The Ever Knight

by Fox, Georgia

  Is that what had happened?

  It was a great injustice if Remy was simply a mischievous demon she’d saved by mistake, drawn to him by her wicked appetites. It would be another year before she had healing powers again. He had depleted her, because he was so far gone. He’d never know how close he came to death.

  She thought of the many places he’d traveled to fight for his king, while she had been nowhere. Could he not take her with him? She wouldn’t be any trouble.

  The nuns here would tell him differently of course, she mused.

  But she really would make an effort to be very good if he took her with him. She could wash his shirts and tunics for him, mend his hose. Sadly she was not a great cook, but she would learn and she did love to experiment with new recipes—the stranger the ingredients the better.

  She sighed, perplexed. If he was not her Ever Knight why did she feel this pressure on her heart, the desire to run into his arms and love him again? To take tender care of him? But something was missing. It was as if she saw only half a picture and the other part was shrouded in fog.

  Fat drops of rain spattered the wide stone windowsill and Sister Annuncia hurried to close the shutters, fretting aloud that it was bad weather for travel.

  The scullery door shuddered open and Deorwynn ran in barefoot, her fair hair only half braided and streaming behind her.

  “Deorwynn of Wexford, what can be the meaning of this undress?” Sister Annuncia exclaimed. “Like a little heathen!”

  Ignoring her, the girl embraced Jisella in a hug, taking the opportunity to whisper slyly in her ear, “Now you’re for it. Guess who’s come to fetch you.”

  “I know. They’re taking me to my husband today.”

  But Deorwynn shook her head. “They won’t have to. He’s outside now.”

  Jisella stared at her.

  “He’s come for you himself.”

  Oh Fuck.

  * * * *

  “Remy! Remy!”

  Taking shelter in the doorway of the cookhouse, waiting for the rain to ease, he heard that familiar voice through the splash and fizzle of rainwater as it gushed from the gargoyle spouts. Remy looked up, a lump of bread hanging out of his mouth.

  A tall fellow crossed the yard with a confident stride, one gloved hand raised in greeting. There was no smile on the other man’s handsome face, but a slight softening of the features. Those who knew him well would see he was in a relatively glad mood. Others would think him about to take off someone’s head.

  “Renard!” Remy greeted his brother warmly, slapping his back. There were only a few months between them in age, and Renard, although younger, was taller and leaner. Remy was broader all around, stockier. “What are you doing here?”

  “Couldn’t wait to see my bride, could I? Decided to come and join you for the last leg of the journey.”

  Remy laughed, rolling his eyes, knowing Renard was no more eager to marry than he would be. He was probably there to get it over with, not out of any expectation of joy, but just to put an end to the horror of waiting. This girl to which he’d been pledged in hand and body, had been hidden away behind these walls almost all her life, fussed over by these dour-faced nuns and probably taught that man was evil. Remy had teased his brother that she might very well have two heads and cloven hoofs, since no one knew what she looked like. Renard, who never took a jest very well, had merely shrugged it off, his face somber. The marriage was only a political arrangement. King William wanted a de Robynet to claim this Saxon thane’s daughter and settle her father’s land. The brothers had drawn straws over it, much to the King’s amusement. Renard drew the short straw and with it the child bride.

  “Look tired Remy. Rough night?”

  “You might say that.”

  Renard rubbed his hands together and sniffed at the rain. “So where is this girl I am to marry?”

  Remy jerked his head to where a small group of women huddled in hooded cloaks under the wide entrance to the main hall.

  “Let’s meet the brat then,” said Renard, his tone cheerless.

  Remy nodded, stuffing more bread in his mouth.

  “And…Remy,” his brother paused. “Let me do the talking.”

  He looked askance, left cheek bulging.

  “No offense,” Renard added, “but I doubt she speaks French and your English is so bad, I never know what you’ll say next. Don’t want to frighten the girl. And if she’s ugly there’s no need to come right out with it. I know how impulsive you are. She may be only a Saxon, but she will be my wife so try to be respectful—at least to her face. And Remy, have you no other tunic? That one is torn and stained.” He threw up his hands. “No matter. The time is upon us.”

  Upon you, thought Remy, watching Renard’s hands working nervously over his own tunic. Yet again he thanked the Gods that he got the longer straw. It must be no easy thing to meet your bride for the first time—and she a quivering, knock-kneed pubescent, about as arousing as a jar of pig’s knuckles preserved in vinegar.

  “Remember. Leave the talking to me.”

  Remy swallowed, nodding again, amused as ever by his brother’s fastidiousness

  They walked across the yard together, Remy finishing his hasty bite of bread, humming with his mouth full. The rain now thinned to a grey drizzle, but the brief downpour had pooled between the uneven cobbles, seeping into Remy’s worn old boots. He shot a quick glance at his brother’s feet and saw new leather, well made, well fitted. Renard had dry, warm feet. Must be nice, he thought with a sniff and a slight twist of his lips. All right if you liked that sort of pampering. In his opinion a man should suffer a little inconvenience or else he might become fat, lazy and spoiled.

  He lengthened his own stride, proud of his battered, war-torn boots, ignoring the flip-flapping of the loose sole and the cold squelching of muddy water between his toes.

  A man had to feel some discomfort and eat a little dirt, just to know he was alive.

  * * * *

  They were coming. Jisella readied herself, her heart beating in her throat like a trapped moth in a jar. A breeze had picked through a pile of dead, damp and sticky leaves, scattering them across the yard, dropping some into puddles where they floated, shining copper coins amid the dreary colors. The dank earthiness of the season was all around—the faint smokiness of smoldering bonfires in the field, a lingering of rain in the air now turning to a misty drizzle that clung to her hood and the free wisps of hair around her face.

  The nuns who’d guarded her for six years were so eager to finally be rid of her that they pushed her out into the yard without ceremony, her one sack of belongings clutched in her hands. Now they formed a barrier behind her—as if she might run back inside, bolt the doors and force her future husband to lay siege to their convent.

  Remy had not seen her yet. She had a few more seconds. And that must be his brother. She clasped her belongings a little tighter, her fingers suddenly numb. For some reason she’d pictured a much older man and uglier too. Her imagination, naturally, had drawn his sketch long before now and it had become engraved on her thoughts as reality.

  But he was not at all what she’d expected.

  Renard de Robynet oozed arrogant authority and a godly amount of disdain for his surroundings. Even on that day of rain, his hair held captive sparks of lingering sunlight from another month, another season. The young man’s presence lit up that dreary yard like a beacon.

  Side by side the two men took her breath away.

  * * * *

  “My lady Jisella.” His brother bowed. Remy didn’t bother to follow suit, but his gaze swept slowly upward to take in the girl his brother would marry. He supposed he was curious to see what the little Saxon rat looked like—the mother of his future nephews.

  She held out her hand for his brother’s kiss. “My lord de Robynet. I am honored you came for me yourself after all.”

  Remy stared at the small pale face in the dark hood and felt the cobbles slip under his worn soles.

 
From Renard’s sudden stillness at his side, Remy guessed his brother was unusually and pleasantly surprised. And why wouldn’t he be? She was no child bride. She was a full grown woman with bubbies for nursing, hips for birthing and a pussy for …. Remy opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out except a rush of air.

  His brother gave him a sharp nudge, warning of their previous conversation and Remy’s agreement not to speak.

  But it wasn’t his brother’s lecture that silenced Remy.

  “I am pleased we meet at last today,” Renard was saying in his perfect, if somewhat stiff and formal English. “You are prepared for the journey?”

  “Pardonez moi,” Remy burst out, grabbing his brother’s arm. His heart was afire.

  Renard looked at him, quizzical, annoyed. “What is it?”

  She too looked at him, eyes shining, lips poised to smile. His cock responded instantly.

  He cleared his throat. “We’ve been tricked,” he said in French.

  Short straw be damned.

  Chapter Five

  “Je n’ai pas su qui elle etait!”

  “In English Remy, please. She should hear what we say.”

  Jisella was shocked that her future husband had an understanding of fairness. Unusual in a man and, so she’d been lead to believe, unheard of in a Norman. His expression was blank, however. He spoke as if he recited rules from a book, not because they were his own opinions.

  Remy repeated in English, “I didn’t know who she was.”

  “You didn’t ask,” she chirped. “What else could I expect from a Norman?”

  Remy paced the great hall, leaving wet footprints across the flagstones. “And…And…” he yelled, shaking his finger at her, “she is a witch!” He pulled on the waist of his chausses, jerking them down to show his thigh. It was fortunate, thought Jisella, that Mother Superior had stayed only a moment. Renard de Robynet had commanded her to leave the hall and the old shrew put up no argument. She never moved her feet with much alacrity, but today she did, especially when this young man quietly and casually threatened to put a sword to her throat for not guarding his future bride sufficiently. Jisella was certain the old shutters in their dormitory would be replaced before dark tonight with iron bars and the frost-tipped ivy ruthlessly ripped away from the stone wall of the tower. She was only shocked it hadn’t been done before now. Apparently she was the first girl to take advantage of the one weak spot in the fortress armor, but the old ladies would be wiser now to the capabilities of these wild young women in their charge.

  “Are you angry because I cured you?” she asked Remy. “I took the arrowhead from your thigh and healed you.”

  “With magic! See, brother. You had better not wed this woman.”

  She smiled. “Why? Do you want me for yourself?”

  He glowered at her, muttering under his breath. But there was a darker color on his face and his eyes avoided hers. Instead he looked at his brother and then turned away from them both, taking sudden and unlikely care over his re-dressing, hiding his manhood from her as if she might cast a spell to make it drop off.

  Jisella sighed deeply at the stupidity of men.

  Renard swore gruffly, flinging his cloak across the table, following it with his sword. “I should have known better than to send you to fetch her. Couldn’t keep your cock in your breeches for one more night.”

  “She threw herself at me, offered herself up on a platter. What was I supposed to do? What would you have done in my place?” Remy thrust a finger in her direction. “Look at her.”

  Both men now stared at her and her belly tightened. Renard’s eyes were guarded, but thorough in their assessment, taking pitilessly without giving any clue to his own thoughts. Despite Remy’s mistake, his brother showed no violent emotion, only mild frustration. If there was competition between them, it was not evident. He displayed more anger against the nuns than his brother, but even that was muted, stifled.

  He strode to where she stood, wrestled the sack of belongings from her arms and set it down on the table, evidently to get a better look at her. She folded her arms over her bosom, hoping to impede his bold assessment. It seemed as if he thought he could treat her like a horse he’d purchased.

  He swept her hood back from her hair. “You’re right, Remy,” he murmured, his hard gaze fixed upon her. “I daresay I would have done the same.” His hands rested briefly on her folded arms, then tightened without warning and dragged them downward. “She’s a beauty. Lovely tits, eh?”

  Finally he expressed one of his thoughts aloud. And it had to be that one. Typical of men, she thought angrily. He would forgive his brother and blame her for being a temptress.

  “So!” She shook off his grip and refolded her arms. “It’s all my fault is it?”

  They chorused, “Yes!”

  Well, she supposed seducing Remy was her idea, even if he did make it easy. Explaining to them about her Ever Knight would be pointless of course. They would laugh at her. Or Remy would laugh; his brother would probably just stare at her in that challenging, annoying manner. Men had no romance in their souls.

  Renard gripped her chin in his hand and lifted it to make her eyes meet his. Suddenly she saw something there, something struggling to get out and yet held back. “Did my brother please you?”

  She thought about lying. His grip tightened until it almost bruised her jaw.

  “The truth,” he added, his voice low, restrained. “Jisella.” The way he pronounced her name made the skin on the back of her neck prickle and tiny tremors skipped down her spine. His ‘J’ was soft, the vowels lingering on his tongue so that it came out as “Shee-sell-lure”.

  With both hands she pulled on his arm and he released her. “Yes,” she snapped. “He fucked me. He fucked me good and hard and I liked it. There now! Content?”

  His left eyebrow rose in a high arch and his eyes flamed. Aha! She had made him show emotion. He was not impervious after all. He shook out his fingers and let them hang at his sides. She was shocked that he did not strike her. She’d felt her father’s wrath for much less insolence than that and the nun’s were not adverse to correction in the same manner if the need arose. Jisella had known bloody noses before and even a blackened eye.

  Remy drew closer. “’Tis true. It is my fault, Renard. Take a knife to my throat if you desire it.”

  For a long moment all was still. She felt her heart swell with gladness to hear Remy take her part, willing to sacrifice himself. Then he was her Ever Knight. He was. She’d been right all along.

  A mouse could be heard scratching away in a damp corner. “I don’t desire to shed your blood, brother,” Renard replied finally, never moving his gaze from hers. “But I do desire this woman and I will have her.”

  Jisella tore her gaze away and found Remy observing his brother in bemusement. Then he too turned his attention to her. She softened under the lusty heat of their joint fierce regard. It was overwhelming to know they both wanted her —and she had made Renard confess it out loud. From the look on Remy’s face his brother rarely, if ever, did that.

  The thought dampened her sex, made her breasts feel hot and heavy.

  “So what do we do about it?” she managed, her breath shallow, burning in her throat. “You can’t both have me, can you?” Her voice rose in a question at the end when it should have been a statement. She felt her face flush.

  Renard jerked off his gloves and raised a hand to her right breast, holding and weighing it through her gown. “Let me think about this dilemma.” His thumb rubbed her peaking nipple and she arched her back just enough to press it more firmly into his palm. “What do you think, brother?” he murmured.

  Remy waited for no further invite, but touched her other breast likewise and growled, “She’s in heat.” He licked his lips, a wolf waiting to pounce, as if he could smell her musk. She’d already scented the sexual need in them both, but then she had extraordinarily strong senses because of what she was, a Child of the Full Moon, born under it on All Hallow�
�s Eve.

  Which one of them now had claim? One had taken her dowry, the other her maidenhead. How would they manage her? How would she manage them?

  They stood fondling her breasts, smoothing and spreading the cloth with their fingers to make her nipples more pronounced, comparing one to the other, as if to see whose touch aroused her more.

  And Jisella knew she must find a way to manage this situation. Or die trying.

  “You’ll have to choose between us,” Renard said suddenly. “Which of us do you want?”

  Around her the walls swayed and then faded. All that remained was the three of them.

  “You will abide by my decision?” she demanded, her throat dry. It must be another trick, she thought. He only let her think she could choose.

  But he inclined his head a half inch. “My lady Jisella, we await your decision. You may come with me today and we shall be married, as it was planned. Or you can go with Remy, wherever his horse takes him.”

  She looked at Remy. He seemed paler, but he stood brave and nodded to her. Then suddenly he smiled, as if he could no longer hold it in. Last night he had assured her he could not take her with him. Had he changed his mind now? He stood by his brother and awaited her decision. For all his bluster, was he now ready to make room for a woman in his life? Ready to love her, even on bad days when things did not go his way, or she was in a less obliging mood? He had enjoyed everything his way until now. Would he adjust to sharing his uncluttered life with another soul?