The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  Unfair! The man had no idea what the word meant. He possessed his limbs and all his senses. He had a beautiful life, friends, and family. Ranulf neither sought nor wanted pity, for life could have issued a much harsher sentence to be endured, but neither did he need the scorn and antipathy that came from people’s unreasonable fear. And if boldly displaying his injury kept people away, the better. “A test that you might have prematurely passed,” Ranulf gritted out.

  “Your eye did not matter to me then nor does it now,” Laon declared, ignoring the tension growing in his friend, “then again, I have seen bad injuries, disfiguring ones like yours. Most, especially the coddled women and men of court, have not. I have watched you, my lord, and have concluded that you are uncomfortable with your limitations and therefore desire to make others just as uncomfortable. You drive people away just so you don’t have to watch them squirm, shrink in fear, or just stare outright. You do it to protect yourself.”

  “What do you want from me?” Ranulf growled. He steeled his face from emotion, clamping his mouth and gritting his teeth, but it belied the truth. He had been flung back in time, to the day, to the very hour, that changed what he was to those around him.

  “I just want you to be honest with yourself, my lord. Until then you won’t be free of your past and neither will those who are around you.”

  Ranulf shot Laon a penetrating look. He wasn’t ready to consider the nagging man’s comments or admit the truth to them. “I think, knight, we have conversed enough for one trip. And since you will want to go directly home upon our arrival and I will be staying for the coronation, it may be some time before we will have the opportunity to speak again. Until then, Sir le Breton,” Ranulf finished and, then with a quick nod, pivoted to walk away.

  Riggers were swinging above and Ranulf ducked to avoid the massive ropes that were falling to the deck as they were adjusting the sails once again. A warning shout bellowed from behind him, echoed by several loud rebukes to move. Ranulf whipped around to search for the danger and issue a warning of his own for addressing him in such a way when he realized he wasn’t the one being shouted at.

  The solid beam used to manipulate the sail had come loose from the cordage holding it in place. Every available seaman had been called and was working feverishly to secure the spar. Even riggers had left their positions, leaving lines unsecured in the wind.

  Ranulf was about to continue his march back to his cabin when he spied one of the free lines tossing precariously close to a young deckhand no more than eleven or twelve at the ship’s edge. Ranulf hollered at him, but the aspiring seaman was struggling to push back heavy crates that had fallen and were getting drenched by the crashing waves against the rail. The boat swayed and a rope with a large heavy iron hook flew up in the air and was about to crush the boy as gravity pulled it back down. Ranulf reacted. He dove, sliding across the wet deck, yanking the slender form out of the hook’s deadly path just in time. Their bodies slammed into a stack of crates. The top box wobbled for a moment and then crashed down on the other side.

  Ranulf let go a sigh of relief and eased his grip on the boy, who was himself visibly trembling, realizing just how close to death he had come. Ranulf patted his arm as blood began flowing within it again and stood up just as another wave crashed over the side, soaking his clothes. Grabbing the hem of his wool tunic, he twisted the dark red material and wrung out the freezing seawater, knowing the activity was fruitless. He would have to change and quickly before he became chilled.

  He was about to return to his cabin when out of habit, he glanced to his left to see what others would have registered in their peripheral vision. The men, who had been steadying the spar, were now gathered around the spot where the top crate had actually fallen.

  He had escaped death, but someone else had not been so fortunate.

  One of the men looked up and glanced his way. Ranulf, seeing the stricken expression, suddenly knew who had been standing on the other side.

  Forcing his limbs to move, Ranulf staggered around the cluster of men to see Laon lying on his back with shards of broken wood around him. The old man was struggling for breath. He was not dead, but would be soon.

  Loss was never easy, but the old knight’s would be especially difficult to handle. Ranulf had friends; some he trusted with his life. One was already in England, waiting for his arrival. Ranulf had been looking forward to introducing Laon to Tyr, eager to hear their blunt exchange. But it was not to be. Ranulf knew he would never meet another who would dare to be not just candid, but honest on topics no one ever ventured.

  Kneeling, Ranulf raised Laon’s head and clutched his hand. The dying knight squeezed as pain ripped through him. “I’m here, Laon.”

  The old man opened his eyes and rasped, “Promise me, Ranulf, promise me you’ll marry her.”

  “I’ll take care of them. This I promise. All your daughters will be safe. I swear it on my life.”

  Laon squeezed Ranulf’s fingers as he clung to life. “I need you to promise me you will marry her.”

  “Marry who?”

  “Lily, the youngest,” Laon gasped. “She is so lovely and so young. She will learn to love you and make you a good wife as my Aline was to me.”

  Ranulf instinctively let go and tried to release his hand from Laon’s grip. He had no intentions of marrying anyone and a dying request was not going to change his mind. “I made you a promise, Laon. I cannot do more.”

  But the fading knight was not appeased. He reached out and seized Ranulf’s wet tunic, giving him the choice to either forcibly remove the dying man’s grip or come closer. “You don’t understand. Marriage is the only way you can protect them all from—” And the rest was drowned out by gruesome coughs that accompanied internal bleeding.

  Ranulf struggled to understand why Laon believed only marriage could protect his daughters and said so, but his fading friend refused to release his painful hold on life. “Family. Must be family. Do this one thing for me…and…for yourself. Be my son. Marry her…marry my Lily.”

  Agony coursed through Laon’s face and every man around him knew that Ranulf held the manner of the old, admired knight’s passing in his hands. “I’ll marry her, Laon. Your family will be safe, and if that is what needs to be done, then it will be done. I promise.”

  Calmed by the vow, Laon closed his eyes and gave a brief nod. A second later, his hand dropped to the deck as he exhaled his final breath.

  Never before had guilt or pressure swayed Ranulf’s decisions, and although it might have appeared otherwise to those men who heard the exchange, neither emotion drove his promise. Ranulf doubted few could understand the real reason he had agreed, but in those last few seconds, Laon was not just a man, a vassal, or even a friend. He was a father, and to Laon, Ranulf was a son. Such requests could never be denied and so Ranulf had agreed.

  He just hoped that the duke saw reason and would refuse to allow the match. Because Ranulf was not going to get married, and he was damn sure not going to be snared for life to a shallow creature the world doted on because of her beauty.

  Chapter One

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1154

  THE CORONATION OF KING HENRY II

  Though crowned in October after King Stephen’s death, Henry II wasn’t coronated the king of England until December 19, 1154, in the Westminster Abbey. Appearing at his coronation dressed in a doublet and short Angevin cloak earned him his immortal nickname “Curtmantle.” Eleven years his senior, his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, was absent from the event due to being heavily pregnant with their second son, Henry III, causing her own coronation to be postponed for four years, taking place in December 1158 at Worcester Cathedral. Marrying Eleanor, a power and influential figure, made Henry the largest landowner in France, including King Louis VII, his longtime rival and Eleanor’s first husband.

  Bronwyn reached back to close the small cottage door behind her and sighed regretfully as the warm sun beat down on her face. She had put on her heaviest bliaut and no
w was uncomfortably hot with only herself to blame. Minimizing castle staff had meant she and her sisters had to share an already overworked chambermaid. So to help, they all agreed to assume additional responsibilities, including taking their clothes to the laundress and bringing them back, something about which Bronwyn had been frightfully negligent. Today she was paying the price.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if the warm wind that blew through the wooded hills was what a December breeze should be, chilly or even cool. Never had a fall lasted so long or a winter arrived so late. If the weather continued its rebellious mood, the bonfires during this year’s Twelfthtide would have to be drearily small, maybe even nonexistent; otherwise everyone attending the festivities would be roasted alive.

  Bronwyn picked up her pace and joined her two younger sisters just in time for another squabble to begin.

  “If your sheer presence has such miraculous healing abilities, Lily, then you should have stayed. For until Tomas is well, his daughters won’t be coming back to Hunswick and I am telling you right now, that abusing poor Charity and having her continue with your chores needs to stop.” Edythe paused and waited for affirmation, but Bronwyn remained mum. She had stopped playing the role of peacemaker long ago, for it never worked.

  Realizing that her older sister was not going to lend any support, Edythe proceeded with her censure. “Besides, everyone knows that Tomas will continue to feel poorly until just after Father Morrell finishes his lengthy Christmas sermon. Very soon afterward there will be a miracle recovery in full—whether you’re there or not.”

  Lily’s gray eyes flashed. “No wonder Father Morrell doesn’t visit more often. Why should he with you around to lecture everyone? And you need not be so smug, Edythe. No one fails to come to Hunswick for Twelfthtide, even if they are ill. You’re just jealous I was able to cheer Tomas’s spirits when you could not.” Lily jutted out her chin in a challenging way, knowing Edythe would rise to the bait.

  “I’m glad you cheered someone then because your mournful moods of late have been near intolerable,” Edythe replied as she sauntered haughtily past her sister.

  Lily ran to catch up, her dark hair bouncing behind her. “That’s unfair, Edythe!” she cried, not denying the truth of the barb. “Father would have taken me to London. And you know it. My one chance to see a king be crowned,” she moaned, “and I’m here. Can you imagine the celebration that followed? It is probably happening right now. The dresses, the food, and the men! Eligible, wealthy lords, and barons and knights everywhere!”

  “Good Lord, you love to be dramatic,” Edythe snorted, her bright blue eyes sparkling with condescension. “And you are incredibly naïve if you think Father would have allowed you to go to Westminster. You would have made a nuisance out of yourself with all your flirtations and silly little giggles. It’s repulsive how you act around every two-legged mammal with a beard.”

  “But it works,” Lily returned with a large smile she knew would aggravate her sister. “You should try it, Edythe. God gave you everything needed to capture a man’s eye, but then you open your mouth and drive anyone interested in you my way. If you could just learn to keep quiet.”

  “Amazing, Lily, for that’s my advice to you. And as far as driving men away, first there would have to be someone to repel. Not one man of marrying age or eligibility has visited since Father left, and secondly, if a man can be so easily intimidated, I wouldn’t want him for a dinner companion, let alone a husband.”

  Lily rolled her eyes, their light shadowy color made only more piercing by her fair skin and dark hair. “You don’t intimidate, Edythe. You insult.”

  “And you, Lily, think anything that isn’t dripping with flattery and praise is an insult. Father, Bronwyn, and I have protected you far too long from the realities of the world and soon you will have to pay the price.”

  Lily blinked her eyes in an effort to look bored. “There you go again. When have you ever protected me from anything?”

  Edythe yawned and Bronwyn almost joined her. The argument had evolved into a standard battle between the two strong-willed personalities. The conversation would progress as they all did, with either Bronwyn intervening or them sniping at each other for hours until one accidentally pricked more than just pride.

  Edythe opened her mouth and Bronwyn shot her a “you know better than to pull me into one of your petty squabbles” glance. Edythe closed her lips and shrugged, finally deciding that she had had enough of arguing with her little sister.

  Bronwyn fought back a sigh of relief and lifted her dark gold hair off her neck to allow the slight breeze coming off the hills to cool her skin. She had washed her hair earlier that morning, and when they had left to make their visits, her semidamp locks had kept her cool and comfortable. Now she longed for a knitted snood to hold the unruly wavy mass up and off her back.

  “Why do we fight so much these days, Bronwyn?” Lily asked.

  Because you both are scared, Bronwyn thought. “You and Edythe see and live life in different ways. You perceive things as they could be and Edythe as they are. I, on the other hand,” she sighed, “seem to want to hold on to the past and keep things as they once were.”

  Bronwyn knew her voice had grown melancholy at the end. If she continued walking with them, they would grow suspicious of her quiet behavior and pummel her with questions until they discovered what was troubling her. “There’s my favorite tree, and with Father gone and all the preparations for Twelfthtide, I have abandoned it for too long. Please tell Constance I will be back before dinner so she won’t worry.”

  Edythe paused to stare at the huge, leafless alder. Its dense branches stretched outward in all directions in a tangled mass. Her face took on a brief look of bewilderment. “I think I’m the only one in this family who isn’t prone to fanciful indulgences,” she murmured and then waved good-bye as she headed back to Hunswick.

  Lily leaned forward and gave Bronwyn a quick peck on the cheek. “Enjoy your walk. Edythe and I will see that nothing is amiss until your return.” And before Bronwyn could reply, Lily spun around and dashed out of site, as if she were still a child on an exciting mission.

  Bronwyn leaned back against the callused bark and looked east, toward Torrens, the hill she had named as a child after one of her father’s dogs. When she had needed a companion the most, Torrens had been there. For every tear, every painful step, frightening moment, or period of loneliness, that shaggy gray wolfhound had been at her side.

  Sitting on top of the hill was her childhood home, Syndlear. Constructed early during the Saxon rule, the large tower keep had been the area’s focal point for years. Situated high on the crest of Torrens, it possessed a great vantage of the valley and the hills beyond, giving the owner forewarning of oncoming enemies. It looked to be much closer than it was, but a skilled rider who knew the terrain could travel from the valley below to the elevated keep in a half day.

  To her right, was Bassellmere, one of the most exquisite lakes in Cumbria. The mountains surrounding it reached into the sky and both were reflected off its deep, dark rippling waters. With woodlands blanketing the surrounding foothills, Bronwyn could not imagine a place that could touch Bassellmere’s beauty. Ahead was Hunswick Castle, one of the first to be transformed from wood to stone in northern England. Its odd shape and incomplete curtain walls and towers kept it from being of any note or true protection, but Bronwyn didn’t care. To her, Hunswick was home.

  Unfortunately, it belonged to someone else.

  Bronwyn took a deep breath and exhaled as the sad feeling that had been creeping upon her took hold. The sweet smell of witch hazel was in the air. The odor-filled flower had been her mother’s favorite. Memories of her loss suddenly flooded Bronwyn and she began to hum the verse her mother had sung by her bedside hour after hour, day after day as they lay together, clinging for life. The simple haunting melody had helped her endure life’s most painful events and Bronwyn knew deep down that soon she and her sisters would be mourning the loss of their
father.

  He should have been back by now. His last communication had been weeks ago with the joyful news he was returning. But he never arrived and Bronwyn knew deep down that something had happened.

  Her sisters refused to acknowledge what was in their hearts, but Bronwyn had learned the hard way to face life with no pretenses. If their father had been injured, a message would have been delivered by now. Only bad news took so long to arrive.

  “Still trying to sing that haunting little tune, angel?”

  Bronwyn froze. The voice was deep and smooth and dripping with male charm. The last time she had heard it, it had belonged to a child turning into a man. The pitch had been slightly higher and with unexpected and humiliating croaks that caused him to grow angry and lash out at those around. Her heart started beating faster at the unwanted memory. Why now? Why had Luc Craven decided to break his banishment now?

  “I told you last time we saw each other to never call me ‘angel’ again.” Because of him, she hated the endearment—even from her own family.

  Luc faked a bristle and stepped into her view. “I thought you might have changed your mind. I am not the boy you once knew.”

  He was right. Last time she had seen Luc Craven, he had been a skinny weak boy with bright white hair, a sharp pointed nose, and overly long limbs. Someone with whom she had been carefree. They had played together almost daily when they were children. He had always been possessive and willful, trying to dictate everything they did or said. Most of the time she had gone along with his wishes, but oftentimes she had done the opposite just for fun. Then one day the fun had abruptly ended and he had been forced to leave and never come back.

  Recent rumors that had crossed the short distance between their households had not done Luc justice. She had heard him called handsome, and Bronwyn could not deny that he was indeed very good-looking. Shoulder-length golden hair, sky blue eyes framed in dark lashes, and a granite jaw that matched the rest of his hard, muscular body were indeed attributes most women would consider appealing. But those women were not from Cumbria…and they did not know Luc. For those who were familiar with him didn’t see a handsome man, but a cruel one, without compassion or remorse. And looking into the bright crystal blue eyes staring at her, Bronwyn knew Luc Craven had not changed even a little bit in the past ten years.