Matchmade Hearts: Holiday Knights Series Book 2 - Valentine’s Day

by Rose, Elizabeth

  The man turned around slowly and she almost gasped at seeing how handsome he was. His face had a strong jawline and he held his back erect like a nobleman would. Although he was covered from head to foot, she couldn’t help noticing his broad shoulders and wide chest. She had never before seen a man who looked like he should be a warrior slated for monkhood instead. It was indeed odd.

  “Bonjour, my lady,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand in his. His voice as well as his action surprised her. “I am Lord Étienne de Beynac. It is my pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle.” He surprised her by kissing the back of her hand since he had a moment ago ignored her. Was this some kind of game he was playing? No monk should be acting this way! She quickly pulled away from him, hiding her hand in the folds of her gown.

  “You are French!” she spat, not being fond of the French since it was while fighting them that her brothers had died.

  “Oui, my lady. I am.”

  “Why?” she boldly asked, causing the man’s body to jerk up in surprise. An amused smile spread across his face.

  “Why did God choose for me to be born across the channel instead of in England?” he asked. “I’m not sure, ma chère, but mayhap next time I’m in prayer, I’ll ask Him for you.”

  “Nay. That’s not what I mean,” she stuttered in embarrassment. “And there is no need to be rude.” The boy standing with her peeked around from behind her. “I meant, what is a Frenchman doing in an English monastery?”

  Before he could answer, her father called out from behind her.

  “Philippa, you are holding up the line.” Her father stepped around her, escorting Lady Martha out the door, ignoring the monks altogether.

  Wilbur stopped and looked down at her, grinning. “Is it customary for you to matchmake monks as well?” he chuckled.

  “Don’t say that to my sister!” Franklin stepped out from behind her, quickly coming to her defense. But her brother backed down with Wilbur’s next remark.

  “Don’t threaten me, knave.” Wilbur took a step closer to Franklin and looked down his nose at the boy. He was only four years older than Franklin, but already had the height of a nearly full-grown man.

  “Why not?” asked Pippa’s brother in a small voice, not sounding so brave anymore.

  “If you want to challenge me, then meet me in the practice yard as soon as the weather breaks. I’ll teach you a lesson.” Wilbur rested his hand on his belt, tapping his empty scabbard since weapons weren’t allowed in church.

  “My brother is weak from being ill and he is not able to wield a sword and you know it,” Pippa retorted. She took a step in front of Franklin to protect him. “I will tell my father about the way you are acting to his only son.”

  “Your father thinks of me as his son now, not that lame excuse for an heir,” chuckled the boy. “Soon, he will make me his heir instead.”

  “Why would you even say such a thing?” she asked with a scowl on her face. “Your mother is not married to my father and never will be. My father would never make you heir of his holdings.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Wilbur, strutting out the door.

  “Come along, Franklin,” said Pippa, taking her brother by the hand and following Wilbur out the door.

  “My lord, I am afraid to say that was far from pleasant,” said Brother Paul, mopping his brow with his long sleeve.

  “Indeed.” Étienne turned to watch the girl head to the wagon as she trudged through the snow. Not having an escort, she served as escort for her younger brother. No one helped her into the wagon, but she assisted the boy instead. He had never seen anything like it. “What do you think that was all about?” he asked the monk.

  “I’m not sure,” answered Brother Paul as the priest approached them.

  “Welcome, Brother Paul,” said Father Oliver, holding his hands in front of him as if he were in prayer. “It is so good to see you again.”

  “Aye, and it is good to see you as well,” answered the monk with a half-bow. His hands steepled in prayer as well.

  “I see you have brought someone else along with you.” Father Oliver waited for an introduction.

  “I am Lord Étienne de Beynac from the south of France,” Étienne told him.

  “De Beynac?” asked the priest in thought. “Are you one of the many sons of Earl Jean-Pierre de Beynac?”

  “I am,” said Étienne with a nod. “I am the youngest of his six sons.”

  “I see,” answered the priest. “Being the youngest of so many siblings is not easy, and never profitable where inheritance is involved. I am sure that is why you have joined the church.”

  “Something like that,” Étienne answered under his breath.

  “Your father is known to have alliances in England. And it is a good thing since I hear that all the de Beynacs are excellent warriors.”

  “Aye,” said Étienne with a slight nod, not wanting to talk about his family any longer.

  “What is the purpose of your visit?” asked the priest. “And will you be lodging at St. Anne’s? You know you are welcome.”

  “Aye, we will be staying with you for now,” said the monk, glancing over to Étienne.

  “Actually,” said Étienne, “we were hoping that you could put in a good word to Baron Willoughby and secure us a room at the castle for the next few weeks.”

  “At the castle?” The priest’s brows dipped. “Why would a novice and a monk want to stay at the castle? Especially when Lady Philippa is constantly hosting dinners and dances? There is always a crowd of people there, as well as drinking and . . . inappropriate behavior,” the priest told him behind his hand.

  “Lady Philippa sounds like a very spirited woman,” said Étienne, thinking this was exactly where he wanted to be.

  “Spirited?” The priest blew air from his mouth. “Forgive me for saying this, but the girl is naught but a nuisance with the way she is constantly matchmaking the villagers. Between that and all the gatherings she hosts, I am not surprised that no man has ever married her.”

  “Then she is addled?” asked Étienne, trying to find out information for his brother. “Is she an improper lady and does she have a bad reputation?”

  “I am sorry, but I have done wrong by speaking ill of a noble. Please forgive me.” The priest blessed himself and proceeded to mumble some prayers.

  “No need,” said the monk. “I assure you that this conversation will go no further.” He blessed himself as well and shot a frustrated look over to Étienne. Following suit, Étienne bowed his head, blessed himself, and once again cradled his rosary.

  “Thank you,” the priest answered, with a look of relief on his face.

  “Can you secure us a chamber at the castle for the duration of our stay?” Étienne asked again, wanting to know firsthand what went on at Grimsthorpe Castle.

  “I suppose I can,” said the priest with a nod. “I will personally accompany you there on the morrow. But please, do not repeat to anyone what I told you about Lady Philippa.”

  “Our lips are sealed,” Étienne assured him, wanting more than ever to find out just how inappropriate the girl truly was.

  Chapter 3

  Pippa awoke the next morning to hear pounding. Opening one sleepy eye, she called for her maidservant. “Marie? Is someone at my door?”

  Marie hurried from the pallet in the wardrobe where she slept, fastening the ties on her bodice as she walked. “I am not sure, my lady. It is not yet daybreak. I can’t imagine who would be at your door at this hour.”

  The pounding continued, followed by the sound of her brother calling out to her.

  “Pippa, open the door!”

  “Franklin!” she exclaimed, springing out of bed and rushing to the door before her maidservant could get there. Throwing it open, she saw a look of panic on the boy’s face. “What is it, Brother? Are you hurt?” She had been so worried about her brother that she hadn’t taken the time to put a cloak over her dressing gown.

  “Nay, Pippa. It is something Wilb
ur told me as I entered the great hall this morning that has me worried.”

  “Wilbur,” she said under her breath, wanting to box the boy’s ears. “What did he say to you now and why are you coming to my door with this so early in the morning? Whatever it is, don’t believe it.” Wilbur was always intimidating her little brother and she didn’t like it.

  “It was about you, Pippa.”

  “Me?” Pippa’s eyes opened wider, all thoughts of sleep leaving her head. She could just imagine what lies the boy was saying about her. “I am going to have a talk with Father and tell him how Wilbur is acting.”

  “But Father is the one who said it.”

  “Franklin, what on earth are you talking about?” It was chilly in the corridor and she wrapped her arms around her to keep warm.

  “Wilbur said that Father has betrothed you to a Frenchman! Pippa, you are not going to leave me and move to France, are you?” Terror showed in the boy’s eyes. Pippa had been the only one to take him under her wing and care for him since their mother had passed away. None of the knights or even her father wanted to train him. They thought of him as naught more than a milksop since he had been weak and frail his entire life.

  “Calm down, Franklin.” Pippa smiled and placed her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I am sure it’s a lie. After all, why would Father want to send me away? And of all things, to be married to a wretched Frenchman.”

  “It’s true, Daughter.”

  Pippa looked up to see her father coming down the corridor toward her with two men in tow. She recognized the monk and the man named Lord Étienne from yesterday at the church. What were they doing here?

  “Father! I am not dressed.” She hid behind the door and stuck her head out to talk to them.

  “Meet me in the great hall anon,” her father commanded. “We have guests, Philippa, and you are not being very polite.”

  “Father, I’m still in my night rail!”

  “Nay, don’t blame her. It is our fault we arrived here so early,” said the monk. “I am sorry to disturb you this way, Lady Philippa.” He glanced over to the Frenchman. “We are used to being up before dawn at the priory.”

  “Well, I’m not,” she spat.

  “Philippa,” said her father in a warning voice.

  “I will meet you in the great hall as soon as I dress,” she told him, still half-hidden behind the door.

  “That’s better,” he answered.

  Pippa closed the door and turned around to find her maidservant holding out her gown. The shutter on the window was open and a cold breeze blew in. The sun rose on the horizon, lighting up a world of ice and snow that, for a moment, looked somewhat magical. But after the news she’d just heard, nothing could make her smile.

  “Did your brother say you were betrothed?” asked Marie, helping her to dress.

  “I’m sure it’s not true. My father wouldn’t do that without speaking to me first.”

  “But didn’t I just hear Lord Willoughby say that it was true?”

  Still half-asleep, Pippa realized that what Marie said was a fact. Her father had said she was betrothed.

  “Oh, Marie, this is horrible.” Pippa sat on the edge of the bed to put on her shoes.

  “I thought you’d be happy to be betrothed, my lady.” The short, blond woman that was thirty years of age with children of her own was a widow. She had been telling Pippa lately that she should be married by now.

  “When I marry, it will be to a man of my choosing.”

  “Did your father agree to that?” Marie picked up a boar’s bristle brush and ran it through Pippa’s hair.

  “Nay,” she said, sitting up straighter. “But I am a matchmaker, Marie. I help match up couples who then fall in love and marry.”

  “But you are a noble, my lady,” Marie reminded her. “Nobles marry for alliances, not love.”

  “Well, that’s wrong and that’s all there is to it.”

  “How do you plan on convincing your father to believe this?”

  Pippa sadly realized that there would be no convincing her father of anything such as marrying for love. He was a powerful baron and would use her to assure alliances. As his only daughter, he would be sure to use her marriage to his advantage. If her mother were still alive, she would have agreed with Pippa. But now, Pippa would have no choice in who she shared her bed with for the rest of her life.

  * * *

  Étienne settled himself on a bench in the great hall with a tankard of ale in his hand. It was early, much too early for him to be awake in his opinion. He’d been arising before the sun for the past six months now, but would never get used to it. Of course, if he didn’t have to get up at two in the morning for Matins and then five in the morning for Lauds, mayhap he wouldn’t be so tired.

  “It is nearly six o’clock,” Brother Paul told him. “It is time for Prime.” Prime was the next prayer session required by monks. Étienne had already been to church with Brother Paul twice this morning before they came to the castle. The last thing he wanted was to go again.

  “Go ahead without me,” he mumbled. “I need to rest my mind.”

  “Étienne, you made a vow. You cannot break it. Just because we are at the castle now is not an excuse to ignore your prayers.”

  This lifestyle could make any man lose his mind. Étienne’s training as a novice was scheduled for one year and then he’d be accepted as a monk. Even though it is what his father wanted of him, Étienne was starting to have his doubts. At first, he thought mayhap he should enter the Order. Mayhap here, he could find peace of mind. After all, the monks didn’t judge each other. There was no competing, and everyone was kind.

  Étienne could not be more bored.

  “Fine,” he said, downing his ale and thunking the tankard down on the trestle table. Servants were up and about, but there were still a lot of prone bodies sleeping on the floor.

  “I am going to escort Father Oliver back to St. Anne’s after Prime. Did you want to come along with us?”

  “Nay. I’ll stay here.” It was most likely wrong to think this way, but Étienne figured if Brother Paul wasn’t here, he could sneak in an extra hour of sleep or, perhaps, go up to the guard house and get involved in a game of dice.

  “Brother Étienne,” said the monk. “You don’t seem happy.”

  “Please don’t call me Brother. You know I don’t like it. I’m not a monk yet.”

  “And I have a feeling you may never be.”

  Étienne turned to look at the monk, repositioning himself on the bench and stretching. “It is what my father wants. He thinks it is the best for me and I am trying to make up for my wrongs.”

  “Are you, now?” Brother Paul raised a brow.

  “I might not always do what’s expected, but at least I am trying.”

  “Perhaps you should try a little harder.” That told Étienne that Brother Paul was aware of his misdoings lately. He didn’t want to start more trouble, so he decided he had better go to Prime.

  “Where is the chapel in this castle?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

  “It is just down the hall,” said the monk, hurrying away. “I will find Father Oliver and meet you there.”

  Étienne hadn’t even gotten off the bench when he heard someone call out.

  “Get out of my way, Franklin the fool!”

  Étienne’s head snapped around to see the tall boy from church that was called Wilbur. He knocked a tankard out of Franklin’s hand and pushed him hard. The boy fell back against the table and to the floor, almost knocking into Étienne.

  Étienne jumped to his feet, towering over both the boys. “Is there a problem here?” he asked in a low voice.

  “If there was, it is none of your business, Monk!” spat Wilbur. “And I don’t know why you’re even here because you’re a stinking Frenchman.” He brushed past Étienne being followed by a few of his friends.

  Étienne’s hands balled into fists and, automatically, he reached to his side for his sword, only to remember he n
o longer wore it. Ever since he’d been a novice at the monastery, his weapons had all been packed away. He let out a deep breath of frustration and held out a hand to help the boy up.

  Franklin looked at him with wide, brown eyes, leery at first.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I mean to help you,” he assured the boy.

  “Of course,” said the boy, taking his hand. “Thank you.”

  “Why do you let Wilbur push you around like that? Stand up to him,” Étienne told him. “A good punch to the jaw will make him know you don’t like the way he treats you.”

  “A punch to the face?” asked the boy. “You sound . . . violent. For a monk, that is.”

  “I’m not a monk. Yet,” said Étienne, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “And I would prefer if you called me Lord Étienne.”

  “Of course, my lord. And you can just call me Frank. My sister and everyone else calls me Franklin out of respect since I was named after my father. But I don’t like having the same name as him.”

  “All right then. Frank it is,” Étienne answered with a nod.

  That made the boy smile. He was thin and very pale, but with some work and time, Étienne was sure he would develop muscles. “You are the son of a baron and you shouldn’t let anyone push you around.”

  “I don’t like it,” the boy admitted. “But I don’t know what to do.”

  “Hasn’t your father or one of the knights trained you to defend yourself?”

  “Nay.” He shook his head sadly.

  “How old are you?”

  “Ten,” answered the boy.

  “Ten? Then you should have been a page for the past three years, not to mention been fostered by another lord.”

  “I was ill and weak for most of my life. Then my mother died three years ago and my sister, Pippa, has been looking after me. My father wants naught to do with me. He thinks I am an embarrassment to him. He would have sent me away by now if Pippa hadn’t insisted that I stay here with her.”

  “Well, that explains it. Boys leave their mother’s side at seven and start training to be a man. Don’t you want to be a knight someday?”