The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  “I don’t believe you,” Bronwyn choked, barely able to speak.

  “Yes, you do,” Luc countered, his voice laced with dark warning. He moved forward and grasped her upper arms. “That cripple took you from me. He tricked you, lied to you, but it is not too late. Come with me and I will see you get an annulment. We can still be together.”

  Bronwyn wrenched free and flung out her hands to keep him from coming close. Anger surged through her, temporarily driving out the sorrow. “If what you say is true…I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll never be with you. I don’t love you, Luc. I never will. And how my father died changes nothing.”

  Luc’s eyes dimmed and she saw the fury boiling inside him. He finally understood that she would never be his; he had been clinging to a fantasy that would never come true. And with it, her belief that he wouldn’t hurt her disappeared.

  Bronwyn reached in her bliaut for her dagger and wrapped her palm around its girth, preparing to take aim. But then he pivoted and grabbed the mane of his horse to mount. His white-knuckled grip on the reins revealed his raging fury. “Take great care, Lady Anscombe, for if I can’t have you, I will no longer concern myself over your welfare.”

  Then he was gone.

  The moment of imminent confrontation passed. Swallowing a sob that rose in her throat, she felt her legs give beneath her. Grief and despair tore at her as the enormity of Luc’s revelation washed over her. Finally, tears broke free, as she allowed herself to feel the agony of her father’s loss. When strong arms encircled her, lifting her off the ground, she did not stop them. She continued to weep until she had no more tears to shed.

  Ranulf’s blood raced and the tight knot in his stomach doubled. His heart pounded with every sob that overtook her limp body. He clenched Bronwyn to him tightly, wishing his sheer presence could diminish her pain, but with her continued silence, he feared that it was just the opposite.

  When Gowan had found him and repeated Bronwyn’s message, a cold fear like he had never known ripped through him as he realized what happened and that Luc was alone with his wife. As Ranulf tore off to find Bronwyn, Tyr had ordered the young soldier to remain behind, probably to save his life for leaving her ladyship. But Ranulf had been too busy blaming himself for not anticipating Luc’s plan.

  Bronwyn let go a soft whimper and he tightened his grip. She didn’t resist, but she had not wrapped her arms around him. Instead, she huddled within herself, withdrawing from him. It was tearing him apart.

  He should have told Bronwyn the truth last night. He should have told her right after they met. But he had been afraid of losing her. And now he would.

  Arriving back at Hunswick, Ranulf drove Pertinax through the gatehouse. He threw the reins at one of the stable boys and then swung down. He was about to slide Bronwyn off the horse and into his arms, when she slipped to the ground to stand beside him. He put his arm around her, tucking her protectively against his side, and guided her across the courtyard to keep onlookers from realizing something was wrong.

  Just before he reached the Tower Keep, Father Morrell appeared before him. “My lord, I need to ask you about the Feast of Innocents and when you intend to bless the children.”

  “Do it yourself,” Ranulf gritted out and stepped around him, keeping Bronwyn next to him. “Her ladyship is ill. Neither of us will be attending.”

  The priest tried to argue, but Ranulf left him stammering as he directed Bronwyn into the Tower Keep and up the stairs to his solar. He kicked open the door, and after settling her in the hearth chair, he went to throw another log into the fire.

  Bronwyn pulled her knees up close and watched him from beneath lowered lashes as he moved to bolt the door. Was he caging his rage? Or had she imagined the slight tremor when he left her side? As soon as Ranulf turned around, she had her answer. He was furious. But at who?

  She rotated her gaze to rest on the fire and rested her cheek against her knee. Ranulf moved behind her and she felt his knuckles graze her back as he clutched the frame of the chair. “Did he…hurt you? Touch you?”

  His tone reflected what she had seen, fear and potential uncontrollable rage. “No,” she whispered, her voice raspy. She licked her lips. “He just wanted to talk. To tell me about what happened to my father.”

  Ranulf did not say a word, but she could feel his knuckles grow sharper as his grip grew tighter.

  “Did you…” Bronwyn started, pausing in mid-thought. She had thought about directly asking if he had killed her father, but the question sounded too much like she believed he murdered him. “Was it you that caused the accident?” she finally asked.

  “Aye.”

  Bronwyn waited, but Ranulf said nothing more. No explanation, no justification, no reasons. She had expected more, wanted more, needed something to prove that what Luc had told her was made up of partial truths, and mostly lies. But if Luc had been right about her father…then what of his other claim? Bronwyn pulled her knees tighter toward her chest. “Then you married me for Syndlear,” she murmured, not realizing her random thoughts had been spoken aloud.

  Ranulf abruptly released the back of her chair and in two steps was in front of her. Her statement had cut him deeper than any wound ever could. The first accusation he had expected, but the second? “What do you want me to say? No, I didn’t marry you for Syndlear. Yes, I was there when your father died. He was a…good man. And his death was a great loss to me. If you are going to believe anything, believe that,” he growled. “Or do you need to go run out and find your baron to confirm it?”

  She shook her head and brushed away newly formed tears. “Please tell me what happened. How you met, where my father died, about Syndlear…I need to know. I need to know all of it.”

  Regret for his harsh words assailed Ranulf. He sank into the hearth chair beside her and faced her, his elbows on his knees. Her forehead was resting on her thigh, and more than anything, he wanted to gather her in his arms and hold her close, letting her use him as support, but he remained seated, and answered her question.

  He told her everything—how he had met Laon, what happened, and the promise her father had made him make. Bronwyn never interrupted or stopped him and he found himself telling her more than he’d ever intended. How her father was one of the few to challenge his beliefs, his way of thinking. How Laon forced him to see a world that could benefit not just from his sword and bow, but from his experiences. That her father loved his daughters immensely. That he was a great man, who had a singular ability to persuade people to his position on things, even the new king and queen—something few could do. Throughout it all, she remained silent. Not moving or saying anything to give him an indication of whether he should say more or less. Finally, he could add nothing further.

  Slipping down to his knees, Ranulf gathered her hands in his and tucked back a lock of her hair almost as if he was afraid to touch her. “Would you like to be alone?”

  Bronwyn digested the question. Emotionally, she didn’t want him to go, but if he stayed, she would crumple and cave in to the desire to be held in his arms. And she wasn’t ready mentally to accept comfort from the very man responsible for her grief. Unable to put voice to her warring desires, she nodded.

  Rising, Ranulf walked over to the chest by the window and pulled something out. She couldn’t discern what it was and wasn’t going to risk looking at him to find out. “I’ll have some food delivered to you. Try and eat.” She felt his lips against her hair. “I’m so sorry, Bronwyn,” he whispered and then left.

  Suddenly, she felt more bereft and desolate than ever before. Tears once again scalded her eyes, flooding them until she could not see. Unable to sit up any longer, she stumbled to the bed and let go all that she felt. For hours, she lay there weeping, overwhelmed with loneliness and the emptiness surrounding her. And when she could cry no more, she sat up, wishing Ranulf would return, for at last she understood much of her despair was because he was not there. Hearing about her father’s death, she had initially felt as if the
years ahead were suddenly vacant, with no one to share her happiness or her pain, no one to care whether she lived or died. But she did have someone. Ranulf.

  Getting up, Bronwyn splashed water on her face and noticed that a tray of food was perched on one of the small hearth tables. She had been so deep in her sorrow she had not even known when it had been delivered. Walking over, she pulled apart a piece of bread and went to go stand by the window. It was dark but she could see people scurrying around the courtyard. The feast was still going on in the Great Hall, but she did not feel like leaving the room and participating.

  After tossing another log on the fire, she resettled herself in the chair and nibbled on the meat, thinking over what Ranulf had told her. Yes, he had caused the accident, but it had been far from intentional. Still, she had other questions, starting with why had Ranulf believed it necessary to keep this from her. Didn’t he trust her? When he returned, Bronwyn intended to ask.

  After a while, her back began to hurt and her tailbone could stand to sit no longer. She crawled back into bed, wishing for Ranulf to return. Had he thought she wanted to be alone all night? For she hadn’t. She had only wanted time to think, to digest…and mostly just to grieve. She’d never really had the chance before.

  Unable to keep her eyes open any longer, she fell asleep, vowing that when she awoke, she would seek him out. Tell him that she was glad to know the truth. That it gave her peace to know he had met her father and that he was in heaven smiling because they were together. Tomorrow, she would tell Ranulf that he was right.

  Nothing she would ever learn could diminish what she felt for him.

  Ranulf knelt down and studied the shaded wooded path for a minute. Most of the time, Luc’s trail could be easily discerned, indicating he either did not care if he was followed or just inept, but the sun was setting and it was getting harder to follow. When Ranulf started, he had not intended on tracking the baron for this long, but he had desperately needed something to do and be by himself.

  When he had left, he had told Tyr that he would be back shortly, never realizing where his trek would take him. His initial goal had been to stay away as Bronwyn requested, but when he arrived to where he had found her huddled, shaking and alone, the simmering fury within him raged anew. Clues to where the baron had gone beckoned him and so he started to follow them.

  It was not until Syndlear loomed in front of him that he realized how far he had gone. The afternoon sun beamed down on the vacated building. He went in and looked around to see if any of the baron’s mercenaries had made themselves a temporary home, but it looked unused. The empty stone structure was well fortified and, though not especially spacious, in good shape. Situated at the top of Torrens, its view spanned far into the valleys on either side of the mountain, making it an ideal outlook for either the baron’s land or his own.

  He considered returning to Hunswick, but opted to continue following the trail. Luc was traveling alone and his route showed no indications he intended to stay on Hunswick lands. The baron was on his way home, and its location and level of protection had become of great interest to Ranulf. Luc was not an adversary—but an enemy. Soon, they would meet again and one of them would die.

  Carefully, Ranulf followed the path down the mountainside. The wooded landscape had changed to a rockier and steep terrain, with sparse vegetation to hide his movements. He had been forced to stop for fear of being seen, but soon resumed after night arrived, cloaking his movements. Quickly Ranulf realized that the baron did not expect his or anyone’s arrival for he had to avoid only a few sentries, who were more interested in sleeping than manning their posts.

  Ranulf continued down the mountain, crossing one river, before he got to the valley below…and within eyesight of Baron Craven’s home. The motte and bailey castle in sheer size could almost rival that of Hunswick. But it had one significant weakness many of the Saxon castles littering the English countryside still possessed. It was made of wood. Only a single plinth of a future curtain tower was being rebuilt of the local rock. It was no wonder the baron coveted Syndlear. He meant to dismantle it and use the already mined and shaped stones.

  Ranulf took his time surveying the land and those who protected it. Five to six dozen hired men had meandered around before falling asleep, leaving only a couple actually awake enough to be considered on watch. If Ranulf and his men ever went into battle with the baron’s purchased army, Ranulf knew he would prevail despite the gross difference in numbers. Still, there would be losses.

  In the distance, the air growled and Ranulf could smell the rain. It was still far away, but the moonlight, which had been guiding him, had dimmed considerably by the clouds rolling in. He had seen enough. It was time to retreat and make his way back home.

  He prayed that Bronwyn was now ready to see him, but even if she wasn’t, she would just have to accept his presence. They were married and he was not about to lose her. It may take time for her to forgive him, but she would. Of that he was certain. She loved him, and more importantly, she knew that he loved her.

  Just as the thought flashed in his mind, Ranulf realized she might not know. He had never actually told her. He had meant to, but somehow never did.

  He needed to get back.

  Chapter Eleven

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1154

  HONORING THE TRUCE

  Throughout history, there are accountings of a Christmas truce, where weapons were laid down, creating a period of peace. In recent years, the cease-fire would be on Christmas Eve, but in medieval times, the chivalric code called for a battle truce through the whole of Twelfthtide. The most well-known Christmas truce occurred in 1914 during the Great War between the French and Germans, later becoming a focus of plays, songs, books, and movies. In the Middle Ages, however, the more famed truces are those that failed. One of the bloodiest battles of the Wars of the Roses took place during the holiday season, when York forces attempted to attack unprepared Lancasters. Even court was not immune to the potential fickleness of the truce. Both Henry IV and his sons were very nearly murdered during Christmastide in 1399. Four years later, the holiday season again provided the cloak needed for a second—and again failed—assassination attempt. Queen Elizabeth I had her own Christmas nightmares, both plotted and executed. Even King Henry II of this story felt the sharp spear of the truce’s failure when his one-time companion Thomas à Becket was murdered after an inflammatory Christmas sermon.

  Bronwyn stretched. She had not slept well at all. In the middle of the night, she had been awakened by thunder and went to search for Ranulf, only to be told that he was occupied. The storm had not brought any rain, but it was indicative of upcoming weather. Winter had finally reached Cumbria.

  Curses followed by several shouts from outside caught her attention. Rising, she flexed once again to loosen muscles stiffened from sleeping in the hearth chair and moved to peer out the window. Instantly her warm breath fogged the glass. It was cold outside and the wind was rattling the panes. Thankfully, no feast or outside activities had been planned. However, it was customary for those living close to or within the castle to gather in the Great Hall throughout Twelfthtide to enjoy each other’s company.

  Bronwyn glanced back at the empty bed. Ranulf had obviously decided to sleep elsewhere and was waiting for her to leave before he came to the room to freshen himself. Next time she would be much more specific to the amount of time she needed when asking to be alone. She had been allowed to think, but none of her conclusions had ended her turmoil. She needed to speak with Ranulf.

  Another wail erupted and this time Bronwyn looked straight down to see a small crowd just outside of the chapel. Father Morrell would explode. After being forced to conduct three weddings on Christmas, endure Luc’s invasion during the Feast for Saint John, and accept her and Ranulf’s absence on the night of the Holy Innocents, the devout priest was probably on the verge of either a stroke or a mental collapse.

  The group had moved into the shadows, most likely to protect thems
elves against the wind. She could make out Constance’s hostile stance and a couple of guards, but the majority of the figures was facing the other way. She was about to go down and remind them about their dangerous location for such a boisterous activity when one of the shadows moved. The round, short silhouette could only belong to Father Morrell. Seconds later, Tyr stepped back into view along with both her sisters.

  All looked to be angry or frustrated, including the priest, who was more than animated. She could not remember seeing any person of the cloth so visibly agitated. Her eyes darted elsewhere, looking for Ranulf, but he was nowhere in sight. Her desire to find him had to wait. Whatever was going on, a calmer head was needed.

  Moving quickly, she donned her hose, woolen chainse, and heaviest bliaut, and at the last moment, grabbed a blanket to wrap around her shoulders. She then dashed down the stairwell and hastened toward the small party. Everyone quieted on her arrival, but the frustration in the air was palpable. As she was trying to decide who to calm first—Father Morrell or her sisters—her decision was made for her.

  “Women,” Tyr grumbled, gesturing toward her sisters.

  “What about them?”

  “I’m just glad I’m not one, that’s all.”

  Bronwyn quirked her eyebrow at the idea and asked, “Where’s Ranulf?”

  Tyr pressed his lips together and frowned. “He’s out and will be back shortly. If you need something, I’ll take care of it.”

  Bronwyn gave a quick shake of her head and dropped the bulky wrap. The wind was biting, but when blocked, the heavy bliaut and thick chainse were more than enough to keep her warm. “I do not need anything. I was just wondering what was upsetting everyone.”

  “Nothing important,” Tyr groaned, rubbing the dark circles around his eyes.