The Knights of Christmas

by Suzanne Barclay

  Sir Wilfrid shook his head. “I have no idea, but I would consider his persistence a great compliment.” Then he chucked her lightly under the chin. “A girl could do a lot worse, Giselle. Give him a chance, eh?”

  Sobered by her uncle’s words, aware of how little she really knew about Myles Buxton, Giselle nodded. “I will try.”

  That evening, Giselle was in a fog of confusion. She had tried to think of some explanation for Sir Myles’s persistent wish to marry her, given his past and their last confrontation. Still determined to avoid marriage for as long as she could, she had nevertheless decided to try to learn more about Myles, without actually encouraging him.

  Unfortunately, tonight he had not come to take his place at the high table. He lingered below the salt with the mummers, talking to Matthew and the others in animated whispers and laughing amiably.

  Then a servant came to tell her Sir Myles had decided to eat with the players, if she didn’t mind.

  Mind? Of course she minded! He was a noble guest, and people might think she was responsible for this slight. She couldn’t help but feel insulted and upset by his actions, and she wondered how he ever expected to make her love him by doing such a thing. But he was her guest, so she simply smiled and acquiesced.

  At least the feast was going well, the day had passed without further problems, and the musicians were playing excellently. The scent of roasting apples and cinnamon filled the air, as well as the pleasant aroma of mulled cider and wine. The dogs, sated with scraps from the tables, had ceased roving about the hall and lay slumbering by the hearth where the great yule log still burned, their state not much different from that of Sir Wilfrid, whose eyes were more than half shut.

  She forced her attention to the center of the hall, where several of the guests were dancing. Sir George de Gramercie was leaping about with great vigor, to the delight of those dancing in the circle with him, especially Lady Elizabeth and Lady Alice.

  Well, for once Sir Myles was not the center of attention. She wondered how he felt about that, but when she looked where he had been seated, Sir Myles and the mummers were gone. Matthew and the others would have left to prepare for the night’s entertainment; she had no idea where Sir Myles might have gone, and told herself she didn’t care.

  She sighed wearily and contemplated asking to be excused before the mummers appeared. She had already distributed the remains of the feast to the poor, so she did not even have that to look forward to. She might as well go to bed.

  Before she could make this request of her somnambulant uncle, however, the musicians played a tremendous fanfare and Matthew appeared, dressed in a long red cloak trimmed with ermine and sporting a waist-length and quite fraudulent white beard.

  “Saint Nicholas!” the waiting crowd murmured with approval.

  Then Peter arrived, dressed as a young woman and accompanied by another mummer who was obviously supposed to be the husband or lover. The lover departed and, with actions, the “young woman” indicated that she was miserable.

  “It’s Saint Nicholas and the three sisters,” Sir Wilfrid said, awakening with a snort and sitting straighter.

  Giselle smiled wanly. The story of the saint who had given three sisters dowries so that they wouldn’t be forced to prostitute themselves was most appropriate for Christmas; still, she wished they had picked something that had nothing to do with dowries or weddings.

  Another couple from Matthew’s company appeared, playing another of the distraught sisters and her betrothed. Saint Nicholas watched with great concern as they acted out their troubles.

  Then came the third sister, whose entrance was greeted with a flurry of laughter, giggles, guffaws and snide glances at Giselle. It took her only an instant to see why, for the third sister, the one bustling about like a busy chatelaine, was being portrayed by none other than Sir Myles Buxton.

  He wore a gown and a long, brown wig and minced about in a way that would have been comical if he wasn’t making fun of her. The fact that he was also a good head taller than the man who was obviously supposed to be his betrothed added to the humor. Giselle, however, was determined to find nothing amusing about this impudent mockery.

  Then she had another realization, one that contrived to bring a smile to her lips. The man playing Sir Myles’s betrothed was imitating Sir Myles, from the swagger of his walk to the arrogance of his mien. He seemed completely oblivious to the loving “woman” scurrying around him, instead marching about like some kind of wooden soldier.

  Not a bad imitation, Giselle thought with a smirk.

  At last Saint Nicholas provided the dowries, to the delight of all the sisters. Here Sir Myles did something she could not have foreseen. The third sister hesitated a moment, as if reconsidering marriage with the martinet. The “groom” attempted to carry off his bride, only to be smacked soundly on the head. The groom then made a very good show of apologizing and was apparently forgiven, for “she” at last embraced her future husband, actually picking him up off the ground, to hearty applause.

  Then, to Giselle’s very great surprise, Sir Myles looked at her and grinned, as if seeking her approval or forgiveness or both.

  This action was more flattering than anything he had ever said to her and suddenly Giselle was no longer offended by his performance. She would have been, of course, had the third sister thrown herself at her betrothed with wild enthusiasm. Instead, the supercilious groom had been properly humbled.

  But give Sir Myles the satisfaction of seeing her approval? Not yet, she thought, lowering her head to hide her smile.

  It seemed only just, given his confusing behavior, to let him be perplexed about her for a while.

  The next morning, Myles stared sullenly out the window of the barracks being used to accommodate noblemen and their entourages.

  Mercifully he was alone, the other knights having already dressed and gone to the chapel for mass, or those that were not so inclined were in the hall, awaiting the first meal of the day.

  He welcomed the silence, tired of their jovial good humor and remarks about his performance last night.

  His gaze roved over the hall and the stables and the busy comings and goings of the servants. Sir Wilfrid had every right to be proud of his castle, for it was more than a fortress. It was a home.

  He had never really felt at home anywhere, and certainly not at his father’s castle. How could he, when he was always being criticized and made to feel a burden? It had been his ambition, when he married, to create a home such as this, and to be a better parent than his father had been to him, with a wife he could cherish and respect.

  He thought he had found such a wife.

  With a disgruntled frown, Myles glanced over his shoulder at the gown he had worn last night and then hastily tossed on his chest when he retired. In truth, he had thrown it aside angrily, convinced he had made a serious error in judgment by appearing in the mummers’ performance. Giselle had sat stone-faced throughout, then disappeared without a word.

  He had been a self-indulgent fool whose only thought when he had arranged to perform with the mummers had been to enjoy himself and take his mind away from Giselle Wutherton. He had mentioned something to Matthew about appearing as busy as Giselle, but he had not consciously decided to imitate her, at least at first, and he hadn’t known Peter was going to imitate him. Then, once the mummery was under way, he had simply gotten carried away.

  It was no wonder Giselle had been angry.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t deny that he wanted her more than ever. Now he knew, without doubt, that her acceptance of his hand in marriage would be the greatest prize he could ever win, and the only thing he would ever need to prove his worth, if only to himself. Indeed, if he were to marry anyone but Giselle now, he would always feel his bride was nothing but second-best, a realization that made him understand something of his father’s constant anger with the son who was so like the wife he had taken reluctantly and only out of a sense of duty to produce heirs. His mother, who had died when
Myles was but five years old, had apparently married Charles Buxton as a last resort, fearing a life shut up in a convent.

  He did not want a fate similar to his parents’ to befall him. Or Giselle, either.

  They could be happy together, if she would look beyond her own presumptions. And he could keep a tight rein on his temper.

  She had appeared to be very lonely at the high table last night, as lonely as he had ever been. How much he had wanted to speak with her, but he didn’t dare, and not just because of his performance. Surely now she would consider every overture he made as nothing more than an attempt to win his impulsive challenge. She was as proud as he was, so he knew very well the obstacle he had placed between them.

  If only there was some way to repair the breach. Perhaps the gift he had sent her this morning at first light would help. Or perhaps it would offend her, as his others had.

  He sighed and looked at the sky, as gray and forbidding as his mood.

  Perhaps his father had been right, after all. Perhaps he was nothing but a worthless fool. Obviously Giselle believed that, too.

  He had to show her that was not true. He would find a way to her heart and prove his merit, to her and everyone else. Her love would be the best gift he could ever hope to receive.

  . Was Christmas not the time for gifts and miracles?

  Suddenly the door to the hall opened. Giselle paused on the threshold and threw the hood of her cloak over her head before she hurried toward the chapel, but there had been time for Myles to see something that brought a relieved smile to his face and made him dash from the barracks without even stopping to grab his cloak.

  Chapter Six

  Giselle tried not to feel disappointed, but it wasn’t much use. Sir Myles wasn’t in the chapel, and she had worn the scarf just to show him that she forgave his outrageous behavior last night.

  She had immediately recognized the present Mary had brought at dawn, and had thought his offer of it touching, as she had his decision not to bring it himself. That showed a certain amount of humility, as well as a recognition that she might have found his performance last night less than delightful.

  She would have, had it not been for the searching, diffident look he had given her. Enough time had passed, she thought, to let him see that she had been amused by his acting and that he was forgiven for mocking her.

  She listened to Father Paul say mass, his words ringing in the incense-laden air as he prayed, and despite her resolve to pay attention, she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder to see if there were any latecomers.

  There was, and he was standing near the door and smiling at her—only at her, of that she was sure, and with genuine approval and pleasure.

  She was very glad, then, that she had worn the scarf.

  Her heart began to beat rapidly and erratically, all hope of concentrating on Father Paul disappearing like snow in spring. She could hardly wait for the mass to be over, and when it was, she went to Sir Myles at once, in spite of the curious scrutiny of Elizabeth Cowton and Alice Derosier. She also knew she had the most idiotic grin on her face, but she couldn’t help it.

  Sir Myles took her arm and led her outside, slightly to the side of the chapel and out of the crowd.

  “I have to thank you for your present,” Giselle began the moment they were alone. “No, forgive me,” she stammered as he continued to regard her with an intensely interested expression in his dark brown eyes. She touched the blue silk. “I want to thank you for the present,” she finished breathlessly, quite unable to speak in more measured, unemotional tones.

  “It is a better color, I grant you,” he replied softly. “It does suit you admirably, even if it is presumptuous of me to say so.”

  She flushed, warm despite the cold December air. “Yes, it certainly is. It suited you last night as well, my lord, although it may be presumptuous of me to say so,” she added mischievously.

  His smile widened, and there was pleasure in his eyes. “Then I take it I am forgiven for any offense I may have given?”

  “You looked so silly, how could I be angry?”

  “You might have smiled once or twice, instead of making me fear I had offended you beyond forgiveness.”

  “I didn’t think you were paying any attention to me at all, or cared very much what I thought.”

  “I was, my lady,” he said softly. “And I most certainly care.”

  Giselle swallowed hard, suddenly remembering more vividly than any demure young lady should the sensation of his lips upon hers.

  “I confess I was being completely selfish,” he said. “I sought solely to amuse myself. It was only as the performance progressed that I realized I was being...rude.”

  “I am not totally lacking in a sense of humor, Sir Myles,” Giselle replied. “Especially since I was not the exclusive prey of the mummers.”

  “I had no idea Peter was going to do that.”

  “Otherwise you would have prevented him from mimicking you?” she asked archly. “That hardly seems fair.”

  “If I had known you would enjoy it, I would have asked that the whole performance be about the arrogant, pompous Sir Myles attempting to woo a reluctant maid,” he answered.

  Giselle stared at the frost-hardened ground, unsure how to respond. Unsure of many things, her feelings for Sir Myles most of all.

  “I have another gift for you today, to make up for the others that met with less favor,” he continued. “It is in the stable.”

  “The stab—?”

  “I assumed you enjoy riding. You seem to dislike being confined, to promises or anything else.”

  He assumed—again. Suddenly she was aware of how very vulnerable she was to his charm and his looks and this deferential manner of addressing her.

  Which would probably disappear the moment they were wed. He would become an authoritative, repressive and confining husband. Despite her misgivings, she curtsied and said, “I thank you for your gift, Sir Myles.”

  “I was going to ask you to go riding with me this afternoon, since the day is a fine one, if a little cold.”

  “I could not, even if I wanted to. I have much to do,” she replied, her tone as chilly as the air, for she could not rid herself of the dread that his current behavior was intended only to woo her into marriage.

  “Ah, yes, the duties of a chatelaine.” He gave her a shrewd and questioning look. “But is it not also the duty of the chatelaine to make sure her guests enjoy themselves? A large party intend to ride out, and I believe your uncle will not take it amiss if you join us, to insure that we are all having a fine afternoon.”

  Giselle regarded him pensively. She wanted to go riding, to be out of doors and having a pleasant time instead of being concerned only with household matters.

  He was right, too. A good hostess should make sure that her guests were happy, and perhaps she could best do that by joining them, although she would do her utmost to stay away from Sir Myles.

  After all, she would be back in plenty of time to see to the evening meal. “Very well, Sir Myles,” she said. “I will ask him.”

  “Good. Now you must allow me to escort you to the hall,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his arm.

  His muscular arm.

  He gave her a sidelong glance and smiled. “You know, you are absolutely right. That other scarf would have looked quite hideous.”

  Giselle wanted to feel offended. Instead, all she could do was nod and try not to think about his arms or lips or eyes, or anything else about his body.

  Which proved to be quite impossible.

  Safely in the midst of the boisterous, pleasant party, Giselle sighed with happiness as her new mare walked along the road. It was indeed pleasant to be absolved from any duties for a little while, even if she had to be discomfited by Sir Myles’s presence. She was no closer to understanding him than before, and she was beginning to fear she was too weak where he was concerned.

  Especially when it appeared that Sir Myles was ready and capable
of amending his ways in an attempt to please her, and when he chose the perfect gift for her, with true consideration for what she would like.

  In one way, she could even learn from him. He was far more able to laugh at himself than she was.

  Her resolution regarding marriage might crumble like the old byre they had passed some way back, if he continued in this fashion. Or had he not arrogantly told her he would make her love him. Whenever she felt her resolve weaken, she must remember that.

  A lone bird wheeled above the bare branches of the trees lining the road, a speck of darkness in the clear sky, which had brightened from the dull gray of morning to the special bright blue of a cold winter’s day. The snow gleamed whitely, and here and there were patches of the dark green of holly and pine, the scent of the evergreen as strong as that of the incense in the chapel.

  Once or twice she caught sight of mistletoe attached to a tree, its pale berries like wax against the bark. Cecily had told her that the druids had used mistletoe to cure a woman of barrenness.

  Which made Giselle think of babies and recall Sir Myles’s face when he had spoken of children, their children, in the courtyard.

  She swiveled a little in her saddle to see where he was and inadvertently caught his eye. To her chagrin, he nudged his horse forward to join her, as if her look had been the same as a summons to him.

  “You seem very pensive, my lady,” Sir Myles remarked when he was beside her.

  “It is a lovely day. I was watching the bird.”

  “Envying it its freedom?”

  She slid him a sidelong glance. “Not especially, but now that you say that, I suppose it is true.”

  “I envy it, too.”

  “Why? You are free.”

  “No one is truly free, my lady. I have to answer to my father, who is my overlord, as well as the king, and make certain that my people prosper.”

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed, although in truth, she had never considered that his life was not one of unending pleasure and self-indulgence.