How to Train Your Knight: A Medieval Romance Novel

by Alden, Stella Marie

  Clank. Clunk. “Aaagh.”

  A heavy chain with two balls wrapped around Abernathy’s chest as he lay face down on the ground. Swords unsheathed with the now too-familiar sound of steel against leather. Then Marcus snapped that horrible piece of rope and brought it to bear on his father’s back. The earl screamed and blood poured out of a rip in his cloak. Action halted.

  “Tell the men to stand down or lie dead. I care not which.” He raised the whip again.

  Squinting, the earl cursed, and pursed his lips. “Do as he says.”

  “Any brilliant thoughts, Marcus?” Thomas eyed the rather substantial army of enemies.

  “Promise them gold to see us safely to London.” He tossed out a heavy purse jangling with coin and sent Ann a nod meant to reassure.

  It didn’t work. Her heart pounded. Surely, these men would find an opportunity to overtake them along the road. She dismounted to check on Abernathy’s prostrate form while the men bartered over price.

  When she determined breath was still forthcoming, she turned to Sally. “Bring me my best needle.”

  She pulled her knife from his hand, wiped the blood onto the grass, and sheathed her weapon back under her sleeve. As she tied the final knot, more horses pounded in the distance. Now what? She held her knife at readiness when over a dozen more armored knights rode into view.

  “Sir Marcus and Sir Thomas.” The man in the lead, wearing a Templar cross, raised his visor and smiled.

  Ann sighed. Templar colors meant friend, not foe.

  “Julienne. Thank God.” Marcus relaxed back into the saddle.

  “Or maybe you should just thank me.” His entourage joined in with laughter as if hearing the mightiest jest of the season.

  “So, mon petit, thou art in trouble, no? Needing mayhap work from our finer swords, tiny man?” Julienne removed his helm and glanced around at the band of men.

  “Oui. As usual, I must trust in your overwhelming and grandiose generosity.” Marcus nudged his mount toward him and they gripped forearms in an odd tug-of-war that almost pulled them both to the ground.

  “Thou art English. ‘Tis why you excel so badly at warfare, and even more so at bringing a miserable set of wagons to fair.” Wrinkles appeared in the corners of the Templar’s eyes and he snorted out another laugh.

  When the two men swung off their horses, they slapped each other on the back until they almost toppled. Marcus guffawed. “I’m pleased to see you. It’s been too long.”

  “Obviously. You’ve forgotten everything I taught you, no?”

  “Mayhap. But not everything.” Marcus winked. “Meet my wife, Lady Ann Blackwell.”

  Julienne approached, perusing her from head to toe until her face burned. “Mon Dieu. She’s so belle, so parfait. Excuse me, my Lady, but how is it that someone such as you, would take a brute like Sir Marcus as a husband?” He reached over and kissed her hand.

  “Nay a brute with me. He’s gentle and sweet.”

  He laughed so heartily his eyes watered. “A jeunne fille with a mighty fine sense of humor and a dirk. Oh, Marcus. She is tres magnifique. Worthy of you, my friend, and now I find I’m envious and Julienne is never so. You must tell me everything that has happened since last we parted. Come now. You find a bit of bread and ale for your friends, no? We talk and we ride. Allons-y.”

  After several hours of many tall tales and much amusement, Ann noticed how the sun dove into the land. When a grim gray wall on a hill loomed above the road, Marcus said, “We stop here.”

  The landscape consisted of an open field, dotted with gray sheep and a few miserly gardens. Several huts made from mud and straw were bunched together near the wall’s gate, along with an open trench for waste. Rather a depressing place. She unclenched her teeth and shouted forth to her husband in the lead, “Where are we?”

  “A monastery, just outside of London. Much safer than the inn. Ladies shall bed down inside and we’ll guard the wagons here.” He dismounted, then helped her off Nellie. She couldn’t help, but wrap her arms around him. The day had been long and trying and they hadn’t had a moment to themselves.

  He kissed her and laid a heavy arm on her shoulder. “Take Sally with you, anon. They won’t open the door after dark and there’s not much time. Here. Take the token Brother James said to give to them.”

  He handed her a small cross and his lips met hers again. His beard scratched her face and she longed to take the kiss deeper. She held his face to hers by locking her hands behind his head.

  “I wish I could stay out here with you.” She longed for his softer side right now, having seen enough of the soldier for one day.

  His eyes darted over the men for signs of trouble and his tone gentled, while still gruff. “I can’t guard you and our goods. Even if you worry not for yourself, think of Sally.”

  “I know, but I want you beside me at night. Always.” She pulled him closer. He smelled of sweat, horse flesh, and something even better.

  He whispered into her ear, “And I ache for you, love. I promise, when we lie together again, I’ll make it up to you. Now go. Don’t make a scene. Know I care deeply for your well-being.”

  She nodded with a heavy heart and found Bart and Sally. Together, they trudged up the long hill to the gated entrance. One of the sisters answered Bart’s pounding on the door with a finger to her lips. He handed her the token.

  When the holy woman motioned for Ann and Sally to follow, Bart turned and ran back to the men’s tents. The large gate closed with a creak and a huge log clanked into place. Judging from the size of the fortress and the thickness of the walls, demons from hell were oft expected.

  The sister led them to an open room of pallets where women were already bedded down, snoring like wild hogs. She pointed to one empty pallet, hardly big enough for two. Sally and Ann looked at each other with unease.

  Sally whispered, “I’ve got to let go water.”

  The sister shushed.

  Ann used her haughty tone that usually rendered results. “La Seour, we have bodily needs before we can sleep, even if you won’t feed us.”

  The woman gave her a nasty look, nodded, then led them to a courtyard where they found a foul smelling barrel and left them to find their own way back. It was good Ann was so tired because otherwise, the whole situation would have irked her beyond reason. She could hear her husband and the knights laughing outside the walls, no doubt with a little drink, some food, and a hot fire.

  Sally echoed her thoughts. “This is hardly just.”

  Ann nodded her agreement as they wandered back to their sleeping quarters. She spread her cloak out onto the straw and they shared Sally’s as a blanket. ‘Twas good it was a warm evening for they’d hardly any cover.

  She was downright surly when they were led out the next morning without the offering of food or water. She was sticky and dirty, and itched from God knows what biting insects lurked in the straw.

  Bart met them at the gates and bowed slightly. “We’re packed up and ready for you.”

  “Did you men sleep?”

  He looked a little worse for wear and smelled of more than a bit of ale. Even so, he puffed out his chest with a broad smile. “Not a wink. We talked all night of battles and such. And today, I’m to squire for Julienne with his joust. We’re bound to win coin.”

  His enthusiasm was catching and she brightened. It was, after all, the day of the fair. “Can you find us a bit of food? That was the stingiest monastery I’ve ever encountered.”

  He laughed, handed her a sack, and helped her and Sally to mount. “I think Brother James must have warned Sir Marcus. There are leftover pies. We saved the best for you ladies.”

  She handed one to Sally and devoured the other. Then she galloped to catch up with her husband at the front of the line of men. His dark hair was mussed, his tunic wrinkled, and his eyelids heavy. When he spotted her, his face lit into a smile and her heart melted. How could the man miss sleep and look so fine?

  Drawing hi
s charger closer, he said, “You look exhausted, my love. Did you not sleep well?”

  The two horses nickered, nose to nose in greeting. “No better than you did, I suspect. I thank the heavens I didn’t join the cloisters, at least not that one. No one is allowed to speak a word.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine? The place was dreadful and the smell? Argh.”

  He laughed, but eyed her more closely. “You would go mad. You look ill. Was it that bad?”

  “No, no.” She gave him the best smile she could muster. After all, ‘twas not his fault.

  “I’ll come back, anon.” His wrinkled forehead indicated he was not convinced of her well-being. He left her and Sally alone and rode to speak with Julienne. Shortly thereafter, one of the Templars escorted the earl and Abernathy back through the nunnery gates. Even at a distance, she could see the disgruntled faces on the two lords. She snickered to think of the welcome they’d receive. At the same time, she felt quite sorry for the Templar knight forced to stay and guard them.

  “You sent them to be sequestered?” she asked, when Marcus returned to her side.

  “Yes, I can insure our safety by keeping them hostage here. Should something happen to either us or our wares, word will be sent to have them executed, summarily.”

  Her stomach churned and she wondered if she would hurl. Usually, such news did not affect her all that much, but her monthlies were late. The time often varied with the phase of the moon, yet even by that accounting, she was overdue. What would it be like to hold her husband’s son or daughter? Would the babe have dark curls and a Roman nose? She couldn’t picture such masculine features on a baby girl. But a boy? Yes. She could imagine their son running with boundless energy across their fields and through the town.

  He regarded her with a concerned eye, but said naught. With a shrill whistle, the one she had learned meant move forward, the small army advanced. They rode until shadows grew short.

  At the sounds of steel against steel, she reached for her knife. This battle noise was followed by a roar of people yelling and cheering and she let go. A long silence, the stomping of horse hooves, and it started all over again. They rounded a bend and suddenly she was atop a hill, beside a winding river, overlooking what must be London Towne.

  Colorful pennants blew from the top of countless tents in front of a stone church whose spires reached into the blue heavens. More people than she’d ever seen in one place walked through muddy fields. Long rows of unending booths were covered with countless goods. Children squealed with laughter, running in chase, and hawkers sung out their wares.

  The scent of cooked meat, urine, lavender, and manure all mixed together on the breeze. Alongside the river, she could see the thatched roofs of countless buildings. The dirty winding river had frequent overpasses, by which nobles, peasants, and tradesmen wandered.

  To one side of the church, an amphitheater was set up for the joust, where a crowd gathered to watch. Marcus galloped his charger beside her. “Are you ready?”

  “For what?”

  He laughed with eyes merry. “To trade. We’re here to be profitable, right?”

  She nodded, but couldn’t break her gaze from the sight in the offing. She shivered. “I don’t believe I can do this. I’ve never bartered in a place of this size.”

  “I have. Just stand beside me. We’ll do well together.” He reached out, squeezed her hand, and his strength warmed her like a draught of warm mead. He led their small army forward and dismounted at the edge of the tent. Soon, a local man came to check their credentials, glared at the group of armed men, and frowned.

  Julienne spoke first. “Mon ami? My men and I are just here to join in the festivities, no? Edward will vouch for us. Or mayhap, you know too well of our jousting prowess and are afraid we will take all the purses?”

  The man looked about from face to face, terribly confused. “The king won’t be here until the morrow. Have you registered?”

  Julienne passed him a gold coin almost as large as her ancient Roman ones. Apparently, that was all it took. The man put his tooth to the coin, grinned widely, and pointed to a plot of land where squares were marked out with pegs of wood and twine.

  The efficiency with which the knights made camp was astounding. The task was complete before the sun was at its high point. Ann wondered if the remaining men would make trouble. Apparently Julienne worried, too.

  He mounted his charger. “Come along, you wastrels! To the joust, to bet on moi! I’ll stake each of you with a coin. The rest is yours to keep. Your lords are bedded down comfortably with nuns. Let them lie. What harm could it do to have some fun for a few days? I’ll swear to God himself that I kept you at knife point and forced you to compete.”

  Once the wagon was unloaded, and their goods set upon long planks of wood, Ann said to Marcus in a bit of a whisper, “I’m worried about the glass. What if there’s a Venetian in this crowd who recognizes the work?”

  “I’ve a plan. When a lovely woman embraces you as cousin, later in the day, make sure you play it well. Be alert. Stand close. Those are the king’s men that come.”

  Two men wearing red tunics, embroidered with three gold lions, approached their wagon. The heaviest, wearing a grand gold necklace with a large red stone, spoke first. “Who are you, good sir?”

  “I’m Lord of the Green Meadows, formerly known as The Beast of Thornhill.” Marcus gave a polite bow.

  “Truly not possible. Why would someone like the bea—”

  The heavier nudged the other and bowed. “Forgive my subordinate. That’s Sir Barstow. I’m Sir Stanton. Buyers for the king. Edward told me to search you out first.”

  Marcus nodded curtly, grabbed a bolt of blue wool from the makeshift table, and rolled it out. Both men gasped. They fondled the material and inspected it with near reverence.

  “Most unusual,” said Stanton. “So deep, so soft.”

  “Meet my wife, the Lady Ann. It is her doing.” Marcus pulled her forward and she curtsied slightly when they shifted their attention. Sally stepped quietly back with eyes averted, as she’d been schooled.

  Stanton put the cloth to his cheek and held it up to the sun. “It rivals the blue of the French court.”

  “You do us much favor by your comparison.” Always the warrior, her husband bowed, but his eyes never left their hands.

  Barstow waved his as if it were a fait accompli. “Royalty favors blue. We’ll take it all.”

  “We wouldn’t want any grievances, if others chose to wear it.” Stanton explained with a short shrug.

  “In order to insure continued service from the house of The Green Meadow, we would ask a small boon in return.”

  “And what would that be?” Barstow opened the strings of a satchel tied to his waist and pulled out parchment and ink. Using a plume tucked behind his ear, and Stanton’s back for a table, he readied to scratch out their agreement.

  “I’d ask for the king’s guard for our journey home. The local roads, this day, have been quite treacherous.”

  Barstow made a grand gesture of creating a check mark. “Easily done. What else have you for sale?”

  Ann picked up the glass vase from the table, hid it behind her back, but she was too late. Damnation.

  The quick eye of the king’s buyer took it from her hand. “You’ve Venetian Glass. Does it come with a glazier?” His eyes shifted back and forth between her and Marcus. She shivered.

  Marcus put his hand to the small of her back and raised one eyebrow. “Those tradesmen are locked up in an isle in Venice as I hear it, are they not? These are just trinkets from my wife’s cousin. They trade freely between themselves.”

  “Trinkets? By God, no. Rarer than rubies.” Barstow held the glass up to the sun’s light.

  Ann’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Certainly it was all right to lie to the local buying populace, but here in London? To the king’s men? Marcus had lost his wits.

  A foreign woman, dressed in silks and fine ropes of jewels, rushed up w
ith a hug so fierce, she couldn’t inhale. Giant pearl earrings bounced upon her face. Abundant lace from a pink hat with three points blinded her. Mounds of dark curls all, but suffocated. Ann’s first response was to curtsy, but then she remembered the ruse when Marcus gave her a quick wink.

  “Cousin! I had no idea you’d be here.” She managed to find a polite smile and back out of the embrace.

  With an exaggerated accent, the woman said, “But yes, of course, my family loves to travel and I beg to come. Dear cousin. Will you not introduce me to your new husband?”

  “Sir Marcus Blackwell, second son of the Earl of Thornhill, now Lord of the Green Meadows, please meet my dearest cousin …”

  Good god, what was the woman’s name? The king’s men looked on, waiting for her to continue. How in the heavens would she know an appropriate Venetian name?

  “This must be your cousin, Lady Marcella d’Oncello.” His accent was perfect and he smiled confidently. Turning to the king’s men, he said, “My wife is speechless, overcome by her surprise. She’s such a delicate flower.”

  He chuckled under his breath and bowed in a courtly manner to the beautiful woman. He kissed her hand and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “You must join us and dine in our tent, cogina.”

  She responded with a perfectly balanced curtsey and clung to his hand. “Si, si. Of course.”

  A toothy smile, a wink, and a knowing glance told a story of secrets between the two of them. Ann knew enough of the way of men. Wives were bedded for heirs, and beautiful women were for more, much more. Her heart ached and her head began to throb.

  No doubt once he had her pregnant, he’d come into this woman’s arms and into her bed for comfort. That was the real reason he had insisted they come to sell their wares in London. He missed his mistress. She glanced down at her dirty yellow tunic and simple hairnet. No wonder he wanted more.

  The king’s men, too, found themselves mesmerized by Lady Marcella’s beauty and grace. As if coming to the decision simultaneously they said, “You dine with us, tonight.”

  The lady looked to Marcus for an answer, remaining silent and demure. Truly, she had the manners any man would yearn for.