The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  Hearing Ranulf’s low voice, Bronwyn peeked her fingers out from underneath the furs in search of his warmth. Finding herself alone but still hearing him, she opened her eyes and surveyed the tent, confirming what her sense of touch had told her. Ranulf was gone. Knowing he was nearby, she was on the verge of calling out to him when the clipped tone of Tyr’s voice stopped her.

  “It’s still dark outside. It might be dangerous for the women to ride.”

  “Then they will ride with one of us,” Ranulf replied with suppressed frustration. “We aren’t moving fast enough and today we must make up for ground we should have covered already.”

  Bronwyn turned her head toward the voices and saw two shadows forming silhouettes on the rippling canvas wall.

  “Just when do you intend to reach London?” Tyr’s question surprised Bronwyn for it meant even Ranulf’s best friend was not aware of the overarching plan.

  “Bronwyn and I need to be at Westminster in less than three days.”

  “By Twelfth Night? For the celebrations?” Tyr asked doubtfully, unbelieving Ranulf wanted to attend an event he had always avoided.

  “Sooner. I am hoping to arrive by morning, but no later than the afternoon if my plan is to work,” Ranulf replied with a strained grunt. Then his broad shadow moved and Bronwyn could tell that he was working on something while he was speaking.

  Tyr let go a long sigh and Bronwyn could envision the mystified look on his face as he searched for explanations that Ranulf wasn’t volunteering. “You aren’t trying to beat the baron there, are you? He’s had at least a full day’s start and undoubtedly traveling with a smaller group.”

  “I don’t want to beat him there,” Ranulf clarified. The tenor of his voice had changed to one of anticipation laced with revenge. “I want him to get there way before us. In fact, I am counting on it.”

  “But if he gets there first and relates what happened, the king isn’t going to welcome our arrival.”

  Bronwyn thought she saw Ranulf give a small shake to his head. “Any other time of the year, maybe. But you know Her Grace and her penchants, especially for celebrations and for Twelfthtide. This being the first season after her being crowned queen, I highly doubt she—or Henry, for that matter—is going to meet with a small northern baron until Epiphany.”

  “True…the duke’s not likely to appreciate any business demands that are not crown-threatening.”

  “So I’m going to prevent the opportunity for Baron Craven to speak his mind.”

  The taller of the two shadows suddenly straightened. “Good God, I understand now,” Tyr hummed with admiration. “Tricky. And you’ll have to get to a certain baker in time…and pray that our good queen and king refused to leave without him.”

  “They wouldn’t have,” Ranulf asserted strongly.

  “Well, just in case…do you have another plan?”

  The tension in Ranulf’s shadowed stance returned. “I do and it is ready and in place, but it lacks the imagination and intellect our king and queen would appreciate.”

  “The baron has no idea who he had taken on. If you pull this off, the king will be so amused, he will forgive you of anything,” Tyr replied with a chuckle, obviously not worried, and clapped Ranulf on the back. “I’ll see to the horses. We should be ready to leave by the time the sun rises.”

  Ranulf grunted and both shadows walked away, each in a different direction.

  Bronwyn let go the breath she had been holding and digested what she had heard. In the end, she had learned very little. The few parts she had understood only confirmed what she suspected. Luc was the reason behind Ranulf’s mad dash to the heart of England. Speed of their travel was essential, not just because Ranulf was in a hurry to confront the man, but he needed to do it on a specific day—Twelfth Night.

  They had only two more days to travel, and from Ranulf’s urgency, that left barely enough time, and in winter, any number of things could happen.

  Bronwyn whipped off the fur blankets and quickly started to dress. As soon as she was done, she was going to see to her sisters and ensure they rose and were prepared to leave when Ranulf was ready. Neither she nor her sisters were going to be the reason he couldn’t execute his plan and fell out of favor with the king. What that plan was exactly, she would ask later, but for right now, it was more important that she be a help and not a hindrance.

  Bronwyn was just pulling her bliaut over her head when the canvas flap opened and someone stepped inside. Thinking it Ranulf, she tugged the garment down and beamed the incomer a smile. The smile changed to one of shock at seeing her sisters—both up and already dressed.

  Seeing her initial jubilant welcome, Edythe snorted and rubbed her arms vigorously in an attempt to get warmer. Lily, on the other hand, laughed. “Sorry. You obviously hoped we were someone else,” she mumbled, not meaning it at all.

  Tyr poked his head in and, looking at Edythe, said, “We are to be leaving soon. Be ready.”

  Edythe issued him a scowl and rubbed her very red nose. “I heard you the first five times,” she moaned. “The man does not believe in sleep and cannot seem to get it through his head that some do,” she added, speaking to Bronwyn but keeping her gaze on him.

  Tyr arched a single brow and stepped inside. “I sleep, just not all day.”

  Edythe sniffed. She wasn’t feeling her best, but she was not about to let Tyr chide her without consequences. “You may have been the one standing beside me at the altar, but that doesn’t give you permission to act like my husband.”

  “I know your husband well, and Garik’s going to feel the same way,” Tyr responded, crossing his arms.

  Edythe lifted her chin and several locks of her red hair fell around her shoulders. “Not after I’m done with him. He’ll be glad to have a wife. And the fact that I like to sleep in bed, he’s going to consider a bonus.” Then with a manufactured flair, she stepped around him and plopped down on the fur blankets with enough force that her hastily made braid came totally undone. Few outside of family had ever seen Edythe’s auburn tresses completely free, but those who did were blessed with a sight that denied description.

  Tyr just stared at her for several seconds. Every muscle in his body had gone tight and he looked as if he were struggling just to breathe. A second later, he pivoted and abruptly exited the tent, stomping off with no effort to hide his displeasure.

  Edythe, who had refused to look at him, could no longer pretend to be ignorant of Tyr’s mood. “The man is a menace,” she mumbled as she once again rubbed her nose.

  Both Bronwyn and Lily’s eyebrows rose, but neither said a word. Instead Bronwyn finished lacing her bliaut. “Ready for another long day of riding?” she asked.

  Lily snorted. “More than you are. We had to sleep in our clothes last night.”

  Bronwyn sent her a reproving look and began to work on her hair. She was concerned about Edythe, who looked like she wanted to crawl back in bed and sleep. Bronwyn pulled one of the furs around her sister’s shoulders and asked, “Are you sure you are up to this, Edythe?”

  Edythe sniveled, evidence that she was not only physically ailing, but not able to emotionally deflect her heated exchanges with Tyr. “Why? Are you saying that you could persuade your husband to return north?”

  “I…no. He would not,” Bronwyn answered truthfully.

  “Then the question is pointless. I shall be fine. Miserable, but I refuse to let that oaf out there know it. So get dressed and let’s go. The sooner we get to Westminster, the better,” Edythe announced, tightening the fur blanket around her.

  The speed of their travel quickened significantly. Ranulf had set the pace and refused to ease or stop unless absolutely necessary. It helped that they were finally out of the Cumbria Hills, but they were now exposed to the cold winds blowing across the rolling lands, whipping at them.

  Everyone had huddled inside their clothing or blankets, keeping their faces covered as much as possible. Talking was difficult and the hours of riding in silence bec
ame tedious. Bronwyn almost preferred the trickier mountain riding in the colder temperatures where at least the wind was not clawing at her cloak constantly. But if she was miserable, Edythe looked and felt much worse.

  Bronwyn and Lily had been riding on either side of her for most of the day’s journey. Yet despite Edythe’s declining health, she had managed to keep pace with the group. Ranulf once inclined his head, gesturing for Bronwyn to ride with him, but she shook her head no, reluctant to leave her sister’s side.

  Bronwyn had decided to say something when they stopped briefly for the noon meal, but Edythe must have realized her intentions and told her not to say a word. “I am cold, that’s all. So is everyone.” Then she set her jaw firmly, letting Bronwyn know that if she spoke in her defense, it would be a wasted effort. Unable to do anything more, Bronwyn rode closely beside her, trying wherever she could to keep Edythe focused.

  By midafternoon, Edythe’s strength had left her and she was teetering unsafely on her saddle. Bronwyn reached out to pull on the reins and force the group to stop when her horse was nudged aside. Tyr rode up between her and Edythe and, in an effortless move, lifted her sister out of her seat and onto his lap. Bronwyn held her breath as he pulled Edythe close to him and wrapped the blankets closely around her huddled frame, waiting for her sister to demand to be set free. Edythe only snuggled closer, proof she was ailing more than she had let anyone believe.

  Knowing her sister was now safe, Bronwyn spurred her horse forward and came alongside Ranulf. It was the first time she had been alone with him since the previous night. She wanted to ask him questions—inquire about his plans, about Luc and what would happen if they didn’t reach their destination in time—but the wind made it too painful to speak.

  So they rode in silence, maintaining their accelerated pace over the treeless, practically deserted terrain. Every once in a while they would pass a distant farm, but they saw no one. All were either recovering from a feast or preparing for one. Most likely the latter.

  Since yesterday had been Sunday, the Feast of Saint Macarius would be celebrated today. It was the most delicious feast of Twelfthtide. All day the most delectable things would come out of the kitchen. This year, with the unusually long weather, there would have been berries to make fruit tarts, nuts, and sweetmeats of all sorts. Bronwyn closed her eyes and inhaled, pretending to smell the warm pies and pastries.

  Shivering, she pushed the thoughts aside and concentrated once again on the terrain, which finally had some variety. To the west, an unusual clump of trees formed the shape of a heart where two rivers came together. When she had been a child, her father once told her of such a place after being pummeled with questions about where he had been and just how he had known where to go.

  Bronwyn took a second look at the thicket. Maybe, they might all get to enjoy the Feast of Saint Macarius after all.

  Pulling down the blanket covering her face, she nudged her mount closer to Ranulf’s. “My lord?”

  “I wish you didn’t have to ride in such weather.”

  “It’s necessary,” she said aloud, so he would know she understood. The air was frigid and burned when she breathed it in. “But is it also necessary for my sisters to endure the journey?”

  “I should never have agreed to let them come,” he replied, not really answering her question. He had not been thinking and the weather had been so deceiving lately, he had forgotten just how cruel England winters could be.

  “I’m worried about my sister.”

  Ranulf glanced back. “Lily is doing far better than I expected.”

  Bronwyn nodded in agreement. “She has always been the best rider of the three of us, and it is not Lily who I was talking about. I’m worried about Edythe.”

  Ranulf twisted around again, this time seeing Edythe’s riderless horse and the huddled mass in Tyr’s arms. Ranulf, too, had seen Edythe’s failing health and was powerless to do anything about it. He had considered having Tyr turn back, but they were beyond the halfway mark and the way forward was easier than the return. They had no choice but to keep going, though Tyr might decide to slow the pace for Edythe.

  “Tyr will see that she makes it.”

  Bronwyn licked her lips and instantly regretted the action. The cold wind whipped at the wet surface, chapping the soft skin. “My father had a friend he used to go and visit, a Baron Alfred. He said it was almost a three-day ride south. And I thought maybe if we could reach his place, then Edythe could stay there. We could get a good meal—”

  “I don’t know a Baron Alfred,” he said, cutting her off. Then regretting his snappish answer, he added, “I wish we could, but we don’t have the time to search for him, even if we are close.”

  Bronwyn sighed. “I understand. I just saw that cluster of trees and realized how near to his place we were.”

  Ranulf had to turn his head severely to the left to see to what she was referring. “How close?”

  Her brows shot up at his sudden interest. “If I remember right, my father said he lived a few miles down where the river converged and made a heart.”

  Ranulf glanced up. Clouds had covered the sky the entire day so it was difficult to tell just how much time they had left, but he suspected it was an hour. Two at most before night was upon then.

  Bronwyn hadn’t complained and didn’t appear to be getting ill, but he knew she was cold and uncomfortable. Warmth, hot food and a restful night of sleep would do a lot to ensure everyone could keep up the pace for the rest of the trip. Not to mention, he could insist her sisters remain behind, leaving only Bronwyn to look after as an inexperienced traveler.

  Aiming his horse toward the group of trees, he said, “We’ll travel a few miles along the river. If we haven’t seen it by dark, then we move on.”

  Bronwyn nodded her head enthusiastically and shifted the blankets back up to cover her exposed cheeks.

  An hour later a large tower keep came into view approximately six miles east from where they were headed. Without hesitation, Ranulf tugged his reins to his left and headed for the stone structure. It wasn’t far off course and the benefits far outweighed any inconvenience.

  Bronwyn trotted up next to him and beamed him a glorious smile that sent his pulse racing.

  “Baron Alfred, you say?” he asked rhetorically. “Well, let’s hope you are right and that he still considers you a friend.”

  “He was a very good friend to my father, and while I have never been to his home, he should remember me from his visits to our home. Do you think that’s his keep?”

  “If your memory is accurate.”

  “I’m going to tell Lily and Edythe,” she told him. “I love you very much, you know.”

  A grin overtook Ranulf’s features. That was the best benefit of all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 4, 1154

  LORD OF MISRULE

  The Lord of Misrule is one of the lost treasures of the Medieval Christmas celebration. Either selected by chance or appointed by the noble in charge, an ordinary citizen was crowned Lord of Misrule, responsible for directing Twelfthtide or winter festival entertainment. The extent of his powers and responsibilities depended on the length of his reign, which could last anywhere from three months to the twelve days of Christmas or even just one night. Given full license to find enjoyment however he desired, the purpose of his reign was to provide comic relief by changing rules and laws in such a way to bring merriment and delight to all. The tradition extends back to Roman times, though ironically became less barbaric during the Middle Ages, taking a more humorous slant.

  Bright morning light crested over the hills. The clouds had passed, taking with them the cold wind and leaving everyone feeling much warmer. Less Edythe and Tyr, who had volunteered to stay behind and ensure her safety, the group had left early in the morning loaded with food, fresh horses, and improved moods. Baron Alfred had been more than a little surprised by their arrival, but after his astonishment diminished, he had welcomed them all warmly. The
y had feasted and rested and Ranulf felt himself relax and enjoy the baron’s hospitality.

  “I cannot remember when I have had such good food,” Ranulf said, with a smile of satisfaction bending his usually firm mouth.

  “I’ll be sure not to mention that to our own cooks.”

  “Hunswick has fine cooks and a better than decent baker, but if our king ever learned of the delicacies Baron Alfred enjoys on a daily basis, your friend would suddenly find himself not nearly as well fed.”

  “I think after last night, you can consider the baron your friend now as well. He did promise to come and visit in the spring.”

  “Aye, but he won’t bring his cooks,” Ranulf sighed, licking his lips in memory.

  Bronwyn rolled her eyes, secretly enjoying her husband’s levity. “I must admit that I was amazed at how quickly you were at ease with him.”

  “I was surprised myself,” Ranulf replied.

  He only felt truly comfortable with a handful of people, and for most of those on that short list, the trust had been cultivated over time. Bronwyn and her father had been exceptions, and Baron Alfred was an unanticipated addition to Ranulf’s rapidly growing group of unsought, but strangely desired, friends.

  The baron was in many ways a rounder, shorter, red-haired version of Laon—generous, but far from trusting. Lily had been the first to venture forward, but it was not until Alfred saw Bronwyn did his wary demeanor thaw. Ranulf had never been prouder than when she had introduced him as the new Lord Anscombe…and her husband. The instant need to shut off his emotions and shun people’s reactions vanished. Some did visibly retreat, but Ranulf no longer cared. Amazingly, the less he shrank from people and gatherings, the less they were concerned about his appearance. They were too interested in having fun and eating…pleasures he, too, found himself to be enjoying. Even the knowledge of what was to occur in London could not dampen his feelings.