The Knights of Christmas

by Suzanne Barclay

  “You’ve given me the greatest gift of all,” Duncan assured her, his hands stroking her bare back. “Your love and understanding. Your faith and your trust in me. You cannot know how much they mean to me.”

  “Aye. I think I do.” Kara smiled softly, basking in his love. Slowly her hand trailed over her belly. As she’d drifted down from the heights of their loving, she’d felt her body quicken. ’Twas just possible that in nine months’ time, she’d be giving him more tangible proof of her love.

  “You are all the gift I need,” Duncan repeated.

  For now. She kissed him, sighing as he hugged her back. “Love is the greatest gift, Duncan, and I will love you forever.”

  Author Note

  There’s something about Christmas that seems to bring out the best in all of us, whether it’s donating your time at the local shelter or baking cookies for a friend. To me, nothing better encapsulates this time of giving and sharing better than O’Henry’s The Gift of the Magi, which served as the inspiration for my own Christmas offering to you.

  Kara’s Gift is actually a prequel to my 1996 release, Lion’s Legacy. A single sentence in that book tells how the MacLellans came to inhabit Edin Valley. “The wee stone kirk had been built by a crusader knight who wandered wounded into the valley in the hills.” Duncan MacLellan is that crusader, a deeply religious man betrothed to another. Kara Gleanedin is the lovely witch who wins his heart under false pretenses and must then choose between love and honor.

  If you enjoy this tale of love and sacrifice, I hope you’ll look for my next historical, set in Medieval England. Knight’s Rebellion is the sixth story about the Sommerville family, and features the daughter of Gareth and Arianna from my 1993 release, Knight’s Lady.

  The heroine of Knight’s Rebellion, Lady Alys Sommerville, stops to help a wounded man and is forced to join a band of rebels. In self-defense, she pretends to be a nun, but the disguise doesn’t prevent her from falling in love with the rebel leader. Trust doesn’t come easily to battle weary Gowain de Crecy, but Alys’s purity of spirit soon wins his heart, only to nearly lose it again when she reveals she is a wealthy, titled lady. Even if he can forgive her deception, will their love survive the threat of his powerful, vengeful enemies?

  I love hearing from readers and can be reached at P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692. To receive a Sommerville Family Tree, please include a large SASE.

  THE TWELFTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  Margaret Moore

  Chapter One

  Warwickshire, All Saints’ Day 1226

  The base of the wine goblet struck the table with a loud clang. Several men-at-arms lingering in the large, well-appointed hall after breaking the fast momentarily turned to look toward the high table.

  “What did you say?” Sir Wilfrid Wutherton demanded, glaring at his niece, who was seated beside him.

  Seeing that their choleric lord’s anger was directed at Giselle, the soldiers quickly returned to their conversations, many of them with amused smiles. All knew that while Sir Wilfrid Wutherton could be fierce, when it came to his ward, the anger was surely more show than substance.

  Considering what Giselle was asking, she was much less sanguine about her uncle’s reaction. She put on her most winning, feminine smile and tried to ignore everyone else. This was as good a chance as she was likely to get to make her wishes known to her uncle, who rarely stayed inside the hall if the weather was at all promising for a hunt. And very rarely was he ever actually alone, a state not unusual considering the size of his estate and his castle, or his wealth or his rank—or the fact that her uncle was the most gregarious and kindhearted of men.

  She had counted on his goodness when she planned to talk to him about her future betrothal. “I do not expect to choose my husband, Uncle,” she said sweetly. “I only ask to be able to refuse your choice, if he doesn’t appear to suit.”

  Sir Wilfrid leaned toward her, his heavy gray brows lowering. “Surely you didn’t get this incredible notion from Lady Katherine?” he growled.

  “No, Uncle, not at all,” Giselle hastened to confess. Indeed, Lady Katherine had drummed into the heads of all the noblewomen fostered under her care that it was a woman’s place to accept the dictates of the heads of their families, whether father, uncle, brother or cousin. Over the years, it had dawned on Giselle that those dictates apparently included a complete separation from friends and family upon marriage. Even her closest friend, Cecily Debarry, had seemingly been imprisoned after her marriage. Since the wedding, Giselle had had no communication of any kind from her, which had to mean that Bernard Louvain, her husband, kept an even stricter rein upon his wife than Lady Katherine had. Although the one time he had visited before their wedding he had been quite pleasant, Giselle had grown certain that his manner had been all for show. Surely nothing but a husband’s selfish orders would keep Cecily from visiting.

  “Haven’t I always been a dutiful niece to you, Uncle?” she pleaded softly. “I went to Lady Katherine and stayed without complaint. I’ve done everything expected of me, and more. I’ve never asked you for anything. Since I’m the one who’s going to have to be married to the man, whoever he may be, I don’t think my request is so very strange.”

  Sir Wilfrid blinked and her hopes grew, but only until he spoke again. “You should have said something sooner,” he muttered, leaning back and picking up his goblet again. “I’ve already found you a husband.”

  Giselle swallowed hard and anxiously searched his face. “You...you have?”

  “Yes. It was arranged the last month you were with Lady Katherine.”

  Giselle drew in a deep breath and regarded her uncle as steadily as she could. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Her uncle didn’t respond, instead taking another drink.

  “Why didn’t you tell me,” she pressed, “unless the betrothal is not final? Perhaps the proposed groom has some reservations?”

  “No, of course not!” Sir Wilfrid declared. “With your dowry, he’d be a fool not to want you.”

  Ah, yes. Her dowry. Her inheritance, to be paid upon her marriage. She knew full well that it was a sizable sum, if not the exact amount. “I’m grateful you don’t think he’s a fool,” she replied, struggling to keep her voice calm although she felt anything but calm in the face of the knowledge that her future had apparently already been decided. “Might I know the gentleman’s name?”

  “Sir Myles Buxton.”

  It meant nothing to Giselle, but that wasn’t so surprising. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of young men’s names she would recognize. Lady Katherine went out of her way to shelter her charges from anything that might be even remotely construed as gossip, and that generally meant news of any kind.

  Then she thought of another question. “Is he very old?”

  “He is five years your senior.”

  Not old, thanks to the saints for that.

  “Is he in need of money, then?”

  “Of course not, girl!” her uncle barked. “Do you think I’m in my dotage, or that our family isn’t one a man would wish to be allied to?”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle,” she said contritely. “I’m just trying to discover why you have not yet confirmed the betrothal, if I was not to be consulted.”

  “He has to sign the contract, that’s all.”

  Giselle grasped at those words like mistletoe clinging to an apple tree and she looked at her uncle appealingly, drawing her final weapon. “I’m sure you’ve made a fine choice, Uncle,” she said, “but if it’s not completely official, I don’t think it is too much to ask to be able to refuse. After all, legally, I would be within my rights.”

  Her uncle started, knocking over his goblet, and stared at her, oblivious to the bloodred wine staining the white cloth spread over the trestle table. “How in the name of Saint Agatha did you learn—!” He halted, then shook his head. “No, you can’t refuse him!”

  “That’s not what Lady Katherine’s priest told us,” Giselle r
eplied, recalling the poor young man she had insisted tell her the law regarding marital consent. “He said a lady could refuse her family’s selection.”

  “God’s teeth!” Sir Wilfrid snarled, shifting in his massive oaken chair as a servant appeared to blot up the wine as best he could. “So, you want to reject Sir Myles Buxton? You haven’t even met the man!”

  Giselle thought quickly. She was gaining ground and she didn’t want to lose any. “When could I meet him?”

  “He’s coming at Christmas—to sign the contract.”

  “Then this is what I propose,” Giselle said, making her tone as reasonable as possible. “Allow me to arrange the Christmas festivities—”

  Her uncle started to object, but she kept going.

  “To prove to you that I am a mature woman capable of making good decisions. If I have proved myself over the twelve days of Christmas, and I decide that Sir Myles does not suit me, you will agree to break the betrothal.”

  Sir Wilfrid scratched his thick beard thoughtfully. “You think you will be able to organize the feasting, the accommodation for our guests, the entertainment and the decorations for the hall?”

  For a moment, Giselle hesitated—but only for a moment. She knew she was capable of seeing to all the preparations for Christmas. She was up to that challenge, and any other when it came to guaranteeing even so small a measure of freedom. “Yes, Uncle, I do.”

  “Then, Giselle,” Sir Wilfrid replied, “I agree.”

  With a triumphant smile, Giselle rose and curtsied to her uncle. “Everything will go smoothly,” she said eagerly. “You will see. Now if you will excuse me, I must talk to the seneschal at once.” She hurried toward the corridor leading to the pantry.

  Sir Wilfrid watched his pretty, headstrong niece leave and smiled indulgently, even though giving in to her request was setting something of a dangerous precedent.

  Or rather, it might be if any other man had been the proposed groom. Refuse Sir Myles Buxton? No young woman in her right mind would do such a thing.

  Not even Giselle.

  Weeks later, Giselle stood in the entrance to the kitchen and tried to concentrate on what Iestyn, the cook, was saying. Unfortunately for him, the change in the weather from chill and damp to cold and icy was causing Giselle to think more about the delayed arrival of guests and necessary foodstuffs than his litany of complaints about the servants, the freshness of the fish, the dearth of salt, and whatever else seemed to occur to him.

  Yesterday it had suddenly turned cold after several days of rain, so that the stones in the courtyard were slick with ice. The muddy roads were treacherous, and more than one cart had already gotten stuck, delaying the delivery of additional food. Several guests had arrived either early, fearing such weather, or were apparently likewise late, throwing off all her careful calculations regarding accommodations. The early arrivals had depleted the stores she had already laid in, too.

  The kitchen itself was like something out of one of Father Paul’s descriptions of hell. Although the upper louvers were open and the day frigid, the room was still as hot as a midsummer’s day.

  The flurry of activity about her had a certain demonic quality, too. Several boys scurried about carrying small casks of flour and wine, and baskets of fruit and dried fish. Two young lads turned the spits that held haunches of beef and mutton, their faces a study in concentration lest they turn too fast or too slow, or upset the pan beneath that caught the drippings. Another pair of boys industriously pounded spices with mortar and pestle, their arms moving rhythmically as they chatted quietly.

  Three stout, strong women, attired in the new aprons given them for Christmas, were busily kneading dough for pastries or bread or meat pies, whatever Iestyn decreed. The kitchen cat hissed at one of the ever-present hounds waiting for the scraps that might fall from the long, heavy tables that ran the length of the enormous room.

  All in all, it was hustle and bustle with an undercurrent of happy excitement—for it was Christmas Eve, and when their work was done, everyone would enjoy finer bread than usual, richer food and definitely better wine. They would have their own sport in the kitchen, with music and dancing and games, to which their masters would turn a blind and forgiving eye, as long as they were able to work the next morning.

  Giselle agreed that Iestyn was suffering and reminded him that wagons bearing the necessary items were supposed to arrive that very morning. As for the servants, well, surely it was nothing more than good spirits, and once the twelve days of Christmas were over, things would return to normal. In the meantime, she begged him to be patient.

  Iestyn, satisfied with her response, wiped his broad, sweaty brow with the back of his hand. “The turbot, then, my lady, it shall be for today, since it’s the freshest fish to be had,” he said, a vestige of the Welsh of his childhood in his deep voice. “And all of it, is it?”

  “Yes,” Giselle replied with a smile. “We wouldn’t want anyone to think my uncle is destitute.”

  Iestyn’s response was a roaring laugh that shook his rotund belly as if it were a jelly, and that confirmed to Giselle that his good humor was restored. “Destitute!” he cried, trying to catch his breath. “Sir Wilfrid! Oh, that’s a fine one, my lady! You ought to be a jester, you ought!”

  “My lady!”

  Giselle looked outside and saw her maidservant, Mary, hurrying toward the kitchen as quickly as she could across the icy yard. “My lady, come quick! To the gate!”

  Giselle nodded a swift farewell to Iestyn and went out into the freezing air. At first it was refreshing, after the heat of the kitchen, but only for a moment. “What is it?” she demanded as she joined her servant, who had already turned and was now heading away from the kitchen toward the gate, which was on the other side of the hall.

  “The yule log, my lady. It’s stuck in the gate!”

  Giselle and Mary rounded the corner of the hall and Giselle halted as the scene at the gate came into view. The great yule log, nearly a yard in diameter, had slipped off the long wagon being used to bring it to the castle and was now wedged in the entrance between the outer portcullis and the inner gate.

  With a groan of dismay, Giselle gathered up the skirt of her thick brown woolen work dress and ran forward, forgetting the ice underfoot, until she slipped. She felt herself falling and struggled, arms flung out, to remain upright. She did not succeed and landed rather heavily on her rump. Unhurt but embarrassed, she got up quickly and surveyed the damage to her garments. Her cloak bore muddy witness to her accident and, judging by the openmouthed stare of the cart’s driver standing beside the horse’s head, as well as those of the other servants hurrying about their tasks, she must have made a pretty spectacle.

  Giselle took a deep breath and told herself to be calm. A fall was not so very humiliating and the wedged log but a moment’s trouble. It need not mean that her uncle would not allow her the right of refusal.

  Suddenly a voice boomed from behind the motionless wagon. “What fool is responsible for this?”

  Giselle’s teeth clenched and she quickened her pace, albeit with caution and very great dignity.

  “I said, what fool is in charge?” the man’s voice demanded again, and this time, she caught sight of the arrogant speaker, for he climbed onto the log and stood scanning the yard like some out-of-place ship’s captain, his arms akimbo. “Can’t he see this is blocking the way?” he demanded.

  With considerable regret Giselle realized that he was probably one of her uncle’s guests, for he was well dressed, with an embroidered tunic of dark wool, fur-lined cloak and fine leather boots. Therefore, she would have to be polite.

  The nobleman nimbly made his way along the enormous log until he reached the front of the wagon, then leapt into the courtyard. She noticed that he did not slip, but landed as easily as a cat.

  She also noticed he was handsome, with wavy brown hair, strong, square jaw and very fine nose. Even off his makeshift deck, he had a distinctly commanding air about him that was very diffi
cult to ignore.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said, momentarily ignoring Old John, the wagon’s driver. “I believe you wish to speak to me?”

  He started, and his face reddened, but she thought that more likely from exertion than shame for his manners. He did not look to be easily embarrassed. “You are in charge?” he asked. “I trust Sir Wilfrid is not ill?”

  “My uncle is in his solar. If you would care to join him, please do so. In the meantime, I will set some men to clearing—”

  “You are his niece?” The man’s smile grew broader as his impertinent gaze flicked over her.

  Suddenly she experienced a definitely sinking feeling, as if the proud captain before her had suddenly run their ship aground.

  Oh, Uncle, what have you done? Giselle wanted to moan. How could he have selected for her husband this pompous, arrogant nobleman who was handsome, yes, and young, yes, but surely as conceited a fellow as it had ever been Giselle’s misfortune to meet.

  “If Sir Wilfrid is my uncle, I think one could safely assume I am his niece, sir,” she said, attempting to keep sarcasm from her tone.

  “Then you must be Lady Giselle.” He made a sweeping, graceful, yet completely virile, bow. “I am Sir Myles Buxton, my lady. A most happy meeting. The reports of you that I have had have not done justice to your beauty,” he said, his deep voice intimate as he came toward her, despite the increasing noise from the crowd waiting impatiently behind the log cart.

  It was all Giselle could do to keep the skeptical look from her face, for she was very aware that she was looking far from her best. Her scarf was askew, her cloak a muddy disaster, and she was sweating. Beauty? Perhaps sometimes, but this was not one of those times! Obviously this man was as hypocritical as Bernard Louvain.