The Black Knight’s Captive

by Markland, Anna

  Breathing became difficult. Her eyes watered. Her feet touched the floor for an instant, then she was hoisted over a broad male shoulder, forcing the air out of her lungs with an oomph. Moving quickly, her abductor carried her towards the door of the cathedral. The patterned tile floor made her dizzy. His shoulder jarred her belly as he loped along. She pounded his back with her fists. It was like hitting a wall. She braced her hands against him, trying to get air into her lungs.

  Even through the leather of his hauberk he was rigid, hard-bodied, all muscle. She shivered with fear and boiled with indignation. Now, free to scream, she did so—loudly. Without warning, she was jerked back to her feet. The ice blue eyes of a swarthy masked man bore into her. There was something familiar about those eyes, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it when he said, “You will deafen me if you scream in my ear, milady.”

  She gulped air—the deep voice, speaking her language, penetrated to her very core. She shook her head. It couldn’t be. Her mind whirled but, before she could utter a word, he had gagged her and she was back over his shoulder, his right arm wrapped around her thighs, his left fending off another imperial guard with his sword.

  A lunge wounded the guard and the man ran on, sword in hand. He paused for a moment behind a pillar and held his breath, listening. Blythe forced down the bile rising in her throat.

  She tried to steady her breathing, but then he was moving again, with greater stealth. Blood rushed to her throbbing head and fleeting images swirled. He reached a small door, opened it slowly, and bent to clear the lintel. Her skirts rustled against the wood as he eased her through. She made the mistake of raising her head, banging it hard on the wooden frame.

  Still clinging desperately to his hauberk with one hand, she touched the other to her head, half expecting to feel blood oozing. The gag prevented anything more than a grunt.

  “My fault,” he rasped.

  A gentleman bandit! But where had she heard the voice before?

  He stepped outside and reached to untie the reins of a big black horse. He set her on her feet and mounted. For one blessed moment, she hoped he would ride away without her, but he leaned down and held out his hand. He must have seen the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. “Don’t run,” he said softly.

  * * *

  Out of breath, Dieter could scarcely believe he’d given in to the impulse to carry away Blythe FitzRam. Her unexpected presence in the cathedral ignited strong male urges that stole his wits and overwhelmed his common sense.

  He’d concentrated all his attention on her, to the extent he had no idea what had become of Matilda.

  If the mission failed, he’d shoulder the blame. He should have abandoned Blythe and assisted his comrades in fighting off the imperial guards. Instead, he’d fended off an attack as if the lady-in-waiting was the prize he must protect at all costs.

  Had she recognized his voice? He harbored a fleeting hope she might not but the notion didn’t sit well. He wanted her to know who he was, thirsted for her to remember him.

  Revealing his identity was a lunatic idea, but he knew in his heart he would soon have to remove his mask.

  How would she react? He’d frightened her, carried her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. It wasn’t the behavior of a nobleman well versed in courtly behavior.

  His brain told him to abandon her, but his heart refused to allow it.

  Black Knight

  Who was this brigand who spoke both her languages? Trembling uncontrollably, Blythe averted her eyes, squealing involuntarily when he pulled her effortlessly on to the horse and sat her in his lap. On a clipped command in German, the horse cantered away. She had no choice but to cling to him as he held her fast, his arm tight around her waist. She heard the steady beating of his heart. Hers was probably deafening him. She closed her eyes in an effort to overcome the dizziness. Her frenzied mind filled with memories of family stories of the devastating attack by marauding Scots that had taken the lives of her grandparents and uncles. Now, she fully understood the paralyzing terror her mother must have experienced that day long ago.

  Her throat constricted when she thought of her parents. She wanted to cry out, to weep and wail, but was determined to be brave. This bandit must not know she was afraid. After all, she was a descendant of Vikings. She conjured an image of the ceremonial dagger that hung on the wall of her Northumbrian home in Kirkthwaite Hall and of the Danish ancestor who had carved its hilt. She called on his aid, just as her mother had done when her father left to join the crusade.

  Her abductor shifted his weight in the saddle, jolting her out of her trance. He moved her arms to around his neck—no choice but to rest her head against his chest. Except for loving hugs exchanged with close relatives, she had never been so close to a male body. His legs were like iron and a strange hardness pressed against her thigh. She had often seen her brothers’ man-parts when they were all children, but did not recall anything so—big. She still tasted the leather of his gloves on her tongue. He smelled of leather too, and something else—sweat, fear? Was he afraid? She risked a glance but his masked face gave away nothing.

  After what seemed like an eternity, they galloped through the Porta Nigra and eventually arrived at a small shrine. It looked deserted but, as they approached, a young man emerged to grasp the horse’s reins. Her captor said something in German, then released her and she slid into the arms of the youth. Her knees buckled as her numbed feet hit the ground.

  The boy seemed flustered as he helped her regain her balance. “Kaiserin Matilda?” he asked.

  The kidnapper dismounted, shook his head, took his prize from the boy and carried her into the chapel of the ancient shrine. Her heart did a peculiar flip when he set her upright and eyed her from head to toe. “Do you promise not to scream if I remove the gag, my lady?”

  His deep voice held no threat. She nodded mutely, her eyes wide, feeling completely disheveled, alone and defeated.

  He untied the gag. “If you scream, no one will hear you—only the ghosts.”

  Fear and indignation kept her silent. What was she doing here? Why had he taken her? Perhaps he thought she was someone else. Summoning up her courage, hoping her voice would not betray her terror, she declared, “I am Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam. My father is half Norman, half Saxon. My mother is of Saxon and Danish descent.”

  He nodded, a strange half smile tugging at his lips. “I know who you are, liebling.”

  Blythe clenched her fists nervously, nails digging into the flesh of her palms. How could he know her?

  “Quite a mixture,” he quipped. “So, you’re from the northern part of England?”

  It seemed incongruous to be standing in the shadows of this ancient chapel having a conversation as if they were recently introduced acquaintances at some courtly function. She took another deep breath. “No, but my mother was born there. I was born in the Welsh Marches. I have a twin brother, Aidan. We live for part of the year in the north, at my mother’s ancestral home of Kirkthwaite Hall.”

  Why was she telling him these personal details? Why had he kidnapped her? She kept the questions to herself, fearful of the answers. Her heart was still beating too fast, but was it because of her predicament or his overwhelming maleness?

  “That’s the most I’ve heard you say,” he remarked with a smile.

  She stared, not sure what to make of his cryptic remark.

  But then he frowned. “You came to our land with Heinrich’s child bride.”

  It was not a question and she could not fail to hear the sarcasm in his voice. She averted her eyes from his steadfast gaze. It was on the tip of her tongue to explain she had been brought against her will, but that would be disloyal to her mistress. “Yes, I’m one of her ladies-in-waiting.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What is it you’re waiting for, Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam?”

  The question took her by surprise and she wondered if he perhaps didn’t understand the term lady-in-waiting. He was too refined for that, too much a
man of the world. What did he see when those blue eyes pierced her? The truth? She almost blurted out the secret longings of her heart.

  I’m waiting for a worthy knight to sweep me off my feet, carry me away and make me his wife in every way possible.

  What was she thinking? Heat rushed into her face, and he smiled again. Suddenly, she swayed, overwhelmed by the heat and distress. He caught her before she fell and carried her over to a stone bench.

  “My lady, I’m a terrible host. I should offer you a beverage. You’ve had an ordeal. Ale, perhaps? I can summon the boy.”

  She had regained some of her equilibrium now she was seated. She used her hand as a fan. “No, thank you. I’m just so hot.”

  He raked his gaze over her attire. “Forgive me, Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam, but your garments aren’t suited to our summer climate.”

  She smiled ruefully. “You’re absolutely right. It would be good to be wearing less.”

  His blue eyes lit up with suggestive delight—had she no control over her words?

  Think before you speak. Be on your guard.

  “Your hair is too tightly braided. My apologies if it appears rude to say so, but it is fashioned in a style that doesn’t suit your beautiful face.”

  Indignation pricked. He was correct, but what right did this masked bandit have to criticize her?

  He raised his hand to touch her hair. “I regret bumping your head as we left the cathedral. How does it feel now?”

  Instantly better with his touch.

  “Perhaps if you took down your hair you would feel more comfortable.”

  A shiver raced up and down her spine. “I cannot, sir,” she whispered, wishing fervently she could. “It wouldn’t be seemly to take down my hair in your presence.”

  He laughed. “Lady Blythe, it’s not seemly of me to have carried you off.”

  His laughter reverberated down to her toes and she took courage from his teasing. “You are a black knight.”

  He looked away. “You can call me your Black Knight if you wish.”

  My Black Knight.

  “Schwarzer ritter,” she attempted.

  He laughed again. “You have a good ear for my language.”

  The silence stretched between them before she had the courage to ask, “Why have you brought me here?”

  His eyes pierced her. “We need you to take care of your empress. She knows you. She’ll feel safer.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You’ve kidnapped the empress? Why?”

  He leapt to his feet. “Do you English know nothing of German politics, of our realities?”

  She averted her eyes, stunned by his vehement reply.

  He took her hand and bowed to kiss it. “Forgive me, Lady Blythe, I didn’t mean to be rude. We’ve come from Köln. Heinrich has laid siege to the city and blockaded it, cutting us off from the Rhine. The river is our lifeline. We don’t wish to be his subjects, so we’ve rebelled. We’ll hold Matilda until he withdraws. We wish no harm to her, nor to you.”

  She looked up nervously, wanting, for some incomprehensible reason, to lift her hand to her lips and lick the still-wet warmth of his kiss. “You’re from Köln? I know of the struggle there.”

  He shook his head emphatically. “Nein, I’m from Saxony. Like you, I have Saxon blood. We’re allies of our friends in Köln. I’m a vassal of Duke Lothair of Saxony.”

  Her throat constricted. She remembered Lothair, but it wouldn’t be wise to reveal she had met him. All of this was beyond her. She laced her fingers together and looked anxiously toward the door. “But where is Matilda? Is someone bringing her? She must be terrified.”

  His brow furrowed as he rose to his feet. “Ja, you’re right to be concerned. They should be here by now.”

  He strode outside, leaving her alone in the silent chapel. She was grateful the stone pillars made it cooler here, but now she was trembling, despite the heavy gown. The sweat of her fear became clammy. Several anxious minutes later she heard horses approaching at speed. Men shouted at each other in German. The Black Knight’s deep voice was raised in anger. Strangely, hearing it again calmed her. Abruptly, he came back into the church, grasped her elbow and urged her towards the door.

  She lifted the hem of her dress, afraid to stumble. “What’s happening? Where are we going now?”

  “Köln.”

  Panic seized her. She would never be rescued if he took her to Köln. She tried in vain to pull her arm from his tight grasp. “But where is Matilda?”

  He stopped suddenly and turned her to face him, his hands gripping her shoulders.

  She held her breath, frightened by the anger blazing in his blue eyes.

  “Lady Blythe, I’m not accustomed to failure, but it seems my men have failed. Matilda escaped with her guards. Six of my comrades were killed, and several wounded.”

  A wave of relief swept over her. She would be freed. “But if you don’t have Matilda, why do you need me?”

  She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. He might kill her now.

  He stared at her for long moments. “We don’t, but you’ll come with us anyway.”

  She lowered her eyes and her heart plummeted. “I’m to be a hostage? They’ll give you nothing for me. I’m of no importance to them.”

  He touched her hair again. “You’re right,” he replied gently. “But you’re of importance to me.” He mounted and held out his hand. “Ride behind me.”

  She glanced around. Wounded men slumped against the backs of several riders. Perhaps, she could aid them. With no hope of escape or rescue, she obeyed. She hitched up her copious skirts, straddled the horse, grateful for many hours spent riding behind her twin, and flung her arms around his waist. They rode off into the midday sun.

  * * *

  The fear and hopelessness in his captive’s eyes saddened Dieter. He was not a man who kidnapped innocent young women, and he had no doubt Lady Blythe Lacey FitzRam was indeed an innocent. But she was brave and hadn’t whined or wept once, despite her obvious terror. She’d maintained a dignified bearing.

  “Why should I care what this Norman wench thinks?” he wondered, trying to decide if her eyes were green or brown. But he knew the answer and admitted ruefully he had flirted with her, something he’d longed to do for more than a year.

  Breasts pressed against him when he’d carried her over his shoulder had confirmed his belief she was beautifully formed. He had probably hurt her. If he could just peel down her gown and make sure she wasn’t bruised. He licked his lips, his rute responding when he conjured a vision of her copious globes in his hands.

  Hurriedly ushering her out of the shrine, he tried to justify his actions. She would be an encumbrance. Why not simply cut his losses and leave her here? However, he thirsted to pull her tresses free of the braids, to see her hair flowing over bare shoulders, to rid her face of the sulky pout. He resolved to concentrate on the hard reality of the failure of his mission. But his body betrayed him again as Lady Blythe’s firm breasts pressed against his back in cadence with the movement of the horse.

  Flight

  The mood of the men with whom Blythe rode was sombre. They were keenly aware they had failed in their mission and it had cost their comrades’ lives. They rode all day, slowed down by the injured men and by her presence in their midst. She was a liability. It was clear from several hushed yet heated exchanges between the Black Knight and his men they questioned his bringing her. Did they advocate killing her to rid themselves of the burden? Fear stalked her, yet, deep down, she did not believe her abductor would harm her.

  There were no amenities when they camped at night. Her bedraggled dress weighed her down like a stone. She longed for a good tub soak, and privacy. Her braids had come partly undone and she despaired of ever combing her hair again. Her bottom was chafed. She could not recall the last time she had ridden so far.

  The Black Knight seemed to be sensitive to the discomfort of her sore derrière, sometimes having her ride before him. She was
dismayed and embarrassed by the hard male length pressed against her when the movement of the horse caused unavoidable contact—which was most of the time. He smiled his crooked grin when she eased her body away from his obvious interest. While she had not lain with a man, her mother had enlightened her as to what that particular swelling meant. The thought of lying abed with this powerful, enigmatic warrior sent gooseflesh racing up her spine.

  Lacking expertise as a healer, she nevertheless did her best to ease the pain of the wounded men. None of the wounds were severe enough to be fatal, but fever could carry off the strongest of men in a trice. Her linen underskirt served to make bandages to stem bleeding, but she had no salve to offer. Her efforts to ease their suffering seemed to soften some of the censure. The sacrifice of her underskirt was a relief in the heat.

  The second night they made camp close by a small lake. She stared longingly at the water.

  “Do you wish to bathe, my lady?”

  Preoccupied with gazing at the moon shimmering on the water, she had not heard her captor approach. The accented voice broke into her reverie and heat suffused her chest and throat. She shook her head. “No,” she said, longing to say yes.

  He gave her a quizzical look. “With your permission, I intend to avail myself of the lake to cleanse my body and revive my spirit.”

  He bowed slightly and left her by the campfire. He had spoken to her as if they were friends, equals, intimates. The audacity! He had abducted her. Chivalrous knights were supposed to rescue maidens, not carry them off. Yet, his familiarity was strangely thrilling.

  She turned her attention to doing what little she could for the wounded men. It would be a while before the cook had food ready. She was afraid to fall asleep if she sat by the fire. Perhaps, she could steal away and at least wash her face in the lake. There was no possibility of removing her clothing surrounded as she was by foreign bandits.