The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  Ranulf could not remember ever wanting any woman more. But indifference from her would be a soul killer. He suspected that if he should try, she might indulge him in a kiss, but he didn’t want her pity or her compassion. He desired something else. Something so rare that he had not once encountered it in the last decade. He needed Bronwyn le Breton to see him as a man.

  A knock on the door pulled Bronwyn away from his side. Perturbed by her sudden absence, Ranulf shifted slightly to see the old nursemaid followed by Tyr enter the room. Unable to stop himself in time, he groaned. Bronwyn immediately flew back to his side, but Ranulf could see his tall friend arch a brow inquisitively and flash him a knowing grin as he crossed his arms. Tyr had seen him injured—and more seriously—too many times to believe that pain was behind Ranulf’s grimace. His friend recognized Ranulf’s desire to be alone and apparently was enjoying himself too much to care.

  Bronwyn licked her lips, drawing his attention back to her. “When the floor fell, part of one of the beams broke off and lodged itself in your shoulder. I managed to take it out and slow the bleeding, but I am going to have to sew the wound shut and treat it. I’m afraid it will be very painful.”

  Ranulf watched as she bit her bottom lip, worried at the agony she was about to inflict on him. But all he could think about was how he wanted to pull her mouth down to his and discover just what heaven tasted like.

  “Do you need me to get you something to bite down on?”

  Behind her, Ranulf could see Tyr cover his mouth and fight to keep from laughing aloud. The damn man was enjoying this too much.

  Bronwyn poked him. “Do you?”

  Ranulf blinked and refocused on what she was asking. “Do I what?” he groused.

  Bronwyn issued him a scathing look, but the nursemaid was not consoled. “Maybe he isn’t right in the head,” Constance muttered, standing over him. “Do you know your own name, my lord?”

  Ranulf scowled at the interfering old woman and said, “Ranulf to my friends, Lord Anscombe to my people, and Deadeye to everyone else. You choose.”

  The response from both women was immediate. The one from the nursemaid was as he intended. After shooting him a withering look, the wild, gray-haired woman spun around out of his sight. Bronwyn’s expression, once tender and concern-filled, had transformed into one of exasperation. “It’s not his head that you should be worried about, Constance. After years of dealing with my sisters, I thought you would recognize obstinacy at the expense of pride,” she purred lightheartedly, giving him a wink.

  Ranulf almost choked as a result. Unprepared, he started coughing, and for the first time, the pain in his shoulder rivaled the one in his head. Her anger had been stimulating and her compassion disarming, but he wasn’t sure he could handle this playful side of her without completely embarrassing himself.

  “Stop moving,” Bronwyn ordered, “else you’ll start bleeding all over again and this time it will be on your own bed. Constance, would you go to my room and bring the black bag and a needle? And Tyr,” she said, keeping her focus on Ranulf and his shoulder, “take yourself out of here. Your friend does not need your type of support right now. Come back when silent smirks and dampened laughter will be welcomed.”

  Unrestrained laughter filled the room. “Damn, Ranulf, the women you meet and order away. Perhaps it is I who should have been enlisting you for female help all these years,” Tyr teased and then ducked out of the room before Ranulf could retaliate.

  Constance followed, leaving Ranulf and Bronwyn alone. He suddenly felt uneasy. “Where am I?”

  Bronwyn stood, walked over to a large chest, and pulled out several old, worn linen shirts that could only have belonged to his cousin, the late Lord Anscombe. She grabbed one sleeve and started ripping. “We are in the Tower Keep of Hunswick and this is the bedchamber of the previous Lord Anscombe. Now, it is yours.” She pointed to the double doors across from her and to his left. “There is your day room.”

  Ranulf studied her as she ripped each garment into wide strips. “And you are the daughter of Sir Laon le Breton, my single vassal.”

  “My father is dead. I would have thought you had heard.”

  Her voice had trembled and Ranulf felt a wave of guilt overcome him. “I did and I’m sorry, angel.”

  Bronwyn stopped abruptly and captured his gaze. “Don’t call me that.”

  Ranulf mentally scolded himself. The epithet had just slipped out, but her reaction to it had been severe and it had not been due to his being too personal. “Then what should I call you?”

  Bronwyn licked her lips and swallowed. Then after several seconds, she took a deep breath and said faintly, “Lillabet, my lord.”

  Ranulf fought to keep his face immobile. He had not met Laon’s youngest daughter, but he knew one thing for certain. The woman in front of him was not his betrothed. Why would Bronwyn say she was?

  She was clearly far from comfortable with the idea of lying, but yet she had still willingly entered its treacherous domain. Ranulf was tempted to expose her falsehood, but decided not to at the last moment. Bronwyn was shaking, just slightly, as if she was nervous. Practicing deceit was completely unnatural for her. She didn’t like it. Ranulf wondered why she felt the need to lie now, with him and about her identity. The surest way not to discover the truth was to confront her. Still, he couldn’t call her by a name that wasn’t her own. “You don’t look like a Lillabet.”

  Bronwyn finished ripping the linen shirt and gathered all the torn pieces into a pile. “And just what do I look like?”

  “I told you. An angel, and until you give me a good reason not to call you that, I believe I shall continue.”

  Bronwyn clamped her jaw tight. In truth, she was relieved. She had no intentions of staying for any length of time, but being called Lillabet would be a constant reminder of just who he was…and for whom he was intended.

  A single loud knock boomed, and without waiting for an invitation, Constance marched in and handed Bronwyn a bowl, a black bag, and a needle and thread. “He won’t like it.”

  “Thank you, Constance,” Bronwyn said casually, taking the items. “You don’t have to stay. But could you ask someone to send up some yarrow tea?”

  Constance gave a brief nod and headed for the door. Just as she was about to step through, she looked back and gave Ranulf a contemptuous look. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchens. And you,” Constance directed to Ranulf, “lord or not, you hit her and there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Hearing the threat, Ranulf tried to sit up and was about to order Constance back in to explain herself when Bronwyn pushed his shoulder down to keep him prone. “Just what did she mean by that? Why would I hit you?”

  “Are you hurt anywhere else that I don’t know about?”

  “Answer my question!”

  “If you can’t tell me, I can always check,” Bronwyn said with a teasing smile as she reached out to pull back his already ripped shirt and reveal some more of his chest.

  Ranulf clutched her wrist. Falling hadn’t felt good, and he knew he was bruised. Just how bad he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want her to find out either. “I thought maidens were not supposed to see a man.”

  Bronwyn’s smile deepened into laughter and she moved to mix some of the contents in the black bag with the water in the bowl. “And just how do you know me to be a maiden?”

  Ranulf blatantly raked his gaze over her once and then returned to meet her eyes. “I would know.”

  Bronwyn scraped the edge of the bowl. “Mmm. You ever been married?”

  “No,” Ranulf muttered as he watched her spread the nasty olive green-and-brown paste on a strip of cloth.

  “Someone claimed your heart?”

  “No,” came his sharp reply. Suddenly, he realized why she was pretending to be Lillabet. She was doing it to protect her sister…from him. Bronwyn wasn’t different. She was like the rest, just a little better at hiding it. “I’ve been busy doing other things with my life and haven’t the time or
inclination to spend energy wooing a silly female.”

  Only the disappearance of her smile indicated that Bronwyn had heard him and the bitterness in his voice. Picking up the needle and the cloth, she came to sit down beside him. “First I am going to sew that wound up. It is going to hurt. Normally I would give you some ale, but it might not be wise with an impending fever.”

  Her playful banter in both expression and tone had vanished. His harsh words were the cause and it bothered him. “I don’t have a fever,” he countered, reminding himself that she was duplicitous not only in nature but in identity.

  “Not yet, maybe, but with this wound, you will have one.” Bronwyn reached out to pull back the opening to his shirt and hesitated when his hand covered hers. “Do you need some wood to bite down on?”

  “Do you?” he demanded, knowing that a deep puncture wound could be unsightly, but nothing compared to the burned scarred flesh that surrounded it.

  “No, my lord. I’m not afraid, and I promise, I have seen worse.”

  The seriousness behind her words could not be faked and Ranulf released his grip, understanding at last just why this woman could be so unperturbed with his appearance. He had been drenched in the obvious since the moment Bronwyn had first looked at him with her steadfast gaze, seeing his mottled skin and missing eye. She had to have seen something—something far worse than his injuries—to be so unaffected. And if that was true, the sight had to have been grisly, far too grisly for a lady.

  Freed, Bronwyn bent over him and started cutting away the material around his flesh. “Once I’m done here, I’ll apply that poultice, which I warn you, can be very painful, but it will help with the bleeding and accelerate healing. Unless the fever takes too strong of a hold, you will live.”

  Ranulf shook his head. “I don’t get fevers.”

  “We’ll see,” Bronwyn murmured as she dipped a clean cloth into some water and started to cleanse the wound. Then she picked up the needle and asked, “Are you ready?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Well, don’t worry about Constance if you do hit me. There’s a good chance you will and I won’t hold it against you. I’ll know it was just the pain.”

  Ranulf’s mouth twisted with pride. “I’ve been injured before and I’ve managed not to hit anyone.”

  “If you say so,” Bronwyn replied.

  Ranulf felt the painful pierce of being stabbed and let go a grunt. Ashamed she should see him so weak, he closed his eyes and counted each sharp prick and pull. After twelve, she tied off the string and sliced the end off with a dagger.

  Then, a minute later, white hot agony seared his skin and wound. Ranulf fought from crying out but his hand instinctively reached out for hers and squeezed. His grasp had to have hurt and yet she held on and he didn’t feel so alone. Her father had made him feel that same way. “I’m so sorry, angel. I tried everything to save him. I didn’t know…”

  “Shhh, whatever happened, no one blames you.”

  “Angel…”

  Bronwyn felt him suddenly relax and knew he was unconscious once again.

  Chapter Three

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1154

  ADVENT FAST

  The Advent Fast, also known as the Nativity Fast or Philip’s Fast for Eastern Christian religions, is a period of abstinence that is observed from the day following the Feast of Saint Philip the Apostle (November 14) to December 24, but dates and time frames vary depending upon culture and religion. It ends with the Mass of the Vigil starting in the late afternoon or early evening hours of December 24. The fast prohibits meat, chicken, milk, cheese, butter, and many other animal products and therefore was the primary motivation for the festal consumption of food during the medieval Christmas. Because the fast lasted four weeks, medieval cooks came up with a variety of ways to evade restrictions, such as making mock cheese out of almond milk and fish to taste like meat. Some people even included an ordinary goose to their menu, stating it was born from the barnacles of a tree that grew near water and therefore being not a true land animal. Of course, the host and the cook had to in honest faith believe an actual Barnacle Goose was being served.

  Bronwyn sat on the small bench and drummed her fingers silently against the windowsill as she looked out at the vacant, dark courtyard lit only by the faint moonlight shining from above. It would be a few more hours until the bailey became alive with activity once again. She wondered how her sisters were faring and hoped they would understand why she had decided to stay. Tyr had promised to send word at daybreak as to what had happened, and while Edythe would see the situation pragmatically, Lily would not. She would either believe the whole thing terribly romantic or just the opposite, unbearably oppressive. Either way, Bronwyn prayed they both continued to stay away from Hunswick.

  Sighing, she turned from the window and squatted down by the hearth to throw another log into the fire. With the unusually warm weather, the fire was not necessary, but winter would reappear anytime now and it was always easier to add a log than create a fire from new. Rising again, Bronwyn wished she had something to do besides wait. She had cleaned the few garments that had been brought up with Ranulf’s things and even mended a couple of them, something she hated, but it was better than boredom. Patience was one fruit of the spirit of which she possessed very little.

  The Tower Keep was a large rectangular structure situated at an angle from the Great Hall, making up in sheer size what it lacked in height. Disliking stairs and small rooms, the previous Lord Anscombe had designed each floor to have the space of nearly two towers. The moment the building had been completed, he had vacated the rooms above the Great Hall and taken the solar for his bedchambers. Only after he had become ill had Bronwyn ever entered the room, and after his death, she had thrown away all the rushes and closed its doors, letting dust overtake all that it housed.

  Cleaning the room had been much more of a chore than she had anticipated. Constance had come in for a little while to help, but Bronwyn could see the old woman was tiring herself out and unnecessarily. The activity was a godsend, for watching and waiting for the fever to take hold of Ranulf was torture. Even now, she could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, defying all that she knew about wounds. Only once had he moved in an effort to turn over. He had winced and stopped, but the action had not roused him.

  The room, though large, was sparsely furnished and, consequently, simple to clean. Rectangular in shape, it was divided into two areas. On one end was a great bed built on a massive wooden frame with a feather mattress covered with sheets, quilts, and pillows. The bed was curtained with linen hangings, but Bronwyn had pulled them back, tying them off so that she could watch Ranulf from anywhere in the room.

  On either side of the bed were two small tables, one for his lordship, which also held a basin and pitcher of water, and one for the future Lady Anscombe, which was bare except for the candle Bronwyn had placed there earlier.

  Across the room was a stone hearth, and though not elaborate, it was of ample size to heat the space. Two large, padded chairs that were originally meant for the Great Hall were placed to one side of the fireplace. In between them sat a small square table Bronwyn suspected typically supported a mug of ale, based upon the ringed stains on its surface and the previous Lord Anscombe’s fondness for drink.

  Along one long wall were two tall windows, each with narrow padded seats that provided an excellent view of the courtyard and the setting sun. In between the windows sat a large chest standing on four feet that doubled as a sitting area for visitors. The opposite wall had three doors. One overly large door near the middle opened into the lord’s day room. Next to it was the garderobe and the one closest to the far end led out to the hall and the stairwell. Between them hung tapestries of the Cumbrian Hills and the waters of Bassellmere with a mist settling on the valley, designed and created by Bronwyn’s own mother.

  Feeling warmer, Bronwyn sat down on the large beaver rug in front of the hearth. Earlier, while cleaning, she had put four w
oolen blankets too worn for the lord’s bed underneath it for padding, creating her favorite sitting spot. But its comfort was short-lived. She was going mad with the silence.

  With her sisters about, there was never a time where she could just sit peacefully. Whenever she had tried, they would always interrupt, wondering what was the matter, or assume the timing was perfect to relate a story or problem or wish. Now that she was alone with only her thoughts, it was too quiet.

  Bronwyn chuckled at the realization. Standing back up, she pulled one of the hearth chairs to the side of the bed, but instead of sitting on it, she sank onto the mattress next to Ranulf’s unwounded arm. She leaned over to kiss his forehead—to check for fever—and as his lordship had predicted, his skin was still cool to the touch. She pulled back and saw that he was dreaming again, but not a good one. His forehead was puckered and his jaw was rigid, giving the impression of being disturbed or angered. Probably dreaming about me, she mused.

  She reached out and traced his square jaw, which was now stubbly with dark growth that was soft and inviting. “Why do some men shave and others do not? Does it hurt?” she pondered aloud. “Maybe more would if they looked like you.”

  Bronwyn knew she should step away, but instead let her fingers travel upward across his cheekbone. She could feel the heat of his skin pouring into her hands and she craved more.

  He had paled considerably under his tanned complexion and his harsh angular features seemed softer while he slept. His forehead was not high like her father’s, but neither was it too low, so that he looked like he was constantly questioning things. He didn’t look to be very old, not even ten years her senior. His short tousled hair created a boyish appearance while his face and body looked like he had been a man for many years. Along the forehead were creases, deep lines that ran into old scars indicating he had faced many difficulties in his life, and not just physical.