How to Train Your Knight: A Medieval Romance Novel

by Alden, Stella Marie

  Pausing as if he had not heard her, and lost in a memory, he smirked at some internal jest. “Indeed. Had I been able to foresee my future, I’d have paid more attention to the Sultans daughters’ weaving, instead of their other fine assets. I could send an emissary to buy a loom from him. Mind you, it could take months, mayhap even years.”

  “Sir?”

  His dark brows furrowed in concentration and his well-sculpted jaw loosened, then tightened. “I’ll make some more recommendations. For now, continue as thou art doing.”

  She chose to ignore the commanding tone and held out some of her finest wool so that the bossy weaver could continue with his inspection. He fingered the softest of fabrics and nodded. “This will fetch a good price.”

  Thank Goodness. That was all she really needed to hear. She just had one more thing to show him. “So you continue to give your stamp of approval? We’ll be able to sell at fair with no issues? What percentage—”

  “Yes, of course, and of course. Can I ask you something more of a personal nature?”

  Behind her, he had turned somewhat sideways to maneuver the narrow path between the stone buildings. He ducked under an arch and strode over the puddle that she had to plow through. Ugh. The lower edge of her dress was now soiled and the day had just begun.

  “Do you take any monies for yourself?”

  “I already told you. There is naught I need, except a shorter dress.” She wished she were outfitted as a lad again. Men had it so much easier. She held up the edge of her muddy tunic for him to see. They exited a corridor and entered an open square.

  “Enough personal talk. Would you like to see our new vat for dyeing the wool or not?”

  One of his eyebrows rose in question. The small gesture was so imperial that she had to laugh. “Ha, you didn’t know, did you? Oh, it’s a big secret. But at the next fair, we’ll have blue wool. Ah, it’ll be deep and soft and royal. A color that’s never before been seen in England.”

  She closed her eyes, danced a little jig, and swirled with her arms outstretched to the sky. Surely, The Beast would leave her and her woolly jewels behind and go joust and fight. What could a man of war want with sheep? She’d make him leave. She’d show him how dull, stupid, and dirty they could be. Maybe she could pay him off in gold. He could leave men to guard the fields, but he had to go.

  Her heart tightened in her chest. Hadn’t she rather begun to look forward to their evening talks? Her new husband was an intelligent and well-traveled man. There was so much she could learn from him. She opened her eyes and blushed furiously as the weaver gazed at her with way too much interest. His eyes were set upon her breasts.

  He closed the space between them. “Thou art truly beautiful when you dance for your wool. I’d have you dance for me with a passion like that.”

  “Shh, shh. Not so loud. I’m a married lady. The Beast will have your head.”

  What in the world had come over her this morning? The guildsman must’ve put a strange spell on her. He put his hand lightly around her waist and his fingers met under her breast, reminiscent of another time, another man. She couldn’t recall right at the moment, for her brain had turned to meal.

  His lust poked at her belly and he groaned. “We’re alone here and he’ll never know. A man can only endure so much, dear lady.”

  How had she not noticed that he’d led her into an empty building? She squirmed in his embrace with heart racing and pushed against the stone wall of his chest. “Let go of me.”

  Instead of complying, he kissed her lightly on the lips. Oh, my. When he stopped the heavenly assault, she asked, “Mayhap we could have courtly love? I’d give you my handkerchief and you would swear undying loyalty? I’ve always wanted that. It would be so romantic …”

  His eyes went dark and way too serious. Her ears pounded as her fingers slipped under her sleeve and grasped the warm handle of her knife. Heaven was not meant for her.

  He moaned, dug his hands through her hair, and lay siege to her the mouth. He claimed her, thrusting his tongue between her lips and resting his hard staff against her body.

  The area between her legs went wet, everything tingled, and she sighed. God forgive her, she grabbed his hair and kissed him back. He tasted of sweet jam and smelled of a spice she couldn’t place. His hands wandered over her breasts and body and she let him. It was glorious and delightful until she remembered who she was and what he was doing to her. This wasn’t right at all.

  She removed her hand embracing him, grabbed her knife, and twisted to the ground under his legs. With the sharp edge to his groin, she said, “Move an inch and you will be de-manned.”

  “Christ be our savior. Move your hand. Ye’ve drawn blood.” He tried to push her away, but she stuck like mud to the small of his back. Every time he moved, she pushed the blade further in.

  “Ow! Drop the knife or I may be forced to hurt you. Badly. What in the devil is wrong with you?”

  “Get out of my town and never return. I may not love him, nor even know his face, but I’m the wife of The Beast of Thornhill. You won’t sully his name by tasting of me.” Her ferocity surprised even herself.

  “Good God, it was just a kiss.” His face bore both shock and amazement. There was even a hint of a crooked smile.

  What audacity! Wet tears clouded her vision. “I’m wedded, sir. I shall never, ever, again know gentle kisses. For that, I thank you, but God’s will be done. I shall remain loyal to The Beast even if it is an unjust penance. Go on or I’ll scream and bring him anon. He’ll nay be happy if I tell him what you’ve done.”

  He cursed at his stupidity and stepped away. When she’d responded to him, his mind had gone into a fever. He’d never dreamed the woman would be so full of passion or so damn loyal. Hadn’t he trussed her up like a pig to slaughter? Thrown her on the floor and threatened to hang her? Yet, here she was, not even considering a small dalliance with a tradesman. Before he could think on it any further, a horn sounded in the distance.

  Damn. His mesh and sword lay on the floor in his chambers. He pushed his wife away and she landed on the ground, none too gently. “I’m sorry. I’ll explain later.”

  He bolted down the road and across the great lawn in several strides. Once in the stable, he threw a heavy blanket over Midnight and rode her toward the sound of the blaring horn. She ran like the wind while he gripped his thighs and fisted her mane. They were one in breath and determination. The fields and stone houses flew by as did the mill and the forest. Damn, that Abernathy. It had to be him. Did he want a full-scale war?

  With a shrill whistle through his teeth, he called Midnight to a halt. Thank God his men were uninjured, but Adam and Zeke’s movements were sluggish. Still, they were putting up a hell of a good fight.

  “Only two down? What ails you?” He pulled his knife out of his leggings and threw it. The finely honed tip found home where the enemy’s shoulder armor opened for a joint. The man’s sword dropped to the ground and he screamed.

  In one quick move, he jumped off Midnight, picked up the injured man’s sword, and thrust it into the midsection of the next knight that came at him. Surprised, dead eyes stared up at him. A third knight tottered and looked toward a region behind a copse of trees. That was the only warning Marcus had except for the loud thwang of the bowstring.

  The damn arrow-point dug into his shoulder and stung like the devil’s own horn. Furious, he shouted his battle-cry and splayed two men in half before the rest ran off.

  Thomas’ horse arrived as he lay panting at the clouds. Once dismounted, he leaned over Marcus’ body. “How bad is it?”

  “Wrap me up, then go after those bastards. Bring them to the manor.” He grimaced and tried to sit, but the world spun about. When he opened his eyes, his head rested in a muddy pool of blood.

  Thomas motioned to Jacob to get help while he removed his headgear and gloves. “You heard him. Go get the bloody thieves. Those bleating beasties are our bread and, butter. Best we keep them safe.”<
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  With a quick crack, he broke the arrow away, tore an edge off his inner tunic, and wrapped the wound so tightly that Marcus saw stars. “Don’t be fading away, just yet. C’mon now. You’ve had much worse. If you’d had on your silk, the damn arrow would’ve hardly nicked the skin. Why’re you dressed like that?”

  It took three men to sling him over his charger. Sitting up straight was out of the question, but he managed to wrap his arms around Midnight’s neck. She nickered and seemed to understand as she stomped her hooves in the blood.

  Thomas slapped her flanks and Marcus held on for his life. A fall would be the end of him. Delay would be worse.

  Ann was stirring her dye and trying to focus on something useful while she waited. Why had that horn sounded from the north and why had the weaver responded so? It seemed like ages before horse’s hooves pounded the road again. Lifting her tunic, she dashed to the square. The Beast’s man, Thomas, led her husband’s huge black charger to the manor. Whitely was slumped forward, ready to fall off.

  Out of breath, she arrived just as he lifted the bloodied man to the ground. “What happened? Is he dead?”

  He pushed her in the direction of the manor. “Are you daft? Go get something to stitch up your master.”

  “Blackwell? Nay, that’s Whitely!” She gasped at the dripping blood pouring from the man’s shoulder. “Is that an arrow?”

  When she didn’t move, he shook her none too gently and stared into her eyes. “Move, woman! He’s lost much of his life’s liquid. Get your wits about you. He needs your attendance or he’ll surely die.”

  At that, her mind cleared. Charles, the stable lad, had also frozen in place. She pushed him to get him moving. “Help him. Get some men. Get Sally and have her fetch my flesh needle. Go now. Run. Thomas put him in the lower bath.”

  He started to argue, but she stayed his big body with a palm to his chest. “I can’t stitch him up until he’s clean. For heavenly grace, he’s covered in sheep dung.”

  Frowning, he hoisted the bloody man over his shoulder and shouted to Charles. “Straight on to get the needles.”

  She ran into the bathhouse and pointed to a stone slab, lit by the afternoon sun. “Put him here.”

  Thomas put him down and slapped Marcus’ face until he moaned. “Good man. Wake up.”

  Lifting a skin flask to his lips, he poured in brown liquid until he spit out, gasping, and coughing. Cursing, with one quick move, Thomas pulled out what was left of the arrow, and applied pressure.

  The Beast cursed an awful word, appearing more like himself, and oddly, her mood lifted.

  She rolled up her sleeves and tucked her tunic into her belt to give more freedom of movement. He was pale, but his breathing was steady and his eyes clear. With the help of Thomas, she cut his shirt open and studied the gaping wound in his upper arm. The arrow had done some damage and ripped open flesh. It hadn’t torn open any of the major blood pipes, but it had gone deep into the shoulder.

  Charles arrived with her sewing kit, just as she finished cleaning off the mud mixed with dung. Taking her most precious flax thread, and her rare bone needle, she stitched flesh to flesh. “Dammit, Thomas, would you clear the hole so I can see?”

  Sullenly, he dabbed with a bloodied tunic.

  “Come now. I’m sure you’ve seen a man stitched back together before.”

  “Aye. In the East. By battle surgeons. Where in the devil did you learn such skills? It’s unnatural. By God, he’s a man, not a tapestry.” He watched intently as she made her knots. At one point, she was sure he’d pull her away.

  Marcus, now awake, watched, too. Ignoring both their intense stares, she focused. When finished, she said to Stephen, “Bring me our best spirits.”

  He nodded and returned a moment later with a pottery keg.

  “Poor it over his arm.”

  “But miss—”

  “Do it now.” She glared him into action.

  He popped out the cork, closed his eyes, and poured the alcohol over the raw red wound. Marcus shouted a ripe barrage of curses and she presumed her last hour on earth was upon her.

  Sure enough, Thomas jumped and held a knife to her throat. “Would you kill him, now that you’ve stitched him, witch?”

  She dared not move for fear the blade tip would dig deeper. In a low whisper, so her words would not move her neck, she explained, “Stop. I can prove the rightness of my actions. It’s all written down in a Latin book I’ve read of Roman warfare and battle care. After you stitch, you must douse the wound with spirits.”

  He looked to Marcus for direction, who gave a small nod. Releasing the blade from her throat, he said, “If he dies, you die.”

  A small red blot smeared her hand where she rubbed her neck. “You can’t knife me and hang me. Besides, I’m already as good as dead. I’ve already put a knife to his balls and to your arm on my wedding day. No doubt you both believe everything you’ve heard about the death of my first husband.”

  “Then why save him?” Thomas, for once, did not look amused.

  “You don’t know that I have. Would you mind giving me some privacy? I’d bathe before I’m put to death.” She smiled wryly, folded her legs under her skirts, and sat down on the side of the pool. In the reflection of the water, her best muslin dress was covered in sheep dung and blood. Her bloodied neck would no doubt bruise.

  Marcus, looking much better, said in her defense, “She’s no murderer. Leave us be.”

  Thomas glowered, kept his knife in his hand, yet turned his back to them and walked three steps to stand outside.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and waited. Would he demand her execution now? “What, ho, sir weaver-beast?”

  “What ho, yourself. What would you have me say?” He rested his head back onto the stones and his intense dark eyes glared up at her.

  Unable to look away, she shifted. “Would you not apologize for posing as Mr. Whitely?”

  “Only for the fact he was unable to finish what he’d begun.” He grinned, moaned, and moved onto his side.

  She smiled. Apparently, hanging wasn’t on his mind. “If that were the case, I might apologize for drawing blood on the knight between your legs.”

  “Tell me, why would you not let the weaver finish kissing you? Did you find him repugnant?”

  “No, not repugnant.” She remembered, blushed, and between her legs began to tingle. “Not at all.”

  “Did you find the kiss not to your liking?” He took another drink of mead and gave her a lopsided grin.

  “You’re fully in your cups and no doubt daft in the head from loss of blood. But because you almost died, I’ll answer honestly. It was a heavenly kiss.” She sighed. In truth, his kiss had made her knees weaken. His hardened rod that had pushed between her legs had fit perfectly. He’d awoken something entirely new and her own beast stirred within.

  Suddenly, she remembered how he’d also deceived her and tried to make her appear unfaithful. “But even if I had a husband who would truss me up as a fine lamb for dinner and lay me out on my own manor floor with my body on display for all to see, I’d be loyal to him.”

  He pursed his lips and frowned.

  Had she spoken too boldly? His drying blood itched without mercy as she scratched and moved away. The clear, warm water beckoned. A bath was needed. But should she dare? Still standing behind him, she pulled off her tunic and laid her knives aside. Leaving her long undershirt on, she stepped down into the pool and ducked under the soothing water. “Ahh.”

  He focused on her breasts, winced, and lifted onto his elbow. New blood seeped from her stitching. “Would you help me remove my shoes and leg wrappings?”

  “Careful, you’ll pull out all my fine labor. Lay back. I’ll help you.” She could do this small kindness for him. All, but naked, she rushed to his aid. Modesty would need to step aside. After all, the man had almost died saving her sheep. Besides, if she didn’t, he’d just call Thomas. Then he, too, would have a full view of her form. Tha
t wouldn’t do at all.

  With a stout heart, she stood in front of her new husband. His eyes widened, then slowly wandered up and down her body, but he said naught. He stretched out one foot toward her.

  Lowering her eyes, she knelt down in front of him. Twice, she pressed her hands into the dung and blood to tug off a boot. Then she unwrapped his leggings and shyly reached up his thighs to untie his braies. Her hands caressed down his coarse, dark leg hair as she removed his knife sheaths.

  He moaned with his eyes closed.

  “Are you in pain?”

  With a grim smile, he answered, “More than you know. Help me to sit at the edge of the pool.”

  She moved his feet into the water and rinsed her hands. “Is that better?”

  “Would you also help your husband with his inner shirt and lower him into the water?” His eyes turned black, hiding the hazel coloring and his lips were mere inches away from hers.

  Unable to breathe or to break away from his stare, she unlaced his ruined shirt and pulled it off his body. “I, umm. I don’t know. The spring water would help you heal. I’d not want you to be fevered.”

  His eyes closed and his brows furrowed when her hands met his naked torso. She stared in wonder at the lines of defined muscles on his chest.

  “Ann.” Her name escaped his lips more like a prayer as he opened his eyes.

  She felt something move between his legs and gasped. His rod stood fully at attention.

  “M’lady?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Sir?” Ann continued to stare at the thing.

  “You were married. Ye’ve seen sheep. This condition can’t cause you much confusion.”

  “Yes, but … Well, no.” Her face was on fire. Dear God, the knight was large. “Please. I believe you can descend fully into the water now.” She fled to the far corner of the pool.

  With a groan, he paled and tried to sit. “Damnation.”

  Rushing back across the pool, she said, “I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you. Lean on my shoulder.” She shivered despite the warmth of the pool when his weight fell upon her and one hand slid over her breast. Even more so when his thick rod brushed against her navel.