“Thank you. I try my best. God has gifted me with height and strength, and you have gifted me beyond my wildest dreams with training. I only hope to someday live up to those gifts and serve my country well.”
Though Allen had been raised a peasant, after the Ghosts’ two-year ordeal in the forest, Lord Linden had given sanctuary to the young survivors of Ellsworth. Allen had grown several inches in the past year and broadened considerably. At eighteen, he towered over most of the soldiers in the garrison.
Lord Linden nodded thoughtfully. “That someday might come sooner than you think. Sir Walter says you are ready to move from squire to knight. I look forward to conferring the honor upon you, although I assume there is another to which you hope to pledge your fealty.”
Allen had not deemed himself ready to head off into the world, but if Sir Walter thought him worthy to be a knight, perhaps he should go now, before Timothy returned and the winter weather arrived. “I still long to head to North Britannia, m’lord. You of all people know that I’ve felt oddly drawn there ever since I learned about it. Do you truly believe there might be a place there for one such as me?”
“Now that the political situation has stabilized, North Britannia has opened its borders, and as we assumed, it has continued in its quest to become a just and righteous dukedom after the tradition of Arthur’s Camelot. They say that any man of valor and pure heart might find his place there.”
“As much as things have improved in England as a whole, I still wish to be a part of such a quest. I cannot help but believe that God himself has placed such a strong desire in my heart.” Anticipation rushed over Allen.
“I shall send you with a letter of introduction and give you my highest recommendation.”
“You are too kind, m’lord, but I would not wish to inconvenience you.”
“’Tis no bother. I am proud of you, my boy.” Lord Linden led the way around a turn in the path.
The previously abandoned village, which had been a tangle of weeds, bushes, and decrepit huts a year earlier, now appeared neat, tidy, and bustling with life. At a distance he spotted Lady Merry, dressed in a lilac kirtle rather than the boy’s clothes she had worn to lead their forest raids. She sat on the steps of the manor home singing to little Wren, who cuddled upon her lap. Merry’s waving brown hair had grown from its previous short cut and now tossed in the breeze, accenting her striking features.
“Please do not tell them I plan to leave,” Allen said. “I would like to speak to Lady Merry first.”
“I am certain your former mistress will support your decision.” Lord Linden seemed not to understand how close they had all become in the forest, nor how class divisions had melted away. And he most certainly did not know that Allen, born of the lowest class, had once kissed the noble Lady Merry on a tree branch.
Allen’s cheeks warmed at the thought, but he hoped that any ruddiness would blend with the flush of the day’s earlier battle. “Yes, but I feel I should tell her before we make the news public.”
“You shall stay for the wedding, of course,” Lord Linden said.
“I think not. I had best start out as soon as possible. It will take me several weeks to get there, and I should be well on my way before any early snows might block the mountain passages.”
“You have ample time, but I understand your eagerness. I had thought to save it as part of the wedding celebration, but I shall arrange for your knighthood ceremony a few days hence. An exciting adventure awaits you!”
“Thank you.” Allen hoped that Lord Linden was correct, for he was about to leave everything and everyone he held dear far behind.
“You shall never win at that pace!” Gwendolyn shouted over her shoulder as she raced Andromache through a rainbow field of wild flowers.
Rosalind’s faint, “I’m trying,” was muffled against the rush of wind.
Gwen thrilled at the exhilarating moment of freedom as she clutched her horse’s mane, leaning forward over her graceful white neck. Hovering weightless with each powerful stride, she felt as if she could fly.
Together they dashed down a rolling hillside and crashed through a trickling stream. Droplets of frigid mountain water splashed against the bare skin of her forearm and speckled her tunic. They raced across her hidden jousting field, through a patch of trees, and up a rocky incline before pulling to a stop next to a small wooden building.
Gwen had already removed her hilt and sword by the time Rosalind joined her, though she left a small jeweled dagger in her boot.
“Not fair,” declared Rosalind. “Should I not get some sort of head start? You’ve been riding all your life.”
“Now, where would be the fun in that? You must challenge yourself if you wish to be a warrior worth your armor.”
“Who said I wished for that? I’d be happy braiding flowers into your golden hair and fussing over your silken gowns.”
Although Gwen had managed to woo Rosalind to her warrior ways, the young woman had not adjusted entirely. Rosalind might have spent a boisterous childhood dancing through fields, climbing trees, and tussling with village lads in the dirt, but weapons of steel and giant horses still tested her limits.
“But admit it.” Gwen grinned impishly. “This is so much better.”
Rosalind giggled. “I suppose so. I never dreamt of such excitement. If I ever need to look for employment again, I shall have an exhaustive list of skills to my name.”
“You see. You might guard a threatened princess.”
“Or escort a noblewoman on pilgrimage.”
Gwen gathered her armor. “Come, time to head home.”
They hung their swords inside the dim little structure next to lances, shields, chain mail, and even a battle ax. Her brothers had helped her build this hidden structure years ago. Though her mother cared little what Gwen did, if word ever reached her father that she trained at the warrior arts, she dared not imagine the consequences.
One of the few times he had deigned to visit home, he had thrashed her bottom merely for riding on horseback. According to Father, true ladies rode in traveling wagons, or better yet, were carried in litters, or best still, did not leave home at all.
Once their weapons were safely stowed, Gwen brushed her mantle of rich burgundy down over her tunic and turned to Rosalind. “How do I look? Ready for inspection?”
Rosalind pulled a twig from Gwen’s braid and tucked some flyaway strands behind her ear. “That will have to suffice until I can redo your hair for supper. If one does not peer too closely, you might almost pass for a lady.”
“Funny.” Both of them wore thick men’s leggings and leather boots beneath their women’s apparel with slits up the sides for freedom of movement.
They gathered their horses and led them at a walk down the trail, for they did not wish to startle the villagers by thundering through. Gwen picked a green leaf from a bush jutting into the pathway and crunched it between her fingers for the feel of its lush snap. A rich, herbal fragrance wafted to her nose, and she drank deep the smell of the countryside she loved. She gazed into the azure sky, which rippled with white clouds like waves in the sea.
As they reached the village and passed through the huts with their mud-daubed walls and pale thatched roofs, Gwen waved to her father’s serfs. These people had been more a family to her over the years than most of those who dwelt in the cold stone castle, always busy with their own affairs. She surveyed this world of browns and tans, so subdued after her afternoon in the bright field yet brimming with vitality.
A young girl named Maggie, wearing naught but a plain tunic with tatters about the hem, dashed across the muddy lane and threw her scrawny arms around Gwen’s waist.
Unable to resist the wave of warmth that filled her, she scooped the girl off the ground, feeling her bones beneath coarse fabric. “Maggie, have you been eating your porridge?”
Hugging Gwen tight, the girl wrapped her legs around Gwen’s waist and caught her grimy, bare feet together behind her back. “I don’t like it
so much as I like them apples you bring me.”
How Gwen wished she could offer Maggie—not to mention the other village children—trenchers of bread filled with hearty meat stew. But her eldest brother, Reginald, who ruled in her father’s absence, would never tolerate such generosity to their serfs. “Well, I have a surprise you might like.”
With Maggie dangling from her, Gwen dug through the sack on Andromache’s side. Pulling out not one, but three bright red apples, she held them before the wide-eyed little girl. “Now you must promise to share these with your brother and sister.”
“Of course, miss.” Maggie dropped back to the dirt and jumped about.
“One should call her Lady—” Rosalind began, but Gwen cut her off with a wave of her hand.
She had no need for ceremony with these villagers. Handing the treats to her small friend, she hustled Maggie to her hut. Then Gwen and Rosalind continued toward the austere stone tower, which she was obliged to call home.
If only Reginald would tend their serfs in the manner recommended by Duke Justus, she should not have to fill her sack with apples. His dukedom, North Britannia, had grown near legendary for its adherence to the law and Christian charity. Chivalry and kindness ruled the day. The very reasons Gwen wished she could fight to protect the dukedom alongside her brothers.
But her eldest brother, Reginald, walked a fine line. While he had little choice but to treat their serfs with a modicum of fairness, being so close to the grand castle of the duke, he also had to please their father, who expected him to rule by the old values.
The only Christian principle her father seemed to stand by was divine order—nobility over peasants, men over the spawn of Eve. Forget the Ten Commandments. Forget the gentler instructions of Jesus’s sermon on the mountain, which their duke held so dear. An eye for an eye would suffice for her father. Being sent such conflicting messages from a young age, Gwen had chosen to ignore religion, trusting instead her own inner sense of right and wrong. She could not help but think religion mostly a man-made system for proving one’s own preferences correct.
Hoofbeats drew her attention as a horseman in full armor raced in their direction. When the rider drew near, her brother Hugh’s jovial features and riot of golden curls came into view.
He pulled his destrier up hard beside them and hopped lithely to the dirt road, tossing up a cloud of dust with the impact.
“Gwennie! My most darling and beloved sister on the entire earth.” He caught her head under his arm and tousled her hair in a boisterous display of affection, as he had since childhood.
“Your only sister on the entire earth.” She shoved him away with a chuckle. After handing off Andromache’s reins to Rosalind, Gwen gestured to Hugh’s formal attire. “What is this? And why the dramatic greeting?”
Rosalind cut between them and curtsied. “Afternoon, Sir Hugh. How can we be of service?” Her flirtatious tone revealed far more about the nature of her relationship with Hugh than Gwen wished to acknowledge.
Hugh, always carefree and charming, raked Rosalind’s form with his gaze. “Ah, my fair maid Rosalind, I fear there is little you can do for me today but bid me a fond farewell.”
“Are you leaving?” The words burst from Gwen in an unexpected shout as her heart sank to her boots. Her brother Gerald was still supporting the king’s army in Lincoln where they had defeated the rebels. Must she lose Hugh as well?
“Yes, I am to escort the new king, Henry, on a tour of his recently reacquired northern realms. Father believes my jovial nature might be an asset with the young sovereign. Perhaps I shall pull a gold coin from his royal ear.”
Gwen swatted her irreverent brother. “I am just glad England is no longer under the rule of that awful King John.”
“As are we all, but that is not why I came,” Hugh said. “I must warn you that Father has at long last returned. You best rush back home and into your finest gown.”
Gwen’s stomach plummeted to meet her heart in her boots, and there proceeded to churn mercilessly as she struggled to catch her breath. Father? Home? Why after all these years? Was there no war to be found anywhere? She gathered her courage to ask the only question that might bring some respite. The words emerged in a breathy whisper. “For how long?”
Chapter 2
Hugh’s expression turned as near to serious as she had seen on him in many years. “Father is staying for good, or so he claims. He says he has left his holdings in Reginald’s haphazard care far too long. You should have seen him fuming and tossing all manner of items about the great hall.”
Tears formed in Gwen’s eyes as haunting scenes from her father’s brief and infrequent visits flashed through her mind. She blinked them back and pulled herself up tall like a warrior, as Gerald and Hugh had taught her.
Hugh gazed down at her with naked sympathy in his eyes. With a tenderness reserved for these moments of dealing with their father, he tugged her to his chest. The clink of his chain mail beneath her cheek comforted her, as did the soft kiss he placed upon her forehead.
’Twas an old, familiar dance. She, Gerald, and Hugh fancied themselves so strong and valiant—until their father came along to dash their illusions. Of course Gerald and Hugh had grown into men, knights in their own right. But what of her?
Who would stand on her side? Mother? Certainly not. Reginald? Not likely.
Gwen could almost pity Reginald. The youngest three siblings had grown up free and wild in the fields surrounding their castle. Ever outrunning nursemaids, tutors, and when the mood pleased, even the knights who trained the boys at warfare. Their childhoods had been filled with humor, imagination, and adventure.
Only Reginald had lived under the heel of his father’s boot, and learned to treat others—most of all his unfortunate bride—likewise. At only twenty-five, her sister-in-law, Katherine, appeared weighed down with a burden none should have to bear. She seemed little more than a specter as she trailed her rambunctious passel of children about their small manor home just to the west. Would such be Gwen’s fate as well? She could never allow that to happen.
“Hugh, whatever shall I do?” She hid her face against his chest. Gwen felt small and vulnerable in his arms. Only her mammoth brothers could dwarf her so and make her feel a fragile woman.
He nuzzled her hair with his gruff chin. “First, you shall run home and take a bath. Father shall explode if he finds you smelling of sweat and horseflesh.” He bent down to sniff her, then shoved her away again in his playful manner, shaking them both free from their doldrums.
Gwen could not hold back a wry grin. “And whose fault is that?”
“I admit that as lads Gerald and I found it the greatest joke to teach you to fight.” Again seriousness overtook him. “But I would not want the joke to be upon you, Gwennie. Perhaps it was a youthful error.”
“Never say so!” Gwen protested. “I have become precisely who I wish to be. My nursemaids tried to turn me a lady. It was my choice to defy them.”
“You had best remember their training now.” He turned to include Rosalind in the conversation.
Gwen had nearly forgotten her presence. At Gwen’s encouragement, Rosalind oft defied her prescribed role as lady’s maid. But in such a poignant moment, she had apparently chosen to tuck herself between the horses and fade into the background as a proper maid should.
“Rosalind, you must be her ally now. See her groomed and dressed on all occasions. There shall be no more jaunting to the countryside. And no more battle training. You know what is expected of a proper lady, and you must help her appear one.”
“As you wish.” Rosalind batted her long black lashes at Hugh.
Gwen harrumphed. “Not likely.”
Hugh detached his stare from Rosalind and swiveled toward Gwen. “Come now. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, you are a lovely lady when you try.”
“Do not be ridiculous.” Gwen’s own mother had told her how ugly she was. Repeatedly.
“Surely you know ’tis true.” Hugh
winked her way. “You would blush if I told you the things I have overheard the soldiers say about you.”
Rosalind stepped forward. “I have told her as much.”
Of course Rosalind must say such things, but Gwen winced every time she observed Rosalind’s slim form and fair skin next to her own hulking mass and dun-colored complexion.
Hugh took Gwen’s hand in his much larger one. “Please do not make me argue that you are beautiful. There are some things a brother simply should never do. And you can play the pipe, embroider, and dance quite well. Do what you must to keep the peace. Soon enough you shall be married and out of his grasp.”
“And what good shall that do me?” Anger welled within Gwen. A reviving sort of anger that helped her find her strength. “Out of his grasp and into the stranglehold of a husband. Would you resign me to a life like our mother’s? To the drudgery Katherine suffers at Reginald’s hand? You did not train me for such a dreary existence.”
“Oh, Gwennie, you were never mine to train. Of course you must marry and bear children. There are good men in the world. I shall talk to Randel Penigree on my way out and convince him to offer for your hand. He would treat you kindly. Perhaps even let you dally with a sword when you are not expecting a child.”
“Randel? That silly boy?” Gwen could not imagine taking him to husband. While she might dread a domineering man, she could never respect a weakling either. In their youth he had oft joined in the fun of training Gwen in the warrior arts, but it had not taken her long to best him.
“Well, you must marry someone. Better a friend since childhood who understands your nature.”
Her mouth fell open. “I could never.” She knew little of marital intimacies. Only what she had heard whispered amongst the maids. But still, she could not submit to such indignities at Randel’s bumbling hand. As she further considered, she could not imagine submitting to that with any man. He might just find her dagger to his throat.
“Have you a better plan?” Hugh stood with his feet wide and crossed his arms over his chest as he awaited her reply.
Chivalrous Page 2