How to Train Your Knight: A Medieval Romance Novel

by Alden, Stella Marie

  “I’d kiss you, now, if you’d let me.” He held fast as she tried to wriggle out of his grasp. His tongue licked water from her lower lip. “Did you not say you enjoyed the weaver’s kiss?”

  “That was different.” The hand that had found her breast squeezed and she moved closer to get more. “Yes, but—”

  “I think you talk too much.” He put his fingers over her lips, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her. It started out like the one in the barn but moved into something more urgent, more needful. Her hands dug into his scalp and she kissed him back. Of their own accord, her legs locked around his waist when his rod rubbed between her thighs. She was climbing toward heaven, but had no idea what to do next.

  Groaning, he clamped one large hand around her derriere and tugged her so close that she thought his body would swallow her whole. Suddenly, he stopped. His palm caressed her shameful back.

  “Turn around,” he said softly and put her down.

  “No. Please.” She tried to wrestle out of his grasp, but he won out and twisted her.

  His coarse fingertips brushed over the crisscross of scars on her back. “Dear God. What is this?”

  There was no point to continue in the struggle. “I’m so, so, sorry. I know the state of my back is wretched. It is repugnant and a great affront. I completely forgot myself. Forgive me.”

  The Beast growled low and fierce and he let her go. “I recognize the scars of repeated whippings. By all that is holy, tell me who did this to you. Underhill?”

  He didn’t want her. Who would? She wailed, jumped out of the pool, and grabbed his tunic like a blanket. Nearly naked, she flew past Thomas, past the ladies in the kitchen, and up the stairs. He shouted her name as she dashed out of sight. Out of breath, she slid the bedroom bar into place.

  Snatches of conversation echoed from below so she put her ear to the revolving wall.

  “Marcus, be sensible,” said Thomas.

  Her husband grumbled something unintelligible.

  “You’ve opened your wound. Sit down.”

  At least The Beast wasn’t going to chase after her. She shivered, found a clean undertunic, and wrapped herself in her fur blanket. He was a nobleman and a great warrior. He’d probably bedded hundreds of women. Sultan’s daughters. Of course her deformities would shrink his pintle. What was she thinking? It was just that his touch was so gentle, and his lips so soft that she’d momentarily forgotten she was a monster.

  She sobbed. All was lost. She’d allowed herself to hope that if she shared her body with him, they might find happiness. She was—

  What was that? Devil’s breath. What was The Beast up to now? She pushed on the tunnel mechanism, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and snuck down the stairs so she could hear the goings on.

  Marcus called out to Thomas from the bathhouse pool. “Damn it. Find Bart, and have him bring me a clean set of clothes. He should be knowledgeable enough by now to have some readiness for my needs. Where the hell is he?”

  His man ducked his head inside. “She ran like she was chased by the devil himself. What spell has she suffered upon you, now?”

  “Holy God, not you, too? The girl’s not a witch. She’s a woman who’s suffered much.” He cursed his own stupidity for remarking on her scars. If he hadn’t, by now, they’d be one.

  He pointed to a group of townsmen in a queue at the lower bath. “How long have they been waiting?”

  “Not long. It seems there is a regular schedule. It’s time for the unmarried men to bathe.”

  “Send them in, for God’s sake. I’d not have them wait on me.” He tried to get up.

  Thomas held him down by placing a hand on the top of his head. “Calm yourself. I’ve already explained you’re, but a mild-mannered man, but tall tales abound of how you splayed open Abernathy’s men.”

  “Oh, for the love of all that’s holy.” His temper finally burst open and he shouted, “Whosoever is waiting, bloody well better get their derrieres into this bathhouse or I shall beat them to a bloody pulp and drag them in myself.”

  “Well done. That should set the fear out of them.” Thomas smirked.

  He whispered a foul curse and turned to the young men taking tentative steps into the baths. They’d begun to undress by the uppermost pool furthest from him. “No, by God, you shall bathe with me. By God here and by God now!” He splashed the water with his fist, causing his shoulder to throb and burn. He was so damn tired of his own people hiding from him.

  The tallest and broadest of the men nodded, removed his clothes, and entered the pool. “They call me Peter the Smith.”

  “Well done. I’m Sir Marcus Blackwell, now Lord of the manor.” He grinned and extended his good arm.

  The blacksmith took it yet eyed the wounds warily. “They say you’ve wed the Lady Ann and would steal her lands.”

  Marcus met his iron gaze and stern demeanor. “I’ve honestly wed her by the king’s command. We will work the land together as God intended, as man and wife. I shall protect what is mine.”

  Apparently appeased, Peter slid more fully into the water. “There was a knight before thee, an evil man. He destroyed all the good she had done.”

  “All knights are not woven from the same cloth. Wave the others over with some encouragement. I’d like to meet my wife’s villagers.”

  Peter shifted, causing waves of water to splash over the sides. “Many are tradesmen, some freedmen, and others still tied to the land. There’s not one with noble blood amongst us.”

  “It is still good to meet them, is it not? You wash my back and I shall wash yours?” He handed him a stiff brush. “Stay clear of my wound.”

  “You would bathe with peasants and tradesmen?”

  A picture of his peers torturing and raping young infidel girls flashed inside his mind’s eye. With a strong will, he vanquished them back to the devil. “The crusades are an eye-opener to the hearts of men and a leveler of souls.”

  “You’re a strange nobleman.” Peter motioned the brush in the air to indicate to the others that they should move forward, then put the scratchy hairs to work.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Tell me, how long have you worked in the village?”

  “Forever. My father and his father before him were blacksmiths. Of course, back then, only the lords could afford horses and armor. Even the plows for farming were leased with a heavy rent. But now, with the Lady Ann in charge, things are different. I’ve real coin in my pocket. As soon as I save a little more, I’ll be marrying her maid, Sally. She’s the light of my life, that she is. I’ll build us an extra room on my fine stone house for boys.” He paused a little embarrassed.

  The last time Marcus had seen Sally, she’d been kissing his squire. He’d have to warn the boy to stay clear. He took the brush and scrubbed the broad back. “My men will have much need of your services. Your plans will move along even faster than anticipated, I have no doubt. Have you apprentices?”

  “Not yet, but if I gets me sons, I will.” He beamed and made way for other men who had lined up to speak to the new Lord of the manor. Apparently, once it was known that one could live through a conversation with The Beast of Thornhill, curiosity overrode fear.

  Brother James, the elder, joined the men in line and was next to enter the pool. He grabbed Marcus’ good arm and nodded for others to follow. “Sir Blackwell, meet Jacob, he’s our candle maker.”

  Too shy to even look up, a barely-sixteen-year-old boy entered the pool.

  “Were those your tallow candles in the great room?” He handed the boy the brush and turned.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine work, lad. If you’d like, maybe we could find beeswax for special occasions, and to sell next time we’re at fair?”

  He scrubbed harder. “Thou art not going to take my wares?”

  “I plan to use them, as is normal. I’m not quite sure of your meaning?” Marcus turned to face the deep frown.

  “Oh.”

  “Maybe you shou
ld explain further.” He sighed, handed him the brush, and turned around. By the end of the day, no doubt, his back would be lacking skin.

  “The last lord took everything. Said it was his due. There wasn’t anything the Lady Ann could say. We had none of our own coin after he came. We mostly was hungry. It were a long winter.”

  The whole of the bathhouse went quiet. Apparently, this was the most serious issue on the minds of his town’s men. How in God’s name had she not only provided for her people, but allowed them to keep their own coin. Clearly, he needed to learn more before he lost their trust. He prayed for the right thing to say.

  “Jacob, I’ve only just arrived. Know that I won’t steal what is yours and would ask that you do the same for me.”

  The boy thought for some time and handed back the brush. “That sounds fair enough.”

  The men mumbled amongst themselves and some of the tension drained out of the room. James nodded with an approving smile and motioned for the two weavers from the loom house to sit. They both nodded at him in recognition and eased into the water.

  The first thin lad took the brush and said, “That was a fine jest you played on Lady Ann this morning.”

  “I’m afraid the jest was more on me.” He shook his head and at the thought, wondering where his skittish wife had bolted.

  The oldest laughed nervously. “I heard something about a kiss and a knife.”

  He moaned. Small villages had large eyes. All would know by day’s end. “What’s your name, lad?”

  “I’m John and that there is my brother, Timothy. We’re guildsmen.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Tradesmen? How did you manage that?”

  “Our father is the miller, but we’re sons seven and eight. He has plenty of help making grain. He had no need of us. The Lady Ann paid for us to get a real trade. One which has coin and value.”

  Timothy joined in. “But a miller is a tradesman. Ann said so.”

  “Not like us, though,” John quipped.

  “Not so. That’s not what Father says. He has coin, too.”

  Marcus shook his head and waived the young men off while they continued to argue. What kind of serfs had use of their master’s mill and lands, and still had coin? His confusion was total. How did the land yield any wealth for the lord and taxes for the king? He’d be damned if owning land meant that he’d lose his hard-won fortune. Maybe she had hidden treasure after all. Hadn’t his father suggested that?

  One by one, the rest of the unwed men of the town joined him in the large bath and introduced themselves. Most were under twenty. The older men, he was told more than once, had the advantage of a home, which attracted ladies into marriage. He grilled each on their trade and their training while an unseen fire roared and crackled somewhere out of sight.

  It was supper time when he finally eased himself out of the water. Bart helped him dry and dress. His arm, which had felt so good buoyed in the therapeutic spring water, decided to throb incessantly once in the outside air.

  He tried to put all the pieces of this odd town together. She wasn’t a witch, by God. Nay, she was a general and these were her troops. She’d taken a small town of peasants and serfs and raised them up to be tradesmen. She’d also made a small fortune in the process, yet had hardly a penny in her own coffer. It was quite remarkable. An odd twinge of something pained him, and it wasn’t his arm. Why didn’t she embrace him as well as she had her town?

  On his way to the manor, he paused by the well in the center of the square where a wee girl fought with a bucket. He bent to help her. She said bravely, “Would you eat me, Sir Beast?”

  “No, no. I don’t prefer little girls. They’re too thin.” He winked.

  Her eyes widened as he turned the crank, then carefully poured water into her carrier. “Will you be all right to carry that home? Tis a heavy load for such a wee one.”

  “Yes, sir.” She dashed across the green and into a small stone house while her water spilled over the edges of her bucket.

  He frowned, pondering the interaction. It was well and good to be The Beast of Thornhill while fighting in the crusades; quite another matter to head a town of shepherds and tradesmen. He followed his nose to the smell of roasting pork and spices wafting from the manor. How would he ever earn the hearts of this gentle folk?

  When he entered the great room, a small crowd cheered and again his purse cringed. He’d need to broach that subject with her later. Right now, all he wanted was good food, good mead, and good company. He sat at the main table in the largest of carved oak chairs.

  The sweet young ladies served root vegetables. A fine pig was roasted to perfection and spiced with saffron. He tried not to calculate the cost of the meal as he dined. Dame March poked her head out of the kitchen to see if all was well and he waved at her with a smile.

  After cups had been refilled several times with strong mead, a young man took it upon himself to pull out a stringed instrument and sing a bawdy song. After six verses, all had learned the chorus and joined in the never-ending tune.

  Suddenly, the music stopped and all eyes went to the great staircase. His lady stood at the top, wearing a gown of green wool, with bright yellow ribbons and edging. Her dark hair was pulled into a net of spun gold and she had lined her already thick lashes with black, making her appear more foreign and mysterious than the Sultan’s daughters.

  Regally, she curtsied to him when she reached the landing, “My Lord, I’d dine with you if you would have it.”

  It seemed as if the whole room held its breath. She wasn’t a witch and not a general. She was a goddess. Her sparkling, mischievous green eyes matched the shade of the dress. He stared, temporarily stunned by her beauty and grace. Up until now, he’d seen her only in boy’s tunics, in muslin, or covered in his blood and mud. Now, here she stood, a fine noble woman. His wife.

  Thomas, at his left, nudged him. “God’s blood, say something, man.”

  Ignoring his injury, he vaulted over the table and dashed up the stairs. “It would be fine, indeed, to have you at my side.”

  He took her hand and held it high. The townspeople and his men cheered and hooted while he led her around the master table and sat. His eyes stayed upon her, spellbound. She’d come to him, by all that was holy, and he was undone.

  Like a summer thunderstorm in the offing, noise rumbled back into the great room. Men pounded their knives on the table and the women clapped their hands. He nodded for the makeshift troubadour to start up again. If possible, the songs were even raunchier than before and the crowd rowdier. Mead flowed freely.

  He robbed Lady Anne’s plate from the serving girl, cut the meat into fine pieces, and placed a bit on the tip of his knife. She opened her mouth, allowing him to feed her. Grinning, she cleaned her own knife and slipped it back up her sleeve. He rolled his eyes but laughed.

  With cheer on her face and roses in her cheeks, she was beauty itself. Every time she moved, her hand slid against his, and his rod sprang to attention. He reached for a sweet fig covered in soft cheese and held it in front of her plump lips. She licked them and opened for a half bite. He brought the rest to his own mouth and her eyes followed. Moving in closer, he lightly brushed his lips against hers while his heart pounded louder than the tambourine.

  While they were so engaged, a raucous jig began to play in the background. One of the miller’s daft sons approached, bowed low, and requested her hand, missing Marcus’ perfected scowl. When the boy’s eyes raised for permission, what else could be done in front of all? He nodded and she joined in the dance. Her tiny slippers flew and strands of her hair fell out of her net. Her breasts heaved with the exertion. Before the boy could take her for another go, Marcus stood, frowned, and held forward his hand. The crowd hushed and parted like the red sea and she came to him.

  “Go on. Play. I wish to dance with my fine wife. A bit slower, if you would.”

  Pure tones of a flute blended with the tenor voice. The crowd circled them and watched. “It see
ms we’re to dance alone.”

  Twinkling like a star in the desert, she took his hand and placed it to her lips. “‘Tis customary for newlyweds.”

  “Ahh. Let us not disappoint.” He put his good hand to the small of her back and slid her to the space in the middle of the room, where the tables had been moved aside. “Is that what we are? Newlyweds?”

  She nodded, stepped back, and curtsied in time to the music.

  In the appropriate places, he bowed and led her around the hall. A few others joined at the second verse. “Are you ready? To be my wife?”

  “I thought my back …” Blushing brightly, she curtsied, and the alabaster skin above her ample bosom heaved. “I’ve not danced for a very long time. I may not remember all the steps.”

  He grinned. When they should’ve merely touched elbow to elbow, he feigned to slip, causing him to pull her close and steal a kiss.

  “You did that on purpose,” she said when the movements allowed them to approach each other again.

  “That’s enough. Come.”

  Some of his men hooted when he led her up the stairs, but he lifted a hand for silence. “Fare thee well. We’ll see you all on the morrow. Guard well my keep for me.”

  Giving the crowd a wicked wink, he bounded up the stairs and waited in silence at the accursed door. The enchanting Lady Ann had come willingly to dine and laugh with him. And now there was going to be more. Even if she didn’t wish to join with him tonight, he couldn’t remember being happier.

  “I’d like to kiss you again.”

  She tried to sink into the doorframe and turn away. A large tear dropped down her cheek. “Why? I’ll cause you nothing, but disgust. ‘Tis not my fault, you know.”

  With both her soft hands in his, he brought them to his lips. “Believe me. Disgust is not how I feel when I hold you.”

  Her charcoal-lined eyes glistened and another drop fell down her cheek, leaving a black stripe. “But there’s more. I’m not right.”

  Gently twisting a wayward strand of black mane in his hand, he lifted her chin. Endless wet green meadows flickered in the candlelight. “Did your first husband damage you such that you can’t breed?”