Kensington Zebra 2008
142010361X
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Alyson heard the shouts from the surviving men-at-arms and jerked her head up, all thought of prayer forgotten. ‘My Lord Dragon,’ she whispered. Excerpt http://bit.ly/2vQXkMI
Read Chapter One.
A Knight’s Vow
Chapter 1
England, Summer
1138.
‘Sir Guillelm has
returned! The son of Lord Robert has come back to us!’
‘Thanks be to God,
we are saved! The young master has returned!’
Alyson heard the
shouts from the surviving men-at-arms and jerked her head up, all thought of
prayer forgotten. ‘My Lord Dragon,’ she whispered.
Struggling to rise
to her feet from the hard cold floor of the small narrow chapel, she re-pinned
her simple veil and pinched color into her gaunt cheeks, feeling her heart
begin to race. ‘Can it really be true?’ She had waited for him for so long, she
could scarcely believe it. Guillelm, here, in his family’s castle of Hardspen.
For a moment she felt stunned with happiness.
‘My lady!’ The
reedy voice of her seneschal, Sericus, floated above the hubbub in the great
hall of the castle, calling ahead as he tottered on gangling legs to find her,
to bring her this miraculous news.
‘I am here!’ Alyson
called, darting from the chapel. Sericus was lame, and to save his withered
limbs she picked up the hem of her plain brown gown and hurried down the spiral
staircase of the keep, a small, slender girl with a mass of long black hair,
large, very dark blue eyes and delicate features whose naturally bright,
high-colored complexion had been dulled by weariness and grief. Longing to see
Guillelm, she was reckless in her haste on the torch-lit stair, where only her
natural fleetness of foot prevented a fall.
Would he remember
her? She had been fourteen years old when he had answered the call of his
kinsman, Raymond of Poitiers, and gone with him to the Holy Land. He had been
in the exotic, dusty lands of Outremer for seven long years and she had
despaired of ever seeing him again. For the last three years, with no news of
him, there had even been the terrible rumor that he was dead. But he was alive!
Was he greatly
changed? Would she be the one who would have to tell him that the enemy forces
ranged outside the main gate were poised to attack? That his father, the noble
and intimidatingly austere Lord Robert, had been dead for ten days? That for
the last month she had been living in Hardspen as Lord Robert’s intended
betrothed?
Chilled and
appalled by these thoughts, Alyson halted in the shadows on the final step,
raising a finger to her lips as Sericus came out of the hall in search of her.
Sericus, understanding her wish without the need of speech, passed by her and
limped out of sight of the travel-stained men standing by the log-strewn
fireplace in the great hall beyond them.
‘Lady, where are
your serving women?’ he asked in an urgent whisper.
‘Gila and Osmoda
remain in my chamber: they are still sick, as are many within this castle.’
Alyson had left them sleeping, no longer feverish but weak.
‘Let me summon
attendants to go in with you, a maid at the very least.’
‘You will be with
me, Master Sericus, and that is enough,’ Alyson replied, with a smile of
gratitude. ‘You have seen to our guests’ comfort?’ She blushed at calling the new
lord of Hardspen her guest, but Sericus merely nodded his head.
‘Yes, my lady. They
have ale and bread. Not fresh or fine bread, I fear. The baker’s boy has been
busy with the repairs and the baker has been sick.’
‘Then pray allow me
an instant to compose myself. And sit a moment, I beg you.’ Sericus had been
without sleep for the last three nights, as she had, helping her with the sick
and with the ordering of Hardspen’s human and physical defenses - the
re-mortaring of sections of walls, the gathering of stores, the checking of
weapons, as their enemy outside the gate waited in arrogant strength.
‘My lady, you are
ever gracious.’ Lowering himself onto the stone treads, the wiry, gray-bearded,
headed-headed man sat with a tiny grimace of relief.
Standing in the
gloomy stairwell, Alyson took in the scene in the great hall, the large,
high-ceilinged chamber that was the heart of the keep, where in happier times
Lord Robert had dined with his men on the tables and stools that were now
ranged to one side. Today, long after sunset, those warriors and men still
loyal to Hardspen bedded down there in their clothes on the rush-covered floor
to snatch a few hours’ sleep. She recognized their plain honest faces and saw
that they remained exhausted, as she was herself, but that new hope gleamed in
their eyes. Because of the arrival of one man -
Sir Guillelm de La
Rochelle. She picked him out easily from the small group of soldiers who drank
and warmed themselves - for although it was summer the nights were cold - by the
crackling flames of the sweet-smelling apple wood. Tall as a spear, he towered
over everyone there, long-backed and long-legged, with broad shoulders and lean
hips. He was speaking quietly to one of his men, his back to her and with the
dark hood of his cloak still pulled over his head as his powerful body steamed
and dripped water from the relentless summer rain outside.
‘My Lord Dragon,’
Alyson breathed a second time, using the nickname she had given him and which
he had made his own. She missed the sight of that mane of bright golden hair
and even more his grimly handsome face but it was enough to know he was alive
and safe. Giddy with relief, she now heard him speak for the first time in
seven years as a castle defender asked how he and his few retainers had passed
through the enemy lines.
‘It is my guess
that there is sickness and fever in that camp, as there has been here,’
Guillelm replied, in the deep warm voice which had so often gently teased her
in the past, ‘Your enemy has but few watchmen to stand lookout. On a gray, wet
night such as this, those few can see no farther than the rainwater streaming
from their caps. We slipped past them simply enough. After that it was an easy
matter to bring my commanders safely inside Hardspen: my grandfather devised
secret ways into the castle bailey and keep, paths which my father showed to me
while I was yet a boy.’
‘Your commanders,
Lord?’ asked his interrogator hopefully, picking up on the thread that Alyson
had noticed, although she was distracted by Guillelm himself. He had turned to
face his questioner and she could look upon the face that had haunted her
dreams for so many years.
Eagerly she stared
at him, feeling like a thirsty traveler coming to a well of pure, life-giving
water. His was a lean, clean-shaven face, tanned by the blazing sun of
Outremer, with a faintly aquiline nose which as a girl she had always longed to
trace playfully with a finger. If he had changed, it was only to grow yet more
handsome, with lines of character and decision etched into every uncompromising
feature. She now caught herself wondering what it would be like to kiss that
firm, full mouth.
‘Some of my
commanders, I should say.’ Guillelm sounded faintly amused, yet his next words
were plainly intended to give heart to the men of Hardspen. ‘The others are
camped with the bulk of my forces in the woods close to the eastern bailey
wall. Their presence will give your would-be besiegers something of a surprise,
come tomorrow’s dawn.’
There was laughter,
no doubt as Guillelm had intended. Taking advantage of the lighter mood, he
called for more ale. There was a scramble amongst the oak tables set against
the longest wall to retrieve the pitchers of ale that Sericus had brought up
from the winter stores.
Watching how
readily the men obeyed him and recalling her girlish hero-worship of the
youthful Guillelm, Alyson sternly reminded herself of her duty. She must keep
these unseemly feelings of longing within bounds. She was to have been Lord
Robert’s betrothed, affianced in a ceremony as sacred as marriage and now
almost a widow. How then dare she entertain such unruly desires for Lord
Robert’s son, a wish that she might kiss him and be kissed in return, enfolded
in those strong bronzed arms?
‘Let us drink to
the vanquishing of all our foes!’ Guillelm said, raising his goblet. ‘Let us
drink to a new beginning!’
Listening closely,
keen to hear him, Alyson sensed a sadness beneath the stirring words, a sense
confirmed when he lifted his cup a second time and said in solemn, tightly-controlled
tones, ‘Let us drink to the most valiant of lords. To my eternal grief and
shame I did not reach in time to see and embrace him, as a son should a father,
before he was taken by this foul pestilence.’
He paused, a tremor
of deeply-felt emotion passing across his face. Swiftly, he mastered it and
continued in as strong a voice as before, ‘To my father Lord Robert - may his
soul already abide in heaven!’
‘Lord Robert,’ came
the somber response from the men.
‘Robert,’ Alyson whispered, tears standing in
her eyes as she remembered him and also, even more painfully, the death of her
own father three months ago at Easter. For Guillelm’s sake, she prayed that
whoever had told him of his father’s passing had done so with kindness. Dashing
her tears away with a trembling hand, she raised her head and smiled at him,
hoping that, although he would not see her, he might sense her sympathy.
Incredibly, as she
smiled, he looked down the length of the great hall, straight at her. His eyes,
deeper-hued and richer than the rarest of velvets, widened as he saw her,
capturing Alyson in his dark, compelling gaze.
I could lose my
heart to Guillelm and consider the danger of his breaking it well worth the
risk, she thought, while an inner voice said, You already have.
For an instant both
were still, wrapped in each other’s glances, but then an indignant shout from
Sericus behind her and the raking of greedy clasping fingers against her
shoulder warned Alyson of another, very different kind of danger. Breaking free
of the pawing hand, ignoring her foul-breathed assailant’s grumbled, ‘Give me
more ale and a kiss, girl!’ she whirled away from him and sped into the great
hall, furious at the laughter of the other men-at-arms, those who had arrived
that night with Guillelm.
Guillelm, she saw,
however, was not laughing. She watched his face darken as the stocky, unshaven
man from the stairway still pursued her, bellowing in nasal Norman French,
‘What is an English wretch like you good for, if not for serving your betters?’
‘Thierry!’ Guillelm
shouted, his voice full of warning, and then Alyson heard him curse violently in an unknown
tongue, possibly one of the languages of Outremer. She saw him thrust his
half-drunk goblet at his nearest companion and stride towards her and her
unwelcome follower, reaching them in less than ten paces.
‘Let the little
maid be, Thierry,’ he growled in French, seizing the other fellow’s
ever-reaching arm and bending it sharply back. ‘She does not care for your
rough wooing, and nor do I. Go back to the garderobe and throw yourself down
into the latrine if you can find no better manners!’
He thrust the man
so violently aside that Thierry careered into one of the oak tables, where he
crouched, rubbing his arm and clearly glad to be out of range of his lord‘s
displeasure.
Guillelm had no
time for him. He lowered his head to Alyson, the hood of his cloak slipping
down and revealing that glorious mane of blazing golden hair, bright as a
dragon’s flame.
‘He has done you no
harm?’ he asked softly in English, his deep-set eyes narrowing in concern.
‘No.’ Alyson stared
up at her rescuer, more than ever conscious of her rekindled admiration for him
while at the same time guiltily aware that her habitually plain clothing had in
part caused this confusion. Had not her old nurse Gytha complained that she
dressed more like a serving maid than a lady? ‘No, my lord,’ she said, knowing
she should make some effort to give an account of herself.
She sensed from the
abrupt silence in the great hall that Guillelm’s men had now been told, in
hasty whispers from the others, who she was. She could feel Sericus hovering
close by, awaiting his instructions, poised for the slightest signal from her
to make a formal introduction to Sir Guillelm de La Rochelle on her behalf. But
what was the use? she thought bleakly.
He does not
remember me!
She felt her eyes
fill and averted her face. She had been barely on the verge of womanhood when
he had left for Outremer, and they had been only friends: a chaste four-month
companionship of an older youth and a young girl. Guillelm had been indulgent
with her and she had foolishly taken his kindly dealings as a sign of hope for
the future. A false future, as it turned out, for Guillelm did not remember
her. Not even after their trial together in the woods, when they had saved each
other….
But she would not
remind him. Pride would be her savior now.
She felt his
fingers under her chin, their gentle touch almost undoing her. She lifted her
head, bracing herself to explain who she was and how it was that Hardspen was
so lately run down and under threat of imminent siege.
She found herself
staring at a brutally handsome, smiling face, dominated by a pair of brilliant
dark brown eyes.
‘You gave me a rare
look of welcome from the stairs just then, almost as if you knew me,’ Guillelm
said, his smile deepening as Alyson felt herself blushing. ‘If I might presume
on your charity, I would beg two favors.’
‘Yes, my lord?’
Alyson prompted, as he fell silent. Was he aware of every man in the room
avidly watching their exchange? Already ill at ease, she wanted to run from the
great hall and keep on running, far into the rain-swept night.
As if he guessed
her thoughts, Guillelm gave her another swift smile. ‘They are nothing
terrible, I vow: merely a wish for your company as I reacquaint myself with
this keep -’ His dark eyes gleamed in the torchlight as he added, ‘- and your
kiss of greeting.’
The instant he
spoke, Guillelm thought, What am I doing? Only a few hours earlier he had been
standing before his father’s tomb in the tiny local church of Olverton where
Lord Robert had been buried, his head full of memories and grief. Only
yesterday, when he disembarked from his ship at Bristol, had he learned that
his father was dead. With that dreadful news and Hardspen castle under threat
he had no time for idle, pleasant gallantries, even with a serving maid as
pretty as this one.
And yet this
dainty, dark-haired serving maid had given him such a smile of welcome, and of
sympathy, that he had been comforted. She had not mocked him or flinched, she
had given him instead a look of recognition, as if she knew him. She was
familiar to him, he felt; as familiar in some ways as the breath in his body,
but his mind was moving slowly tonight, trying to take in the loss of his
father and his own sudden coming into his inheritance. He had responsibilities
to face; the fate of many lives had been placed by God into his hands, and he
must be equal to it, not distracted by this girl who reminded him - of what?
Something he had put aside long ago, with pain and regret, as being out of his
reach.
But what was the
use of these thoughts? he reflected, trying to fight off a well-worn, familiar
despair. Women feared him - his elder sister Juliana had been proved right
about that. What had Heloise of Jerusalem said to him when she had dismissed
his suit? ‘You are too big and brutal, my lord Guillelm,’ she had drawled, her
hazel eyes widening as she reveled in his frozen expression of shame and
distaste. ‘They call you dragon on the field of battle - you would burn a woman
to ashes in your marriage bed.’ He had stumbled out of Heloise’s hot airless
chamber, the sight of her opulent, silk-draped body, artfully arranged blonde
curls and beautiful mocking face burning like a brand into his memory, her
scornful voice singing his ears.
‘My Lord! Only kiss
the creature and let us all return to our ale!’
Thierry again -
damn the man to hellfire! Guillelm thought, scowling at the interruption and
his men’s laughter, swiftly stifled as they registered his anger.
‘My Lord!’ the
small, skinny seneschal was starting to say something but he was cut off by the
maid herself, who observed in a low, swift voice, ‘Do not be concerned. All is
well, Sericus.’
To Guillelm there
seemed to be a challenge in her words. He took a step closer, amused when she
stood her ground. Again, a strange sense of recognition shot through him, an
instinct that he knew her very well.
Or was it merely
that he found her pleasing? the cynic in Guillelm asked himself. Even when she
had been standing in the shadowy stairwell, sequestered like a nun by that drab
gown and veil, her beauty had shone through, brighter than any torch. She was
more than a head shorter than him, small and fine-boned, so that he felt clumsy
beside her, and yet she moved and carried herself as boldly as a warrior, as
though she had no fear of him.
As she stood before him now, he could smell
the perfume of her hair, the scent of rosemary filling his nostrils as he
quelled a sudden, powerful desire to tug off her veil. From the few stray
tendrils escaping the edges of that plain cloth to frame her flawless,
heart-shaped face, Guillelm knew that her hair was black: very black and fine
and straight. He guessed it would be long, reaching as far as her slender waist:
fine shimmering tresses that a man could lay his head on for comfort, love.
‘My Lord?’ she
inquired softly as he took her hand in his. It was a work-roughened hand,
resting in his as lightly as thistledown. This close, he could see the dark
shadows under her eyes, the taut, bleached look of her cheeks and was pierced
by pity for her weariness. This little maid had clearly done much in this
castle but where was her mistress, the new lady of Hardspen? he thought, caught
in that instant between anger at the unseen chatelaine and protectiveness for
her maid. He had heard rumors tonight that had set his teeth on edge: that his
father had married again, that there was a widow in this keep, but he had seen
no sign of such a woman.
‘Mother of God, why
are you alone with this?’ he murmured, running a thumb gently down the side of
her cheek. He felt her palm, still trapped in his right hand, tremble against
his. The heat of her fingers and the warm silk of her skin stirred him afresh,
making him forget all else.
Telling himself he
was only doing this because his men would otherwise consider him soft, he
lowered his head and kissed her full on the lips.
Only a few moments
had passed since Guillelm had saved her from the odious Thierry and claimed his
reward of a kiss. In the final instant, Alyson feared to allow him anything
more than the most chaste of embraces, afraid of revealing too much of her own
feelings, but now his mouth came down on hers and she was lost. As his lips
brushed hers, she felt a shock of feeling tingle down her body in an
astonishing wave of heat. She felt his arms clamp around her slender middle,
gathering her closer, lifting her to him.
The great hall and the men gathered in it fell
away to her, there was only Guillelm and the strong yet tender embrace of his
mouth. She knew that she would probably regret it, but it was a wish come true.
Sighing, Alyson swayed against him, closing her eyes as the voluptuousness of
his kiss overcame all thought of her duty.
Guillelm, no more
aware of the raucous cat calls of his men than Alyson was, made himself break
from their embrace. After Heloise he had a horror of forcing himself on any
girl - he had not had a woman for some time - but now this slender black-haired
maid was storming his defenses. Her lips were so generous and sweet, and the
way her hands brushed shyly against his chest and shoulder as if she learning
him was so fearless that he did not want to let her go. He caught her back and
swung her into his arms, conscious of a terrifying instinct to bear this woman
away somewhere private and alone and have his way with her. He reached the
staircase without knowing it, the questions and comments from the men and
soldiers in the hall bouncing off him like rainwater.
She laid her head
in the crook of his arm, her eyes still closed, as if this was a dream for her.
‘Dragon,’ she whispered. ‘My golden dragon.’
And then he knew
her. By her nickname for him and her total fearlessness, and, when she opened
her eyes, almost as if she had sensed his recognition, by her solemn dark blue
eyes. Eyes he had seen fixed on a patch of herbs in her father’s kitchen
garden, or on the stained glass windows in church, or on his own hands and arms
as she soothed his various cuts and bruises from the practice field with her
potions. He remembered her as a studious child, quiet and serious, passionate
about healing and wishing to tend all living things, yet with a smile brighter
than gold. He remembered a day in the forest, when she had saved his life.
She was here with
him again, in Hardspen and in that moment of realization, Guillelm forgot all
other grief and concern in a burst of possessive pride and joy.
He kissed her again
- he could not help himself. She was the best part of his past and to see her
now, safe and adult and even more lovely made him want to laugh out loud in
mingled astonishment and delight.
‘Alyson,’ he said,
remembering as he named her how he had loved to make her laugh. ‘How excellent
is this! Alyson!’
She had been so
still when concentrating on her herbs and healing and yet so quick and nimble
when they had run off together, racing each other to the meadows and woods. As
a tall gangling lad of nineteen he had hoped to make his fortune, earn renown
throughout Christendom and then return to her father’s manor at Olverton Minor
to marry her. But in the end that had been a hopeless quest. Alyson’s father,
Sir Henry, had seen to that.
The memory of his
meeting with Sir Henry blazed through Guillelm. Even after seven and a half
years it was a bitter thing that left him sickened inside. All his years in
Holy Land he had fought to put the memory behind him. He had thought he had
succeeded, until tonight.
‘I will never give
my daughter to you, Guillelm de La Rochelle,’ Sir Henry had told him. ‘She is a
thoughtful, clever girl who, before she knew you, spoke of a sincere desire to
enter the church as a nun. Until she knew you, Guillelm, Alyson’s steadfast
goal was to be a second Hildegard of Bermersheim: a scholar and sacred mystic,
a healer. You have almost driven that noble aim from her head, with your
endless talk of quests and chivalry. My reeve tells me that you are much in her
company, and often without the presence of her nurse. Alyson is on the brink of
womanhood. These outings between you must stop - yes, I know they have been so
far innocent but I have my child’s reputation to consider, and my own.
‘Not only that, but
I have seen you on the practice field - you are entirely too rash and wild. You
will leave my sweet Alyson a widow within six months and your reckless head
rotting on a pike. You cannot have her, and must never ask again.’
Soon after that
painful and disastrous encounter, Guillelm had announced his intention to go
with Raymond of Poitiers to Outremer.
‘Alyson of
Olverton.’ Guillelm now gave the grown-up Alyson her title, at once entranced
and saddened that she should be here. She was glad to see him - but how long
would that last? How long would her innocent fearlessness of him last? He could
not bear to think of her turning from him with fear in those dark blue eyes,
the same blank-eyed fear he had seen in women’s faces while on campaign in
Outremer.
Slowly, with regret
and no lessening of his own desire for her, he left the small landing and,
crouching slightly to avoid the low roof-space, he carried her up the narrow
spiral staircase to the chapel, where a small candle was burning. He set her
down carefully on the stone floor and, so that his fingers would not linger too
long on her, or give in to the violent temptation to touch her again, he put
his hands behind his back.
‘Alyson.’ He
swallowed the urgent questions that he wanted to ask - Was she well, had she
ever thought of him while he had been away in Outremer, was she still
unmarried? - and asked just two things, both equally pressing.
‘Alyson, how is it that you are here? And
why is there an army pitched outside this castle?’
Reviews
Historical Romance Club:
This story shows that even after years apart, when the boy becomes and man and the girl a woman, the affectionate nicknames still have meaning, the touches are still tender and the feelings genuine. While reading medieval books is never an easy task due to the detailed history that one expects to be part of, these books and especially this one in particular are worth the time and attention you give them. Enjoy!
Red Roses for Authors:
This is romantic and compelling reading for all fans of historical stories. I enjoyed it and recommend this author for her strong voice and narrative skills.
Romance Junkies:
A KNIGHT’S VOW drew me in with the pageantry of this medieval time and I was compelled to read this book. My heart melts any time a knight fights to win his lady love. Watching Guillelm do just that kept me sighing at the wholly romantic nature of his actions. Stoic at times, sinfully sexy and seductive at others, Guillelm is the ideal knight in shining armor. I think Alyson agrees with me one hundred percent!
A KNIGHT’S VOW is a gripping historical tale of love, life, and chances. It is a heady and passionate read which rapidly took me to a place that is timeless. I couldn’t have asked for a better story!
Romantic Times:
Townsend uses the taboos, superstitions and loyalties of the era to set up a turbulent but enjoyable romance.
Single Titles:
A Knight’s Vow is a terrific Medieval romance penned by a supremely talented writer who recreates the past vividly and makes her readers fall head over heels in love with her valiant hero, intelligent heroine and their wonderful romantic story which will keep them reading late into the night and anticipating the next release by this wonderful storyteller!
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