The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  “Ranulf, I would like to introduce you to one of my newest ladies,” Queen Eleanor said, interrupting.

  Ranulf gave the woman a quick glance. Like the others, she was beautiful. Her hair was tangled with gems and gold threads, and her attire was simple and elegant. Tall, graceful, slender, she reminded him of his Bronwyn. Her eyes were downcast and the rest of the face was hidden behind a mask, but there was something about her overall composure to indicate that her beauty went much further than skin deep.

  “Your Grace, I—”

  Ignoring his obvious attempt to ask about Bronwyn, Queen Eleanor continued. “One of tonight’s entertainments will be to guess the identity of each lady. I think it will be extremely diverting for everyone. Would you like to be the first to try?”

  Ranulf gave a deferential shake of his head, his disinterest in playing unmistakable. “I must decline, Your Grace—”

  Just as he was going to step back into the crowd, soft fingers curled around his forearm. The simple touch caused him to freeze. None of the ladies from court had ever been willing to touch him, sit near him, or dance with him in the past. They acted as if his scars were contagious and any simple kindness was enough to catch them. He reexamined the woman, and this time slate blue eyes gazed back. Queen Eleanor’s newest lady-in-waiting was Bronwyn.

  “I’m sorry we could not dance. Perhaps later will be a better time.”

  Before Ranulf could reply with an emphatic yes, she had moved into the crowd without a single glance back or any other action that would have indicated he meant anything to her or was even worth remembering.

  Renewed resentment flooded Ranulf’s veins as men began to descend, eager to meet and charm the seemingly unattached companion of the queen. His wife was the most beautiful of the women there and she should have been at his side, for all to see, not only that she was married, and to keep their lustful looks at bay, but that she had chosen him—him—the man no woman had ever wanted.

  Fighting to remain calm, Ranulf swung hastily around and collided into the one man for whom he had been waiting. Baron Craven.

  “Eyeing a replacement wife so soon?” Luc drawled. “Then again, she is very beautiful. Though I doubt she’ll be interested in anyone less than a whole man.”

  “Be careful, baron. I’m not above killing you here and now,” Ranulf growled.

  Craven swallowed but held his ground. “I see Lady Lillabet found her levity despite her sorrow. Tell me, is her sister Lady Edythe also faring as well?”

  It was a deliberant attempt to provoke Ranulf’s temper and prove to everyone he was unstable. The ploy was obvious, which meant the man was unwise or overconfident—it mattered little either way.

  Ranulf shrugged. “I neither know nor care. Lady Lillabet will be herself, and I saw her sister only once, and quite briefly.”

  The slight shift in the baron’s jaw was the only hint at his growing aggravation. “I do wonder why both women are here. An annulment, perhaps? A way to avoid a life’s sentence of marriage you forced upon them? I wonder if Lady Bronwyn were still alive, would she also be here and for such a reason. Or would she still feel compelled to disregard a king’s decree.”

  Just then the baker entered and Ranulf released an inward sigh of relief. The conversation was dangerous for it was designed to incite physical violence and, if left to continue, might have succeeded. But the pain Ranulf first wanted to inflict was humiliation, and that could not be achieved with fists.

  It required intellect. And maybe a slight emotional push.

  “I believe King Stephen is dead,” Ranulf said softly. “You would be wise to remember my long relationship with our new ruler. Some even consider me one of his favorites. So, it’s my turn to ask you a question. Who do you think King Henry will agree to see first tomorrow? A small, insignificant baron or a loyal commander who once saved his life?”

  The baron’s jaw went rigid. “And when you do meet the king, just what will you say? The truth? That you ignored his predecessor’s wishes on whom to marry, lied to your new wife and failed to keep her safe, and then attacked and slaughtered my men unprovoked? I have witnesses. Who do you have to stand for you? Bronwyn’s sisters? Lillabet has ignored you completely and Edythe still remains unseen, avoiding your company. Neither seem willing to support the man who forced them into marriage and then lost them their beloved sister.”

  Ranulf produced a knowing smile, intentionally irritating the baron further. “Just know that whenever you do get your audience with the king, I will have the upper hand. You started this war, baron, but you will not end it.” As he spoke the last words, Ranulf ignored Luc’s sputtered response and started toward the baker, who was thankfully standing just next to a tankard of ale.

  Ranulf poured himself a drink and then, using the mug, pointed out the baron to the baker. “When?”

  “Word was sent late that the queen desires to determine the hour and the king has decided to oblige her. But are you sure? That one…well, he is not the most welcomed noble of the court these past few days.”

  “That’s good to hear, and yes, he definitely is the one,” Ranulf answered and then swallowed a significant amount of the mug’s contents. Now all he could do was wait…and watch Bronwyn be entertained by every man who could make his way to her side.

  Once again, a deep sense of possession consumed him. Until now, he had not had to compete for her attention and no one had been foolish enough to try. But as one and then another hour passed, the intensity of his jealousy grew and it mattered little that in his heart he knew that she was his. Each time a hand touched Bronwyn’s waist or someone bent to whisper in her ear or her laughter tinkled throughout the Hall, Ranulf had to repress the mounting urge to go and pummel the man. He almost lost the battle he was waging with himself when some overly ambitious young knight refused to leave her side. Only the queen and her long-awaited announcement saved the young man from a fate that would have required the attention of a healer and several weeks in bed.

  Ranulf joined the throng and at long last retrieved his slice of cake. From the corner of his eye, he watched Craven do the same…directly from the man who made it. As people bit into the moist sweet bread, sighs of disappointment could be heard throughout the Hall as each discovered they did not have the bean. Minutes passed and Ranulf started to wonder if the baker had made a mistake. But then a shout was heard over the crowd.

  Craven had found the prize.

  By the look on his face, Luc was completely surprised but also quite eager to enjoy his chance. Everyone watched as he proudly made his way to the king. Ranulf kept to the back of the crowd, secretly enjoying the veiled look of disgust on King Henry’s face as he watched the baron advance.

  The Bean King tradition was not one of Henry’s favorites. For he was not one to follow customs; he preferred to set them. Most men wore their hair long, but Henry had always kept his red hair short, something Ranulf quickly adopted after first meeting him. He and Tyr also embraced the idea of shaving, something else inspired by Henry, though the king maintained a mustache, which in Ranulf’s mind negated the benefits of a naked face. And then there was the king’s state of dress. As always, his cloak was of fine cloth, but significantly shorter and less ornate. Baron Craven was the king’s opposite in every way.

  Ranulf held his breath as Craven swaggered up to King Henry with his extravagant long gold-and-red tunic swishing around his legs, looking altogether too eager to receive his honorary title. Henry grimaced and for a second Ranulf wondered if he was going to change his mind. Then, the queen leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Resigned, Henry stood up and proclaimed Craven to be the Bean King, until midnight, giving him license to enjoy whatever pleasures he desired—within reason.

  Immediately Craven spun around and scanned the crowd, searching. Ranulf stepped forward and into view and locked gazes with his nemesis. Craven’s mouth turned upward into a nasty smile and Ranulf returned his grin with one of his own, intending to infuriate him. It wo
rked.

  Craven whipped back around. “Your Grace, for my first and only act as Bean King, I ask for one thing. An audience with you about a matter of great importance. Now.”

  Even Ranulf was shocked. Craven’s arrogance might cost him an audience and Ranulf the very meeting he had struggled to orchestrate. That King Henry was enraged was an understatement. His already ruddy face was now bright red. But once again the queen intervened.

  Eleanor placed a hand over the king’s and said melodically, “I think, Henry, that we should give the baron his request. He is, after all, the Bean King. And I have a feeling it will be quite enlightening if not very entertaining.”

  Henry fell back against his chair and slumped just slightly, eyeing his wife in disbelief. Ranulf knew why. It had always been Eleanor who was so adamant about audiences never to take place during a festivity.

  Ranulf skimmed the crowd looking for Bronwyn, for it was clear the queen knew something, if not everything, about their plans and he needed reassurance that all would be well. When he located her, she was already staring at him and gave him a quick wink. Ranulf returned his attention to the king, who was shrugging in resignation. With a wave of his hand, he said, “To indulge my wife, I will agree to your request, but only this once. And only if it is of a short duration.”

  In a flamboyant gesture, Craven tucked part of his cloak back with one arm and outstretched the other toward the crowd. “Before I begin, I call forth Lord Anscombe.”

  With a somber expression, Ranulf moved unhurriedly toward the king, heedless of the quiet whispers around him. Arriving, he gave Henry a bow, who shifted to sit straighter in his chair, suddenly more interested than he had been before. The king was no fool and his intelligence was extremely quick. He was undoubtedly starting to suspect that it was no accident that Craven had received the bean. Henry was just wondering who orchestrated the event—the baron or Ranulf.

  “My king,” Craven began, “you have known Lord Anscombe for some time and believe him to be faithful to your rule, but tonight I must inform you that his loyalties have changed.”

  Henry’s jaw clenched. “Just what do you accuse Ranulf of? And beware, you are still under my rule, baron, temporary Bean King or not. Do not accuse one of my nobles of disloyalty without being able to support such a claim.”

  Confidently, Craven continued, “I accuse him of several transgressions against Your Grace, and I can and will prove them.” He paused and turned toward Ranulf. “Lord Anscombe, my first question to you concerns the circumstances of the death of your late wife’s father. Could you not have saved Sir Laon le Breton and did you not choose instead to let him die?”

  Ranulf had not thought of this argument since he didn’t consider himself truly at fault. He certainly never considered Craven leading off with this particular attack. Then again, maybe the baron knew just how much Queen Eleanor admired and respected Laon. This was not good. “I didn’t let him die. It was an accident and a sad loss. But I find your question odd as it was Laon who pleaded with me to take care of his daughters as he lay dying in my arms.”

  “You broke that promise, though, didn’t you, not only to Sir le Breton, but to our king? Or are you going to deny ordering all three daughters away within hours of your arrival?”

  “I did,” Ranulf answered simply.

  Pain and disappointment flashed in the king’s eyes, causing Craven’s smirk to enlarge. The baron was craftier than Ranulf originally believed, but he was still a shortsighted fool. Craven’s inability to examine his attack strategy from any viewpoint other than his own would in the end be his undoing. Patience was needed for it was critical to let him continue to believe he had the upper hand.

  “And tell me, as a knight of the king,” Craven continued, “will you honorably and truthfully answer this? Was it you who shot an arrow at me and then ran away without showing your face?”

  “I didn’t know you to be a noble.” Again, Ranulf did not expound his answer and kept quiet about the baron’s lecherous, unwanted behavior prompting the potentially deadly response. Ranulf’s skill with a bow was well known in court. If he missed, it was not by accident. But it was not yet time for the king to rally to his side.

  “And what about Lady Bronwyn, one of the very women you were promised to protect? Was she not also just inches away from death? Did not that arrow strike between us?”

  “My recollection was that it was slightly above your heads, not in between,” Ranulf replied, reflecting what he hoped was a fair amount of boredom.

  Craven’s eyes glinted. “That woman was promised to me. Something you knew when you forced Lady Bronwyn into marriage only days later.”

  Ranulf shrugged in acknowledgment. The king and queen were now in his blind spot, so he could not see their reaction, but he could imagine it. He hoped both were more intrigued with his blasé reaction than repelled by it.

  “And what about Lady Lillabet? Was she not to be your wife?”

  “There was discussion about it. Neither she nor I desired the union.”

  “Admit that you made all three women marry, intentionally breaking not only your pledge to the king and God, but the one made to me.”

  Ranulf could feel the crowd pressing closer upon them, listening; he repressed a satisfactory smile. Soon. He just hoped Bronwyn was among them. Ready. “My promise was to protect and I did…from you.”

  “Me?” Craven shouted with feigned dismay. “Then where is your wife? This woman whom you claim needed shelter,” Craven demanded. Then to the crowd he announced, “Within a week of being under Lord Anscombe’s ‘protection,’ she turned into ashes in her own home. Alone.”

  Ranulf just stared, rage flickering in his dark gaze.

  Craven whirled back around. “Then to alleviate his guilt, his lordship blamed me and slaughtered all my men without cause or warning.”

  Fully aware of his tightly leashed anger, Ranulf forced himself to speak slowly and deliberately so that no one could misunderstand. “You set fire to Syndlear with Bronwyn inside.”

  “You killed an army of men loyal to the king over a woman! You, the bringer of peace to the northern borders, have brought us nothing but death and lies.”

  Ahh, there it was. The ultimate transgression. “I killed an army of mercenaries faithful to no one but a purse held by a man who has no loyalty for anyone but himself.”

  Craven’s demeanor instantly changed. His eyes blazed and his voice became low and menacing. “And I say you are lying. You’re lying to the king just as you lied to compel Bronwyn and her sisters into false marriages. Do you really think anyone here believes that a beautiful woman would marry you?” Craven laughed cruelly. Gesturing toward Ranulf’s scar and missing eye, he announced to the crowd, “No one will shake his hand. Even his dead wife’s sisters won’t come near him.”

  Ranulf remained mum, arms crossed, listening to the accusations.

  “They hate you, don’t they?” Craven sneered. “For the same reason your wife did. When she discovered the truth about how you killed her father, she ran away. She left you to return home and so you burned it down to hide the truth. That is what you need to know, good king,” Craven spat out. “Your Lord Anscombe is a traitor and a murderer, loyal only to himself.”

  Ranulf leveled a long, deep look, his single eye black and dazzling with fury. “The king knows I am loyal to him, just as I am loyal to my people, and my wife’s family. I am here not for myself, but them. I promised to protect them against you. And while due to distance, I have been unable to keep my king informed and ask for his counsel as I would have preferred, I kept my word. You were the reasons behind all my actions.”

  Craven crossed his arms, feeling victory was near. “You admit your failings, and claim I am the reason, but you can prove nothing.”

  “No, but I can,” came a soft voice.

  Suddenly the room parted and Bronwyn joined Ranulf by his side.

  Craven studied the masked figure, but his confidence still did not waiver. “You?
How can a lady of the court know any of what I speak?”

  Bronwyn raised her hand and carefully lifted the mask to reveal her identity. “But I am not a lady of the court,” she countered and then curtsied in front of the king, who waved for her to continue. “Her Grace offered the privilege of coming in disguise along with her other ladies-in-waiting and I accepted, but I am Lady Anscombe, Ranulf’s wife, sister to Lady Edythe and Lady Lillabet.” Then facing Craven, she added, “And the woman you tried to murder.”

  Craven blanched. “You’re supposed to be dead! No one could have lived thought that. No one!”

  Bronwyn stepped forward and in a low voice, taut with anger said, “So you admit you were there.”

  Craven’s mouth clamped shut as his chiseled features twisted in anger. “It changes nothing,” he seethed. “Your husband still lied, ignored the king’s wishes, and slaughtered my men. He will answer for his crimes.”

  “I think I shall decide on that,” came a rumbling deep voice with contempt that forbade any further argument. Instantly, the king had everyone’s attention. He rose to his feet and took a step closer. “You are Lady Bronwyn? Laon’s daughter and, if I understood correctly, Ranulf’s wife.”

  “I am.”

  “Are you here to condemn one of my nobles or to defend your husband?”

  “I came only to disprove reports of my demise.”

  “And nothing more? That I cannot believe. Do you have nothing to add? Your husband has been accused of much, most of which he freely admitted without remorse or justification.”

  A flicker of apprehension coursed through Bronwyn, but she quickly collected her thoughts and nodded. “He has, Your Grace, but if I may, I would like to make one clarifying point. As I understand it, Ranulf was charged with two primary duties when he journeyed to Hunswick to assume the title and responsibilities of being Lord Anscombe. First, he was to ensure the safety of myself and my two sisters. This, he did not just once, but three times.

  “The first time he came to my rescue with the well-placed arrow when Baron Craven tried to force his attentions upon me. The second came shortly after his arrival. He indeed ordered us to be safely escorted home, to Syndlear, which we love, but not out of contempt or disloyalty, but for protection—from himself. He mistakenly thought that I and my sisters would feel uncomfortable seeing his scars, not knowing that my mother and I were severely burned from a fire years ago.”