Once Upon a Knight

by Jackie Ivie

  Vincent took them one at a time, since that was all the width of the aisle permitted, keeping his blows and lunges spaced with every beat of his heart as it filled his entire body and gave him a primeval rhythm only he heard. Until the last man was flung backward over his shoulder and he stood from the crouch such a movement necessitated, sucking in and breathing heavy sweat-soaked essence all over the ethereal goddess that still stood there, clutching a bouquet of purple and white flowers and driving him mindless with just the inhalation of her smell. His arms dropped to his sides, putting the shield along his left side, and the sword tip to the stone floor.

  “Just who do you think you are, entering the House of the Lord—!”

  Vincent ignored the preacher and took a step closer to her. “What…do you ken…you’re doing?” he asked amid pants of breath.

  She lifted her head, arching her neck and showing several bruised spots where he’d been a little more passionate than he’d intended, and met his gaze with wide, silver-hued eyes. Vincent felt his heart drop into the region of his belly and start pounding from there instead, filling his ears with the sound of singing.

  “I am getting wed,” she whispered.

  “Nae,” he answered, taking another step toward her and scraping the blade tip as he did so.

  “In full battle gear and without benefit of a bath! Blasphemy!”

  The preacher was still orating from his pulpit. Vincent speared a glance that way and noted the man was using the altar more for defense than reverence. Then Vincent looked back down to Lady Sybil, filled his eyes with the sight of her in form-fitting attire, with her hair unbound and everything prepared for…a husband? He wondered at the hard pressure within his heart that made him wince, lifting one side of his lip.

  “I dinna’ truly wish to,” she said, as if that explained her actions.

  “Why?” He asked in a harsh tone.

  “You need ask?”

  There was the lightest touch of pink to the tips of her cheeks, making her even more lovely and multiplying the wondrous smell warming the air about him a hundredfold. He shook his head, refusing to acknowledge how badly he was being spelled, and looked over her head toward her bridegroom. Sucked in another chest full of air and looked back down at her.

  “I’m asking the why of your wedding. Not the who,” he replied, putting the entire sentence out with one breath.

  “I had to! He has Waif. He threatened me.”

  Vincent lifted his head and whistled loudly, and was rewarded by the heavy paw sound of a wolf in full run. And then the sound changed, showing it was definitely Waif as he entered through the broken vestry doors and took leap after leap over the unconscious forms until he was at Vincent’s side, heaving with the same expenditure of strength and effort. There was a scream at his entrance from Lady Eschon, but everyone else was silent.

  “Waif…was with you?” Sybil asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Then…he lied?” Her voice was rising as she gestured over her shoulder to the stunted dwarf she’d been about to wed.

  “You were wedding to save the beast?”

  She nodded.

  “Stupid. And wasteful. You’re na’ wedding him. Na’ today. And na’ any other day, either.” He was close enough to her to see every shadow flutter of every eyelash as she looked down from him, shutting him out. Vincent lifted the sword and shoved it back into its scabbard, making the ring of steel on metal grommets even louder since they were still in a chapel.

  “And he finally sheaths his blade. Thank the Lord!”

  Vincent ignored the preacher’s sputtering coming from behind the altar. “You are verra pretty in your finery. Verra. I shall put your attire to good use. Once I finish with it, that is.”

  There was a loud gasp, probably coming more from the others about them than from her. He watched as she made it, though. Then the preacher fellow was haranguing him again.

  “You dare say such! In a house of God?”

  Vincent smiled down at her. “You will na’ have need of it again. You’re na’ wedding with him.”

  “I’m na’?” she asked.

  “Nae.”

  “Says who?”

  It was the little man asking it finally, as if he’d discovered he had a manhood and had better put it to use. Vincent looked over her head and watched as the dwarf jumped down to the stone floor and started up the aisle, waddling in his rush. Vincent had the enchantress gripped to him and brought to his left side beneath his shield, ignoring the instant intake of air she’d made as much as he was trying to ignore how the feel of her in his arms and next to him was affecting everything. His entire body was giving him trouble over the proximity of her as a flush suffused him, bringing sweat that his headband had to divert into his hair, and a trembling that she had to feel, too. He looked back at her, pulled by something beyond his control. Like always.

  “What have you done to me?” he whispered and saw her eyes widen.

  Then he was swiveling, pulling his sword at the same time and aiming it unerringly at the neck of the dwarf man who had reached them and was stopped just shy of the tip.

  He watched as the man eyed the blade hovering within a slice of his death. Then the dwarf gulped. “That woman is promised to me,” he said loudly.

  “Na’ today,” Vincent replied easily.

  “To me,” the man repeated.

  Vincent sighed, long and loud. “’Twas a vacant promise, my lord. Made under threat.”

  “To me!” The man repeated it stubbornly and backed away far enough to pull a sword from one of the men folded over the top of a pew, although he was having trouble wielding it with any grace or strength since it was longer than he was tall. Vincent was hard put not to laugh.

  “The woman stays with me. Cease the argument, and we’ll all go partake of a wedding feast and great kegs of ale.” He felt the reaction all along the woman clutched to his side as she stiffened. And then she went limp, making him work at keeping her attached and away from the little runt.

  “I’m wedding this woman. You are na’ stopping me!”

  “Sir Ian has first right, my lord. And the blessing of the family. You have to listen.” It was the preacher fellow again. Bolstering up the dwarf’s claim as he stood behind him, looking as fat and ungainly and mild-mannered in his vestments as he sounded.

  Vincent sighed again, even louder this time. “I’ve tired of this argument. The woman is mine. She stays with me.”

  “Without the blessings of the church?” The preacher was shocked. “You must allow Sir Ian’s claim. At least he promises his name.”

  “I’ve na’ said I haven’t.” Vincent didn’t know where the words came from, but once said there was no taking them back.

  “You’ll wed this woman in his stead? Is this what you offer?” The preacher fellow asked it, while Vincent could hear a cry of surprise that could have come from anywhere, including the lass at his side.

  “The woman is mine!” The little man was still struggling to hold the sword. His bravery wasn’t in question, only his sanity as he yelled the words.

  “I dinna’ stop this farce to gain a bride,” Vincent answered.

  “Why did you, then?” Lady Eschon asked from a secure position at the far end of her pew. Vincent gave her a minute glance before returning to the duo facing him.

  “The lass and I…we’ve unfinished business,” he replied.

  “You’d allow my grandchild to be brought into the world without blessing of the church?” she asked in a voice so loud it echoed.

  “Has the entire world gone mad?” Vincent asked.

  “I’ll na’ allow it!” the preacher announced. “You’re to wed with the lass or unhand her back into Sir Ian’s keeping. This moment!”

  “Or…?” Vincent stretched out the word, leaving his sentence unfinished and threatening-sounding.

  “You’ll answer to your maker! That’s what!” the preacher informed him.

  Vincent rolled his head on his shoulders, l
ifted Sybil a little closer, using his bent arm to cup her form. Then he spent a moment pulling in a noseful of her scent, before looking back down at the preacher, who was fronted by the dwarf. Threats of punishment in the afterlife only worked if one had a conscience. And a soul. Someone should have told the man before this. Vincent opened his mouth to make it a certainty, but the dwarf forestalled him.

  “Are you willing to take your claim out onto the list?” The little man waved the sword toward Vincent. He looked like a tot playing with a weapon many times too large for him. Vincent put his head back and roared with laughter.

  “Laugh at me, will you?”

  There was a pinprick of pain at his knee. Vincent brought his head down to see that the fellow had pricked him on the right leg, just above the knee. The laughter died, anger took over, and without thinking, he bent both knees, going to a crouch in order to land the most punishing blow he could to the man’s chin with the sword hilt. He didn’t even note that Lady Sybil was glued to him the entire motion. His aim was perfect, and his strength more than the little man could take. Everyone watched as Sir Ian launched backward and landed at the feet of the preacher fellow, who had sidestepped to allow it. They all watched as he lay there, twitching occasionally with one leg or the other.

  “Look what you have done now. Oh dearest God!”

  It was the Lady Eschon next, sounding like she was near to fainting, and then proving it as she slid into a prone position in her assigned pew.

  “And just what is it I’ve done?” Vincent asked.

  “His clan promises war if I dinna’ allow her to wed with him. He used her fear of Waif to get her to accept. Now you come and change everything?” Lady Eschon was trembling as she spoke.

  “You’ve naught to fear from him.” Vincent gestured down to the dwarf before dropping the sword beside him.

  “Who is going to protect us? You?”

  “Aye. Me. I’m a clansman of the Donal. You ken?”

  The cry of surprise at his words was definitely coming from the lass at his side, and she wasn’t limp anymore. She was tense and agitated, and nearly squirming.

  “You’ll wed with Lady Sybil in his stead, then? Is that what you offer?”

  Vincent tipped his head, lifted a finger on his right hand as if to make a point, and swallowed although it was more a gulp. “I’m na’ certain,” he replied.

  “What?” Both Lady Eschon and the preacher said it at the same time. It almost made him smile.

  “I’ll be back. Waif?”

  He let Sybil loose, whistled for the wolf, turned and walked over all the prone bodies and right out the off-kilter doors. They didn’t know it was to check on the potency of Sybil’s curse. And he wasn’t about to enlighten anyone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  If he hadn’t appeared just in time to save her, she’d have been more angry. Or if he hadn’t just rendered Sir Ian’s entire force unconscious. Or maybe if he hadn’t looked like more man than any woman should have to handle, with his chest heaving, his sword swinging, blood seeping from a cut to his cheek, and his blond hair barely controlled by the thong about his forehead. Well! If any of that hadn’t happened, she’d not be sitting in a hard pew, listening to the hushed whispering of Lady Eschon and the preacher, as well as the heavy breathing of all the prone guardsmen, and wondering at the why of everything.

  She’d rather be in his arms and clinging to every exposed bit of him.

  They’d all trailed Vincent outside and watched as he’d come at full gallop from the stables on a fresh horse, since his stallion was standing, flecked with foam and held by a groomsman. Only Waif managed to accompany him. Once the Viking had gone a certain distance from them, he’d stopped his horse, put it broadside to the keep and slid out of the saddle. Squinting, Sybil watched as he appeared to relieve himself.

  She knew that wasn’t right, since a moment later he’d leapt back into the saddle and ridden even farther from them, until it was only possible to spot his passing by the residue of mist lifted from the ground.

  Her shoulders had sagged slightly and the stab of tears at her eyes was harder to squelch than usual, but she managed it. It was obvious. To everyone. He didn’t want her. And he wasn’t wedding her.

  Then, several painful heart-pounding moments later, he came back into view, riding hard for the castle with Waif at his side, only to pass the structure by and continue on along the shore of the loch, until he stopped again and turned the steed broadside to them again. Then he slid from its back in the same maneuver as before. It was mystifying and frustrating.

  And maddening.

  Which was the emotion she’d already arrived at once she’d given up waiting for his next move and gone back inside. She had things to do before he ceased this impulsive horsemanship performance. He didn’t need to show off more. Their jaws were probably still unhinged from dropping open at what he’d done to Sir Ian’s men. Sybil quickly took the steps to fetch the concoction of Saint-John’s-wort, valerian, and mistletoe powder that she’d created some years earlier. She’d boiled it until crystals formed on the sides of the pan, then scraped the crystals and ground them into the finest powder. It was a concoction guaranteeing sleep. She knew exactly which jar and on which shelf it would be.

  She just wished her hands worked better with the key and the huge hasp of a lock, and then on the stopper of her jar as she trailed back through the lower hall, stopping at every fallen man and sprinkling a bit atop his face, so it would be breathed in and none the wiser. No one noted her movements, but they never did. Sybil moved soundlessly and deliberately, and kept to the shadows for that very reason. It was wasted this rain-filled dawn. They all appeared to still be watching whatever that stupid man was exhibiting on his horse…and worse! They were breaking into shouts and applause whenever he must have done something really spectacular.

  One thing was certain. Her wedding would be talked of for years to come.

  If there was a wedding.

  She was sitting in a pew with every emotion in check when Lady Eschon came back in, trailed by the family preacher. It was a far cry from the wedding of one Christmas past, when Kendran Eschon had gotten her heart’s desire and been given in wedlock to the Donal laird. That was something more to add to Sybil’s issue this morn. Vincent Erick Danzel had to send everything into shock with his announcement that he was one of the Donal clan. It wasn’t possible. That could only mean that Kendran had sent him. To Sybil? That couldn’t be. She’d done nothing to deserve the attention of such a massive, masculine specimen. Unless it was to be left feeling used and emotionally drained.

  The more Sybil thought of it, the more certain she became that Vincent was exactly what Kendran would devise as punishment to her little half sister. Exactly.

  There was a stir of motion as Vincent stomped back into the chapel, making more noise than one man could or should. That’s when Sybil turned her head and saw that he’d managed to gather a quantity of freemen and women of the keep about him. Along with the stable serfs. And he’d spirited a score or more of Eschon guards into being. He still had Waif at his side, as well.

  What he hadn’t managed to do was gain any amount of respectability to his attire. She watched as the priest looked him over with thinned lips and a wrinkled nose. It wasn’t the same with anyone else. Vincent Danzel was as he’d just proven himself to be—a seasoned warrior. And he looked even worse than before. He was rain-wet and cloaked with sweat, and breathing hard. There was fresh mud spattering him, blood smearing one cheek, while a stream of it was finding a pathway down his right calf. His kilt was parting with each stride to show the musculature of his thighs, his open doublet hung in defeat from his shoulders, his shirt was torn, allowing the muscle and sinew to show through there as well, and he was scowling. At anyone and everyone.

  “You’ve made…your decision?” the priest asked, although he had to clear his throat midway through the sentence in order to be heard.

  “Aye.” Vincent walked farther into the
church, reaching the pew where Sybil was sitting, and looked down at her with an unreadable expression.

  “And…?” The priest prompted.

  “I’ll wed with her.”

  There was a sigh happening all about her, as well as Lady Eschon’s cry of pleasure. Sybil didn’t hear any of it. She couldn’t. Vincent was holding a hand out to her, and once she put hers in it, she felt the trembling evident all along his frame. It wasn’t pleasure. She knew that from the experience of living at Eschoncan Keep. It was withheld rage. And it was palpable, real, and awe-inspiring. And massive.

  He brought her to her feet and drew her with him to the pulpit, stepping around the form of Sir Ian as if it weren’t there. And then they were there, beside the one candelabra that hadn’t been extinguished when he’d first arrived. The priest started but had to wait for Vincent to offer his full name, which included Robert and William along with Erick, and then there was a moment of consternation when the lack of wedding band was brought to light.

  That was when Vincent peeled open what was left of his shirt at the waist and pulled on a slender golden chain until a small bag was brought to light. It took some fumbling to get it open, and made her eyes widen when she saw the ring he had. Crafted of silver and gold that was wrapped together and set with a silvery blue stone in the center, it fit Sybil perfectly. She watched his features as he slid it onto her finger, but there wasn’t anything to see, except the bulge of a muscle in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

  And then he met her gaze.

  The entire morning shifted, the chapel floor tilted, and everything on her went alert, ready, and pliant. And terrified at the same time. She’d never seen anything as dangerous as the expression he was giving her. It was probably the same he gave men on the battlefield. Her heart kicked into such a rapid beat it threatened to overwhelm her and was so loud in her ears she barely heard her voice and his wedding them for this life, and then the priest admonishing him to kiss his bride.

  His upper lip lifted, making a sneer of sorts, and then he had both hands wrapped about her upper arms, making her certain that she should have laced on some sleeves. Then she was lifted against him in a rough, raw manner that had nothing sacred or religious or loving about it.