The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  “Maybe not important to you—” started Father Morrell.

  “See?!” Lily shouted, staring at Bronwyn as if she suddenly understood everything and was on her younger sister’s side.

  “I’ve had enough,” Tyr bellowed back and started heading toward the stables. Bronwyn ran to catch up with him. “Don’t start. I am not about to send anyone after a missing tapestry just to pacify two women and a priest.”

  Understanding dawned on Bronwyn. The only weaving she knew that could cause such commotion and have the support of Father Morrell was the one her mother had created of her daughters. “You are right,” Bronwyn said matter-of-factly.

  “Then maybe you can tell that to your sisters and make them see reason,” he grunted, slightly calmer after hearing the three magic words. “I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with such nonsense for the rest of my life. When Ranulf comes back, I’m gone.”

  Bronwyn stopped and let Tyr continue toward the stables without her, suspecting there was much more to his frustration than even he realized. Turning around, she went back to confront her sisters, but they were gone.

  She found them in her old bedchamber, slumped in hearth chairs wearing grumpy expressions. Both were arguing simultaneously, their anger and hurt unmistakable. When they saw her, their voices rose, chattering about Father Morrell and Tyr and how both men were incredibly unfair.

  A half hour later, Bronwyn thought she understood the situation and why everyone was so on edge. She was not the only one who had little sleep the night before and all were emotionally drained. Normally, she could dispel her sisters’ frustrations before they rose to such levels, but she had not been around.

  On Christmas, Lily realized that she had forgotten her mother’s tapestry in her rush to leave Syndlear and then had misled Father Morrell about having it. She had asked Tyr to recover the item and he had readily agreed, but it seemed he had not been specific as to when he intended to do so. Then last night, when Father Morrell came to retrieve the weaving to hang it behind him during his sermon about the Holy Innocents, Edythe let it be known Lily had left it at Syndlear. The priest had held his peace until this morning, but at the break of dawn he confronted Lily about her misdeeds. Lily in turn blamed Tyr, and soon after, insults were being slung about with no one, including the priest, being immune.

  Bronwyn listened quietly. Then just as she believed both her sisters had completely discharged all their frustrations, Edythe exclaimed, “And just where were you last night? Everyone was very confused when Father Morrell gave the blessing…alone.”

  Bronwyn hated dishonesty, even though burdening her sisters with the truth of their father’s death was not something she wanted to do. At least not now. Not during Twelfthtide. Suddenly the dilemma Ranulf had been in became clear. But she knew based on experience that keeping such secrets brought only additional pain.

  Taking a deep breath, Bronwyn told her sisters what she had learned the previous day. Both listened in shock to the news of their father. Lily ran to her room, but Edythe remained stoic. Bronwyn knew she would grieve later, in her own way.

  “What are you going to do?” Edythe asked.

  “I am going to ride up to Syndlear and get that tapestry,” Bronwyn replied, rising to her feet. “While I am gone, Lily is going to muster up the courage to apologize to Father Morrell and you are going to pay a visit to Tyr and do the same.”

  Edythe’s cheeks warmed and for a moment Bronwyn thought she was going to argue, but Edythe instead gave a quick bob of her head. Bronwyn almost felt sorry for her. Lily was going to have to do a month’s worth of penances, but she suspected Edythe would suffer a far worse punishment in facing Tyr.

  Bronwyn went to leave when Edythe reached out and held her sleeve. “What should we tell Ranulf when he asks where you are?”

  “Tell him I’ll be back this afternoon and we will talk then.”

  Bronwyn had never seen Syndlear so deserted. Even during Twelfthtide, families usually took turns keeping the place running while most came down to Hunswick for the celebrations. This year, however, Ranulf had ordered everyone down to the castle for the winter, in order to keep from splitting his few forces between the two dwellings.

  Logically, the decision made sense, but it was hard to imagine a battle of any significance taking place in Cumbria. Beyond small skirmishes between families, strife had been absent and Luc would not dare attack unprovoked. Based on what Ranulf told her, the new king would be quick to retaliate against such unsanctioned aggression.

  She rewrapped the thick blanket around her and ventured inside. Despite the sun being high in the sky, its interior was dark and cold from the hearths not being lit. The lack of odor told her the place had been left clean. Even the rushes had been removed to help diminish the number of critters visiting while all were gone. Bronwyn glanced around to see if anything had been taken by vandals, but all looked to be as it should. Edythe would have been able to tell in an instant if anything was gone, for she loved this keep as much as Bronwyn loved Hunswick. For her, Syndlear held very little value. It was the people it housed that had any meaning. The building itself held too many dark memories, ones that she never could quite visualize, but hovered nonetheless just out of reach.

  She moved up the staircase quickly to the third floor, eager to get the tapestry and leave. The overly large room had once belonged to their mother and had been converted to Lily’s chambers when she became of age. On the bed was the forgotten weaving, folded and ready to be packed. Bronwyn went to retrieve the item when behind her the door slammed shut. A scuffle of something being wedged in the frame immediately followed. “Is someone there?”

  “Only me,” came a snide reply. “Your intended husband.”

  “Luc? What are you doing?” Bronwyn asked as she advanced to the door and tried to open it. It did not budge. “Let me out!”

  “Begging for me to help you now? That’s a change.” A cold chuckle chilled her blood. “I thought you would never want me under any circumstances. Funny how you seem to run to the nearest man whenever you feel in trouble. What will you promise me? Your body?” Luc inquired, sneering.

  “Luc, let me out now. If Ranulf finds out what you have done—”

  “Your precious lord is right now caught in a trap I set for him.”

  Bronwyn held her breath. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You should,” Luc replied, the promise in his tone unmistakable.

  “You wouldn’t dare hurt him,” Bronwyn whispered, trying to convince herself as much as Luc.

  “Harm one of the new king’s beloved noblemen? Not directly, but if your lover cares for you like he claims, then he will wish I did.”

  “You are just begging for an early death, Luc.”

  “Correction, angel,” he countered. “Death is what you asked for by marrying him and not me. Do you not remember what I said about no longer caring for your welfare?”

  The contempt he held for her was enormous. She had been naïve to believe that his plans of revenge ended with his revelation about her father. He still wanted to hurt her. His question proved that.

  “Do you?!” Luc roared when she didn’t answer.

  “I remember,” Bronwyn finally murmured, wishing there was some other way out of the room. There were secret passageways added to the solar and the rooms she and her sisters used as small children, but none had been constructed here. Only the storage spaces her father had built into every room above the first floor.

  “Maybe I should have said that if I couldn’t have you, no one could. If I had, would it have made a difference?”

  She had been unprepared for the threat. Agree to come with him and live, or stay and die. Until now, she had assumed Luc intended only to frighten her by leaving her locked in the room alone until someone came to get her, which was probably tomorrow at the earliest. But Luc’s plans did not have her living that long. “No, it would not have made a difference,” she stated truthfully.

  His cackle caused her
to tremble. “That’s what I love about you, angel. You have more courage than anyone—man or woman—I have ever met. I will miss that in Lillabet when I make her my wife.”

  Bronwyn slammed her fist against the door in protest. “She’s already married!”

  “I don’t believe you. The woman I saw had not been touched by a man, and when I go to the king and tell him of her trickery to prevent me from what was mine…then an annulment is sure to follow.”

  “Don’t do this, Luc. Please…”

  “Too late, angel. Just know in the end I will have everything that was supposed to be mine, despite your efforts.”

  Fear twisted her gut as she heard his footsteps retreat. She raced to the outside wall and used the arrow slits to stare below. After several minutes, he appeared, mounted his horse, and rode off in the direction of his own lands.

  It doesn’t make sense, she thought to herself. Maybe she had been wrong about the level of revenge he sought. Then it occurred to her who was the real target. Ranulf. She started to pace back and forth. Of all the people she had ever met, Ranulf was the most capable. Luc might be setting a trap, but Ranulf was no ordinary prey. He would rescue her. Her job was to stay alive until that time.

  She was hungry and thirsty. Walking over to the small table beside the bed, she picked up the pitcher next to the empty basin and sighed with relief. There was water. After drinking enough to satiate her thirst, she decided to save the rest and went to sit down on the bed. Worry was not her typical approach to handling problems, but as she was powerless to do anything else, her mind began to replay all that Luc had said, especially the comments regarding Lily. She had to get out.

  Standing, Bronwyn returned to the door, hoping that if she hit it enough times, whatever was wedged on the other side would give free. On the fifth body assault with no indication that it was working at all, Bronwyn took a deep frustrated breath.

  Smoke.

  Icy fear twisted around her heart. She had not made a mistake. Luc did not desire to starve her out or have her rescued too late to help Ranulf. He had planned to do just what he intimated—he wanted her dead.

  Bronwyn could smell the smoke stronger now and was transported back in time. Crumpling to the floor, she rocked back and forth just as she had as a little girl, waiting for her mother to save her. But no one would this time. No one would even try. Her father had sworn this would never happen again, he would make sure they were safe, he promised to protect his family and…suddenly Bronwyn remembered that he had.

  Jumping to her feet, she ran to the little stone cubby that held all their childhood keepsakes and started pulling everything out. Old dolls, worn blankets, favorite whittled items, one by one, she tossed them into the room. Fire had not reached the door, but heat emanated from the floor below, indicating that flames were eating through on the other side.

  Soon the small area was clear. Bronwyn grabbed the tapestry and threw it in followed by a couple of woolen blankets. Then, she started to wedge herself in. The cracking snaps of the floor giving away echoed in the stone death chamber just as she was able to get inside. Her fingers curled around the leather strap her father told her never to pull unless there was a fire. She gave it a yank. Nothing happened. She yanked it again, harder, and a large stone fell into place.

  She was now safe from the fire, but she was also trapped with no way to get out.

  Ranulf dismounted, glad to make it back to Hunswick before the dinner hour. He tossed the reins to the eager stable boy and headed out across the courtyard toward the Keep. He had not even made it halfway to his destination when Tyr intercepted him, scowling. Ranulf recognized the pained expression. His friend had a headache, most likely caused by Ranulf dumping everything on him, including his new family.

  Opting not to ask the question that might initiate an hour-long conversation regarding the agonies of responsibility, Ranulf continued toward his destination. “I’m going to see Bronwyn.”

  Tyr stopped short and crossed his arms. “Not there you aren’t. She went to visit her sisters this morning, who are quite wisely staying out of my way and Father Morrell’s sight. Your wife’s still with them.”

  “Thanks,” Ranulf mumbled and changed direction only to be stopped by his friend again.

  Seeing Ranulf’s icy glare, Tyr shrugged unperturbed, and explained, “No woman—even one that loves you—is going to want to be in the same room with your stench. So if you are hoping to charm your lovely wife back into your arms, I suggest you take a bath first.”

  Ranulf inventoried his muddied state and realized his friend was correct. Clapping Tyr on the shoulder, Ranulf gave him a parting wink and ventured into the kitchens. Two days ago, he had vowed never to enter that domain again, and yet here he was. Not many occupied the room, but the ones who were there were buzzing with activity. Seeing him, Constance gave a little yelp and nearly toppled the beans she was preparing. She quickly recovered and sent him a scathing look before resuming her task. Well, the old woman was consistent with her loyalty to Bronwyn.

  “I need a hot bath to be delivered to my bedchambers, and you,” he said, looking at Constance, “go find Bronwyn and have her meet me in the Great Hall.” Leaving, he heard her mutter that she would go, but only when she was ready and not a minute before.

  An hour later, Ranulf finished cinching the belt to his tunic and repeated the speech he had been giving himself. His plan was simple. First, he would hold Bronwyn and kiss her until she admitted that she loved him. Then, he would explain his own fears and she would forgive him. But most of all before the night was over, he would tell Bronwyn just how much she meant to him. By tomorrow morning, she would never again doubt his feelings.

  Ranulf was just stabbing his dagger into its sheath attached to his belt when a solid single knock came from his day room. Ranulf gave a grunt to wait, but the door squeaked open regardless. Thinking only Bronwyn would be so bold, he stepped out of the garderobe with anticipation. Disappointment and then concern filled him as Tyr stood in silence with a very tense look on his face.

  “What?” Ranulf asked without preamble. Whatever was bothering Tyr was not good and Ranulf had never been the type to guess.

  A muscle flickered in Tyr’s already clenched jaw. “One of the villagers just ran with news that they could see flames. Syndlear is on fire.”

  A brittle silence filled the room. Finally Ranulf raked both hands through his hair. He should have known Luc might try something. He should have waited for him to slip back onto his lands and confront him. “Damn, if Bronwyn wasn’t mad at me before…how can I explain this? My shortsightedness has cost my wife her home.”

  “Thank God you had everyone come down to Hunswick.”

  Ranulf dived back into his garderobe and came out holding a hauberk and doublet. “Gather the men and have them all meet me in the Hall.”

  Within a half hour, Ranulf met with his men and began devising a strategy to draw out their attacker. Though there was no proof, Ranulf had little doubt it was Baron Craven. An accidental campfire would have caught the woods on fire and been less localized. Besides, the weather had been too damp in recent days to blame dry kindling and there had been no lightning storms in the past twelve hours. No, someone definitely had started the fire and the list of people who would gain by such an action had only one name.

  “How many do you want to send north?” Tyr posed.

  Ranulf twitched his mouth, thinking. “No more than a half-dozen. He wants us to be vulnerable here where it counts.”

  Tyr nodded. “I’ll ride with Tory and four men of your choosing, leaving the rest to stay here. But I need to leave quickly before Edythe finds out. She loves that place and somehow the fire will be my fault. That I should have known it would be started and was unwilling to stop it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Tyr shrugged. “Oftentimes, neither does Edythe.” He pivoted and was about to make his escape when a redheaded blur caught his peripheral vision, causing him to do a doub
le take.

  “Don’t you dare go anywhere,” Edythe ordered. Lily was right behind her.

  Ranulf arched his head to see behind them, waiting for his wife to emerge. Meanwhile, Tyr’s posture became hostile. “Didn’t your apology provide you enough embarrassment for today?”

  Edythe narrowed her green eyes. “Have no fear, Highlander, for I…” She paused and noticed his attire. “What is going on? Why are you dressed so?”

  Tyr placed his hands on her shoulders and took a deep breath.

  “Let me go,” Edythe wriggled unsuccessfully.

  “No. I don’t want you to hit me when you hear the news.” Tyr swallowed and prayed for strength. “There is no easy way to say it, but Syndlear—your home—is on fire.”

  A quiet filled the room. “Bad?”

  Tyr nodded. “We can see the flames so I am afraid so, Finch.” He had readied himself for pummeling fists, shouts of denial, and angry accusations. He had not been prepared for Edythe to fall against him, sobbing. “Sorry, love. I know how much your home meant to you. But I promise you, Ranulf and I will find the one who started it.”

  “It’s Luc,” she muttered against his tunic.

  “If it is, then this time, the baron will pay with his life.”

  Ranulf, still not seeing Bronwyn, stepped around the embracing couple blocking the entrance, only to run into Lillabet. “You think Baron Craven started this?” she demanded, her voice high-pitched with an element of frenzy. “Then what are you doing here? You have to get there! You have to save her!”

  Hearing her panic, Ranulf reached out and grabbed Lily’s upper arms. “Save who?”

  “Bronwyn,” she wailed. “She rode up there this morning and she could still be there—”

  Ranulf heard nothing more.

  Chapter Twelve

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1154

  FEAST OF THE HOLY FAMILY

  The Feast of the Holy Family celebrates the family unit and the Holy Family: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. During this time, celebration practices are simple, including prayer and a sermon that focuses on the remembrance of the family unit. This is followed by another feast in which everyone reflects on the value of family and elevates the concept in their culture, neighborhood, and community. These practices have been around for centuries, but it was not until the mid-1600s that the Feast of the Holy Family became a formal event. Even then, it was not recognized by the Church until 1921. Forty-eight years later in 1969, the Pope moved the Feast from the first Sunday after Epiphany to what is now often known as the “First Sunday after Christmas,” making it one of today’s Twelfthtide celebrations. The exception is if Christmas or Saint Stephen’s Day falls upon a Sunday (as it did in 1154), then the holiday is held on December 30.