Chivalrous (2 page)

England, Late Summer 1217

Allen of Ellsworth dismounted and propped his lance against the rails. Victorious as usual these days, he offered a hand to his training opponent and helped his fellow squire from the dirt. The captain of the guard simply nodded his head, but Lord Linden entered the practice field, cheering as he came.

“Excellent job, my boy.” The earl, dressed in a regal mantle and cape, gave Allen a good thump on the shoulder despite his chain mail. Allen had come to adore the kindly man with his crinkling eyes and long waving hair that circled a shining bald spot on his head. “Come and walk with me for a while.”

Allen turned to the captain, who nodded once again with the same stoic expression upon his face.

“Sir Walter will see to your things, will you not?” Lord Linden gestured to Allen's horse and weapons.

“If you say so, m'lord,” the captain answered, for he was ever drilling into his men that their equipment was their life, and they must take care of it at any cost.

How odd it must be to have your every whim granted as Lord Linden did. Since moving to Lindy almost a year ago, Allen still hadn't adjusted to being so closely associated with the local nobility. He pulled off his gloves and helmet, placing them in a stack upon the ground.

“Are you ready, then?” Though well into his middle years, Lord Linden grinned from ear to ear like a small boy. Something must be afoot.

“Yes. Where are we heading?”

“To the village. I have news to share with everyone.”

“Excellent.” Now that Allen lived with the soldiers in the garrison, he did not spend much time in the village. But he did miss the children of Ellsworth, otherwise known as the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest
,
his old band of outlaws, and he loved watching them work at creating their new home. Only Red trained with Allen to be a knight at Lord Linden's castle. The rest of the group served nearby as peasant farmers in the village of Lindy.

“I have received word that the king is sending Timothy home to us soon,” the earl said.

“I'm sure you'll be happy to have him back.” Allen mopped the sweat from his brow and pushed his light brown hair from his eyes.

He had no particular need to see Timothy again, but he would try to be happy for Lord Linden's sake. Not so long ago, Allen had lost his heart to the lovely Lady Merry Ellison. Although he knew she did not belong with a common fellow like him, their joint standing as outlaws struggling to survive in the realm of the evil King John had muddied the situation for a time. In the end she accepted the proposal of Timothy Grey, her childhood sweetheart who was both son and nephew to powerful noblemen.

The baron rubbed his hands together with excitement as they strolled side by side down the wooded lane. “We are all anxious for his return, and we hope a wedding shall soon take place.”

Everyone had expected the two noble lovebirds to marry quickly, but no sooner had their intentions been announced than Timothy was summoned to the court of the new young King Henry. It seemed, as a small child, Henry had admired Timothy, and as a newly appointed king at the age of ten, had desired his hero by his side.

“It makes sense that he shall return now that the peace accord has been signed. I'm certain Lady Merry shall be relieved,” Allen said.

“Merry, her aunt, and my wife have had the grandest time planning the nuptials and celebration. Once Timothy arrives, we shall set a date and invite all the nobles in the area for the long-awaited event.”

Allen looked away, hoping the man beside him never realized that he had tried to thwart Merry and Timothy's romance. Though he had come a long way in letting go of his affection for Merry, the memory still stung, and he had no real desire to watch her and Timothy celebrating their marital bliss.

“A long-awaited wedding, indeed,” Allen said, trying to appear pleasant about the situation. “Four years in the making, one might say.”

“King John certainly did have a way of mucking up matters, did he not?”

“God rest his soul,” Allen mumbled, for he would wish the fires of hell upon no man, not even King John, who had murdered his family and would have seen their entire village dead if he'd had his way.

“You looked good on the jousting field.” The shorter man reached up to clasp Allen's shoulder.

“Thank you. I try my best. God has gifted me with height and strength, and you have gifted me beyond my wildest dreams with training. I only hope to someday live up to those gifts and serve my country well.”

Though Allen had been raised a peasant, after the Ghosts' two-year ordeal in the forest, Lord Linden had given sanctuary to the young survivors of Ellsworth. Allen had grown several inches in the past year and broadened considerably. At eighteen, he towered over most of the soldiers in the garrison.

Lord Linden nodded thoughtfully. “That someday might come sooner than you think. Sir Walter says you are ready to move from squire to knight. I look forward to conferring the honor upon you, although I assume there is another to which you hope to pledge your fealty.”

Allen had not deemed himself ready to head off into the world, but if Sir Walter thought him worthy to be a knight, perhaps he should go now, before Timothy returned and the winter weather arrived. “I still long to head to North Britannia, m'lord. You of all people know that I've felt oddly drawn there ever since I learned about it. Do you truly believe there might be a place there for one such as me?”

“Now that the political situation has stabilized, North Britannia has opened its borders, and as we assumed, it has continued in its quest to become a just and righteous dukedom after the tradition of Arthur's Camelot. They say that any man of valor and pure heart might find his place there.”

“As much as things have improved in England as a whole, I still wish to be a part of such a quest. I cannot help but believe that God himself has placed such a strong desire in my heart.” Anticipation rushed over Allen.

“I shall send you with a letter of introduction and give you my highest recommendation.”

“You are too kind, m'lord, but I would not wish to inconvenience you.”

“'Tis no bother. I am proud of you, my boy.” Lord Linden led the way around a turn in the path.

The previously abandoned village, which had been a tangle of weeds, bushes, and decrepit huts a year earlier, now appeared neat, tidy, and bustling with life. At a distance he spotted Lady Merry, dressed in a lilac kirtle rather than the boy's clothes she had worn to lead their forest raids. She sat on the steps of the manor home singing to little Wren, who cuddled upon her lap. Merry's waving brown hair had grown from its previous short cut and now tossed in the breeze, accenting her striking features.

“Please do not tell them I plan to leave,” Allen said. “I would like to speak to Lady Merry first.”

“I am certain your former mistress will support your decision.” Lord Linden seemed not to understand how close they had all become in the forest, nor how class divisions had melted away. And he most certainly did not know that Allen, born of the lowest class, had once kissed the noble Lady Merry on a tree branch.

Allen's cheeks warmed at the thought, but he hoped that any ruddiness would blend with the flush of the day's earlier battle. “Yes, but I feel I should tell her before we make the news public.”

“You shall stay for the wedding, of course,” Lord Linden said.

“I think not. I had best start out as soon as possible. It will take me several weeks to get there, and I should be well on my way before any early snows might block the mountain passages.”

“You have ample time, but I understand your eagerness. I had thought to save it as part of the wedding celebration, but I shall arrange for your knighthood ceremony a few days hence. An exciting adventure awaits you!”

“Thank you.” Allen hoped that Lord Linden was correct, for he was about to leave everything and everyone he held dear far behind.

“You shall never win at that pace!” Gwendolyn shouted over her shoulder as she raced Andromache through a rainbow field of wild flowers.

Rosalind's faint, “I'm trying,” was muffled against the rush of wind.

Gwen thrilled at the exhilarating moment of freedom as she clutched her horse's mane, leaning forward over her graceful white neck. Hovering weightless with each powerful stride, she felt as if she could fly.

Together they dashed down a rolling hillside and crashed through a trickling stream. Droplets of frigid mountain water splashed against the bare skin of her forearm and speckled her tunic. They raced across her hidden jousting field, through a patch of trees, and up a rocky incline before pulling to a stop next to a small wooden building.

Gwen had already removed her hilt and sword by the time Rosalind joined her, though she left a small jeweled dagger in her boot.

“Not fair,” declared Rosalind. “Should I not get some sort of head start? You've been riding all your life.”

“Now, where would be the fun in that? You must challenge yourself if you wish to be a warrior worth your armor.”

“Who said I wished for that? I'd be happy braiding flowers into your golden hair and fussing over your silken gowns.”

Although Gwen had managed to woo Rosalind to her warrior ways, the young woman had not adjusted entirely. Rosalind might have spent a boisterous childhood dancing through fields, climbing trees, and tussling with village lads in the dirt, but weapons of steel and giant horses still tested her limits.

“But admit it.” Gwen grinned impishly. “This is so much better.”

Rosalind giggled. “I suppose so. I never dreamt of such excitement. If I ever need to look for employment again, I shall have an exhaustive list of skills to my name.”

“You see. You might guard a threatened princess.”

“Or escort a noblewoman on pilgrimage.”

Gwen gathered her armor. “Come, time to head home.”

They hung their swords inside the dim little structure next to lances, shields, chain mail, and even a battle ax. Her brothers had helped her build this hidden structure years ago. Though her mother cared little what Gwen did, if word ever reached her father that she trained at the warrior arts, she dared not imagine the consequences.

One of the few times he had deigned to visit home, he had thrashed her bottom merely for riding on horseback. According to Father, true ladies rode in traveling wagons, or better yet, were carried in litters, or best still, did not leave home at all.

Once their weapons were safely stowed, Gwen brushed her mantle of rich burgundy down over her tunic and turned to Rosalind. “How do I look? Ready for inspection?”

Rosalind pulled a twig from Gwen's braid and tucked some flyaway strands behind her ear. “That will have to suffice until I can redo your hair for supper. If one does not peer too closely, you might almost pass for a lady.”

“Funny.” Both of them wore thick men's leggings and leather boots beneath their women's apparel with slits up the sides for freedom of movement.

They gathered their horses and led them at a walk down the trail, for they did not wish to startle the villagers by thundering through. Gwen picked a green leaf from a bush jutting into the pathway and crunched it between her fingers for the feel of its lush snap. A rich, herbal fragrance wafted to her nose, and she drank deep the smell of the countryside she loved. She gazed
into the azure sky, which rippled with white clouds like waves in the sea.

As they reached the village and passed through the huts with their mud-daubed walls and pale thatched roofs, Gwen waved to her father's serfs. These people had been more a family to her over the years than most of those who dwelt in the cold stone castle, always busy with their own affairs. She surveyed this world of browns and tans, so subdued after her afternoon in the bright field yet brimming with vitality.

A young girl named Maggie, wearing naught but a plain tunic with tatters about the hem, dashed across the muddy lane and threw her scrawny arms around Gwen's waist.

Unable to resist the wave of warmth that filled her, she scooped the girl off the ground, feeling her bones beneath coarse fabric. “Maggie, have you been eating your porridge?”

Hugging Gwen tight, the girl wrapped her legs around Gwen's waist and caught her grimy, bare feet together behind her back. “I don't like it so much as I like them apples you bring me.”

How Gwen wished she could offer Maggie—not to mention the other village children—trenchers of bread filled with hearty meat stew. But her eldest brother, Reginald, who ruled in her father's absence, would never tolerate such generosity to their serfs. “Well, I have a surprise you might like.”

With Maggie dangling from her, Gwen dug through the sack on Andromache's side. Pulling out not one, but three bright red apples, she held them before the wide-eyed little girl. “Now you must promise to share these with your brother and sister.”