painfully of all that he had lost. Before his accident, he had a slew of friends to laugh and drink with, but after the fall, those same friends disappeared like vapor.

  He gulped down the last of the ale and set the tankard down on the wooden table. Starting in on his next tankard, he allowed the old memories to wash over him.

  It was on that fateful day that Sir Ressor had invited all his squires to a contest of skills. He usually did this every five years to determine which of his squires were ready to become knighted. Geoffrey was only a few months shy of turning twenty-one, and he wanted his knightly spurs so badly that he could almost taste it.

  He demonstrated his razor-sharp precision with the long bow. The lords and ladies who watched his performance clapped and cheered each time his arrow rang true, and hit the target with dead accuracy. In this event, he scored the most points out all of his peers.

  And then all too soon, it was the last game of the contest — the quintain. Geoffrey was confident that he would awe his audience with his ma
sterful speed and accuracy. It was the one skill that all the squires struggled with. A person had to ride and lance a target that hung on a pole. The first order was to strike the straw target. Next, he had to dodge the swinging sack of barley. The harder a person struck the target, the harder the loaded sack would swing back at him. In many instances, the force of the rotating bag knocked a man clear off his horse.

  Geoffrey practiced for long hours after he completed his chores, and he knew that his hard work and determination would pay off this day. It was all about timing, he knew. He discovered how, when and where to hit the target so that he could avoid the rotating sack of grains. He was certain that after this contest he would be knighted. Today, he would demonstrate his prowess, and prove without a doubt that he deserved his knighthood. He was on his way to become a great knight like his father. And he would make his father proud.

  Unable to help it, a slow grin spread across his face. This was it. With lance in hand, he placed sharp focus on the target. The noise that surrounded him faded into the background, and he was faintly aware of the dull thudding in his heart. Letting out a loud war cry, he dug his heels into the horse’s side. With an answering snort, the horse set in motion, charging across the field, zeroing in on the waiting target. The smell of earth filled Geoffrey’s senses as the horse trampled and churned the dirt and grass beneath its hooves. He could feel the blood rising, roaring in his ears. The wind tugged at his hair while the horse’s hooves pounded in concert with his racing heart.

  But then it happened so quickly. His horse reared high in the air, a wild, panicked sound emerging from its mouth. The force of the unexpected stop threw Geoffrey off his mount. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Just as he was about to impact the hard ground, he caught sight of half a dozen mice scattering into the field. Then he crashed onto the earth with a dull thud, his face skidding across the long grass. And as if that was not enough punishment, the great beast tumbled after him. He tried to claw out of its way, but he couldn’t move fast enough. The courser landed on him, crushing one side of his hip and leg.

  He screamed. But the cry wasn’t just from the pain radiating throughout his limb; it was also from fury. Someone had deliberately set loose those mice near the quintain. That person wanted to sabotage his chances of gaining his spurs, or his intent might have been to kill him. And even though his brain was numbed by the powerful pain, he knew only one person could be responsible for this.

  A crush of people rushed to his side.

  “Are you all right?” his friend Bram asked, his features screwed up with worry.

  “My side,” Geoffrey gasped. He opened his mouth to say something more, but he caught sight of Sir Ressor. Closing his eyes, he tried to block out the pity he saw on his master’s face.

  Bram and another squire helped him up from the ground, but the sudden movement caused him to let out an involuntary yelp.

  Sir Reesor frowned and looked at Bram. “Get the bonesetter,” he ordered.

  But Geoffrey shook his head. “I’m all right, sire,” he said, through gritted teeth. “No bones are broken. I can walk.” Then slowly to prove that he wasn’t lying, he shook off the help from his friends and limped off the field. All the while, he pretended that the shooting, jarring pain along his side wasn’t killing him.

  Two days later, he thought that the injury was healed. Although he soon discovered how wrong he was when he tried to get back onto a horse. Clenching his teeth, he attempted to swing one leg over the saddle. And when he was partially astride the saddle, he gasped as the muscles in his maimed leg seized over. The spasms felt as if a knife pierced and twisted into his defective limb.

  “I don’t think your leg will ever be the same again.” Bram watched him with a mixture of sympathy and pity in his eyes. “Come off. I’ll take the horse to exercise.”

  “I can do it,” Geoffrey grounded out.

  “Don’t be an ass,” his friend said. “You had a big accident, and you should be resting, not working.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Bram.” Geoffrey slid off of the horse. “Someone deliberately set mice loose to scare my horse.”

  “Are you certain?” he said, looking at him doubtfully. “There was a lot of chaos when you fell from your horse.” He frowned, trying to recall the incident. Then he shook his head. “I don’t remember seeing any rodents.”

  “They were there,” he said shortly. “’Twas the last thing I saw before I hit the ground.” He handed the reins to his friend. “Likely the creatures scattered before you came around.”

  “Who would do such a thing?” Bram asked, his frown deepening.

  “There’s only one man who would stoop so low.”

  A disturbed expression crossed Bram’s face. “Surely you cannot be speaking about Pyers...”

  “I know ‘twas him.”

  “That simply cannot be,” he said, his brows shooting up. “I know that you, and Pyers have your differences, but he’s a knight now. What reason…?” He paused and then shook his head slowly from side to side. His face took on a green hue, and he looked as if he might become sick. “Perhaps you’re right after all. His jealousy of you is renowned. And the fact that Sir Reesor was present… I just cannot believe anyone would do this to another man.”

  “Believe it,” Geoffrey said flatly. “Just before I was set to charge the quintain, he stopped me, and wished me luck. Since I’ve come to this castle, Pyers has never wished me luck on anything. Besides, he had a smirk on his face when he said it.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’ve been searching for him since that day I got injured, but I cannot seem to locate him.”

  “That’s because he’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Geoffrey said incredulously. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “He left the castle two days ago, shortly after your accident,” Bram explained. “He told everyone that he was leaving to seek his fortune in the king’s service.”

  The news hit Geoffrey like a battering ram to his solar plexus. “The bastard,” he said, rubbing his hip. There would always be an ache there, a constant reminder of his foe.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’ll have to hunt him down, and make him pay his due.”

  “If ‘twas him that did it, he needs to pay,” Bram agreed. “But what if you don’t find him? Pyers could have gone to any one of King Edward’s five residences.”

  “I’ll track him, even if I have to roam the entire country to do so.”

  He returned to the barracks, savoring the idea of revenge. Bram proposed to take on his duties for the rest of the week. While he felt guilty for accepting his friend’s offer, he was nevertheless relieved by it. At least he could allow his leg to recover a little longer. In the meantime, he would flesh out a plan, and think about when he would confront Pyers…

  Fortunately or unfortunately Geoffrey had plenty of time to think over the next few days. He studied the cobwebs that clung to the rafters. Usually with all the activity and training, he was too exhausted to notice anything other than his small bed space. Sir Reesor had his squires take turn in attending him. But since Geoffrey’s fall, he wasn’t able to perform his duties. Luckily he could count on Bram to cover for him.

  A faint scraping noise jerked him out of his thoughts, and he looked over at the entrance to the barracks.

  “Sire,” he said, struggling to push himself up to a seated position.

  Sir Ressor came to stand near his pallet. “No need to get up, son,” he said, waving his hand.

  Geoffrey relaxed his movements just as a growing dread filled his belly. The lord knight rarely visited the barracks.

  Sir Ressor cleared his throat and glanced down at Geoffrey, “I didn’t think ‘twas appropriate for my garrison commander to tell you this,” he said, his voice sounding regretful.

  Geoffrey regarded his master’s grave features, studying every nuance. He was going to ask him to leave, he realized. His heart began to beat slowly, as if it was preparing to die.
<
br />   “You showed great promise as a squire,” the knight continued. “Truly you are your father’s son, but after your fall from the horse…” his voice trailed off, and he looked briefly at the rushes covering the floorboards. He cleared his throat once again, and when he spoke, his tone became firmer, “I will need your space to train another squire.”

  Geoffrey stared at him as an awful lump formed at the base of his throat. He tried to swallow it away, but it only got bigger. His dream of becoming a knight was dead. He blinked back the tears that sat just beneath the surface. But it was no use, a tear escaped. Reaching up, he wiped it away from his cheek and covered his face with his hands. He wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t cry. He was no longer a page, and it was unseemly for a squire to weep in front of his master. Except he wasn’t a squire any longer… Then with that last thought his shoulders began to shake. And that fragile, rotted dam which held his emotions in check broke open, the bitter tears gushing forth, salty and metallic.

  “I’ve left a bag of coins for you,” Sir Ressor said, touching his shoulder and squeezing it. Vaguely Geoffrey noted that his master withdrew silently from the barracks, but he no longer cared. His life was over. How could he possibly handle seeing the disappointment and shame in his father’s eyes, or the pity in his brother’s? He contemplated suicide, but after much thought, he decided he couldn’t go through with it. He loved his mother and sister too much to cause them pain and sorrow. The only course left to him was to follow his original plan and find Pyers.

  He gathered his meager belongings and placed them in a small sack. On the thin woolen blanket, he left the coins that Sir Reesor had offered. And then setting out on his own, he made his slow, painful progress toward the castle gates, not bothering to say farewell to anyone.

  By the time he made it past the portcullis and down through the weather-beaten drawbridge, he was determined to find Pyers no matter how long it took. And true to his word, he wandered across the kingdom, going to one royal residence after another. He found work in the towns and villages that he passed through, and little by little, his savings grew.