How to Train Your Knight: A Medieval Romance Novel (6 page)

Chapter 6

The next morning Ann exited her chambers via the tunnel and passed through the familiar Roman bathhouse. A full night of sleep had her smiling. Besides that, the sun had come out and a new day was always full of promise.

She paused and greeted the two men stoking the hot fires that burned under the three pools. The older children who bathed on Tuesday morning laughed and splashed as she tried to hurry by. They caught her, hugged her with their wet bodies, and soaked her dress until it dripped. Escaping their clutches, and still giggling, she hurried to the bright outdoors. The smell of warm bread reached her stomach and made it growl even before she approached the kitchen door.

Dame March stopped pulling meat from pigeon bodies and looked up. “Thou art properly attired. You look lovely, dear. Have you made peace with his Lordship?”

“Not quite, but there’s no longer any point to a disguise. Everything smells so good. I guess we’re back on schedule? Is the breaking-of-fast ready for everyone?”

“Everything is ready, except for you. You’ll need rush to meet morning prayers. Brother James won’t be happy if you’re late again.” She gave her the look that meant a scolding was about to commence.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Ann grabbed a sinful fruit tart, asked for God’s forgiveness, and put the whole of it in her mouth. Then she made a mad run for the church.

Marcus stood in the arched doorway of the manor and grinned at the lively woman dashing across the square. Her mouth was full and her hair broke free of its net. He said a brief prayer of thanks that her black mood had parted. Marching across the dark room, he entered the warm kitchen that was bathed in an orange glow from the outside ovens.

Dame March stood where he found her most oft, covered in flour at the head of a long wood table. Her three pretty assistants worked alongside her, although nowhere near as diligently. Ten pies were cooling and at least fifty iron pie plates were stacked neatly, waiting to be filled. Just outside, the peat in the cooking hearth crackled and smoked.

“Saints bless us, it’s The Beast.” She crossed herself and stepped back as if she’d seen the devil himself. “Will you hang me, too?”

He inhaled the aroma and smiled wide. “I’d nay hang the woman who is making my pigeon pies. By God, they smell better than any I’ve had from here to Jerusalem.”

Her cheeks blushed all the way to her double chins. “You do me false praise.”

Squeezing behind her to get closer, he made a plan to steal a pastry. “Truly. I’d not have you feed King Edward, for fear he’d insist on your services and leave me bereft.”

The large woman beamed while pulling meat away from the bone. She slapped at his hand when he reached for a cooling pie. “Were you looking for your wife? You wouldn’t really hang her, would you? She was a good and dutiful wife to that old bastard knight. If she killed him, he well deserved it.”

He raised his eyebrows and waited for more. “Do you know what went on here?”

One of the maidens in the kitchen stopped working and Dame March exchanged her bowl of meat with her sticky mixture. “Get a move on, girl. Pay him no mind.” The girl lowered her gaze and began to pick at the bird carcass slowly.

With a plop, the suddenly angry cook dropped the dough onto the table, punched into it, and spat out the back door with an ancient curse. “Her first husband was pure evil, sir. He was the devil himself incarnated. His death was God’s own punishment and he will rot in hell forever. Forgive me.”

“What did he do?” No wonder his wife was so skittish. It was all beginning to make sense.

“She would not tell me, but whenever he went to her at night, the next morning her bedclothes were a bloody mess. I thought he was an accursed vampire. An eater of blood.” She turned her dough over and over, slamming it onto a flat rock on the counter.

“Good God. Surely not.” His stomach turned, his mouth soured, and his fist clenched as he pictured the scene. “How long did this go on?”

“When he was here at the manor, she was so sick she was barely able to leave her room. Oh, sir, the screams broke my heart and the bastard would nay allow us to see to her injuries.” Her eyes watered, she let out one brief sob, and a white tear ran down her cheek.

How righteous it would be to go back in time to cleave the bastard in two.

He put a hand to her shoulder.
Isn’t that what one should do with women, in cases such as these?
“I’ll get to the bottom of this barrel. Rest assured. But I need you to do me a favor.”

“Me? Do The Beast of Blackwell a favor? Well, I never heard of such a thing.” She stopped her assault on the bread and wiped her doughy hands on her apron.

He would’ve preferred to pace, but the small aisle of the kitchen was taken up by women. He thought for a moment. It wasn’t
him
Ann was afraid of, it was men in general. His heart lifted. Putting his hands behind his back, he stood as if addressing men for battle. “Lady Ann doesn’t know me by sight. I need a set of plain clothes. Also, I need the villagers to stay their tongues.”

“I don’t understand.” She crossed her arms over ample breasts, sat down with a huff, and started cutting what appeared to be root vegetables.

“I want to know my wife without prejudice.”

The cook smiled a bit and he knew he’d won her over. “You want to trick Lady Ann into liking ya?”

“Just as a man and a woman. I believe we are compatible. Based on what you’ve just told me of her history of husbands, she may be biased against my gender in general. Not just me in particular.”

“Would you promise me one thing, on your honor as a knight?” It was remarkable how his cook could converse while working with a blade whose edge rivaled his own.

“It depends.”

“Will you promise to never beat her, nor cause her grief? To treat her with respect, as is her due?” Her hands stopped chopping and she pinned him with her stare. “I hope I’ve not overstepped my bounds, sir. It’s just . . . she’s like a daughter to me.”

He considered the request. “I would never beat any woman, and I’ve found her to be well due my respect. Aside, mayhap from the day of our wedding. However, I can’t be sure that I’ll never cause her grief. I fear that may be our lot in life. I can promise that I’ll try to create an agreeable arrangement.”

“Thank you, sir. That’ll be more than the poor lass has ever known. By God, I believe I
shall
help you. Wait here, but a moment.” She stood, squeezed behind the astonished three girls, and passed through a small door he hadn’t noticed before. She reentered with an old cloak and tunic befitting of a tradesman of means.

“Take this. It were my husband’s, God rest his soul. Tell her that thou art from the Weaving Guild of London. He’s expected any day now. Keep the cloak low around your face. I can’t guarantee that the rest of town might not recognize you, but I shall send word for them to hold their tongues.”

“Let it be known there’ll be reward for all should I accomplish this ruse. Tell them, too, if they help, they’ll be helping me to stay her execution.”

“You wouldn’t really kill her, would you?”

Would he?
He stood awkwardly at the kitchen door, facing the baths, wishing he could escape the cook’s inquisition. “The king’s law must be upheld and I gave him my word. However, I’m hoping when the truth is known, she’ll be safe. So you see, I must have time to speak with her.”

Her deep frown indicated she wasn’t overly pleased with his answer. “Very well. I’ll see that the word gets out. You best be getting to the church. Morning prayers will be finishing. You can catch up with her there.”

He took the thin path through a brick arch, separating the manor from the bathhouse. Once out front, the bright sun in the east sparkled on the dew. He passed the well and waited at the church stairs. When the bells gonged, the faithful filed out. His regal beauty was the first, after the priest. She greeted his finely-clothed serfs, giving each a smile and kind word.

When they were the only two left, the rest having moved to break their fast, she turned to him and said, “Who are you? What’s your business in my town?”

His mind went blank as he tried to remember the part he was playing. Even though she was in a plain muslin tunic, this was the first time he had seen her face up close. Somewhere, her ancestry lay in the south, for her skin wasn’t alabaster, but tinted with olive and the spring sun had already toasted it. Bright, intelligent green eyes, with the slightest of slants, were lined by the thickest of lashes he’d ever encountered. And when she smiled, it was as if heaven stopped for a moment to enjoy the view.

Bowing as a merchant would do when facing nobility, he said with a gravelly voice, “I . . . I’m Whitely, sent to you from the Weaving Guild of London.”

She searched for his face under his hood. “Do I know you? You seem familiar.”

He cleared his throat, looked to his boots, and tried again to disguise his voice. “I’m just newly made to this guild.”

“Ah, then. Mayhap you know the two apprentices, Josh and Mark, we have most recently sent to London to learn the trade?”

How much should he say? He coughed in discomfort, his throat already sore.
Damn. I’m going to be discovered too soon
. “I’ve oft been traveling on the road as of late. I know them not.”

She tried to guess the age of the handsome man. Maybe three times ten? He had the breadth of a warrior, and the cloak could barely hide the size of his forearms. In fact, none of his clothes fit his large frame. He had a strong, almost Roman nose, and hazel eyes that commanded attention with an intensity that made her shiver.

He must be from a royal family. Maybe one whose fates were as bad as her own; for he, too, had not lost his proud bearing. Something like that couldn’t be passed off under shabby clothes. She felt kinship for him and tried to ease his discomfort. “Worry not. It’s good you’ve found a solid guild to work with. You may find that you enjoy the peace more than your former life as a warrior.”

The man seemed unnerved by her comment, but nodded. Mayhap he wasn’t comfortable speaking on it. “Come. I assume you want to review our looms and confirm we’re providing good services? We’re pleased to have members of your guild in our fine town to give their blessings. Last fair, we increased our revenue by twofold. Next fair, we’ll have blue wool. Your percentage will be impressive.”

Her arms pointed north and south where the hills were dotted with white. “We’ve run out of room for any more sheep. Our lands are fully grazed. I’ve no means for more land, but we can still become more profitable with the guild’s help. It’s so fortunate that you’ve come today. Walk with me to the weaver’s loom house.”

The stranger’s stride was long and confident. His black hair blew carelessly across his perfect features. Even his scars emphasized, rather than diminished, his good looks. He reminded her of a mosaic of Marcus Antonius, tiled on the wall of the bathhouse. Except that this man’s hair was curly. And his eyes were very much alive and intelligent. They darted as if waiting for attack from any corner. His hand, too, seemed to be constantly twitching as if grabbing for a missing sword.

“What was it like?”

The weaver stared at her and moved a bit closer. “Forgive me. The emeralds in your sparkling eyes have me distracted.”

Her cheeks warmed as she tried to ignore his comment. In truth? He sent shivers up and down her body. The feeling was utterly new to any she’d ever known. “I meant, to be in battle. What was that like?”

“It’s not something a lady as refined as yourself should hear of.” He got a bit surly and increased his pace toward the center of town.

“Wait. Hold up. I’m sorry to have offended, but you must see that I’m no fine lady. I wear, but a simple wool tunic with leather belt.” Stopping, she opened her arms and displayed her form to the handsome weaver.

“But why? Your lands are rich and your profits are much, are they not? Surely, you could have anything your heart desires.” His eyes roved up and down her body.

Suddenly, it was important that he understand. She pointed to her town. “This is what my heart desires. Here. To see my people profitable and happy. To see the babes chubby, warm, and round. To watch them grow, not as serfs and slaves, but as guildsmen.
This
is my treasure. Right here in this village.”

She paused at a small stone building, a bit embarrassed at her outburst. He’d think her daft and take away the guild’s favor. She frowned and gave a more serious tone to her voice. “Forgive me. I’ve said too much, haven’t I? This is the weaver’s cottage. I’ll show you our labors and mayhap you can give us some advice? Follow me.”

The weaver’s hard body rubbed her from behind as they entered the tiny room. He whispered into her ear, “Do you not wish for babes of your own?”

Should she slap him? Certainly this wasn’t a conversation to have with the audacious trader. He gave her a wicked smile and slipped away. The clacking of the looms prevented further discussion.

He stood for a long while, watching her two sweating weavers pull and push with both arms and legs. Walking around and around the loom, he touched wood levers, the spools, and the tautness of the warp.

Finally, he motioned that he wanted to speak outside, strode away from the building, and beyond the din. “They work far too hard. When I was in the Far East, the effort of weaving was considered gentle woman’s work. The loom could be carted away by a child, not housed in the whole of a building.”

She lifted her tunic to keep up with his gait. “Why have you not recommended it? For all in your guild? That would be quite a boon.”

Pausing as if he had not heard her, and lost in a memory, he smirked at some internal jest. “Indeed. Had I been able to foresee my future, I’d have paid more attention to the Sultans daughters’ weaving, instead of their other fine assets. I could send an emissary to buy a loom from him. Mind you, it could take months, mayhap even years.”

“Sir?”

His dark brows furrowed in concentration and his well-sculpted jaw loosened, then tightened. “I’ll make some more recommendations. For now, continue as thou art doing.”

She chose to ignore the commanding tone and held out some of her finest wool so that the bossy weaver could continue with his inspection. He fingered the softest of fabrics and nodded. “This will fetch a good price.”