The Black Knight’s Captive

by Markland, Anna

  She deliberately set off in the opposite direction her captor had taken, hoping to find a secluded spot on the bank.

  * * *

  In an effort to rid himself of his tension, Dieter walked almost the whole way around the small lake before finally stripping off his clothing along with the irritating mask. He placed his sword and dagger on top of the pile and plunged in, letting the chill of the water ease his anger at the failure of his mission. He prized cleanliness and felt calmer once his body and hair were clean.

  He waded to the bank and strode out of the water, raking wet hair off his face, singing a ballad about Parsifal he had heard a minnesinger perform. As he bent to pick up his drying cloth, a squeal startled him. The song died on his lips. He had thought they had not been pursued, but now he reached for his sword and dagger, bracing to either flee or fight. He peered towards the source of the sound. Blythe FitzRam stood ten feet away, mouth agape. She had undone the neckline of her gown and rolled up her sleeves. The sight of her bare arms and slender neck sent blood rushing to his groin.

  He covered his erection with the cloth, embarrassed for her that she had stumbled upon him naked. “Lady Blythe—”

  “I thought…I came this way…you had gone the other way…” She was frantically pushing down her sleeves, still staring at him.

  It would not be the behavior of a gentleman to move towards her, but he wanted to take her in his arms, apologize for her abduction, kiss away the fear and embarrassment on her reddened face. A decisive man, his indecision hobbled him. Why had he burdened himself with the complication of Blythe Lacey FitzRam?

  Before he could explain that he had walked around the lake, she turned and fled, leaving him with the problem of what to do with his rock hard arousal and the realization she had seen his unmasked face.

  * * *

  Blythe struggled to free herself from a whirling nightmare of trees and lengthening shadows as she staggered back to camp. She should have looked away immediately when she saw the man striding from the lake, water sluicing off his body, his hair dripping wet. The sheer size of him had held her gaze.

  She paused to gulp air, leaning her arm against a tree and resting her head atop it. She closed her eyes, but the image of broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and powerful thighs would not leave her. And his manhood—oh God, who knew they could be so…substantial?

  His rich, deep voice echoed in her head, though she had not understood the words of his song. Swallowing hard, she hastened to the campfire. She wrapped a blanket tightly around her shoulders, refusing the roasted hare offered by the cook. She dared not look to the woods from where her captor would soon emerge.

  She knew now where she’d heard his voice before. She should have listened to the inner voice telling her she’d met her captor. He looked different with wet hair slicked back off his face and, admittedly, she had been distracted by his bare body. But there was no doubt it was Count Dieter von Wolfenberg who had abducted her.

  * * *

  Cursing out loud, Dieter dressed quickly after hurling the now useless mask into the trees. This was not the way he planned to reveal his identity to Blythe. He’d envisioned her seated on a comfortable sofa in his elegant home, her hand resting in his while he explained actions he barely understood himself.

  He’d not only deprived her of freedom, he’d embarrassed and shamed her, though a tiny kernel of smug pride told him she’d been impressed with his body. Or perhaps his singing.

  Before reaching the camp, he paused and took a breath, fearing he was losing his mind. Years living with Fredericka’s lunacy had evidently taken its toll.

  He caught sight of Blythe crouched under a tree, swathed in a blanket. The urge to apologize was powerful, but his men would question his judgement. The undercurrent of resentment was too palpable. Were they blaming Blythe for the failure of their mission and the loss of comrades?

  He’d put her in an intolerable position—a woman alone, sleeping out of doors with strange men.

  But the desire to be more than a stranger forced him to hunker down beside her. “I apologize, Lady Blythe. For everything.”

  “I did not give you leave to use my given name,” she muttered into the blanket without raising her head.

  He couldn’t blame her for being angry. “Again, I am sorry, my lady.”

  As he expected, she ignored him.

  “Are you cold?”

  Was he hoping she would say yes, so he could offer to keep her warm. He was tempted to take her in his arms and chase away the fear and uncertainty.

  “No.”

  His hopes fell. “Very well. We can talk on the morrow. I bid you good night.”

  He wasn’t surprised when she didn’t reply.

  Welcome Home

  Blythe was a physical and emotional wreck when they rode into Köln after two days on horseback. Neither she nor her Black Knight had uttered a word about the encounter by the lake. Thinking of him as Count Dieter would completely shatter the memory that had kept her warm through the long winter in Trier.

  They came to an impressive two-story house. Its stone façade was ornamented with statues of what she supposed were saints. The front wall seemed to soar to the heavens, tapering to a point topped by an ornate crucifix. She had never seen such an elaborately decorated façade in England. Two similar structures stood either side. In the far distance, the sun glinted off the Rhine and beyond it lay a fortified area.

  The Black Knight nodded in that direction. “There, in Tuitium, lurks your friend, Heinrich.”

  They rode under a curved arch into a large courtyard, leaving behind the bustle of the street. She opened her mouth to explain the emperor was nothing to her, but a dog barreled out of the house and leapt at the Black Knight as he dismounted. He bent to accept the joyous welcome of the black and gold dog, laughing and fondling its ears. It licked his face, ran around in circles panting, then licked him again. He fell over as the excited animal showered him with love, laughing like a small boy as the dog’s tail wagged ferociously.

  “Ja, Vormund, ich bin es.”

  When the panting dog calmed, the Black Knight came to his feet, his face flushed. She sucked her lolling tongue back into her mouth. She’d wanted to be the one crawling over him, licking his face, making him laugh. “Your dog loves you,” she murmured, immediately irritated she had even spoken to him.

  Her belly clenched when he smiled. “Ja, Vormund is a good dog. He’s our watchdog. His name means—how do you say in English—Guardian.”

  She was surprised. The relatively small dog did not appear fierce enough to be a watchdog. She reached out her hand. “He doesn’t look threatening.”

  The dog growled and she withdrew her hand quickly.

  Her captor calmed the animal. “He is a hovawart. They are excellent watchdogs. It will take him a while to get used to you, but then he will protect you with his life.”

  A while? How long was a while? The intensity in the Black Knight’s eyes filled her with the fanciful notion that he too would lay down his life for her.

  He put his warm hand on the small of her back and ushered her into the blessed coolness of the house, issuing orders to several servants who appeared as if by magic. He handed her over to a squat little woman with grey hair. “Anna will take you to bathe.”

  She wished there was something she could hold on to as the opulent surroundings tilted around her at the mention of bathing. Would she ever forget the sight of him emerging from the lake? “But my clothes—I can’t—”

  He cupped his hand under her elbow. “Don’t worry. Anna will take care of you.”

  Feeling steadier, she trailed after the little maid, who spoke in rapid German, not ceasing when Blythe simply shrugged her shoulders wearily in a sign of incomprehension. The woman did not seem taken aback by the sudden arrival of an unkempt Englishwoman.

  Anna took her to a well-appointed room where she assisted Blythe to peel off the ruined dress, hose and chemise, wrinkling up her nose as she did so. S
he barked an instruction to one of the other maids who were busily filling the metal bathtub. The girl left her task and reached up to unpin and unbraid Blythe’s hair. She should resist, but longed to have the tight braids gone. Relief surged when her hair sprang free and fell to her waist. She was impatient for it to be clean again.

  Anna tested the temperature of the water with her elbow before she allowed Blythe to step in. “Gut,” she announced, handing Blythe the soap after assisting her into the tub. She swept from the room with a self-satisfied air, shooing out the other maids.

  Blythe had never enjoyed a bath more. She soaped her aching body, then dunked her head and washed her hair. More relaxed, she lay back in the large tub and contemplated all that had happened.Thinking of the Black Knight sent warmth throbbing in a most private place and up into her belly. Her nipples hardened. She contracted her muscles, tightening her bottom. The movement sent pain radiating through her, an abrupt reminder of the soreness caused by her journey.

  “Stop thinking of him that way,” she chided herself. “He has kidnapped you. He isn’t the honorable nobleman you thought. Don’t show him any weakness. He may intend to sell you.”

  She struggled to her feet in the tub. “Holy Mother of God! Of course, that’s his plan.”

  Fear washed over her, stealing away the pleasure of the bath.

  Maman, pray for me. Pray for your little girl.

  She would never see her beloved parents again, her fate sealed like those of young women in lurid tales, sold into slavery to satisfy the appetites of eastern potentates.

  She sat back down and soaped her face quickly to hide the tears when Anna tapped at the door and entered, accompanied by several maids laden with dresses, chemises, hose and shoes. Anna fussed over the laying out of the clothing on the bed, while the maid who had unpinned her hair rinsed it with clean water. She assisted Blythe out of the tub, enveloping her in a luxurious drying cloth. Anna shooed the girl away and took over the drying. She was careful not to further irritate Blythe’s sore spots, soothing them with a cooling salve. Once her body was dry, Blythe examined the dresses, all of fine woven scarlet fabric—reds, whites, blues, and greens. The gowns were not new, but of the best quality. She would be much more comfortable in this wardrobe. The Black Knight had been very generous to his prisoner. How had he arranged all this so quickly? He must have sent word ahead.

  She selected a green surcoat dress and a fine linen chemise and the maids helped her dress. Anna’s scrubbing with the drying cloth had fortified her and now the maid brushed her long hair until it was almost dry. It felt good to have the tangles out.

  In her limited German, Blythe indicated she wanted crown braids, determined to keep the severe style she had worn to deter the men of Heinrich’s court. She did not want anything about her appearance to encourage the Black Knight. There was not much she could do about the décolletage of the dresses which she considered much too revealing.

  When Blythe was ready, Anna beckoned her through the door, making signs to show she was taking her to eat. “Kommen.”

  Blythe was hungry, having eaten only camp food on the journey, and not very much of that, since her stomach had been knotted with fear. She followed Anna willingly. The servant brought her to a large room where the Black Knight sat at an enormous wooden table laden with food. He too had washed away the evidence of their journey, though his hooded eyes betrayed his fatigue.

  He evidently favored black clothing, just as he had when she’d first met him. Tunic, leggings, boots—all the same midnight color as his thick hair, blood red the only relief in the slashed sleeves of his doublet. Three dogs lay at his feet. Vormund got up when his master rose. The rottweiler and the greyhound raised their heads and studied her, tongues lolling. The greyhound yawned.

  Her captor took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Ah, Lady Blythe, I see you’re refreshed.” His English was as perfect as his Norman French.

  Her nipples tingled and pulsating warmth spiralled deep inside. She would have to stop reacting with such wantonness to his touch. She was a woman after all, not a silly girl. She bowed slightly, withdrawing her hand quickly. “Thank you for the gowns. I am sure I don’t know how you managed to find clothing to fit so quickly.”

  He frowned and seemed uncertain of his answer. Then he smiled his enigmatic smile. “Sit and dine with me. I’m like a starving man after our journey.”

  Interview

  Dieter watched to see if Blythe caught his double meaning, and her blush as she glanced at his groin told him she did. How to tell her where he had procured the dresses? The lighter gown showed off her figure more than her own unattractive garb. Her hips promised fertility. Her breasts were fuller than his dead wife’s, and the fabric strained to contain them, but it would be wiser not to allow his thoughts to wander in that direction.

  His attraction to her puzzled and fascinated him. He should return her to the imperial court, but had wanted to get to know her from the moment he first saw her. He could not afford to mire himself in domesticity, nor even in a meaningful relationship. His ambition to serve Duke Lothair left no room for that. He had endured a hellish marriage to a mad shrew and had no intention of reliving such a nightmare again. Besides, he had a son. A young noblewoman would not want to take on the mothering of a child not her own.

  He still seethed over the failure of the kidnapping plot, and fervently hoped the duke would never find out he was involved in the debacle. He did not look forward to meeting with his co-conspirators who would demand explanations he could not give.

  Failure did not sit well with Count Dieter von Wolfenberg, and he had lost good men in the fiasco. It was doubtful Blythe would agree to stay with him as his mistress, but the prospect of returning her to the imperial court stuck in his craw. He had a feeling she would prefer to return to England. He resolved to at least put her at ease and garner some useful information at the same time. “Tell me about your family, Lady Blythe.”

  She looked away, worrying her bottom lip. “My father is Sir Caedmon FitzRam. My mother is Lady Agneta, daughter of Eidwyn Kirkthwaite, my grandfather who was murdered by Scots and their Saxon allies two years before the battle of Alnwick.”

  “Alnwick?”

  She related the details of the historic battle between the Scots and the Normans in the year of our Lord One Thousand and Ninety-three that had left the King of Scotland, Malcolm Canmore, dead on the bloodied field. “It’s where my parents met. My mother rescued my father from the battlefield. He had been severely wounded.”

  He sensed hesitation in her voice. She was guarding her tongue.

  He offered her a succulent piece of roasted chicken.

  “You like dogs,” she said, looking down at the three hounds draped across his feet. “We have dogs at home in England, but ours are mastiffs.”

  All three animals abruptly got up, as if they knew they were the subject of current conversation. Dieter stroked the rottweiler’s head then pummeled the dog’s haunches. “This is Löwe, so called because he has the heart of a lion.”

  The greyhound nuzzled his master’s hand. “And this is Schnell, because he is as swift as the wind when he chases hares.”

  “Will they let me pet them?”

  “Once they get used to you. You told me your father is part Norman, part Saxon?”

  She finally sank her teeth into the meat.

  Dieter had an unwelcome urge to jump up and lick the juices from her lips.

  “Yes,” she replied noncommittally.

  His eyes fixed on her fingers as she licked the chicken grease from them. He raked his own fingers through his hair, trying to recall what she had just said. “Is he titled? What lands does he hold?”

  “He’s the Lord of Shelfhoc Hall in the Welsh Marches.”

  “But you mentioned a home in the north.”

  “Yes, Kirkthwaite Hall. It was destroyed as I mentioned, but rebuilt by my—”

  She glanced up at him sharply, the danger of giving a
way too much evident in her narrowed eyes.

  He decided not to push her. “More chicken?”

  She nodded and accepted with a smile. “I am very hungry.”

  It was the first time he had seen her do anything but sulk. Her beauty stunned him. Why did she insist on pouting and frowning? Why didn’t she want him to see her loveliness? “How old are you, liebling?”

  Her face reddened as she stiffened her shoulders, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “A gentleman doesn’t ask such questions.”

  His assumption was correct. She did not understand the endearment he had used. “But I am no gentleman.”

  She squirmed in her seat. “No, you’re a kidnapper.”

  His mouth fell open, but before he could speak, she rushed on. “You’re wondering why I am not married. I know most young ladies are married by my age, but I wasn’t allowed to marry.”

  Dieter frowned. “Why not?”

  “I am in service to Her Highness. She has forbidden it.”

  The rumor was true. Indignation washed over him that such a beauty, made to pleasure a man and bear him sons, had been denied the opportunity. “This seems unfair. Surely, you have had many suitors?”

  She made a snorting sound. “A lady-in-waiting is considered fair game by many suitors, most of whom don’t have noble intentions. They’re aware we cannot marry.”

  In a moment of clarity he understood the reasons for the severe hairstyle and pouty face. She was a desirable woman who had known only the basest instincts of men since leaving the protection of her family. She had learned to defend herself and her heart as best she could, and he had caused her more fear and uncertainty. “Did you never wish to marry?”

  It was a long while before she answered. “If I ever marry, I would wish for an honorable man like my father. He is kind and loving.”