Castles, Knights, and Chivalry: 4 Medieval Romance Novels

by Ruth Kaufman

  He scanned the area, which offered some trees, the square crenellated keep, and a small chapel to the left with a building behind it. Another building to the side appeared to be a kitchen.

  Martin snorted. “Worse and worse. You’ve been denied your pilgrimage to protect a tiny woman, a few buildings and a mere keep. We should’ve been sent to a major castle. Your plans have been postponed by an expedition not worthy of your many talents.”

  “We go where needed, whether or not the surroundings are ideal,” he replied.

  The woman lifted her head and sat up straight. She looked over her shoulder, the weariness on her face striking a chord of sympathy within him.

  “The entrance is around the corner,” she said.

  Three sheep trotting around the corner, thick wool bouncing, drew her attention. The trio stopped directly in front of Merlin.

  Amice burst into laughter, sparking joy within him. “They must’ve heard my voice. Hello, Isabella! Hello, Eleanor. Hello, Edward,” she cooed, greeting each in turn.

  She slid to the ground before Nicholas could help her, leaving a dirty stripe on Merlin’s coat. The woman continued to talk to the sheep, who gathered around her eagerly.

  Either she was Lady Amice or the shepherdess. Soon he would have answers. He couldn’t conceal a grin at the sight of the mud-encrusted woman surrounded by three cavorting sheep.

  She was even lovelier when she smiled.

  Amice led them into the castle through a high, arched door on the left side of the keep. “My thanks for returning me to my home, Sir Nicholas. Now tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

  “When you’re warm and dry.” He brought important news, which deserved the right time for the telling. He ignored the frown marring her smooth skin and looked up. “Impressive. Whoever built this keep recognized the defensive potential of a narrow, steep staircase.”

  “William de Albini began building Castle Rising in 1138….” She glared at him. “Stop trying to distract me. The minute I’ve changed garments, I expect answers.”

  They walked into a vaulted vestibule with an arcade of shuttered windows. A door to the left led into the great hall.

  Several servants sat on benches, conversing as though they had nothing better to do. One, a young woman with flaming red hair that couldn’t quite be contained by her simple headdress, caught sight of them and scurried over, her wide, freckled face breaking into a smile.

  “My Lady Amice, thank goodness you are home! We didn’t know what to do, we awaited word—” The young woman recoiled and backed away. “Oh, it’s him. AAAAAH!”

  Harry Winfield stood in the doorway, no longer restrained by Nicholas’s men.

  “Ginelle,” Amice said. “All is well. We are safe. These men rescued me.”

  Ginelle paused mid-flight, clearly uncertain. She relaxed when Martin and Thomas the Tall each grabbed one of Winfield’s arms. He struggled briefly, his futile attempt to break free ending in a seething stare at his captors.

  “When Harry found you gone, he went wild,” Ginelle accused, excitement flushing her fair skin. “He threw everything he could get his hands on, plates, chairs. He dragged me across the floor, shouting for me to tell him where you were and…then he ran out after you. I was so afraid.”

  Nicholas had his proof. The woman he’d rescued was Amice. He’d force rare words of apology from his lips. “Lady Amice, I beg forgiveness for doubting your word.”

  She nodded her head in gracious acceptance. “I trust it won’t happen again. And that shortly you’ll explain your presence here.” She turned to the others. “This is Sir Nicholas Grey. His men have Harry well in hand.”

  A short, wrinkled man with flowing gray hair hurried into the hall. “You’re safe, you’re back!” He dropped to his knees. “Forgive us, Lady Amice. Harry’s men watched us night and day to keep us from sending for help.”

  “Harry’s actions hurt us all, Cyril.” She turned to Nicholas. “Cyril Hodges is my steward. Ginelle is my maid.”

  The way Ginelle, Cyril and the others looked to her and at her told him they respected Lady Amice. He admired her confidence.

  “How did you get away from Harry?” Ginelle asked. “He had you locked up so tight, we feared for your life.”

  Curiosity made Nicholas interrupt. “Harry imprisoned Lady Amice?”

  Anger at Harry, at himself, flashed through him. He’d been so reluctant to come here he hadn’t considered how far some might go to get their hands on a wealthy widow. And a lovely one, at that. Henceforth, duty would be his only concern.

  Cyril said, “Harry and his men swarmed our castle and held Lady Amice under guard in her room until she’d agree to marry him. They gave her only bread and water, forbidding contact with anyone. For four days.”

  Amice looked as though she might faint. Her skin was pale as an angel’s. Her beauty made him want to stare.

  Nicholas guided her to a chair and helped her sit. He couldn’t resist tucking his cloak around her. “But you could never marry your husband’s cousin. Such a marriage is forbidden by the Church. You share a bond of affinity.”

  “All rational people know that,” Amice agreed. “But Harry said some ignore the prohibition and he too would find a way around it. Mayhap get a dispensation.” Her small, white hands gripped the edges of his cloak, holding it close as if to protect herself from painful memories. “Each day, I tried and tried to find a means of escape. Each evening, he’d come to me and ask if I’d marry him. By the fourth day, I was so hungry, so desperate to be free, I lied and said ‘yes.’

  “He believed the pretense of my acceptance and allowed me some freedom.” Someone handed her a cup of steaming broth, which she accepted with a nod. She took a sip. “Harry and his men lowered their guard when I appeared to prepare eagerly for the wedding. This morn, amidst the bustle of activity on the day of our supposed marriage, I managed to ride away.”

  Cyril added, “After Harry went out to find you, his men tried to steal from your coffers. I locked them in your chamber and went to the village to raise a search party. I must go disband it.” Wringing his hands, he turned and went back the way he had come.

  “Steward, wait,” Nicholas called.

  The short man halted, his hair taking a moment to settle.

  “Before you go, show my men Martin and Thomas the Tall where they can contain Harry.”

  “If I weren’t so wet and hungry I’d demand this instant to know why you’re here,” Amice said. “You’ll be shown to your chamber, and then we shall eat. I’ll have your complete tale then. You’ve heard mine.” Holding her head high, she swept out of the room, damp skirts dragging at the rushes covering the wood floor.

  Amice clenched her teeth as she strode to the chamber she’d use during Sir Nicholas’s visit. How dare he order her people about? At least Cyril had looked to Amice for confirmation before following his order.

  She’d show Sir Nicholas who was in charge. She didn’t need some man, who knew nothing about her, ruling her or her home. At nine and twenty, she’d gained enough knowledge and experience to manage her household. Her husband’s death had freed her of a man’s rule. Of his commands and his demands.

  Amice let Ginelle help her out of her ruined garments as servants brought hot water for her bath. “My lady, he is so handsome. Those eyes, the bluest I’ve seen. Such a fine face. And he seems strong, yet kind as well.”

  Amice didn’t need to ask to whom Ginelle referred. She’d never met a man as attractive as Nicholas. His air of authority, the ease with which he took control and the alacrity with which he made decisions and people acted upon his orders, annoyed and made her respect him at the same time.

  “Shall I attend him?” Ginelle offered, her brown eyes round with hope.

  The thought of her pretty maid alone with Nicholas made her uneasy. Best keep temptation away.

  “No. Please lay out my lavender gown.” She’d wear one of her finest out of respect for Nicholas’s standing with the king, not
because she cared what he thought of her or wanted to look her best for him. And fall prey to the sin of vainglory.

  She eased into the water, aching cold seeping from her tired body. Her favorite soap, scented with rose water, burned as it met the raw spot on her head. Two latherings later, she was clean. It felt good to be clean. And even better to be home.

  When she was dressed, she felt almost herself again. She wore a gown of lavender wool over a cream kirtle, with flared sleeves and an elaborate border embroidered with flowers. The low neckline revealed a pleated section of the underdress. Her hair, unbound for she hated headdresses, gleamed in soft ringlets.

  She touched the necklace she wore always, a square miniature of her mother rimmed by tiny amethysts and pearls hanging from an unusual chain of linked A’s, her mother’s initial. Adding a short, worked gold necklace set with garnets her cousin Cromwell had given her, she hoped the jewels would make her appear and feel confident and in control.

  Amice descended the stairs, having offered her larger chamber on the main level to Nicholas in deference to his status. A servant busily transferred her belongings to the smaller room she’d occupied as a child. As long as she had the small painting of her parents and brother near her bed, she was home.

  The head table sat on the long side of the rectangular hall across from the windows. How unsettling to see Nicholas in the lord’s chair, as if he were lord of all he surveyed. Of her. But she couldn’t help admiring how the way he held himself conveyed confidence. How handsome he was, as Ginelle had said.

  She sensed each man watching her as she took her place beside her guest. Sir Nicholas’s gaze fair burned her skin. A rush of uncertainty and nervousness kept her from meeting it. When was the last time a man had admired her appearance?

  Servers carried in steaming platters, turning the men’s attention from her. Stewed mutton flavored with costly pepper, haddock in creamy sauce and huge slices of crusty bread were set before her. The first meal she’d eaten in days.

  Food had never tasted so good. She studied Nicholas through lowered lashes as she ate. A man as handsome as he must have women clamoring to claim him. His black hair, longer than the favored close-cropped styles, fell in shining waves against his forehead and brushed the collar of his dark blue tunic. Unlike most men, he wore no hat.

  A shiver went through her as she recalled Nicholas’s first look at her in the clearing, his intense gaze taking in every detail. With him and his men added to her staff and Harry locked away, she felt safe. But thoughts of the unknown disturbed her peace as she chewed on a chunk of soft, still-warm manchet bread. What could the king possibly want with her?

  Time for some answers.

  Chapter 2

  “Sir Nicholas. I thank you for saving me from Harry and returning me to Castle Rising,” Amice said above the din of chatter and laughter. “I hope you won’t be called upon again to take on such a dangerous task on my behalf.”

  “It was my duty,” Nicholas responded.

  “Your duty? Why have you come here?” She met his gaze, ignoring eagerness to learn more about Sir Nicholas the man.

  “You truly didn’t expect us? I sent a messenger ahead to alert you to our arrival.”

  “I didn’t receive a message. Harry must have intercepted it. No wonder he was in such haste to wed.” A chill raced through her at the thought of what might have happened if he had succeeded. “I didn’t know you were on your way, much less the reason why. Tell me now.”

  His expression yielded no clue. He glanced around the room at the keen faces, each straining to hear his answer. “I’d rather discuss this privately.”

  Amice saw people she considered her family. Anything concerning her interested them, as their lives interested her. And as it wasn’t a common occurrence for a king’s man to visit, they too must be most curious as to his purpose.

  Kind of Sir Nicholas to consider her feelings, but…. “I’ve waited long enough. I keep no secrets here.”

  “As you will. Best get it out without delay, then.” He set down his eating knife. “King Henry and Queen Margaret have decided you should wed again. They’re seeking a husband for you.”

  Whispers flew about the hall.

  He continued, “I’m to ensure your safety until they send for you, and then escort you to court.”

  The king and queen wanted her to marry. And they wanted to choose her husband.

  Amice’s hands shook around her goblet. She hid them beneath the table and struggled for control by taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. Then another. Maybe now she’d be able to keep from bursting into tears.

  Sir Nicholas was an intruder. This man didn’t deserve to know how his news affected her. He’d rescued her out of obligation. She didn’t owe him her secrets.

  Why did her relatives have to be so important? Many widows had the power to choose their next husbands. Perhaps Henry would present her with several candidates, allowing her the final choice. Why, she’d be willing to pay for such a privilege.

  She had to take matters into her own hands before it was too late.

  “If there’s nothing else you need, I shall retire,” Amice said.

  “Have you nothing to say? I’d hoped the news would please you.” His eyes, the shade of yarn her mother used to call the sky at twilight, revealed none of his thoughts. “Lady Amice, are you well?”

  Mother. If she and Father had lived, would Amice be so alone, in this unfortunate position?

  What was it to Sir Nicholas who she wed? “Have you ever been married?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Then you can’t know what it is to live with a spouse you didn’t choose. One husband picked for me was quite enough. But we’re all at the king’s command, aren’t we?” Tears threatened. She swallowed them back despite a suddenly dry throat and stood. She wouldn’t cry in front of him, let him think her weak. He’d rescued her once already today. She couldn’t bear another hint of concern or compassion. “Perhaps in the morning you’d care to survey the area.”

  “I would. I’m sure your steward can show us what we need to see. We need not trouble you,” Nicholas replied.

  Clearly he thought her a delicate flower of a lady, or one lacking intelligence. She couldn’t keep rancor from her voice. “I know these lands better than anyone, even Cyril.”

  “Very well. We’ll leave after we break the fast.”

  He had given, now she must. “Very well. Good night.”

  As Amice climbed the stairs, dizziness assailed her. She swayed slightly, putting her hand to her head. Summoning strength, she made her way up the stairs by clinging to the stone wall, hoping no one had seen her waver. She was rarely ill. Days without food and long exposure to the cold combined with the impact of Nicholas’s news must have taken their toll.

  She made it inside her door, then collapsed.

  Someone screamed. Nicholas, on his way to his chamber, retraced his steps. Taking the stairs at a run, he collided with Ginelle as he burst into the hallway.

  “More evil is at hand,” the maid wailed. “My lady is ill. What if Harry poisoned her food? I can’t open her door. I think she’s wedged against it.”

  Pushing slowly and carefully, he opened the door, then picked up Amice and carried her to the canopied bed. Setting her gently on the soft mattress, he rested her head against the pillows. She was still as death, her skin pale.

  He sucked in a breath. If anything happened to her, he’d fail his king. Fail himself. Surely that was why concern and worry warred within him, tiny spears and daggers lancing his gut.

  He felt Amice’s forehead, recoiling as his hand met burning heat. “She has a fever.”

  “What are we to do? She usually takes care of the sick.” Ginelle wrung her hands.

  Nicholas had a rudimentary knowledge of tending battle wounds, but was at a loss about curing fevers. What had his mother done when people took ill? “Is there someone who knows what to do? If so, I’ll fetch him. You change her clot
hes and cover her with quilts.”

  Ginelle, seeming calmer now that there was a plan, vague though it was, said, “We’ve no physician. Sometimes Maia, the cook, she’s got herbs for things.”

  “Well, then, we’ll have to make do.” Nicholas had seen physicians at work and reasoned Amice might be better off without one. His sister, Margaret, almost died after a physician bled her in an effort to realign her humors. Her recovery had taken months.

  By the time Nicholas returned with Maia, Amice was tucked beneath several quilts. She rolled to the side, exposing a red spot on her cheekbone.

  The three looked at each other in horror, eyes wide.

  “Red spots. She’s got plague!” Ginelle burst into tears. “We’re doomed. We’ll all catch it and die horrible deaths.”

  Who could forget the outbreak in 1434 that had killed rich and poor alike? Almost everyone knew someone who had succumbed.

  Maia approached the bed, leaning back as if she didn’t want to get too close. “Thank the Lord, I don’t think it’s that,” she said. “She must’ve scraped her face when she fell. I’ll mix a drink she must take every hour. Won’t work if she doesn’t. Maybe some cucumber with honey and oil too, that’s good for fever. Or some fennel…no, that would only be if she stays ill.” She turned to look at Nicholas. “Milord, there is nothing you can do here. We’ll wake you if need be.”

  He wasn’t used to being told there wasn’t anything he could do. Still, he had no choice but to trust the cook. His insides twisted as he looked down at Amice’s unconscious form. The desire to protect her, help her, filled him. And not just because he had been ordered to, or because completion of his duty depended on her safety. Somehow, it was more than that. As if she was a valued friend. Someone important to him.

  A peculiar way to feel, knowing her for such a short time. He hadn’t had strong protective feelings for anyone since his mother died. How could he care for someone he’d known less than a day? Perhaps it was only that he felt the need to protect her after what she’d endured at Harry’s hand. Yes, that must be it.