The Heat of the Knight

by Scottie Barrett

  Christiana slipped into the hallway. She gently touched her cheek. The hot handprint that Blanche Pikhorn had given her still stung. Even the notion of watching Beckett squirm as he tried to placate his future wife and mother-in-law was not enough to keep her in the castle. Outlawry suddenly seemed a kinder alternative, and if de Saxby did hunt her down, she’d simply beg for a quick end. Didn’t he owe her that much after what they had once shared?

  Once in the courtyard, Christiana felt the eyes of the retainers on her. It was not her imagination. They were watching her with hawk-like vigilance from the parapets and like hulking shadows from the gateway portal. Other people milled around, free of their predatory gazes.

  Fear made her mouth grow dry. Perhaps she was not quite so ready to challenge Beckett’s authority. Assuming a nonchalant demeanor, she strolled toward the garden pretending it had been her destination all along. At the entrance, she nearly tripped on a stack of uprooted plants.

  Christiana gasped. The garden was nothing but a plot of soil. A lone servant turned the naked earth with a hoe. It had been emptied of all the promise she’d planted. The coral-colored roses that had never had a chance to flower. The lavender that would have sweetened the honey. Instantly tears pooled in her eyes. The man absolutely despised her. There could be no other explanation for the destruction to her little piece of paradise.

  Christiana clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle a sob. She could not blink back the tears. Was she crying over her crushed plants or over her crushed heart? She had convinced herself that she could easily leave this castle and its lord without leaving any of her soul behind. But that suddenly seemed impossible.

  “What is it, sweeting?” Colin’s sudden presence caused her to swipe the wetness from her cheeks, but she could not seem to stop new tears from coursing down her face.

  She looked at him distrustfully out of blurry eyes. Was Colin stalking her as well? Was he in league with his cousin?

  “He’s had it torn up.” The smell of freshly turned loam obliterated the delicate scent of lavender that lay dying on the ground. She bent down and picked up a sprig, crushing the fragrant blossom between her fingers.

  Colin curled his hand around her neck and urged her forward. She inched reluctantly into his arms. “Christy, deep down you had to know how this would all end.” His words did not comfort her in the least.

  She shook her head within the circle of his arms. “I’m a damned fool,” she mumbled into his tunic.

  “How cozy,” Beckett drawled.

  She wasn’t the least surprised that Beckett had discovered them. He’d obviously been alerted to her early morning wanderings. She tucked herself in tighter to Colin. Her tears had dried, but her shoulders heaved with silent hiccups.

  “Why the devil is she weeping?”

  “Because, cousin, you are a bloody bastard. You couldn’t even let her have this patch of dirt.”

  Beckett made a move to touch her. She ducked his hand. “You can’t think me that cruel?”

  Christiana turned to scowl at him. “But I do, my lord. I think you exactly that.”

  He reached out for her again, his fingers grazing her cheek. “Who struck you?”

  She wiggled out of Colin’s embrace. “Do not lay a finger on me ever again.”

  As she strode away, Christiana could hear Beckett addressing the gardener.

  “Say, man. Who gave the orders to pull this up?”

  “’Twas milady. The one with red tresses.”

  Colin chuckled. “She isn’t even lady here yet, and already, she’s giving orders. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving fellow.”

  Beckett felt as though he were weighted with stones. Sweat poured from him, making his wool gambeson stick like a shroud. His black armor seemed to absorb all the sun’s heat.

  “Fuck! Arnulph, why the bloody hell did I have to be the one in this black cage?”

  Arnulph rubbed his good eye. “It suits you, my lord, with your black temper.”

  Beckett knew that for the last week he had been a man best to avoid. He had been trying to fight his way out of a hellish hole and not succeeding. His seductive, blonde kitten had turned feral. She wouldn’t let him near her. Her pale gray eyes accused him. Yet she’d betrayed him. She was the one who offered her delectable backside to a stranger in the forest. He shut his eyes and groaned in remembrance. What a mix of emotions had surged through him then. Even with a broken heart, his body had been willing. How sweet and tight her cunt was. Would he ever stop craving her? He let a volley of vile oaths fly. He managed to agitate a few of the horses, but his men did not even blink. They had become inured to his furious outbursts.

  “Answer me this, is fidelity too bloody much to ask of a woman?”

  Arnulph glanced behind him, clearly hoping Beckett was addressing someone else. After some hesitation he replied, “Once you’re married you could demand—”

  “But then what can I expect?” Beckett interrupted. “The woman damn well hates me.”

  “If you say so, my lord.”

  Beckett pointed an accusing finger at Arnulph. “No she doesn’t hate me.” He shrugged. Had he ever felt this sorry for himself? “Because if she did, that would at least mean she had some feelings for me.”

  Stinging sweat trickled into Beckett’s eye and he awkwardly wiped it away with his gloved hand. “If Revynwyll happens this way, I shall bloody make him pay for keeping me roasting in this heat.”

  “I’ve got to piss,” Wat announced.

  “You’ll have to rust your chain mail,” Arnulph said, dropping his voice. “They are here.”

  They all watched as Hennings, slithering on his stomach, appeared over the ridge. He dropped over to their side. “They are strolling across the meadow like drunken sheep to the slaughter.”

  Beckett raked his sweat-soaked hair from his face. “He’s a cocksure bastard.” After incinerating a local village and plundering the forest, Revynwyll and his entourage were spreading out across the meadow as if they had not a single enemy. “How many?”

  “Fifteen at the most. He’s flanked on either side by mace carriers. A few in the back look as if they can hardly stand. Must have been celebrating,” Hennings replied.

  “And the pennant?” Beckett asked.

  “Unprotected except for the axe wielder to his left.”

  “Give Wat the arbalest. Crawl back up the hill. I want you to take out the pennant carrier. First thing, I want that flag in the dirt. William, eliminate at least one of the men guarding his lordship,” Beckett said.

  Arnulph held up his hands in a calming gesture. “Wound only. Do not inflict death if you can help it.”

  Beckett intended to ignore Arnulph’s reasonable suggestion. He’d grown tired of this game. Lord Revynwyll had confiscated three estates in the last month. He was starting to create an island of his own in the midst of England, choking off the main roads with his henchmen. The soldiers he’d assembled were a gathering of cowards and criminals. They would be easily disbanded. Beckett jammed on his helmet and donned his gauntlet.

  William loaded a quarrel in his crossbow. He dropped his visor into place, signaling Wat to ready the arbalest.

  The horsemen topped the ridge as a flurry of arrows thinned the enemy. The pennant carrier and his guard crumpled to the ground first. Soon after, William fired into the right flank, wounding two.

  “No mercy,” Beckett shouted before spurring his destrier into a gallop.

  “No fucking mercy,” one of his men seconded.

  Gilbert rushed the field, swinging his battleaxe. His scream alone sent Revynwyll’s rear guardsmen scattering into the woods. Gilbert dispensed with the first man in his way, with a thunderous blow to the top of the man’s helmet.

  Beckett sliced his sword through the air cutting down the mace carrier who’d moved to guard Revynwyll. From behind, a soldier bounced a spiked flail off Beckett’s shoulder, denting his armor and sending him rocking on his heels. Beckett swiveled, his sword finding purchas
e beneath the man’s unprotected arm. A stroke and a pull and the blade came away crimson.

  “Cur, you’ve been snarling at my heels for too long,” Revynwyll shouted as he dismounted. His spur caught on the embroidered robe he wore. He stumbled, but quickly regained his footing. He threw aside the princely garment, revealing that he was suited for battle. “Discard your helmet. Let me see you before I dispatch you to the devil.”

  Beckett dragged off the helmet and chain mail hood and hurled them away. He gave his head a shake to whip the sweat-plastered hair from his face.

  “Dareford, just as I suspected,” Revynwyll crowed. “Did I not tell you, you bloody fools?” He glanced around, but there was not one of his soldiers left standing to heed his boast. He shrugged. “They are easily replaced.”

  Beckett sensed Arnulph approaching on his right. Without turning, Beckett warned him off. “The whoreson is mine.” He shifted the sword in his hand.

  Revynwyll showed his teeth. It was meant to resemble a smile, but it made him look more like a cornered animal. “After our shared experience on crusade, we should be bound as brothers. It is not too late to join forces.”

  “Loathsome coward.” Arnulph’s fury vibrated across the blood-strewn field. “A de Saxby align himself with a butcher such as yourself?”

  “Back away, Arnulph. I told you, the bastard is mine.” Beckett followed his threat with a thrust. The duke deflected with his shield. Beckett could feel the ringing in his bones up to the elbow.

  The hair on the back of Beckett’s neck suddenly bristled. “You deserve worse than hell, you bastard. The abduction was at your behest.”

  “Such outrage could only be due to a woman.” Revynwyll stepped back, taking the opportunity to take some heaving breaths. Sweat drizzled down his slick, bald head to his beard. “Not me, sir. I avoid that red-haired harridan you’re betrothed to. Just the thought of her makes my cock shrivel.”

  The extreme tension in Beckett’s shoulders eased.

  Revynwyll narrowed his eyes. “’Tisn’t the Pikhorn bitch at all.” For an instant he held his sword and shield aloft as if in jubilation. “A chink in the great warrior’s armor. Pity that I will be the one delivering the sad news of your demise. I pray you do not tire me overmuch, for certainly, you will wish me to provide a certain degree of comfort to your waiting mistress.” He lifted his eyebrows in lewd suggestion.

  “Could we continue this now? I’m bored,” Beckett said. “Or perhaps you only use that blade for picking your teeth.”

  Revynwyll’s face purpled, and he took a wild swipe at Beckett.

  Their swords clashed as Beckett forced Revynwyll to back up across the field. Sweat blurred Beckett’s vision. Revynwyll’s blade struck Beckett’s arm plate, and the tip shattered. Seemingly unnerved, Revynwyll hacked ineffectively, stirring little more than the air. Soon the blade barely rose before falling with a heaviness that proved his weariness.

  Beckett, too, was bending beneath the weight of his sword. They took one step back from each other and gulped the air like water-starved fish.

  “However will I treat your wench to a passionate fuck, if you exhaust me so?” The drawling voice had lost its richness.

  With a roar, Beckett lunged, slicing his sword in a great arc, cleanly separating the man’s head from its body.

  Chapter Nine

  In the kitchen, Agnes eyed Christiana with pity. “Poor thing, having to deal with that old crone.” She cut a thick slice of bread. “Is it her hip paining her again or another one of her many ailments?”

  Christiana could take no pleasure in gossiping about the old lady’s tyrannical ways. Her days since Beckett’s dismissal of her had been lived in a daze. “Lady Pikhorn would like some treacle spread atop. A little...”

  “I know, I know, a little thicker,” Agnes finished for her. “She’ll be miraculously healed by dinner, I wager.”

  Thomas appeared with a vat of honey, which he set hurriedly atop the table beside the loaves of bread.

  Balancing the tray laden with wine, bread and sausages, Christiana left the kitchen.

  In the corridor, she could hear Thomas’s skipping step behind her. “I’ve brought you something.”

  From the sleeve of his tunic he pulled two candles. They were stubby, crooked things. Obviously, he’d molded them himself. He untied the pouch strung from his belt and removed a small sack speckled with juice. She noticed that his fingers were stained red as well.

  She accepted his gifts, the sweet smell of berries making her smile. “You shouldn’t leave the village to collect those. ’Tisn’t safe.”

  “Needn’t worry about it. Revynwyll is dead as dead can be. The king’s men are scouring the countryside looking for his slayer.”

  “Do they know who killed him?” She croaked out the question. She prayed it wasn’t Beckett they hunted.

  Thomas shrugged. “The duke had only enemies. Could be anyone. But Revynwyll was a lord, and, no doubt, they will hang the killer. Though all folk in these parts would choose to give him a hero’s parade.” Thomas’s wide grin revealed his teeth up to his pink gums. “If you ask me, it was the Blacksmith did the deed.”

  As instructed, Christiana stood behind Lady Pikhorn’s chair at dinner, ever ready to carve the woman’s meat into even smaller pieces. Because of her lame leg, Lady Pikhorn had refused to climb the step to the high table. Lord Dareford had sent men to carry her to her seat. But she’d clubbed them both over the head with her fist. So now she sat at a specially constructed trestle table facing the dais, setting her apart as a personage of exalted status. Roger Pikhorn, who had arrived with trumpets blowing that very morning, had chosen to dine with his mother. For the hundredth time, his crafty eyes flitted to Christiana.

  “Sit, beauty.” The abruptness of his demand startled Christiana. He patted the bench at his side.

  “Do your whoring when I am not present, if you please.” Lady Pikhorn shoveled a greasy piece of duck into her mouth and took no notice of the drip sliding down her double chin.

  “Hush, you old battleaxe.” The churlish man snapped his fingers, and Christiana reluctantly obeyed.

  Scooting on the bench, he moved in cozily, his thigh pressing against hers. He removed a knife from his wallet. When he smiled, his pointy beard tilted upward. His hair was nearly as red as his sister’s, but his beard was a match for the gold braiding on his tunic. His coloring and the rather sharp features of his face gave him a fox-like quality. He’d doused himself in flower water. The cloying smell overpowered the aroma of the dishes placed before them. They were to share a trencher, and the implications that he would be feeding her from his own utensil struck her.

  Lady Pikhorn scowled at her son. “’Tis an outrageous insult. Do you expect me to dine with a chambermaid?” Finally aware of the grease on her chin, she swiped at it with the back of her sleeve.

  “God knows it would take more than a wee serving wench to keep you from stuffing your face.”

  The old woman grunted something unintelligible and dove back into her trencher with both hands.

  For the first time Christiana looked toward the dais to find Beckett glowering down at her. She could feel the power of the man from across the room. Christiana wished he wouldn’t always stare so boldly. It made the Pikhorn women even nastier to her. And, of course, their kinsman’s fawning attention to her would only serve to infuriate them more.

  Roger Pikhorn speared a piece of duck and lifted it to her mouth. She placed her fingers over her lips and shook her head no. Somehow to accept food from this stranger would be akin to cheating on Beckett, and, though he was done with her, she was not yet ready to betray what they’d had.

  “So pleasingly shy,” he remarked, but it seemed like an accusation. A taut smile thinned his lips.

  Without tasting, Christiana fed herself a few morsels of food.

  Leaving Beckett’s side on the dais, Blanche Pikhorn walked stiffly toward her brother. She bent low to address him. “Must you dally with the strum
pet right under Dareford’s nose?” she hissed.

  “’Tis a wonder you have not asked for my ballocks to hang ’round your neck.” Her brother slid the point of his knife under her dangling necklace so that the pendant rested on the blade. There was menace in the act. “Betrothed yet? I did not think so. Mayhap if you were less a shrew, the man would not be so repelled.” He hooked her necklace with his knife tip and tugged so that the chain dug into the skin of her neck. “The trick, dear sister, is to entice, not repel.” His gaze shifted to Christiana. He boldly lapped up her appearance with pale, wicked eyes. “Then you could have Dareford panting as I’m certain this silver-haired lovely must.” He now appraised his own sister from head to toe. “Although it does seem an impossible task from this vantage point.”

  Blanche’s face grew red. “Mother! Do something about your vile spawn!”

  Frowning, Lady Pikhorn wrapped her gnarled fingers around Roger’s wrist. He dropped his knife back to the table. “Roger is correct. You must be more agreeable.”

  Roger smirked at his sister. “Take heed, dear sister, the man watches you at this very minute. At least make an attempt at being feminine.”

  Blanche straightened, making sure to push out her breasts, all the while sucking in her round belly. Casting a flirtatious smile at Lord Dareford, she tipped her head demurely in his direction.

  She spun back around to the family. “But Mother, you told me to set my demands early lest the man think he has the upper hand.”

  “Do you think a man of Dareford’s brute nature will be gelded?” Roger asked.

  Blanche leaned closer to Roger. “The only man I wish to geld is sitting at this table. And when I am Countess Dareford, I will have your ballocks, but not to wear around my neck. I rather imagine them swimming in a nice gravy.”

  Christiana smothered a giggle with her hand. What a perfectly wretched argument. There was nothing redeeming about this entire family, and Beckett would have to contend with them until his dying day. A day he would probably pray for once he was wed.