The Heat of the Knight

by Scottie Barrett

  Tears threatened as she recalled his fierce black eyes glittering in the sunlight as he carried his knight’s banner for the first time. The tears tumbled as she remembered how he’d saved her life, throwing himself off the horse to create a flesh and blood barrier between her and the charging boar. The sound of his leg bone snapping still haunted her. By the grace of God, his leg had healed straight, though she often spied him rubbing away an ache.

  Christiana could pick out his massive frame even amongst the hulking men he’d traveled with. Would he notice her missing? ’Twas a notion born of wishful thinking. No doubt he had at least two willing companions lolling in his bed, eager to do his bidding. An idea popped into Christiana’s head. After throwing the heavy coverlet aside, she gathered up the linens and began tying the freshly laundered to the stale ones. Determining she would have to escape the lofty chamber or it would become her frigid tomb, she picked up the broom and strode purposefully toward the window.

  “Seems to me that if you’re returning from a hunting trip you should at least have some dead animals with you,” Colin shouted as he approached the stables. Beckett proudly held up two scrawny hares strung on a tether.

  Colin stopped in front of him and grinned. “Very impressive. And it only took this band of ruthless giants three weeks to catch those. Oh, the horrors you must have faced bringing down those rabbits.”

  Beckett shrugged. “We don’t like to take more than we need.”

  “Small game abounds in your very own warren. Why you chose to go so far afield, I would not hazard to guess. But I am glad to see you’re back in one piece.”

  Beckett took a faltering step forward. “Well almost.” Several days on horseback always left his leg stiff.

  “Does it pain you much?” Colin asked.

  “Nothing a few nights of careful tending won’t cure,” Beckett said. “Or have you worn out all the women already so now they are tired of de Saxbys?”

  “I have left no skirt unturned,” Colin boasted.

  Beckett could feel the instant heat behind his eyes.

  His cousin took a step back. “Do I look a madman? I haven’t touched Christiana. So you can unfurl those fists.”

  Beckett relaxed, but said nothing.

  “You know, cousin, rumors are swirling around the village,” Colin said.

  Beckett turned to unsaddle his horse. “What rumors?”

  “That a group of masked outlaws are roaming the forests. They supposedly gave some of Revynwyll’s brutes a pummeling and left a few carcasses in their wake. Someone witnessed the leader of this outlaw band firing off three arrows before his opponent had even drawn from his quiver.”

  Beckett handed his saddle and bridle to the stable boy. “Since when do you pay heed to senseless chatter?”

  Colin grabbed his arm. “I’ve known only two men strong enough to use a longbow with such skill, and your father was one of them.”

  Beckett glanced down at Colin’s hand on his arm and raised an eyebrow. Colin quickly released his hold.

  “Have you a point to make?” Beckett asked. A flutter of white caught his eye over his cousin’s shoulder. Someone had dropped a long strand of what appeared to be bed linens from the high window of the east tower. A petite figure with startlingly pale hair emerged from the window. Looking positively tiny against the huge stone wall, she began inching her way down the makeshift rope. “Christ’s blood. What the devil is she doing?”

  Beckett shoved past his cousin and, gripping the thigh of his weak leg, he loped awkwardly toward the tower. By the time Beckett reached it, a small crowd of onlookers had already gathered. The sound of ripping cloth could be heard over the amused mutterings of the villagers. Only a thin shred of material kept Tiana from sure disaster. Beckett felt his heart drop to his feet.

  “Faster, Christy. Hand over hand. That’s it, love,” Colin coached.

  Miraculously, the sheet held, but she’d reached the end with ten feet yet to go. Beckett shot underneath her.

  His heart thundered. “Drop, woman,” he ordered.

  She craned her neck and looked down at him. Then shutting her eyes, she released the tail of the sheet, plunking hard into his arms, sending him rocking on his heels.

  “My lord?” Tiana squeaked.

  “Yes.” His breathing had yet to slow.

  She peered shyly up at him, her dove-gray eyes shadowed by her thick lashes. “I see you’ve returned.”

  “Aye.”

  She slipped her hand beneath his hair. It felt like ice against the nape of his neck. She nestled tightly against his chest as though she wished to burrow into him for warmth. And the heat was there. He felt aflame. His blood flowed lava hot through his veins.

  She began biting her bottom lip, and it was driving him mad, especially as he held her sweet, delicate body in his arms.

  “Tiana, you may not have noticed, but we have stairways in the castle.”

  “’Tis an odd thing, but the door flew shut and somehow triggered the lock,” she said weakly.

  “How long have you been up there?” Beckett asked.

  She glanced up at him and lifted two graceful fingers. “When I could no longer feel my toes, I decided it was time to climb down.”

  “Who did this?” Beckett restrained his anger, but he had the urge to tear off someone’s head.

  She shrugged and relaxed her head against his shoulder. Reckless need reverberated through him. To hell with his estate, his king, his people. This angel was all he needed to be happy.

  Beckett hugged her tighter and, rather than resist, she cuddled against his chest. He scanned the crowd for the culprit who thought it entertaining to lock her in the tower. Obviously, someone was envious of the attention he paid his new servant. Why did she feel the need to shield the dastardly person? Or did she not have faith in him to protect her?

  “I do hope you were not overly fond of that stained glass window.”

  Beckett glanced up at the shattered window, which she’d bent away from the opening so that she could squeeze through. He lowered his head and smiled against her silken hair.

  “You can set me down now.”

  He considered this for a moment. What he really wanted to do was carry her straight to his chamber, strip her naked and taste every inch of her flawless skin. Heaving a sigh, he reluctantly dropped her feet to the ground and released her.

  “Damn good catch, but, of course, it’s always best to throw the small ones back,” Colin said as they watched her hurry away. Beckett found little amusement in Colin’s jest. He hadn’t missed the intimate terms his cousin had used to coax Christiana down.

  Several of the village men were still loitering near the tower, their gazes fastened to the window. Colin inclined his head toward them. “Do you suppose they’re waiting to see if the castle spits out some more beautiful wenches?”

  Beckett managed a smirk before stalking off.

  “It’s been four endless years. How long does a man have to wait to be forgiven?” Colin shouted at his back.

  Beckett didn’t have an answer for that.

  Chapter Four

  Christiana sat atop her pallet and dragged a tortoiseshell comb through her hair.

  Peg, who often shared a cot with her, lifted a tress of Christiana’s hair. “As pretty as starlight.”

  Christiana smiled. She was actually starting to warm to some of the girls.

  She watched as her fellow servants flitted about the sleeping quarters with high-pitched giggles. A tiny jar of ruby paste, meant to enliven lips and cheeks, was passed among the women.

  Maud, the only one who still strutted around naked, snatched the little pot of color and boldly reddened her nipples. “A certain black-haired stallion finds them more succulent this way,” she said with a catty sweep of her eyes in Christiana’s direction.

  Jane, bristling from having the potion stolen from her, rolled her eyes. “With those flea bites, you’ll need it just so the poor man can find ’em.”

  Maud sho
ved her into the wall and ripped the shimmering green ribbon from her hair. “For your insolence, this is mine.”

  With tears glossing her eyes, Jane wrenched free. “You can paint yourself the colors of the rainbow, but he ain’t going to look at you again.” Dodging Maud’s striking hand, Jane fled the room.

  Maud’s poisonous mood was a fearsome thing to behold. Christiana joined the others crowding out the door.

  With the household occupied with the coming festivities, Christiana determined that it would be the perfect time to stroll to her cottage. But first she would quell the growling in her stomach.

  With a frown, Agnes confronted her as she helped herself to a mug of ale. “Both de Saxbys have requested your attendance at the faire. Actually, demanded is more like it, in the case of the master.” Agnes made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Such a fuss over a scullery wench.”

  The master could demand all he wanted. If she attended, it would be because she chose to. From a platter, Christiana took a minced meat pasty, a leftover from the previous day’s dinner, and tucked it into the pouch strung from her belt.

  Once over the bridge to the moat, she pulled the pasty from her purse. Feeling the thrill of freedom, she enjoyed the morning breeze ruffling her hair as she strode the path to the village.

  After making certain there was no one about, she approached the cottage. Reaching through the window, she pushed open the wooden shutter and peered inside. The cottage had remained vacant. Ants had overrun the hunk of stale maslin left on the hearth, and her mattress still lay in the corner, most likely an oversized nest of vermin now. In the distance she could hear the piercing echoes of shawms being played and troubadours warming up their voices.

  Christiana sat on the stone stoop and listened to the familiar sounds as they floated up from the clearing below. So Colin and Beckett would be enjoying the tasty food and spirited entertainment while she sat up here like a lonely spinster? Not likely. She leapt to her feet, tossed the crust of her pasty to the birds, and headed down the road in the direction of the music.

  The faire was set up in the shared village meadow. Women with floral crowns and rosy cheeks danced with parti-colored jesters. Even the animals were fancified. Beribboned horses and goats with gold paint scrolled on their horns were tied in front of colorful tents. She stooped to pet a pug-faced dog with a ruffled collar. Dressed as she was in her sack-like kirtle, she was probably the drabbest being in attendance.

  Christiana watched Peg, holding two mugs aloft, squeeze by the dancers. Sidling up to Christiana, she shoved one of the cups into her hand. Peg licked the spilled liquid from her fingers. “There are vats of mead yonder. ’Tisn’t another master ’round as generous as Lord Dareford, though he scares the devil out of me. I stammer like a village fool when he’s about.”

  Hoping to douse her melancholy, Christiana eagerly downed the honeyed spirits.

  Standing on tiptoes, Peg shaded her eyes from the sun and scanned the crowd. “There he is,” she shouted. “There’s my sweet lad.” Peg gave Christiana’s arm an affectionate squeeze, then flitted off to follow her friend.

  As Christiana meandered the faire grounds, there was talk of little else but the man they called the Blacksmith. He and his group of hellions were ranging the king’s forest and dispensing with the men known for their cruelty and rapacious quest for land.

  The identity of the leader, a knight regaled in midnight-hued armor, was a favorite speculation. This was not the first time in past years that this band of knights had made their mythical appearance. And while there was great evidence that the Blacksmith truly existed, such amazing stories had been recounted about his conquests that it was hard to determine what was real and what pure fantasy. There wasn’t a woman in the county who hadn’t dreamed of being held captive by the Blacksmith.

  “’Tis the flaxen-haired de Saxby, to be sure. Such soldierly bearing, yet he don’t play by the rules. Never has,” a woman dispensing chewets said with authority.

  Christiana suspected that Colin’s fairness made the women swoon to think of him as a heroic outlaw. ’Twas possible, Christiana surmised. She’d once thought him weak-willed compared to his cousin, but he’d shown fortitude and strength of character. He’d grown a backbone.

  With a second cup of mead, Christiana took a seat on a bench. Out of the corner of her eye, she could feel someone’s gaze trained on her. It took only a moment for Christiana to spot the spy. Maud darted in and out of view as she mingled with the crowd.

  Christiana turned her attention back to the entertainment. A juggler, keeping four balls aloft, pretended ignorance of the great brown bear somersaulting behind him. The juggler took a slow turn around as if he’d just sensed someone behind him, and the trained bear followed suit. They circled, the bear always staying out of eyeshot of the juggler.

  Nearby, some boys were playing hoodman blind, while a few youths found amusement in more adult pursuits. They were throwing dice and boasting of their wagers and wins all to impress a single, pretty girl who stood nearby.

  With a frown, Christiana noticed Maud had moved closer to her. She stood by the performer’s tent. Maud’s eyes flicked comically to the side as she pretended interest in the faded banner dangling from the tent. Suddenly, she doubled over and retched on the ground right at the feet of one of the actors who sat on a crate before the striped tent.

  The man leapt up with a curse on his lips. He shook the vomit from his shoe. “’Tis no wonder, the way you guzzle the spirits,” he barked.

  Maud leaned in close to the man. The man put his hand to his nose and tilted away. Frowning, he listened to Maud. Then Maud pointed at Christiana. Christiana leapt from the bench. She was not about to become a puppet in Maud’s schemes again.

  The actor, a scarecrow in a greasy velvet surcoat, took a couple of giant steps and wrapped his hand around Christiana’s arm. She attempted to wrench free, but the man dug in his fingers.

  “Humphrey,” he shouted over his shoulder and was soon joined by a fellow actor who barely reached his waist.

  “Maud, the little swine, has made herself sick on drink. We need a new mistress of Dareford.”

  “Inspired,” his mate exclaimed. “‘Ave you seen the way the master watches her? Like a man possessed.”

  “She’ll have to wear the mask and headdress. He won’t even know who the devil she is.”

  “Aye, but we will know, and it will earn us a cup of ale when we spread it ’round.”

  Christiana had only to see the ridiculous hat of horns to know what play they were trying to recruit her for. ’Twas only a little comedy, a harmless jibe at the landowner, to bring the master goodwill from his villeins.

  The lord was made to play the cuckold for a few moments, and she had been selected to put the horns on him. Old tales claimed that the horns had once been part of a pagan ritual, meant to represent a bull’s fertility, a sowing of the fields with lush crops. But it had soon developed a double, much more sordid, meaning. The silent pantomime involved the seductive female capping her poor, betrayed husband before picking his rival from the crowd with a teasing, chaste kiss.

  Maud’s machinations should have warned her off. How, she wondered, did Maud manage to get sick on cue? It was as if the conniving girl spent all of her waking hours plotting against her. Still, ridiculing Beckett held allure. Though he wouldn’t recognize her beneath the costume, being the one to place that fool’s cap upon his head would give her a measure of sweet revenge.

  “Well, lass, we haven’t all day. Are you game or not?” The performer held out the headdress.

  After a few more moments of hesitation, she snatched it from his hands. Quickly knotting her hair, she tucked it into the velvet snood. She obscured the rest of her hair beneath the wide headband. The mask was made of cheap material and frayed on the edges. Only a few sorry sequins adorned it. Inside the performer’s tent, she stripped to her chemise. The dress was a façade that was slipped into from the front and fastened in the back. One of
the female servants helped with the laces. The woman must have been given instructions to tighten the bodice until it barely contained her—Christiana’s breasts were balancing on a precipice. One wrong move and her nipples would be exposed.

  Her father had told her that originally a male had clothed himself in feathers and satins and pranced and pursed his lips, all to the hilarious acclaim of his audience. But when a particularly goatish de Saxby ascended to the lord’s seat, he insisted on having a female don the revealing costume. She supposed Beckett’s wenching ways were an inheritance from that ancestor.

  Christiana gulped down another cup of mead as she waited for the performers to go through their well-worn repertoire. She spotted her victim, as always head and shoulders above the crowd. His arms crossed over his chest, he appeared more than bored; he looked as if he were asleep on his feet.

  Suddenly, it felt as if a starling had taken up residence in her stomach. She was quickly losing her nerve. True, his high-handed ways infuriated her, yet how could she put that ridiculous hat on his head? Another swallow of the honeyed drink for courage. She would simply walk over, plop the thing on his head, and then plant a chaste kiss—on whom? That part she hadn’t considered.

  The opportunity for retaliation suddenly took on an interesting dimension. Colin was standing very near his cousin. His tousled blond hair gave him a boyish quality. Her gaze shifted to Beckett. There was nothing boyish about him. He was all hard masculinity.

  Christiana was so mesmerized by him, she twirled languidly around. Suddenly, she sensed the performers circling her. Theatrical throat clearing jolted her into action. She felt as though a million eyes were trained on her in her borrowed gown. The overlong skirt dragged through the dust, and the sleeve slipped off her shoulder. She tugged it back up. Though she took great care to keep her pace slow, her breasts jiggled. Beckett no longer seemed to be in a daze. He’d lifted his heavy lids and was now staring unblinking at her bouncing breasts.