Her Gallant Knight: A Medieval Romance Novella

by Catherine Kean

  Dizziness taunted her, and she willed herself to calm. She’d done what was necessary, and Tilden would not get into trouble. She shouldn’t dwell upon the kiss any longer.

  Yet, she could still feel the heat and softness of Ryder’s lips against hers. His scent had been most enticing, too; of cinnamon and ginger tinged with honey, mayhap from fragrant soap he’d used to wash before dressing for the feast.

  As laughter floated up from the crowd below, she walked to the stairs leading down to the hall. Cool air brushed her nape, for the maidservant had tidied her hair into a braid coiled around her head and held in place with pearl-studded hairpins. Coolness also swept Amelia’s cleavage exposed by the gown’s bodice—an unsettling reminder that her breasts were larger than those of most ladies her age and that her mother had insisted on the low-cut bodice.

  “Oh, Amelia, you look absolutely beautiful,” her mother had said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “’Twill be well worth the discomfort and expense if you catch the eye of a wealthy lord who wants you to be his wife.”

  While Amelia might or might not meet her future husband tonight, the gown was the most lavish one she owned. After studying her reflection in a polished steel mirror, she’d decided the color suited her well and that she looked grown up and pretty.

  Tilden hadn’t seen her in the gown before. He was going to be astounded.

  And when Ryder gazed upon her? She hoped he’d be astounded, too.

  Anticipation skittered through her as she put her hand on the stair rail and descended to the hall cast in a golden glow by the beeswax candles arranged on the tables and the reed torches in wrought iron holders on the walls. Strains of a vibrant melody, played by musicians at the opposite end of the vast room, underscored the buzz of conversation among the folk who waited for the night’s festivities to begin.

  As several visiting lords, chatting and drinking wine from silver goblets, glanced her way, she fought the temptation to hug herself and thus hide her bosom. She glanced over the crowd to locate her brother.

  Tilden saw her first and came to her side. “Sis! You look lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  He kissed her cheek then grinned. “I will have to stand guard at your side tonight. You will be inundated by lords eager to court you.”

  She blushed. “Do not be silly.”

  “Silly? Me?” He winked. “Never.” In hushed tones, he added, “I am quite certain Gladwin will ask you to dance tonight. Stephen, too.”

  Amelia waved to one of the other wards, strolling by with several handsomely-dressed pages. Waiting until they’d passed, Amelia said, “Mother will be pleased—”

  “Good evening.”

  Goose bumps raised on her arms, for Ryder had come to her side. “Good evening,” she murmured, acknowledging him with a stiff curtsy.

  He smiled, and his gaze traveled over her, down to her hem touching the herbs and straw covering the floor. When she inhaled, she caught a hint of his spicy scent, which revived memories of kissing him.

  How desperately she longed to walk away and lose him in the crowd. But if Ryder knew he affected her so, he’d have yet another reason to torment her.

  Act as if he has no sway over you at all, despite what happened earlier. Well aware he was still studying her, she focused on a laughing group of squires nearby.

  “Lord Palmer is here. Father is escorting him about the room and making introductions,” Ryder said. “I believe his lordship wants to meet with us squires later this evening.”

  “Why?” Tilden asked.

  Ryder shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Mayhap he seeks men to join the Templars?”

  “Could be.”

  Amelia dared to steal a glance at Ryder. His keen gaze locked with hers, and she fought a jolt of awareness.

  “May I say, you look exquisite in that gown,” he murmured.

  She tried to find mockery in his tone; she heard only genuine appreciation. “You are most kind,” she managed to say.

  “Kindness has naught to do with it. I appreciate a beautiful woman.”

  Ryder thought her beautiful? Did he mean it, or had he just said what he’d said to startle her?

  Before she could further consider his words, Lord Stanbury emerged from the throng. A broad-shouldered man walked at his side; the long white surcoat emblazoned with a red cross identified him as a Templar. Her heartbeat quickened as the two men approached.

  “Father.” Ryder bowed.

  “Milord, may I present my youngest son, Ryder.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Lord Palmer said, bowing in return.

  Amelia’s stomach somersaulted as the men’s attention shifted to her.

  “May I also present Lord Tilden Bainbridge and his younger sister, Lady Amelia Bainbridge,” Lord Stanbury said.

  The Templar knight smiled. “’Tis an honor to meet you both.”

  Amelia dropped into an elegant curtsy. Once again, she wished her gown wasn’t so revealing; the Templars, after all, were pious men who lived as monks. But, she resisted the urge to shield her bosom with her hands.

  As she began to straighten, Ryder said, “With tits like that, she will do well for herself.”

  ***

  Bloody hell.

  Somehow, he’d said aloud what he’d been thinking. The words had just slipped out, beyond his control.

  Surely, though, he’d only voiced what the others who’d watched her curtsy had been thinking? Amelia had truly luscious breasts; accentuated by her tight bodice, they were two handfuls of perfection.

  “Ryder,” his sire snapped.

  Lord Palmer looked aghast.

  Even Tilden appeared stunned.

  Upon seeing their shocked expressions, remorse welled within Ryder. However, there was no way to take the words back, even if he wished to.

  Amelia’s face had gone scarlet. As she fully straightened, her gaze, burning with humiliation, locked with Ryder’s. His shame gouged deeper, for her eyes glistened with tears.

  His words hadn’t been honorable, but he genuinely did aspire to become a knight of the realm, sworn to champion honor and justice and to cherish fair damsels. He would make the situation right. He must. Somehow.

  “Amelia, I—”

  With an indignant swish of silk, she turned her back to him and hurried away through the throng.

  “Amelia!” He hoped his voice would reach her over the rising swell of music and chatter in the hall.

  She did not glance back.

  He moved to follow, but a strong hand gripped his arm. “What in hellfire were you thinking?” his father demanded, drawing him aside.

  “I did not consider my words before speaking.”

  His sire glowered. “That was quite clear.”

  Resentment sparked. As usual, his sire had found him lacking. Did it mean naught that Ryder had acknowledged his mistake? That he hadn’t lied or made excuses about what he’d said, but had attempted to make amends with Amelia for offending her?

  While his disagreements with his father usually took place in private, tonight many folk—including their esteemed guest from London, Ryder’s best friends, and his competitors—were witnessing their exchange. Ryder fought a sting of mortification and stared down his sire. “I tried to apologize. I cannot be blamed for Amelia refusing to listen.”

  “You did not try all that hard to apologize.”

  “I did.”

  “I did not hear the word ‘sorry.’”

  Ryder longed to spit curses and storm out of the hall, but he’d be an idiot to disrespect his father on such an important night. So, with effort, he kept silent.

  Shaking his head, Ryder’s sire said, “You have disappointed me. Your mother and I raised you with far better manners than you have shown here this eve.”

  How unfair to bring Ryder’s deceased parent into the conversation. Anguish lanced through him, for he’d missed her every day since she’d died from sickness. He shook off his father’s hold, while s
truggling to tamp down the awful pain churning inside him.

  “We will discuss this matter again later tonight. Right now, you have a duty to make amends with Amelia.”

  Amelia wasn’t going to listen; she was too upset. “With respect, Father—”

  “Go. Now. Before I banish you from this hall for the rest of the night.”

  ***

  Amelia sobbed as she raced along the landing toward the passageway that would take her to her chamber. Upon reaching her room, she slammed the door behind her and hurried to the fire, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  She sank to her knees in front of the hearth tiles, heedless of the way she was crushing her gown. She wasn’t going to return to the festivities. If her skirts became creased, she did not care.

  With trembling fingers, she wiped tears from her face. Why had she agreed to move to Merringstow? What a terrible mistake. Aye, it had been wonderful to see Tilden, but Ryder had made her days difficult. And tonight….

  Tonight the humiliation had gone too far. The torment within her sharpened into a pang of fury. She was not going to spend a moment longer than she had to at Merringstow; she was going home to Callingston.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Sis.” Tilden.

  Her vision blurred with fresh tears.

  “Please, open the door.”

  She pushed to her feet. A comforting hug from her beloved brother was just what she needed.

  When she opened the door, she saw not only Tilden, but Ryder.

  With an angry gasp, she tried to slam the panel, but her brother thrust out his arm and kept the door open. “He is here to apologize.”

  A disbelieving laugh broke from her.

  “Truly, he is.” Tilden stepped back, gesturing for Ryder to move in directly in front of her.

  How she wanted to believe her brother, but Ryder’s expression remained guarded. He’d never shown any regret for the tricks he’d played on her before. Tomorrow she’d likely experience another prank; more enjoyment for him at her expense. Well, she wasn’t going to allow him any more pleasure from humiliating her.

  When Ryder’s lips parted, as though he meant to deliver the promised apology, she shook her head. “Do not bother.”

  “But—”

  “If you have even the slightest remorse, you will stay away from me.” Her voice hitched. “For good.”

  “Amelia!” her brother cried.

  Before Ryder could say a word, she slammed the door in his face.

  ***

  Two weeks later

  Callingston Keep, England

  “Milady, your father wishes to see you in the great hall.”

  Amelia nodded to the maidservant in the doorway. “Thank you.”

  The young woman smiled, dropped into a quick curtsy, and then hurried away.

  Amelia rose from the chair in the sunlit chamber she and her mother had used for many years as a sewing room and set the linen pillowcase she’d been embroidering on the oak side table. She fought a tremor of dread. Today, her sire might receive word from the lord in Yorkshire he’d contacted about her moving there to be a ward and complete her tutelage. After arriving home eleven days ago, she’d hoped not to have to leave again so soon; but, as her parents had made clear to her since she was a child, as a noble lady, she had a duty to her family to help forge alliances and find a good husband.

  “A shame it did not work out at Merringstow,” her sire had said when he’d hugged her in the bailey. His voice had been tinged with dismay.

  Later, after she’d told her mother of the humiliations she’d endured because of Ryder, her mother had sighed, drawn her into an embrace, and kissed her temple. “We had high hopes for you and Ryder,” she’d murmured against Amelia’s hair, “since you had been such close friends as children. I guess marriage between you was just not meant to be.”

  Amelia had clearly disappointed both of her parents—an unpleasant realization that had kept her awake for many nights. Surely, though, they understood that the situation at Merringstow had been intolerable for her?

  She clung to her hatred of Ryder, even though, in the darkest hours of the night, memories of their kiss stole into her mind. And his expression and tone when he’d called her beautiful…. Had she seen longing in his eyes? If he’d admired her, though, why had he embarrassed her in front of Lord Palmer?

  ’Twas all most perplexing and unsettling. She could only hope that if she was to move to Yorkshire, she’d be able to forget Ryder and find happiness.

  She made her way to the great hall, where her father sat at the lord’s table on the raised stone dais, quill in hand, reviewing parchments laid out before him. He set aside the quill and stood as she approached.

  “Father.” She curtsied.

  A whimpering noise came from the left side of the dais.

  Her sire motioned to the large wooden crate nearby. “A messenger just delivered it. ’Tis for you.”

  “Me?” She hadn’t been expecting any deliveries.

  The whimpering noise came again. When she peered into the widely-spaced slats at the front of the crate, glossy brown eyes stared back at her.

  She gasped and unlatched the door. Inside was the sweet, silver-gray wolfhound pup she’d admired in Lord Stanbury’s antechamber.

  She stroked the dog’s fur, and the hound licked her arm. A rolled parchment, which her sire had obviously opened and read, lay inside the crate. She took it out and unfurled the missive.

  For the hurt I have caused you, I genuinely feel remorse.

  A lump lodged in her throat. She hardly dared to read the rest of what Ryder had written, but she must.

  Tilden told me you favored this pup, so I persuaded Father to let me give him to you. I hope you will welcome him as your new friend. He will grow up to watch over and protect you.

  I called him Honor. You may, of course, have a better name for him.

  “’Tis a generous gift.” Her sire’s smile implied he was pleased with Ryder’s efforts. As much as she appreciated the puppy, though, she couldn’t forget what Ryder had done to her. The anguish was still too raw.

  “He has not apologized,” she answered, “but tried to win me over with a gift.”

  As she coaxed the dog out of the crate, though, she couldn’t help thinking that of all the countless names Ryder could have chosen, Honor was simply perfect.

  Chapter Two

  Nottinghamshire, England

  August, 1192

  Her heart pounding, Amelia clung to the seat of the jostling carriage. Each of her breaths felt wrenched from her lungs, and she was acutely aware of the musky scent of dog wafting from Honor sitting on the floor by her feet.

  Clinging to the opposite seat, Nanette, Amelia’s thirteen-year-old lady-in-waiting, moaned.

  Over the thunderous rumble of the carriage wheels, Amelia heard the clang of swords outside. The captain-of-the-guard shouted orders.

  Other men—strangers—were shouting, too.

  The outlaws had been waiting, hiding in the forest, until—

  Thump. Something hit the carriage’s rounded roof.

  Nanette shrieked.

  Freeing her right hand from its white-knuckled grip on the seat, Amelia reached across the interior and squeezed Nanette’s fingers. “’Tis going to be all right.”

  The young woman’s eyes were wide with terror. “I hope so.”

  Amelia hoped so too, but the boxy carriage, with its sturdy walls and straw-padded seats, had been built for her late brother’s comfort on long journeys, not for outmaneuvering attackers.

  Moments ago, trying not to fall on Nanette or step on Honor, Amelia had risen and slid the windows on either side closed. The interior of the carriage had plunged into shadow, pierced by light from cracks and joins in the wood.

  Closing the windows kept arrows from flying in. Yet, the situation seemed even grimmer now that they could only hear what was happening on the road, not see any of it.

  She thought of Gladwin,
also on his way to the town of Lynborn. They’d arranged to meet for a midday meal, and then she and Nanette were going to shop for new gloves and shoes. A dear friend who was also a Templar knight, as her brother had been, Gladwin had been a great comfort to her since Tilden’s death—

  A man screamed in agony. One of her guards? How Amelia longed to open a window a crack and peer out, but she didn’t dare.

  “We are going to die,” Nanette wailed.

  “Nay, we are not. We are going to survive this attack and recover with a lovely afternoon of shopping. Now, we must both be brave.”

  Nanette sobbed. “I have not even fallen in love.”

  Neither had Amelia, but she wasn’t going to admit to that, or the fact that of all of the young lords she’d met and courted in her twenty years of life, only one—Ryder—had ever lingered in her thoughts, made her skin tingle, and caused her to feel giddy. Why she should feel that way about him, she couldn’t quite say. She had, after all, successfully avoided seeing him since leaving Merringstow six years ago.

  “I have never felt a lover’s embrace,” Nanette continued, clearly drowning in regrets. “Or a man’s passionate kiss.”

  “You will,” Amelia said firmly. “You are young, beautiful—”

  “If we are to fall prey to outlaws, I would rather be hideous!”

  “Nanette—”

  “Once they have had their filthy hands all over us and ravished us, no man will want us.” Nanette’s pretty face crumpled. “We will die unwed. Unloved. Alone.”

  Before Amelia could reply, the carriage tilted hard to the right. Screaming, the young woman catapulted into Amelia. Poor Honor, thrown against the seat, scrambled to regain his balance, his claws scrabbling on the floorboards.

  The lady-in-waiting untangled herself from Amelia. “Sorry. Are you all right?”

  “I am. You?”

  With a nod and the rustle of silk, Nanette wilted back on the seat. When she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it over her mouth, Amelia sucked in a deep breath, for she also was fighting to keep her morning porridge down.

  Raised voices came from outside. The rumbling of the carriage suddenly changed pitch. The jostling eased.